Chapter 73:

[Skeith POV]

[2 Days Later, Royal Palace, Wakanda]

[Throne Room.] N'Jadaka stands at the center of this grand space, his figure rigid with fury. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now blaze with unrestrained anger. He paces back and forth, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, like a caged animal. The reason for his rage is evident: Okoye, one of the most loyal and formidable warriors in Wakanda, has joined the rebellion against him. I watch from the shadows, my presence unnoticed by most in the room. "She dares betray me!" N'Jadaka's voice booms through the throne room, reverberating off the walls, "Okoye, of all people! She swore an oath to the throne, to Wakanda. And now, she stands with those who seek to undermine everything I'm building!" His fury is like a storm, unpredictable and dangerous. I see the guards and advisors around him shift uneasily, their eyes downcast, none daring to meet his gaze. They fear his wrath, and rightly so. Killmonger is not known for his mercy. One of his advisors, a tall man with a gaunt face, steps forward cautiously. "My King, perhaps there is still a way to bring her back to our side. Okoye is a warrior of honor. If we can appeal to her sense of duty—" N'Jadaka rounds on him, his face twisted with rage, "Appeal to her sense of duty? She has already chosen her side! She has chosen to betray Wakanda, to betray me!"

I see the advisor shrink back, his face pale. The tension in the room is almost unbearable, the air thick with fear and uncertainty. I shift slightly, my eyes never leaving N'Jadaka. His anger, while formidable, is also a weakness. It clouds his judgment and makes him reckless. N'Jadaka stops his pacing, turning his gaze to the throne, the seat of power he fought so hard to claim. His chest heaves with the effort to control his breathing, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Okoye will pay for her betrayal," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "And so will anyone who stands with T'Challa." His words hang in the air, a promise of retribution. N'Jadaka's next moves will be brutal, aimed at crushing the rebellion with an iron fist. He will not hesitate to use any means necessary to maintain his grip on power.

From my vantage point, I can see the subtle shifts in the expressions of those around him. There is fear, yes, but also doubt. Doubt in his methods, doubt in his leadership. Okoye's defection has planted a seed, one that could grow into something much larger if nurtured by the right hands. I step forward, my presence finally acknowledged as I emerge from the shadows. "My King," I say, my voice calm and measured, "Perhaps there is a way to turn this to our advantage. Okoye's defection is a blow, yes, but it also reveals the cracks in their resolve. We can exploit this, use it to sow discord and weaken their unity." N'Jadaka turns to me, his eyes narrowing, "And how do you propose we do that, Skeith?" I meet his gaze steadily, my mind already calculating the possibilities, "By striking at their heart, their sense of security. We must show them that no one is beyond our reach, that their rebellion will only bring them more suffering. But we must do so with precision, with strategy. Not with blind rage." He considers my words, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Go on," he says, his voice a low growl.

"I know where they are hiding," I continue, "My network of spies found their location last night. We can use this knowledge to launch a series of targeted strikes, to destabilize their operations and erode their morale. At the same time, we can spread misinformation, create confusion and mistrust among their ranks. If we can make them doubt each other, we can weaken them from within." N'Jadaka's eyes gleam with a dangerous light, "T'Challa and Okoye?" I allow a small, cold smile to touch my lips. "They will be dealt with. We will turn the Wakandan people against them." He nods slowly, the fury in his eyes giving way to a more focused, calculated resolve. "Do it," he orders, "Make them regret ever standing against me."

As I step out of the palace into the cool night air, the quiet hum of the nocturnal world greets me. The stars twinkle above, their distant light a stark contrast to the intensity of the throne room. The chill of the evening is a welcome respite from the heat of N'Jadaka's fury. I take a moment to savor the tranquility, to let the calm wash over me, grounding me after the storm. Suddenly, a shimmer in the shadows catches my eye. Drake materializes from the darkness, switching off his stealth-camo with a subtle flick of his wrist. His presence is almost ghostly, his movements smooth and fluid, betraying the deadly efficiency that lies beneath his casual demeanor. "Gotta say, you have a talent for playing him like a puppet," he comments, his voice low and amused. His eyes glint with a mixture of admiration and sly cunning as he steps closer, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows around us. I allow myself a small, satisfied smile, appreciating the compliment. "It's all about understanding your subject," I reply, my tone measured, "N'Jadaka's rage is a tool, one that can be sharpened and directed if you know how to handle it."

Drake chuckles softly, shaking his head. "You've got him wrapped around your finger, Skeith. I've seen a lot of manipulations in my time, but you make it look like an art form." I shrug, the movement slight and controlled, "It's not about manipulation, Drake. It's about giving him the tools to do what he already wants to do. His anger, his desire for control—they're his driving forces. I just… channel them." Drake nods, a thoughtful expression crossing his face, "Still, it's impressive. He's a volatile one, not easy to steer without getting burned." I glance back at the palace, its silhouette imposing against the night sky, "That's why it's important to maintain distance. To stay in the shadows and pull the strings from afar. Close enough to influence, but far enough to avoid the fallout." Drake leans against a nearby column, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, "What's the next move then? How do we keep the pressure on the rebellion without tipping our hand too much?" I cross my arms, my mind already working through the possibilities. "We'll start with targeted strikes, as I suggested to N'Jadaka. Hit them where it hurts, but do it with precision. Make them question their security, their alliances. At the same time, we spread disinformation. Create confusion, mistrust. If we can fracture their unity, they'll weaken from within."

Drake smirks, clearly enjoying the prospect of chaos. "Sounds like fun. And T'Challa?" My expression hardens, my resolve firm. "T'Challa is a symbol of their strength. If we can turn that symbol into a weakness, it will have a devastating effect. We need to make him doubt himself, make his actions seem like a mistake. If we can turn public opinion against the former King, it will undermine the rebellion's morale." Drake nods, his eyes gleaming with approval, "You've got it all figured out. I'll start gathering intel on their movements, see where we can hit them hardest." I place a hand on his shoulder, appreciating his enthusiasm and skills, "Good. Keep me updated. And remember, subtlety is key. We want to dismantle them piece by piece, not give them a clear enemy to rally against." Drake gives a mock salute, a playful glint in his eyes, "Subtlety is my middle name, Skeith. I'll keep it quiet." As he slips back into the shadows, his form blending seamlessly with the night, I take a deep breath, my thoughts returning to the task at hand. The rebellion is strong, but strength can become a weakness if you know where to apply pressure.

[Spartan POV]

[Wakanda]

I stroll the streets of the capital, running recon, careful not to draw unwanted attention to myself. Keeping my pace steady and my posture relaxed, I blend in with the throngs of people going about their daily routines. My eyes scan the area, taking in the details: the strategically placed security cameras, the subtle but ever-present patrols of Killmonger's loyalists, and the hushed conversations that seem to pause as I pass by. The tension in the air is palpable, a heavy cloak that hangs over the city. People are wary, their eyes flickering with fear and suspicion. Killmonger's rule has cast a long shadow over their lives. As I move deeper into the heart of the capital, the architecture shifts. The buildings become more modern, their sleek designs a testament to Wakanda's technological prowess. Yet, even here, there are signs of unrest. Posters and graffiti mark the walls, symbols of resistance and rebellion scrawled defiantly where the patrols can't immediately reach. It's a silent cry for freedom, a reminder that not everyone has bowed to Killmonger's iron fist.

I pause at a stall selling vibrant textiles, my fingers brushing over the intricate patterns. The vendor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, smiles warmly at me. "Looking for something specific, stranger?" I return her smile, shaking my head, "Just admiring your work. It's beautiful." She nods, a hint of pride in her expression. "Thank you. These patterns have been passed down through generations. They tell stories of our past, our heritage. It's important to remember where we come from, even in times like these." I nod at her words in agreement. As I move on, I keep my ears open for any useful information. Bits and pieces of conversations float my way, fragments that could be crucial in understanding the current state of affairs. "...heard they're planning something big..." "...more patrols near the palace..." "...Okoye joined the rebels, can you believe it?..." I make my way toward the outskirts of the market, where the crowd thins and the mood becomes more somber. Here, the impact of Killmonger's rule is even more evident. Buildings are in disrepair, and the people move with a subdued air. The sense of fear is stronger, the oppression more tangible.

I notice a group of children playing in the dirt, their laughter a brief respite from the harsh reality around them. One of them, a boy with bright eyes and a mischievous grin, notices me and runs over, "Hey, mister! You new around here?" I crouch down to his level, smiling, "You could say that. What's your name?" "Baku," he replies proudly, "What's yours?" "Spartan," I say, extending my hand. He shakes it with a surprising firmness for someone his age. "You look like a warrior," Baku says, his eyes wide with curiosity, "Are you here to help us?" His question is innocent, but it carries a weight that tugs at my heart. "I'm here to do what I can," I reply, ruffling his hair, "Stay strong, Baku. Things will get better." He nods, his grin returning, "I know they will. My mom says we just have to keep believing." As I stand up, I spot a group of men huddled together, their conversation low and urgent. I make my way closer, pretending to browse the nearby stalls. "...next shipment of supplies... we need to secure the routes..." "... can't afford any more losses..." Their words hint at supply lines and resistance efforts, vital information that could aid our cause. I linger for a few moments, committing their conversation to memory before moving on. Once the recon op hits a satisfying conclusion, I start to make my way back to the village.

[Village, Wakanda]

[Command Center.] I relay all the intel I'd gathered to Cap and T'Challa. The low hum of voices falls silent as I begin to speak, every eye in the room fixed on me. Both Cap and T'Challa stand to my left and listen intently. "The capital is on the edge, teetering between fear and hope," I start, laying out a hand-drawn map on the table before us. "Okoye's defection has sent ripples through the city. People are talking, speculating. There's a sense of unrest, but also a spark of defiance." I point to several key locations on the map, areas where I noticed heightened activity and tension, "The market is a hotbed of rumors and whispers. Increased patrols are noticeable around the palace, and there's a lot of chatter about upcoming movements and supply lines. They're trying to secure these routes to support Killmonger's regime, but if we can intercept them, we'll significantly weaken their position." T'Challa leans in, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the details. "Do we have any specifics on these routes and their schedules?"

"Not yet," I admit, feeling the weight of our task, "But there's talk of a major shipment happening soon. We need to gather more intel, set up surveillance, and be ready to strike at the right moment. If we can disrupt their supplies, we'll hit them where it hurts." Cap nods, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "We need precise information. Timing and location are crucial. We can't afford any missteps." I continue, describing the atmosphere in the market, "There's also a lot of symbolism in the air—graffiti, posters, and whispered conversations about resistance. The people are afraid, but they're also ready for change. They're looking for something, or someone, to rally behind."

[Hours Later]

[Command Center.] It takes some time, but we manage to discover a rough location of where the supply line is. The effort requires patience and meticulous planning, but every second spent is crucial. The lead-up to the breakthrough is filled with a constant flurry of activity, a relentless pursuit of information that would tip the scales in our favor. All those hours huddled over maps and intelligence reports have finally paid off. Our breakthrough comes from an unlikely source—a network of traders who witness unusual movements along certain routes. Their eyes see the telltale signs of heavily guarded convoys, their ears catch snippets of guarded conversations, and their instincts tell them that something significant is afoot. It is through their courageous willingness to share these observations that we finally begin to see the outline of Killmonger's supply line. "We've noticed increased activity along these roads," one trader explains, pointing to a section of the map. His finger traces a path through the dense jungle and rocky terrain, "Heavily armed convoys, always at night. They're careful, but there's a pattern. They're using different routes to avoid detection, but they converge here." His finger lands on a small, unassuming village on the outskirts of the capital. T'Challa's eyes narrow as he examines the map, "This village—what do we know about it?" Another trader speaks up, her voice steady, "It's a small settlement, mostly farmers and craftsmen. But it has strategic importance. There are old tunnels beneath the village, remnants of ancient Wakandan infrastructure. They could be using those tunnels to move supplies undetected."

Cap nods, his face set in a mask of resolve, "We need to verify this. If Killmonger is using these tunnels, it gives us an opportunity to intercept his supplies without engaging his full force." The room buzzes with a renewed sense of purpose as we finalize our plans. Surveillance teams are dispatched to monitor the routes, and their task is to observe and report any movement. Our scouts move with the stealth and precision of shadows, their presence undetectable as they gather crucial information. Finally, the reports come in. Our scouts have observed the convoys, their movements confirming the traders' suspicions. The supply line is real, and its routes are mapped out before us. Together, we disperse to prepare for the mission.

[Supply Line, Wakanda]

Under the cover of stealth, the Avengers, T'Challa, and I reach the supply line outpost, a small but heavily fortified position nestled within the jungle. The convoy routes converge here, a strategic point where supplies are stored and redistributed. It's a hub of activity, even at this early hour. The journey here has been a tense one, each step taken with the utmost caution. The dense foliage of the Wakandan jungle serves as our shield, its thick canopy blocking out the sunlight. I signal for the team to halt, crouching down behind a thick cluster of bushes. T'Challa moves beside me, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the scene. Despite the urgency of our mission, he exudes a calm, regal presence, a leader born to command. Beside him, Cap's face is set in a mask of determination, his shield strapped to his back, ready for action at a moment's notice.

Wanda and Natasha are to my left, their expressions focused and resolute. Wanda's fingers twitch slightly, a faint red glow emanating from them. Natasha's eyes scan the perimeter, every muscle in her body coiled like a spring. Clint is to my right, his bow already in hand, an arrow nocked and ready. I take a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs. The scent of earth and foliage mingles with the faint smell of oil and metal from the outpost. I turn to T'Challa, whispering, "What's the plan?" He nods, his voice barely above a whisper, "We need to disable their communications first. If they can't call for reinforcements, we'll have the upper hand. Wanda, you and Clint take out the communications tower. Natasha, you will handle the guards at the entrance. Spartan and Captain Rogers, you're with me. We'll secure the supplies." Wanda and Clint move off to the left, their forms melting into the shadows. I watch as they disappear, knowing they will handle their part with precision. T'Challa signals for the rest of us to move, and we slip through the underbrush, our steps silent and deliberate.

As we approach the outpost, the sounds of Wakandan wildlife fade, replaced by the low hum of machinery and the murmur of voices. The guards are alert but unaware of our presence, their attention focused outward. Natasha moves like a phantom, taking out the first set of guards with swift, silent efficiency. T'Challa, Cap, and I move toward the supply depot, our approach hidden by the thick shadows. I keep my pistol at the ready. We reach the depot without incident, crouching behind a stack of crates. Cap gives a quick hand signal, and we split up to cover more ground. The supplies are neatly stacked, a mix of food, weapons, and medical gear. It's a well-organized operation, a lifeline for Killmonger's forces. Disrupting this will deal a significant blow to his regime. I move to one of the stacks, checking for any traps or alarms. Finding none, I signal to Cap, who begins to plant charges in strategic locations.

Just as we finish planting the last charge, I hear a faint rustling. My heart pounds as I turn, pistol aimed. In an instant, my weapon is wrenched from my grasp, a powerful hand closing around it with uncanny precision. The next thing I know, I'm airborne, my body flipping through the air as my assailant executes a flawless judo throw. The ground rushes up to meet me, and I land hard, the impact jarring my senses. The figure above me is a shadow, blending seamlessly with the darkness. Then, with a faint click, the stealth-camo disengages, and the figure materializes before my eyes. Drake. His expression is calm, almost amused, as he looks down at me. A surge of anger floods through me, and I quickly jump to my feet, adopting a combat stance. Before we start to trade blows, a squad of CERBERUS soldiers appears from out of nowhere, their stealth-camo flickering off as they materialize around us. The air fills with the hum of high-tech weapons and the tension of impending combat. The Avengers, ever alert, spring into action. Natasha moves with lethal grace, taking down two soldiers before they can react. Clint fires a flurry of arrows, each one hitting its mark with pinpoint accuracy. Wanda's hands glow with red chaotic energy, deflecting incoming fire and sending soldiers sprawling. T'Challa and Cap fight side by side, their movements synchronized like a well-oiled machine. T'Challa's vibranium claws slash through the air, while Cap's shield deflects bullets and bludgeons enemies. Drake circles me like a predator.

Drawing a combat knife, Drake dashes at me and slashes the blade. Acting fast, I block his attack with my own knife, the metal clanking loudly in the tense air. We circle each other, our eyes locked, every muscle coiled and ready to spring. Drake's next move is swift, a low faint followed by an upward slash aimed at my chest. I sidestep, narrowly avoiding the blade, and counter with a quick jab toward his ribs. He parries effortlessly. I feel the adrenaline surge through my veins as Drake presses the attack, his movements fluid and relentless. He thrusts his knife toward my abdomen, but I twist my body, letting the blade pass harmlessly by. Using the momentum, I swing my knife in a wide arc, aiming for his exposed side. He anticipates the move, raising his arm to deflect the blow. I pivot on my heel, switching to a defensive stance as Drake launches a series of rapid slashes. Each strike is precise, intended to force me off balance, but I match him blow for blow, our knives dancing in the dim light of the jungle.

Drake smirks, clearly enjoying the challenge. He lunges forward with a powerful overhead strike, and I raise my knife to block it, the impact jolting through my arm. Using the close quarters to my advantage, I lash out with a kick to his knee. He grunts, momentarily losing his footing, and I seize the opportunity to press the attack. I slash at his arm, drawing a thin line of blood, but he retaliates with a vicious backhand that catches me across the jaw. The pain flares, but I push it aside, launching into a series of quick strikes aimed at his torso. He deflects most of them, but a few land, eliciting a growl of frustration. Our movements become a blur, the clash of steel ringing out in the jungle. He feints to the left, then twists to the right, his knife slicing through the air toward my side. I drop to one knee, the blade passing over my head, and drive my shoulder into his midsection, knocking him back. We both stumble, regaining our footing quickly. The brief pause in our relentless exchange gives me a moment to assess my surroundings. The sounds of the ongoing skirmish between the Avengers and the CERBERUS soldiers echo around us, but my focus remains razor-sharp on Drake.

He wipes a trickle of blood from his lip; his expression is of irritation. "You're good, Spartan. But not good enough," he taunts, his voice a low growl. I don't waste my breath on a reply. Instead, I shift my grip on the knife, readying myself for his next move. Drake rushes forward, his blade slicing in a vicious arc aimed at my throat. I duck under the swing, feeling the whoosh of air as the knife narrowly misses. I rise quickly, aiming a punch at his jaw. He blocks it with his forearm, but my follow-up strike catches him in the side. He retaliates with a flurry of quick jabs, his knife a blur. I block most of them, but a few shallow cut tags on my upper arm. The pain sharpens my senses, fueling my determination. I deflect another strike and counter with a powerful slash aimed at his chest. He twists away, but not fast enough to avoid a deep gash across his ribcage. Drake snarls, his eyes flashing with anger. He launches himself at me with renewed ferocity. The pace of our fight quickens. I block a high strike and pivot, bringing my elbow down on his wrist. He grunts in pain, dropping his knife. Seizing the advantage, I kick his knife away and press the attack, driving him back with a series of rapid slashes. He dodges and weaves, but I land a solid punch to his gut, doubling him over. he surprises me with a swift kick to my shin, sending me sprawling to the ground.

Drake dives for his fallen knife, and I roll to my feet, ready to intercept. He swings low, and I leap back, using the momentum to launch a powerful kick to his chest. He stumbles, and I move in, pressing my advantage. With a final, desperate lunge, Drake aims a wild slash at my face. I sidestep and drive my knife into his shoulder, twisting the blade. He cries out in pain, dropping to one knee. I wrench my knife free and hold it to his throat, panting heavily. "It's over, Drake," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Surrender."

The psychopathic mercenary starts to laugh. "Thank you. You just helped push our narrative," he sneers, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of triumph and madness. Before I can react, Drake reaches into his belt and pulls out a small, sleek device. He depresses a switch, and a low, ominous hum fills the air. I barely have time to register the sound before multiple surveillance drones appear, hovering overhead like a swarm of malevolent insects. Their red lights blink menacingly, casting an eerie glow on the scene below. "What the hell is this?" I mutter, glancing around as the drones form a tight perimeter around us. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I realize the full extent of the trap we've walked into. Drake's laughter grows louder, more manic, as he watches my realization dawn, "Play hero long enough and people will eventually see you as the villain." My grip tightens on my knife, but I know that taking him down won't stop whatever he's set in motion.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocks the ground beneath us. The shockwave hits me like a freight train, and I'm thrown off balance, stumbling as I try to maintain my footing. My heart pounds in my chest, the sheer force of the blast disorienting me. The sound is followed by a series of secondary explosions, each one a brutal reminder of our failure. My heart sinks as the realization hits me: the convoy housing the supplies—our primary target—has been blown to smithereens. Thick, black smoke billows into the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning metal and fuel. The once-clear sunny day is now choked with dark plumes, turning the jungle into a hellish landscape. The force of the blast sends debris flying in all directions, a deadly shower of jagged metal and splintered wood. I instinctively raise my arm to shield my face from the heat and shrapnel, my eyes squinting against the blinding flashes of light. My ears ring from the sheer intensity of the explosion, a high-pitched whine that drowns out all other sounds. For a moment, the world is reduced to a chaotic blur of sound and motion. Through the haze of smoke and dust, I spot Drake making a break for it, disappearing into the shadows. A surge of anger and frustration wells up within me, but I know I can't pursue him now. Cap's voice cuts through the chaos, his tone urgent and commanding, "Full retreat! Everyone, fall back!"

[Skeith POV]

[1 Day Later, Royal Palace, Wakanda]

The sun filters through the grand windows of the Royal Palace, casting long shadows across the opulent hall. N'Jadaka sits on his throne, a picture of calculated calm. His gaze is intense, unwavering, as he looks out over the gathered press and the array of cameras aimed directly at him. For a long moment, he says nothing, letting the silence stretch and build tension. It's a tactic, one meant to unnerve and captivate his audience, and it works. The room is thick with anticipation. I stand off to the side, a silent sentinel, and observe the scene with a mixture of pride and satisfaction. We have worked tirelessly to reach this point, and now, it is time to solidify our control. Finally, N'Jadaka leans forward, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that commands attention. "My people," he begins, his tone heavy with gravity, "We are in a time of great turmoil. War has come to our doorstep, brought not by enemies from the outside, but from within. Yesterday, a tragedy struck at the heart of our efforts to bring aid to those most in need. A convoy, laden with supplies and hope, was destroyed." He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. The room is silent; the only sound is the faint hum of the cameras recording his every word. "T'Challa, in his arrogance and spite, chose to strike against his own people. He destroyed the supply line of aid, a lifeline meant to help the suffering and the vulnerable. His actions are a testament to his pettiness and his unwillingness to see Wakanda prosper under new leadership," N'Jadaka presses on.

As he speaks, I can't help but feel a surge of admiration for his ability to manipulate. N'Jadaka has always been a master of narrative, and today, he's out to prove it once more. The story he's selling is compelling, a narrative of a benevolent leader trying to bring aid to his people, only to be thwarted by a vengeful, deposed king. I scan the faces of the press, watching as they hang on his every word. Some of them nod in agreement, their expressions ranging from sorrow to righteous indignation. It's a testament to the power of our carefully constructed lie. The vast majority of the Wakandan people are buying into this deceit, seeing N'Jadaka as their savior. N'Jadaka continues, his voice rising with emotion, "We must stand united against this treachery. We must show T'Challa and his followers that Wakanda will not be cowed by their attempts to undermine our progress. Together, we will rebuild. Together, we will ensure that every man, woman, and child receives the aid they need. This is my promise to you." The room erupts into applause, and I feel a surge of satisfaction. Everything is going according to plan. N'Jadaka's charm and charisma are powerful weapons, and they are working perfectly. The people are rallying behind him, just as we intended.

[Steve Rogers POV]

[Village, Wakanda]

[Command Center.] Every one of us watches the Wakandan news on a holographic display, hearing the lies Killmonger is selling. The air in the command center is tense, each of us gripping the arms of our chairs or standing rigidly, our eyes locked on the floating images before us. Killmonger, or N'Jadaka as he prefers to be called, sits on his throne in the Royal Palace. His voice, deep and resonant, fills the room, dripping with a calculated mixture of concern and authority. "My people," he begins, his tone heavy with gravity, "We are in a time of great turmoil. War has come to our doorstep, brought not by enemies from the outside, but from within. Yesterday, a tragedy struck at the heart of our efforts to bring aid to those most in need. A convoy, laden with supplies and hope, was destroyed." He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, the silence in the room almost suffocating. Beside me, T'Challa's jaw tightens, his fists clenching at his sides. I can see the struggle within him, the pain of seeing his people deceived by such blatant falsehoods. It's a cruel twist, watching the man who once fought so valiantly for his country now being painted as a villain by his own kin. "He's a master manipulator," Natasha mutters, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with venom, "He's twisting everything to his advantage."

Killmonger continues, his narrative meticulously crafted to cast T'Challa in the worst possible light. The cameras pan to the faces of the press, capturing their nods of agreement and expressions of sorrow and righteous indignation. It's a masterclass in manipulation, and I can't help but feel a surge of anger at how effortlessly he sways the masses. "He's good," I admit, my voice tight with frustration, "Too good." Karai nods, her expression grim, "That's what makes him so dangerous. He's not just strong; he's smart. He knows how to play the game." Killmonger's voice rises, filled with emotion, "We must stand united against this treachery. We must show T'Challa and his followers that Wakanda will not be cowed by their attempts to undermine our progress. Together, we will rebuild. Together, we will ensure that every man, woman, and child receives the aid they need. This is my promise to you." The room on the holographic display erupts into applause, the sound almost mocking in its fervor.

Out of controlled anger, I switch off the holographic display, the image of N'Jadaka's smug face disappearing into the ether. The room is suddenly quiet, the silence thick with unspoken frustration and determination. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Alright, we need to focus," I say, turning to face the team, "We have more pressing matters at hand." CERBERUS. The name hangs in the air like a dark cloud. No one in the command center is a stranger to CERBERUS. This shadowy organization has been a problem for months, its tendrils of influence reaching into every corner of the globe. They've orchestrated coups, funded wars, and destabilized governments—all from the shadows, all without a trace. We've encountered their agents before, each one more ruthless and cunning than the last. But this time, it feels different. This time, their plans are more ambitious and more destructive.

[Zemo POV]

[CERBERUS HQ, New York City, USA]

Skeith just finished giving me a full report on the mission status of the situation within Wakanda. Her holographic image flickers slightly, but her demeanor remains as composed and professional as ever. The dimly lit room, with its walls lined with monitors and strategic maps, hums with a low, constant buzz of activity. Each screen displays real-time data feeds, intelligence reports, and surveillance footage from our operatives embedded across the globe. The atmosphere here is always one of calculated chaos, a constant juggling act of orchestrating moves on the grand chessboard of global power. Skeith's hologram stands before me, her posture rigid, eyes sharp as she details the latest developments. "N'Jadaka has successfully delivered the speech, exactly as planned," she says, her voice steady and professional, "The narrative he spun has been accepted by the majority of the Wakandan populace. T'Challa's reputation is effectively tarnished." I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers as I absorb the information. This is exactly what we needed. "Excellent," I respond, my voice a low murmur of satisfaction, "And the response from the international community?"

"There is growing concern, but nothing actionable yet," she replies, "The UN is calling for an investigation, but we've managed to delay their efforts through our contacts." I nod thoughtfully, my mind racing through the implications. Every move we make is a step towards destabilizing the existing power structures, paving the way for CERBERUS to rise from the shadows. "And our operatives within Wakanda?" I ask, my gaze shifting to the screens displaying various locations within the African nation. "All in position," Skeith confirms, "They're ready to execute the next phase on your command." I can't help but feel a surge of satisfaction. Years of planning, manipulation, and covert operations are finally bearing fruit. "Very well," I say, standing up and moving to the large strategic map on the wall, "We need to ensure N'Jadaka's position is unassailable. What is our status with the local dissidents and mercenary groups?" "Our liaisons have reported complete compliance," Skeith replies, her hologram turning slightly to follow my movement, "The dissidents are prepared to stage a series of attacks to further destabilize any opposition. The mercenary groups are ready to provide muscle when needed."

"Good," I say, tracing a finger along the map, outlining our areas of influence, "And CERBERUS's involvement remains undiscovered?" "As far as our intelligence indicates, yes," Skeith affirms, "We've covered our tracks meticulously." I turn to face her hologram, a rare smile touching my lips, "You've done well, Skeith." She inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, "Thank you, sir." My vision echoes in my mind, a grand design. Reshaping the world, removing the weak and unworthy from positions of influence, and installing a new order where strength and intellect reign supreme. "Prepare the next directive," I instruct, my tone decisive, "We need to accelerate our timeline. The more chaos we sow, the quicker we can solidify our control." Skeith nods, her hologram flickering slightly as she turns to relay my orders to the operatives. As she does, I walk to the window, looking out over the New York skyline. The city below is a testament to human ambition and ingenuity but also to its flaws and vulnerabilities. CERBERUS will exploit those vulnerabilities and strip away the pretenses of civilization to reveal the raw, unyielding power that truly governs the world. I let out a breath, my thoughts briefly drifting to the Avengers. They are a formidable force, but they are blinded by their ideals and their sense of justice. They do not understand the true nature of power or of control. But they will learn. By the time they realize the extent of our reach, it will be too late.