Chapter 74:
[Drake POV]
[Days Later, Wakanda, Africa]
From the rooftops, I stride through the capital city of Wakanda. The fallout of the propaganda scripted by Erik Killmonger is on full display. The once vibrant streets below are now shrouded in a tense, uneasy calm. Citizens move about with wary eyes, their faces marked by uncertainty and fear. I can see the signs of unrest everywhere—the hastily painted slogans of resistance on the walls, the occasional burst of heated argument, and the increased presence of security forces patrolling the streets. Killmonger's speech has done its job. The people are divided, their trust in T'Challa shattered by the carefully crafted lies. From my vantage point, I can see the impact of our machinations playing out like a grim theater. I pause on the edge of a building, looking down at the marketplace. It used to be filled with laughter and the vibrant colors of Wakandan culture. Now, it's subdued, the vendors' voices hushed as they conduct their business under the watchful eyes of Killmonger's enforcers. I can't help but feel a mixture of satisfaction and cold detachment. This is the price of power, the cost of reshaping a nation to fit CERBERUS's vision.
It's all such a bore. I can't help but feel a pang of irritation. I've never been one to care much for the grand plans of organizations like CERBERUS. Their endgame of world conquest, domination, or whatever lofty goals they're chasing—it's all a bore to me. I work for them because they pay well and provide the resources I need to do what I do best. But their ambitions? They don't concern me. To me, it's always been about the hunt, the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of a job well done. The politics, the power plays—they're all just noise. I'm a mercenary, a tool in their grand schemes, and I'm fine with that. As long as the job is interesting and the pay is good, I'm in. I've always thrived in the shadows, moving through the chaos with a sense of purpose that few understand. There's a certain purity in the work I do—a clear objective, a target to neutralize, a mission to accomplish. It's straightforward and unambiguous. The satisfaction comes from the precision, the execution, and the knowledge that I am the best at what I do. The adrenaline rush of being in the field, the sharp focus that comes with each step, each breath, is what drives me.
CERBERUS, with its grand designs and convoluted strategies, often feels like a cumbersome machine bogged down by its own complexity. They talk of reshaping the world, of forging a new order, but to me, it's just a backdrop. The real thrill is in the here and now, in the missions that push my skills to their limits. The rest—the politics, the scheming—it's all just noise, distractions that don't concern me. I've seen the faces of those who are caught up in CERBERUS's web of influence—politicians, military leaders, corporate magnates—all believing they are part of some grand design. They don't realize they are merely pieces on a board, moved and manipulated to serve a purpose they can't fully comprehend. It amuses me, this blindness, this hubris. But then again, I'm no different. I play my part because it suits me. After all, the pay is good, and the work keeps me sharp.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Village, Wakanda]
[Rogers's Living Quarters.] I sigh and then gaze at Natasha, who's fast asleep on my arm. It's Saturday, and the sun beams through the window and onto the bed, casting a warm, golden light over the room. The gentle rise and fall of her chest is a comforting rhythm, a stark contrast to the chaos that often defines our lives. Her red hair spills across the pillow, a vivid splash of color against the white sheets. The village in Wakanda has been our refuge, a place where we can regroup and recover. The sounds of daily life drift in through the open window—the chatter of children playing, the distant hum of conversations, the rustling of leaves in the breeze. It's a stark contrast to the battlefield, and I find myself grateful for this slice of normalcy. I shift slightly, careful not to wake Natasha. The sun continues its ascent, and the room grows warmer. I can feel the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders, but for now, I push it aside. These moments of tranquility are too rare to squander. I think about our team about the challenges we face. The fight against CERBERUS, the unrest in Wakanda, the ever-present threat of new enemies—it's a heavy burden. Yet, it's one I bear willingly. The mission is clear: protect the innocent, uphold justice, and preserve peace. It's what I was made for, what I was brought back for.
Natasha stirs slightly, her hand curling around my arm. I wonder what dreams are playing out behind those closed eyes. She's always been so strong, so resilient, but I know the toll it takes. We've all lost so much, but we keep pushing forward. It's the only way we know. I turn my gaze to the ceiling, letting my thoughts wander. The sun's rays dance across the room, creating patterns of light and shadow. There's a quiet beauty in it, a reminder that even in the darkest times, there's light to be found. I think about the people of Wakanda, about their strength and resilience. They've endured so much, yet they continue to stand tall. The minutes tick by, and I know it won't be long before the demands of the day call us back to action. But for now, I allow myself to simply be. To breathe, to feel, to remember what it means to be human. Natasha's breathing deepens, and I know she's waking up. I lean down and press a gentle kiss on her forehead. She stirs, her eyes fluttering open, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. "Good morning," she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep. "Good morning," I reply, my own smile mirroring hers. For a moment, we simply look at each other, no words needed. The day awaits, with all its challenges.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[Wanda's Living Quarters.] I wake up with a rush of nausea, the queasy feeling hitting me like a wave. I barely have time to gather my thoughts before I'm out of bed, my feet hitting the cool floor as I make a quick dash to the bathroom. The door slams behind me, and I barely make it to the toilet before I'm vomiting, my body heaving uncontrollably. As I kneel there, gripping the edge of the porcelain, I try to take deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. The nausea is intense, unlike anything I've felt before. My mind races through the possibilities—stress, something I ate, or maybe something more. I push those thoughts aside for now, focusing on the immediate task of getting through this moment. After what feels like an eternity, the heaving subsides, and I rest my forehead against the cool surface of the toilet seat, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I feel weak and drained, but slowly, I gather the strength to stand up. I reach for a towel and wipe my face, then make my way to the sink. The face staring back at me in the mirror looks pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes.
I splash some cold water on my face, hoping it will help clear the lingering nausea and the cobwebs in my mind. The coolness is a welcome relief, and I take a moment to simply breathe, closing my eyes and trying to center myself. It's a struggle, but I manage to push the worst of the nausea away, though a dull ache remains in the pit of my stomach. I head back to the bedroom, the morning light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The bed, now a rumpled mess, looks inviting, but I know there's no going back to sleep now. I sit on the edge of the mattress, running a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of the morning's events. What's wrong with me? The question lingers in my mind, heavy and insistent. I think about the past few weeks—the constant pressure, the missions, the stress of fighting against CERBERUS and dealing with the unrest in Wakanda. It's been relentless, and I can't help but wonder if it's finally taking its toll.
I glance at the small clock on the nightstand. It's still early, the day just beginning. There's so much to do and so many responsibilities to face. But right now, I feel fragile, like I'm barely holding on. I reach for my phone, contemplating calling someone—Steve, Natasha, or anyone who might be able to offer some comfort or advice. But then I hesitate. They're all dealing with their own burdens, their own struggles. I don't want to add to their worries. Instead, I decide to get dressed, hoping that moving through the motions of a normal morning will help me regain some sense of stability. I pull on a comfortable outfit, something easy and soft against my skin. As I move around the room, I start to feel a bit more grounded, the familiar routine bringing a small measure of comfort. Heading to the kitchen, the smell of coffee already brewing a small beacon of normalcy. I pour myself a cup, the warmth of the mug soothing against my hands. I take a tentative sip, the bitter taste grounding me further. I need to pull myself together to face whatever challenges the day brings. I take another deep breath, letting it out slowly. One step at a time, I remind myself. One step at a time.
Sipping my coffee, I look out the window at the village coming to life. The sounds of daily activity drift in. The minutes tick by, and I can't shake the feeling that something is different. The nausea, the fatigue, the way my body feels—it all seems familiar, yet strangely new. A thought creeps into my mind, one I've been avoiding. Could I be pregnant? The realization dawns on me slowly, like the rising sun. My heart skips a beat as I consider the possibility. I think back to the last time Spartan and I were together. Could this be the result of our shared night of love, a new life growing within me? I place a hand on my stomach, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within me.
At that moment, the door to my quarters creaks open, and Karai steps inside. Her presence is a welcome distraction, but as she starts speaking, her lips moving rapidly, I find myself struggling to focus on her words. My mind is still caught in the whirlwind of the realization I'm grappling with. The possibility of being pregnant is overwhelming, a secret I'm not ready to share yet. I nod mechanically, trying to appear attentive, but inside, I'm miles away. I can't stop thinking about the potential life inside me. "…Wanda, are you okay?" Karai's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp with worry. She's closer now, her hand gently resting on my arm, her eyes searching mine for answers. I blink, trying to pull myself back to the present. "Yes, I'm fine," I reply, forcing a smile, "Didn't get much sleep last night." She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press further. Instead, she gives me a reassuring squeeze and sits down at the table, her presence grounding me. I take another sip of my coffee, letting the warmth spread through me, trying to anchor myself in the moment. Karai continues talking, filling me in on the latest news and plans.
[Spartan POV]
[Wakanda]
Under stealth-camo, I'm busy running a solo recon op on the capital city of Wakanda. Killmonger's forces are far more active today. Moving with silent precision, I stick to the shadows, my every step calculated to avoid detection. The once vibrant city is now a fortress, a grim testament to Killmonger's iron grip. The streets are filled with his enforcers, their menacing presence a constant reminder of the tension that hangs in the air. I pause on a rooftop, taking in the scene below. The marketplace, usually bustling with activity, is subdued. Vendors conduct their business under the watchful eyes of Killmonger's patrols, their movements cautious and strained. The chatter of the crowd is a murmur compared to the usual lively banter. Fear has taken root here, spreading like a disease. I scan the area, noting the increased security checkpoints and the frequency of patrols. Killmonger's grip is tightening, and the city feels like it's on the verge of exploding. Using my HUD, I focus on a group of guards conversing near a supply depot. Their body language is tense, their voices low but urgent. I zoom in, catching snippets of their conversation. They're discussing the latest crackdown orders, the new curfew enforcement, and the rumors of resistance movements growing bolder by the day. I make mental notes of key points, filing them away for the debrief. As I move to a new vantage point, I think about the people of Wakanda. Their resilience in the face of such tyranny is commendable, but I can see the cracks starting to form. The weight of constant surveillance, the fear of retribution—it's enough to break anyone.
Navigating through the city, I pass by hastily painted slogans of resistance on the walls, the words a bold declaration against Killmonger's regime. "Freedom for Wakanda," one reads. Another, "T'Challa, our true king." The spirit of resistance is alive, and it's growing. I approach the outskirts of a heavily guarded compound, likely a strategic point for Killmonger's operations. From my concealed position, I survey the area, counting the guards and noting their patterns. This intel will be crucial for planning our next move. The compound is fortified.
[City Square.] I notice a large group of people making their way to the city square. Curious, I follow the crowd, staying just out of sight, my senses on high alert. The group moves with a sense of purpose, their hushed conversations hinting at something significant. I keep my distance, blending into the shadows as I move from one vantage point to another, my stealth-camo ensuring I remain unseen. As we get closer to the city square, I notice more people converging from different directions. The square, once a bustling hub of activity, now serves as a focal point for Killmonger's regime. Large screens have been set up, and armed guards are stationed at every entrance, their eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. From my hidden vantage point, I watch as the crowd grows larger. The people are diverse, representing all walks of Wakandan life—young and old, men and women, even children clinging to their parents' hands. Their expressions range from hopeful to anxious, and I can sense the undercurrent of fear running through them. Whatever is about to happen here, it's important enough to draw this many people out despite the risks.
A raised platform has been erected in the center of the square, and I notice several figures standing on it. One of them is unmistakably Killmonger, his imposing figure clad in his signature battle armor. He's flanked by his closest advisors and a contingent of heavily armed soldiers. The sight of him standing there, exuding confidence and authority, stirs a sense of unease in me. This is a show of power, a calculated move to assert dominance and control over the populace. The crowd falls silent as Killmonger steps forward, raising his hand for attention. His voice, amplified by the speakers, cuts through the air with a commanding presence. "People of Wakanda," he begins, his tone both authoritative and persuasive, "Today marks a new chapter in our great nation's history. Under my leadership, we will rise to unprecedented heights, reclaiming our rightful place as a global power." I watch the crowd's reaction closely. Some faces reflect hope and admiration, buying into his vision of a stronger Wakanda. Others, however, remain skeptical, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. I can see the cracks in Killmonger's façade, the subtle signs of resistance and defiance among the people. They may be here, but they're not all convinced. Suddenly, a commotion breaks out near the edge of the square. A small group of dissenters begins to chant slogans of resistance, their voices rising above the murmur of the crowd. "Freedom for Wakanda!" they shout, "T'Challa is our true king!" The guards move in quickly, trying to suppress the disturbance, but the momentum has shifted. The crowd is growing restless, the tension palpable.
I see an opportunity and move closer, navigating through the fringes of the crowd to get a better vantage point. The dissenters' boldness is inspiring others, and I can sense a change in the air. This could be the spark we need to ignite a larger resistance. My mission here might just have taken a new turn. As the situation escalates, I keep a careful eye on Killmonger. His expression hardens, a flicker of anger crossing his face. He signals to his soldiers, and they begin to move towards the dissenters, their intentions clear. The soldiers grab hold of the dissenters and force them onto the stage. Despite the brave face they're masking, I can see the fear in their eyes as they come face to face with Killmonger. The crowd falls silent. Killmonger strides forward; his presence is imposing and intimidating. He's a master of manipulation, and he knows exactly how to wield his power to instill fear and submission. The dissenters slightly tremble where they stand. I clench my fists, the desire to intervene nearly overwhelming. But I know that charging in now would be reckless and could jeopardize the entire mission. Killmonger signals to his soldiers to force the dissenters to their knees.
The crowd watches in horrified silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. This public display of power is meant to break their spirit, to show them what happens to those who dare to defy Killmonger's rule. But I also see the flicker of anger, the spark of rebellion, igniting in their hearts. This could be the moment that galvanizes them and turns passive resistance into active rebellion. As Killmonger raises his hand to deliver his verdict, I make a decision. I can't stand by and watch these brave souls be crushed. I pull out a small device from my belt—a flashbang grenade. It's a risky move, but it might create the chaos needed to turn the tide. I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves, and prepare to throw it. Just as Killmonger's hand descends, I launch the flashbang onto the stage. It detonates with a blinding flash and deafening bang, throwing the entire square into disarray. The soldiers are momentarily stunned, and the dissenters seize the opportunity to scramble to their feet and make an escape. As the crowd erupts into chaos, I fade into the shadows. Things are escalating. We have to put an end to this conflict ASAP before there's nothing left. The people of Wakanda can't endure much more of Killmonger's oppressive rule. The resilience of the Wakandan spirit is strong, but even the mightiest will break under sustained pressure. I've seen enough battles to know when a tipping point is near, and this city is teetering on the edge. The unrest, the fear, the anger—it's all building up to a boiling point. If we don't act soon, the consequences will be dire.
[Drake POV]
[Rooftop.] Via the rooftop, I watch Spartan make his escape from the scene. Even though he's using the stealth-camo, I can still see him. His shadow leaves faint disturbances in the air. A slight shimmer here, a barely perceptible ripple there. The square below is in chaos, the crowd reacting to the flashbang he just deployed. Killmonger's enforcers are scrambling, trying to regain control of the situation, but the dissenters are seizing their chance to flee, blending into the throng of panicked civilians. I remain crouched on the rooftop, my gaze never leaving Spartan. This isn't the first time I've crossed paths with him, and it likely won't be the last. I let him pass, tracking him with my eyes as he moves further into the maze of the city. There will be other opportunities, I tell myself. For now, it's enough to know that I could have taken him out if I wanted to. As the chaos below begins to subside, I pull back into the shadows, melding with the rooftop as easily as Spartan melts into the cityscape. The game is far from over, and the pieces are still in motion. But for now, I savor the moment—the calm before the storm, the hunter watching her prey slip away, knowing that the next encounter will be even more thrilling. As Spartan vanishes into the heart of Wakanda, I prepare for the next move in this deadly chess match.
[Erik Killmonger POV]
[Rebel Safe House, Wakanda]
In my Jaguar vibranium suit, I stalk the perimeter of the Rebel's safe house. The suit, sleek and menacing, clings to my body, amplifying my every movement with the power of Wakandan technology. A squad of War-Dog soldiers flank my side, their faces masked, eyes focused and waiting for my orders to strike. The air is thick with anticipation, a tense stillness that precedes the storm. The safe house is a modest structure concealed well within the dense foliage of Wakanda's landscape. But nothing in this nation escapes my notice. The rebels think they can hide, plot against me, and stir up dissent among the people. They underestimate my reach and my determination to reshape this country into a formidable power. My eyes scan the surroundings, taking in every detail. The soft rustle of leaves, the distant chirp of nocturnal insects, and the faint glow of lights inside the safe house—all indicators of the activity within. The rebels are in there, likely discussing their next move, oblivious to the imminent danger that shadows them. I signal my War Dogs to hold their positions. Patience is key. A premature strike could scatter them, make them harder to track down later. I need to send a clear message, one that will resonate throughout Wakanda: defiance will not be tolerated. This safe house is but one of many cells of resistance, each one a breeding ground for the poison that threatens my rule. But tonight, this particular cell will be eradicated.
As I continue my surveillance, my mind wanders to the path that brought me here. The struggle, the battles, the countless sacrifices. I've clawed my way to the throne, usurping T'Challa, and now the weight of an entire nation rests on my shoulders. The people need a strong leader, someone who understands the harsh realities of the world and is willing to do whatever it takes to secure their place in it. A faint movement catches my eye—a shadow flitting past a window inside the safe house. I hold up a hand, signaling my soldiers to prepare. The time has come. The rebels are unaware of the fate that awaits them, of the storm that is about to break over their heads. "On my mark," I whisper, my voice barely audible but filled with authority. The War Dogs tense, ready to unleash their pent-up aggression. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, a familiar rush that sharpens my senses and heightens my focus.
With a swift motion, I bring my hand down. "Go," I command, and the War Dogs move with lethal precision. They breach the safe house's defenses, their entrance swift and silent. I follow closely behind. The door splinters under my touch, and I step into the dimly lit interior, the rebels' startled faces meeting my unyielding gaze. Chaos erupts. The rebels scramble, but they are no match for my soldiers. I watch as the War Dogs execute their mission with brutal efficiency. The sound of combat fills the room, but my focus remains on the leader of this cell—a man who has dared to defy me, to rally others to his doomed cause. He tries to flee, but I intercept him effortlessly. Grabbing him by the collar, I lift him off the ground, his eyes wide with fear. "You thought you could hide from me?" I hiss, my voice cold and unforgiving, "You thought you could undermine my authority and get away with it?" His silence is his answer, the defiance in his eyes replaced by terror. I tighten my grip, feeling the satisfying crunch of bones under my fingers. This is the fate of all who stand against me—a swift, merciless end. The last of the rebels fall, and I survey the wreckage of the safe house. My soldiers stand at attention, awaiting further orders. The message has been sent loud and clear. Wakanda is mine, and I will crush any resistance. The rebels may have their safe houses and their secret meetings, but I have the strength of an empire behind me. I will root them out, one by one, until there is no one left to challenge me.
While I exit the safe house, Skeith appears from out of nowhere, as if materializing from the very shadows that cloak the night. Her sudden presence is both unsettling and expected; she has a knack for showing up at the most opportune moments. She scans the scene with a methodical gaze, her eyes glinting as they focus on the lifeless bodies of the rebels strewn across the floor. There's a spark of excitement in her eyes, a flicker of something dark and primal that reveals more than she likely intends. Despite her composed, professional display, the woman is truly crazy. Her lips curl into a slight, almost imperceptible smile as she steps over the fallen, her movements graceful and deliberate. It's as if she's savoring the aftermath, drawing energy from the chaos and bloodshed that surrounds us. Skeith's fascination with death and destruction has always been apparent, but witnessing it firsthand never fails to unsettle me. She exudes an eerie calm, a stark contrast to the violence that just unfolded.
She catches my eye and gives a slight nod, acknowledging the success of the operation with a look that borders on admiration. There's a cold, calculated efficiency to her, a chilling precision that she brings to every mission. It's no wonder CERBERUS values her so highly. But it also makes me wonder about the true nature of the organization I've allied myself with. If Skeith is any indication, the people in CERBERUS are driven by a twisted sense of morality, one that thrives on power and domination at any cost. As she steps closer, the faint scent of blood and smoke clinging to her, I can't help but reflect on the uneasy partnership I've formed with CERBERUS. They provide the resources and support I need to maintain my rule, but their methods and motivations often leave me questioning the price of their allegiance. Skeith, with her calm demeanor and hidden madness, embodies the dark underbelly of this alliance. She represents a world where strength is measured by ruthlessness.