Chapter 78:
[Erik Killmonger POV]
[Royal Palace, Wakanda]
[Throne Room.] I stand by the window of the throne room, my eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding below. The night air is thick with tension, the distant sounds of battle echoing through the grand hall. I can see the flickering lights of explosions and the rapid movements of soldiers as the Avengers and the rebel forces make their advance within the palace grounds. Their attack isn't a complete surprise; I expected resistance. No throne is claimed without a fight, and I've been preparing for this moment ever since I seized control. I turn away from the window and glance at my reflection on the polished surface of a nearby pillar. The upgraded armor gleams under the soft glow of the throne room's lights. This armor, a masterpiece of Wakandan technology, is a testament to the nation's brilliance and my right to lead it. Each piece is meticulously crafted, combining the raw power of vibranium with the advanced design enhancements I've overseen. The ceremonial elements are integrated seamlessly with the combat-ready features, reflecting my dual role as both king and warrior. As I fasten the last piece of armor, the weight of it feels reassuring, grounding me in the present moment. This isn't just about defending a throne; it's about cementing my vision for Wakanda and the world. The previous rulers lacked the will to use Wakanda's true potential, but I will bring Wakanda out of the shadows and use its might to reshape the world.
I stride across the throne room, my footsteps echoing off the marble floors. The royal palace, with its majestic architecture and rich history, is a symbol of power and legacy. But it is also a reminder of the old ways, the ways I intend to break. I push open the heavy doors, stepping into the corridor that leads to the heart of the battle. The palace walls, once silent witnesses to the peaceful reigns of my predecessors, now reverberate with the sounds of war. The corridors are alive with activity. Soldiers rush past, carrying weapons and supplies, their movements a blur of efficiency. I can feel the pulse of the palace, the heartbeat of a nation preparing for war. Every step brings me closer to the front lines, where the fate of Wakanda will be decided. The throne room's grandeur fades into the background, replaced by the stark reality of the battlefield.
[Palace Grounds.] Emerging onto the palace grounds, the full scale of the conflict hits me. The night sky is illuminated by the flashes of energy weapons and the glow of vibranium technology. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and the metallic tang of fear and adrenaline. I see the Avengers, their figures distinct even in the chaos, leading the charge against my forces. Among them, I spot Captain America, his shield glinting as he rallies his team, and the unmistakable silhouette of Black Panther, moving with the grace and ferocity of a true warrior. But this is my fight, my battle to win. I step forward, my presence drawing the attention of both friend and foe. The battlefield seems to pause for a moment as I make my entrance, the weight of my authority palpable. I can see the recognition in the eyes of my enemies—they know who I am and what I am capable of. I focus on my objective, my mind clear and unwavering. The Avengers might have the element of surprise, but I have the home advantage and the will to do whatever it takes to secure victory. I raise my weapon, a sleek vibranium spear, its edge humming with energy. With a battle cry that echoes through the night, I charge into the fray, ready to defend my throne and my vision for Wakanda.
As I engage the enemy, the rhythm of combat takes over. Each move is precise, and each strike is calculated. The upgraded armor enhances my strength and agility, making me a formidable opponent. I can feel the power coursing through me, the raw potential of Wakanda at my fingertips. The battle rages on around me, a chaotic dance of clashing ideals and raw power. I strike down an enemy soldier, my spear cutting through the air with deadly precision. The thrill of combat sharpens my senses, heightening my awareness of every movement and every threat. I can see the Avengers coordinating their efforts; their teamwork is a testament to their experience and unity. But this is my battlefield, and I will not be outdone. I catch sight of Captain America again, his shield a blur as he deflects attacks and leads his team. Our eyes meet across the battlefield, a silent acknowledgment of the challenge we present to each other. I tighten my grip on the spear and move in on him.
I close the distance between us. Captain America notices my approach and raises his shield, bracing himself for the confrontation. The intensity in his eyes mirrors my own; we both understand that this fight is more than just a clash of physical strength—it's a battle of wills. I launch the first attack, thrusting my spear forward with lightning speed. Cap deflects the blow with his shield, the vibranium clashing in a shower of sparks. The force of the impact reverberates through my arm, but I am undeterred. I follow up with a series of rapid strikes, each one aimed at finding a weakness in his defense. Cap moves with incredible agility, blocking and dodging my attacks. "You think you can stop me?" I growl, "Wakanda needs a leader who will use its power to change the world." Cap responds with a fierce look, countering my spear with a powerful swing of his shield, "Wakanda needs a leader like T'Challa. A king who will protect his people, not plunge them into war." Our weapons collide again, the impact resonating through the battlefield. I feel a surge of frustration. This man, this symbol of a bygone era, cannot understand the vision I have for Wakanda. I will show him the strength of my resolve.
I pivot, using the momentum to swing my spear in a wide arc. Cap ducks under the blow, using the opportunity to close the distance between us. He aims a punch at my midsection, but I twist away, delivering a swift kick to his side. He stumbles but recovers quickly, his shield coming up just in time to block another thrust of my spear. Our fight becomes a whirlwind of motion, each of us pushing the other to their limits. Cap's shield is both a weapon and a defense, and he wields it with unmatched skill. My spear is an extension of my will, its deadly edge seeking any opening in his armor. I manage to land a solid hit, my spear striking Cap's shoulder and forcing him back. He grunts in pain but remains standing, his eyes never leaving mine. He lunges forward, using his shield to drive me back. I sidestep, spinning around to strike from the side. Cap anticipates the move, blocking with his shield and delivering a powerful uppercut that sends me staggering.
Breathing heavily, I regroup, my mind racing to find a way to break through his defenses. With a roar, I charge forward, my spear aimed directly at his heart. Cap braces himself, his shield ready to absorb the impact. At the last moment, I feint to the left, using the momentum to bring my spear down in a crushing blow aimed at his exposed side. Cap reacts with lightning speed, his shield coming up to block just in time. The force of the collision sends a shockwave through the ground, the impact reverberating through both of our bodies. We break apart, circling each other warily. Cap's breathing is ragged, his determination etched into every line of his face. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the thrill of battle sharpening my focus. "You're strong," Cap says, his voice steady despite the strain, "But strength alone isn't enough." I smirk, tightening my grip on the spear, "Strength is only part of it. Vision and the will to act—that's what sets me apart." In a moment of pure instinct, I see an opening. Cap overextends, his shield slightly off-balance. I seize the opportunity, driving my spear forward with all my strength. The tip of the spear pierces through his defenses, striking his armor and sending him sprawling to the ground.
I stand over him, my spear poised for the final blow. Cap looks up at me, defiance burning in his eyes. "This isn't over," he says, his voice firm despite the pain. I pause, my grip on the spear tightening. The urge to end it here and now is strong, but something holds me back. A fleeting moment of respect for a worthy adversary, a recognition of the spirit that refuses to yield. "Maybe not," I reply, stepping back and lowering my spear, "But you won't stop me." Turning away, I leave Cap to struggle to his feet. I have made my point. Wakanda will rise under my leadership, and no one—not even Captain America—will stop me.
[Spartan POV]
Dashing to an enemy soldier, I jump-guard-sweep the man to the ground. For a brief moment, he struggles to break free, his eyes wide with desperation. I quickly gain a more dominant position, pinning him with my weight. With a steady hand, I fire a stun-bolt into his chest, the electric charge sending a jolt through his body. He goes limp beneath me, incapacitated. I rise to my feet, scanning the immediate area. Another soldier charges at me, his rifle raised. I sidestep his attack, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back. He cries out in pain, but I don't relent. I slam him into the ground, using my knee to pin his arm as I disarm him. A quick strike to the back of his neck knocks him out cold. A third soldier approaches, swinging a baton. I block the first strike with my forearm, feeling the impact reverberate through my bones. Using my other hand, I grab his wrist and twist it, forcing him to drop the baton. I follow up with a series of rapid punches to his midsection, each blow driving the air from his lungs. He staggers back, and I finish him off with a powerful roundhouse kick to the head. He crumples to the ground, unconscious.
I barely have time to catch my breath before a squad of four soldiers surrounds me, their weapons trained. I drop into a low fighting stance, my eyes darting between them, assessing their positions and potential weaknesses. They move in unison, coordinated and disciplined, but I can see the tension in their eyes. The first soldier lunges at me with a knife, aiming for my torso. I sidestep the attack, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply. The knife falls from his grasp, and I drive my elbow into his face, sending him reeling backward. Before he can recover, I sweep his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The second soldier tries to flank me, but I'm ready for him. I spin around, catching his arm as he swings his baton. Using his momentum against him, I pull him forward and deliver a crushing knee strike to his ribs. He doubles over in pain, and I follow up with a hammer fist to the back of his head, knocking him out.
Two soldiers remain, and they attack simultaneously, one from the front and one from behind. I drop to the ground, rolling away from their combined assault. As I come up to my feet, I grab a fallen baton and use it to deflect a series of strikes from the soldier in front of me. With a fluid motion, I disarm him and land a solid kick to his chest, sending him sprawling. The last soldier charges at me with a furious roar, his fists swinging wildly. I duck under his punches, slipping inside his guard. I deliver a rapid combination of strikes to his midsection and face. He stumbles back, dazed, and I finish him off with an elbow that connects solidly with his jaw. He drops to the ground, unconscious. I survey the scene around me. The squad of soldiers lies incapacitated at my feet, their weapons scattered across the ground. I hear the sound of footsteps approaching and turn to see another wave of enemy soldiers advancing.
Before the advancing soldiers can gain any ground, a net of scarlet energy wraps around them, constricting them like a snake then they're blasted away. I turn to see Wanda, her hands glowing with residual energy. "You looked like you needed a little help," she says, smiling despite the intensity of the battle raging around us. Her smile is a brief but welcome respite. I nod, feeling a surge of gratitude. "Appreciate the assistance," I say, my voice steady but sincere. Wanda moves to my side, her presence a comforting and formidable addition to my defenses. With a flick of her wrist, she sends another wave of energy toward a group of advancing enemies, their weapons flying out of their hands as they are thrown back by the invisible force. Together, we advance, pushing back the enemy forces with a coordinated assault. My close-quarters combat skills complement Wanda's ranged attacks, creating a seamless blend of physical prowess and mystical power. Each move is deliberate, each strike calculated. I disarm and incapacitate soldiers with a combination of strikes and takedowns while Wanda provides cover, her scarlet energy shielding us from incoming attacks.
A soldier rushes at me, swinging his rifle like a club. I duck under the blow and deliver a swift punch to his gut, followed by an uppercut that sends him reeling. As he stumbles, Wanda's energy ensnares him, lifting him off his feet and tossing him aside like a ragdoll. The coordination between us is almost instinctual, a dance of violence and protection that keeps us one step ahead of our enemies. "Behind you!" Wanda calls out, her voice cutting through the din of battle. I spin around just in time to see another soldier charging at me with a bayonet. I sidestep his thrust, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply. The bayonet clatters to the ground, and I follow up with a knee to his ribs and a finishing elbow to his temple. He collapses, unconscious. Wanda unleashes another burst of energy, her eyes glowing with intense concentration. The scarlet waves ripple through the air, creating a barrier that deflects a barrage of bullets aimed at us. She moves with grace and power. I can feel the ground tremble beneath my feet as her energy pulses through the battlefield. We push forward, our momentum building with each step. The enemy forces begin to falter, their confidence shaken by our relentless assault.
[Skeith POV]
Under stealth-camo, I watch the unfolding battle from the royal palace's rooftop, my vantage point providing an unobstructed view of the chaos below. The night is alive with the sounds of conflict: the clash of vibranium weapons, the cries of soldiers, and the distant rumble of explosions. From my position, I can see both sides locked in a fierce struggle for dominance, each trying to gain the upper hand. So far, both forces are evenly matched, their strengths and weaknesses balancing out in a brutal dance of warfare. The stealth-camo cloaks me in near-invisibility, allowing me to observe without being detected. I adjust the settings on my visor, enhancing the visuals and filtering out the noise. Every detail becomes sharper. This battle is a crucible, testing the mettle of all who participate.
I crack my knuckles, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as I prepare to join the fray. Jumping from the rooftop, I land silently behind a unit of rebel forces. Their attention is fixated on the front lines, unaware of the predator in their midst. The first rebel doesn't even see me coming. A swift chop to the back of his neck sends him crumpling to the ground, unconscious before he can react. The next two fall almost as easily, one to a precise kick that dislocates his knee, the other to a sharp jab to his temple. I keep moving, a shadow among shadows, a ghost in the midst of their ranks. A soldier turns just in time to see his comrade fall, his eyes widening in shock. He raises his weapon, but I'm faster. I duck under his swing and deliver a series of rapid punches to his torso. He gasps for air, crumpling under the assault. I don't give him time to recover. A final strike to his throat silences him for good.
Another rebel tries to rally his comrades, shouting orders and pointing in my direction. I can sense the shift in their awareness. They know they're being hunted now. Good. Fear is a powerful weapon. I use it to my advantage, darting between them, striking from unexpected angles. My fists and feet move like lightning. One by one, they fall. I take out a pair of soldiers trying to flank me; their movements are sluggish compared to mine. A well-placed kick sends one flying into the other, and they go down in a tangled heap. Another rebel attempts to stab me with a vibranium spear. I sidestep his thrust, grabbing the shaft and using his momentum against him, flipping him over my shoulder. He lands with a sickening crunch. I stand amidst the fallen, the air around me thick with the scent of sweat and blood. My heart pounds in my chest, but my mind is clear. This is where I thrive, in the heart of battle, where every moment is a test of skill and strength. I glance toward Killmonger, knowing my actions have tipped the balance in his favor. This is the price of power, the cost of loyalty. And I am more than willing to pay for it.
Suddenly, I feel a pair of eyes locked on me. The sensation is unmistakable, a tingling awareness that sends a shiver down my spine. Straightening up, I scan the surroundings to find the source. The battlefield is a sea of chaos, with bodies clashing and the air thick with dust and smoke. But amidst the turmoil, one gaze cuts through the fog like a knife. Across the battlefield, I find it. Karai. Our eyes lock, and time seems to stand still. The noise and violence around us fade into the background, leaving only the electric tension between us. My mind flashes back to our last encounter, the HYDRA insurrection incident. That memory is seared into my brain, a wound that never fully healed. Rage fills my entire body, igniting a fire that burns hotter than any battle I've fought since. In that encounter, she beat me. Made me feel humiliated and weak. During this whole time, I've been itching for payback. Karai's stance is poised and confident, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes me. There's a flicker of something in her gaze—determination, perhaps, or maybe the same rage I feel. It's hard to tell, and it doesn't matter. What matters is that she's here, within reach, and the score between us is about to be settled.
I begin to move, weaving through the chaos with purpose. Soldiers and rebels alike are caught in my path, but they are mere obstacles, easily dispatched or avoided. My focus is entirely on Karai, and the battlefield shrinks around us, reducing the world to just the two of us and the inevitable clash. As I approach, memories of our last fight flood my mind: the brutal exchange of blows, the sharp sting of her strikes, and the moment I feel defeated and humiliated. My jaw tightens, and I feel my muscles coil with the anticipation of revenge. This time will be different. This time, I will not falter. Karai doesn't wait for me to reach her. She moves with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior, closing the distance between us with measured steps. Her eyes never leave mine, and I can see the flicker of recognition, the silent acknowledgment of unfinished business. Her hands flex, readying for the fight to come.
[Karai POV]
The battlefield is a chaotic blur of combat, but all I see is Skeith. She moves with a deadly grace, and our eyes lock as we close the distance. In an instant, we clash in the middle of the fray. I don't give her a moment to breathe, drawing my pistol and opening fire on the CERBERUS mercenary. Like a scene from Star Wars, Skeith's hand ignites an energy blade, its vibrant glow illuminating the battlefield. She deflects my shots with fluid precision, each bolt ricocheting harmlessly into the air. My heart races, the adrenaline surging through my veins. I keep my distance, firing rapidly, forcing her to stay on the defensive. Skeith deflects my shots with almost contemptuous ease, her energy blade a blur of motion. She lunges at me, closing the gap with frightening speed. I pivot, narrowly avoiding her strike, and counter with a roundhouse kick aimed at her midsection. She blocks it with her free arm. We exchange a rapid series of blows, our movements a blur of strikes and counters. Skeith's energy blade hums ominously as she swings it with lethal precision, forcing me to stay nimble on my feet. I duck under a sweeping arc, feeling the heat of the blade as it passes inches from my head. Rolling to the side, I come up firing, but she's already there, deflecting the shots with a flick of her wrist.
She lunges again, and I meet her head-on, our bodies colliding with bone-jarring force. I manage to trap her energy blade between us, using my pistol to block her swing. For a moment, we're locked in a deadly stalemate, our faces inches apart. I can see the cold determination in her eyes, the same fire that burns in my own. With a grunt, I push her back, breaking the deadlock and creating some distance. Skeith recovers quickly, her energy blade flickering as she repositions. I take a deep breath, focusing on my training. This isn't just about strength; it's about strategy. I switch tactics, closing the distance and engaging her in close-quarters combat. My pistol is useful, but in this fight, my body is my most effective weapon. I feint a strike to her left, drawing her blade to block, then pivot sharply and deliver a powerful elbow to her ribs. Skeith grunts in pain, her defense momentarily faltering. Seizing the opportunity, I follow up with a knee to her stomach and a swift punch to her jaw. She staggers back, and I press the advantage, moving in with a flurry of rapid strikes.
Skeith tries to retaliate with her energy blade, but I'm relentless, staying inside her guard where the blade is less effective. I strike her wrist, forcing her to drop the weapon, and it falls to the ground with a dull thud. Her eyes flash with anger and desperation, and she swings wildly, trying to regain control. But I'm too fast, too focused. I dodge her punches and counter with precise, devastating blows. She sneers, a hint of blood at the corner of her mouth, "I should have killed you when I had the chance." Memories of that fight flood my mind. It was a battle I nearly lost, one where I was pushed to the brink of death. But I survived. I won. And now, I'm stronger for it. With a quick-draw of my pistol, I knock Skeith out with a stun-bolt. The fight drains out of Skeith as her body goes limp. I turn away, ready to rejoin the fray and ensure that this victory marks a turning point in the battle.
[T'Challa POV]
As the chaotic sounds of battle rage on around me, I focus my mind and body on a singular goal: reaching the palace. My heart pounds in my chest, not just from the exertion of sprinting through the battlefield but from the weight of what lies ahead. Every step I take brings me closer to the confrontation that will determine the future of Wakanda. My people fight valiantly on all fronts, their courage and loyalty inspiring me to push forward with renewed determination. The palace looms in the distance, a stark reminder of the power and responsibility that comes with the throne. I know that if I can defeat Killmonger in combat, I will not only reclaim my rightful place as king but also put an end to the senseless violence tearing our nation apart. My muscles burn, and my breath comes in ragged gasps, but I force myself to keep moving, dodging enemy soldiers and leaping over obstacles in my path. Each clash of vibranium echoes like a drumbeat, urging me onward. Memories of my father's wisdom and my ancestors' strength fill my mind, guiding my steps. I know this is not just a battle for the throne but a fight for the soul of Wakanda. As I near the palace gates, I steel myself for the inevitable confrontation. I am ready to face Killmonger, ready to challenge his claim to the throne, and ready to restore peace to my beloved homeland.
[Inside.] Inside the palace, I become a shadow, prowling through the lit hallway. The stakes are too high for even the slightest mistake. Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, my heart pounds steadily in my chest. The patrolling guards, loyal to Killmonger, are a constant threat. Their vigilance could shatter my fragile advantage at any moment. I press myself against the cold stone walls, listening intently for the telltale signs of their presence. Footsteps echo faintly from around the corner. Each time I evade detection, my confidence grows, but so does the tension. I know that the deeper I go, the more perilous my journey becomes. Finally, the hallway opens up into a grand chamber. I pause at the threshold, peering into the darkness and assessing the scene.
[Grand Chamber.] In the center of the grand chamber stands Killmonger, his imposing figure radiating confidence and menace. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes. I take a moment to steady my breath and focus my mind, knowing that this is the culmination of all my efforts and the future of Wakanda hangs in the balance. "It took you long enough. I've been waiting for a while," he says, his voice dripping with contempt. His words echo through the vast chamber, carrying the weight of his arrogance and bloodlust, "I'd searched for you on the battlefield but couldn't find you. Pity, I wanted the whole world to see you die by my hand." The taunt hangs in the air, and I step forward, my eyes locked on his. Every fiber of my being is attuned to the coming battle. I can feel the tension crackling between us, a fire readying to ignite into violence at any moment. His confidence is almost palpable, but I refuse to be intimidated. I am the rightful king, and I will fight with every ounce of my strength to reclaim my throne and protect my people. "You may have taken the throne, but you will never rule Wakanda," I reply, my voice steady and resolute, "Your reign of terror ends today." Killmonger smirks, his muscles tensing as he prepares for combat, "Bold words, T'Challa. Let's see if you can back them up."
Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I see the reflection of my own determination mirrored in his gaze. This is not just a battle for the throne; it is a clash of ideologies, a fight for the soul of our nation. I know that only one of us will walk away from this encounter victorious. As we circle each other, the grand chamber seems to shrink, the world outside fading into insignificance. All that matters is the man before me, the enemy who has brought so much pain and suffering to my people. I channel the strength of my ancestors, drawing on the wisdom and courage that has been passed down through generations. With a roar, Killmonger lunges at me, brandishing a deadly vibranium spear. The air hums with the energy of our clash as he swings the spear in a powerful arc. I dodge to the side, feeling the rush of air as the spear narrowly misses me. Killmonger is relentless, pressing the attack with a series of rapid, precise thrusts. Each strike is a testament to his training and ferocity. I parry his attacks with my vibranium claws, the sound of metal clashing against metal echoing through the chamber. Sparks fly with every collision, illuminating our fierce expressions and the sweat glistening on our brows.
He feints to the left, then swings the spear low, aiming for my legs. I leap over the attack, flipping in mid-air and landing behind him. Before he can recover, I deliver a swift kick to his back, sending him stumbling forward. He recovers quickly, spinning around with a snarl, his eyes burning with fury. "You fight well, T'Challa, but it won't be enough," he growls, twirling the spear with practiced ease. "We'll see about that," I reply. Killmonger lunges again, thrusting the spear with deadly precision. I sidestep and grab the shaft, using his momentum to pull him off balance. For a brief moment, we struggle for control of the weapon, our muscles straining, faces inches apart. With a surge of strength, I twist the spear from his grasp and toss it aside. Killmonger roars in frustration and swings a powerful punch at my head. I duck, feeling the force of the blow as it whizzes past, then counter with a series of rapid strikes to his torso. My claws rake across his armor, leaving deep gouges.
He retaliates with a brutal elbow to my ribs, and I gasp as pain shoots through my side. Gritting my teeth, I push through the pain and catch his arm, twisting it behind his back in a lock. He struggles, but I hold firm, forcing him to his knees. "It's over, Killmonger," I say, my voice resolute, "Surrender, and we can end this without more bloodshed." "Never!" he snarls, breaking free with a sudden burst of strength. He swings wildly, desperation fueling his attacks. I dodge and weave, his fists missing me by mere inches. As he overextends with a wild punch, I see my opening. I step inside his guard and deliver a powerful blow to his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, and I follow up with a sweeping kick that sends him sprawling to the ground. But Killmonger is far from finished. With a growl, he forces himself up and charges at me, his fists swinging like hammers. He tags me in the jaw with a forceful punch that snaps my head to the side. The impact rattles my teeth and blurs my vision for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, he grabs hold of me in a clinch and rams a series of powerful knee strikes to my body and face. Each blow feels like a sledgehammer, driving pain deep into my muscles and bones. Blood trickles from my nose and splits my lip.
Going for a dirty tactic, I drop to my knees and slam a fist between Killmonger's legs. The man jerks back in pain, a guttural sound of anguish escaping his lips. His eyes widen in shock and fury, and he doubles over, clutching his groin. "Oh, you son of a bitch!" he growls, his voice a mixture of pain and rage. I know this move goes against the honor I hold dear, but in a battle where the future of Wakanda hangs in the balance, there is no room for hesitation or mercy. I scramble to my feet, my own body protesting with every movement, and I press the advantage. I throw a swift knee to his face while he's bent over, the impact snapping his head back and sending him stumbling. His reaction is almost immediate. Despite the pain, he lashes out with a wild punch, catching me off guard and connecting with my shoulder. The force spins me around, and I barely manage to keep my footing. My shoulder throbs, and I grit my teeth, channeling the pain into a renewed focus. Killmonger straightens, his face twisted with anger and pain. "Is this what it takes, T'Challa? Resorting to cheap shots?" he spits, eyes blazing. "This is war, Killmonger," I reply, my voice steady but strained, "And I will do whatever it takes to protect my people."
He roars in response, charging at me with a fury that seems almost inhuman. I brace myself, knowing this is the moment that will define the outcome of our struggle. He swings at me with a savage intensity, each blow carrying the weight of his resentment and ambition. I block and dodge as best I can, but his attacks are relentless, his strength formidable. Suddenly, he feints to the left and follows with a brutal right hook that catches me across the jaw. Stars explode in my vision, and I stagger back, my balance precarious. He doesn't let up, closing the distance and grabbing me by the throat, lifting me off the ground with a surprising show of strength. Gasping for breath, I claw at his hand, my vision beginning to blur. His grip is iron, his eyes cold and unyielding. "This is where it ends, T'Challa," he hisses. Desperation gives me strength, and I drive my knee into his stomach with all the force I can muster. His grip loosens, and I twist free, dropping to the ground and rolling away to put some distance between us. I struggle to my feet, each breath a ragged gasp.
"You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine?" Killmonger shouts, his voice echoing off the chamber walls, "I've earned this! I've bled for this!" "And so have I," I reply, my voice hoarse but determined, "This throne belongs to Wakanda, not to you." He barks a bitter laugh despite the pain, his eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and defiance, "You didn't earn shit. Everything was given to you by your murderous daddy. I'm living proof of that. The bastard killed my father because he was a slave to the old ways. Fearful of change, and my father wanted change." His words cut deep, reopening old wounds. I feel a surge of anger and sorrow, memories of my father's death and the legacy he left behind flooding my mind. "My father was not a murderer," I retort, my voice trembling with emotion, "He was a king who made difficult choices to protect our people. Your father threatened the stability and peace of Wakanda." Killmonger sneers, his face contorted with fury, "Your father was a coward who couldn't see beyond his precious traditions. My father saw the world for what it really is. He wanted to use Wakanda's power to liberate our brothers and sisters across the globe, to give them the strength to rise up against their oppressors."
"At what cost?" I counter, stepping closer, my eyes locked onto his, "Wakanda's power comes with a responsibility to protect, not to conquer. Your father's vision would have led to chaos and destruction. We must find a way to balance tradition with progress, to honor our past while building a better future." "Spare me your sanctimonious bullshit!" Killmonger spits, his voice dripping with venom, "You sit on your high throne, enjoying the spoils of your birthright, while the rest of our people suffer. You talk about responsibility, but what have you really done to change anything?" His words strike a chord, and I feel a pang of guilt. I think of the countless people around the world who struggle daily, their lives a stark contrast to the peace and prosperity of Wakanda. "I am trying," I say quietly, my voice filled with conviction, "I am trying to make a difference, to use Wakanda's resources to help those in need. But it must be done with care, with wisdom. We cannot simply impose our will on the world." Killmonger's eyes narrow, and he shakes his head, "You're weak, T'Challa. You don't have the guts to do what's necessary. That's why you'll never be the king Wakanda needs."
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, "Strength isn't just about power, Killmonger. It's about knowing when to fight and when to seek peace. It's about making sacrifices for the greater good." "And what would you know about sacrifice?" he snarls, "You've had everything handed to you. You don't know what it's like to lose everything, to claw your way up from nothing." His words hang in the air, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, two men shaped by different experiences and different paths. "You're right," I admit, my voice softening, "I have been privileged. But that doesn't mean I haven't faced challenges that I haven't lost. We both have scars, Killmonger. But we don't have to let them define us." For a moment, I see a flicker of something in his eyes—doubt, perhaps, or pain. But it's quickly replaced by cold determination, "You're a fool, T'Challa. And you'll never understand what it takes to truly change the world." "Maybe not," I say, stepping back and raising my guard, "But I will fight for my people, for Wakanda, with everything I have. And I will protect the throne from anyone who threatens it, even if that means standing against you."
With a roar of fury, Killmonger charges at me. Acting on instinct, I thrust my clawed hand into his chest. The moment my claws pierce his flesh, I feel a sickening jolt of horror. Killmonger gasps in surprise, his eyes wide with shock as blood begins to leak from his mouth. The warm, sticky sensation of his blood on my hand makes my stomach churn. "No!" I shout, my voice filled with a mixture of anguish and regret. This is not how I wanted it to end. I wanted to stop him, to save Wakanda, but not like this. I didn't want to kill him. I retract my claws, and he staggers back, clutching his chest. The blood flows freely now, staining his armor and dripping onto the floor. His face contorts in pain, but there's still a fierce determination in his eyes. "You… you think this… changes anything?" he gasps, his voice weak but defiant. I step forward, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and sorrow, "I didn't want this, Killmonger. I wanted to stop you, to save our people. But not like this. Not with more death." He coughs, blood splattering from his lips. Killmonger's legs give out, and he collapses to his knees. I rush to his side, supporting him as he sinks to the ground. His breathing is ragged, each inhale a struggle. "You… you really think… you can change things for the better?" he whispers, his eyes searching mine for something, maybe hope, maybe truth.
"Yes," I say, my voice firm. Killmonger closes his eyes, and for a moment, he looks almost peaceful. "Maybe… maybe you're right," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, "Maybe… there's another way. But… it's too late for me." "No, it's not," I say, my voice desperate, "We can save you. We can find a way to heal you." Killmonger shakes his head weakly, "No… my path was set long ago. I chose this. I knew… the risks. But maybe… you can do better. Maybe… you can be the king… Wakanda needs." Tears blur my vision as I hold him, feeling the weight of his words. "I will," I promise, my voice choked with emotion, "I will make Wakanda a place where all our people can thrive. I will honor your struggle and your sacrifice." Killmonger gives a faint smile, a ghost of the fierce warrior. "Good luck… T'Challa," he whispers, his breath slowing, "Make… them proud. Just don't make the same mistake your father did." And with that, he takes his last breath, his body going limp in my arms. I lower him gently to the ground, my heart heavy with grief. The grand chamber, once filled with the sounds of battle, now falls silent. I sit there for a moment, holding Killmonger's lifeless body, feeling the weight of his sacrifice and the promise I made.
I rise, feeling the weight of my duty pressing down on me, and make my way to the balcony. Each step feels like a journey through time, echoing the voices of my ancestors and the struggles that have defined our nation. The cool night air greets me as I push open the heavy doors, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the chamber behind me. I step out onto the balcony, feeling the cool stone beneath my feet. The battlefield stretches out before me, a chaotic tableau of movement and sound. Warriors clash, their weapons glinting in the moonlight, and the cries of the wounded fill the air. My heart aches for my people, for the pain they have endured, and I know that the words I am about to speak must carry the promise of a brighter future. Drawing a deep breath, I gather my strength and project my voice across the battlefield. "People of Wakanda!" I call out, my voice strong and commanding, cutting through the din of battle, "The fight is over! Killmonger has been defeated!"
For a moment, there is silence, as if the entire world is holding its breath. Then, like a ripple spreading across a still pond, the fighting begins to stop. Both forces lower their arms, eyes turning towards the balcony, faces filled with a mixture of relief, disbelief, and hope. The tension in the air dissipates, replaced by a collective exhale of uncertainty and anticipation. "He fought with the strength of his convictions," I continue, my voice unwavering, "But his vision for Wakanda was one of division and conquest. We will honor his courage, but we must move forward with a new purpose. We must rebuild, not just our kingdom, but our unity, our trust in each other." The murmurs and whispers grow louder, a wave of emotions sweeping through the crowd. I see the questions in their eyes, the doubts and fears that need to be addressed. They have endured so much and sacrificed so greatly. They need more than just words; they need a leader who can guide them through this tumultuous time. "I vow to you," I say, my voice filled with conviction, "That I will lead with wisdom and compassion. We will restore Wakanda to its glory, not through violence, but through understanding and progress. We will honor our traditions, but we will also embrace the future."
A cheer begins to rise from the crowd, hesitant at first but growing in strength and volume. It is a sound of hope and renewed faith. As the cheers grow louder, I raise my hand, calling for silence. "There is much to be done," I say, my voice firm but gentle, "We must heal our wounds, rebuild our homes, and restore our faith in one another. This is not the end of our journey, but the beginning of a new chapter. Together, we will make Wakanda stronger, more united than ever before."
[Steve Rogers POV]
[2 Days Later, Wakanda]
The sun rose slowly over Wakanda, casting a golden glow across the city that still bore the scars of recent battles. The past two days had been a blur of activity and effort, each of us throwing ourselves into the cleanup and rebuilding process with unwavering determination. The people of Wakanda had suffered greatly, and it was our duty to help them heal and restore their homes. As I walked through the streets, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of admiration for the resilience and strength of the Wakandan people. Everywhere I looked, I saw Wakandans working side by side with my team, clearing rubble, repairing structures, and offering comfort to those in need. T'Challa, their king, was always at the forefront, leading by example. He moved with a quiet grace, his eyes reflecting the weight of responsibility he bore. For my part, I focused on lending my strength wherever it was needed. Whether it was lifting heavy beams, carrying supplies, or simply offering a reassuring word to those who had lost so much, I poured my heart and soul into the work. Each task, no matter how small, felt like a step towards healing not just the city but the spirits of its people.
I have always believed in the power of unity and resilience, and here in Wakanda, I witness those beliefs come to life. The bonds we are forming with the Wakandans, the shared labor and mutual respect, are a testament to what we can achieve when we stand together. It reminds me of the core values I have fought for all my life—freedom, justice, and the unwavering spirit of humanity. As the second day draws to a close, I stand atop a hill overlooking the city. The sunset paints the sky in hues of orange and pink, a stark contrast to the scenes of destruction below. Yet, amidst the rubble, there is also a growing sense of renewal. Buildings are being repaired, and makeshift shelters have sprung up for those who have lost their homes. Children's laughter can be heard in the distance, a hopeful sound. I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past days in my muscles and bones. But more than the physical exhaustion, there is a profound sense of fulfillment. We have come to Wakanda to fight a battle, but we are leaving it having forged bonds of friendship and solidarity that will endure long after the last stone is set back in place.
Turning back towards the city, I see T'Challa standing amidst a group of his people. He meets my gaze and gives a nod of acknowledgment and gratitude. In that moment, I feel a deep connection, a shared understanding that transcends words. As we prepare to leave for New York City, I can't help but reflect on the journey ahead. There is still so much to do and so many battles to fight, both seen and unseen. But I know that we are stronger for the experiences we have shared here. Wakanda has shown us the power of unity and resilience, and those lessons will guide us in the days to come. The Quinjet is ready, and as the team and I board, I take one last look at Wakanda. The city is scarred but standing. I feel a deep sense of pride in what we have accomplished.
[AVA Starr POV]
[The Raft, New York City]
[Cell Block.] I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling of my prison cell. The cold, sterile walls of The Raft surround me, a constant reminder of my captivity. All I've been thinking about for the past months is how I'm going to get my revenge on Zemo. The bastard who murdered the Kingpin—Mr. Fisk. Despite his flaws, he was the closest thing I had to a father, and I failed to protect him. The dim light from the corridor seeps through the small window in my cell door, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The hum of the facility's ventilation system is a low, monotonous drone that I've grown used to, but it does nothing to drown out the thoughts racing through my mind. Each night, as I lie here, my anger and grief coil tighter, fueling my resolve. Zemo. Just the name ignites a fire within me, a burning desire for vengeance. He thought he could take away the one person who mattered to me and get away with it. But he's wrong. I won't let him slip through my fingers. I replay the events leading up to Mr. Fisk's death over and over in my mind, searching for any detail I might have missed, any clue that could help me in my quest for retribution. The Kingpin wasn't just a criminal overlord to me; he was a mentor, a protector, and a father figure. He saw something in me when no one else did, took me under his wing, and taught me how to survive in a world that showed me no mercy. His lessons were harsh, his methods brutal, but they made me strong. And now, that strength is all I have left.
I remember the last conversation I had with him. His voice, deep and commanding, echoed in my mind. "You're stronger than you think, Ava. Don't ever let anyone make you feel otherwise." Those words haunt me now, a painful reminder of my failure. I let him down. I let Zemo get to him. But I won't let his death go unavenged. The Raft is a fortress designed to hold the most dangerous individuals, and escaping is nearly impossible. But I've never been one to shy away from a challenge. I've spent every waking moment analyzing the guards' routines, the shifts, the security measures. I've been patient, biding my time, waiting for the right moment to strike. And when that moment comes, I'll be ready. A knock on my cell door pulls me from my thoughts. I sit up, my muscles tense, ready for whatever comes next. The door swings open, and a guard steps in, his expression unreadable. "Starr, you've got a visitor," he says curtly. A visitor? My mind races with possibilities. It could be anyone, but whoever it is, they must have something important to tell me if they've gone through the trouble of getting clearance to see me here. I stand, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and suspicion.
[Visitors Area.] The guard leads me down the sterile, dimly lit corridor to the visitor's area. The air is heavy with the scent of disinfectant, and the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows on the concrete walls. Each step echoes ominously, a reminder of the isolation and confinement that define life in The Raft. As I enter the room, I see a figure standing by the glass partition. The man is clad in a standard black business suit, crisp and immaculate, with an air of practiced authority. Everything about him screams private contractor for very powerful people. His posture is relaxed, almost casual, but there's a steely glint in his eyes that tells me he's not to be underestimated. He exudes a confidence that borders on arrogance, a man used to getting what he wants. I take a seat on the cold metal chair, the chill seeping through my clothes and into my bones. Picking up the phone on my side of the glass, I fix him with a steely gaze. "Ava Starr," he says, his voice muffled through the thick glass but unmistakable, laced with a hint of a challenge. "Skip the sales pitch," I snap, my patience already wearing thin, "What do you want?" He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by my directness, "Straight to the point. I like that." He leans closer, his expression becoming more serious, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that's hard to ignore, "I'm here to offer you a golden opportunity. My employer wishes to recruit you for a specialized team. Like yourself, this team has individuals with unique abilities."
I lean back slightly, crossing my arms over my chest as I study him. "A specialized team, huh? What makes you think I'd be interested in working for your employer? You don't even know me." He smiles, a slow, calculating smile. "On the contrary, Ms. Starr, we know quite a bit about you. Your skills, your talents, your motivations. We know about your connection to Mr. Fisk and your desire for revenge against Zemo." My heart skips a beat at the mention of Zemo, but I keep my expression neutral, "And what does your employer want in return for this... golden opportunity?" He steeples his fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. "It's simple, really. We offer you freedom and resources. In return, you lend your abilities to our cause. We have a shared enemy in Zemo, and we believe that together, we can achieve far more than you could on your own." I can't help but scoff, "And what cause is that? What's in it for you?" His smile widens slightly as if he's been expecting my skepticism, "Our cause is stability and order. My employer has a vision for a world where power is balanced and chaos is minimized. Zemo is a threat to that vision, just as he is a threat to you. By working together, we can eliminate that threat and create a better future." I study him for a moment, weighing his words. The promise of freedom and resources is tempting, especially when it comes to the chance to exact my revenge on Zemo. But there's a part of me that remains cautious, wary of hidden agendas and ulterior motives, "And who exactly is this employer of yours? Why the secrecy?" His expression remains calm, "All in good time, Ms. Starr. For now, know that my employer is someone with considerable influence and resources. Someone who believes in your potential and is willing to invest in it."
I tap my fingers on the metal table, considering his offer. The thought of being part of a specialized team, of having allies with unique abilities, is intriguing. It could give me the edge I need to take down Zemo. But trust is a fragile thing, especially when it comes to mysterious benefactors. "I need more than just vague promises," I say finally, "I need proof that your employer can deliver on these promises." He nods as if expecting this response, "Of course. You'll have the proof you need. My employer understands the importance of trust and will provide the necessary assurances. But first, we need to get you out of here. Are you willing to take that first step?" I pause, my mind racing. The offer is risky, but the alternative is to remain trapped in this cell, powerless to avenge Fisk's death. The thought of Zemo walking free, unpunished, fuels my determination. "All right," I say, my voice firm, "I'll take that first step. But know this—I won't be anyone's pawn. I'm doing this for Fisk, and for myself." His smile is one of satisfaction, but there's a hint of something else—respect, perhaps, "Understood. You'll find that we value independence and strength. Welcome to the Thunderbolts."