#7 - Regicide

By Dale Glaser & John Stevenson

The Black Panther waits in a stance of readiness, his left foot forward, his right foot extended behind him far enough that his right knee nearly touches the floor of the underground chamber. The sovereign of Wakanda is completely motionless, but his stillness is one of barely restrained tension, potential energy incarnate, clad in skintight blue-black battle garb. The eight commandoes spaced evenly in a circle around the Black Panther with automatic weapons trained on him are likewise unmoving, awaiting instructions.

Only one figure strides freely through the chamber, a singularly unusual figure, even in comparison to the stylized uniforms of the Safeguardian commandoes and the caped jungle cat in their gun sights. The strutting figure wears no clothing at all, but his brown skin bears the uniform appearance of grainy wood. His head is an elongated tribal mask, also wooden, and four broad blades of wood radiate outward from his spine and fan behind his shoulders. He was once a brilliant yet humble Wakandan scientist named A’kurru, but now, prowling the floor of the subterranean room as master of all he surveys, he is simply …

“Icon,” T’Challa repeats the revolutionary’s nom-de-guerre, while remaining serenely still in his leonine crouch. “For one who claims to be fundamentally opposed to Western influence and modern technology, you choose strange companions.”

“Were I still as limited in my thinking as when last we met, I might agree, your highness,” Icon responds with sneering derision dripping from the last two words. “But I have, fortunately, become …” Icon stops his pacing and turns the oversized yellow eyes of his headdress visage upon the Black Panther, “… enlightened.”

Icon once again strides from spot to spot across the floor, weaving in and among his ‘strange companions,’ the machine-gun wielding Safeguardians. “I have realized a critical flaw in my earlier thinking,” the rogue Wakandan’s reedy voice continues. “Realized it, and learned from it.”

“Spoken as a true scientist,” T’Challa observes humorlessly.

“Indeed,” Icon agrees. “I had believed, in the past, that I might depose you,” Icon waves nonchalantly at the dark coil of sinews that is the Black Panther, “take the throne as my own, and in doing so, return Wakanda to an isolationist state, free of the corruption of so-called scientific progress. However, I know now that such could never be the case, so long as Wakanda retains any assets which are of interest to the rest of the world. A king may control his own nation, but not the avarice of the entire world.”

“A fair assessment,” the monarch of Wakanda acknowledges.

“The logical reduction from that premise to the present alliance,” Icon proceeds, pausing to run fibrous fingers along the black steel casing of one commando’s automatic weapon, “is elementary. The world takes interest in Wakanda because of the vibranium. Safeguardian, Incorporated desires the vibranium for themselves. I am more than happy to let them extract every last ounce of vibranium, to ensure a new golden age for Wakanda, one free from polluting outside influences.”

“And yet I cannot allow that to happen,” the Black Panther insists with quiet but unyielding determination. “The effects upon Wakanda would be devastating.”

Icon’s long, carved face is incapable of movement or the expression of emotion, but a harsh, dry laugh is emitted from the hollowed mouth area. “Of course, the mighty T’Challa would not allow his kingdom to be stripped of its most notorious resource. I am aware of this. The Safeguardians are aware of this. And in that awareness was our alliance forged. I directed them in the means which would deliver you to us. And I will clear the way for them to take control of the cursed vibranium, by killing the king of Wakanda. In return I reclaim the natural state of our land for our people, and relish the pleasure of repaying you for humiliating me those years ago.”

“Do you truly believe these mercenaries would leave Wakanda in peace once the vibranium was theirs?” the Black Panther asks pointedly.

“Why not?” Icon retorts. “As the name of their organization implies, they wish to safeguard the world, and believe the surest way to do so is to take control of all global resources and thereby prevent abuses by less enlightened factions. Their scope is global, and a Wakanda without vibranium would hardly be worth their notice. This alliance is temporary, your highness. It shall last only long enough for the vibranium to change hands.”

“And then?”

“Worry not about the future of your kingdom,” Icon growled, the pitch and volume of his wooden voice rising. “Worry about your own future, which I swear will be very, very short!”

Everett K. Ross feels his way along the metal-plated wall of a dimly lit corridor with his right hand. Behind him, he can hear the scene playing out between the Client and the apparent architect of recent misfortunes. The words become harder and harder to make out as he progresses hesitantly down the corridor, but the sounds of the voices are recognizable. The arch-villain sounds like someone speaking through a bamboo tube, his voice rising and falling from smug calm to outraged shouting. The Client, as always, sounds like the Client, cat-god and king, measured and powerful. The entire scenario, in Ross’s opinion, is surreally Ian Fleming, as the arch-villain describes in painstaking detail his foolproof plan to take over the world, and the Client says just enough to keep the arch-villain talking and delay the inevitable Climactic Battle Scene. Ross has no desire to be part of, or remotely near, the Climactic Battle Scene, which is precisely why he has taken the opportunity afforded by the arch-villain’s overblown proclamations of victory to slip away. The gun-toting thugs with the Garanimals fashion sense had seemed focused on their Lincoln Log leader as Ross slowly worked his way toward an exit from the chamber. He has not looked back since stealing into the corridor and proceeding to put distance between himself and the bad guys, but he listens.

Ross flinches away from the wall beneath his hand and jumps to the far side of the corridor as if a lethal current of electricity has struck him. It is not voltage but sound that startles the attaché of the Office of the Chief of Protocol, a rapid-fire hammertap on the opposite side of the steel wall he walks beside. In the few moments it takes for his heart to stop its attempts to burst through his rib cage, Ross realizes that it is simply an internal mechanism within the walls starting up, probably something as benign as the HVAC system. Clutching his own shirtfront, blinking the cold sweat out of his eyes, Ross mutters to himself, “And this is exactly why James Bond does not have a sidekick.”

Ross begins walking down the corridor again, now using his left hand to steady himself against the metal-plated wall. His steps are small and tentative. The sound he was just startled by was not the sound of imminent bodily harm for himself, but harm may be down this corridor. Ross slipped out of the entrance chamber to get away from the gun-toting thugs and the Masked Walking Stick, but there may be more gun-toting thugs and more completely non-politically correct African arch-villains around every corner. His desire to be far, far away from the Climactic Battle Scene is counterbalanced by his caution against increasing his chances of stumbling into another unpleasant situation. In addition to his baby steps along the line between the frying pan and the fire, Ross talks aloud to distract himself from the unpleasantness of the situation.

“This is the last time I let his highness strong-arm me into a super-hero field trip. Who do I look like, Bruce Willis? I don’t even look like a Bruce of any kind,” Ross insists softly, working farther and farther down the corridor. “I really have to take responsibility myself, though. I never was good at saying no, especially to the Client. What could I have said in the embassy to get him to leave me there? Hmmm … ‘Your Highness, there is nothing in the world you can do to make me get back on that quinjet.’ No, I really don’t want to see how he’d prove me wrong on that one. ‘I think we have a better chance of success if I stay here and … um … stay here and …’ Shoot, all I wanted to do in New York was go back to my apartment, take a shower and order some Pad Thai, but I don’t know if any of that would have helped the Client, per se. All right, how about ‘I’m no good in a fight, I’ll only slow you down.’ Ugh, no, that would have brought on the royal pep talk about confronting my attackers and how the two of us need to be warriors side by side. Next, please. ‘Your Highness, I would love to join you in tracking down and opening a can of whoopass on the bad guys, but I need some time right now to commune with the mothership from my home starsystem.’ No, too Anne Heche …”

Ross reaches a corner in the corridor, turns it and finds himself in a short passageway with a single door at the far end. “Typical,” he sighs. He approaches the door, really a recessed panel in the terminal wall of this leg of the corridor, with no handle or hinges. Beside the door are two rectangular buttons. The top one is red, with the word LOCKED printed across it; it is depressed and illuminated. The unlit green rectangle below it reads OPEN.

“I could go back,” Ross says, “but I think I’ll take what’s behind Door Number One, Monty.” He pushes the OPEN button, which clicks into place and lights up as the LOCKED button pops up from its position. A hum of mechanisms sounds inside the wall, and the door rises to reveal a small, completely dark cell. A female voice floats out of the darkness, asking, “Who’s there? Why have you people brought me here?”

Ross recognizes the voice, the velvety richness of it that served her well during her days as a jazz singer. “Ms. Lynne?” he asks, although he has already identified her. “It’s Everett K. Ross, we’ve met before. I’m an associate of … T’Challa,” he inserts the Black Panther’s name at the last moment, sidestepping his usual reference to the Client.

Monica Lynne rises from a metal bench, not even a proper cot, in the corner of the cell. She walks to the doorway, and in the dim illumination of the corridor Ross sees the beautiful damsel very much in distress: her clothing is torn in several places, her normally luxurious black hair is matted and tangled. On her face is an expression of curious bewilderment, as if awaiting a reasonable explanation for the attache’s appearance. Ross smiles self-consciously and says, “I suppose I’m here to rescue you.”

The Black Panther leaps straight up into the air as Icon’s left arm, now expanded into the shape of an oversized wooden mallet, swings down at the floor. The crash of heavy wood against metal reverberates through the chamber, as the Black Panther tucks into a backflip in mid-air, landing directly between two of the Safeguardian commandoes. The commandoes step away, aiming the muzzles of their automatic weapons at the Black Panther defensively. Clearly they have been ordered by Icon to not become involved in the fight directly, but to stand at the ready to control its outcome. The two commandoes closest to the Blank Panther adjust their positions accordingly, and the remaining six Safeguardians rearrange slightly as well with uniform precision.

Icon charges at the Black Panther with both arms raised, forearms crossed before him. Several large and wickedly pointed wooden spikes thrust out from the leading surface of the rogue Wakandan’s forearms. The Black Panther waits in a martial stance until Icon is nearly upon him, and then spins around and runs at the wall of the chamber. Icon screams and presses his charge forward even faster, intent on crushing the sovereign of Wakanda between his spiked arms and the wall. The Black Panther jumps at the wall and runs five paces up the steel surface, the vibranium soles of his costume’s boots allowing him to momentarily defy gravity.

Icon, unable to stop himself, collides with the wall beneath the Black Panther’s feet, his forearm spikes piercing the surface and becoming tightly embedded there. The Black Panther reaches out with his right arm, braces it against the top of Icon’s mask, and pushes off with the strength of his legs. The dark, sleek form of the jungle cat arches gracefully through the air and lands on all fours on the opposite side of the chamber.

As the Safeguardian commandoes once again compensate for the Black Panther’s new position in their midst, Icon wills his forearm spikes to retract, freeing himself from the wall. He makes a lurching turn toward the Black Panther and throws out his hands toward the monarch. Icon’s arms stretch outward, while his fists transform into large wooden spheres covered with knobs, resembling the heads of war maces.

The Black Panther stares levelly at the incoming weapons, then dives at them, pushing the mace heads down slightly while rolling over them. The Black Panther runs up Icon’s elongated wooden arms and vaults over the villain’s head.

Icon bellows with rage, reacting quickly to the Panther’s maneuver. While still dropping through the air toward the floor, the Black Panther feels two sharply serrated blades of wood slicing against the right side of his neck and the lower left side of his ribcage. A split-second later a heavy crosspiece of wood slams against his spine, shoving the Black Panther into the wall.

Icon’s right arm has assumed the shape of a jagged, two-pronged fork of wood, and the Black Panther is trapped against the wall of the chamber in the crux of the weapon. “T’Challa, you fool,” Icon gloats menacingly. “Did you intend to waste my time scampering about for an hour, until my transformation wore off?” Icon leans on his right arm, while the prongs of the huge fork constrict. The vibranium mesh of the Black Panther’s costume protects his back and rib cage, but the wooden teeth pierce the seam where the mask meets the costume along the neck. The puncture wounds draw blood and a pained grunt from the Black Panther.

“I did not plan this vengeance rashly, your highness,” Icon explains. “I perfected the transformation process, and can control this powerful form for as long as I desire!’ Icon withdraws his right arm, allowing the Black Panther to fall to the floor. “Now stand and fight me!”

The Black Panther rises to his feet and regards his enemy. Icon reshapes both of his arms into giant spears, each one easily nine feet long, letting one spear tip rest on the ground beside him and pointing the other at the Black Panther’s breast. The tableau holds for a moment as the two adversaries take the measure of one another.

The Black Panther moves first, lunging toward Icon. The raised spear arm comes toward him, but the Black Panther sends it away again with a spinning heel kick. The kick also serves to propel the Black Panther toward Icon’s lowered spear arm. The Black Panther grabs the spear just above its tip, braces it into the chamber floor, and pulls hard on the shaft. At the other end of its nine foot length, Icon finds himself lifted off the floor. Icon howls and stabs wildly at the Black Panther, but only succeeds in tearing the cape of the Wakandan king. The Black Panther grabs the other spear arm above the tip, and with a firm grip on both of Icon’s weapon arms, flips his would-be killer in a high arc. Icon slams down against the floor on the opposite side of the room, stunned. The Black Panther wastes no time, hauling up on the spear shafts once again and flipping Icon at the ends of them. The Black Panther pauses with Icon directly overhead, balanced on his long spear arms, and spins to throw Icon into the nearby wall. Icon collapses to the floor.

The Safeguardian commandoes seem dumbfounded by the savagery and speed with which Icon has been dispatched, but after a moment their wits return. Slowly, methodically, the commandoes ready their weapons in a series of metallic clicks and raise the guns to be fired.

“Your Highness,” Everett K. Ross calls out as he appears in the doorway of the chamber, with a bedraggled Monica Lynne behind him. “I believe I’ve found what we came here for … eep.” The attaché falls silent as the Safeguardian commandoes turn their attention and their automatic weapons on him.

In the moment of diversion, the Black Panther detaches the claw-shaped hilts of two energy daggers from his golden belt. The Black Panther quickly taps new settings into the hi-tech weapons’ controls, then holds the two hilts close together and switches them on. “Get back, Ross!” the Black Panther commands. The fiery energies from each hilt, one red and one blue, extend and mingle, discharging bolts like lightning that undulate wildly about the Black Panther’s form and lash out around the room. Everett K. Ross turns away from the chamber, backing down the corridor with Monica Lynne. The ferocious energy discharges continue within the chamber, and every bolt that strikes a Safeguardian instantly drops the commando where he stands.

After a few seconds, only the Black Panther is standing, and he switches off and replaces the energy daggers. “Come my friends,” the Black Panther says in a haggard voice. “Let us depart this place.”

In the king’s office in the Wakandan embassy, Monica Lynne and T’Challa take seats across the large mahogany desk from one another. Everett K. Ross is at the Office of the Chief of Protocol, hand delivering a recommendation from T’Challa that a more suitable position than overseeing the Iceland warehouse be found for the ‘invaluable’ attaché.

The Black Panther removes his mask, and Monica Lynne observes the large, sticky smear of blood along his neck. “You’re hurt,” she points out sympathetically.

“I am fine,” the sovereign waves the concern aside. “Have you been harmed in any way?”

“By the creeps with the guns?” Monica asks. “No, they didn’t take any special pains to treat me well, but they just seemed intent on having me. They didn’t hurt me.”

“You make it sound as if someone else has hurt you,” T’Challa observes.

Monica crosses her arms. “Someone else did,” she states simply.

“Monica, I … I sought you out as quickly as I could. I was grateful that your ordeal was minimal …”

“Minimal?” Monica repeats incredulously. “Minimal? Maybe to kings and superheroes, a kidnapping is pretty minimal, but in my silly little life it really messes with your head!”

“I would never forgive myself if you were made to suffer because of me,” T’Challa insists quietly. “Or if you have suffered.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll never forgive myself if I keep setting myself up like that,” Monica responds.

“Meaning?” T’Challa asks.

Monica sighs, and rises from her chair. “Meaning I can’t let you be a part of my life. I can’t have anything to do with you anymore. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful that you sought me out and rescued me. But if we didn’t associate with each other,” Monica shakes her head sadly, “I wouldn’t need to be sought out and rescued in the first place.” Monica turns and walks toward the door of the office.

“Monica,” the king of Wakanda’s voice comes the closest to pleading that it possibly can, “don’t leave.”

Monica turns back at the doorway and gazes back at T’Challa, “I’m sorry. I have to. It’s … it’s self-defense. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Before T’Challa can answer, the phone on his desk rings. Neither he nor Monica moves as it rings again. At the third ring, T’Challa picks up the receiver and says curtly into it, “I am rather busy at the moment.” T’Challa listens, and his face hardens as he does. After a few seconds, his eyes close. After another few seconds, he finally speaks. “No, you were right to call. I know. I will speak to you again soon.”

“T’Challa?” Monica asks as he hangs up the phone. “Who…?”

“Dr. Mendinao,” T’Challa answers stonily, his eyes still closed. “Zuri is dead.”

Monica takes a step back into the office, but T’Challa raises a hand to stop her. “If you plan to go, go now.” Monica hesitates, but turns around and departs the office.

The Black Panther, the ruler of Wakanda, T’Challa turns toward the window of the office and finally opens his eyes. They shine like dark jewels as he stares out over the city and grieves for a lost friend.

Author Notes

I wouldn't possibly be able to write these notes without sending out a HUGE thanks to Dale Glaser who is the reason you've been able to see these past two issues of BLACK PANTHER. Dale did a dynamite job scripting with next to nothing to work from. Everything that's right with the past two issues is all Dale. Everything that's wrong, that's all me.

Originally, when I started this book it was with high hopes. That was back in August '99;. I had come up with a crazy epic storyline that would have massive repercussions for almost the entire AV2000 universe, but then… I ran out of steam.

When I came back from a sabbatical, I realized, the book wasn't where I wanted it to be, and I didn't feel my early writing was doing the character justice. So, I decided the best thing to do would be to wrap up my storyline, and find the title a writer who could do it justice.

Luckily, Dale Glaser stepped in and wrapped up my plots with more enthusiasm than I could have mustered. And now, I've found the perfect writer to take BP to a new level.

Derrick Ferguson is perhaps the hottest writer in fanfic right now. His lively style and fascinating characters have brought his name to the top of many readers' fave writer lists.

In addition to all that, Derrick has a love of the character that rivals my own. He'll bring a great new style and great enthusiasm to a book that really deserves it. Faithful readers, be prepared to see this book jump to a whole new level. I'll even dare to say Derrick will make this one of fanfic's must reads.

It's been a blast.

Adam Di Stefano

03/03/02

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