T’Challa makes a decision and plans for the future.
The first thing T’Challa does once he has kimoyo beads again is to check the news. The news is a terribly “normal” mix of fluff and entertainment—who was getting married, new births and exhibits, what was currently in fashion—intermixed with current events and a very small section dedicated to international affairs. T’Challa means to focus on the international section but gets stuck reading several long features with pictures from N’Jadaka’s ceremonial proposal the week before. He had seen the camouflaged drones that day but it isn’t till he sees the high definition images and video of the proposal he realized the full extent of his cousin’s play. He looks small, in the pictures. It only took a few months of hard living and questionable eating habits to wear down the muscle he’s built for years. But more than the loss of muscle mass there’s just a difference. In his face and eyes, apprehension and hesitation where there wasn’t before. Seeing himself through the lens of the carefully curated shots T’Challa feels repulsed. Together with his mother the two of them look haughty, and arrogant while N’Jadaka appears supplicant. It’s just a few pictures and it’s clearer in the edited videos that’s not necessarily the case but the narrative from these few images has created an entire fabrication for N’Jadaka to peddle to a Wakandan audience hungry for romance and intrigue. The post he spends the longest on has over 6000 comments and has been shared ten times that amount. He doesn’t recognize the writer but he recognizes their sentiment and allegiance when they cast N’Jadaka as ‘lovestruck’ and T’Challa as ‘unfeeling.’ T’Challa knows this post like many others must have been bought, that his cousin must be manipulating the news—that none of these people had witnessed the challenge that dethroned him or knew N’Jadaka’s true origins or N’Jobu’s treason. Yet he’s still dumbfounded by the way the truth of his damned house arrest has somehow turned into he and his mother “seeking seclusion” or N’Jadaka’s surprise proposal a, “romantic declaration.” As if the man didn’t already have 8 wives. Of course all the videos cut right after T’Challa rejected the proposal, there’s no record of his cousin threatening to starve him and his mother. But there are enlarged images of all the engagement gifts, artfully arranged to show how expensive, rare or valuable they were. He knows better than to read people’s comments and once he’s gotten a summary of what the media in favor of N’Jadaka is running he goes in search for media sources that are more critical. To his irritation there’s not much, outside of jokes or mild insults to his cultural faux pass, memes about his large harem, questions about his dubious heritage and of course, his questionable Wakandan speaking skills. T’Challa doesn’t understand, how could conservative circles have little to say about him? He finds some traction when he goes into specific forums, like a Merchant Tribe’s trading guild or a River Tribe research center but they’re all focused on specific incidents. Not the broader issue of N’Jadaka being wholly unprepared and unfit to be king. This more than anything is what tells him something is very very wrong. Even at the height of his father’s kingship there was always noise, dissent, complaints. If people weren’t complaining the way they used to, if public forums didn’t feel comfortable airing out their grievances and the worst condemnation was given through humor and veiled statements then they were in deep trouble, Bast help them. Following his verbal agreement to marry N’Jadaka he and his mother had been shuttled from the tiny compound to an outer palace on the outskirts of Birnin Zana. Based on the length of the trip T’Challa calculates their approximate location and realized they’ve been kept in seclusion a significant distance from the capital so even if they managed to escape it would have been a long trek to the border let alone a major city. The outer palace is the remnants of a former dynasty where the panther tribe host family moved throughout Wakanda on an annual basis. While the palace wasn’t used much anymore it was well maintained and the accommodations meet the standard for the wedding preparations—already underway more than a week before T’Challa even gave his agreement. That little fact had enraged him when it became clear but there’s just too many things to focus on, too many things to do. N’Jadaka assuming he would agree to marriage was far from the worst thing going on at this moment. His mother in contrast doesn’t even touch her kimoyo beads upon delivery, her focus is on the staff they’ve been given. The moment they arrived she began giving instructions and preparing accommodation to receive visitors. They won’t be at this palace for longer than a month maybe two but T’Challa knows the moment his mother gives her location there will be a covalence of people wanting to see the both of them. It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t bothered to contact anyone, friends or otherwise. Also he really needed to catch up on everything that’s been happening because for all the fluff and humor being bandied about a lot of things had happened and were *still* happening. “T’Challa?” He looks up reluctantly from a video featuring the newly assigned Division Head of the War Dogs. It’s his mother—of course. Who else would come looking for him? Certainly not the palace staff, he’s seen enough hero worship to last him a life time. “Yes?” He can’t keep the irritation from his tone, he hates being interrupted. “It’s half past three, why don’t you come eat with me.” Ramonda’s voice is deceptively light, T’Challa knows better than to say no. He hadn’t realized how long it’s been. They arrived 4am this morning, surely it hadn’t been that long? When he stands up his back cracks in protest and he winces when his stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten all day. He fumbles for words as he puts his displays away with sign language gesture he hasn’t used in months, “Is everything alright?” “I’m fine, I ate breakfast today unlike you.” There hadn’t been any breakfast available when they arrived—too early for the surprised staff to receive them properly. She must have eaten later, after T’Challa walked off to find the closest office space to begin his information gathering. He opens his mouth to tell her what he’s been reading then closes it. “I’m sorry, I just needed to know what’s been happening and…” He trails off at her expression. A mix of sadness and determination. “Let’s eat.” Ramonda intones gently and T’Challa nods. He follows her out of the room and down a long hallway to a dining room set for two. Distantly he can hear someone talking, a radio or song playing from what must be the attached kitchen. But the sound is… muted and T’Challa has to force himself to stop straining to hear it. It’s been months and yet he still reacted as if he still had the herb. The meal is simple. T’Challa knows when he tastes the fragrant sauce that his mother cooked it herself and it’s all the more delicious for it. His mind drifts to the last time he sat at a table to eat food his mother specially cooked, how Shuri had teased their father for overeating. The memory of a happier time so divorced from his current reality to be a different universe causes his gusto for the meal to diminish. “A transport will come for you tomorrow morning, I’ve booked an appointment at a private clinic.” His mother announces minutes into their silent lunch. T’Challa frowns around a piece of sautéed vegetable. Once he swallows he asks, “Why not wait?” There were only a few reasons he would visit a private clinic over the prestigious medical center that normally served their family in the capital. One was the troubling symptoms he’s been experiencing these last few months, mitigated some by recent drug treatment but not completely gone. Another was for birth control. “I know the doctor personally. She will handle things discreetly.” His mother doesn’t answer his question and T’Challa sets down the piece of flatbread he’s been toying with. “I’m not getting married tomorrow. There’s still time.” Time to find another way maybe, and even if this wedding business was extremely rushed that still gave them a month or two at the very least. “T’Challa this isn’t the usual marriage or proposal. If N’Jadaka wants he could have you in the harem palace tomorrow. Any extra time he gives to you by following wedding decorum is precious.” There’s an edge in his mother’s tone that makes T’Challa feel like a misbehaving schoolboy. It chafes even more knowing she was right. “He agreed to give me a wedding befitting my status as a prince—you can’t have a wedding on that scale within a week.” Even if you started 2 weeks earlier than your actual proposal. His mother doesn’t look reassured. “What he agreed to and what he will do are two different things.” “If the wedding isn’t appropriate then the engagement is broken, he wouldn’t risk that not if he wants this marriage to work.” T’Challa speaks with more confidence than he feels. N’Jadaka could do a lot of things once their marriage agreement was set. They weren’t even sure the council would approve, they must all have someone they favored in the harem. T’Challa’s inclusion wouldn’t be met with much support. Not if the articles he’s been reading all morning were to be believed. “The earlier you see a trustworthy doctor, the better things will be. No matter what N’Jadaka does.” This is something T’Challa can’t argue with. Whatever damage the anklet or whatever it was that had been hurting him at the compound had done, he needed to face it. He also needed to prepare for the realities of being married, not as a king receiving his wife but as a wife to another king. -:- The transport that takes him to the private clinic is parked in an underground garage that suggests it’s original purpose might have been for emergency evacuations. It’s also smaller than any he’s ever rode in before, the model number is missing from the outside of the vehicle so T’Challa couldn’t even look up specifications. He realizes why when he steps inside and an unusual AI greets him. The transport isn’t connected to the NET like most transports were, so his kimoyo beads can’t control the vehicle outside of setting a destination. Presumably the AI was running on a local server somewhere and that meant—this vehicle wasn’t being monitored. It didn’t run on the public network, he was in the moment as anonymous as he’s been in years. He could potentially go anywhere. That thought in particular percolates in his mind when the vehicle slides to a stop at the edge of a long walking path. He didn’t need to go to this clinic or have diagnostics that would probably depress him more. He could just leave, go somewhere else. To the capital even. But for all his errant thoughts he finds himself getting out of the shuttle into warm humid air and walking up the path to the clinic’s entrance. Inside the clinic is pleasantly cool and a friendly voice in his ear asks for his identification and appointment number. He doesn’t provide identification, he hadn’t even logged into his current kimoyo beads with his actual name so he couldn’t anyway. What he gives is the appointment number his mother gave him. He’s not waiting long before a tall person with dark purple braids comes out to greet him. Their features are a mix of Merchant and River Tribe. T’Challa would have guessed River had they not used distinctly Merchant Tribe pronouns. They introduce themself as Dr. Deji, they don’t use his name or honorific despite the two of them being alone in the waiting room. T’Challa assumes it’s for privacy sake and follows the doctor into a private room where he’s told to sit and then wait a few more minutes. T’Challa isn’t sure what to expect, he hadn’t been the one to set the appointment after all. When the Dr. returns they’re pushing a cart of equipment, and trailed by an impressive looking medical bot. This marks the beginning of the most invasive examination T’Challa has ever had. Dr. Deji explains as they work: “Our tests and scans rely almost entirely on a patient’s kimoyo beads. If the kimoyo beads are calibrated right, it’s fine. If the receptors in a patient’s blood is working normally it’s fine. If those two together are communicating without interference then there’s no need for more investigation. The problem—“ T’Challa stares at the medical bot that has been on standby ever since coming into the room—“Is when the beads aren’t working, the receptors aren’t accurate and routine tests can’t be trusted.” First he has to give blood and urine samples, Deji assures him it’s just a precaution. Then he’s told to run through some regular exercise while a sensor strapped around his arm measures his vitals. The Doctor’s expression doesn’t give away much after each successive test but T’Challa doesn’t need the extended testing and prolonged scans to know things were not as they should be. When the tests end the questions begin. Some of them are questions the doctor N’Jadaka sent asked, but many are new and frightening. Every time he struggles to quantify his discomfort or pain, or he recalls a situation happening once or maybe it was twice it hits him just how wrong things might be. At the end of the questioning, Dr. Deji tells him: “You never fully healed from the fall you took. There are abrasions and partly healed fractures on your body. On top of that you have vitamin and nutrition deficiencies, an abnormal red blood cell count, and some startling symptoms to indicate poisoning. But this poison is unlike anything I’ve seen.” The confirmation that he has been poisoned gives him a hollow vindicated feeling. He knew, even if the other doctor wouldn’t confirm. But if that doctor had only been using their kimoyo beads and the faulty receptors in his blood could he blame them? “Is the poison still in my system? Do you know if it’s curable?” Deji shakes his head. “There are traces of unusual chemicals in your body but nothing significant. What I can monitor mostly is the damage—not the cause.” T’Challa looks at his hands then the bare ankle. Here was as much proof as he were ever going to get that N’Jadaka tried to kill him after T’Challa lost the challenge and it wasn’t even enough to bring to the council. He didn’t even have the broken anklet anymore, N’Jadaka took it with him when he left that day. He feels like screaming. He presses down the thick wet anger and asks, “How much damage?” The list of concerning issues is much longer than the list he was given before. T’Challa is only half listening at this point, still trying to contain his rage over actual confirmation at what N’Jadaka had been doing. What gets him the most is that this poisoning hadn’t been trying to kill him, no it had been weakening him. Everything from his immune system to his sense of touch and smell. What sort of evil, depraved… “You will need to be careful around fragrances and plants, you’re now much more sensitive to outside stimuli—I would avoid…” T’Challa tunes in and then out. At some point they get to his reproductive organs and T’Challa has to confirm they still work, a fear that only just occurred to him. “They’re not as affected as your liver and kidneys have been but I wouldn’t be surprised if you struggled to conceive in the future. However, your fecundity is still higher than the average Wakandan.” T’Challa can only nod, the average Wakandan didn’t usually have children, not without significant assistance from reproductive technology. A side effect of centuries of mutation, a reduced gene pool and other factors. His father’s family were different, Panther Tribe as a rule was different. If he had the herb this poison wouldn’t have affected him in the first place and he wouldn’t worry about if he even had any viable eggs left. If he was still king and he ignored N’Jadaka that day, if he handled him the way his mother wanted him to none of this would ever have happened. “I still have the birth control implant ready.” Deji reminds after a hefty diagnosis and proposed treatment plan. T’Challa’s mind is still reeling at the thought of having to take so much medication to alleviate not even cure or stop the issues he’s been experiencing. “Do you think I will need it? With the way my body is now?” T’Challa doubts he will have to worry much for birth control after this. He’d taken one for years with Nakia, now without the herb—he didn’t have much to worry about did he? Deji looks from the display to T’Challa. “It depends on you. Do you want children in the near future?” T’Challa blinks and then shudders. N’Jadaka had the herb now. Even if T’Challa was barely capable of having children, his chances were still higher than most as long as he was married to someone taking the herb. His mother had struggled for years to have him and Shuri but eventually she managed. No wonder she was so adamant about this appointment. He blinks away the sudden wetness. “No. No I don’t. I’ll take the implant.” -:- T’Challa doesn’t return back to the outer palace immediately. Having been restricted to a compound the size of his former bedroom for months, he’s not eager to rush back. He enjoys the feeling of being outside and having the means to go—in theory wherever he wanted. After examining a map of area in the transport, he picks out a nearby pasture to navigate to. The area is open, lush with plant life and teeming with the sounds and scent of the surrounding eco system. It’s much better than the quiet, uncomfortable silence of the palace. Much better than processing all he’s been told, and what is coming. He thinks again about leaving, taking the transport and going till he were somewhere else. Maybe he could find Shuri, wherever she was. Why couldn’t his mother have followed Shuri in the beginning? Why did she have to stay with him? How could one decision ruin so much? When his thoughts threaten to overwhelm him, he gets back inside the transport and enters the outer palace as his next destination. He arrives at noon, only 4 hours have passed since he left that morning. There are more people now at the palace. Mostly staff, dressed in a familiar uniform and going about their work. T’Challa tries to be as unobtrusive as he can on his way to the room he’s been sleeping in but every time they see him he receives double takes and salutes. They don’t need to salute him anymore, being only a prince as opposed to king and Black Panther but his former identity precedes him. He smiles with calm he doesn’t feel, offering pleasant words and simple greetings when confronted with those curious or awed looks and then he locks himself in his room. This time when he gets on his kimoyo beads and connects the room’s displays he logs on as himself. His personal and official correspondence are in the thousands. While he no longer has the accesses and permissions he used to as Black Panther and then king—he checks just to be sure—he still had contacts for hundreds of Wakanda’s most influential citizens. Some of which he actually wished to speak to. He starts by drafting messages, avoiding reading anything he had been sent for the moment. Messages of greeting and intent, detailed explanation for his absences and future goals, grouped by the receivers tribe, affiliation and ranking. He crafts these messages with his future position as a concubine in mind, acting as if he were already master of the harem and acting as the king’s spouse. Then once he has a few templates, he sends them all to his mother. It’s only after he sends the templates does he start to read the buildup of messages. He reads the messages from right after N’Jadaka won the challenge first. Seeing different people’s confusion and fear, their jokes and questions makes his head hurt and his eyes redden. He reads as these messages grow more and more worried, and less and less in frequency with no response from him. He received the most messages in the beginning of his house arrest and then three days ago. Which was when N’Jadaka announced their engagement and released the images and videos of his proposal. The response is very mixed. T’Challa doesn’t want to read the messages from acquaintances, many of which were unnecessary congratulations and informal inquiries into his relationship with N’Jadaka. He doesn’t want to read the messages from some of the council members either. He’s still not sure how to feel about their behavior and handling of N’Jadaka these last few months. He keeps waiting to be shown the compelling reasons they must have for deciding to try and control his cousin with marriage instead of just ousting him in the first place. He runs a query when the number of unread messages starts to climb again—no doubt from everyone getting a notification that he was online again for the first time in almost 6 months. He ignores the flurry of incoming calls, dismissing them with a gesture. The query pulls up the names of his most persistent contacts in the previous weeks. One of those persistent contacts had sent him a message earlier in the morning. He opens up the message and after he reads he has to turn of the display and pace his room before he can continue doing anything else. Sami had been a research partner during his collegiate years. The two of them have talked maybe once or twice in the last three years. Yet the Mining Tribeswoman was one of the few to continue to send T’Challa messages after he didn’t respond in that first month. Sami sent a message almost every single week since his house arrest. His fingers hover over the icon to call but he can’t quite finish the command. There are more messages like Sami’s. A small number of people yes but similar messages, similar sentiments and a continuing care towards him that the numerous messages before them lacked. He inhales slowly and then exits out the inbox interface. After ignoring everyone (against his will) for months, a little longer wouldn’t hurt. From the corner of his notifications he sees a special alert from his mother. Assuming it must be for his templates, messages he now wasn’t even sure he wanted to send—he ignores the ping and goes on to his virtual workspace. Without his usual access he has to get creative about entering the capital’s network. Before, traversing anonymously was as easy as using the credentials ready made for him, now he actually has to make a dummy account and test it on something simple. Knowing he was probably being monitored and that this might be a waste of time. He tries anyway and is pleasantly surprised when it works… mostly. He’s able to access enough of Shuri’s lab so he can pull up video footage and some other records. In theory he could also log into her accounts, she’d made him a privileged user at some point but he doesn’t want to test the theory now. He just wants to make sure that—a familiar room pops on screen filled with identically dark cryo tanks. One of which had held James Barnes when he first arrived to Wakanda and one of which currently held the body of Everett Ross. He knows the location hasn’t been discovered because the time stamp on each tank is untouched. His sister hid the body well considering she had been fleeing for her life in that same time. T’Challa hadn’t agreed with this decision when his mother informed him weeks after his sister and James Barnes already fled for Jabari lands. But now with the clarity of confinement he wonders what he had been thinking, listening to Nakia in the first place. Why hadn’t Okoye stopped him? What had possessed him to allow a foreign American agent into Wakanda? Twice now with N’Jadaka’s continued survival. Barnes was one thing—and a tightly held secret besides. A useful one even, now in service to Shuri’s continued safety. But Ross was a damn security risk, a pawn he refused to hand over to N’Jadaka. He was unbelievably lucky his cousin hadn’t already found Ross or Shuri for that matter but who knows how long that luck would last? He collects other images and video in case his exploration was being monitored before moving on to the next task, destroying the tanks. In a better world they would have been able to heal Ross and then drop him off somewhere with Wakanda and it’s secrets unseen. In a better world Barnes would already be out of Wakanda and not currently bound to Shuri as a specially programmed security guard. But Barnes was more useful alive than dead and Ross sealed his fate when he heard Klaue’s stories and believed them. T’Challa doesn’t have to try hard to trigger the fail-safe on the cryotanks. The rest would look like an accident. The video and audio recording wouldn’t be available to review either. It’s the simplest thing T’Challa does that afternoon. -:- Later in the evening when his body is starting to feel faint from hunger he checks the message his mother sent earlier. > I am going to your father’s memorial. Do you want to join me? < A few minutes later > I don’t know when next I’ll be able to go T’Challa, please decide soon < > I’m waiting at the transport < The last message was sent several hours ago. She must have already left and come back. Why hadn’t he just checked her message? T’Challa closes his eyes, fights a sob. Then he opens his eyes and responds. > I didn’t see your message in time. Another time? < His mother doesn’t respond and T’Challa doesn’t gets a chance to go to the memorial. N’Jadaka’s wedding party arrives that night.