A drone's eyeview over Birnin Zana was illuminating. It was the capital of Wakanda with a gold and violet glow. It consisted of hundreds of merchant streets, of Africa's centralized commerce so to speak. It was connected to the River Jubari. It was the smartest city in the world. Where most metropolises sprawled, Birnin Zana bloomed upward. Its towers were spears of obsidian and glass, strung together with skybridges and gardens. Mag-rails curved through like glowing arteries, linking levels in a perfectly choreographed circuit of movement.
Unlike New York, the center actually mattered. The center actually grew more and more important, more and more in relation to the royal family. Richer, better, bigger, with solar-lattice rooftops and even drone traffic for security and for distributing packages.
Whether it was from the heavens or the Earth, anyone could see that this was a city of design, not accident. Population density readouts flickered in the drone's feed: just under eight million residents in the greater basin. But where skyscrapers in Manhattan boxed people in, Wakanda's high-rises were accompanied with vertical farms, parks, and communal terraces that ensured no one ever lived too far from the green.
Institutions gleamed like jewels within this web of order. Again, the deeper one went, the more iconic and wealthy and invested it became. The Wakandan Institute of Advanced Materials—a shimmering dome of faceted glass—sat to the east. The Vibranium Foundry burned bright in the industrial quarter, guarded by sonic barriers. In the southern sector, the High Council Hall loomed circular and stately. It also doubled as data transmitters.
Policing here was artful and lethal. The Royal State Police deployed greater agents than cities like New York, and consequently their reach was wider.
The Royal Palace of Wakanda was at the center of everything. The palace was a citadel of gold-veined basalt and dark vibranium, rising from the center of the capital like a mountain grown by human will. Its architecture was both old and impossibly modern, a relic of kings and a fortress of code. Sunlight cascaded off its layered terraces. The palace's defenses were largely traditional.
At any given time, more than twelve hundred guards patrolled the grounds—elite palace soldiers, tech specialists, and, most prominently, detachments of the Dora Milaje. Beneath them worked another four hundred operators running cyber-defense systems, anti-nuclear defence, and monitoring interior security feeds. Control rested formally with the Marshal of the Guard, though everyone knew the true authority in the palace was the Dora Milaje captaincy.
Even now, those red-armored warriors moved through the corridors. But what none of the outside world knew—what even most of the guards didn't know—was that the Dora Milaje had turned and Princess Shuri, heir to the throne, was their prisoner.
Down through the palace's upper gardens, past the observation decks and ceremonial halls—to the central sanctum. There, deep beneath the palace, behind a single layer of a force field, Shuri sat alone. Surveillance timestamps blinked in silent succession. Guards changed shifts. The princess didn't move. She was alive but sedated, isolated, and contained.
On paper, nothing seemed wrong. Communications from the palace remained normal. Reports from the High Council were uninterrupted. The Dora Milaje's coded transmissions still cycled as if the kingdom were at peace.
Only Herbie had cracked the real story. The Dora Milaje had seized control from within, rerouting commands, blocking any transmission that might reveal what they'd done. They ruled the palace while pretending to serve it. And the rest of the world was none the wiser.
Toward the main gate, a small group was marching led by two perimeter guards and a woman that was unquestionably a foreigner. Eventually, they stopped. Eventually, questions were raised.
"So…"
Rogue was at the palace's main gate. The plaza had been designed to impress and to intimidate: wide, terraced steps that funneled the eye up to the palace doors, ornamental pools that doubled as data mirrors, and statues of past kings that watched with stony indifference. Guards clustered under carved awnings.
They did not glare at her like the cops back home; they simply measured her as a variable to be neutralized if necessary.
Because many recognized her. They didn't know the truth yet, that she was no longer SHIELD, but with Herbie's assistance and what had transpired all over the world, there was a distraction. A muffle. An opportunity.
Agent Shadowcat showed them her credentials the way she always had. The SHIELD-Wakanda token in her hand was a compact rectangle of polymer and embedded cryptographic chips. The lead guard took it, eyes narrowing as he scanned. His wrist display blinked. His lips moved against a comm. Rogue read the pause in his posture and pushed.
"I'll say it once and I'll say it again, people, I am Agent Shadowcat," she said, loud enough for every man to hear. "I am only here regarding a message for King T'Challa. Priority directive from Director of SHIELD herself. You've seen the news. You know what's going on."
"....we know."
"And you know you've been on lockdown. I am simply here as a third-party to share information. If you want me to leave, I will. Another will come in my place though."
The bluff did the work. Every single guard had either a sword or a spear. Hell, the ones that had guided her this far outright had the spears unsheathed and pointed at her. The lead guard's hand tightened on his spear, but he did not step back. The marshal's code ran through his head: respect the foreign emissary, consult the higher line. Rogue was an agent comfortable with pressure. She didn't apologize for her tone; she had never been taught to.
A younger guard, probably a lieutenant, approached with a tablet. "Agent, the High Council hasn't issued clearance." He spoke English with precise cadences. "We need to verify—"
"You can verify with Director Hill's secure channel," Rogue interrupted. "Or you can stall and we can both look foolish. I don't like wasting time."
A flurry of calls passed through his earpiece. The captain at his side barked an order. The lead guard glanced at Rogue again, then at the palace entrance. The doors that were not to opened for ordinary men or women, no matter their wealth. But SHIELD? It was different. From what her wrist was saying, this was a top order. This may be from the World Security Council.
The lead guard tapped his console. "We'll escort you to the antechamber," he said. "Do not attempt to pass beyond that point without official marshaling. And if it is not accepted, expect to be escorted back out. No resistance."
Rogue let out a breath like a laugh and walked through the gate with her hands visible, keeping her posture neutral. She had secured them the in. It wouldn't be total access—never first go—but it was a foothold. That was what mattered.
One of them was inside…
'You better be the same, Felicia.'
…
…
…
"They sure love their drones…" Felicia muttered under her breath, crouched low behind the curve of an obsidian parapet. Climbing the walls alone was only impossible at night, with her claws, and with Herbie making the drones ineffective.
But she was here. She was at the wall, at the parapet.
The western flank of the Wakandan royal palace spread out before her. A smaller, more secluded garden tucked behind the monumental spires and gold-veined facades that fronted the city. It wasn't the wide-open, ceremonial entrance where the elite guards strutted in perfect formation. This side was quieter, humbler, almost delicate by comparison: a crescent of manicured trees, still ponds that reflected the night's stars, and paths lined with luminous purple flowers. But beauty was a veil.
Dozens of sentry drones drifted through the garden like slow, silver insects. Their flight paths overlapped in perfect sequence, scanning every angle. High above, surveillance orbs traced arcs between columns, their lenses blinking in sync. Herbie's voice hummed softly in her ear:
"THESE ARE PROTOTYPE DRONES USED IN CASE OF EMERGENCIES. SEVENTEEN DRONES HAVE BEEN DEPLOYED IN TOTAL. PATTERN CYCLE REPEATS EVERY EIGHTY-NINE SECONDS. THAT IS YOUR WINDOW."
Felicia smirked. "Piece of cake."
But it wasn't. The palace's west side had earned its reputation as an unbreachable wall. Each drone communicated with its neighbors through quantum encryption. The ground-level sensors were hand-wired to analog relays: primitive, but impossible to hack remotely. And the guards? They didn't rely on a schedule. They just patrolled erratically and based on space, not timing.
Felicia Hardy wasn't a master thief for nothing.
She rolled her shoulders, her black catsuit tightening. She didn't need to see a camera to know where its edge stopped. Years of breaking into places that weren't meant to be entered had given her a sixth sense for sightlines—the delicate geometry of blind spots and distraction.
Oh, and bad luck. And with this many people…
"Alright, kitties, let's dance~!"
When the next drone sweep passed, Felicia jumped off the huge wall and down to the garden. She slowed her fall with her claws, never unsmirking. When a guard looked up and swore they saw a shadow, she then leapt several feet over to a tree, twisted her body flat against its back side, hands twisting backward and stabbed into the tree, and waited. A bead of sweat slid down her jaw, caught the moonlight, and fell silently into the pond below.
Two drones passed her in parallel. They did not notice her.
She vaulted to the next tree and then the next. These weren't the type of trees that were massive and easy to hide behind. Felicia just made it look that way because of her flexibility. Her arms and legs melted into the tree perfectly, and she had the athleticism to jump again and land on the narrow trim above a white mosaic archway. It wasn't see-through, unfortunately. She waited again. Beneath her, two guards conversed quietly. She could hear every word—and more importantly, she could hear where their words stopped.
When the patrol looped around the bend, Felicia dropped down, rolled through the damp grass, and slipped between two carved panther statues guarding a narrow servant's entry. The door's keypad flickered faintly in the dark. Herbie hummed again in her ear:
"ANALOG INTERFACE. YOU'LL NEED TO BYPASS MANUALLY."
"Already on it," Felicia muttered, sliding a micro-tool from her belt.
Three clicks, a hum, a sharp hiss of depressurized air, and the lock gave. The door swung open.
Felicia Hardy was in.
The palace corridor was silent. She drew in a breath and exhaled. What was in front of her had paintings. Only paintings and artwork, nothing physical to steal. Felicia bit her lip, almost pouting in disappointment. But she didn't let the thought linger for long. She knew. She could see with the mask Spider-Man adjusted.
'My, oh my…!'
Every few meters were invisible lasers. The edges of the artwork were where the nodes of the laser began. Classic stuff.
The door closed behind her. Felicia went into the shadows and hugged the walls. The element of surprise of the lasers was lost with her mask. 'But, well, doing back-flips is too much of a risk. I don't want my bad luck powers kicking in.'
The more Felicia acted and the more aware of the bad luck she was, the stronger her powers were. So if she had less momentum and thought about it less, by acting lame and cautiously hugging the walls to get past the lasers, nothing would happen. Hopefully anyway.
Shuri was downstairs and only accessible through two entry points. Both were heavily guarded. Unless she wanted to be seen, it would be impossible to get through.
"Directions, honey?"
"NORTHEAST QUADRANT. TWO FLOORS ABOVE. VENTILATION SHAFTS ARE THE MOST DISCREET ROUTE."
She looked up. She found one. She clawed her way up to the ceiling, which was not easy considering the lasers even there, pried it loose, and slipped inside. Right as she closed it, a member of the Dora Milaje walked under and looked up. The female spearman squinted.
The vent was narrow and slick with condensation. She crawled on elbows and knees. The air inside was warm with recycled oxygen. Her heartbeat slowed to match the rhythm of the vibration. When she paused, she could hear faint voices echoing through the metal.
Oh, and then she saw invisible lasers.
"Even here?" Felicia pursed her lips. "No way around it…" She had to drag an arm back to her belt, retrieve a special needle, and pick at the laser node. The lasers short-circuited. The vent was clear.
Felicia exhaled through her teeth and kept going. She climbed vertical shafts, used her legs to brace between the walls, and ascended like a spider on silk. Herbie's whispered guidance threaded through the silence:
"TURN RIGHT IN FIVE METERS. YOU'RE ABOVE THE ROYAL CHAMBERS."
Yes, this was it. This was her objective: to get to the royal chambers.
The vent sloped down, and Felicia lowered herself inch by inch until a faint shaft of light leaked through the slats. She angled herself to peer through the narrow grille.
What she saw froze her in place.
The room below was what was deserving of a king with ornate columns, walls inlaid with gold and carved symbols of Bast, and a massive bed framed in black wood and silver. But what held her eyes wasn't the luxury. It was the figure chained to that bed.
King T'Challa.
Heavy vibranium manacles bound the king's wrists and ankles to the bedposts. He was stripped nude. His eyes were burning with restrained rage.
"YOU BASTARD!"
'Someone else is here—!'
Footsteps echoed softly on the marble. They came from somewhere out of her line of sight.
T'Challa lifted his head and hissed, "What do you think will happen after this? You think you can keep us here? You think can rule from here? You fool! You fools! All of you!"
An ally of T'Challa's. Someone that could and would betray him, but with enough friendship that T'Challa might consider mercy. Someone with a deep connection to the Dora Milaje. Someone who was connected to Ambassador Yvan and the Auction Master.
This was it. This was the curtain puller. All Felicia had to do was peek over and she could see who it was—