"This place is deliberately designed to confuse," Anakin muttered, trying to maintain his sense of direction in corridors that seemed to loop back on themselves. "We've passed this same archway three times."
"Not confusing," T'Challa corrected, his enhanced senses tracking their path with perfect recall. "Deceptive. Every corridor looks similar but leads somewhere different. It's a maze built by someone who delights in others' disorientation."
They'd reached the Son's tower without difficulty—that had been suspiciously easy. The real challenge began once inside. The structure defied conventional architecture: stairs that led to blank walls, doorways that opened into identical rooms, geometry that shouldn't be possible even by Mortis's flexible standards.
Finding Ahsoka, Peter, and the Son in this labyrinth would be nearly impossible without luck or the Force's guidance.
"The dark side is thick here," Anakin said, his hand unconsciously moving to his lightsaber. "It's not just in the air—it's in the walls, the floor, everything. Like the whole tower is built from concentrated malevolence."
"I feel it too." T'Challa's vibranium claws extended reflexively. "Pressure. Not physical, but present nonetheless. Is this what Force sensitivity feels like?"
"You shouldn't be able to sense it at all," Anakin replied, frowning. "None of you connected to the Force. But this place..." He gestured at their surroundings. "Maybe it's so saturated with dark side energy that even non-Force users can feel it."
T'Challa considered this, his tactical mind working through implications—
The corridor shifted.
Not physically. Anakin was still beside him, still walking forward. But everything else changed.
Stone walls became smooth metal. Ancient Mortis architecture transformed into something sleek, modern, distinctly Wakandan. The oppressive darkness lightened to warm amber lighting from recessed fixtures.
T'Challa stopped, his breath catching.
"Anakin?" He turned—but the Jedi was gone.
He stood alone in a corridor he recognized. Not from personal memory, but from photographs, from recordings, from the secret files his father had kept locked away until T'Challa inherited the throne.
Oakland, California. 1992.
"No," T'Challa whispered. "This isn't real. This is another illusion—"
Footsteps approached. Two Dora Milaje rounded the corner—not Okoye or Ayo, but warriors from a previous generation, their armor slightly different in design. They moved with purpose, flanking someone T'Challa's heart recognized before his mind could process.
The Black Panther.
Not T'Challa. Someone else wearing the sacred suit, moving with regal authority.
T'Challa followed, unable to stop himself. He tried to call out, but no sound emerged. His hand passed through the wall when he reached to steady himself—incorporeal, a ghost watching history unfold.
They stopped at an apartment door. Cheap, worn, in a building that had seen better decades. One of the Dora Milaje knocked—two sharp raps.
The door opened.
A young man appeared, perhaps thirty, with kind eyes and a careful smile. He wore vibranium-reinforced casual clothes—not obvious to outsiders, but T'Challa recognized the subtle weave patterns.
"Who are you?" the Dora Milaje demanded in Xhosa, her spear held at ready position.
"I am Prince N'Jobu," the man replied, his accent carrying Wakanda's musical lilt. "Son of Azzuri."
T'Challa's world tilted. His uncle. The man his father never spoke of, whose name had been erased from official histories until T'Challa discovered the truth buried in classified files.
"Prove you are one of us," the Black Panther commanded.
N'Jobu pulled down his lower lip, revealing the vibranium tattoo on the inside—the mark every Wakandan operative received. Proof of identity. Proof of loyalty.
The Dora Milaje slammed their spears into the floor simultaneously.
Darkness.
T'Challa's enhanced vision adjusted, seeing shapes in the blackness. Another man in the apartment—American, large, watching the proceedings with tension in his shoulders. N'Jobu moved, positioning himself between the stranger and the Wakandans.
The spears struck again.
Light.
The Black Panther was inside now, helmet still on, presence dominating the small space. N'Jobu immediately dropped to one knee, pulling his companion down with him.
"My king—"
"Rise." The Black Panther's voice was distorted by the helmet's modulation. "You were to return home."
"This is James," N'Jobu gestured to his companion. "I trust him with my life. He stays with King T'Chaka's permission."
The Black Panther reached up and removed his helmet.
T'Challa stopped breathing.
His father. Young—younger than T'Challa had ever known him—but unmistakably T'Chaka. The man who'd raised him, taught him, prepared him to be king.
"As you wish, brother," T'Chaka said gently. "But let me see how things stand here."
N'Jobu stood, embraced his brother. The affection was genuine, the love between them real. T'Challa felt something crack in his chest watching them—knowing how this scene would end.
Please, he thought desperately. Don't do this. Go home. Both of you just go home—
But history didn't change for wishes.
T'Chaka surveyed the apartment with a warrior's eye, noting exits, potential threats. His gaze lingered on James—the large American who seemed increasingly uncomfortable.
"You look strong," T'Chaka observed. "Healthy."
"Thank you, my king," N'Jobu replied. "Wakanda provides well for her sons, even those far from home. How are things there?"
T'Chaka's expression darkened. "Not as you think, brother." He activated a holographic display from his kimoyo beads. An image appeared—a white man with a scarred neck and cruel eyes.
"Ulysses Klaue," T'Chaka said.
T'Challa recognized the name instantly. The arms dealer who'd bombed Wakanda's border, who'd stolen vibranium, who'd—
"He attacked us," T'Chaka continued. "Stole a quarter-ton of vibranium. Killed several of our people with a bomb at the border during his escape."
N'Jobu's face had gone carefully neutral.
"He couldn't have done this alone," T'Chaka said quietly. "He had help. Someone told him where to strike, how to bypass our defenses. He had a Wakandan working with him."
The apartment seemed to shrink, pressure building.
"Brother." N'Jobu's voice was steady. "Why are you here? Why come all this way to show me this?"
"Because I need you to look me in the eye," T'Chaka said, pain evident in every word, "and tell me why you betrayed Wakanda."
The words fell like an executioner's blade.
One of the Dora Milaje moved with lightning speed, her weapon trained on N'Jobu. The prince didn't resist, didn't even seem surprised.
"It wasn't me," James—the large American—protested. "I would never—"
"Tell me who you really are," T'Chaka commanded.
James's resistance crumbled. "I am Zuri. Son of Badu."
T'Challa's breath caught again. Zuri. His advisor, his friend, the man who'd been part of the royal household for as long as T'Challa could remember. Zuri had been here. Had witnessed this.
Zuri pulled down his own lip, revealing his tattoo. A spy. A War Dog, like N'Jobu, assigned to watch his fellow operative.
"Why would you lie to me?" N'Jobu's voice carried betrayal sharper than any blade. "We were brothers in this mission—"
"You betrayed everything!" Zuri shouted back. "Wakanda, your people, your blood—"
T'Chaka stepped between them, radiating authority that prevented violence. "You think you were our only spy here?" He nodded to Zuri.
The younger man moved to the apartment wall, pressing a concealed panel. It swung open, revealing weapons—Wakandan design, powered by vibranium. Dozens of them. And containers of raw vibranium, stolen, ready for distribution.
"I observed my mission," N'Jobu said, his voice hardening. "Watched the people here. Watched leaders assassinated, communities flooded with drugs and weapons, children shot in streets over nothing. Over nothing."
He pointed toward the window, toward Oakland beyond.
"They suffer because they lack tools to fight back. With vibranium weapons, they could overthrow oppressors. Wakanda could end this. We could save them—rule them if necessary—but we could save them."
"Brother—" T'Chaka's voice broke.
"We have the power!" N'Jobu insisted. "The knowledge! And we hide it like cowards while the world burns!"
"You don't get to make that choice," T'Chaka said, tears visible now. "Prince N'Jobu, you will return home. Stand before the Tribal Council. Answer for your crimes."
T'Challa wanted to scream. Wanted to stop what came next. But he was a ghost here, powerless to change the past.
T'Chaka turned to summon the Dora Milaje—
N'Jobu moved with enhanced speed, drawing a concealed pistol from beneath his shirt. The weapon came up, aimed at his brother's back.
"NO!" Zuri threw himself between them.
BANG.
The gunshot was deafening in the small space.
But T'Chaka's instincts were faster. His vibranium claws extended. He spun, saw the gun, saw his brother pulling the trigger—
His hand lashed out.
The claws pierced N'Jobu's chest.
Time seemed to stop. N'Jobu stared at his brother, shocked, confused, as blood spread across his shirt. The gun clattered to the floor.
"I..." N'Jobu's voice was fading. "I just wanted... to help them..."
T'Chaka caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the floor. The king's face was a mask of anguish as he closed his brother's eyes.
"Tell no one," T'Chaka said to Zuri, to the Dora Milaje, his voice dead. "This never happened. N'Jobu died in the field. That's the official story."
Behind the couch, hidden, a small boy watched everything.
T'Challa saw him—six years old, eyes wide with horror, seeing his father murdered by a man in a panther suit. The boy would grow up with this image burned into his mind, would become Erik Killmonger, would—
"T'CHALLA!"
Reality snapped.
The apartment vanished. Oakland dissolved. T'Challa stood in the Son's tower again, Anakin's hands gripping his shoulders, the Jedi's face inches from his own.
"—back! Come back! T'Challa, can you hear me?"
T'Challa gasped, his legs giving out. Anakin caught him, lowering them both to the floor.
"What—" T'Challa's voice was raw. "How long was I—"
"You disappeared," Anakin said urgently. "One moment you were beside me, the next—gone. I searched for minutes, following the Force, and found you standing here staring at nothing. You weren't responding, weren't breathing right—"
T'Challa looked around. They were in a circular chamber, empty except for them. No apartments. No family tragedy. Just cold stone and lingering darkness.
"The Son," T'Challa managed. "He showed me... something from my past. Something I wasn't there for but learned about later." His hands trembled. "My father killing his brother. My uncle's betrayal. The child left behind who would become..."
He couldn't finish. The wound was too fresh, despite years having passed since discovering the truth.
Anakin's expression shifted to understanding, then anger. "Psychological warfare. He's using this place—Mortis's reality-bending properties—to attack us mentally. Make us doubt ourselves, distract us—"
"It worked," T'Challa admitted quietly. "Seeing it happen. Watching my father make that choice. Knowing the consequences..." He forced himself upright, pride demanding he not show weakness. "But we don't have time for this. Peter and Ahsoka need us."
Anakin studied him for a moment, clearly wanting to press the issue, but recognizing the determination in T'Challa's eyes.
"Alright," the Jedi agreed. "But we stay together. No more separations. The Son's trying to pick us off one by one, and we're not giving him that advantage."