[ Royal Palace, Wakanda ]
The Wakandan palace sat atop a jagged peak, modest in scale yet wrapped in grandeur. It wasn't a fortress meant to intimidate nor a castle designed to impress visiting diplomats. No towering golden gates, no jeweled thrones that screamed opulence. Compared to the palaces of Eastern dynasties or the baroque monstrosities of Europe, it barely made a dent. But it had flavor. A cultural sharpness that clung to its very stones—like the scent of ancient spices preserved in sunlit halls.
T'Challa, ever the royal spokesperson, claimed that the modest scale was born from noble intent. "The kings of old," he said, voice reverent, "preferred to spend Wakanda's wealth on its people rather than palatial renovations."
Daisy gave a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course," she murmured sweetly.
Inwardly, she thought—if hoarding vibranium under a mountain while letting half the population live like it's still the Bronze Age counted as 'loving your people,' then Nick Fury was an honest civil servant with a heart of gold. Maybe even a humanitarian.
There was so much vibranium beneath Wakanda that it might as well be infinite. You could armor every citizen like a high-tech knight and raise an army of three thousand Black Panthers to sweep across the continent—or the globe. But no. The royal family preferred their monopoly. Let the common folk face bullets and warheads with bare skin while the king's heirs popped heart-shaped herbs like vitamins and danced onto the battlefield as glowing saviors.
Daisy had seen power hoarded before. It always came cloaked in righteousness.
She kept her thoughts to herself.
When she was ushered into the throne chamber, she got her first look at King T'Chaka.
He was a rotund man with a belly that proclaimed a life of rich banquets and no sparring sessions. His greying hair framed a pair of intelligent, if outdated, eyes behind round spectacles. He looked to be in his sixties and very clearly had passed on the actual Black Panther duties to his son.
In Daisy's opinion, the king had handed off the claws but kept the crown—the power without the burden. A shrewd move, if nothing else.
Fortunately, the king spoke English, saving Daisy the theatrical struggle of switching to her slightly clunky Wakandan. She understood the language decently now—could even read and write it—but pronouncing it still felt like trying to gargle while doing tongue push-ups.
King T'Chaka, while not entirely ignorant of the world, was about two decades behind the curve. His understanding of geopolitics was quaint. He thought S.H.I.E.L.D. is similar to the FBI and the CIA.
Daisy, naturally, couldn't let that stand. With smooth precision and barely contained smugness, she corrected him. "S.H.I.E.L.D.," she said, lacing the name with gravitas, "isn't similar to anything. We're the spine of global defense. A network that sees everything, everywhere."
She painted Nick Fury as the world's shadow king—diplomatic, omnipresent, and beloved. Her performance was flawless. And when she mentioned Nick Fury's African roots, the king visibly perked up.
"Oh? Your director is from Africa?"
Daisy offered a gracious nod. "Born of these lands. Still misses every tree and stream."
The king's interest spiked. She could almost see the gears grinding in his head.
To sweeten the pot, Daisy brought up the recently retired black UN Secretary-General, tossed in a glowing reference to O'Neal, and painted a picture of a world waking up to the brilliance of its African sons and daughters.
The former Secretary-General of the United Nations has African roots, and the head of a super-large organization that secretly monitors the world also has African roots. According to Daisy's analysis, there is a high chance that a person with African roots will win in next year's US election.
King T'Chaka's face crinkled in disbelief. "But I was under the impression the outside world remains hostile to our people."
Daisy gave a slight chuckle, the kind that coated sarcasm in charm. "Your Majesty, if I may? The tide has turned. Black excellence isn't just accepted—it's celebrated."
To back it up, she rattled off stats. Black CEOs. Politicians. Cultural icons. Carefully selected truths, all verifiable but tailored for effect. In his eyes, she transformed from stranger to strategic partner. From interloper to emissary.
The old king has always intended to go out and let the world accept Wakanda, but it was difficult to find the way before. Now Daisy is simply a blessing from heaven!
However, as a politician,
There were still some calculations of interests to be made. He wanted to see how powerful Daisy was was in the outside world. So as to measure her and about how to go ahead in this conversation for both parties.
"My son, T'Challa," he said, with the gravity of a king delivering a prophecy, "has long wished to study abroad. Perhaps Miss Johnson might recommend an appropriate institution?" Although he was asking her the question, he was actually testing her ability.
Ah. There it was.
Daisy glanced at T'Challa, who looked every inch the adult but, T'Challa was just in his early twenties, about the same age as her. A university suggestion, then—not grade school.
Her first instinct was to wince. Wakanda had no academic credentials. SHIELD's strings could stretch far, but even they couldn't strangle the Ivy League. Daisy's old church-school might've scared off thugs, but big universities were bureaucratic bunkers.
But she had an ace up her sleeve: Hank Pym.
Hank had more honorary doctorates than T'Chaka had ceremonial beads. He could charm a Nobel committee with a single scientific rant.
Feigning innocence, she asked, "Any preferences?"
T'Challa cleared his throat. "Britain. I've heard the academic discipline is… unmatched."
Daisy almost laughed. Oxford? Really?
But she simply nodded. "Oxford it is. I'll speak to my contacts. These things take finesse."
Of course, you couldn't make calls from inside Wakanda. All requests would have to be slipped out quietly, discreetly, with forged records if needed. But none of that was T'Chaka's concern.
He was sold.
Wakandan culture values promises very much, and when the T'Chaka and T'Challa saw that she agreed immediately, they became more convinced that her influence was extraordinary.
As their conversation warmed and the air thickened with mutual benefit, Daisy finally slipped in the real reason she was here. "Your Majesty, I still have a mission to complete. The mercenaries who breached your borders? They're my target."
T'Chaka raised a palm. "You are our guest. Let Wakanda handle this intrusion. We are more than capable."
Daisy's voice was calm, but firm. "I understand. But I must see them captured, firsthand."
The king, reluctant but pragmatic, relented. He didn't want bloodshed near his capital—and certainly not due to foreigners he didn't invite.
And so, with royal permission, Daisy and T'Challa departed with a squad of Dora Milaje. Storm joined them along the path, her presence as steady as it was wild.
"You agents are really extraordinary..." Seeing the king T'Chaka's attitude towards Daisy, Storm knew that Daisy had turned the situation around in just one hour, and onw she had somewhat higher opinion of Daisy and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s capabilities.
Daisy flashed a sly smile. "What can I say? We're good at our jobs."
The journey took them to Wakanda's surveillance center—an elegant mix of traditional carvings and top-tier digital warfare. While their tech tree had grown sideways, their dedication to secrecy was impressive. Surveillance drones, psychic filters, sonic scanners… every inch of Wakanda was watched.
Finally, they found them.
The mercenaries.
At the center was Batroc the Leaper, clad in a blood-maroon suit, cropped hair, thick frame, and a posture that screamed trained killer. He moved with care, flanked by a ragtag collection of war dogs: Americans with tactical gear, Russians in old Spetsnaz armor, Mexicans with hand-rolled cigars, and even three red-clad ninjas who looked like they were from the Hand.
Daisy narrowed her eyes.
"Well," she murmured with cold amusement, "looks like the circus came to town."
To Be Continued...
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