Unknownfate
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Chapter 143
🕑 Added 2025-05-30 16:05:28 +0000 UTCThe council chamber of Wakanda was quieter than usual.
Normally, the domed room pulsed with quiet confidence, the voices of tribe leaders echoing off vibranium-laced walls with the calm certainty of a nation long untouched by colonial meddling. But today, there was tension—thick, silent, and sharp as obsidian.
T’Chaka sat at the head of the crescent-shaped table, regal and unmoving, his face carved in stone. Above the center of the room hovered a still holographic frame—paused at the precise moment Arthuria Pendragon, King of Albion, turned toward him in front of the entire United Nations and laid bare Wakanda’s greatest secret.
The hidden truth of their power, their wealth, and their isolationism, spoken aloud for the world to hear.
The Merchant Tribe elder broke the silence first, her gold-ringed neck rigid, her voice clipped. “This is a disaster.”
“We should never have engaged,” growled W’Kabi, the Border Tribe’s representative. He stood with arms crossed, jaw tight. “Had the king not spoken, she would have ignored us. Now every intelligence agency in the world is sifting through our soil.”
T’Chaka didn’t move. “She already knew,” he said.
The River Tribe elder, draped in water-toned robes and beads of blue glass, nodded. “Yes. She wasn’t posturing. That was no guess. She spoke like one who has seen us.”
All eyes turned then to the Spymaster, standing silently in the shadows near the wall. Cloaked in a matte black mantle, their face was partially obscured by intricate armor etched with silent wards of secrecy.
“She’s telling the truth,” the Spymaster said, voice flat, efficient, and deadly serious. “Arthuria Pendragon possesses intelligence beyond any modern network. She did not speculate—she delivered. Clean, surgical exposure. No threats, no exaggeration. A queen playing a flawless hand.”
W’Kabi frowned. “Then someone gave her that hand.”
“Unlikely,” the Spymaster replied. “There are no signs of breach from within. My agents report no leaks among the vibranium handlers, the royal family, or the city core. She didn’t steal the knowledge. She understood it. Observed it. Possibly even walked among us without notice.”
“An illusionist?” the River Elder asked, brows raised.
“It could be magic, we don’t fully understand it,” the Spymaster replied. “Or it could be history? I am no master of that subject, but if she truly is a king from centuries ago, then maybe she knew from back then?”
T’Chaka finally rose.
“She did what we feared the most—not with violence, but with truth. And worse, she was right. We hid. And we did nothing while the world bled.”
“But we did so to survive,” said the Merchant Elder. “To keep vibranium from greedy hands. From the West. From colonizers. Do you not remember the Scramble?”
“I remember,” T’Chaka said, his voice colder now. “I understand the reason we did it, but the world is changing, maybe we should change as well?”
And he did understand, there was still value to being hidden, but the world was changing fast, with mutants and magic around, who is to say they can stay hidden? They had to be prepared, and he truly believed that the best way to do that would be to emerge into the world.
If they did it now, they would be the most powerful nation in the world. A powerful position in the changing world order, if they waited, they might emerge into the same situation.
“If we step forward now,” T’Chaka continued, “we do so from strength, not necessity. The world is distracted—torn between Albion’s rise, Doom’s withdrawal, and the mutant awakening. While they scramble to choose sides, we could become one.”
The Jabari representative scoffed. M’Baku, tall and broad-shouldered even without his ceremonial armor, leaned forward with a deep frown.
“And what then?” he rumbled. “We open our gates, parade our gifts for the world to envy? We trust them not to bite the hand that fed them nothing for a century?”
“You raise a good point,” T’Chaka agreed. “But, we are still strong enough to resist their bite for now, and I think we should take advantage of it… because I fear the consequences of trying to hide now that the world is aware.”
M’Baku grunted, but didn’t argue further. That, in itself, was telling.
The River Tribe elder folded her hands calmly in her lap, considering. “Then it must be on our terms. If we are to step into the light, we must do so not as a nation revealed, but as one that chose to reveal itself.”
“We shape the story before others can,” added the Merchant Elder, her sharp eyes flicking from T’Chaka to Shuri. “Give them something to marvel at, and something to fear. But let them think it was always meant to be this way.”
Shuri nodded, her mind already racing ahead.
T’Chaka didn’t like to burden his young daughter like this, but when it came to technology, she was without a doubt the only one in all of Wakanda who could keep up with the outside world. And they couldn’t afford to fall behind, now more than ever.
Honestly, T’Chaka was relieved that they didn’t push for war with the outside world, that they didn’t take a harder stance. He could see that some had that idea, but didn’t voice it. Glad to see they still had a bit of wisdom in them.
After all, in front of powerful mutants like Magneto or people like Arthuria herself. Even their vibranium technology still gave them no way of dealing with those things.
Yes, they could disrobe Magneto's powers, but if he stayed outside of the range of that effect, they could do little more than hope for the best.
Worse yet was the strange beam of light unleashed by Arthuria Pendragon. They had no idea what it was, how it worked, or how to stop it. Could their shield block it? If not, fighting against her would be the end of their golden city.
Yes, peace was the only way, and he liked that. Too long was the history of death left behind by Wakanda, too much blood on their hands to hide their secrets, and why? For fear?
What did they have to fear? Their advanced technology allowed them to be like gods among men in the wider world. They should long since have taken their rightful place as leaders, rather than hiding in the dark like thieves.
They had feared exposure. They had feared what the world might take. But now, standing in the aftershock of Arthuria’s truth, T’Chaka felt the weight shifting. Not toward fear—but toward clarity.
They were no longer protecting Wakanda from the world.
They were protecting the world from Wakanda.
And that, he realized, was a burden too great to bear in silence.
He stepped forward, his voice strong and unwavering.
“No more hiding,” he said. “No more shame in our silence. Wakanda was never weak. We were never helpless. And we are not responsible for the sins of those who refused to see us.”
He turned to the council. “We will not bow. We will not apologize. But we will act.”
Shuri straightened, her fingers already twitching with invention. “I can begin assembling a tech initiative—focused aid, clean power cells, medical nanotech. We give them enough to reset the narrative, but not enough to copy.”
“We make it public,” the River Elder said. “Global. Visible.”
W’Kabi exhaled slowly. “We’ll need to increase patrols. The curious will come sniffing around, emboldened by what she said. Tourists... spies... missionaries...”
“They may look,” the Spymaster said, stepping forward from the shadows. “But they will not see. I will tighten the net. And should anyone decide to trespass, they will not return.”
M’Baku let out a low grunt of approval. “Let the world know our name again. Let them remember it in awe, and fear.”
T’Chaka gave a solemn nod. “Then it is decided. Shuri—prepare your presentation. W’Kabi—coordinate with the Dora Milaje to bolster outer security. Spymaster—monitor foreign transmissions, but do not interfere... not yet.”
“And what of Arthuria?” the Merchant Elder asked softly. “She may yet act again.”
T’Chaka turned to the still hologram of Arthuria’s face. Regal. Cold. Undeniably powerful.
“She did not expose us to destroy us,” he said, eyes narrowing. “She challenged us—to rise. To claim the seat we’ve long ignored.”
Then, to the council: “Let us answer that challenge not with weapons, but with presence. Let the world see that Wakanda is no longer a rumor... but a force.”
For the first time that day, there was no hesitation in the room. Only resolve.
And as the image of Arthuria flickered out, T’Chaka could almost feel her watching still—waiting to see if Wakanda would step into the light.
He intended to make sure they did.
On their terms.
-----
The room was dark. Not dim, not softly lit—dark.
Only the central table glowed faintly, a ring of flickering golden projections suspended above it, slowly rotating through intercepted satellite images, leaked reports, encrypted diplomatic pings, and audio fragments pulled from the fiber-optic veins of half a dozen governments.
This place was the brainchild of the best and brightest of British minds, and to make it a reality, a huge price had been paid to make both Tony Stark and Phastos, the technomancer, contribute to its creation.
It was the heart of the Veiled Hand’s operations, the most advanced information hub in the world—or at least that is what its creators claimed.
From here, the Veiled Hand was able to gather all kinds of sensitive secret information, and with top-of-the-line, and far beyond even that, AI and deciphering software, Albion was never in the dark.
Yelena Belova sat at the head of the table, one boot resting on the edge, chin propped in her gloved hand, watching the slow swirl of data with cool, steady eyes. She had that half-lazy posture that only came with deep familiarity—comfortable, calm, lethal.
“Wakanda’s moving,” muttered Sonya, arms folded tightly across her chest, her platinum-blonde hair pulled into a tight braid.
“Well, no surprise there, the king really kicked their golden little anthill,” Oksana said from her own seat.
“Well, are they sending assassins or something?” Yelena asked. She had found plenty of information about Wakanda, and well, what she saw disgusted her.
The things she learned made even the Red Room seem less bad in comparison. The amount of harm this secret nation had caused was simply beyond compare.
Assassinations of scientists, sabotage of both scientific breakthroughs and diplomatic attempts. Millions of deaths were due to their actions. And she was all too happy to see them suffer now.
“They’re not sending assassins,” Ingrid said, her voice cool and professional as she tapped a few commands into the projection table. “Not yet, anyway. So far, it’s all surface diplomacy. Soft power plays. Going open and taking control of the narrative.”
“Well, we figured there was a chance of them doing that,” Agnesa said while throwing a ball against the wall and catching it. “Still doesn’t mean we have to sit and watch it happen.”
“We don’t have to,” Lauren added, her tone casual, but her fingers were dancing over a sleek touchpad, tracing Shuri’s data signatures as they spread through new international satellite paths. “But it’s better if we do. Wakanda’s not trying to threaten us—not yet. They’re trying to play nice.”
Yelena slowly swung her boot down off the table and sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees, eyes still locked on the scrolling data overhead. “They want to change their image,” she said. “That’s fine. Let them try. But if they start rewriting history... we’ll write it back.”
Oksana scoffed lightly. “And how many people do you think are actually going to care what Wakanda did in the past once they’re cured by shiny nanites and powered by endless free light?”
Yelena’s voice didn’t waver. “Enough.”
