Shuri stood in her lab, surrounded by flickering screens and glowing holographic displays, her fingers dancing over the controls as she tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding across Wakanda. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heart pounded in her chest as the monitors displayed scenes of devastation. Her city—the golden city that had stood proud and hidden from the world—was now a battleground, and she was powerless to stop it.
She had always known Wakanda was a target. The vibranium, the technology, everything they had worked so hard to protect had painted a giant bullseye on their nation. But even with all her foresight, even with all the advancements she had made to protect her people, she had never imagined an assault of this scale. Her monitors were filled with countless red blips indicating the enemies that flooded into Wakanda's skies and streets.
"Damn it," Shuri muttered, her hands shaking as she typed in commands to try and activate the city's last line of automated defenses. But the enemy had already taken over so much of their systems, and no matter what she tried, every override she initiated was blocked.
She watched in horror as one screen displayed a Foundation soldier hovering above a small village, firing energy blasts down on civilians—innocents—men, women, and children. The screams echoed through her lab as if they were right beside her, and Shuri felt tears sting her eyes. They were helpless, and she had never felt so powerless in her life.
"How could this happen?" she whispered, slamming her fists against the console. "I should've been prepared… I should've been able to stop this."
But even as she cursed herself, she knew this wasn't her fault. The attackers were ruthless, their technology was overwhelming, and they had taken Wakanda by surprise. As the feed showed more and more soldiers closing in on their position, Shuri took a deep breath, steeling herself. She wasn't going to just sit there and do nothing.
"Okay," she said to herself, her voice trembling. "If I can't stop them, I can at least slow them down."
She began working on a new strategy, rerouting power to any defenses that were still operational, trying to create barricades in the enemy's path. She wasn't going to give up—not yet.
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Meanwhile, the fight between T'Challa, the Black Panther, and Napoleon raged on amidst the burning wreckage of what had once been a thriving Wakandan district. Napoleon stood in his suit, la Révolution, a towering figure of crimson and gold that radiated power and menace. His suit's weapons were more advanced than anything T'Challa had seen, even more so than the tech Shuri had made.
T'Challa was growing tired, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he dodged another barrage of energy blasts from Napoleon's gauntlets. The Black Panther's vibranium suit absorbed most of the impact, but each hit drained his energy, and he knew he couldn't keep this up forever.
Napoleon's voice rang out from the suit's speakers, mocking and filled with a pride that grated on T'Challa's nerves. "Is this all the legendary Black Panther can do? I thought you were supposed to be the protector of Wakanda!"
T'Challa narrowed his eyes, thinking quickly. He could see the pride in his opponent's stance, the arrogance that had carried him through countless battles. And suddenly, a plan began to form in his mind.
T'Challa took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He needed to play this carefully, to get inside his opponent's head. "Protector? Yes, that is who I am," T'Challa called out, letting just a hint of sarcasm slip into his tone. "But what are you? A relic of a forgotten age, hiding behind a shell of stolen power? You pretend to be a warrior, but all you are is a coward."
Napoleon's armored figure stiffened for a moment, and T'Challa saw his chance. He moved, dodging another energy blast, using the momentum to roll and come up behind a piece of debris. "You talk about power, but you've never known it, have you? You've never fought with your own hands, never felt the earth beneath your feet. All you've known is metal and circuits." He paused, waiting for the reply.
"I could crush you where you stand," Napoleon sneered, but there was an edge to his voice now, a crack in the arrogance.
"Then do it!" T'Challa shouted, stepping out from behind cover, tearing off his own suit with one swift motion. His vibranium armor peeled away, leaving him in his black combat gear, sweat glistening on his muscular frame. "Face me like a true warrior! Or are you afraid of what will happen when you leave your precious armor behind?"
Napoleon hesitated. He had expected a formidable enemy, but he hadn't anticipated this—someone who would challenge him not just in strength but in pride. And yet, deep down, Napoleon knew he was stronger. Even without his suit, he had faced countless enemies over the centuries, each one falling before him. "You wish to face me on even ground?" Napoleon's voice was quieter now, laced with a dangerous undertone. "Very well."
The great suit, la Révolution, hummed as it deactivated, the front plating sliding open to reveal Napoleon stepping out. He was shorter than T'Challa expected, but his presence was undeniable. His eyes burned with an intensity that spoke of centuries of battles, victories, and defeats. "You will regret this," Napoleon growled, rolling his shoulders, adjusting to the freedom of movement.
"We'll see," T'Challa responded, every muscle in his body tense and ready.
Napoleon moved first, faster than T'Challa anticipated. He closed the distance between them in a flash, throwing a powerful punch that T'Challa barely blocked. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his arm, and he staggered back. "Not bad," Napoleon sneered, "But you will have to do much better if you wish you protect this pitiful nation."
T'Challa gritted his teeth, focusing through the pain. His plan had worked so far, he had gotten his opponent to leave the suit, which he had hoped would allow him to win, after all he had been enhanced by the heart shaped herb, and that should have given him a massive advantage.
Yet, clearly he had underestimated his foe, who seemed to be highly enhanced himself, far more then even he was, which once again put him in a bad position, even worse now that he was feeling the pain without the vibanium suit to protect him.
T'Challa knew he needed to change tactics. He couldn't rely on raw strength or speed—Napoleon was simply too powerful, even without his suit. Instead, he had to rely on his agility, his experience, and his understanding of combat. Every movement, every step would have to be precise. One wrong move, and it would all be over.
He circled Napoleon, keeping a careful distance, searching for any sign of weakness. "You speak of power," T'Challa said, his tone steady despite the throbbing pain in his arm, "but you do not understand what it means to fight for something greater than yourself!"
Napoleon laughed, the sound harsh and dismissive. "You speak as if you understand me, Black Panther. But I have fought for ideals, for nations, for empires long before your ancestors even dreamed of Wakanda's greatness. I do not fight for trophies. I fight because I am a conqueror, and it is my destiny to bring order to chaos."
T'Challa felt a surge of anger, but he forced himself to remain calm. He needed to keep Napoleon talking, needed to find a way to exploit that arrogance. "You call yourself a conqueror, but all I see is a butcher! Slaughtering innocent defenceless people!"
Napoleon's eyes narrowed, and T'Challa saw the flicker of annoyance. "Enough of this," Napoleon snapped, lunging forward with a speed that took T'Challa by surprise. Napoleon's fist connected with his ribs, and T'Challa felt the air leave his lungs as he was sent flying backwards, rolling along the ground before coming to a stop a dozen meters away.
T'Challa coughed, tasting blood in his mouth as he struggled to rise. His vision blurred, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand. He couldn't afford to show weakness, not now, not in front of this man. Napoleon was stronger than he had expected, but the Black Panther would not yield. "Is that all you've got?" T'Challa taunted, wiping blood from his lips. "I've faced men with more power than you."
Napoleon approached slowly, almost casually, as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes remained locked on T'Challa, assessing him, studying him like a predator studying its prey. "You have spirit, I'll give you that," he said, his tone colder now. "But spirit alone won't save you. It never does."
T'Challa took a deep breath, his mind racing. He needed a way to turn this fight around, but every option he considered seemed futile against Napoleon's overwhelming strength. He could feel the energy of the heart-shaped herb coursing through him, but it wasn't enough. Not this time.
He lunged forward again, striking at Napoleon's exposed side, but the former emperor effortlessly blocked the attack, retaliating with a sharp knee to T'Challa's stomach. The force of the blow drove the wind from his lungs, and he doubled over in pain, barely able to remain standing.
T'Challa looked up, defiance burning in his eyes. "Wakanda will never fall. Not to you, not to anyone."
A/N
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