#american experimental horror
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Begotten: Directed by E. Elias Merhige. With Brian Salzberg, Donna Dempsey, Stephen Charles Barry, James Gandia. Presented in a surreal, gory and entirely visual manner, Begotten tells of the death of religion, the abuse of nature by Man and a nihilistic outlook on what life ultimately is.
#begotten#e. elias merhige#american experimental horror#horror#film#still#forest#stills#forest stills#cinematic stills
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🪓📼🧥📺👞
I finished reading American Psycho a couple weeks ago and watched the movie afterwards! I honestly loved it and I personally think the movie was a pretty neat adaptation!!(The violence was 500x less, holy moly was the book gorey-) Anyways, here’s a Patrick doodle because he is my baby girl and I’m totally normal about him! :D
🤭 <3
#fresacake#artists on tumblr#art#digital art#artwork#american psycho#patrick bateman#timothy bryce#bret easton ellis#mary harron#paul allen#american psycho fanart#american psycho book#american psycho 2000#american psycho movie#my art#illustration#drawings#digital artist#digital drawing#digital painting#digital illustration#experimental#horror#dark comedy#dark comic#genre: horror#booklr#books#bookblr
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World Eater (A Poem)
This is a story
of : Persistence in the face of hardship much like any other
Study us damned and learn from our runeless scars
Study the art
of:
Swallowing fire
Hoop upon hoop unwinding
Heavy hearts
Tied into meaty knots
Unwinding until all is gone
And holy again
Heaven sends its regards Sends its love, adoration
Archangels itself looping
Inside
Casting hollow, holy light onto your dusty urn
All our worries go out to the word eaters
With their longer hearts and longer spines
Swallowing towns, villages like cannibals
Takeout on Friday nights and afternoons
Unhinge your jaw great titan of the sky
Swallow me Swallow me Swallow me
Swallow me like God can swallow
Fire
Swallow me so I can chew on you from the inside
Out
And fill you with my bullet holes
#creative writing#my writing#poem#my poetry#weirdcore#cryptidcore#american gothic#southern gothic#poetry#horror#experimentation#free form#introspection
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masterpost of horror lists
here are all my horror lists in one place to make it easier to find! enjoy!
sub-genres
action horror
analog horror
animal horror
animated horror
anthology horror
aquatic horror
apocalyptic horror
backwoods horror
bubblegum horror
campy horror
cannibal horror
children’s horror
comedy horror
coming-of-age horror
corporate/work place horror
cult horror
dance horror
dark comedy horror
daylight horror
death games
domestic horror
ecological horror
erotic horror
experimental horror
fairytale horror
fantasy horror
folk horror
found footage horror
giallo horror
gothic horror
grief horror
historical horror
holiday horror
home invasion horror
house horror
indie horror
isolation horror
insect horror
lgbtqia+ horror
lovecraftian/cosmic horror
medical horror
meta horror
monster horror
musical horror
mystery horror
mythological horror
neo-monster horror
new french extremity horror
paranormal horror
political horror
psychedelic horror
psychological horror
religious horror
revenge horror
romantic horror
dramatic horror
science fiction horror
slasher
southern gothic horror
splatter/body horror
survival horror
techno-horror
vampire horror
virus horror
werewolf horror
western horror
witch horror
zombie horror
horror plots/settings
road trip horror
summer camp horror
cave horror
doll horror
cinema horror
cabin horror
clown horror
plot devices
storm horror
from a child’s perspective
final girl/guy (this is slasher horror trope)
last guy/girl (this is different than final girl/guy)
reality-bending horror
slow burn horror
foreign horror or non-american horror
african horror
spanish horror
middle eastern horror
korean horror
japanese horror
british horror
german horror
indian horror
thai horror
irish horror
scottish horror
slavic horror (kinda combined a bunch of countries for this)
chinese horror
french horror
australian horror
canadian horror
decades
silent era
30s horror
40s horror
50s horror
60s horror
70s horror
80s horror
90s horror
2000s horror
2010s horror
2020s horror
companies/services
blumhouse horror
a24 horror
ghosthouse horror
shudder horror
other lists
horror literature to movies
techno-color horror movies
video game to horror movie adaption
video nasties
female directed horror
my 130 favorite horror movies
horror movies critics hated because they’re stupid
horror remakes/sequels that weren’t bad
female villains in horror
horror movies so bad they’re good
non-horror movies that feel like horror movies
directors + their favorite horror movies + directors in the notes
tumblr’s favorite horror movie (based off my poll)
horror movie plot twists
cult classic horror movies
essential underrated horror films
worst horror movie husbands
religious horror that isn’t christianity
black horror movies
extreme horror (maybe use this as an avoid list)
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On October 29, 1982, Arrebato debuted in the United States.
#arrebato#will more#spanish horror#horror movies#experimental film#indie horror#horror#trash art#horror art#art#movies#movie art#drawing#movie history#pop art#an american werewolf in london
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Horror About the American West
(definitions of all nouns in that description are flexible)
Angela Carter, American Ghosts and Old World Wonders. This is a UK only release, but in the 21st century, anyone can get ahold of it. Every story is great, but John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore was life-changing.
Victor LaVelle, Lone Women. Beautiful, hautning imagery of the vast Montanta wildnerness but alos just the perfect scary story set-up: A woman shows up with a trunk that's securely locked and that she won't allow anyone to open....
Alma Katsu, The Hunger. A mildy trashy fictionalization of the Donner Party but has some great creepy scenes.
Claire Vaye Watkins, Battleborn. Is this collection of literary short stories technically horror? Probably not, but Claire Vay Watkisn herself is an icornic horror archetype that shows up in Scream V, Nightmare on Elm Street VI and specifically the semi-obscure Harlan Ellison novella, The Resurgance of Miss Ankle-Strap Wedge, so everything she does counts as horror. But most importantly, the cosmic horror of all these stories is the Nevada desert, which will kill you impersonally.
V. Castro, Queen of the Cicadas/La Reina de Las Chicharras: What if a novel had the balls-to-the-wall gruesome energy of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Wouldn't that aboslutely rule?
Tananarive Due, The Good House. This book takes place in the far west coast of Washington State, which is a different, wetter kind of "west" than everything else on this list, but I just adore this book. Due is the closet thing we have to a new Stephen King or Stephen Spielberg in terms of her ability to create these richly realized characters who feel like they have full lives off the page. This books gave me the same feelings of love and catharthis that I felt reading The Shining for the very first time.
Stephen Graham Jones, Growing Up Dead in Texas: This is one of Jones' experimental books that are less fun and accessible than his big hits, but it's one that I think of often. It's a critique of a particular kind of true cime memoir, a refusal to turn one's marginalized childhood into a digestible story for the This American Life crowd. It's an ambitious, post-modern work.
Stephen King, 1922: An underrated King novella that hit all his best notes of grim misogyny, rural isolation and Tales From the Crypt gross-outs.
Gillian Flynn, Dark Places. Not as literary as Sharp Objects, not as tight as Gone Girl, but special and beloved to me. This is a tale of the Farm Aid/ Satanic Panic 1980s and really wallows in the isolation and misery of the great plains, .
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Goth aesthetic + music playlist series masterpost
For those interested in getting into goth music, I've built 9 playlists total with 15 songs each all surrounding common goth aesthetics so there's a bit of everything that tends to attract people to our subculture. Each playlist title links to its YouTube playlist.
The individual posts with the tracklists detailed are in this tag.
Trad goth 🦇 aesthetic and music
What started it all, straight out of the 1980s. Punk Rock gone spooky, androgynous, melancholic, experimental and often campy.
Lots of Post-Punk with a dash of Gothic Rock.
Featuring: Xmal Deutschland, Ausgang, Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus, Blood & Roses, The Cure, Specimen, Play Dead, The Birthday Party, Skeletal Family, Sex Gang Children, Cocteau Twins, The Wake (UK), Virgin Prunes, Look Back in Anger.
Romantic goth 🌹 aesthetic and music
The exquisite agony of melancholy, the theater of grief, the elegance of a frail dying maiden and the intensity and beauty of all emotions.
Mostly Ethereal Wave, Darkwave and Gothic Rock.
Featuring: London After Midnight, Lacrimosa, Sopor Aeternus, Faith and the Muse, The Shroud, Mors Syphilitica, Lycia, Corpus Delicti, Requiem in White, Diva Destruction, Two Witches, Mephisto Walz, Die Laughing, The 69 Eyes, Witching Hour (UK).
Fetish goth 🖤 aesthetic and music
The sensuality of leather and latex, the bell-like sounds of chains, and the sweet cruelty of your master reflected in sensual synths or thrilling guitars.
Mainly Darkwave with some Gothic Rock and Post-Punk.
Featuring: Umbra et Imago, The Mission, The Eden House, Athamay, Bauhaus, Boy Harsher, Quasimodo, London After Midnight, Wisborg, Two Witches, Dark, Fields of the Nephilim, Pink Turns Blue, Her Despair, Merry's Funeral.
Vampire goth 🍷 aesthetic and music
Some launch themselves into their bloodlust with glee, some bemoan their damnation, but what truly matters is that they're hot either way.
Mainly Gothic Rock with some Darkwave and Post-Punk thrown in.
Featuring: Inkubus Sukkubus, Bauhaus, Blutengel, Two Witches, Haunt Me, The Damned, Sopor Aeternus, Immortalis Amor, Lestat, Gothic Sex, La Procesión de lo Infinito, Paralysed Age, Nosferatu, Selofan, Angels of Liberty.
Cyber goth ☢️ aesthetic and music
Cybernetic horror, machinery and humanity blurring boundaries, and a dark undeground floor to dance the futuristic dystopia away.
This one is nothing but synth-heavy Darkwave.
Featuring: Diary of Dreams, Light Asylum, Bedless Bones, Cold Cave, The Frozen Autumn, Collide, Two Witches, Hante., Android Lust, Diva Destruction, La Scaltra, Ego Likeness, FrightDoll, Neon Zoo, Boy Harsher.
Deathrock 💀 aesthetic and music
Goth's American sibling! If Post-Punk is gloomy and eerie, Deathrock is brooding and spooky. If Gothic Rock is vampires and witches, Deathrock is zombies and werewolves.
This playlist is all Deathrock.
Featuring: Chants of Maldoror, Bloody Dead and Sexy, Eat Your Make-Up, Morticia, Bat Nouveau, Phaidia, Cinema Strange, The Naked and the Dead, Requiem in White, Cemetery, 45 Grave, The Cemetary Girlz, Katzenjammer Kabarett, Spiritual Bats, †13th Moon†.
Kinder goth 🍬 aesthetic and music
What's creepier than the sound of a haunted music box and the echo of laugh of a child? Cuteness and goth are not mutually exclusive, this style proves it.
Ethereal Wave, Darkwave and Post-Punk more or less on equal meassure.
Featuring: The Cure, Switchblade Symphony, Faith and the Muse, Bella Lune, binzatina, The Birthday Party, Lycia, Cinema Strange, Virgine Dramatica, Sopor Aeternus, Collide, Mors Syphilitica, Katzenjammer Kabarett, Drab Majesty, SRSQ.
Witchy goth 🎃 aesthetic and music
The figure of the witch has always been of interest to goths; be it due to us having a large neo-pagan population, our fascination with the occult, or simply sympathy for the witch.
A balanced combination of Gothic Rock, Ethereal Wave and Darkwave.
Featuring: Inkubus Sukkubus, Faith and the Muse, Boy Harsher, Nosferatu, Pretentious, Moi?, Switchblade Symphony, Sopor Aeternus, La Scaltra, Two Witches, Die Laughing, Lycia, Rosetta Stone, Chants of Maldoror, Witching Hour UK, The Mission.
Macabre goth ⚰️ aesthetic and music
Not all goths are obsssed with death... But these ones are! Isn't that the reasonable end to dark romance? The eternity of death, the painlessness of death, the mystery of what's beyond it.
A well balanced mix of Ethereal Wave, Gothic Rock, Darkwave and Deathrock.
Featuring: Sopor Aeternus, Angels of Liberty, A Covenant of Thorns, This Burning Effigy, Paralysed Age, Ghosting, Dead Souls Rising, Soror Dolorosa, Chants of Maldoror, Faith and the Muse, Witching Hour UK, Cinema Strange, Shadow Project, Lestat, Twin Tribes.
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[D]eviance and mischief. [...] [F]urtive [...]. [O]ther poetically inspiring words: secretive, surreptitious, clandestine, covert, conspiratorial, oblique [...]. We must fold these small acts of love and creativity and play (and laughter and irreverence and whimsy) into other resistant projects against white supremacy [...]. In various trans-American imaginaries, the boonies are raced as nonproductive land inhabited by people who are not fully part of the Western episteme. [...] Caribbean(ist) people are familiar with el monte, the hills, or les mornes. El monte is always just around the corner, encroaching, sprouting persistently [...] amid the rubble of hurricane disasters or abandoned plantation and industrial sites. [...] The hills, like much of our hemisphere, are sites of damage containing the residual energy of violence, [...] the “places of irresolution.” [...] [T]urn over rocks and push thorny vines to the side to find wet dirt, small creatures, and, perhaps, delightful hidden treasures [...]. I open my hands so that these and other surprises "jump into [them] with all the pleasures of the unasked for and the unexpected" [...]. Remaining open to these gifts of the nonhuman natural world [...]. How much ruddier might we be against the multiheaded hydra of white supremacy as “a world of mutually-flourishing companions” [...]?
Text by: Dixa Ramirez D'Oleo. "Mushrooms and Mischief: On Questions of Blackness." Small Axe 23 (2 (2)): 152-163. July 2019.
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Every day I wake up and rehearse the person I would like to be. […] To use the words of [...] C.L.R. James, “every cook can govern.” [...] [T]his is what happens when people consciously decide to come together and “shape change,” to think with Octavia Butler. And to move through the world with the intention of making it a better place for living creatures to inhabit. […] And most importantly, it’s an invitation to join in. And it is a reminder that liberation is not a destination but an ongoing process, a praxis. Every day, groups of parents, librarians, nurses, temp workers, ordinary people, tired of the horrors of the present, come together to decide what kind of world they want to inhabit. […] [W]e bear witness to rehearsal, study, experimentation in form, a multiplicity of formations of struggle being waged, often most strongly by people for whom freedom has been most denied. [...] “If We Must Die”: “Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!” [...] [F]or so many people, whether abandoned by the state [...] or abandoned by society in a carceral site, fighting back, by virtue of necessity as well as of ethics, is building, always building. This is the freedom work, and the love work, and the care work, of rehearsal.
Text by: Robyn Maynard. “Every Day We Must Get Up and Relearn the World: An Interview with Robyn Maynard and Leanne Betasamosake Simpson.” Intefere: Journal for Critical Thought and Radical Politics Volume 2, pages 140-165. 19 November 2021.
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The no of refusal is a mode of survival: an impenetrable boundary, silent or shouted. It is a refusal to be killed or to succumb [...]. Vast ecosystems flattened for plantations and fields, raw minerals pulled from the ground and sea for the building of nation-states [...]. Being-with requires a pause from which to imagine this otherwise, in all of its vastness and uncertainty. [...] To be-with [...] needs a disposition of attentiveness, listening, curiosity and noticing, [...] a "pedagogy of deep engagement". [...] The scale of violence [...] is immeasurable. [...] The immensity of the loss of people and ecologies to capitalist brutalities exceeds what we can comprehend. But [...] so do the myriad, and insuppressible flourishings and alliances, the joyfulness and love, the lives lived otherways. Attunement leads us to the gaps and silences and soundings that run through everything [...]. [T]hose imaginations of life [...] might rise to the surface.
Text by: AM Kanngieser. "To undo nature; on refusal as return." transmediale Almanac. 2021.
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ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇᴇɴ ;; ᴘᴛ ɪᴠ
ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ;; ᴘᴛ ɪ
Characters: MCU!Shuri Udaku x Black!Masc!Reader
Type: Fic
Word Count: 13.3k
Synopsis: T’Challa’s first mission as an Avenger is to raid an American science facility for information on the whereabouts of an important Wakandan artifact, but it quickly turns into a rescue mission when he sees the horrors happening behind closed doors.
Warnings: cursing, allusions of racism, sexism, misogynoir, medical and scientific malpractices, inhuman experimentations, mentions of an extensive amount of surgeries done on reader, mentions of malnourishment,
A/N: This ones a long one, yall, so strap in and get your snacks cuz you’ll be sitting for a minute! This goes a little into detail about the extent of readers origins and the torture she endured as a lab experiment, so…black trauma there. Besides “lovely” all the other suggested songs are for the infiltration and fight scenes. Suggested songs to listen to: “Drip” by Cardi B & Migos, “HUMBLE” by Kendrick Lamar, “Snakes” by PVRIS & MIYAVI, “lovely” by billie eilish & khalid.
Tags: @inmyheadimobsessed @badass-dora-milaje @babyboiboyega @verachii @heartsforjojo @letitias-fav @kingstormpostsshit @shurismainbxtch @zayswriting @rxcently @nzia-writes @writingintheshadowsforever @hufflehans @kokichiis7 @xxmilli @typicalme111 @zestgodtj @generallysapphic @ziayamikaelson @shuriszn @yvxmpire @justariellove @n7cje
13 years ago. June 5th, 2012. Upstate New York
T’Challa is a man who has only ever been nervous a handful of times in his life.
The first time he remembers being ridden with anxiety - not the kind where one has small doubts of their abilities, or the kind where the feeling of diffidence is light, but the kind where literally every part of your being is struck with the blinding stiffness of apprehension - was during his initiation ceremony to become the Black Panther. The transferring of mantles from his father, T’Chaka, to him, was an event that was long discussed by the pair. It was a common occurrence since the days of the Great Bashenga, where the Black Panther mantle was passed down from warrior to warrior with the blessing of Bast, the Great Panther Goddess. Having witnessed the ritual be performed by his father as a young child, and then the stripping ritual as a young adult, T’Challa witnessed the discomfort and pain his father endured, and could only imagine the terrors that would have been occurring in his mind at that time.
It was a painful ritual, one that tested the mind, body, and soul, in order to determine the worthiness of the mantle’s succession. If one failed, they could very much die. It was this very knowledge that made T’Challa nervous.
That same bubbling feeling blooms at the pit of his stomach as he sits across from Steve Rogers. Okoye and Aneka stand at either side of him clad in black with wide, thick gold necklaces adorning their necks, bold red lipstick and protective stances posed. He isn’t sure why, but the man has never not trusted his gut on his suspicions, and his gut was telling him that something was off. Maybe not in this very instance, but there was something T’Challa could not identify as the cause of this anxiousness pooling in his stomach. That alone made the feeling worse.
“Your Highness,” Steve greets. He sports a blue button up with khakis and brown boots, his blonde hair swept to the side in a professional look. ‘Very American’ as Okoye once said about the superhero.
“Captain,” T’Challa respondes, with a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement of the other man in front of him. The Crowned Prince is simple in his attire as he has always been - a thin, long sleeved shirt, dark green in color, paired with black pants and a pair of shoes Shuri had designed for him on the account of a lost bet between the two. The ring on his finger, passed down his father to him, adorns his left middle finger, and T’Challa takes to twisting the jewelry in circles in an attempt to ground himself.
“I apologize for the short notice,” Steve says, gesturing to the manilla file in his hand, “We just got word of this yesterday. Felt it would be appropriate to have you handle this.”
Steve slides the folder of files across the table to T’Challa, and the prince passes glances between the folder and Steve, before opening it and revealing its contents. “It sounded urgent.”
T’Challa likes to keep his words short and brief in settings like this. This affiliation of his with the Avengers is one of convenience. Whether or not Steve Rogers knew this was not a matter he could concern himself with, but if it is one thing T’Chaka has taught the crowned prince, it is that respect is given where credit is due. And Steve has saved countless lives in his time as hero, and T’Challa would give him that credit.
“We got word of this group called the Marine and Naval Research Support Corps, MNRSC for short,” T’Challa listens to the blonde man as he flips through the papers in the folder, scanning over the contents inside, “they’re a research group affiliated with the US Navy and Marine Corps, performing research on all things pertaining to the Marine and Navy, especially their battle strategies and combat data and statistics. But one of our retcon people caught wind of something on our radars that seemed…concerning, regarding their practices.”
“With all due respect, Captain,” T’Challa begins, “if it was something caught on your radar, should it not be handled by you and your team? Why contact me?”
“Because their practices include vibranium.”
As T’Challa turns to the next page, his eyes confirm Steve’s words as his eyes settle on a drafted image of an item, then shift over to the description on the side. It appears to be a statue of a feminine entity, and in the descriptions, it reads that this particular item was determined as a worship artifact of a particular water goddess of ancient Wakanda.
“Mami Wata,” T’Challa murmurs out, immediately recognizing the deity in question of which the statue is modeled after. Okoye and Aneka glance at each other from the corner of their eyes at this newfound information.
Mami Wata, otherwise referred to by Wakandan’s as Water Goddess, is the sovereign deity of the waters. She is a formidable deity, as T’Challa had learned much about the old pantheon of his country in his youth. The Water Goddess was known not only for her immense influence over waters and oceans, but also for sexuality and one's credence in their own sensual nature, healing in the cases of mental, physical, spiritual, and generational, and an unwavering sense of justice.
“This statue was found in a description of an encrypted message file that one of our retcon people were able to partially decode,” Steve begins again, “and it appears that this statue is made with vibranium in it. It isn’t clear as to why this group has it, or what they’re doing with it, but I figured you should be the first to know. This ball is in your court, Prince T’Challa.”
The brewing anxiety in the pit of his stomach just grew a little bit more.
T’Challa closes the case file, his hand lying flat against the pale yellow folder. His father’s ring catches his attention, the intricate design on it is a reminder of his position as Wakanda’s Protector. Taking this case isn’t an option; it’s a requirement.
“Thank you for bringing this information to our attention,” T’Challa hums, as he hands the manilla folder to Okoye on his right, and he stands up from the table, “We will see that this artifact is returned to its rightful home.”
Steve raises at the same time as T’Challa, ready to bid the man farewell, as he outstretches his hand to the Wakandan royal for a farewell handshake, “I expect nothing less from you.”
Aneka and Okoye watch Steve’s movements intently, ready to pounce and guard if the American superhero dared to show ill intent in his movements. It is an expectation of Steve’s, one he finds himself unintentionally testing whenever meeting with the prince like this.
T’Challa gestures for the women to return as they were, going to shake Steve’s hand and return the gesture of respect. The hand shake lasted for a moment too long, as T’Challa made it a point to seek out Steve’s blue irises, holding a firm gaze as he spoke his next words.
“I need not remind you, Captain,” T’Challa speaks in a low, firm voice, unwavering, “my efforts are on behalf of my country. And so I will approach this situation as such.”
There’s a glint in Steve’s eye, and T’Challa describes it as one of mutual understanding. Understanding, in the fact that this affiliation was strictly one of business. T’Challa has no intention of acting on behalf of the Avengers. His people are his first priority, and so he will first and foremost have the protection of his people in his mind.
“Of course, Prince.” Steve replies, with a tone that can’t be distinguished between sarcasm or light venom, but it is a tone shared by both, nonetheless. Their hands separate, T’Challa bows his head once more, and he turns to leave with Okoye and Aneka following him. Those blue irises staring into his back bring a knowing smile to T’Challa’s lips; a small, barely noticeable one, but it is there.
T’Challa, Okoye and Aneka leave the Avengers headquarters located in upstate New York. It is a considerably more peaceful location than the hustle and bustle of the city, and it is among the very few praises he gives the Avengers team. Along the trail leading up to the main entrance are three shiny black jeeps in a single file line. Okoye and Aneka direct the Crowned Prince to the jeep in the middle - the ones in the front and back of the line hold two additional Dora Milaje in each one. The Prince’s Guard is a small, elite team of the most skilled warriors the Dora Milaje have to offer - young, graceful, and deadly. Aneka is normally assigned to the KingsGuard, but T’Chaka was firm in shifting the second-in-command’s position, wanting the utmost protection for his son during his visit in America.
The trio slip into the middle jeep, alerting the other Dora to start their respective vehicles. The three jeeps then drive off down the trail and onto the road, heading back into the overwhelming city of Manhattan.
There is a series of beeps that emit from T’Challa’s wrist. The prince raises his hand up to expose the kimoyo beads on his wrist, pressing the small metallic ball, answering the incoming call from his father - King T’Chaka. The two greet each other warmly, as family should, and the prince chuckles as his father mumbles about his inexperience with the technological instrument created by his dearest daughter, Shuri.
A few years ago, it was decided that with T’Chaka’s old age restricting his ability to perform in the field, he would need to pass down the mantle of Black Panther to his son, T’Challa. It had been an event talked about amongst the two for a long time, stemming from the princes’ youth. T’Challa, once he was of age, would take on the mantle and perform the duties his father once did. Allowing T’Chaka to rule as King, and T’Challa be named Wakanda’s Protector, would not only alleviate tension from the older man’s shoulders, but would provide the young prince much needed experience as next in line for succession of the monarchy. It was a decision well celebrated and well commended by many.
The sight of T’Chaka’s face, alive and in good health, brings a little comfort to the prince, who is still experiencing the leaping feeling of anxiousness in his stomach.
“So, how did the meeting with that Captain America go?”
The King’s voice could be heard from T’Challa set of kimoyo beads, the monarch surprising the prince with a call the moment the trio were back on the road towards Manhattan. Okoye drove, Aneka sat in the front passenger seat, and T’Challa was left in the back seat.
“It was good, my King,” T’Challa replied, “we have the location of the lost Wakandan artifact - the statue of the Water Goddess. Okoye, Aneka and I will prepare for extraction within the next few days.” There’s a lingering sense of subordination in T’Challa’s tone, which causes the king to sigh.
“Son, speak comfortably with me,” T’Chaka says, “I am your father before I am your king.”
T’Challa has only ever wanted to make his father proud. The weight of being Crowned Prince was not an easy load to carry. The young man worked very hard in his youth, and still does, to prove himself worthy of his position in line for succession. The weight of the Black Panther mantle was not an easy load to carry, either. T’Challa was still new to this position, still wet behind the ears and eager to please and prove himself capable of handling such a vast and consequential role. So it was only expected that the prince, in all his well-hidden nervousness, is a little too formal, a little too respectful, especially when addressing his father. This is a behavior that T’Chaka has time and time told his son was unnecessary.
“Sorry, Baba,” T’Challa apologizes, though he knows it won’t be long before he will be lightly reprimanded for such behavior again, “but yes, the meeting went well. We are heading back to the hotel now to plan our next moves.”
“That is good.” The King commends. “Do not stress, my son. You will perform excellently, as you have always done.”
T’Chaka’s words bring a boyish grin to T’Challa’s lips, the looming anxiety calming slightly. “Debrief me now, T’Challa. What have you learned from the Captain?”
It is a moment of teaching; T’Chaka was a fan of the concept of hands-on learning and on-the-field experience. He took every opportunity he could to assist in T’Challa’s growing agency and confidence in his role. He understands his son is still quite nervous with his newfound responsibilities, and as a good father, he extends a helping hand when needed.
T’Challa retrieves the manilla folder with the case in question, placing it in his lap to open the file to relay the information to his father.
“The Captain’s retcon team decoded an encrypted message about a particular statue being used by a military scientific research group known as the Marine and Naval Research Support Corps - MNRSC.” T’Challa scans through the papers once more as he recites the information to his father. “The Captain claims he has no knowledge as to why this group has this artifact, or how they have obtained it.”
“And what do you think, T’Challa?”
The prince paused for a moment, taking to tracing his father’s ring in thought.
“Do I believe the Captain is ignorant to this group’s motives and operations? There is a possibility. He has no reason to trust me, and I him. I believe it is only our mutual respect that guided his motive in relaying this information to me.”
T’Chaka releases a hum of approval, of which urges T’Challa to continue with his words. “And this military group?”
“Amongst many things, the Water Goddess is viewed as a protector. Assuming these scientists understand the power the great Water Goddess possesses, and the requirements needed for worship, they may assume that this statue is a sort of gateway to accessing a form of protection for their men out on the waterfront.”
“You give these Americans too much credit, my son,” T’Chaka hums once more, and although there is no holographic video view of his father in front of him, T’Challa can hear the sarcastic smile in his father’s voice, “The Great Water Goddess bends to no one, mortal or otherwise. We would be doing this group a favor and sparing them of her wrath.”
“Indeed.”
T’Challa bids his father farewell as the jeep comes to a halt, and Okoye voices that the trio has arrived at the hotel of which they resided in for the time being. Stepping out of the jeep, T’Challa holds the case file close to his chest, as he walks side by side with his General and Lieutenant and behind him the four other Dora warriors dressed the same, and enter into the five star hotel.
In his mind, T’Challa is already brewing a cinematic of how this mission is to play out, and he would be careful to make sure it was a success. No matter what.
2001. Africa’s North-East Coast - Atlantic Ocean.
The Marine & Naval Support Research Corps is a sub-organization of the main branches of the Navy and Marine factions of the US army. Established in the early 1940’s during the height of World War 2, the MNSRC was created with the sole purpose of assisting the US Marines and Navy. In analyzing the effectiveness of battle strategies and statistics of combat data, the MNSRC presents new innovations for the valuable men and women who serve as Marines and Navy seamen.
That is, of course, what the world sees. The MNSRC, a valuable and critical asset to the function of the US military, has skeletons in the closet like any other government organization.
For years, the organization has been trying to find a solution to increasing the success rates of their battle strategies. Being at sea, the vast unknown that lurked beneath the blue waters was largely unpredictable, and in the current world they lived in, the officials of this group wanted to preserve their numbers as best as possible. The risk of deploying skilled men and women out into the field who would serve better as protection for the US Coasts, and then having them die at the hands of the vast sea of unknowns, was too great. From studying the ancient worlds and their gods to pushing the limits of their technological pursuits, the MNSRC was thought to have exhausted all of their options, driving the high ranking officials into a corner.
Until an opportunity presented itself.
After stopping to refuel on the north-eastern coast of Africa, Navy seamen who inhabited the USS Water-Bearer, the largest of the Navy vessels under the MNSRC command, started reporting that they were seeing apparitions on the shoreline. Some reports were miniscule, seemingly brushed off as common faux-visions from the peripheral of their eyes. Others, however, brought a sense of dread aboard the ship.
One notable report, that of a Seaman Officer Sailor William Bolton, recalled spotting a woman standing above the waters, gracefully gliding against the blue currents. Naked, with a serpent like creature adorning her shoulders, Sailor Bolton recalled not feeling fear or dread during this ‘coincidental’ spotting - instead, he said that it was if this female apparition was beckoning him into the waters. “I felt at ease,” the sailor recalled, “like I was returning home from a long night at sea. No bad feeling or nothin’.”
Comparing this account to others, who specifically recalled being stricken with an inexplicable amount of fear at the sight of this female apparition, the higher ranking officers aboard the USS Water-Bearer grew intrigued. Upon speaking with the nearby village inhabitants, the identity of this mysterious woman was soon revealed. A goddess of the waters, one who’s strong belief of justice would only become partial in the presence of a member of the Lost Tribe.
Without disclosing their hypothesis, S.O.Bolton was approached by his lieutenant with an opportunity of a lifetime. To ascend to the next rank of Petty Officer, Bolton would have his exam done out in the field - he would dive into the waters they were currently stationed in, and retrieve an artifact that was said to have been ‘carelessly tossed overboard by another petty officer unbecoming of his status.’
With the new opportunity for higher authority and better pay, William Bolton manned a solo submarine into the waters of north-east Africa, a picture and the description of the item in question pulled up on the monitor screen for the seaman to better identify what he was looking for within the murky waters. The captain, commanders, commander-lieutenants, and lieutenant officers watched from above on their aquatic radars, tracking Bolton’s movements.
The theory posed was that the deity mentioned by the village folk, who’s worship statue laid somewhere beneath the heavy waters by the goddess’s choice, could be exactly what they were looking for. Desperate and with all other options exhausted, the military officers and researchers prayed that this would be their answer.
S.O. Bolton returned to the surface with the said statue. He died exactly one week later.
The statue was quickly handed off to the research team, as the supposed apparition sightings got worse for the Navy seamen. The research team were able to contain the statue and its supernatural properties within a high-vibrational glass chamber, while the most skilled researchers did their best to uncover the statues secrets.
A much more sinister plot was on the way. Once back in America, the researchers were in need of a test subject. Lab rats would not work for this kind of experiment. They needed a human. Just one.
And that task was left up to a Dr. Connor Warden, the lead researcher in this project. Dr. Warden was a man of science, so much so that good morals and basic humanity were qualities he greatly lacked. Dr. Warden lived by the concept that minor sacrifices were necessary for the advancement of the masses. Though, his idea of ‘minor sacrifices’ was highly debatable.
It became more prevalent when he returned back to his vessel with a heavily pregnant woman, with no known identity and in desperate need for cash. Under Dr. Warden’s false pretenses, the woman would receive her payout - at the cost of her own life and her unborn child.
It would not be long before the woman went into labor, and despite the long running list of possible labor and birth complications the unknown woman could endure, which would ultimately lead to her death, Dr. Warden still approved the emergency cesarean section. The doctor was exceptionally close to having his plan be put into motion, and would not allow minor complications to disrupt his trajectory.
The doctor himself performed the C-Section, of which the unidentified woman died from, but Dr. Connor Warden did not feel remorse for his actions. In his eyes, this minor sacrifice was for the greater good of the protection of the country.
Project MA-WA could finally begin.
June 19th, 2012. Boston Harbor Islands.
“Ugh. The stench here is infuriating.”
Okoye’s slick comment causes T’Challa and Aneka to snicker as the three make their way into the check-in kiosk. She is right, however. There was a potent smell of alcohol and overpriced cologne that polluted the air. Complimentary of the fact that there was nothing but white men too stuck in their egos and too prideful of their professions, masking their insecurities with money and liquor and copious amounts of poorly chosen body fragrances.
“Play nice, General,” T’Challa reminded, “we will not be here longer than need be.”
Tonight’s plan was sure to go off without a hitch, T’Challa thought. The MNRSC was holding a party to celebrate the completion of their new innovation to protect Marines and Navy seamen, of which would not have been possible without the Wakandan artifact the trio were there to retrieve.
T’Challa, Okoye, and Aneka, under disguises as MNRSC scientists, would infiltrate the party, locate the artifact on the bottom deck of the ship, and make their escape into the waters below, where the quinjet lay invisible and ready for extraction. It was, in hindsight, a fairly simple mission - Okoye and Aneka would keep up appearances while T’Challa did the difficult part of searching the ship’s bottom levels for the said statue. With the careful and meticulous planning of the three, nothing could go wrong.
“Okay, Dr. Gurira and Dr. Kasumba,” T’Challa hummed, addressing Aneka and Okoye by their respective undercover names, “are we ready to see what MNRSC has declared their newest innovation of military protection?”
“Of course, Dr. Boseman.” Aneka responded.
After swiping their key cards with their undercover identities’ information encoded within, the three were then welcomed onto the USS Water-Bearer by doting staff members who expressed their desire for them to enjoy the night. Once aboard the ship, the bright lights that contrasted against the night sky and the seemingly innocent chitter-chatter of people enveloped the three Wakandan natives, who immediately began scanning the area of the vessel to start their infiltration. T’Challa nodded for Okoye to trek to the left to the main deck of the ship, where a group that surrounded one of the researchers part of this infamous project was located. For Aneka, the prince gestured for her to head straight to the food bar, knowing that her easy going demeanor would attract the important people.
As for T’Challa, the prince found himself walking to the bar, the perfect place with an excellent view of the rest of the venue. He orders a glass of bourbon on the rocks, and starts his people-watching.
From the glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose, T’Challa is able to get a better view of the party guests. Another brilliant invention of his little sister, Shuri, who was all but eager to hand him the pair before he set out to America a few weeks prior. ‘They have facial recognition detectors,’ he remembers the eleven year old girl chirping proudly as she handed him the case, ‘so you can see bad guys from far away!’ The young child would receive his thanks tenfold when the prince returned from this mission, T’Challa decided.
Many of the scientists at the party were not core members of Project MA-WA, much less associated with the project at all. Of the vastness of the partygoers, he was only able to spot five - two had been talking with Okoye and Aneka each, and one that was approaching him now. The famed Dr. Connor Warden-
Wait, why is he approaching T’Challa?
“You must be fresh meat, aye?” The doctor chimes as he takes a seat next to the prince at the bar, ordering himself a two shots of vodka - no chasers - making himself comfortable. “New recruit?”
“Fresh off the training boat,” T’Challa joins, putting on his perfected American accent, reaching out a hand to the lead scientist, “Doctor Chadwick Boseman, sir.”
“Welcome aboard, Boseman!” Dr. Warden cheers, charisma shining through his pearly white teeth and his neatly ironed lab coat, though T’Challa can see from the information displayed on his glasses, that this man is far from friendly. His charisma is a double edged sword - entertaining and sinister.
“My superiors are fans of your work,” T’Challa lies, though it comes out as natural as the truth would, “and I have to say I follow right behind them. You’re known pretty well in this field.”
“Buttering me up ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, kid,” Dr. Warden chides, but T’Challa can tell that it all but fuels his ego, “but you’re superiors and you got taste. I’ve been working in this field a long time, and let me tell you, what we’re about to disclose tonight about Project MA-WA is going to be the height of American innovation!”
“Is that so?” T’Challa edges, taking a sup of his liquor while the scientist before him downs his shot of vodka with ease. “If I wasn’t eager to know before, I sure am now. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the best.”
“Ah, that's what I like to here!” Dr. Warden chuckles, T’Challa’s subordination further fueling the white man’s ego.
“Now that is an interesting piece of jewelry you got there,” Dr. Warden hums as he examines the panther claw necklace that adorns T’Challa’s neck and chest, the warm lighting reflecting off of the jewelry, making it stand out against his shirt. Another one of Shuri’s inventions, a prototype that she begged the man to try on specifically for this mission. It was supposed to help with the panther suit transformation efficiency - though, as Shuri explained, ‘Baba’s is old and tacky and ugly! Mine's so much better!’
“Ah, this thing,” T’Challa begins, coming up with a creative diversion on the spot, “this was a gift from my baby sister, Letitia. She’s really into panthers. They’re a pretty big deal where we come from.”
“You sure your sister isn’t a scientist too?” Dr. Warden asks, which makes T’Challa’s stomach tighten ever so slightly as the question reaches a bit too close to home. “She’s got a knack for design, and we always need more black women on the team, as the higher ups say. Faux diversity and what not.”
“Ah, no. Letitia is more of an….artsy person.” T’Challa hums in response, and there’s a moment of static sounding in his ears before Okoye’s voice is heard through his invisible ear comms. “Please let there be a time of which I can gut that man.” She grunts in disgust, and it takes everything in T’Challa not to verbally agree with the general.
“He insults the princess’s very intelligence,” Aneka sounds in his other ear, “as if she has not done more in her years than he. To be bested by an eleven year old would surely put his ego into ruins.”
It would indeed, and as much as the thought amuses T’Challa, he would have to entertain it later.
“You know, you remind me of a recruit we used to have.” Dr. Warden says, though his words come out in a particular tone that T’Challa can’t quite pinpoint.
“Really?” He replies, playing along. “I get that a lot. Guess I’m a universal soul or somethin’ like that…who was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Ah, I can’t remember the guy. Was a long time ago, though,” Dr. Warden responds, and T’Challa’s stomach begins to fill with a slight sense of dread as the older scientist continues to talk, “Wasn’t one of mine. He was a Navy seaman. Honestly, without his sacrifice, Project MA-WA wouldn’t even exist!”
“Sacrifice? He must have been a real supporter of your cause.”
“Supporter, I don’t know about that. Boy was just a new recruit for the few months he was on the Water-Bearer. We stopped at a port in North East Africa to refuel and the seamen started saying they were seeing things.”
T’Challa hums as he continues to nurse the drink in his hand, intrigued by this not-so-newfound information. “Seeing things? Hope you weren’t out at sea for too long for that to happen.”
“Not even. Spooked a couple of people with the reports we were getting. But the guy, ah…Bolton! Bolton was his name - said when he was seeing it, it wasn’t fear or anything compared to what his comrades felt. The again, it’s Africa, the boy was probably feeling at home, but that's besides the point-”
“He is definitely the type to enjoy hearing himself speak,” Aneka says in an exasperated tone, already tired of the story despite its vitality.
“Stay alert, my prince,” Okoye warned, “this is too easy. It could be a trap of his own. Take his words lightly, and remember your position.”
T’Challa hummed, it being a response to the General voicing her concerns in his left ear, acknowledging Aneka’s frustrations in his right, and gesturing for the man in front of him to continue.
“The lieutenant sent the boy into the ocean to retrieve an artifact the locals said had been hidden in the waters for years. We got it, kid died a week later. But minor sacrifices like those, they’re necessary for the advancement of the masses. Well, I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you haven’t heard from your own superiors.”
T’Challa didn’t like the way he not only brushed over the poor seamans death as if it were nothing to talk about, but also how he mentioned the concept of sacrificing for the majority. It wasn’t a concept he was unfamiliar with, but one he wished was as avoidable as it was acceptable. Dr. Warden’s overall indifference to the matter only furthered the aching in the prince's stomach.
“But what we got on this ship right here,” Dr. Warden concluded, staring right into T’Challa’s eyes as if he was trying to pierce into his soul (and perhaps he was successful, because T’Challa started to hold his breath as his conversation with this scientist continued), “it’s gonna change everything. The only living prototype that would change the way we protect our military, our country, lies right beneath our feet. And you’re gonna be apart of the next generation of scientists who not only get to cultivate it, but watch it multiply.”
That right there made the lump in T’Challa’s throat thicken. And as he bid the older scientist farewell as he made his way to another group of people, probably to retell the same story again in a more chipper tone, the prince’s desire to retrieve this artifact and leave grew. Suddenly, the prince wasn’t too confident in his own plan.
“-alla? Prince T’Challa, can you hear us?”
Okoye’s concerned voice breaks T’Challa from his stiff inattention, bringing the prince to the sudden realization that there may be more to this extraction mission than what was originally left to believe.
“Aneka, Okoye, keep up appearances on the main deck,” T’Challa says firmly, a sudden eagerness stirring inside the man as he stands up from the bar stool, his drink finished, “I’m going to head below.”
“Are you sure, my prince?” Aneka sounds worried as well, the sinister words of the lead scientist making her own skin prickle, and if she’s affected, she knows for sure that T’Challa is as well. “Perhaps one of us should-”
“No.” T’Challa says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “The less, the better. And quite frankly, I do not have a good feeling about this extraction mission.”
Okoye, who’s frame is nearly covered by a few bodies belonging to MNRSC scientists, is able to make eye contact with T’Challa who sits across from her at the bar, as well as Aneka, who’s positioned herself along the ship railing, maintaining a fixed position and keeping an eye on the two Project MA-WA scientists who had come up to her. Although hesitant, they all shared a knowing look, understanding T’Challa’s standpoint.
“We are here if you need us, my prince.”
And it’s all T’Challa needs to set out on his own. He maintains his cool, greeting people he passes by with a smile and a warm acknowledgement, under the guise of making his way to the bathroom. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and as he makes his way to the designated toilet, he takes mental note of the amount of security officers that litter certain points of the hallway.
There are five that T’Challa notes on his way to the bathroom - three in the hall of the bathrooms, one for the mens, womens, and gender-neutral rooms, one that stands at the entrance of the hallway, and one that guards another unlabeled door at the end of the hallway. The prince slips into the mens room, the single bathroom providing him enough obscurity to enact the first part of the plan.
“Alright, dear sister,” the princes mumbles to himself as he taps one of the beads on his wrist to open up a holographic screen, revealing a map of the ship, highlighting the amount of security guards on each floor, “lets see how well this update of yours works.”
T’Challa taps on the five security guard images on the screen, and an option appears on the screen to corrupt their individual ear comms. The prince enacts this command, and after a moment of processing, a box appears on the holographic screen with a voice alternant. T’Challa saves his surprise for later, but an impressed smile makes its way onto his lips nevertheless. T’Challa begins to speak, and while his voice is heard within the bathroom walls, through the security guards’ comms it comes out as the voice of Dr. Conor Warden.
“Security needed on the main deck. We’ve got a potential stowaway.”
Within seconds, T’Challa hears a series of footsteps pass by the mens room’s door, and to make sure that there aren’t any remaining bodies left, he presses his ear to the door to listen intently. After a moment of silence, T’Challa carefully opens the door, peeks his head outside, before quickly making his way to the unlabeled door and entering inside, closing the door carefully behind him.
The hallway is dimly lit, due to the fact that there wasn’t supposed to be anyone past this point. T’Challa continues his descent into the ship, checking the map displayed from his wrist every now and then to make sure he was going the right way. He notices that the further he descends into the ship, the less security guards there seem to be. Despite the man ducking into dark corners and skillfully avoiding the lurking eyes of the security guards he does pass, there is an unsettling feeling in his stomach that urges the prince to tread lightly. He was beginning to agree with Okoye’s words - the leniency of security of such an important military project was fairly unusual. Part of him wants to believe that maybe the MNRSC really were so confident, they didn’t expect to have their sins catch up to them. But T’Challa knows better, which is why he has his suit on standby if things go awry.
T’Challa finally reaches the bottom level, and ironically, there is only one door within the hallway, and according to the map displayed from his kimoyo beads, that door leads to the laboratory where the Water Goddess statue was located. And guarding that door were four security personnel, much more military-equipped than the previous guards he was able to evade. T’Challa would have to try a new tactic to remove these guards from their posts.
Looking around his current surroundings, the prince spots an unnaturally placed, bright red bouncy ball a few feet away from him. Although confused on why exactly a child’s toy is on the ship of a high-ranking military research group, T’Challa disregards the thought for now and decides to use the toy to his own advantage.
The security guards are startled when the sound of the bouncy ball rings throughout the corridor, the appearance of the toy causing the four of them to look at each other quizzingly. One guard volunteers to check around the corner, and with his gun raised, he bounds around the corner, disappearing from the view of his comrades. The guard sees nothing, but as he lets his guard down, a black shadow from above takes advantage of his mistake.
There’s a scuffle and muffled grunts which catches the attention of the three other guards, and the three jump in unison as they see their comrade get thrown into the wall, unconscious, his gun sliding across the shiny floor, emptied.
Confused and cautious, the next two guards make their way to disappear around the corner. Once again, there are shared grunts and shouts, before the two receive the same fate as their previous comrade.
The last security guard, thoroughly frightened but bound by the code of his career, leaves his post to face the unknown that lurks behind the corner. His fright only increases when he sees nothing in the corridor, except for the red bouncy ball that had rolled its way back to its original position amidst the commotion. Sensing a presence behind him, the security guard goes to turn around, but is quickly knocked out before he has a chance to see who the perpetrator is.
With the current opposition defeat, T’Challa sighs, shaking the pain out of his knuckles from the amount of punches he had to deliver. He didn’t want to use his Black Panther strength, much less the suit prototype that lay dormant in the panther claw necklace around his neck, hoping to complete the mission without unnecessary force. He found out quickly that the wish to not use of his increased strength was not an option.
Stepping around the strewn bodies, T’Challa makes his way to the now unguarded door. He presses his kimoyo beads to the number lock system that replaces the handle, and after a series of beeps and flashing of random number combinations in red, there is a long beep and on the tiny screen there is a series of numbers that flash in green, signaling that the door was unlocked.
T’Challa pushes through the door gently, now putting himself on a timer to retrieve what he came for and leave before his actions and identity are discovered.
The sight of the room wasn’t impressive compared to the grand laboratory in Wakanda. The machines were mediocre in assembly, and the entire room felt dark and dank, the scenery reminiscent of an evil lair out of a comic book. The low hum of electricity echoes out through the empty room, and aside from that and the audible footsteps from T’Challa’s tip-toe walking pace, there was an unnerving, eerie silence that filled the room.
T’Challa’s eyes first land on a glass container which contains the Water Goddess statue, submerged in an unidentifiable, clear liquid. Certain lines of the carving glow a bright blue, the vibranium laced into the wood strong and unyielding. However, upon further inspection, T’Challa notices that connected to the container are a series of wires, which trail down to a vitals monitor which sounds low beeps in evenly timed intervals. From the monitor, the prince’s eyes follow yet another set of wires, and T’Challa’s eyes widen in consternation at what he saw.
His feet carried him closer to a table, and on said table of which the monitor wires were connected to, was a young African American girl. She looked no older than his own sister, with kinky black hair done in two messy french braids, skin virtually drained of its melanin and leaving a ghostly brown pigment in its wake, and frail to the touch. She was unconscious, the child’s breath labored in her slumber, and T’Challa now understands the persistent pool of distress that had made itself home in his stomach for the past few weeks.
T’Challa is sick to his stomach. This was the newly completed project Dr. Connor Warden referenced. He recalls that sick doctor’s words of minor sacrifices and the slick comment on black women recruitment, lathered in every -ism the prince could think of.
‘The only living prototype that would change the way we protect our military, our country, lies right beneath our feet.’
T’Challa’s hands wrap around the medical bed’s rails, his grip incredibly tight, surely leaving dents in the metal due to his enhanced strength.
‘And you’re gonna be apart of the next generation of scientists who not only get to cultivate it, but watch it multiply.’
“Prince T’Challa, have you made it to the lab yet?”
T’Challa doesn’t respond right away, although he knows Okoye would call for him again in mere seconds. He’s caught in a crossroad decision, and he’s back into a tighter corner when he hears the sounds of more soldiers approaching from the corridor.
This was not how this mission was supposed to go.
“T’Challa, are you there-?”
“Okoye, Aneka, listen to me closely,” T’Challa begins, and ass the voices of more security guards begins to grow louder, the prince dawns his Black Panther suit, the nanites emerging from the panther claw necklace adorning his chest and covering his entire body in sleek black, “there will be a change of plans.”
“T’Challa, are you alright? Should we assist you?” Aneka asks, but the prince all but ignores her as he quickly conjures up a plan of action.
“Things have just gotten a little more complicated. The artifact is not the only thing we have to worry about now.”
“My prince, what do you mean? What have you discovered-?”
“Return to the quinjet-” a loud banging sounds on the metal door - the security guards are trying to force their way in, and they’re nearly there, “-and wait by the rear of the ship for my signal-”
If Aneka or Okoye were spluttering protests, they fell on deaf ears, as T’Challa’s attention shot from the young girl to the now detached door, armed with security officers flooding the threshold and into the laboratory.
“-go. Now!”
In T’Challa’s attempt at blocking the young girl's body from an onslaught of bullets directed at him, he tipped the bed on its side, causing the girl to land onto the cold, hard floor, but at least the metal underside of the bed now shielded her from any harm. The prince, now fueled with an unbridled sense of rage, began to tear through the mass of military personnel sent to disarm him. His suit repelled the bullets, causing them to ricochet off of his person and into the nearby walls. A few bullets flew to the glass container housing the Water Goddess statue, causing glass shards, clear liquid, and the statue to fall to the floor.
T’Challa decides to use this to his advantage, back-trekking across the puddle and leading a few of the unsuspecting military officers right into the puddle created, slipping and falling hard on the concrete ground, discombobulating them. Two soldiers approached from his right, and T’Challa made quick work in disarming one, kicking one of them into a wall, and headbutting the other with the butt of the assault rifle of the previous soldier.
As soon as the second soldier fell, T’Challa’s kimoyo beads began to beep. Quickly flipping his wrist over, he all but groans as the caller ID reads the name of his beloved little sister.
T’Challa effortlessly punches an approaching officer, knocking him down with ease, as he begrudgingly answers the audio call, knowing that declining or ignoring wasn’t an option. T’Challa could not decline or ignore Shuri’s calls, a fault of his own due to his own love for his sister, and also because the young girl would find a way to simply hack into his beads and force him to answer anyway.
“Hi Big Brother!” Shuri’s chipper voice sounds in T’Challa’s ears, and if he weren’t in the midst of an onslaught of military soldiers charging at him, he would allow himself to smile at the innocent girl's greeting.
“Hi, Shuri,” T’Challa replies, trying his best to cover up his slightly heavy breathing, disguising his voice into a more carefree one, “Big Brother is kind of busy right now-”
“I know, I’m sorry, I know you are on an important mission-” the young princess apologizes, and for a moment T’Challa feels almost guilty, though he is reminded that such an emotion he cannot allow himself to feel right now. A soldier charges at him, and T’Challa delivers a quick one-two to his opponent's chest, disarming him quickly and knocking him out with the same technique used on his previous victim, “-I just wanted to ask if my glasses were working for you?”
“Your glasses?” T’Challa hums, guarding himself from a soldier initiating close combat with him.
“Oh, yes! Your glasses! They worked wonderfully, dear sister!” The panther superhero hurriedly replies, delivering a deep jab in the officer's gut with his knee, throwing him against a nearby wall and discarding him. “Aren’t I lucky to have such a genius sister who makes amazing technology for me?”
Shuri giggles with pride on the other end of his ear comms, and T’Challa’s chest swells with his own sense of pride, however, it is quickly short lived when a surprise perpetrator approaches the panther from behind, and slamming his back with a discarded sheet of metal. It knocks T’Challa to the ground, causing him to audibly grunt and wince from the impact.
“What was that? Are you hurt, T’Challa?”
The prince quickly brushes off his temporary pain, grabbing the ankle of his assaulter, dragging them to the ground with him, and as T’Challa takes hold of the soldiers collar, he makes quick work in replying to the clueless eleven year old on the other end of the line. “What? Me? Hurt? Never! The Black Panther never gets hurt!”
T’Challa slams the officer onto the ground, his head making harsh contact with the concrete floor, effectively knocking him unconscious as well. At this point the entire room is strewn with bodies, and whether they were simply unconscious are worse, wasn’t particularly on T’Challa’s mind. “Little Sister, I will call you back on my way home, Big Brother is still working.”
“Okay…” Shuri drawls out, and the older man could physically hear the pout his little sister is dawning right now, “call me later! So I can ask you about the suit!”
“Of course, Shuri. Gotta go now, behave yourself!” and with that, T’Challa quickly hangs up on the little girl, thankfully as the last remaining soldier foolishly charges at him. T’Challa doesn’t hesitate to sweep the soldier off their feet, snatch their assault rifle from their hands, and knock them out using the butt of the gun once more. Fatigued from his fight, but maintaining a calm composure for his surprise call, the panther discards the gun, turns on his heel, and retrieves the Water Goddess statue still lying on the ground, untouched during the scuffle.
Once retrieved, the prince turns to the overturned bed, and slowly approaches it. The closer he comes, the more clearly T’Challa hears what he deems to be sniffles. At first, his body stills, contemplating on what to do. There’s a short pause as T’Challa takes in his surroundings - and it is definitely not one to leave a child in. The prince moves closer, and peering over the side of the bed, he sees the same little girl, having regained her consciousness, curled into a tight ball, body racking with sobs and fright.
Fuck, things really did just get very complicated.
“Hey,” T’Challa voices in the softest voice he can muster, but even then his voice causes the young girl to jump violently, scooting impossibly closer into the corner she’s holding herself up in. After a moment, the little girl raises her head slightly, one eye peeking from behind her knee, to see the large man clad in black hovering over her and her overturned bed.
“I am not here to hurt you,” T’Challa begins, although he’s not sure if your young mind can comprehend such words. Others could have said the same, and turned on their word just as quickly as they were said, “I know you must be very scared right now. I would like to help you. Would you like that?’
Another moment passes before the little girl nods - it's a tight, curt shake of the head, filled with uncertainty, but there’s the tiniest glimmer of hope that shines in the eye T’Challa is able to see.
“Good,” the prince says, and with careful and slow movements, he reaches out his hand over the edge of the overturned bed, “take my hand, young one.”
There’s a looming hesitancy, but after several glances between T’Challa’s masked face and his gloved hand, the little girl slowly reaches out, and places her smaller hand into T’Challa’s larger one. In one swift movement, T’Challa pulls the girl onto his hip, and with the child and the statue in hand, he turns to the broken entrance of the laboratory.
Before he makes a move to leave, however, the prince looks down at the little girl clinging to him, and says, “You have to hold on to me extra tight now, young one. We are about to go really fast.”
The child nods, wrapping her arms around T’Challa’s neck tightly, her legs also tightening their grip on his hips, and once she is secure, T’Challa makes a mad sprint to the rear deck of the vessel, zooming up stairs and through doors and corridors. He calls on his ear comms for Okoye and Aneka to ready the position of the quinjet, and as he finally breaks onto the rear deck of the ship, fresh air filling his lungs and breezing past his form. T’Challa can practically taste freedom on the tip of his tongue.
The prince approaches the railing, and peers downward into what the regular naked eye can see as water but there's a sharp and quick shimmer of electric blue that runs the shape of the familiar quinjet, letting him know that his ride home was just below. And as he goes to mount the banister, preparing to fall into the safety of the ship's opening, he is stopped by the same sinister voice that approached him at the bar earlier that evening.
“Are you really willing to risk everything for that thing?”
T’Challa refuses to turn around, for if he were to be face to face with that conniving doctor, the prince may not be able to contain his fury. He is unsure if his words are directed to the statue in his hand or the girl on his hip, but either case has T’Challa ready to tear this infamous Dr. Connor Warden apart.
“You can take her,” the doctor chuckles, his voice confident and lacking any sort of remorse, “you can hide her away or discard her, or keep her as your own; but wherever she goes, we will find her.”
Dr. Warden’s voice makes T’Challa’s being sick all over again, the way that he refers to this little girl who clings onto him for dear life, as an object of ‘innovation’. His bigoted words make much more sense - in fact, they shine in an even more sinister light than the Prince wants to acknowledge. His grip on the girl and the statue tighten.
“She is my creation. I will always find her.”
And for some reason, despite T’Challa knowing the risks of what he’s about to do, he smiles underneath his mask anyway.
“I would like to see you try.”
Dr. Warden’s lips curl into a smirk as well, recognizing loosely the voice of the man clad in black before him. He thinks he has the upper hand.
And with that, T’Challa mounts the railing, and with his faith placed in the Water Goddess and the Panther Goddess alike, he falls into the waters below.
June 20th, 2012. The Golden City, Wakanda.
T’Challa’s grip on the metal railing is all but a familiar one; tight and firm and the only barrier he has to keep his frustrations at bay.
He watches from an observation balcony as the more than skilled doctors of his country finish administering vital nutrients to the little girl he had saved mere hours before. At this moment she rests on a medical bed, but the prince had ordered she’d be reassigned to one of the guest chambers. Despite not disclosing the horrors he had witnessed in his extraction-turned-rescue mission, all it took was one look of his face, and there need be no more questions asked. There was a looming tension in the air around the Black Panther, but no palace or medical staff dared bring it into question, fearing that if they were to do so, the prince’s frustrations would unintentionally come out onto them.
Out of his peripheral vision, T’Challa sees one of the doctors he’s personally assigned to the young girl’s case. Doctor Umphilisi Wabantwana - Dr. Umphi, as she desired to be called - earned her degrees in many areas of childhood healthcare and development, and had even been the doula for Shuri when she was first born. They were not that far apart in age, the woman only having about five years on T’Challa, but one could not tell from her appearance. With radiant brown skin taken care of by daily use of shea butter (of which she always smelled of, no matter the time of day), and a smile that could cure any illness of the heart or mind, Dr. Umphi was as bright, youthful and energetic as a child herself, which was a good thing to have when working with children.
However, today, T’Challa was not greeted with the toothy smile that usually adorned Dr. Umphi’s face whenever the two met up. Solemness replaced the doctor’s usual warm and inviting demeanor, and it only made T’Challa more anxious about the news he was to receive.
“Dr. Umphi,” The prince greeted, straightening his stance and releasing his hold on the metal railing, opting to clasp them behind his back in an attempt to hide the fidgeting he was doing, “how are you?”
Dr. Umphi didn’t reply at first, as the clipboard in her hand held her attention until a few seconds after T’Challa finished his greeting. From her face alone, T’Challa could tell that the doctor was deep in thought, possibly debating on ways to disclose the information written on her clipboard.
It was a known fact that Dr. Umphi became very personal in her work. Dealing with children, it was hard not to get attached to the little ones that would leave her messy drawings and gift her stuffed animals to put on display in her office. For each child Dr. Umphi treated, for physical or mental reasons, she held a special place for them in her heart. And this child would be no different.
“To be quite honest with you, T’Challa,” Dr. Umphi begins, disregarding the use of his royal title as the two were in private, and she could do as such with the permission of the Wakandan royal, “I am shocked.”
T’Challa furrows his eyebrows, edging the doctor to continue. “Shocked that this child…that she is even alive.”
Dr. Umphi references her clipboard, pulling down the classes that rested at the crown of her head, of which was wrapped in a large, orange and green polka-dot headwrap, the excess of it being wrapped into a low bun at the back of her head. Hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes - a tribute to the African American fashion of the times that the doctor was becoming fond of.
“She is no older than eleven years, is severely under the recommended weight class of an average girl-” T’Challa unclasps his hands from behind him, instead choosing to cross them in front of his chest, one reaching across his body, the other arm’s elbow resting on the aforementioned arm, hand stroking his face as he listened on, “-mentally stunted from the result of inhumane captivity, and the amount of surgeries she’s endured - just where did you find this child?”
T’Challa heaves a sign, slowly closing his eyes only to reopen them again to Dr. Umphi’s own hazel irises, who all but begs with them to speak anything but the truth.
“On my mission to recover the missing Water Goddess statue…” the prince began, glancing down to the space below where you lay, unconscious, with other medical staff preparing to wheel you away into the designated aforementioned guest chamber, “she was there. Connected to it as if it were giving her life…”
“If she was connected to it in the manner you are describing, it is possible that was the case.” Dr. Umphi informs. “You were wise to bring her here. No American hospital could have treated her properly…”
“You mentioned surgeries?” T’Challa questioned, although it pained him to do so, the urge to know the extent of the torture you had endured overpowered his resolve. “Do you know how many?”
Dr. Umphi was silence, glancing down at her clipboard once more, but as she took her bottom lip in between her teeth and sucked in a deep breath, T’Challa knew she was hesitant to answer. “T-There wasn’t an exact number we could conclude, and given other circumstances-”
“Umphilisi.” T’Challa spoke firmly, his hand involuntarily closing into a fist. “How many?”
Dr. Umphi swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, maintaining her gaze onto her clipboard to avoid the burning glare that T’Challa’s eye’s gave in her general direction. “One hundred…well over one hundred.”
The Black Panther had to restrain himself from releasing what could only be a sob, resulting in a sharp intake of air and his eyes glossing over in tears. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors that child had faced, and what more she could have been subjected to if he had not been there to rescue her. Even if she was not the target of his mission.
“The amount of scar tissue and callus remnants concludes she had been experimented on…since her birth.”
T’Challa turns his body away from Dr. Umphi, hands rubbing down the length of his face and resting in a prayer position over his lips, eyes closed tight and lips pulled into a tight line. The unbridled rage that coursed through his veins was vast and, scarily, unreadable.
“T’Challa,” Dr. Umphi calls to the man, who while he does not turn back to her, hums in acknowledgement of her call, “whatever the case may be, this child…she cannot return back.”
Of course T’Challa would never return the young girl back to whatever horrid people the MNRSC were. If he could, he would tear each member responsible for Project MA-WA limb from limb and have them endure the same torture they put that poor girl though tenfold.
Dr. Umphi rests a hand on T’Challa’s arm, pulling the man from his thoughts, his brown eyes clouded in fury.
“She cannot go back.”
Dr. Umphi’s words rang through the prince in a silent plea, piercing his bones so harshly that his clothes were not enough for the arctic-like chill that ran through his body. Though, deep down, T’Challa struggled with the fact that her return, despite the circumstances, wasn’t his call to make.
The ringing of his kimoyo beads reeled T’Challa into the present much more harshly than Dr. Umphi’s comforting touch, and as he had already been anticipating it, the prince excuses himself and retreats to a nearby meeting room to take the call privately.
He sets down the set of beads, and from it, a holographic version of Steve Rogers is emitted, and the blonde man is fuming, despite his efforts to not appear as such. T’Challa’s distress from earlier is shielded by a trained mask, one he would often sport around the american superhero. T’Challa’s seemingly nonchalant appearance only edges Steve on further.
“We had an agreement, T’Challa,” Steve begins, disregarding any form of greeting, his tone frustrated, “I give you information about the missing and misuse of vibranium and any artifacts, and you handle it-”
“Watch your tone with me, Captain,” T’Challa says through gritted teeth, his lips pulled into the same tight line that it was in earlier when speaking with Dr. Umphi, “and I do not recall falling back on such agreement. I handled what needed to be handled.”
“If you did, then why am I getting pop-up visits from MNRSC? Why are they saying something valuable was taken from them - something that wasn’t the statue we had agreed upon?”
T’Challa was silent. His gaze, although directed to Steve, was not on him, instead taking interest into the intricate lines of the mahogany table.
“T’Challa, what else did you take?” Steve presses. T’Challa releases a shallow breath, sucking his teeth.
“As I stated previously, I handled what needed to be handled. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Could that have been considered a lie? Within certain grounds, yes. Did T’Challa consider it a lie? Given the circumstances of the situation, he found no other way of deflecting Steve’s questions. Lying to the Avengers - especially given the agreement in place between the organization and T’Challa on behalf of Wakanda, was not a logical move on his part, but as the words slipped out of his mouth before the prince could catch them, and as reluctance began to settle into his bone, it was too late to take his words back. He would now have to speak carefully, but being back into a corner like this, T’Challa knew that the truth would be revealed all too soon for his liking.
“What are they saying went missing?”
Steve took a moment to respond, jaw flexing in annoyance at T’Challa’s behavior, but he does not speak on it. “An experiment of theirs. One apart of a Project MA-WA. The researcher wouldn’t spill anything else.”
T’Challa hums at himself with this newfound information, thinking that perhaps Steve was unaware of the truth behind Project MA-WA. Still, knowing the hero’s history, regardless of the many accomplishments he’s had, the prince cannot rule out Steve’s involvement just yet.
“What would make you think I acted outside of my boundaries, Captain?” T’Challa asks, crossing his arms in the same manner as he did when speaking to the doctor prior. “I am an honorable man. Have I not proven that much to you and your team?”
“This isn’t about honor, T’Challa,” Steve grunts, “whatever you took that wasn’t that statue, you need to return it. The repercussions are too great for this. There shouldn’t have been any incentive for you to operate out of orders like that; even if your honor was at play, even if-”
“-even for a child?”
Silence enveloped the room once more, as T’Challa stared and the blue holographic version of Steve, who had promptly shut his mouth from his ranting. There were many emotions that splayed themselves across Steve’s face - confusion, disbelief, shock, to name a few. But there was only one emotion written on T’Challa’s, one he did not want to admit was making a home inside of his bones, one that left a sense of heaviness in its wake whenever it would come crashing in waves.
T’Challa was enraged, and if anything, his eyes showed it very clearly.
“What’re you insinuating, T’Challa?”
“I insinuate nothing. I only ask you to take a moment and think, what could make a man so enraged as I am right now?”
Steve’s figure turned away from T’Challa, whether or not it was out of frustration, anger, or thought, the prince was unsure of, and couldn’t be bothered to care about.
“What would make a man such as yourself, enraged, if it is not the sight of your people, broken?”
Steve was caught in a corner, and T’Challa knew this. He could read the other’s body language, despite the holographic screen only showing the upper half of Steve’s waist. A light tremor ran through his arm, an indicator of his stress, and the darting of his eyes anywhere but on T’Challa was a sure sign of avoidance.
To some degree, Steve knew. And he sent T'Challa anyway. Steve Rogers - Captain America - set up the Black Panther. Yet, T’Challa can only thank Steve for doing so, for if he hadn’t, the prince would not have seen his true colors, and an innocent girl would have died within a short few days.
“That…is irrelevant,” Steve deflected, much to T’Challa’s chagrin, “it still stands that whatever you took, it needs to be returned-”
“-had you seen the horrors I saw…!” T’Challa grunts through gritted teeth. He takes a deep breath to calm his anger, threatening to spill over. “Had you seen what I had witnessed, I assure you your words would be different.”
T’Challa’s mask had cracked, and he cursed himself for allowing a man such as Steve Rogers see how easily he could get riled up when it came to a situation such as this. Nonetheless, the prince recomposes himself, returning his gaze to Steve, who at this point, is rubbing a hand down the length of his face, huffing an air of defeat.
“...or would they?”
T’Challa’s words spark another round of shock in the American superhero, and as Steve turns his body back to T’Challa in no doubt an attempt to defend himself, the prince beats him to it.
“I will say this one last time, and no more after.” T’Challa rests his open palms on the mahogany table, growing closer to the holographic screen as if he were face to face with Steve, so close that barely an inch of space was left between the prince and the soldier.
“I handled what needed to be handled.”
The call ends abruptly at the sound of a knock at the door, the holographic screen shrinking back into T’Challa’s kimoyo beads, and for a moment, he is able to breathe. He hangs his head in miniscule relief, though as he has determined, it does not end long.
Regaining his composure, T’Challa straightens, fixes the jacket of his traditional kitenge suit, retrieves his kimoyo beads from the table, and turns to answer the door.
Okoye stands at the entrance, and her face tells T’Challa that he has yet another obstacle to face.
“Your father has requested your audience in the throne room, My Prince,” Okoye voices, her tone quiet yet firm, and it is an indicator that even she knows the storm that is about to take hold there.
T’Challa sports his mask again, despite having no time to rest, nodding towards Okoye as she escorts him to the room of which he has dreaded since his return.
T’Challa has a love-hate relationship with the throne room. He has experienced its overwhelming and enveloping walls many times before, as a child and as an adult. And yet with each stage in his life, the uncanny feeling of being swallowed by it has never faded. He remembers watching in admiration as his father ruled from the throne, firm yet compassionate, as his father had taught him, and how T’Chaka had taught T’Challa. He remembers the childish gid that bubbled in his chest as he looked on from the balconies, imagining himself on the throne one day.
But to sit on a throne and be highly regarded did not make one a king, or queen, or royal. That much T’Challa had learned on his own, even before his father lectured him about the meanings of being king.
To be a king, there is no such thing as comfort. Such a concept is stripped from you the moment you dawn your crown, for if a king were to grow comfortable on his throne, then he would rule out of comfort, instead of vigor and dedication to his people.
T’Challa takes in a breath as he stands before the large double doors of the threshold, and he makes sure it is a deep one, unsure of when he would be able to breathe easily next.
The Dora that stand on either side of the door bang their spears on the floor, which in turn causes similar bangs to be heard from more Dora on the other side of the door. This was their signal that a presence was about to enter the throne room, and that all parties inside should direct their attention to the entrance to greet said presence. The doors creaked open, the blinding light from the sun shining through the large windows, cascading a short but prominent silhouette on the people in attendance.
Stepping inside, T’Challa takes note that this is no ordinary meeting. The leaders of each of Wakanda’s tribes - excluding the Jabari - sat in the half-circle formation, while T’Chaka sat atop his throne, and Queen Ramonda, his mother, sat on her own throne beside him.
T’Challa takes one look at his father as he steps to the center of the half-circle, and it all but causes the prince’s guilt to trigger.
“Prince T’Challa,” an announcer that stands to the left of T’Chaka exclaimed as an introduction, “son of King T’Chaka, grandson of King Azzurri, and Wakanda’s Protector, the Black Panther. You are hereby summoned today on the account of an abroad mission gone awry, resulting in the acquisition of an American scientific military research group’s experiment, and bringing them across borders and into Wakandan territory.”
T’Challa’s eyes fall closed as he takes in a sharper breath, preparing his defenses.
“You may now state your testimony.”
The prince opens his eyes again, and they lock onto T’Chaka’s, who is staring intently at his son. T’Challa is reminded that here, in this throne room, in front of the High Council, T’Chaka is his king before he is his father.
“I was sent on a mission in America to retrieve a lost artifact containing remnants of vibranium,” T’Challa begins, wringing his fingers with one another behind his back, “and as I went to retrieve the Water Goddess statue, I was met with a horrible sight. A young girl, no older than eleven years, strapped to a table with wires attached to her body. These same wires were connected to a glass containment, of which held the Water Goddess statue, and upon further inspection, I was led to believe that the statue provided a lifeline for this young girl. To take this statue would ultimately result in her…untimely death.”
T’Challa takes quick glances around to the faces of the council members, who revel at his recollection. He continues, “I was left with a difficult choice; allow the death of an innocent child whose only crime was said innocence…or rescue the child and the statue, bring her home for treatment, and deliberate on next steps. Given what I saw and…my own personal emotions, I chose the latter.”
There was a moment of silence that fell around the throne room, but even so, its thickness and density could be cut through with a knife.
As the council members shifted gazes to one another, the leader of the River Tribe stood to speak: “We are ever grateful for the return of the statue of our great Water Goddess, Mami Wata.” he spoke, voice thick with the River Tribe’s dialect mixed with the lisp developed from the lip plate in his mouth. “The Water Goddess manifests wealth and prosperity, of which our country has been privileged to receive for generations. Paired with this prince’s compassion and conviction, I see no harm in at least treating the young girl of whatever wounds and ailments may incapacitate her. Let us view this as the Water Goddess’s praise for our resilience, and continued prosperity will be our reward.”
The River Tribe leader took his seat after his statement, of which the Border Tribe leader stood promptly, and from his given stance, T’Challa knew he had a lot to say.
“You speak of wealth and prosperity, River Tribe, but let us not forget that the Water Goddess also brings with her the threat of destruction.” And it was his words that hit T’Challa deep. “Our country has thrived in secrecy for generations, and as long as it remains in secrecy, we shall continue to prosper. Though the prince’s heart may have been in the right place, it does not excuse the fact that he has inevitably put us all at risk! Bringing an unknown American girl, much less one that has been deemed a valuable experiment to America’s military, brings into light the fact that the scientific research group responsible for her creation will now attempt to infiltrate our country. If this young girl is as valuable as what has been made for it to seem, then they will stop at nothing to retrieve what was lost. The Border Tribe rejects any notion to keep the young girl within Wakandan custody.”
T’Challa was thankful for the River Tribe’s support, as his connection to them has remained strong and faithful throughout the years. The Border Tribe, however, makes a valid and unavoidable point - T’Challa brought a child out of her home country, across country lines, and into Wakanda without proper clearance or permission. This action alone puts into jeopardy all that Wakanda has worked for, and for that, the prince would always be looked at twice for.
T’Chaka, who had remained quiet up until this point, made his presence known to the tribal leaders talking amongst themselves about the current situation. T’Chaka’s gaze had been unyielding to T’Challa’s, and the prince could only pray that what was to come from his father’s mouth, it was generous.
“T’Challa,” T’Chaka calls, “you have undoubtedly put us in a bind. Despite whatever angle we look at this situation, your actions have severely jeopardized our safety as a nation. And for that, you cannot go unpunished.”
T’Challa knew his father was speaking from a place as king, but it did nothing to cease the blooming guilt and displeasure that swelled in his chest. He had wanted to make his father proud, but in turn, his actions not only had him reprimanded his father as a king, but also within the presence of the tribal leaders. There was no doubt in his mind that T’Challa would now be seen differently in their eyes.
T’Challa would have accepted defeat right then and there, if it had not been for the queen’s interruption.
“Husband,” Ramonda’s voice echoes, stern yet warm, “may I speak?”
T’Challa watches the exchange between his mother and father. The level of respect each had for one another, even in the throne room where his father ruled the highest, was something he had also admired. The queen stood tall and unyielding; she wore a silver gown fitted to her figure, with an accompanying cape and a similar colored head piece. She looked ethereal in her traditional garb, nothing less to be expected of the Queen of Wakanda herself.
Ramonda descended the stairs of the elevated platform where her and T’Chaka’s thrones rested, bounding to her son as she spoke: “I provide a new perspective for you all, and urge you to listen intently to my words.”
T’Challa straightened himself as his mother grew closer to him, though her destination wasn’t to stand next to him, but rather circle him as she spoke, like a lioness circling her cub, protecting them from any outside predator who dared to jab at her child. Though this was her own tactic of interrogation as well, one that Ramonda had been using to drill T’Challa herself in the art of inquisition. As much as she was protecting her son, Ramonda was also challenging him herself in a way her husband, nor the tribal leaders, could.
“This young child is believed to have been sustaining herself due to the linkacture between her and the Water Goddess statue, correct?” Ramonda questions.
“Yes, my queen.”
“And as you were retrieving the statue, you noticed immediately the incapacitated nature of the child, correct?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Would it be correct to assume that this child had already been undergoing inhumane tests in correlation with the statue, and in turn, her body extracting the vibranium into herself?”
T’Challa thought for a moment on his answer, but then soon replied, “Yes, my queen.”
Ramonda hums at the information she has gathered, all the while her circling has never stopped. Instead of T’Challa, however, her attention now turned to the few tribal leaders still doubtful in their own decisions.
“This is the perspective I propose to you all,” Ramonda declares, “it has just been said that the child is highly likely to contain vibranium within her own bloodstream, of which can be determined by our medical staff as we speak. Therefore, T’Challa’s options were to a) retrieve the artifact, and the leave the child to continue being experimented on, and in turn, still leaving the scientists access to vibranium, allowing them to carry on their experiments, b) spare the child, leave the artifact, and allow for the cycle to repeat itself, allow these scientists to perform these heinous acts on another child at an accelerated pace, or c) retrieve both the child and the artifact, ridding this scientific group of their only accesses to vibranium, and saving an innocent child’s life.”
T’Challa watches in awe as her words seem to sway the remaining tribal leaders. Ramonda is exactly what a queen should be, in his eyes - a voice of reason.
“And I ask you, tribal leaders, of these three options, given the testimony and evidence provided, what option would you choose?”
Ramonda leaves back to her seat next to T’Chaka, who, unlike the tribal leaders after Ramonda’s additional testimony, still looks onward to T’Challa with an air of hesitancy. With a newfound motivation, T’Challa clears his throat to speak once more.
“My king, you have taught me many concepts of what it means to be a true ruler,” T’Challa begins, catching hold of T’Chaka’s attention when referring their teaching moments together, “and one of the lessons you had bestowed upon me was the need to remain firm in your decision. And of all your teachings, I wish to implore this one at this moment.”
T’Challa’s hands fall from behind his back, instead he chooses to clasp them in front of him, no longer hiding.
“I remain firm in my decision to bring the young girl here. Perhaps I could have waited for proper clearance, however, I saw how urgent the situation was, and chose to act on what I believed was best. I hope that you, as well as the tribal leaders, can understand my position.
And for the first time since T’Challa has entered the throne room, he releases the breath he had been holding, knowing that despite everything else, he handled what needed to be handled.
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Question, what would you consider "Non traditional A/B/O" I'm curious cause I feel like it's miss used alot
oh i agreeee.
But before I get into what non-traditional is, I think it would be easier to list what I think traditional is.
One of the main protagonists and/or love interests/part of the coupling is an alpha.
The alpha is male coded (even if they aren't male). The omega is female coded (even if they aren't female).
May have themes of found family/the idea that the individual was not complete until they found x,y,z person (could be in pack setting, via friendship, or via a romantic relationship)
Features some sort of romantic relationship (could be the escalation, de-escalation, termination, re-unification, etc..)
Written from a western cultural perspective (which makes since because I think the majority of the community is north american)
Formulaic.
Escapist and fantastical (what passes for realism here would not pass in other tropes or genres)
Strict binary gender roles/dynamics are heavily binary gender coded. Personally I feel like it gets a little regressive sometimes, which only bothers me when it's touting itself as progressive.
Narrow - in the sense that the story feels very focused on whatever the main storyline is and throws out everything else. Where's the worldbuilding? Where's my immersion?
Quasi-experimental. (I see a lot of different gender and sexual expressions/orientations/etc.. written which is awesome, but it's so common that is not experimental for this genre anymore)
None of these things are bad at all. Much more after the cut.
BUT! if someone was new to the genre and asked me what they should expect I'd hand them this list. I'll always advocate for people to join this community and participate however they want to, but when you've been around for a while you see the same thing time and time again. Non-traditional is hard to write because we are so ingrained in our conventions. But using the framework I've written above here's some ideas of what I think that a non-traditional omegaverse may look like.
No alpha involved. In fact the dynamics of the people in the relationship aren't as important in a traditional omegaverse. (I'd love to see a beta/beta story in which they do not bond over or ever discuss being seen as less desirable than alphas and/or omegas)
Binary gender roles and gender as we understand it via our cultures is not a thing. It's common for dynamics to be seen as secondary genders traditionally, but what if that was just your primary gender. What if there was no primary/secondary - what if it was just one thing.
No male/female coding. In a three part system this doesn't make sense, but to push that even further I'd love to see a concept of it all that's much more fluid and wholly non-binary that what we understand.
No romance. Let's get a mystery, a horror, a comedy, how about coming of age? No romantic interests as the main plot.
Isn't trying to conform to what we understand to be realism. Take it to the point that it operates like high-fantasy with it's own rules and structures and cultural variations.
Deep. Give me the unique history of the area, of the culture. Give me tasty breadcrumbs of culture and lore in throw away comments or off-hand explainations. Write a story fully immersed in the culture. Make it feel "other"'
Truly experimental. Let's go real off the walls. I mean a story that contains 1-6 will already stand out, but surprise me. Let's subvert traditional omegaverse tropes and conventions even further. Maybe omegas aren't desirable. Maybe the tone is futuristic rather than historical. We get so much commentary on the way things are in our real world, let's get some more and let's also hear about the way we want it to be.
I could go on and on. But I won't. It's getting late lol.
But peanut gallery what do you think? Fill my in-box with synopsis of non-traditional omegaverse stories that hit some of these points or just get creative! What do you feel like is alternative/progressive for this genre?
Also, check out my post about traditional-contemporary-modern-postmodern. Where do your favorite stories stand?
#ask answered#omegaverse#a/b/o#a/b/o dynamics#omegaverse au#a/b/o headcanons#a/b/o au#omegaverse headcanons#omegaverse dynamics#alpha beta omega#omegaversetheory#non-traditional a/b/o#traditional a/b/o#ask#for the peanut gallery#much more after the cut
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i need to know whats the most embarrassing thing lacy has found in eddie’s room and vice versa! (and ronnie too actually, cant forget our queen)
god this is so near and dear to my heart you have no idea
first thing, the overarching constant motif with this little non-throuple is whenever one of them leaves the room, they yell to the other, “DON’T SNOOP!” and naturally they immediately begin snooping.
eddie’s is the thick manila folder detailing (heavily detailing) the life and times of his fictional tiefling girlfriend who is named finore aurora. finore aurora. one more time i’m gonna give that to you, finore aurora. say that out loud. five times fast. that’s diabolical, eddie.
how does lacy know she’s his girlfriend? well, there are several longhand accounts of him dancin’ and romancin’ this creature which, though genuinely quite moving and beautifully written (and dirty!), make her feel like she is losing her mind. kind of out of jealousy, a little bit. so oftentimes, when she’s in a shitty mood, she’ll hit eddie with a little, “i don’t know, why don’t you go ask finore aurora, asshole?”
lacy’s took some digging to find because she’s an expert in the art of squirrelling herself away. but deep deep deeeeep under her bed is a shoebox with a little tape recorder. and in that tape recorder is a tape, which features lacy doevski… pretending to be interviewed. like she’s on dick cavett. like she’s on johnny carson.
eddie only got as far as lacy saying that, “no, i like being on tv… as long as it’s not my job. i like being on tv, it makes me feel like an american. it’s like owning a car,” before he heard her footsteps and he had to slip the tape in his back pocket because there was no way he wasn’t sparking a joint in the van and listening to her harp on for what turned out to be twenty full minutes. just talking to herself. waxing on about successful books she hadn’t yet written and society pages she hadn’t yet featured in. there’s a part where this supposed interviewer asks her something about loneliness, and lacy goes, “do i have a fear of loneliness? no. loneliness is an inheritance. i’m trying to figure out how to spend it wisely.”
that stuck to eddie’s ribs.
one day, in the van, seemingly apropos of nothing eddie does ask, “baby, do you miss owning a car? do you feel like… less of an american, no longer owning a car?” not a drop of blood is left in that poor girl’s face.
as for ronnie, this was a joint discovery made by the gruesome twosome. they were rushing out to the hideout for corroded coffin’s weekly engagement and ronnie asked them to grab something from her wardrobe—not realising that when they opened it, they’d find a bunch of barbie dolls, all sat in a semi circle.
“no way. i’ve known ecker since i was knee high to a grasshopper—“ “—okay, grandpa—“ “—and she’s so not a barbie girl.”
but you don’t know about women, eddie munson! you don’t know about the secrets they keep. the speculation of this little collection of wide-eyed, attentive dollies ranged from satanic ritual (real this time) to homosexual experimentation (“a dry run, before she hits the bars in college.” “what, like making out with the dolls? making the dolls make out?” “you’ve got so much to learn about girls, babe.”) to practicing for her valedictorian speech with a non-judgemental audience.
the last one was the closest, for ronnie’s real use for her cluster of barbies was… well, look. listen. before lacy, she had a zero sum of female friends. her life was incredibly testosterone filled, between hellfire and the band, and because of that, ronnie got a little stunted when it came to making friends with girls. so she used these barbies (which she did have since childhood, she just hid from eddie because ew… girl stuff… the horror of internalised misogyny) to have, y’know. girl talk.
she called it the state of the union, if that makes it any better. it doesn’t! lacy’s still trying to figure out a way to bring it up to ronnie because eddie’s too scared that the dolls might be haunted.
#powder room talk#potatobeanpies#hai brainrot#edlacy#ronnie ecker vs the world#r. ecker by powder#e. munson by powder#l. doevski by powder
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Chopping Block Dreams (A Poem)
The baby disappeared from the nursery
Slipping out of its confines
At 7PM
It had been It had been
Lusting after feathered wings for a long time
Longed to fly
Far away from us
Hollow dreams
With the baby gone the dark times began
Our skies were swallowed up
By
Hurricanes, heavy clouds, and rain
Wood walls rotted away
Gave way to moss swollen ticks
Our lives became eclipsed
A search party was gathered to find our baby
Because
Without our baby One of us would have to take its place
On the chopping block
But our kin Never returned
So we were lost To the ravenous dunes
Our baby must be laughing at us, gleefully leering at us, from their handcrafted limbo
#writing#creative writing#poetry#my poetry#experimental#short poem#short story#mostly me playing around with space#experiement with words and dreams#horror#american gothic#cryptidcore#weirdcore#southern gothic#cryptids#cult vibes#rituals#dark fantasy#magical realism#small town gothic#western gothic#surrealist#surreal poetry
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Surviving Sokovia - Chapter Seventeen
Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader
Work Summary:
You were a Sokovian orphan living on the streets of Novi Grad, until Strucker offered you a choice.
Now you are a part of his human experimentation programme, trying to survive an entirely different world of horrors. The kind boy with the beautiful eyes is the only thing that keeps you going.
This story contains dark themes. Please read the notes on chapter one for more details. Dialogue in {these brackets} is in Sokovian.
Chapter Summary: The baby's coming.
Series Masterlist
Word Count: 3322
Read on AO3.
Masterlists.
Taglist: @mcximffs @noz4a2 @rottenstyx @xlucyintheskywithdiamondsx @lanemarvels @marrigold-2002 @kathrinchek @ifilwtmfc @officiallykuute @the-skys-musical-echo @mrs-kai-anderson @ang3l1te @missryerye
Taglist info.
Previous Chapter
Notes:
Hello hello, sorry it's a week late, I've been busy with NaNoWriMo. But here it is: the LAST chapter. Thank you for going on this journey with me. Enjoy.
Also, warnings in this chapter for: childbirth, fear of a dog hurting a child (nothing happens tho dw Odeta would NEVER), references to overprotectiveness, pain and blood, medical stuff, very very brief reference to the attempted rape in chapter 8 of this fic. But it's mostly fluff.
---
Since you and Pietro had returned from your honeymoon, you’d become a little less shy around the other Avengers. They were mostly polite to you, but kept their distance, which may have had something to do with Pietro’s fiercely protective – some might say overprotective – hovering.
So sometimes you ate dinner with the other Avengers. You never said much. You weren’t as comfortable with English as either of the twins. You spoke it fairly fluently, but having to translate every sentence in your head was exhausting.
Today, you were sitting in the rec room, a bowl of cereal resting on top of your bump, and Odeta curled up at your feet. You chewed and swallowed slowly. American cereal was a lot more sugary than what you were used to back home, and right now, you felt as though you needed the boost.
A textbook lay open but forgotten on the side table next to you. After the battle of Sokovia, you had mused that you might like to become a medic. It seemed to be something you were good at.
SHIELD jumped at the chance. Since you were nine months pregnant, they had given you books and allowed you to work through them on your own schedule. There would be classes, eventually, but again, on your own schedule.
Given how flexible and permissive they were being, you assumed ulterior motives. Sure, the idea of having a super-powered medic was enticing, but if you stayed, that meant Wanda and Pietro stayed too. Not that they’d shown any desire to leave. Still.
As you took another bite of cereal, you felt a cramp in your lower abdomen. It was probably a Braxton-Hicks contraction. God knows you’d gotten used to them over the last few weeks.
You set your half-eaten cereal down next to your textbook and pushed down on the sofa, trying to get to your feet. Walking around usually helped. It felt like a bad period pain.
Odeta got to her feet as well, and watched as you tried to stand up. She was antsy, like she wanted to help you but didn’t know what to do.
“{It’s okay, girl},” you said, trying to sound soothing, but it was hard to catch your breath. As soon as you were on your feet, you were going to pet her, and then maybe take her for a nice walk around the compound.
Or at least, that was your plan.
Pop.
You felt a gush of liquid escaping your vagina, beyond your control. Before you had a chance to feel embarrassed, the pain of the contraction flared up.
“Oof,” you said, your face contorted as you fell back into your seat. You clasped your hands over your belly and rocked forward, trying to manage the pain.
Odeta began to bark, and then ran from the room. Hunched forward, you put your hands on the back of your head and tried to breathe.
“Hey, are you alright?” You looked up to see Steve Rogers standing in the doorway, staring at you. Odeta was by his side, anxiously pawing at the ground.
“I think my waters just broke,” you said, and you watched the colour drain from Captain America’s face. “Can you help me up? I need to walk around.”
“Of course.” He stood over you, clearly unsure how to help. You shuffled forward in your seat and he put an arm around your shoulders. Very carefully, he pulled you to your feet.
As you stood there, clutching at your stomach, you noticed that there was a wet patch where you’d been sitting on the sofa. Steve was very politely pretending not to notice.
Suddenly, this all felt very real. You were going to have a baby. Tears sprang to your eyes, and in spite of your best efforts, began to roll down your cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” said Steve. “F.R.I.D.A.Y? Call Pietro. Tell him he’s needed here.”
You closed your eyes and clung to Steve’s arm. It hurt. A lot.
Suddenly, a familiar hand was curling around the back of your neck, and then Pietro was pulling you into his arms.
“Shh, shh,” he murmured, stroking your hair. He was sweaty. He’d just come from some kind of physical training. You wanted to melt into his warmth. “{What’s wrong?}”
“{The baby’s coming}.” You felt him freeze beside you. “{They need to clean up in here. I- I made a mess}.” Embarrassment flooded you.
“{Don’t worry about that. I’m gonna take you to the medbay, yeah? Stark will send a cleaning crew}.”
With Pietro’s arm around you, you started walking towards the medbay. Odeta made an inquisitive noise and bounded in front of you. You stopped walking.
Captain America was still standing by the door, hovering awkwardly, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.
“Steve, can I ask a favour?” you said, and he straightened up immediately.
“Of course.”
“Could you watch Odeta for a little while? I was just about to take her for a walk. I think she’s feeling a little pent up.”
“Absolutely.”
“{Go with Steve, Odeta},” you said, waving her towards him. “Thank you, Steve, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Any time.”
*
When you arrived at the medbay, the doctor directed you to lie down on the bed and put your feet up in the stirrups. You froze, staring at the bed. Your mind flashed back to every medical test, every experiment Hydra ever did to you. You remembered the doctor’s unwanted hands touching you.
Pietro must’ve noticed your discomfort, because he asked, “do we have to do it this way?”
The doctor looked at you sympathetically. “I need to check the dilation of your cervix. But I could get a female doctor or midwife to do it if that would make you more comfortable?”
You swallowed. “Okay.”
Pietro helped you change into the hospital gown while the doctor was out of the room. His hands were trembling so much that they looked blurry.
“{Piet? Are you okay?}”
“{I just… can’t believe this is actually happening}.”
“{Are you scared?}”
“{Yes}.” He said it so abruptly that it surprised you. He was normally so reticent to show any kind of vulnerability. “{Are you?}”
“{Terrified}.”
He helped you up onto the bed. While you waited for the doctor, he pulled up a chair next to you and rubbed your stomach soothingly. You closed your eyes, and another contraction starting. You gasped in pain, and Pietro was on his feet instantly, cupping your face in his hands.
“{What’s wrong, sweet girl? Did I hurt you?}”
“{Contraction}.” You grabbed his hand and squeezed. If it hurt him, he didn’t show any sign of it.
When the second doctor came in, she introduced herself. You lay back and tried not to think about anything as she checked your cervix. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Pietro was very tense beside you.
“That’s about 5cm,” said the doctor. “It’ll be a little while yet. The team will keep checking on you regularly to ensure everything is alright, but you can relax for now. I’ll have someone bring you something to eat to keep your energy up.”
“Thank you,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
With Pietro’s help, you pulled your legs out of the stirrups and shifted into a more comfortable position. Just as you’d sat up, Wanda came into the room.
“{Is it happening?}” she asked.
“{It’s happening},” Pietro confirmed. “{Well, sort of. They said it will take a while}.”
Wanda pulled up a chair. “{Well, I’m here. Anything you need, I’m here}.”
The two of them sat with you, keeping you company as you ate the light meal that a nurse brought you. Wanda remained in her seat, but Pietro couldn’t seem to stay sitting down. If there was ever a break in conversation, he was pacing and wringing his hands. It was starting to stress you out.
“Piet,” you said, and he was by your side in an instant, holding your hand.
“{Yes, my love?}”
“{Do you want to go for a run? Wanda can keep me company, and it’s not like anything’s happening right now}.”
Pietro scoffed at that. “{I’m not leaving you while you’re in labour}.”
“{The pacing is getting really agitating, Pietro},” said Wanda. She stood up and began to herd him towards the door. “{If anything happens with the baby, we will call you. Go use up some of that energy. Okay?}”
He looked at you over Wanda’s shoulder, and you nodded.
“{You could check on Odeta? I feel bad for foisting her onto Steve like that},” you said.
“{I will},” said Pietro. “{Call me if anything happens, okay? Anything}.”
“{We will},” said Wanda. Pietro sped from the room. She leant against the wall and sighed. “{I love my brother but he can be exhausting}.”
“{I love your brother too},” you said. “{That’s why I married him}.” You giggled. Even though you’d been married a couple of months now, it still felt surreal to say.
She returned to her seat beside you. “{Do you need anything?}”
You sighed. You didn’t think there was anything that concrete that would help right now. You were just stuck in waiting mode.
“{Just keep me company?}”
“{That I can do}.”
“{So… How are things going with Vision?}” It wasn’t something you could talk to her about in front of Pietro. He didn’t like or trust Vision, and you were getting sick of the two of them arguing about it.
“{Really well}.” She gave you a shy smile. “{I thought… I thought that maybe once Pietro was better, I would feel different. Like maybe I only liked him because he was kind to me when I needed him. But it’s not just that. He’s smart and he’s funny and sweet. And I think he really likes me}.”
“{I think he does too}.” You had seen the way he looked at her. “{I’m happy for you}.”
You were about to say more, but then another contraction hit you. You gasped in pain and threw out your hand.
“{Contraction?}” Wanda asked, grabbing your hand and squeezing it. Too pained to speak, you just nodded. “{Okay, okay, just breathe with me, okay?}” You tried to match her breathing. It helped a little, but it still hurt. You rode out the wave of the contraction, squeezing her hand, and when the pain subsided, you slumped back onto your pillows. “{Better?}”
“{Better.}
When Pietro returned, his hair was wet. He had changed into comfortable, clean clothes, and there were damp patches around his collar. He stooped to kiss your forehead, and you caught a whiff of his shampoo.
“{Did you shower?}” you asked, pushing a lock of damp hair behind his ear.
“{I hope that’s okay? I was sweaty after running around}.”
“{Of course it’s okay}.” You tugged him towards you so that you could kiss his cheek. “{How is Odeta?}”
“{Steve is happy to look after her for the moment, but if there are any issues, Tony has staff on hand to look after her. You don’t need to worry, my sweet girl}.”
He pecked you on the lips, and your eyes fluttered shut. “{Good}.”
*
To your eternal gratitude, the doctor let Wanda stay with you and Pietro throughout the birth. One of them stood on each side of the bed, clasping your hands tightly in their own.
“{You’re doing so well, sweet girl},” murmured Pietro, “{I love you so much}.”
You began to sob then. You had heard plenty of stories of women screaming horrible things at their husbands during birth, but you didn’t have that urge. Any anger you might’ve felt turned to despair. You were afraid. You weren’t ready for this. You were too young, and so was Pietro.
Gasping, you squeezed Wanda and Pietro’s hands again. Your chest was heaving with sobs, and you were stalled.
“{You need to breathe, sweetheart},” said Wanda, smoothing your hair out of your face. You were drenched in sweat, certain you looked a mess right now. You gasped and shuddered, but couldn’t steady yourself.
“{Breathe with me},” said Pietro, and the two of them started doing the breathing the doctor had showed you. You tried to mimic it, but sobs kept breaking through, disrupting the rhythm.
“{It hurts, Piet},” you whimpered.
“{I know, baby. But you’ve got to breathe}.”
“{You don’t know},” you said, feeling too weak to say anything else.
“You’re almost there,” said the doctor. “Push. Push.”
“I am pushing!” you yelled. Your heart hurt. You felt like you might die. Pietro was holding you, his arm around your shoulders and his hand gripping yours. He was whispering sweet words to you, but you could barely hear him. You pushed.
And then it was over.
You heard your baby crying, and your jaw dropped. Even through the haze of pain, something primal activated within you, and you knew you had to hold your child. Pietro wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the baby that the doctor was holding. It was a boy. Your son.
“You still need to pass the placenta,” said the doctor. A nurse brought your baby over and placed him into your arms. You blinked.
Nothing in the world could’ve prepared you for how you felt in that moment. He was so tiny and precious and strange. He barely looked human, and it would be a while before he could open his eyes. You could see Pietro in the ridge of his brow, the shape of his nose. Your heart had never felt so full.
They were still telling you to push. You did as you were told, although it now felt like you were just a gaping wound down there.
The nurse ushered Pietro over to cut the umbilical cord. His hand was trembling as he did so. When he was done, he stepped back, and Wanda grabbed his hand.
You don’t know how long they let you hold your son, but soon, the nurse returned to you.
“We’re just gonna get him cleaned up for you, okay?” she said. Reluctantly, you let her take him from your arms. Immediately, you felt empty. “And weigh him and just do a couple of minor tests. It’ll just be a couple of minutes.”
You watched forlornly as they took your son away. Pietro was by your side immediately again, taking your hand and kissing the top of your head.
It felt like an age before they handed him back to you, with all the blood and goop wiped free from him. The severed umbilical cord was tied in a knot, and they’d put a diaper on him. You lifted him up to your face and inhaled his smell.
“{Can I hold him?}” Pietro asked quietly. You had almost forgotten he was there. For a moment, you felt guilty. Pietro had been your world. But you had a son now. Your world was bigger.
Carefully, you passed him into Pietro’s arms. His eyes were very wide as he stared down at his son.
“{He’s beautiful},” he whispered.
*
Once he’d had his first feed, your son was a bit more active. He flailed and kicked around, trying to discover this strange new world around him using all of his limbs. He grabbed Pietro’s finger in his tiny fist and squeezed, and Pietro’s mouth fell open. You’d never forget the look in your husband’s eyes in that moment.
For your part, you were exhausted. You relished holding him, but you also enjoyed the breaks you got when Pietro and Wanda both took turns. Your entire body ached, you were hungry, you were sore and your nipples were leaking. You just wanted to sleep.
After a couple of hours, the doctors said you could go back to your room. You were exceptionally sore, but you could walk, so you managed to make it mostly unassisted.
Wanda held your son so that Pietro would be free to catch you if you stumbled. As soon as you got back to your rooms, the baby began to fuss and cry. Pietro plumped up some pillows for you on the couch, and Wanda handed the baby back to you so that you could feed him.
“{How are you feeling?}” Pietro asked, stroking your hair out of your face.
“{More exhausted that I’ve been in my life. And like I need a shower}.”
He made a sympathetic noise, and murmured, “{Soon}.”
When your son had calmed down again, Wanda took over. She was taking to her duties as aunt very quickly. She rocked him and cooed at him while Pietro helped you shower. The baby was still calm when you emerged, so you got into bed.
“{Wake me if he needs anything},” you said to Pietro, voice hazy with sleep.
“{I will, my love}.” He kissed your forehead.
As it turned out, you didn’t need Pietro to wake you. As soon as your baby made a soft crying sound, you were awake instantly, your breasts sore and leaking. At least you’d managed to get a few hours of sleep.
“{Give him to me},” you said to Pietro, who was trying to rock him back to sleep. He handed him over, and then shifted another pillow behind you so you could sit up more easily. “{Where’s Wanda?}”
“{Asleep}.” Pietro settled down next to you on the bed. “{It’s late. She said to call her if we need anything, any time}.”
You exhaled, eternally grateful for aunt Wanda.
*
When your son started being able to keep his eyes open, you decided it was time to introduce him to Odeta. Pietro was nervous about the idea at first, but Odeta had always been gentle with you. Besides, Pietro would be there. There was no way she would be able to hurt the baby with his superspeedy dad running interference.
Wanda opened the door, and Odeta bounded over to see you, barking. It had been days. She had clearly missed you. At the commotion, your son opened his eyes and began to cry.
“{Shh, shh, my love. My sweet boy},” you murmured. Odeta back off immediately, looking chastened and confused. She stared at the tiny bundle in your arms. “Odeta?”
Cautiously, she took a step forward. And then another. When she got close enough, she sniffed at your son. Pietro was right beside you, ready to act if anything went wrong. Odeta nuzzled against your hand. You petted her gently.
“{Odeta, this is Olek. Olek, meet Odeta}.” The two of you agreed that you were going to name your son after Pietro’s father. It had seemed right. Wanda had teared up when you told her.
Olek stared at Odeta. He reached out his tiny hand and touched her nose, and then pulled back when he found that it was wet. Odeta stayed very still throughout the exchange. Carefully, you guided Olek’s hand so that he stroked the fur at the top of her nose. Again, Odeta stayed frozen. When you were done, Olek closed his eyes, and went straight to sleep.
From then, it was hard to drag Odeta from Olek’s side. She slept under his crib, with the posture of a guard dog. It brought you a lot of comfort to know that if anyone wanted to hurt Olek, that would not only have to go through you, your super-powered husband, and an aunt with mind control powers, but also a faithful guard dog.
And sometimes those early weeks were hard. Your body ached with the pains of childbirth. Your breasts were constantly sore and swollen and leaking. And sometimes you couldn’t stop your son from crying, no matter how hard you tried.
But you got through it. Because you weren’t alone. You had Pietro. And Wanda. Odeta. The rest of the Avengers.
And more importantly, you knew you could get through it, because you were a survivor. You had survived Sokovia, after all. You all had.
---
Notes:
Thank you for reading. Who knows, maybe some day I'll write a sequel, but I definitely need a break rn
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Nothing To Lose, A God Complex To Gain (G/T Homelander)
1391 words. Pure angst. Homelander is 8 feet tall, and needs a hug.
Big sad backstory for a big sad boy.
When Homelander was a child, he was raised in a lab. He never knew his real parents, only the cold scientists who monitored him day by day. For the first six years of his life, these scientists would treat him with some level of kindness. Vogelbaum, the closest thing Homelander had for a father figure, would even entertain him and read him stories. He felt like he almost had some semblance of a childhood during those years.
Then, things took a turn for the worse. Vogelbaum explained to Homelander that he had to be trained to become the ultimate superhero, and the strongest man in the world. And in order to achieve this, they had to experiment.
The torture he endured left his mind forever scarred, with the only purpose being to test how indestructible he truly was. Burning, drowning, fighting, beating, detonating… the surgeries, the acids, the drugs… anything and everything they could, they tried on him.
Once the testing started, none of the scientists would talk to him like they did when he was younger, like they were his friends. The solitude he was forced to undergo led him to create a new companion, the face he saw in the mirror of his room. At first this boy appeared friendly, willing to talk to him about things he enjoyed like adventure stories and American history. But things started to shift when the face became more than just a confidant. He became Homelander's protector, shielding him from the horrors of his daily experimentation by allowing his brain to disassociate. His thoughts were guarded by an armoured cocoon that only his reflection could manifest.
Homelander had always been a small child, shorter and scrawnier than average. Even though nobody would ever say anything to his face, he could hear the scientists' secret discussions with his super hearing. The conversations they had with Vogelbaum, and how disappointed his father figure was that his prized experiment was deplorably short. How nobody would respect ever him, even with his superhuman powers.
This all changed when he finally hit puberty. His growth started out slowly when he turned thirteen, until he was finally on track with what was expected for his age. The scientists around him seemed to treat him with more approval, including Vogelbaum. The chagrin his father figure previously displayed had appeared to lessen the taller he became, like he was finally becoming what he was supposed to be.
When his growth started picking up a bit more, Vogelbaum was actually happy at this. At six feet tall, Homelander was a respectable height for what would become Vought’s golden boy. Something that the average citizens could praise, and look at with admiration. At last, he was fitting the mold of a proper protector for the people of the United States.
However, it didn't stop there. In fact, his growth seemed to accelerate year by year. Homelander was acutely aware of how much taller he was getting than the scientists in the lab, watching them go from being eye-level to him to slowly only reaching his chin, then his shoulders, then his chest, and lastly his abs.
He saw their expressions shift from esteem to fright, and he could hear them privately voicing their concerns to Vogelbaum. They were terrified that their little experiment was growing out of their control and becoming a monster. Even though they tried to keep straight faces around him, he could hear their hearts beating faster in his presence, and sense their cortisol levels spiking as he continued to loom higher and higher above them.
Unlike regular humans of his height, who tended to have slender, lean physiques riddled with skeletal problems, his stature didn't appear to affect him negatively at all. He was in peak physical condition, and he could build muscle without even doing anything, filling out his frame like a freight truck. Powered by the Compound V coursing through his veins, there wasn't anything the scientists could implement that would be capable of halting or even slowing down his growth.
The cruel testing Homelander was abused with seemed to cease the taller he became. Realizing the scientists could not force him to do anything, he could tell they were too scared to retaliate against him when he simply refused to go along with their demands. There wasn't anything they could do to punish him, or anything they could take away from him. He already had nothing to lose, and only a god complex to gain.
Not only did the scientists' dialogue about him change, so did what his mirrored reflection said. It was easy for him to convince Homelander of his superiority to the inadequate mudpeople, those clearly beneath him. He was obviously bigger, stronger, and better than everyone else on this planet. However, there was still a little voice he heard deep inside, contradicting what his only friend would tell him. The voice of a small boy, crying and asking for someone to love him. He never knew how to respond, so he just ignored the voice, even though it always weighed heavily on the back of his mind.
Once he turned eighteen, his growth had finally tapered off, leaving him at an intimidating eight feet tall with a physique to match. He was now ready to be announced to the world as "The Homelander", and start his career at Vought. Surprisingly to him, he learned that the Vought Tower had already been accommodated for his height, with ceilings high enough that he wouldn't have to worry about crashing his head through. Unlike the lab, the man in the mirror reminded him, with much shorter ceilings forcing him to bend down like a worthless animal. Something that a god like him should never have to do. The world should be altered to adapt to him, not the other way around.
When Homelander was introduced to the waiting public as Vought's premiere supe, the crowd cheered for him while he flew down from above onto the stage. He could hear the audience's nervous heartbeats as they clapped for him, a mix of terror and awe. At first it left him uneasy, but it quickly became a drug for him. It was something that the man in the mirror urged him to desire, a gratifying expression of how he truly was a god to these miniscule beings. He must be feared to be respected, and to be loved.
At the top floor of the Vought Tower was the three-story penthouse where Homelander would now be living. It was immaculate, with all of the furniture inside sized appropriately for him. For the first time in his life, he had his own space where he actually felt normal, away from the mudpeople that he had to tilt his whole body down at to even acknowledge.
Looking outside through his penthouse window, he used his super vision to spy on the puny ants down below. Going about their inferior lives, unaware of the increasing jealousy Homelander felt as he watched people laugh amongst themselves, holding hands while sharing a kiss, and genuinely expressing their love for each other.
It almost made him feel sad, but the man in the mirror quickly stomped those sentiments out. With the absence of Vogelbaum and the other scientists, his reflection had to take on a parental role. To remind him that he is a god, and those human emotions were as useless to him as their pathetic weaknesses. It was a constant battle he felt raging in his heart, fighting with the little boy inside him that longed to feel affection, and his reflection snapping at him to stab a knife through this "sickness".
Although Homelander sided with his mirror friend and cast aside those human emotions, he could never fully get rid of the little boy he locked away. That poor child he could still hear crying out for comfort, which he knew an inhuman monster like him would never receive. Nobody could ever love him when they were all afraid of him. At night while he laid in bed alone, he could hear the child sobbing louder, accompanied by his own tears as he wrapped his arms around himself like a pitiful façade of a hug.
The deafening loneliness of his penthouse made him wish he never left the lab at all.
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Scattered thoughts on The Wicker Man 2006:
This felt in some respects like a bad production of a good play- it hits so many of the same beats as the original film, but it hits them wrong!
The original Summerisle was creepy intermixed with seeming like a really nice, friendly, cheery place to live. The tension builds with each scene of the village doing something weird, but not necessarily wrong. In this film, Summerisle (excuse me, Summersile) is filled with sinister old women chanting “Yes, the wicker man!” and all but outright telling the cop what they want him to hear. Howie had to work to find out what they wanted him to know- that was part of his tragedy, that his own efforts doomed him. This film feels like the cult doesn’t trust their victim’s intelligence or skill as a detective so they have to spoon feed him every clue.
“This is like if the girl in Get Out said “I want to take you to my family’s experimental brain surgery party!” - my husband
Nic Cage is famously as good or bad as any given movie calls for, but when the whole cast is bad, it’s probably the director’s fault.
Yes, it’s misogynistic. Extremely so. A class full of girls and a line of pregnant women are both treated as scary sights in and of themselves. In many ways it’s reminiscent of Harvest Home, but the decent quality of that book overall made the misogyny offend me far more. Here it’s just goofy.
On that note, I wouldn’t normally think anything of a man punching an evil woman in a horror movie, but it feels like the movie wants me to feel a certain way about a manly man drop-kicking a teenage girl into a wall. But how does it want me to feel?
Sister Summersile isn’t given anywhere near Lord Summerisle’s charm or seduction; she’s just straightforwardly creepy. The whole point of the leader should be their charm!
There is a note or two of folk music during the procession, drowned out by the suspenseful soundtrack. COWARDS.
If our lead isn’t religious, let alone virginal, the line about “You have the opportunity to be a martyr” means nothing.
“Not the bees!” Yes, yes, it’s very funny, and the bees themselves are Birdemic-level bad CGI. But if they revive him with an epipen and then burn him anyway, what was the point?
“Our ancestors fled persecution in Salem!” Fuck you, movie.
This leads into one of my biggest criticisms of the film’s internal logic- the history of the cult. In the original film, Lord Summerisle’s grandfather created a Golden Bough-inspired “recreation” of ancient pagan traditions on the island; you can raise questions about how well that would work, but I bought it. But American white people don’t have ancient pagan customs. We all came over here long after Europe was Christianized. I would believe a New Age pseudo-Wiccan cult started a generation or so ago, or I would believe a Plain Folk pseudo-Shaker insular Christianity, but I can’t believe both at the same time. (I guess I should just thank god that it wasn’t portrayed as an evil Native American island...)
After all that, the end credit line “Dedicated to Johnny Ramone” was the last thing I expected.
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recent reads and recommendations:
i’ve been trying to read more recently and kind of get back into a reading flow where i always have a book on the go to read when i can. as a result i have a lot of new recommendations for you all and thought i would share 💋
in order of earliest to latest reads:
her body and other parties - carmen maria machado ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (5 stars)
themes/genres - unsettling, horror, fantasy, short stories, contemporary, lgbtq+ (wlw, bisexuality), feminism, experimental
we're starting off strong with one of my new favourite authors, carmen maria machado <3 i fell in love with machado through this book. her beautiful, horrible, astonishing writing made this possibly one of my favourite books ever. i can't say i ever expected to be reading (and adoring) a 60 page list of fever-induced law and order synopses but my god it was incredible. a well-deserved five stars to kick off the list.
human acts - han kang ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (5 stars)
themes/genres - south korean history, multiple povs, dark and unsettling (tw for graphic violence and body horror), experimental, contemporary.
this book was beautiful. it takes place during and looking back on the gwangju student uprising of 1980 and uses multiple povs to recount the horrors that occurred during the uprising under the newly instated dictator and martial law. i previously read ‘the vegetarian’ by han kang (another novel i highly recommend) and adored it so picked up human acts to follow up and wow i was not disappointed. it is so poetically beautiful and so haunting, the second pov especially has really stuck with me. a hard read (in terms of content) but a great and necessary one.
things we lost in the fire - mariana enriquez ⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3.5 stars)
themes/genres - short stories, gothic horror, magical realism, latin american literature
i picked this book up after reading enriquez’ ‘the dangers of smoking in bed’ which i loved. i enjoyed this book but i think, comparatively, i enjoyed tdosib a lot more. the book is structured as multiple short stories (mostly) set in argentina from various povs (the same structure as ‘tdosib’). each story is poetic, disturbing and beautiful and enriquez’ writing really highlights a culture i knew little to nothing about previously in such a rich and stunning way. the reason i rated this one a bit lower is simply that i wasn’t as enraptured with ‘twlitf’ as i was with ‘tdosib’ and i found some of the stories less interesting. still a solid read but i would definitely recommend checking out ‘tdosib’ first.
our wives under the sea - julia armfield ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (4 stars)
themes/genres - unsettling/disturbing, lgbtq+ (wlw, bisexuality, lesbian), contemporary, two character pov, gothic, the vast open ocean (tw)
this book is heartbreaking. the sense of tension and dread really creeps up on you in this one as more gets revealed and more past horrors unfold. incredibly poetic and ambiguous, slow to start but the last few parts had me speeding through. watery, foamy, flowing and gorgeous.
milk fed - melissa broder ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (5 stars)
themes/genres - mother-daughter relationships, modern judaism, eating disorders (tw), lgbtq+ (wlw) fiction, mental health, identity
i ATE THIS BOOK UP. oh my god. broder so perfectly entangles food, love and sex, obsession and religion and winds metaphors around one another to create a novel that is so weird and yet so normal. it highlights so many societal issues and all the characters are flawed and odd in some way. the main character herself is incredibly problematic at times and somewhat of an unreliable narrator but still very lovable as you can clearly see where her issues stem from and why she is so obsessive. elements of this book really, really spoke to me as a woman who’s had my own issues with food (and mothers and food). a funny, twisted, quite dark and fascinating book that i read in about a day.
in the dream house - carmen maria machado ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (5 stars)
themes/genres - memoir, domestic abuse (tw), emotional abuse (tw), lgbtq+ (wlw, bisexuality), feminism, experimental
another cmm beauty. machado really knows how to take an unusual format and make something beautiful out of it. i'd never read a memoir before this and i'm so glad to say this was the first. genuinely like reading a memoir, a poetry anthology, a collection of short stories and a research paper all at once. beautifully done and so heartbreaking.
nightbitch - rachel yoder ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (5 stars)
themes/genres - art and the artist, fantasy/magical realism, feminism, motherhood, transformation, freedom, violence (tw for graphic animal killing), multi-level marketing schemes?
this book is mad. it is literally about a woman turning into a dog. it's brilliant. if you have recently watched barbie and want something slightly more unhinged but still on the topic of feminism and motherhood, this may be for you. i LOVE weird books and this fit me like a glove. made me think about motherhood like i never have before and the transformation throughout the book is crafted beautifully.
the priory of the orange tree - samantha shannon (currently reading)
themes/genres - high fantasy, magic, religion, dragons, lgbtq+ (wlw), romance, violence and death (tw)
i'm about 350 pages in so far guys, she's still a beast but she's a beast i love and i'll update this when i finish. as for now, don't be afraid, she may look hefty but she's WORTH IT.
hope you enjoyed this list, please send me some more recommendations, i shall gladly receive!
(p.s. i have included some trigger warnings but not an extensive list for every book, please be aware that there may be other potential triggers. does the dog die lists triggers for movies, books and tv shows and includes at least some of the books on this list. reader discretion advised!)
#not aftg#book recs#book recommendations#recent reads#her body and other parties#human acts#things we lost in the fire#milk fed#in the dream house#our wives under the sea#nightbitch#the priory of the orange tree#carmen maria machado
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