8

“In Vienna, one hundred and seventeen countries have come together to ratify the Sokovia Accords,” a television reporter was saying as Natasha watched the delegates flow into the main meeting chamber and seat themselves. She was down near the front, close to the floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the wall behind the podium.

“Excuse me, Miss Romanoff?” She turned to see a nervous bureaucrat. “I just need your signature.”

Natasha signed the document without looking at it. “Thank you,” the bureaucrat said, and melted away into the crowd.

“I suppose neither of us is used to the spotlight,” said a voice nearby. She turned and saw the Wakandan prince, T'Challa. T'Chaka's son had his father's composure and bearing, but he was taller and . . . Natasha couldn't put her finger on it, but he seemed to radiate a self-assured confidence.

“Well,” she said, “it's not always so flattering.” The truth was, she hated spotlights and was uncomfortable with any attention she hadn't drawn to herself on purpose.

“You seem to be doing all right so far,” T'Challa complimented her. “Considering your last trip to Capitol Hill, I wouldn't think you would be particularly comfortable in this company.”

“Well, I'm not,” she said. They were edging close to dangerous territory. Was he questioning her commitment to the accords? Were people going to be spying on them to make sure they did what they said they were going to do? Whatever it was, she didn't like the subtext of the conversation so far.

He got more serious. “That alone makes me glad you're here, Miss Romanoff.”

“Why? You don't approve of all this?”

“The accords, yes. The politics, not really. Two people in a room can get more done than a hundred.”

King T'Chaka appeared, inserting himself into the conversation with a joke. “Unless you need to move a piano.”

T'Challa greeted his father. “Papa.”

“Son.” The king turned to Natasha. “Miss Romanoff.”

“King T'Chaka. Please, allow me to apologize for what happened in Nigeria.”

“Thank you,” he said with a nod. “Thank you for agreeing to all this. I'm sad to hear that Captain Rogers will not be joining us today.”

“Yes,” she said. “So am I.”

“Everyone, please be seated,” the sergeant at arms called over the auditorium loudspeaker. “This assembly is now in session.”

“That is the future calling,” T'Challa said. He nodded at Natasha as she left to find her seat. “Such a pleasure.”

T'Chaka turned to his son. “For a man who disapproves of diplomacy, you're getting quite good at it,” the king observed, speaking Wakandan as they always did in their private conversations.

“I'm happy, Father,” T'Challa said. T'Chaka patted his cheek, and T'Challa took his father's hand, kissing the ring that had been passed down from the ancient kings of Wakanda. At that moment, he was not a prince or a scientist. He was a dutiful son acknowledging his father's praise.

Once the assembly had convened, T'Chaka took the stage to deliver introductory remarks before the Sokovian Accords were officially signed. “When stolen Wakandan Vibranium was used to make a terrible weapon, we in Wakanda were forced to question our legacy. Those men and women killed in Nigeria were part of a goodwill mission from a country too long in the shadows. We will not, however, let misfortune drive us back. We will fight to improve the world we wish to join. I am grateful to the Avengers for supporting this initiative. Wakanda is proud to extend its hand in peace.”

He was striking exactly the right note, T'Challa thought as he watched from the corner of the room near the windows. His father rarely exercised his diplomatic skills, but when he did, he usually got what he wanted. T'Challa himself didn't have the natural gifts of a diplomat. He had to work at it, and he preferred to spend his time almost anywhere else instead of in the conference room. His preferred subjects of study did not require he butter them up before they would work.

He gazed out the windows as his father went on speaking.

The assembly hall was on the third floor of the Vienna government complex, and he was looking down on a parked van across the street. Its rear doors were open and a pair of police officers were searching it. Standard protocol. Nothing unusual . . . until one of them stumbled back and ran away. The other did the same a moment later. He could hear their distant shouts and saw pedestrians start to scatter.

T'Challa instinctively knew what was coming next. The anonymous van, the sudden fear from the police . . . He sprinted away from the windows, toward the speaker's podium, shouting over his father's speech. “Everybody, get down!”

The words had barely left his mouth when the bomb in the van went off.

The blast caved in the building's front wall and turned the windows into a wave of shrapnel. T'Challa flew across the chamber and slammed hard into a support pillar. He got to his feet, ears ringing and blood on his face. Delegates screamed for help. Some fled and others were trying to aid the wounded. Frantically, T'Challa searched for his father. Fires were burning at the edges of the chamber, but he ignored them, fighting his way back toward the front of the room and the destroyed podium.

His father, the king, lay unmoving. T'Challa knelt at his side, took his hand, and felt no pulse. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard sirens and screams. He smelled the smoke from the fires in the building and on the street. But none of it mattered. T'Challa crumpled over his father's body and cradled it, weeping at his loss . . . but already another fire was kindling inside him. He would avenge this. No matter how far he had to travel or who stood in his way, the king's murder would be avenged.