"Show me how it works. I might be able to offer a few suggestions," Tony said.
"That would be amazing! Finally, someone who can actually discuss this with me—thank goodness!"
Shuri was practically overjoyed. In the past, whether it was research or suit design, everything had fallen solely on her shoulders. There had never been anyone she could truly brainstorm with. Now that she had finally found a kindred spirit, there was no way she was letting him go.
---
At the British Museum, a Black man dressed in loose hip-hop clothing, his hair styled in thick dreadlocks, stood quietly in front of a display case, studying the exhibits inside.
It was hard to say why, but most people like him seemed to dress the same way—oversized hip-hop outfits, baggy pants hanging absurdly low, an air of careless flamboyance paired with an unkempt look, topped off with a head full of dreadlocks.
Because of genetic traits, tightly curled hair often flared outward, and braiding it made it appear less unruly—that much was understandable. What was harder to understand was why they were called dreadlocks at all. The hair looked matted and heavy, like a mop, yet somehow was worn with a sense of self-satisfied swagger.
The man ignored the strange looks cast his way and remained focused on the African-style masks and weapons behind the glass.
At that moment, a sharply dressed woman carrying a cup of coffee approached him.
"Good morning, sir. Is there anything I can help you with?"
Her tone was polite, but the faint disdain in her eyes was unmistakable.
"I'm just browsing these artifacts," the man replied, turning toward her.
He wore an expensive pair of gold-rimmed glasses, yet the woman's condescension did not lessen—if anything, it deepened.
She was one of the museum's managers and had noticed him the moment he walked in. From the start, she had assumed he was there to steal.
To be fair, her prejudice didn't come out of nowhere. Years of crime statistics had ingrained certain assumptions into her thinking. Still, it was the kind of shallow judgment that defined many Europeans—judging people purely by appearance, regardless of who they really were.
After taking a sip of her coffee, she spoke again.
"I'm an expert in this field. If there's anything you don't understand, feel free to ask."
The man nodded and slowly scanned the exhibits.
"They're beautiful," he said. "And their history is fascinating."
He then pointed to a long-faced mask with curved goat horns.
"Where is this from?"
The woman followed his gaze.
"Oh, that one? Nineteenth century, from an African tribe called the Asante—modern-day Ghana."
He nodded as if in agreement, then pointed to another distinctly African mask.
"And this one?"
She barely glanced at it, clearly familiar with every item here, and took another leisurely sip of coffee.
"That's from the Edo people of Benin. Sixteenth century. Even older than the previous one."
She looked confident—self-assured.
"Mm. If you say so," the man replied lightly. "Then what about this?"
He stepped toward another display case. Inside was a long-handled metal object, one end sharpened like a pickaxe.
"That's also from Benin," she said without hesitation. "Even older—seventh century. From a very remote tribe."
Suddenly, her brow furrowed, and she pressed a hand against her stomach.
"Tsk… that's where you're wrong," the man said, shaking his head.
"What did you say?"
The pain in her stomach intensified, but professional habit kept her standing, though her breathing had grown uneven.
The man paid no attention to her discomfort and continued calmly.
"It may look like something your soldiers looted from Benin, but it actually comes from Wakanda. And it was forged from vibranium."
He smiled faintly, then added before she could respond,
"No matter. I'll be taking it."
Her expression hardened, as though she had completely forgotten the pain moments earlier.
"Sir, I must inform you that none of the items here are for sale."
"Oh? Then how do you think your ancestors obtained them?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Do you believe they paid for them? Or did they simply take them—just like they took everything else from other nations?"
She forced herself to remain composed. By now, she was certain the man was trouble—he had come specifically for the artifacts.
"Sir, I must ask you to leave immediately," she said, signaling to the nearby security guards.
He shrugged indifferently.
"From the moment I walked in, you had those guards watching me. But there's one thing you overlooked."
He glanced at the coffee in her hand.
Her eyes widened as she looked down. The pain exploded inside her, sharp and unbearable. She collapsed to the floor, unable to stand.
"Security! Something's wrong here!" the man shouted loudly.
Everyone's attention snapped to the woman writhing on the ground. Even the guards who had been approaching him froze, completely overlooking his presence as they rushed toward her.
An emergency call was placed immediately. Less than a minute later, paramedics arrived with a stretcher. At the same time, a woman at the front desk quietly slipped away.
The "paramedics" reached the fallen woman—then, without hesitation, pulled out guns and shot every security guard on site.
Screams erupted as visitors fled in panic.
"Move faster, Ulysses," the man said coldly. "Finish this before the police arrive."
He didn't spare a single glance for the woman or the guards lying in pools of blood.
The man who had arrived with the medical team was none other than the long-missing Ulysses Klaue. Disguising themselves as paramedics, they had come for the artifacts—more precisely, for the long-handled, pickaxe-like object.
"Don't worry, Erik," Klaue replied casually. "I'm always efficient."
He placed a hand against the thick glass of the display case.
The man called Erik—Erik Killmonger.
An MIT graduate. Former member of a covert special forces unit. Once given a chilling nickname: the Killer.
But Erik had another identity.
His real name was N'Jadaka—the son of King T'Chaka's younger brother.
A Wakandan royal by blood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For 20 advanced chapters, visit my Patreon:
Patreon - Twilight_scribe1
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you enjoyed Marvel Manifestor, please give it a Power Stone and leave a review! Your support means everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~