The shimmering distortion of Kara Zor-El's teleportation faded as she stepped into the heart of Wakanda's bustling capital marketplace. Brightly woven fabrics fluttered in the wind, exotic spices mingled with the scent of sun-warmed fruit, and technology hummed softly beneath the stone-paved streets. Her sandals clicked gently with each step, but no one looked her way in suspicion. Instead, their gazes lingered too long—drawn in helplessly by the walking goddess in their midst.
She was dressed like any traveler might be: a white sun hat casting a dainty shadow over her sunglasses, a soft tank top snug across her chest, and short denim shorts clinging lovingly to her thighs. Her bare legs shimmered faintly under the sunlight, statuesque and unreasonably perfect. But it wasn't just the outfit—it was the aura. Her yandere pheromones drifted invisibly, wrapping around minds like silk. The men looked at her as if they'd forgotten how to speak. The women watched with subtle fascination, unknowingly drawn in by a dangerous mix of envy and longing.
Kara sauntered between stalls like a curious, clueless tourist, her lips parted just enough to suggest innocence, her every movement orchestrated with flawless subconscious grace. Vendors hawked baskets of fruit, bowls of steamed grains, vibranium-cut trinkets—but even as she passed them, their voices softened, their pitches staggered. They didn't know why. They just knew they couldn't interrupt her.
She stopped at a vegetable stand. The vendor—a middle-aged man with a generous belly and an easy smile—perked up the moment her eyes found his.
"Hello there," Kara said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice dipped in breathy politeness. "Could you tell me about your king?"
The man blinked, as if trying to reset his thoughts. "The king?" He chuckled. "Of course, miss. Of course. King T'Chaka—he is a great man. A wise leader. Been on the throne since before I was your age, I'd bet."
She tilted her head slightly. "Is he… old now?"
"In his sixties," the vendor nodded. "Still strong, but, ah, things change, yes? His son—T'Challa—is preparing to take over someday. A good boy. Trains often. Studies the old ways. But T'Chaka… he's kept Wakanda safe, kept us hidden, prosperous."
Kara's eyes didn't blink behind her sunglasses. "And the people? They're happy with how things are?"
"Mostly," he said with a shrug. "The youth, they want more. They see the world beyond and wonder why we hide. But tradition is strong here. The king protects the Heart-Shaped Herb, the spirit connection to the goddess Bast. He is both king and guardian."
Kara tapped a finger softly against the apple in her hand. Her expression stayed blank—detached, like a dreamer lost in wandering thoughts. But behind those sunglasses, her mind was alive with calculation.
A king aging, a son training, a nation balanced on pride and seclusion, and a youth tempted by the open world? That was the scent of opportunity. Kara imagined it already—whispers spreading in the streets, wives convincing husbands that maybe, maybe it was time for something new. A little dissent here, a little chaos there, and Wakanda would be ripe for a controlled implosion.
A garden of revolution could be grown from well-placed seeds… and Kara had a harem of master gardeners.
"You know," she said lightly, adjusting her hat, "you're very kind to explain all this."
The man laughed, visibly blushing. "You may take the apple, miss. On the house. You… you have the presence of royalty."
She didn't thank him. She didn't even look back. She simply turned, walked away with her long legs slicing through the air like sculpted marble, and left the vendor staring after her with a hand frozen in mid-air.
"That woman…" he murmured. "She has the regal beauty of a queen. A true monarch."
Kara kept walking. She passed a child carrying a tablet, an elderly woman weaving vibranium-laced beads, a soldier adjusting his armored tunic. None stopped her. None questioned her presence. Their eyes lingered, their minds stalled, but their suspicion never stirred.
As she neared the outer curve of the market, the bustle began to fade behind her. The shadows stretched long across the stone, her own form casting a slender silhouette in the heat-hazed distance. Every step she took brought her closer to the royal district—and closer to the downfall of a kingdom.
Behind her, the market continued. Life buzzed. Traders bartered. Citizens laughed. But in their midst, they never realized the storm they'd welcomed with open arms. Kara's tank top shifted gently in the breeze, her hat tilted at just the right angle, and the apple glinted red in her hand—its skin catching the sun like a drop of blood.
Wakanda had welcomed a stranger without question. But she wasn't a stranger. She was a monarch in disguise. And every footfall she took was the rewriting of fate.
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