T'Chaka's initial amusement at his son's blunt observation quickly soured into kingly displeasure. He shot T'Challa a sharp glare, a silent command to hold his tongue, before turning his attention back to Norman Osborn.
"Director Osborn, on behalf of my nation, thank you for capturing the criminal Ulysses Klaue," he said, his voice the smooth, practiced baritone of a seasoned diplomat. "Wakanda is but a poor nomadic country. We have little to offer in thanks, but our gratitude is sincere." He even managed a look of humble guilt.
Norman, however, had no time for political theater. "Mr. T'Chaka, let us be frank," he said, cutting straight through the facade. With the Chitauri fleet drawing closer to Earth every day, they could not afford to waste time on pleasantries. "Wakanda is not the impoverished nation the world believes it to be. It is not, as you say, a country so poor it isn't even worth enslaving. Is it?"
The shift in the room was instantaneous. The polite masks on the faces of both T'Chaka and T'Challa vanished, replaced by the grim, serious expressions of cornered kings. Their eyes grew cold.
"Relax, Mr. T'Chaka," Norman said, his tone still even. "Put away your claws. This is the H.A.M.M.E.R. command center. Even as the Black Panther, you cannot take on this entire ship." Norman was being polite. With Ben in the room, T'Chaka could have been subdued with a single hand, unless he had the power to summon the Panther God itself.
"Did Klaue tell you this?" T'Chaka asked, his voice low. He calmed himself, realizing that since H.A.M.M.E.R. had contacted him through the captured criminal, they had surely gleaned some information from the despicable man. "I cannot speak to the veracity of anything that man might have told you."
Norman simply shook his head. It was clear T'Chaka would not drop the act so easily.
At this point, Ben took over. "We've known the truth about Wakanda for some time," he stated plainly. "We know about your vast vibranium mines and your highly advanced level of technology. We also know you have remained isolated from the world to protect that secret."
Ben's directness wiped the last vestiges of diplomacy from the old king's face. He had been exposed. "So," T'Chaka said, his voice hard as stone, "you want our vibranium as well?"
It was a rhetorical question. What else of value did Wakanda possess that the outside world could possibly want?
"First, take a look at this, Mr. T'Chaka," Ben said, tapping a command into the large, circular table that doubled as a supercomputer. A wealth of compiled data, projections, and astronomical charts filled the holographic display above them. "In a few months, Earth will face a new enemy." He pointed a finger upward. "Not from any nation on this planet, but from the depths of space. We have no desire to disrupt Wakanda's peace, but circumstances have changed."
T'Challa and T'Chaka stared at the screen, their faces etched with shock. For a moment, they couldn't distinguish if they were watching a classified military briefing or the trailer for a science fiction blockbuster.
After a long silence, T'Chaka asked, "Is this true?"
"Today is not April Fools' Day," Norman replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This crisis from the universe concerns not just one or two countries, but the fate of the entire planet—including Wakanda."
"Enough!" T'Chaka interrupted, his voice booming with royal authority. He did not believe Norman Osborn would fabricate such an elaborate and easily disproven lie. "How much vibranium do you require?"
He was direct and decisive. "We can provide the vibranium," T'Chaka declared, then shook his head firmly. "But Wakanda will not participate in this war."
Ben and Norman remained silent, but T'Challa could not. "Father, we cannot stay out of this," he argued, his brow furrowed with passion.
"We must, T'Challa," T'Chaka countered, his expression solemn.
"The fate of one is tied to the fate of all!" T'Challa insisted. "This is not one nation's problem; it is for the survival of Earth itself!"
"And Wakanda is not ready," T'Chaka said, his gaze stern. He understood his son's perspective, a view broadened by years of studying abroad. "You have grown close to the outside world, T'Challa, and that is not a bad thing. But in doing so, you have grown distant from Wakanda."
T'Chaka knew his own country. The people were accustomed to a closed, self-sufficient life. Though he was king, Wakanda was a tapestry of separate, independent tribes. He ruled them, but friction was constant. To hastily throw open their borders to the world would not be met with celebration, but with fear and dissent. It could ignite a civil war. Even his decision to provide vibranium was a monumental risk. T'Challa saw the necessity of joining the world, but he failed to see that his home was not yet prepared to welcome it.
Sensing the escalating argument, Ben interjected. "We understand your position, Mr. T'Chaka." Frankly, he didn't need Wakandan soldiers fighting with spears. The vibranium was enough. "Providing the metal is the greatest help you could offer. Everything must be done step by step. H.A.M.M.E.R. respects Wakanda's sovereignty, and we hope this is the beginning of a deeper cooperation."
He then turned to the young prince. "Prince T'Challa, if you wish to do more for the world, I believe you can do so as an individual. I'm sure you've heard of the Avengers." He was laying the groundwork to bring the future Black Panther into the fold, a hero more suited to the independent structure of the Avengers than Ben's own private team.
T'Chaka hesitated, reluctant to let his son take such risks. But he recognized the wisdom in the proposal. T'Challa, acting as an Avenger, could be a bridge between their two worlds, easing Wakanda's eventual integration when the time was right. Before that, however, he would take his son home to perform the ancient ceremony, to grant him the power of the Panther God.
With the deal struck, the Wakandans took their leave, with Ulysses Klaue in their custody. Now, all Ben had to do was wait for the vibranium to arrive.
Meanwhile, in the cold void of deep space, a Chitauri fleet advanced. Dozens of biomechanical leviathans, living warships the size of asteroids, swam through the sea of stars. Their bodies had been hollowed out and retrofitted, filled with legions of soldiers and weapons of war. They were an army of locusts, and this was merely their vanguard.
The Chitauri Warlord or known better as The Other, dissatisfied with the main army's pace, had sent this fleet ahead to initiate the slaughter. A being consumed by bloodlust, he led the advance team himself. He wanted to see Earth's rivers run red.
Long before they reached their destination, however, another ship crossed their path. It was a disaster for its occupants. A single Chitauri soldier knelt before the Warlord's throne. "My Lord, we have detected a small ship on our route."
The Warlord, a being far larger than the average Chitauri, slowly opened his eyes. The next moment, a storm of plasma fire erupted from the fleet, converging on the lone, small spaceship.
Inside, several clumps of gooey, colored slime huddled together in panic.
"It's the Chitauri army!" one shrieked.
"To run into these locusts out here… If only we could fight back!"
"The ship's integrity is failing! We must escape their attack range!"
"Are there any life-bearing planets in this system?"
"There is one… wait. It appears to be… Earth."
One of the symbiotes pulled up a star map. A brilliant blue marble appeared on the screen.
"Excellent! Earth is under the protection of the Aesir! Thor, the God of Thunder, once defeated the great symbiote dragon, Grendel. If he could defeat Grendel, he can defeat the Chitauri! Set a course for that planet!"
Their history was a tangled one. Once, they had all been slaves to the primordial darkness of their creator, Knull. Centuries ago, the dragon Grendel had come to Earth, only to be struck down by Thor. Whether it was the lightning or some other cosmic force, that battle had severed their connection to Knull's hive mind. Freed, the symbiotes had turned on their creator, transforming their homeworld into a massive prison to contain him—a truly magnificent act of filial piety. They had then formed a new society, the Agents of the Cosmos, choosing to bond with noble warriors to bring peace to the universe.
The blue symbiote reached for the ship's teleportation drive, but a black ball of goo suddenly shot forward, slamming into it. The two slimes began to spin and merge like they'd been thrown into a blender.
"Venom, what are you doing, you lunatic?!" the blue one screamed.
"We shouldn't run! We should bond with a few of them, take control of their bodies, eat their heads, and shove their own weapons right up the Warlord's—!"
"Shut up, you idiot!" The blue symbiote finally managed to expel Venom from its mass. The other symbiotes immediately surged forward, pinning the thrashing black creature. They could never understand what went on in Venom's psychotic mind.
"I don't know how you ever became an Agent of the Cosmos," the blue one seethed. "You are, without a doubt, the worst of us."
"That reminds me of a story," Venom began, a look of disgust forming on his "face" as he recalled a particularly unpleasant former host.
But no one wanted to hear it. The ship was being torn apart.
"To the escape pods!"
BOOM!
The ship exploded in a silent, brilliant flash, turning to cosmic dust.
The Chitauri Warlord watched the display with detached calm. It was just a small firework, an appetizer before the main course. Soon, billions of lives on Earth would be extinguished by his hand.
As he savored the thought, a hazy, indistinct figure appeared before him. The shadow stood in the darkness, its tall, thin frame a stark contrast to the bulky Chitauri.
"How much longer must I wait?" the shadow asked, its voice laced with impatience.
The Warlord opened his eyes. "Soon. Why? Are you growing impatient? Or are you afraid of him?"
"You are nothing but a wild dog leashed by Thanos!" the shadow roared. "You dare speak to me with such impertinence?"
"Since Thanos defeated me, the Chitauri see him as our rightful king," the Warlord mocked. "You call me his dog? And what are you? A puppet? A poor, controlled creature whose mind isn't even his own? Do what you were sent here to do, and be silent."
The Warlord raised his double-bladed axe and fired a beam of purple energy at the phantom. The blast tore through the illusion, and for a split second before it dissipated, the light illuminated the shadow's face: the pale, sharp features of Loki.