Black Panther

Dark Crusade Part I

"A New Horizon" by Sam Everett

Central Wakanda, the capitol:

 "...they believe, though there is no substantial evidence that links King Nobolo to the murderous actions taken against the previous Rudyardan government and, possibly, innocent civilians. However, U.N. officials have grown increasingly suspicious, as Nobolo has prohibitted the inspections of several areas outside of the new Rudyardan capitol of Hope City. The U.N. believes that criminal acts of violence, rape, torture, and murder may be taking place in these prohibitted areas. They also state that, of course, these acts are not restricted to Rudyarda, but also several other Western African nations, such as--"

 T'Challa, king of Wakanda, shut off the television news report across the room upon hearing his assistant, M'swa, open the large, wooden doors to his office--however he could not shut out of his mind the distressing facts in that report--he had not been able to for the past few days.

"Good afternoon, Sire," M'swa greeted as delightfully as she did each day. This day, however, she had an expected visitor in tow.

He was six feet tall, a bit pudgy in the mid-section, and sported the bleached, buzzed hair that seemed to be all the rage in America. As much as the young man--not older than twenty-five--tried to retain his smile, the look on his face told T'Challa that he would rather be someplace else. He carried with him a hand-held camera, functioning, and pointed casually at various parts of the king's vast office.

T'Challa amused himself with the observation that M'swa's appearance was completely opposite from the guest's. While their ages were the same, nothing else was. He was white, she was black; he was tall, she stood only five feet seven inches; he was chubby, she was the picture of health, long and fit. His hair was very short and light--bright even--her's was long and black as night. He wore lively, casual clothing with American pop-culture symbols, and tennis shoes, while she wore the usual tight-fitting, traditional strapless dress with a modestly exotic design stitched into it, the only thing bright about her apparel being the large, golden collar-like necklace around her long neck.

Still, T'Challa knew full well that a person's exterior was not necessarily a revelation of their interior--perhaps, despite their physical differences, M'swa and the guest would get along cordially.

"This is Jeffrey Hoffman, the documentarian you've been expecting," M'swa continued. "He just arrived this morning at T'Challa International Airport."

T'Challa rose to shake Jeffrey's hand. "I trust you were impressed, Mr. Hoffman?"

It did not appear so. In fact, T'Challa thought almost with a sense of relief, Jeffrey did not appear to mind that he was shaking the hand of a king! "Yeah, it was nice. Got them to name the place after you and everything, huh?"

T'Challa smiled modestly, embarrassed. "My people do treat me well, I must say."

"As well as you treat them," M'swa interjected.

"And how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Hoffman?"

"Well, until things start to get boring, I guess," Jeffrey replied cynically. "Then I'll turn whatever film I can put together in to Ed Wasneek at SCN and see what he thinks."

T'Challa chuckled. "I hope I don't disappoint you, then. But, much of my work is, as you say, boring."

M'swa playfully slapped T'Challa across the arm. "Come now, Sire! You're the Black Panther! That NEVER gets boring!"

Jeffrey's camera lens slid over from M'swa's shining face to T'Challa's. "Speaking of the Panther, any chance I could get a shot of you in the suit...um...Your Highness?"

T'Challa felt a bit awkward, as the kittenish look in M'swa's eyes detected. "Call me T'Challa--please. For some reason, M'swa insists on calling me 'Sire', but you may call me, simply, T'Challa. As for the 'suit', I don't normally wear it for just any occasion. It's a sacred symbol of my people, representing the panther spirit, and--"

Jeffrey nodded. "Oh, I understand. We'll get to it later."

There was an uneasy silence, which Jeffrey broke by saying, "Look, M'S--M'swa probably has to talk to you about something--"

"--I do--" she nodded.

"--so I'm gonna head outside of the...um...royal chambers...and get some shots of the place. It could make a good opening for the film."

He began to show himself out of the room, but M'swa stopped him and opened the door for him.

"It was good to meet you, Mr. Hoffman," T'Challa smiled politely.

"Tell me if you need anything," M'swa said to Jeffrey dutifully.

As Jeffrey eased out the door, he gazed at her with flirtatious eyes. "Okay."

Once the door was shut, M'swa rolled her eyes out of T'Challa's view, then turned to her king, as merry as she was when she first came in.

"He's a nice young man," T'Challa observed rather absent-mindedly as he resumed his seat at the desk.

"You think so?" she replied.

"Mmmhmmm."

"Did you see his hair?" she asked with a tinge of anger and disbelief in her tone. "And his face! The stubble! Oh, and he hardly said a word to YOU, the man he is supposed to be filming! You would think he could have been nicer!"

"Perhaps he was nervous," T'Challa replied somewhat dejectedly, not that the fuming M'swa noticed.

"He could still have some more respect. Americans! Who needs them?!"

M'swa was sure that sentiment would grab T'Challa's attention, but she was surprised to see he had not budged from his stoic place at his desk as he gazed at the antique revolver Joe, the Ivoryman,* had given him before he had departed two days ago.

(*see BLACK PANTHER ANNUAL #1--Sam)

"Are you troubled, Sire?"

He appeared startled. "Hm?! Oh, I...I suppose you could say so, yes."

"What can I do for you, then?" she asked.

T'Challa smiled, charmed. "My troubles are too large for you alone--and myself alone, for that matter. They affect all of Wakanda."

"What are you referring to?"

"It has occurred to me in the past few days," he started, "that Wakanda is a veritable paradise on earth, if not for the adversity created by outsiders. Forgive me, M'swa, but I like to think I've done well with what I have--namely, this shining kingdom. My people seem to be happy, and with them, I am happy."

"No need to apologize, Sire. You have a right to boast--all of Wakanda's prosperity can be attritubuted to you."

"Thank you, M'swa. But, what if I applied the same care that I have given to Wakanda over the years to the rest of the world?"

M'swa seemed confused as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I thought you did that already. I thought that was why you claimed the identity of the Panther."

"In a way, it is. But most recently, I have faced the likes of the Kree, or Klaw, or Nitro--quite frankly, any hero in a costume can handle those threats as well as I. By 'outsiders' I am referring to more real-world threats, such as those in our neighboring Rudyarda, where the old, warring ways, which have set the African continent back and apart from the rest of the world, reign. The same holds true for Ghudaza now, too, I understand. And a number of other African countries."

"And you want to help them as you've helped Wakanda?"

"Yes. And at the same time, I want to lift the already-high spirits in Wakanda--our people deserve to bask in their own glory." He paused as M'swa nodded. "It will take hard work, but the rewards will be great--" he continued. "--far greater than beating a lone hood in Manhattan or even thwarting villainy the likes of Klaw or Man-Ape."

He rose and stepped to the window to admire his kingdom, and envisioned its fertile lands overlayed onto those of its neighbors.

"First, we will crusade across Africa, disabling tyranny wherever we find it. And then, we spread further across the world. Our task may never be complete, but nonetheless, this is the new Wakandan focus. Let Vibranium be our second national resource, and peace, our first. This is our mission." He looked back at M'swa for her approval.

He found it in her determined words. "You were the first to introduce the world to Wakanda--"

He looked back out at the sparkling kingdom. "--now I will introduce Wakanda to the world."

The next day:

T'Challa was proud of himself and his people. He had given a national address only hours earlier regarding his new vision of Wakanda's place in the world, and, to his pleasure, it was met with the optimism and determination that only the Wakandan people could gather.

And with that, he did not hesitate to begin his mission across Africa.

Now, he piloted his own personal craft--the sleek, black NightStar--over the dense, green jungles of Wakanda, while M'swa quietly read beside him, and his usual, quite unnecessary entourage lounged in the back of the aircraft.

"I've been meaning to ask you," T'Challa said, breaking the silence between him and M'swa, who put her book down, "have you had anymore of those dreams you were telling me about?*"

(see #7--Sam)

"Hm? Oh...achem...no, thankfully I have not," she replied, giving an instant reassuring smile, which he returned.

She lied, but it was necessary. Not only did she still have the dreams of attacking the Black Panther that haunted her nightly,* but now the dreams had begun to change, though they retained their startling vividness. Most frightening to her, though, was the fact that, in recent days, she had begun having the "dreams" while wide awake!

Still, she was a grown woman of twenty-five years old, and T'Challa was the ruler of an entire country. He had six million people to protect and care for--she would not let him waste his time with the concerns of one.

Moments later, Jeffrey, who had been snooping around all over the NightStar, made his way to the cabin.

His camera hovering irritatingly around M'swa's face, he asked, "So, Missy, what can you tell me about this sweet ride?"

She shot him a cold look. "You know well that my name is M'swa--not 'Missy'."

He shrugged, and almost looked apologetic--almost. "Sorry, but I can't really get used to saying 'M'swa', you know?"

"And you think I can get used to being called 'Missy'? That's the problem with so many of you Americans--when you see something you don't like, you intrude upon it until it meets your liking."

Jeffrey was just about to reply when T'Challa spoke up--perhaps his earlier observation about them had been wrong. And while their childish bickering amused him, he did not want undue tension to compromise their trip. "I'll tell you about the NightStar, Jeffrey."

While Jeffrey's camera focused on T'Challa now, his own eyes snuck a playful look at the highly aggravated M'swa.

T'Challa continued. "The NightStar's basic design is nearly identical to the quinjets that I designed for the Avengers years ago, save for a few differences--most notably, the exterior of the craft, which is stained black as a form of camoflauge, which is more necessary in jungle environments than it is in downtown Manhattan. Also, the NightStar uses an experimental propulsion system that I designed, which channels the excess energy expended from the five jets into an internal power source, which then feeds that energy back into each of the jets proportionately; this increases velocity while saving fuel. Lastly, the the interior is not as dull as the Avengers' quinjets, for the NightStar has cupholders!"

Even the perturbed M'swa had to chuckle at that.

"And a few other amenities for longer excursions," T'Challa added.

Jeffrey focussed in tighter on T'Challa. "Wasneek was right. You ARE smart. But, really, why do you bother with brains when you can, you know, kick the crap out of anyone?"

T'Challa gave a whimsical look. "I'd be interested in hearing more of what this Wasneek has told you. While I do have fighting skills, they are not my only quality. The fiercest warrior is he whose brains match his brawn."

"Yeah," Jeffrey replied superficially. "Any chance of you getting in a fight on this little trip?"

T'Challa and M'swa shot each other the same odd looks, and then T'Challa gave a pleasure-filled grin as he brought the NightStar to an abrupt halt in mid-air.

"Preparing for landing!" he called out as Jeffrey was thrown back and into the seat behind T'Challa.

"Ow!"

"We've been cleared by the Nobolo Airport--go ahead, Sire," M'swa reported, reading her screen and still smirking at Jeffrey's misfortune.

Once the NightStar pushed the air from beneath it and lowered comfortably, gracefully onto the landing pad, members of T'Challa's royal entourage opened the bay doors and exited strategically, leaving plenty of protection for T'Challa, who did not really need it.

As Jeff followed M'swa out of the NightStar, he said, "How about this: you call me just 'Jeff' and I'll call you just 'Missy'?"

"Okay, what if I call you 'Jeff', and you don't talk to me?" she replied curtly before speeding her pace ahead of him.

He just grinned at her surly attitude and stroked his chin, admiring her as she walked ahead to greet the Rudyardan royalty, joined seconds later by T'Challa.

"As I am sure you know, I am King Cecil Nobolo," the lead Rudyardan greeted as he took T'Challa's hand, "and this is my lovely wife, Hope."

Nobolo was a fairly old gentleman, in his late fifties, though his dark hair showed no signs of age. His withered face and thin rimmed glasses gave away his years, however, and his more African attire showed a perceived pride in his African culture, though T'Challa thought perhaps more sinister motives took precedence with him. His wife, significantly younger than him, adorned in a headdress and gown similar to M'swa's, merely smiled and nodded at T'Challa and his party.

"It is good to finally meet you," T'Challa replied. "This is my guest, Jeffrey Hoffman--he's a documentarian--thus, the camera. And you've already spoken with my assistant, M'swa, over the phone, I understand."

"Yes, but she wasn't very forthcoming. I must admit to some confusion, Your Highness," Nobolo said smugly. "What is the purpose of this visit?"

"As you know, I've been away recently--trapped in another dimension, and thought dead," T'Challa replied as he reminded himself of his time in a world of Franklin Richards' creation. "In the meantime, you have taken full control of Rudyarda. Since we are neighbors--globally, that is--I thought it proper to get acquainted with you and your country."

Nobolo's tone became more tense, though to T'Challa, it seemed rather forced. "Don't expect to visit the areas that have been prohibited--I can't let you go there."

T'Challa shrugged. "I didn't expect as much. However, I'll be sure to open all parts of Wakanda to you--that is, if you decide to visit."

Nobolo nodded with that look of forced anger, turned suddenly, and lead his entourage, encouraging T'Challa's to follow. "I'm sure I'll see plenty of Wakanda...in due time."

Hope City, later that evening:

In Nobolo's royal court, both Nobolo's and T'Challa's parties sat patiently, waiting for their evening meal. Out of fear on one end, and respect on the other, neither party took the opportunity to speak--not when their respective leaders were.

"So what do you think, T'Challa?" Nobolo asked, his hands folded in front of him, hardly acknowledging the young servant woman who had arrived with his goblet of wine.

"To tell you the truth, I'm a bit disheartened," he replied, giving a quick, charming grin to that same servant, who delivered his glass.

"Oh, how so?" Nobolo asked.

"It's almost as if Rudyarda is--is--stuck in the past, like so many of our African neighbors."

Nobolo seemed to take an inkling of offense. "I apologize that we haven't Wakanda's wealth or technological advancements. Perhaps we should organize a bake sell, and gather funds for Rudyarda!" Nobolo was joined by his group on one end of the long table in laughter.

T'Challa, too, gave an abbreviated smirk, amused by Nobolo's unrefined behavior. "I'm not referring to the the technology in Rudyarda," T'Challa explained. "I'm referring to the people, and the customs here. They are so outdated, they almost seem backwards."

Nobolo tried to act oblivious to T'Challa's accusations, but T'Challa sensed that Nobolo knew precisely how Rudyarda's customs were perceived by him and the rest of the world. "Oh--do go on."

T'Challa looked around the large dining hall for effective examples, of which there were many. "Like...like HER, for example," T'Challa said, pointing to the meek servant rounding the table, and startling her with the sudden attention. "Can you tell me that this young woman is considered equal in your society, Mr. Nobolo?"

Nobolo shook his head. "Of course not--but this isn't an American democracy. Everybody has their place, and everybody knows what their place is, here."

"Perhaps some people's places are too high," T'Challa risked, staring Nobolo in the eye.

"You dare--" Nobolo replied rather calmly, until something seemed to click, and his expression changed. "--you DARE to question my hard-earned position as king of this nation? You DARE?!" He rose from the table and swung at T'Challa with an open palm, which was swiftly stopped by T'Challa's firm grip.

Two seats down from T'Challa, separated by M'swa, Jeff was both surprised and confused when M'swa stood in protection of her king before even his actual bodyguards did. He and T'Challa were the only people still sitting.

"I DO dare--it's why I'm here," T'Challa replied in a comparatively calmer tone.

Nobolo almost swung at T'Challa with his other fist, but thought better of it, and grinned, satisfied, as he fell back into his seat. "I think it's time you showed yourselves out now...Your Highness," he stated vaingloriously.

"Yes," T'Challa nodded, standing from his seat. "I think you are correct." As he started out the exit, he passed the servant girl, and put a gentle, inspiring hand on her shoulder that did not go unnoticed by Nobolo.

"We all have our place," Nobolo said to him before he could leave. "We all have our place...!"

At the landing pad outside of the Royal Court, T'Challa's assembly somberly entered the NightStar, disappointed by this perceived failure on their first leg of their crusade across the continent--T'Challa included.

Before he could board the vessel, he heard his name called softly-yet-urgently from behind.

"Your Highness! King T'Challa!"

He turned to see Nobolo's wife, Hope, rushing after him.

"Mrs. Nobolo?"

She stopped short of him and looked around, trying to find her words. "I...I must apologize for my husband's behavior. It would be a lie to say that his actions were uncharacteristic of him, but--"

"--I know his ilk. I knew how he would react when I arrived here--though I do admit to some confusion, as his actions seemed to lack sincerity. Also," his voice shifted to a more enchanting tone, "I'm perplexed as to why a woman as kind-hearted as you would take that man's hand in marriage, Mrs. Nobolo."

"Oh, please, do not call me that," she replied. "Call me Hope--I...I am ashamed by the name 'Nobolo'." She suddenly became frustrated, but opened up to T'Challa nonetheless. "I was...forced...into marriage with. The marriage was arranged by my father, who is a legendary slavelord here in Rudyarda. When Cecil and his army claimed Rudyarda and spread their violent power across the nation, my father offered me to Cecil, and in return, my father was left alone by the new government army."

"Even Nobolo must feel SOME love for you--he named this capitol after you, after all," T'Challa said.

"A provision of my father's agreement with Cecil," Hope explained dejectedly.

T'Challa shook his head in disgust and gently took her jewel-adorned hands. "And YOU do not love Nobolo?"

She looked down with regret. "Only...when he makes me."

He sighed. "Things will be better, Hope. I promise you."

T'Challa reluctantly let her go and boarded the NightStar. It was not an empty promise that he made, but at the same time, it was not much that she could take comfort in, he imagined as he took the pilot's seat.

In dismayed silence, Hope returned to the Royal Court, and the NightStar returned home.

Hours later, Hope City, Rudyarda:

Never had Cecil Nobolo anticipated his nightly visit to the Tower of Truths than this night--so much so that he hardly acknowledged the number of guards stationed at all levels of the high-rise structure.

The tower itself had long ago been a proposed, state-of-the-art facility for dining and admiring the view from eighty stories above the ground of Rudyarda--it was called Rudyarda's Heaven. Its basic design was nothing short of an imitation of America's famed Space Needle--however, it's saucer section rotated constantly, slowly displaying the whole of Rudyarda. The finished interior of the complex was to be unrivaled by anything of the time-- --until Cecil Nobolo and his army of rebels conquered Rudyarda.

Since then, the Tower of Truths had been converted to act as the home of Nobolo's mysteriously wise benefactor--the very same woman he was reporting to tonight--the woman who referred to herself simply as Futura.

The doors from the elevator lift to her top-level chambers slid open, and upon entering, Nobolo was enveloped in the ever-present darkness of the massive, rotating dwelling, which Futura had long preferred.

"Good evening, Cecil," she greeted in her monotone-yet-authoritatively female voice.

He observed her silhouette peering out the endlessly circular window that surrounded the rotating room, as she stood with her back to him.

"Good evening, Futura." Nobolo struggled to keep from stuttering--even still, after nearly two years of association with this woman, he was nervous in her presence--as well he should have been. "I have much to report--MUCH to report."

"You played your part, I assume?" she asked, never moving from her place at the window.

"I did. T'Challa was sufficiently displeased with our meeting, I believe."

"Only time will tell if his displeasure is sufficient or not. But we shall no soon enough. Now you have dealt with the Consortium and their minions*, only we stand in the Panther's way."

(*the menacing Consortium appeared in #5-9--Sam)

"Futura," Nobolo offered, "the crux of my conversation with T'Challa focussed on the differences in our cultures. As you know, Rudyarda's heritage is based on hundreds and hundreds of years of African culuture passed down through the generations, while Wakanda's culture seems to be based on very...Americanistic views."

"I am aware of this, yes," Futura replied.

"Well," Nobolo continued, cursing himself for his weakness toward Futura--she was the only person he could admit to fearing, "I thought it appropriate that when we DO confront T'Challa and his people--as you have foreseen will happen--he is faced with the worst that America has to offer, to demoralize him and his values."

She was silent for a moment--Nobolo knew she was "calculating" this as she did every proposed action. "That would be acceptable. And let me applaud your sense of irony, Your Highness. You are free to send a band of men to contract an American to work alongside us."

He bowed to her out of gratitude, though her turned position had not noticed. "Thank you," he said as he started for the elevator.

"It is only a matter of time, Your Highness," Future said as he parted. "It is only a matter of time...."

And as King Nobolo stepped into the elevator and watched the doors slide shut in front of him, chills ran through him upon her words; he was sure that despite their alliance, she had not told him all there was to know.

PANTHER TALES

First, thanks to Francisco Araujo da Costa, for helping out with a country near Wakanda! In fact, the staff appreciates his help so much that we accidently deleted his letter to us regarding BLACK PANTHER #11! Oops! Sorry about that, 'Cisco! Guess you'll have to write in again! : )

A bit of interest seems to have been generated in the Panther lately, so let's get to the letters!

Thanks for writing in, Raj! We'll freely admit that it was filler, but as long as you liked it, that's all that matters! Still, we're promising NO MORE filler from now on, okay?

Here's a letter from Kell Carpenter (author of SQUADRON SUPREME and THUNDERSTRIKE) which was posted on the MV1talk list:

Thanks, Kell! You would know about highly recommended reading, since you write a lot of it : ) As far as this series resembling the "real" Marvel series, we hope it doesn't! After all, isn't MV1 supposed to be about giving you something that Marvel hasn't or won't? So please, readers, if we start to mirror Marvel's series too much, let us know!

This last letter, regarding BLACK PANTHER ANNUAL #1, is from none other than Kell Carpenter...again!

Thanks again, Kell! We can officially call you a loyal reader now, right? We're sure 'Cisco would thank you, as well, if he wasn't so busy spitting yet another MV1 adventure from his keyboard! : ) More of Francisco's work can be found in CHILDREN OF THE ATOM, and WOLVERINE, as well as various anthologies across MV1!

Next issue: A Wakandan celebration, a new foe, and a surprise guest-star as the Dark Crusade continues!