They never saw it coming.

True, Wakandans had come to expect the unexpected. It was inherent in them, as they shared a nation with Vibranium--one of the most coveted substances in the cosmos--and lived under the rule of their brave, benevolent king, T’Challa, the Black Panther. While Vibranium held the key to many modern technological wonders, so too did it invite the ambitious treachery that only the blackhearted could render. As well, the Black Panther lived only to protect his kingdom from those who would corrupt it with evil, but at the same time, it was he who was often the target of those same wicked souls.

The most recent being the beastly Man-Ape, who, one day ago, led an artillery of neighboring Rudyardan soldiers into Central Wakanda, intent on destroying the Wakandan Gala hosted in the capitol city and slaughtering its people. And, taking advantage of the party-goers’ bewilderment, slaughter and destroy they did, the best they could before the Black Panther arrived to defend his people.

If nothing else, THAT was expected.

The Rudyardans had retreated once the Panther had defeated Man-Ape, but the damage had been done. Central Wakanda’s downtown area had been deemed a disaster area, and city crews worked long hours in the humid night and blistering morning to rescue survivors of the massacre and clear the rubble of the buildings burned to the ground.

They never saw it coming.

“Halt! Steady that crane!” came the cry from one young crewman as he rushed cautiously into a shapeless pile of shattered concrete, holding his hand up to warn the operator maneuvering the crane several feet away. “I hear something! Someone is alive in here!”

Instantly, he was joined by more crews as well as several rescue workers, who all helped to clear the rubble, carefully as to save the poor soul trapped inside from further harm. Muffled, snarling moans grew louder, and so the crew worked faster, feeling as though they were making progress, though no one had yet seen any physical trace of the crushed victim.

They never saw it coming.

Suddenly, the first worker, most entrenched in the rubble, stopped, and gasped, “By the Heavens! What--?”

In the depths of the concrete debris, he discerned in a chunk of wreckage the intricately carved image of the face of a tigerlike beast, its slitted eyes angled upward, its snout riddled with what must have been bite marks, its whiskers short and stubby, and its mouth deformed by the razor-sharp fangs which protruded from each side. Its mouth--

“--Moving! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The other workers peered their heads further into the debris to behold what their co-worker was seeing--what could strike him so suddenly. After all, bodies came out of the rubble in all sorts of conditions--some living, some otherwise--and so nothing should have startled this man so--

They never saw it coming.

Before they could register the image, the stone beast jumped onto its four, thick, concrete legs, causing the debris on which the workers stood to slide outward, away from the stone-carved animal, and trapping THEM beneath it.

The stone-cat’s eyes were no longer slitted, but wide with the images of a new world--a city full of life--full of prey! And so the stone-tiger charged through the ruined streets, evoking first awe, and then fear from those humans upon whom it would soon feast.

They ran, but it ran faster--

--and soon, it had friends, for the remaining piles of concrete along the street came alive and morphed into various forms of dangerous creature, including a lion, a camel, a vulture, a chimpanzee, and most destructively, an elephant, all given the dull grey color of the concrete from which they had formed, and all stampeding through the street searching for anything to kill. They would not be stopped.

They never saw it coming.

With fearful shrieks, the city crews and rescuers ran all directions, desperately seeking safety from the concrete-born predators. Some evaded the ferocity of the beasts by hiding in the alleyways between the downtown buildings still standing, while others were chased up fire escapes and through the open windows of recently-abandoned streetside businesses. But most were too overcome with dread to let their legs stop churning. And between the human and animal stampedes alike, a cloud of dust rose from the street.

And though they could not see it coming through the cloud, the Black Panther arrived...

“RAAWWWWK!!!” came the muffled cry of the airborne, stone-vulture, suddenly weighed down by the force of the Black Panther, his hands wrapped around the vulture’s long neck. Unable to control its flight, the stone aviator twisted disgracefully into the stirred dust and toward the ground, carrying its same-size passenger until the very last moment before, with a CROO-ASSHH!!! it returned to the form from which it was born: a pile of rubble.

The Panther met the street with lithe and power, already in a sprint toward the stampede of stone-fauna that molested his people. With a desperate grasp, he took hold of the tail of the stone-tiger, and whipped it around him and through the frame of a burned building.

The stone-lion offered more of a struggle, as its bulk prevented a similar demise. Still, the Black Panther tackled the galloping cat, wrestling him to the ground, punching through the lion’s concrete chest with one hand while staving off its deadly jaws with the other. But the lion managed a frantic swat with its massive paw, and struggled to its feet while the Panther completed a pained roll into the gutter.

As he stood to rejoin the concrete beast in battle, he was brought to his knees from behind by the stone-chimpanzee that wrapped its thin arms around him. Instinctively, the Black Panther thrust the chimp over his back and into the wide-eyed face of the swiftly approaching stone-lion, sustaining fatal damage to both lifeless creatures.

That sort of stress does something to the senses, and in the chaos, the Panther failed to detect the gradually-intensifying rumble rattling the remains of the whole of Downtown. That is, until the looming shadow of the blitzing stone-elephant swalllowed him, and in that beast’s lowered head, he stared fate in the eye.

He never saw it coming...

...and then...

FA-WHOOSH!!!

A tense moment before the Black Panther would meet an end most unpleasant, the once-raging elephant instantly crumbled into an inanimate mass of debris at the hero’s feet.

“Whew...”

And then, a raspy voice of gravel captivated the attention of those along the street caught in the stampede, and, like the Panther, they turned to view an unreal, reddened, hobbling, bearded man of stone, crowned in a turbin, robed in ragged, browned cloth, his empty, petrified eyes filled with desperation.

“Lord...T’Challa...you must...help me....”

***

In the Royal Chambers’ beeping and humming recovery room, T’Challa was joined by his personal aide, twenty-five year old Wakandan native M’swa, and the chubby, caucasian, American documentarian, Jeffrey Hoffman, who even now was filming not the target of his documentary, but instead, the shut-off target of his affections: M’swa.

T’Challa noted the budding similarities in his two young companions. Despite the amount of time they had spent together recently, it seemed Jeffrey had not outwardly influenced M’swa, though M’swa had managed--unintentionally, no doubt--to affect Jeffrey’s attitude and dress. While he still insisted on covering his bleached hair with ball caps and wearing American tennis shoes, he had recently begun sporting the African-flavored shirts and beaded bracelets not normally seen on one who otherwise resembled a tourist. On M’swa, these accessories were expected, along with the sleeveless dresses she favored, and the long, dark, countless, intricate braids that swayed elegantly from side to side when she walked. No, they could not be more different, but T’Challa would always be amused at Jeffrey’s attempts to change that fact.

Together, all three stood over the weak, stone form of the blind man who had called himself Ozymandias. He was free of conventional medical procedures; even Wakanda’s best doctors were ignorant of what could possibly ail a man of stone, much less how to heal him.

“You say that it was YOU who generated those stone creatures?” the unmasked Panther confirmed.

“Yes,” Ozymandias managed. “And it was I who eventually returned them to their original forms. I am sincerely regretful for any damage inflicted by my accidental creations, but my...gift...for conception has been maliciously triggered by the machinations of one with whom you are not yet familar, though she has procured you nothing but despair recently.”

“Please explain,” T’Challa gently insisted.

“In recent weeks, you have become the source of enmity for the neighboring nation of Rudyarda, correct?”

T’Challa nodded.

“And all this time, you have been under the assumption that its king, the one called Nobolo, has been at the heart of Rudyarda’s ill-will toward your Wakanda...but you have been wrong. Even before Nobolo overthrew the previous Rudyardan government, he has been guided by the heinous hand of she who now, essentially, owns his soul. Her name is Futura, and she is the true ruler behind the most dangerous puppet government ever conceived.”

“’Futura’?” M’swa asked. “Just who is she?”

“She is one whose gift and whose nature do not suit each other. Indeed, like myself, she is a prophet, possessing the rare ability to see all the possibilities that the future offers. Despite what you may believe, this premonitory ability allows its possessor to do much more than submit to a known fate--no, he who can predict his fate can thus CHANGE his fate. And he who has such power, but with a larger scope--the power to predict the fate of the world entire--can change the world. And he who posseses both this power AND a heart black as night...can ravage that world.”

“I suppose Futura fills that last role,” T’Challa sighed.

“Indeed, she does.”

“So, by predicting the future, she can control events,” M’swa interjected, “like positioning pieces on a chess board.”

Ozymandias gave a feeble nod of confirmation.

“But what end is she seeing through?” she continued. “Why has she taken control of Rudyarda?”

“Quite simply, she needs a gateway into Wakanda, and an army to conquer your fair kingdom, Lord T’Challa.”

That sent a chill through T’Challa. He was accustomed to defending Wakanda from the likes of Klaw and Man-Ape, but this “Futura” was an unknown quantity--so calculating, so in control.

“Well, why didn’t she just come into Wakanda and tear it apart from the inside?” Jeff asked from behind his video camera. “She could have amassed an army of Wakandans to dethrone T’Challa just as easily.”

M’swa rolled her eyes at Jeffrey’s scenario. “You have been here for weeks, yet you still have no understanding of our nation. Wakandans would never take up arms against their king.”

T’Challa blushed--he knew it to be true, and just now, he was grateful, for if this Futura was as dangerous as Ozymandias claimed, then he would certainly need the support of the people, if not their added bastion, to protect his kingdom.

“Has she chosen Wakanda for any specific reason? Or is this yet another attempt at conquest?” he asked.

“That I cannot say,” Ozymandias replied, “My prophetic power is unable to unravel that particular enigma.”

“In the end, it doesn’t matter,” T’Challa proclaimed. “She poses a threat to Wakanda, so she must be stopped, along with Nobolo and any others who would seek to harm our nation.”

“Sire, no disrespect meant,” M’swa started, “but how can we be certain of Ozymandias’ story?”

Provoked, Ozymandias suddenly rose in the bed. “You dare, stripling--?”

She did not back down in her response. “Surely your motives for helping us aren’t completely benevolent. Too often, one threat will appease the innocent by claiming another.”

“You refuse to fight, young one?” Ozymandias shot back, his blank eyes piercing M’swa’s. “You MUST fight. YOU, of anyone, must fight...while you still can...”

Her brow furrowed at his cryptic words. “What’s that supposed to--?”

Before she could further respond in protest, T’Challa placed a firm hand on his headstrong assistant’s chestnut shoulder. “Please, M’swa, we know nothing of Ozymandias, and so we have no reason to doubt him. Whether or not the danger he claims is true, Rudyarda is a threat nonetheless--a threat that has reared its head once too often--a threat that must be dealt with, lest Wakanda’s morale, and its population, decline further.”

Reluctantly, and with a scornful glare at the ever-mysterious Ozymandias, she ceded to T’Challa’s wisdom, but he knew her suspicion still brewed behind those burning brown eyes, and he had to wonder if, indeed, it was warranted.

***

Within an hour, in the hangar on a hilltop overlooking the Royal Chambers, T’Challa and Jeff made their way into the NightStar, the Black Panther’s own custom quinjet, while the King’s entourage supplied the craft with artillery and medical supplies. If Ozymandias’ story held any truth, then battle would be fierce, and these things would be needed, T’Challa lamented.

“You’re certain you wish to join me on this excursion?” he asked Jeff as they took their places in the cockpit of the vessel.

Jeff nodded as he loaded a blank tape into his handheld video camera. “Yeah. I mean, it’s my job. I can’t hide here in Wakanda just because your mission’s gonna be dangerous. Still,” he smiled, “I kinda wish you hadn’t turned the Avengers away yesterday.*”

(*see BLACK PANTHER ANNUAL #2--ain’t Jess Nevins awesome?--Sam)

“Oh?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jeff continued. “After those stunts you performed during the Rudyardan invasion,* I’m convinced your abilities are as impressive as everyone makes them out to be. It’s just that, well, the Avengers are...familiar...to me, y’know? They’re such a presence back in the States, and even though I’ve never been in awe of super-folks, they still remind me of home. I guess you could say they bring me comfort, and that’s something I haven’t really found here in Wakanda.”

(*see last issue--Sam’s pretty good too, no?--uh...not Sam)

“Anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant,” T’Challa replied with genuine concern as he punched various commands into the cockpit console, “just say the word.”

“Any way you could persuade M’swa to stay in MY room?” Jeff responded with a devilish smirk.

“You’ve taken quite a liking to her, haven’t you?”

“Yeah...yeah...I have. She’s about the only thing that makes me happy here. I know, she treats me like a dog, but that’s just because I act like one. And even though that’s the case, she saved my life yesterday. She probably hates my guts, but she saved me. I feel like...like--”

“--Like you are in her debt, now?” T’Challa finished.

“No...heck, how could I ever repay her, y’know? No, I’m a pain in her neck, but she was still looking out for me. That’s a rare person that’d do that for anyone. She’s special. Just real special--at least, to me, she is.”

“I feel the same way,” T’Challa agreed. “Can I tell you something, Jeffrey? Just between you and I?”

Jeff looked hopefully into T’Challa’s intense eyes. What revelation lurked behind that stare, waiting to burst from his tongue? Did Missy have secrets only T’Challa knew?

T’Challa indulged, “Your camera has been recording this entire conversation.”

Jeff’s face grew long. “CRAP! CRAP!” He frantically manipulated the camera’s buttons, attempting to erase the tape. If Missy ever heard their discussion...!

***

Three miles outside Hope City, Rudyarda:

One down.

Darren “Top Cat” Carter was the king. The King of New York. He was wanted. Wanted by more than the five-oh. The dopeheads wanted His powder. The old man in the deli wanted His protection. The ladies wanted His attention. Even the mommies working the corner wanted more than His dollar. They all wanted the security of His power--asylum from His wrath. They wanted to be a part of His ghetto monarchy. As His subjects, loyal subjects, they wanted to please Him. The King of New York.

Two down.

He wasn’t in New York anymore. Oceans, deserts, and thousands of miles separated him from his kingdom. This was Africa. He had never wanted to return to the “Motherland.” That was for other brothers. At twenty-five, he was too occupied with controlling his own blocks to branch out internationally. There were enough fiends in the ghetto to sustain his lavish lifestyle. Enough subjects to offer their life to their king.

Three.

But now, he was just another subject to King Cecil Nobolo. Just another grunt in the Rudyardan army. Reluctant. But there. A few nights before, he had been ambushed by a Rudyardan helicopter crew, taken from Brooklyn’s urban salvation, forced onto a plane outside of the city, and flown to Rudyarda, deep in the heart of Africa.* A whole new kingdom, ruled by Nobolo.

(*see #13--Sam)

Four.

When he arrived in Rudyarda’s capitol, Hope City, Nobolo had explained to Carter that Rudyarda was at war with its neighbor, Wakanda. Carter had recognized the name. Wakanda was the Black Panther’s home. He could almost respect the Panther, who devoted his entire life to protecting what was his. So when Nobolo told him that he had been abducted in order to defeat the Panther, Carter was hesitant. But when Nobolo explained that if he didn’t force the costumed monarch from Wakanda, Carter would be killed, “Top Cat” had to tuck his tail between his legs. Wasn’t easy--he’d kill Nobolo if he ever got the chance. Wasn’t something he’d tell his homies back in BK, either--but at least he’d BE back in Brooklyn. So he agreed. Tagged along with the Rudyardan army on Nobolo’s orders, and in Nobolo’s ultimate, vindictive irony, Carter would be the American to run the Americanistic Panther out of Wakanda, without killing him.

Five.

Then the training had begun. Carter was stripped of his royal garb--his two-thousand dollar suits, his four-hundred dollar shoes, his frozen wrists and gleaming fingers. Decked out in army fatigues, just like the other Rudyardan goons beside him during the combat drills. Nobolo let him keep his two four-fives, though--made sense, figuring they were Carter’s instruments of power during his New York reign. He was also treated with a little more delicacy during the training sessions. After all, he was destined to face off with the Black Panther.

Six.

This afternoon’s drill had become intense. Carter had been assigned to a unit with eight experienced Rudyardan soldiers, and shipped to the jungles outside of Hope City. Him. In the jungle, of all places. The unit was prey. And they didn’t even know who their predator was.

Seven.

Seven men. Downed. By the hunter. That left Carter and one other soldier to fend off the beast. But the jungle was thick with golden, dry brush, and the dust stirred by the other soldiers’ fearful, futile attempts at escape stung Carter’s eyes. He wanted to fire aimlessly into the brush. Let sparks fly until the hunter was dead. But that method would just get him buried against the Panther if the meeting ever took place.

Eight men down!

He was alone. Him and his guns. And his enemy was silent, except for the trampling of dead foliage that could have come from anywhere around Carter.

“Behind you, American.”

The gruff, raspiness of the hunter’s voice stilled Carter. Out of fear. He wouldn’t admit THAT one when he got home, either.

“Turn around,” the voice commanded.

Carter tightened his fingers around the triggers. Just in case. Hesitantly, he did as he was told, and found a hulking, behemoth of a man, his white-furred gorilla garb matted and dripping with the blood of his eight previous victims.

“Step closer. Bring it,” Carter threatened, pistols raised high.

The gorilla-man smiled a grotesque, crooked-toothed smile, and motioned for Carter to lower his arms. “I won’t kill you as I did the others. Even if Nobolo let me, I wouldn’t.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you, whoever you are?” Carter snorted, his pieces still up. He tried desperately to keep cool, but he could feel his voice breaking. “I’ll pull! I will! I don’t give a--”

“My name is M’baku, the Man-Ape, and you are much too valuable to me. Nobolo has you under his wing. He has promised to spare your life in return for the Panther’s absence, no? Perhaps he has even offered riches?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Carter replied. “Nothin’ that’s worth this.”

“Is anything worth your honor and your pride? Nobolo cannot be trusted with those things, because he doesn’t possess them. Once you perform your task, he will brush you aside. You will be left without riches, and without honor.”

“So what are you tryin’ to say? He’s got me against a wall here. What am I supposed to do?”

M’baku stepped in closer, and his eyes pierced Carter’s own. “Soon, there will come a reckoning for us all--Nobolo, the Panther, yourself, myself. Every person inside of Rudyarda’s and Wakanda’s borders. When it happens, I want you by my side.”

“I don’t know you, man! How can I trust you?”

“I could have killed you just now, for the mere sport of it, just as I slayed the others. I could have, but I did not. If this is not proof enough, I am certain that Nobolo will soon give you a reason for distrust.”

Carter sighed. Things had gone from bad to worse.

He had no idea.

His two-way radio crackled to life, and Nobolo’s authoritative voice came through.

“Carter, I’m sending a transport to retrieve you and the others, if they’re still alive. Hope City is under attack. The Black Panther is here.”

***

The NightStar sped into Hope City’s starless night.

It was worse than T’Challa had remembered from his earlier visit. The city was an impoverished wasteland. Toothless old women, some holding rag doll children, slept in unpaved, gutterless streets--the animalistic male vagrants had claimed the storefronts and alleys. This under the pitiless eye of a constant herd of troops who hoofed across their dreary range on their king’s orders, looting the few remaining grociers of their meager earnings, seizing purses and wallets for what little they held.

T’Challa was reminded of the commitment he had made weeks ago. The commitment to spread Wakanda’s prosperity to its African neighbors. And, through the view below him, he was reminded of why he chose to help Rudyarda first: this once-thriving nation now suffered under the very tyranny he had come to abolish.

He had come to abolish.

The NightStar slowed and made a vertical landing in the bright green lawn leading to Hope City’s sole, shining landmark, the Royal Court. Ten ornamented acres inside of a well-guarded stone wall, surrounded by another acre adorned with gushing fountains and smothering shrubbery no doubt designed to make the citezenry’s empty hearts flutter.

The exhaust units on the quinjet’s underbelly splashed heated air that momentarily deterred the Court’s blurred guards. In that moment’s time, the NightStar’s rear hatch lowered open, and the first wave, a dozen of T’Challa’s most skilled personal guards, stormed out of the humming transport, firing at the Royal Court’s defenders. Rubber bullets from loaded rifles--T’Challa would not allow another needless death.

Nobolo’s men had other plans. They had greater numbers, and held as much regard for Wakanda’s finest as they did the helpless on the streets.

So the dozen fought harder. Not for their own lives, but for those helpless. Fought harder, with the skill their wise king had imparted in them. Fought to take Nobolo’s lavish Court. Bush by bush, fountain by fountain, wing by wing, man by man. Some died when honorless bullets tore through noble hearts, and the blood of the brave spotted the flesh of their comrades still living, still fighting with that same bravery.

But there were too many Rudyardans, and for each new section of the Court’s exterior the Wakandans claimed, they lost a man. They stood tall, but they knew they didn’t stand a chance.

Second wave.

The Black Panther led M’swa, Jeffrey (video camera over his shoulder), and the infirmed Ozymandias from the NightStar in a charge into the ground not yet claimed by the first wave of warriors. No guns for this group. Just determination. And, for the Panther and M’swa, fists that struck with power enough to shatter jaws; feet that kicked the concious into a comatose oblivion. All the way to the looming entrance’s two-foot thick, locked, steel doors.

Standing beside M’swa, Ozymandias, Jeffrey, and the six remaining Wakandan elite--and before the sea of failed, unconscious Rudyardan guards--Black Panther said, “Jeffrey, Ozymandias, stay clear now. I can’t allow you to follow us into the Royal Court.”

“T’Challa, I’ve GOT to get this on film,” Jeffrey pleaded.

“Listen to T’Challa, Jeffrey,” M’swa scolded. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care, Missy,” Jeffrey replied, his voice filled with a desperate reverie that chilled M’swa, for his words seemed aimed especially at her.

“The King is correct,” Ozymandias interjected. “We would only hinder his effort.”

Jeffrey’s face reddened with the anger of reluctant submission. He carelessly dropped his camera to his side and stomped back toward the distant NightStar.

Ozymandias bowed to T’Challa’s assemblage. “For the sake of the world, I pray you succeed,” he solemnly offered before departing in Jeffrey’s wake.

The Panther turned to his remaining warriors with slitted eyes and a tone meant for inspiration--not that it was in shortage.

“We’ve made it this far, my friends--my fellow freedom fighters. But we still have far to go. When we tear down this wall, we won’t be done. When we seize this complex, we won’t be done. When we capture and dethrone Nobolo, we won’t be done. When we discover and disable whoever is behind Nobolo’s tyranny--be it Futura or another--we won’t be done. We won’t be done until Rudyarda’s liberation inspires those bonded by evil to break their chains, with our help. This is only the beginning. And you are the first. Your names will be sung in sacred songs, your families--”

--KRAKA-SHOOM!!!

A grenade blew the entrance apart from the other side. Wakanda’s warriors lay lost under an unceremonious burial of rubble.

May as well have been dead, as far as those on the streets, ready to join the Wakandans in the afterlife’s limbo, were concerned.

The living dead had been failed.

***

Jeffrey had heard the explosion from the NightStar’s relative safety. And despite T’Challa’s order, he had started back toward the Royal Court (without his camera), ready to help. If M’swa was--

Don’t think about that.

He would have kept on running toward the black smoke he saw in the distance, if not for the cadre of armed storm troopers rushing toward him. Since Ozymandias had inexplicably failed to return to the NightStar, escape was the only answer now. Escape, then call for help.

So he ran the other way. Ran until he lost the troopers. Ran out of the city. Ran for longer than he knew. Ran into the surrounding, dense jungle, blind by the night. Ran for anyone who could help. Ran until his lungs burned and his legs stung. Ran until he couldn’t anymore.

“Need...help...” he gurgled past the thick phlegm collected in the back of his throat.

He couldn’t run. But, by God, he could still crawl. And he did. He crawled past dense, dry brush that couldn’t penetrate him, and insects and arachnids that couldn’t scare him. He crawled to his last conscious breath.

“Need...help...”

Then he fell...

...and felt a musty, inhuman hand grab his own. The feel of the hand, it excited his consciousness, kept him awake a few moments longer. The feel of the hand...like....

Ivory.

“Hmph,” the hand’s owner chuckled. “Weird world. I lose myself in the African wilds for months, and darn near the first person I see after all this time turns out to be a fellow American. ‘Course, I’m used to weird. My name’s Ivoryman, for cryin’ out loud!”

TO BE CONTINUED!!!

***

Next Issue: The Truth.

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