Shuri

by Nic Stone

  “Which type?” the man says without missing a beat.

  At this, Shuri turns to Hunter, not sure she heard the man correctly. Hunter just shrugs.

  “There is only one type, sir—”

  “Incorrect.”

  “Huh?”

  “There are two known types of Vibranium: Antarctic, the location of which is self-explanatory, and Wakandan, found only in the insular East African nation known as the Wakandas.”

  The princess tries not to take offense at the word insular.

  She also wonders if there really is a supply of Vibranium in Antarctica. The notion seems absurd based on what she’s been taught her whole life: Vibranium was a gift from Bast and Wakanda is the only nation on Earth with access to it.

  But a lot of what she thought she knew has been upended—it’s why she’s here. Really, is it that far-fetched an idea?

  She sets it on a back burner for now. “I mean the type found in Wakanda—”

  “Is that where you’re from?” The scientist whips around, and Shuri takes a step backward despite there already being a significant amount of distance between them.

  She decides to ignore the question—just in case. “Say there was a plant whose cells became infused with Wakandan Vibranium.”

  His eyes narrow as his gaze shifts to a point somewhere above Shuri’s head. “It is feasible, yes.”

  “Based on what you know of Wakandan Vibranium, would a change in the climate or the soil cause that plant to die?”

  “Has the plant been moved?” He returns to one of his machines and fiddles with a few dials.

  “No, sir,” Shuri replies.

  “Then no. I have studied both forms of Vibranium—there is an amount of the Wakandan variety in Captain America’s shield, in fact—and nothing organic in the earthly sense could disintegrate Vibranium bonds with any other cells. Additionally, the Vibranium itself would cause the plant to be highly adaptable to changes in climate and natural shifts in soil pH,” he says.

  Shuri deflates. “Okay,” she says, trying to keep her voice level. “So what could cause Vibranium-infused organic matter to shrivel and die?”

  Now he turns to her and smiles. Which makes her want to leap from her own skin. “Well, Princess,” he says, and Hunter steps forward.

  “Watch it, old man.”

  How does he know who I am? Shuri thinks.

  Selvig waves the brutish man off and rotates on a heel to begin pacing again. “The only thing that could disrupt Vibranium bonds with organic matter—like plant cells—would be a foreign agent. A poison—”

  “But I checked the cells—”

  He holds up a hand and Shuri’s mouth snaps shut. “A poison in the sense of a substance that causes illness or death in living organisms, but one not typically found in nature,” he goes on. “Which would mean one of two things.” He stops moving and stands up straight with his hands behind his back. “Has there been any abnormal celestial activity over the Wakandas as of late?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shuri says.

  “Correct!” Selvig’s finger shoots into the air. “The most recent celestial disturbance was over the city of Chicago two nights ago, in fact.”

  This guy is so weird, Shuri thinks. “Okay …”

  “So there’s your answer. You may go.”

  Baffled, the princess actually looks around. “Huh?”

  “You’re dealing with a mutated substance.” He whips around and looks at her like Duh, you dummy.

  “Uhhh … all right. So this substance is undetectable at the molecular level?”

  “None of that matters,” he says before his eyes alight on an instrument to Shuri and Hunter’s right. He races over to check it. “Your plants aren’t dying naturally, and you need to change your question. It’s not what is killing them. It’s who.”

  Shuri’s mind is reeling as she and Hunter ascend what feel like eight billion steps to get back to ground level from Dr. Selvig’s laboratory. Hunter’s contact—the squirrelly guy who flinches every time the White Wolf blinks in his direction—leads them down a hall away from the festivities in the grand ballroom, and soon the cool night air is hitting Shuri’s face.

  Could what Dr. Selvig suggested be true? Is there someone inside Wakanda deliberately poisoning the heart-shaped herb? Shuri hates to admit it, but the whole way up from the lab, all she could think about was Ororo. Not because the princess thinks she’s poisoning the herb … but because “who” and “mutated” make Shuri think of mutants. (Is that discrimination? she wonders.)

  Are there any mutants inside Wakanda? That would make them Wakandan mutants. The thought of which is jarring, but … well, why wouldn’t there be?

  But also: Why would a Wakandan want to kill the heart-shaped herb?

  The princess is silent for the entire drive back to the outpost, and though she catches Lena eyeing her with concern more than once, Shuri is thankful when the woman doesn’t ask any questions.

  A call comes in mere minutes before they reach their destination, and it’s clear from the wary looks and hushed exchange of whispers that the trio of Wakandan (former?) secret agents is being called to a mission that doesn’t involve babysitting a pair of tween rogues.

  Once they’ve pulled the car into an underground garage at the back of the building, Lena turns to Shuri. “Princess, we must attend to some business in the city, but you and your travel companions will be safe here. I will escort you upstairs—”

  “That’s okay. Just tell me which floor, and you all can go.”

  Lena opens her mouth—surely to rebut—but then closes it and nods. “Very well, Your Majesty,” she says, removing a single bead from her Kimoyo bracelet. “You will need to hold this up to the security scanner within the elevator. Fourth floor. A room has been prepared for you next door to your friend, whom I believe is resting still. You’re the third door on the left. Ororo requested quarters with roof access, so she’s one floor up at the opposite end of the long hallway.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Lena.” Shuri moves to exit the vehicle.

  But Lena’s hand lands on her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right, Shuri?” she says, face ablaze with what Shuri can only describe as readiness to throw down.

  It makes the princess feel safer than she has in quite a long while. Which impels her to tell the truth: “To be honest, Lena, I’m not.” Shuri turns to her and smiles. “But I will be.”

  They all watch as Shuri steps into the elevator, and she waves as the doors slide shut.

  But she doesn’t press the button for the fourth floor. Because right now, Shuri’s mind is whirring like a centrifuge, trying to separate what she knows for sure from that which she can only speculate about.

  When she gets like this at home, the princess either fidgets with something or takes a long walk. Since it’s a delightfully cool night and she doesn’t have enough raw Vibranium or the tools she needs to refine it in order to begin the infusion trials on the polyelastane fabric, she chooses the latter, holding the DOORS CLOSE button on the elevator panel for a stretch of a few minutes.

  Once she’s sure her overseers have had adequate time to not only leave but also return in case something was forgotten, she lets go of the button and stands to the side as the doors reopen. Then she peeks out … and releases a head-clearing sigh of relief when she sees that the coast is clear.

  She was right about the area they’re in: It’s full of warehouses and three- to five-story industrial buildings. From the front, she can see that the building they’re in—which Hunter let slip is Wakandan-owned—is much larger than she realized. She knew it was five floors high but had no idea it encompassed an entire block.

  Which just sets Shuri’s brain to spinning again. Where else in the world are there Wakandans stationed? The princess met three emissaries from her homeland in addition to her adopted brother, but with a building this size, there have to be more people working here. She wonders how many.

  Are there outposts like this in m
ajor cities across the globe? Shuri finds the thought staggering—even more so than the notion of T’Challa revealing their existence to everyone. It makes a series of doubts burble in her stomach: There’s obviously much more to being a ruler than she realized. Does she even have what it takes?

  The past few days flood back over Shuri: from the failed suit trials to the Taifa Ngao and first mention of the word invasion. From the bonfire and vision, to the discovery of the dying herbs. From seeing T’Challa and Okoye with the war council to her and K’Marah’s bizarre exit from Wakanda. From the overwhelming heat in Kenya to meeting Dr. Selvig.

  A breeze rustles some debris just over the edge of the curb, and Shuri realizes how cool it’s gotten. Is midsummer in London always this nippy at night?

  The princess rubs her skinny arms and picks up speed. What she should do is return to the outpost, wake K’Marah, and get them en route back home. She’s wasted enough time away: The Challenge is tomorrow, and though she hasn’t exactly solved any problems, getting some surveillance set up both in the field and in that one pocket of the forest seems like the next logical step.

  Shuri has just rounded the corner that’ll put her at the back of the building when a figure steps out of an alley just ahead of her, but on the opposite side of the street. A man, she believes. Tall and thin and wearing an open tan trench coat with the high collar flipped up against the bite in the air. And though his sudden presence sends a very much non-temperature-related chill skittering from the top of Shuri’s still perfectly styled head to the tips of her polished toes, she keeps her eyes forward. Pretends he’s not there.

  But then he crosses to her side.

  And heads right in her direction.

  “Don’t panic,” she says under her breath. Why had she thought it a good idea to roam a place she’s never been, at night and alone?

  As the distance between them shortens, she makes the decision to nod in greeting and keep it moving.

  Five meters and closing fast (sheesh, this guy has long legs).

  Three.

  One—

  “Good evening, Princess Shuri,” he says in passing.

  “Good eveni—”

  Wait.

  Shuri stops dead. And now can’t breathe. Because she can see his shadow. And she knows that, whoever he is, he’s coming around to face her.

  She can’t move. Not when the man stands at his full height in front of her. Not when she notices his charcoal-colored kufi and his dark sunglasses, or when he slowly reaches up to fold down his collar and she sees his ashen hands. Not even when he removes the sunglasses and she sees the bloodshot eyes and the cracked skin of his face. It’s not nearly as pronounced as the woman in her vision/dream, but close enough for Shuri to have zero doubt that the man from the Predator’s security photos and the Wakanda-crushing woman are connected.

  “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says in a deep rasp with a mocking bow of his head.

  “You’ve been following us. Since we flew over you near the border. You can see my aircraft.”

  “Not exactly, no,” he replies, clasping his hands in front of him. “But I have known precisely where you were during every minute of your journey.”

  But how?

  Shuri’s wheels spin, desperately seeking a viable course of action. She could run, but she knows he’s likely to catch her. There are also no guarantees that he’s alone.

  The next option is an attempt to fight … though she hasn’t trained in over a year—thanks, Mother—and swift movement will be difficult in this blasted dress. She wants to kick herself for wearing it.

  “Who are you?” she asks, a feeble effort to keep him talking, though she has no idea what that will accomplish. Perhaps her trio of former Dogs of War will happen to turn the corner at just the right moment to come to her rescue.

  “Who I am is of no consequence, Princess. The only thing that truly matters is what I plan to do.”

  “And what’s that?” Shuri carefully, clandestinely shifts her feet into a fighting stance. Because she has a hunch about what his response will be.

  “Well, to start, I intend to prevent your return to your beloved homeland.” And with that, his hand shoots out quick as a flash, reaching for Shuri’s throat.

  Shuri feels something like fire surge through her veins, and a lightning reel of recollections featuring T’Challa—of her days sparring and training—sparks through her mind quicker than a blink, igniting her muscle memory.

  She uses her much shorter height to her advantage: ducking so that the man’s hand closes around air, and then surging forward to plunge her bony shoulder into his unguarded midsection.

  He stumbles backward, but with his unnaturally long arms is able to get a grip on Shuri’s bicep as she tries to pull away. “Gotcha—”

  The princess’s left foot collides with his mouth as she twists beneath his arms and kicks her leg up behind her—riiiiiiiip! goes the dress (oops)—escaping his grasp in the process.

  As he folds at the waist, and his hands instinctively rise to his face, Shuri stands up fast, catching the underside of his chin with the thickest part of her skull to knock his head back, and then completing the blow with a full-force kick to his sternum.

  He falls this time.

  Shuri turns as fast as she can and attempts to make a run for it—

  But the man manages to pin a piece of her ripped and dragging dress to the concrete with his foot.

  She goes down hard, biting her tongue as her chin hits the pavement.

  “Shuri …” she thinks she hears in a tinny, distant voice, but she must be imagining it. Her ears are ringing, and it takes a few seconds too long for her head and vision to clear: She’s forcefully flipped from her stomach to her back and finds the man standing over her, lip busted and rage flickering in his dark pupils with every labored breath.

  “You will regret your actions,” he says. And he stretches down and grips the front of her dress in his fist to pull her to her feet …

  But then one of his knees buckles, and he turns to look behind him.

  Which gives Shuri just enough time to slip from his grasp and reverse roll to her feet.

  She’s upright just in time to see her rescuer land a roundhouse kick to the guy’s jaw.

  K’Marah.

  A string of bloody drool flies from kufi-man’s mouth as his head whips right.

  “Eww!” the princess says.

  It’s the wrong move. He locks her in his livid gaze as he regains his balance, then lunges for her with hands outstretched.

  Shuri yelps and manages to dodge so his grasping fingers close around air, but her feet tangle in her stupid, ragged-edged dress. Down she goes again, and this time, he doesn’t waste a single moment. Her mouth opens, ready to scream, as he reaches to yank her to her feet—

  But then his eyes go wide and surprised before they roll up in his head, and he collapses to the side with a thud.

  Once he’s out of the way, Shuri can see K’Marah standing with both hands wrapped around what she recognizes as the thick, black marble panther figurine that was perched on the bookcase in Hunter’s office. The mini-Dora’s chest is heaving.

  “Did he hurt you?” she says as she sets the stone cat aside to help pull Shuri to her feet. “Oh no, your chin!”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” the princess replies. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Now let’s tie him up before he comes to so he can’t get away. Whoa …” She tries to stand up on her own, and her head swims.

  “Cool it, sister,” K’Marah says. “Here, you lean against the wall, and I will tie him up, capisce?”

  “Ca-what?” Shuri replies, letting her head drop back against the brick.

  “Ah, it’s an old expression I learned from mid-twentieth-century white-American gangster movies.”

  “Of course you watch those,” Shuri says with a roll of her eyes.

  As K’Marah secures the man’s hands and feet, woefully using strips of fabric from Shur
i’s ruined dress, Shuri uses her Kimoyo bracelet to call and let Hunter know the location of the trespasser. After a quick search of his pockets and person for evidence, weapons, etc. (they find nothing), K’Marah blindfolds him and ties a strip of fabric around his mouth as Hunter instructs. “You better be glad I didn’t have my spear, you jerk!” she shouts into his unconscious face as she does so. Then the girls drag him into the shadows, leaving him there to be collected by Hunter’s crew, before they scurry down the remainder of the block to the back entrance of the building as fast as their small feet will carry them.

  Which isn’t very fast. And both girls notice. “You sure you’re not hurt?” K’Marah asks just as Shuri says, “You’re not looking too hot …” They laugh, but Shuri knows it’s more to break the tension than because something is funny.

  “How’d you know I was in trouble?” Shuri can’t help but ask once they’re back in the parking garage, waiting for the elevator.

  “I think you accidentally Kimoyo-called me.” K’Marah lifts Shuri’s wrist and holds it up to her own so they can both see the pair of illuminated beads. “I could hear the … scuffle. So I grabbed the first heavy thing I could find—and carry—and used our connected call to track you.”

  Track her. Hmm.

  The elevator dings, and the girls step on the second the doors begin to slide open. As they ascend through the building, the weight of what just happened settles down around them. Shuri is certain there are a million-and-one questions lining up single-file on her friend’s tongue, most of which she won’t be able to answer. She braces herself as she hears the little intake of breath that lets her know K’Marah is about to speak.

  But the other girl says only one word: “Tomorrow.”

  After getting cleaned up and changed, the girls decide—well, Shuri decides for them—that they’ll sleep inside the Predator for the sake of making a swift exit as soon as they awaken. K’Marah replaces Hunter’s panther figurine, and Shuri leaves a note on his desk to thank him and the others for their help and hospitality. Then utilizing the bead Lena gave her, which, as Shuri suspects, is akin to a master key for every high-security lock in the building, the girls retrace their steps to the landing pad—thanks entirely to K’Marah’s flawless, Dora Milaje–trained sense of direction.