#falsedking

🔒ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ?

quiet nature & clairvoyance have doomed the youngest Hewett to a multitude of secrets : his abilities themselves, the true depths of his despair, all the private, painful details of others' lives that he inadvertently senses. he doesn't want anyone to feel like their mind has been invaded. he had learned that lesson young, before the waves cast him out and stole his voice. he's sworn many secrets ever since. some of them were even given voluntarily. those are the ones he treasures the most, held safely to his chest where nobody can find them. like this, at least, he can use his silence for good. like this, he can help without saying anything, and maybe that can be his secret, too.

📿 ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ?

since the start of the twenty-first century, international collaborations between the u.s. government's central intelligence agency, universities and nobel-winning physicists across the world have produced the era of the green bomb: a quantum de-materializer. eco-friendly. none of the drawbacks of widespread nuclear radiation.

the science of the mechanism involves words selina has never heard of. deep space tachyons. base-particle string theory. singularity events. she is not being paid to care about the scientific and ethical nuances of standard-edition war profiteering. as far as she is concerned, amanda waller is underpaying her; the catwoman's skills and services, for the meager price of freedom. one more empty prison cell in arkham asylum for the criminally insane, one less professional kleptomaniac among its patrons.

a rogue CIA officer has been moving assets and seed capital across international waters; one billion u.s. dollars for the price of a green bomb.

@falsedking is one of four other DEVGRU operators assigned as a fireteam to the primary exfiltration mission. the rationale is simple enough: no money, no bomb.

with their supervision (she doubts they will be helpful for anything beyond canon fodder), the catwoman is assigned to steal it. from a virtually impenetrable vault. built inside a mountain in rural switzerland.

she observes the men checking and rechecking their heavy, tier-one gear with a faint furl to her lip. cold air pushes through the open hangar door, a C-130 special operations aircraft set inside its yawning space.

she stares at the large knife that erik unsheathes from a shoulder-holster. wrinkles her nose.

the body is numb.

it's time to fuck the devil for their wealth—that's how our head black hound framed it. his business deals were only made in the ruins of god's memory. billy lit a cigarette with a slow drag, the kind men felt they needed to take before creating a field for the slaughter or undergoing the process of confession while looking out over the desert like it owed him a sea of drinkable water.

    ❝ no more bleeding for flags we never picked, ❞ he said, his voice as low and conspiratorial as a serpent slithering toward prey, promising nothing but venom.

    ❝ no more carrying out the dirty work of empires that'll throw cheap medals on your coffin and forget your name just the second before they have their monday coffee. ❞

he exhaled smoke like a benediction.

no more middlemen. no more proxy wars dressed up in patriotism. billy spoke like his words were made for biblical scriptures. over a dozen boots were heavy in foreign dirt as the sun died behind the black-hearted silhouettes—our marred beasts of the empire, sons of nothing.

tears didn't come anymore for men such as them; not for the dead, not for the living, not for the parts of themselves they'd abandoned in blown-out compounds and crater graves. they'd learn to orchestrate the songs of their own deaths—every heartbeat a lit fuse in their mud-stained chests. every mission, a deadly gambol with gods they no longer feared. every breath, an act of defiance.

and in that moment, standing beside killmonger—his eyes sharp as adamantium, soul lacquered in vengeance—billy felt itin his marrow: they weren't men anymore. they were gods waging war on borrowed time. the world just hadn't caught up to their game yet.

    ❝ out there, they'll call us filthy mercs. ❞ he pointed his finger in the distance, then planted the same finger over his chest where his heart resided. ❝ but they won't say what really are. ❞ in his assembly, there was nothing ghosts, soldiers, broken things reborn in flames.

    ❝ we're what the hashashin dreamed of being—flesh-bound phantoms. killers with cause. not for king or country, but for gold. for vengeance. for purpose. ❞

    ❝ no mothers, no fathers. no one left to care what we gave up. no one who gives a damn about the cost we made for them. this time, our death is by choice, not command. ❞

jigsaw pivoted, just enough to let the firelight catch the scarring of his face and the dark glint in his eyes—not hiding it. displaying it. his ruin was holy, was it not?.

maus.

a laugh tumbles out from the back of nile's throat, in spite of herself. turns out she should trust her instincts more. she'd been staring at the back of erik's head for the better part of twenty minutes, distracted.

the nape of her neck starts to prickle and itch. it could be the heat, sweat trickles down to the small of her back in long rivulets, but she guesses it has something to do with meeting someone from before. someone she was in the military with, no less. (she remembers her fellow soldiers and how they'd looked at her sideways when she woke up fully healed after having her neck nearly split in two. and then how she deserted. if only she could explain the unexplainable—)

she looks around for andy, who went off a couple minutes ago in search of a bathroom, but sees no sign of her. her leg begins to bounce, nervousness manifest.

training room

animalistic caution was a trait inherent to every panther chieftain before him. it had kept their people safe, secured beneath the watchful gaze of a goddess' avatar. the mysteries of that sacred power ushered in peace most of the world haven't known. but if certainty in one's ability to safeguard ever wavered from a panther's eyes, that was when it became most dangerous.

what would it be with this stranger in his midst, he wondered. this... n'jadaka.

their earlier encounter had been something. arrogance poured from the man as naturally as sweat under the african sun. if he had ever known maternal love, its warmth had long since faded from his dark eyes—like fresh flesh cooling into a corpse. there was an unexplored wilderness within him, and he was its only animal, roaming the timeless hoarfrost of its dominion. t'challa wanted to know it.

to know the unknowbable terrain of the man. to assess the scale of the colossal walls he had built around himself.

the shamans had warned—spoke of a profusion of cosmic darkness that engulfed n'jadaka, a force beyond reckoning. this is not the killmonger we knew, they cautioned. do not attempt to temper or control this unfounded species of creature.

but t'challa saw a man.

oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus, potassium, chlorine, magnesium, sodium, sulfur… and traces of copper, iodine, zinc, iron, selenium, fluorine. from a molecular perspective, a human was primarily water. and water can be studied. observed. understood.

man can be understood—if one looks closely enough.

but the panther did not see only flesh and bone. he saw the soul. and that soul would be tested.

❝ mntanami, please begin the ihubo lempi. amandla. ❞

t'challa said, accent sooth in its command, but firm. instantly, a holographic projection flickered to life before n'jadaka—hawkeye, bow in hand, his gaze sharp and unreadable. the projection was not of flesh and blood, but the precision in its posture, the tension in its stance, made it almost feel tangible.

above the archer's head, a single word hovered: umbasa.

❝ kimoyo-tech hardlight projection, ❞ t’challa explained, as if anticipating the question before it was asked. ❝ i designed this to test myself and the agents of wakanda against some of the mightiest fighters on this planet. think of it as an advanced form of shadowboxing. ❞

he allowed a pause, watching for any flicker of doubt or intrigue in n'jadaka's expression.

❝ recently, I’ve made adjustments to its programming. I would like to see how you fare against it. ❞

the king dipped his chin slightly, an invitation.

❝ please. read the word above your opponent’s head when you are ready to begin. ❞

mun's choice, pets - nibbles, nibbles, nibbles ! not the only stray v has picked up in recent months - though certainly the most charismatic. a little hairless wonder found living in the hallway of her apartment building, basically community property until v decided to snatch him up for herself. & not to put too much pressure on the little guy, but having him around as something to interact with that requires actual touch & speech in order to communicate? has done wonders for v's mental health.

patience beyond knowledge sustain our submission. can you be patient when the going gets tough? can you hold onto your integrity? allah is the best of knowers. it's part of the lessons the messenger teachers and it's what minister x made imperative to teach at the beginning of his. it's what a tender aged rashad x encapsulated in his way of life after three weeks of his Islamic procession. when the young man grew tired of being tired of a step family too tired from the wear of drugs and failing to have the cold heart he was suppose to have in streets, he came to the mission. he knew there to be one savior in the depths of hell called little mogadishu would give a damn to give him guidance.

when the minister had finished feeding the homeless, he spotted the skinny teen approaching him timidly. the man was a goliath compared to the boy. it was the most intimidating moment in his young life. it was seldom said the minister was a man larger than the life he breathes in little mogadishu. he now understood those beliefs to be a understatement. " hm, yes, little brother? " the minister had asked, as he motioned him to walk with him outside the mosque. best they both go for some fresh air. he sensed there was heaviness on child pharaoh's shoulders and there was.

the big man was patient with him, through the stammerings and stumbling of his tale and all. it was hard to read the minister's eyes when he was done. the transitional from his black horned-rimmed glasses reacted from the sunlight mid-story. his lens dark, his face hard, rashad peoples started to think he made a mistake. just when he was about to suck his teeth and leave, the minister's powerful voice froze him, " your mother was like one of our little sisters, here at the mission. I admired her big heart. her papa, king peoples, may allah be pleased with him. you probably didn't get to know the man, but he raised the god up in him and some of the other older brothers around here as well. "

josiah x planted his right hand on the speechless teen's shoulder. " if you believe you're ready to be an extension from the will of allah, I will do my part as your big brother and help mold you. " giving the small would-be soldier's shoulder a break and heavily palming his chest on the side his heart reside, he smiles at the break in gentle tears and the thank you expressed in the skeletal face. " i will not make it easy for you. the path to enlightenment never is. " after their conversation, rashad peoples was well on his way to becoming the poetry of the god he fell back on. he didn't expect it to be tested so soon.

standing in the doorway of the mosque was a man that radiated a quiet, unsettling violence. something about that was terribly off. harboring an aura that needn't be anywhere near the good minister, brother rashad looked up at the man with defiance. at the start of his journey he made personal promises to himself to not waver from islam. to be the lion his minister foreseen him as. but this man was putting all that proper propaganda he was fed on a fragile table. he couldn't stand a disrespectful nigga. " we don't use that type of language around here, brother

please be respectful of that. " is all he says.

" it's okay, brother rashad. I'll take it from here, " a familiar voice came from behind him. rashad looks over his shoulder and sees the towering figure of josiah x. it always surprised him how the minister moves with catlike grace and sneak up on him. he guessed that was just another part of his spirit father and guide natural mystique. he was so caught up in his world of thought that he missed the peculiar stare the minister had for their unknown visitor. only when the minister opens his mouth again to tell him, " well go on, young man. I didn't raise you up to be so villainous now. the streets are starving and you're teasing them, " did he remember the frightening guest.

" o-oh yeah. yes sir. right away sir, brother minister! e-excuse me brother, " rashad nervously recounted the bean pies in his two plastic bags, then brushed past the stranger when he satisfied with the number. he stared back at the hard-faced stranger and at his minister and prayed to allah that when he got back all will be well.

josiah x broke the few seconds of silence they jad when his newest protegee disappeared out of sight. " as-salaam alaikyum, dear brother erik. " the honorable elijah muhammad said we are not made to speak idol words. great words to come to understand and apply. he does so with erik. " I'd pat you down but I already know what I will find. if you're coming in, you know how my operation goes, beloved. "

          “  i miss her.  ”     a naked fingernail picks at a smear of blue paint on the dining table , left there from when she and erik were kids and painting some dumb school project and forgot to layer the newspaper thick enough. picks at it like they hadn’t scrubbed at the table for hours back then , trying to get it off to no avail. much like now , except they’re more so sifting through what to keep , what to donate , what to trash. 

much like then , erik and her mom and she in his dad’s apartment       across the hall and one door down from this one. her mom never moved apartments , stayed in this one because it was easier though she’d told her , again and again , she could move wherever she wanted. but she liked this one , with the blue     painted back splash of the kitchen. didn’t matter that they could paint any kitchen blue , that she could have some place with windows in the kitchen so it didn’t have to be blue. this was home. and home was full of memories ; hers and kennedy’s , kennedy’s and erik’s , kennedy’s and erik’s and hers. 

“  course you do. she’s your moms.  ”     she’s not his , never tried to be someone telling him what to do and when to do it and how to act , but kennedy knows she loved him like he was her son. made enough dinner for three , bought enough sacks for three. christmas presents , birthday presents. your birthdays are close. no big deal  said in her broken english , thick accent saturating every word. he taught her how to use this new gadget or that one , she taught him how to speak russian.     “  it’s a shitty feeling.  ”

one he knows better than anybody. they don’t talk about his dad much , his mom even less. she knows enough. knows better than to pry where erik isn’t willing to share. her eyes fall to the scars pimpling his forearms , fall to the black bars inked along hers. one each for a kill. all this death , wrought by his hands       wrought by her hands , and she somehow forgot it could come from nowhere , for anyone , whenever , for no goddamn reason at all.