The Lost One
Chapter 2: In Our DNA
Word Count: 1968
Eight weeks had bled into the typical frantic rhythm of a Columbia University semester. For Amira, the strange alert on the Outreach portal had faded into the background, relegated to the "unexplained technical anomalies" file of her brain. She focused her energy on thermodynamic problem sets, coffee-fueled study marathons with Ronda, and the growing pile of research papers for her AFAM elective. Life was back to being manageable, back to being normal—or at least the version of normal she had managed to cobble together since her return.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Oakland Outreach Center, however, the silence was absolute, but the data flow was violent.
The command center was a quiet expanse of matte-black surfaces and ambient, soft-light interfaces. N’Jadaka sat at the primary console, his posture relaxed, though his eyes never left the cascading streams of biometric data. He wasn't just managing a program; he was curating a network. He had spent years in the Outreach program ensuring that the diaspora was no longer just a collection of displaced memories, but a documented, protected, and connected people.
"Alert," the AI, Griot, announced. Its voice was a synthesized, perfectly modulated tone that filled the room, as polished and calm as the architecture of the building itself. "Discrepancy identified in the New York node. Subject: Amira Jenkins. Subject status: Undergraduate, Columbia University. Genetic anomaly detected: Golden Tribe sequence identified.”
N’Jadaka’s fingers stilled over the haptic controls as the data synced. He didn't react with shock; he leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking slightly in the quiet. He had seen thousands of files, but he knew this sequence. It was the genetic signature of the royal house—the very people who had spent decades looking down on his father’s struggle.
"Griot," he said, his voice flat. "Pull the security archives from the New York Outreach Center. Cross-reference the last forty-eight hours."
A holographic display shimmered to life, showing the chaotic lobby of the center. He narrowed the search parameters, scrubbing through the footage until she appeared.
He tapped a command, freezing the frame, and zoomed in. He didn't look at the metadata or the ID number; he just stared at her face, letting the image sharpen. He traced the line of her nose, the way her eyes caught the overhead light—features that had been buried in old, restricted family dossiers he’d spent his life memorizing.
N’Jadaka frowned, leaning into the monitor. He watched her for a long moment, ignoring the technical data on the screen. He zoomed in on a frame where she had tipped her head back, laughing at something her friend had said. It was a completely unguarded expression—the kind of shift he’d only ever seen when T’Challa thought no one was watching.
In that fleeting movement, the resemblance was undeniable. The way the light caught the bridge of her nose, the relaxed set of her jaw, and that specific spark in her eyes—dark, sharp, and unmistakably familiar.
"Shit," he breathed, the word hitting the quiet room like a physical weight.
He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he traced the features. They were T’Chaka’s eyes, only without the weight of the crown behind them. It was the same look T’Challa wore when he was finally done playing King for the day.
"Well, damn," N’Jadaka murmured, a ghost of a wry, humorless smile touching his lips. "You got his eyes, girl. You got his eyes all the way."
He didn't give himself time to dwell on the history. He grabbed his encrypted Kimoyo beads, the connection opening almost instantly to the palace.
"Aye, T," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that was all business. "We’ve got a situation."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the heart of the Golden City’s royal laboratory, the air smelled of ozone and synthetic minerals. T’Challa stood before a holographic lattice, adjusting a recalibration sequence. He looked up, his expression open and attentive as his cousin’s face materialized in the projection.
"N’Jadaka," T’Challa said, his tone warm and familiar. Beside him, Shuri was busy calibrating a sonic stabilizer, humming a melody to herself. "You wouldn't be calling on an encrypted channel if this were a routine status update. What is wrong, cousin?"
"You're right," N’Jadaka replied, his tone stripped of its usual bravado. "The system just flagged an LTC student in New York. The marker is specific. It’s not just Wakandan, T'Challa. It’s royal line specific."
T’Challa’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from calm curiosity to a sharp, intent focus. "Royal line? N’Jadaka, is this your way of telling me you have a sibling or maybe a child I don’t know about?"
"Don't go pinning this one on me, big cuz," N’Jadaka said, a hint of his usual cynicism returning. “That DNA sequence is all you. It’s coming straight from the main branch."
Shuri, who had been analyzing a separate component of the sequence nearby, poked her head into the frame, her eyes dancing with mischief. "What, T’Challa? You had another child and didn't tell me again? Really? Are we just going to start a collection now?"
T’Challa didn't crack a smile. "Shuri, this is not a joke. N’Jadaka, run the cross-reference again. This doesn’t make sense."
Shuri was already moving, her fingers flying across the interface, isolating the markers with a speed that made the air shimmer. As she parsed the complex data, her playful expression vanished, replaced by a cooling, clinical dread.
"It’s not possible," Shuri murmured, moving toward the display. "I’ve run every algorithm we have. These sequences are exclusive to the royal line. It is physically impossible for someone to possess these outside of the family unless—"
"Unless it's a direct descendant," T’Challa finished. He stepped into the light of the hologram, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful.
"I'll run a comparative scan," Shuri said, her voice tight, almost shaky. "If it's a fluke, we’ll know immediately."
She synced the data with the royal database, but the system flashed a harsh, warning yellow. T’Challa, his face set in a mask of grim concentration, reached out, placing his own palm against the scanner. He needed to be sure. He needed to eliminate the possibility that this was an error in the system’s interpretation.
“Syncing,” Griot reported. “DNA match confirmed: 23.4% affinity. Probability: One shared parental match.”
She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at her brother, her eyes wide. T’Challa pulled his hand away from the scanner, his chest rising and falling with sharp, rhythmic breaths. The "shared parental match" didn't point to N’Jadaka. It pointed directly to their father. To T’Chaka.
"Send me everything," T’Challa commanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that rattled in his throat. "Images. Location. Status."
Within seconds, a video file pulsed onto the display. It was security footage from the NYC Outreach Center. Amira Jenkins walked onto the screen, laughing at something a friend had said, her posture relaxed, her eyes bright and intelligent.
On the massive display, the image sharpened as she tipped her head back, the motion catching a sliver of light that traced her features in a way that made T’Challa’s breath hitch. Behind him, Shuri made a sharp, choked sound—a rare, unfiltered gasp—as she stepped closer to the screen, her eyes darting between the girl’s face and the DNA sequence still glowing on the secondary monitor. It was the way the light hit her jawline, the distinct set of her brow—features that belonged in their own family portrait, not in a student’s dorm room in Manhattan.
T’Challa leaned in, his gaze fixed on her face, his features hardening as the reality settled into his bones. Beside him, Shuri took a sharp, unsteady step toward the console, her hands hovering in the air as if she could brush away the image to reveal a mistake. But the pixels remained, clear and unmistakable. The way Amira tilted her head, the specific arch of her brow—it was an echo of a life they thought they knew perfectly. It was the face of a sister they hadn't known existed, pulled from the archives of their own history.
N’Jadaka’s voice came back over the line, now entirely devoid of humor. "You see it, don't you? She’s got the look. If you’re going to move, move fast—she’s too sharp to be shadowed for long."
T’Challa stared at the screen, his hand resting heavily on the console, his palm flat against the cool surface. "Do not alarm her," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "I’m not ready to take this to my mother. It would crush her to know the truth about him. I need to understand the scope of what he left behind before I bring this home."
"Understood," N’Jadaka replied. "I’ve got two of your Dora Milaje on the ground in New York. They’re laying low. They’ll keep her safe, and they’ll be shadows. I won't let anything happen to her while we sort this mess out."
T’Challa didn’t respond immediately. The royal lab felt suddenly claustrophobic, the walls closing in with the weight of a life his father had kept hidden.
T’Chaka had been the King, the protector, the man of unwavering honor. And yet, there she was, walking around in Manhattan, living, breathing proof that the man T’Challa had spent his entire life trying to emulate had been a stranger to his own family.
"Keep them at a distance, Erik," T’Challa said, finally breaking the connection.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T’Challa stood on the stone balcony of his private chambers, the night air of Birnin Zana cool against his skin. In his hand, a crystal glass sat filled with a dark, aged spirit—a sharp, grounding contrast to the clinical, ozone-heavy air of the royal laboratory he had just departed. Below him, the city glowed with the soft, pulsating hum of vibranium-integrated architecture.
He watched the lights, but his mind remained fixed on the lobby in New York. He kept replaying the way the girl—Amira—laughed. It was an easy, unguarded sound that felt utterly foreign in the solemn atmosphere of the palace. The realization was a stone in his gut, a cold, dense weight that no amount of duty could shift. He hadn't told his mother. How could he? She was still grieving the T’Chaka she remembered—the pillar of honor, the man of unwavering integrity.
The sliding door behind him gave a soft, rhythmic hiss. He didn't turn; he knew the cadence of her steps. Nakia moved to the railing beside him, her presence a steadying anchor in a night that suddenly felt adrift. She didn't press him; she simply waited, her gaze following his out toward the horizon.
"Your son is asleep; he wanted to stay up to say goodnight to his Baba," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "You have been pacing for an hour. What troubles you, my love?"
T’Challa took a slow sip of his drink, the glass clicking lightly against the stone railing as he set it down. He looked at her, his eyes searching, reflecting the turmoil he’d been trying to contain.
"I have spent my life honoring a ghost," he said, his voice raw. "I thought I knew the breadth of my father's legacy, the depths of his responsibilities. But it seems my father had more secrets than I ever imagined possible."
Nakia tilted her head, her expression softening with concern. "A secret? T'Challa, if it is about N’Jadaka—"
"It is not about the program," he interrupted. "It is about the bloodline. There is a young woman in New York. She carries our blood, Nakia. My father left a path behind him that no one was meant to follow, and now, it has led right to our door." He leaned heavily against the railing, his exhaustion finally showing. "If he could hide a life in Brooklyn... what else was he hiding?"
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Next chapter is coming out soon. Please follow me on Tumblr @PrettyStringBean to stay posted on any updates!
Previous Chapter Next Chapter









