NOTE: The events in HERALDS: ORIGINS take place after the current LADY LIBERATORS series.

“Stir the waters, child,” the voice from the shadows breathed, “and reveal the second of those who will deliver unto me the greatest power in all existence. Reveal to me the second of my five Heralds…”

Sprawled languidly upon the stone floor of the scrying chamber, the naked girl with the golden hair and skin as smooth and pale as milk – Delphi – smiled and allowed her hand to drift to her pool of prophecy. Her fingers danced upon the surface of strangely opaque waters, and then an image began to swirl and focus; not a reflection, but a glimpse of some distant occurrence.

The present, with a direct bearing upon the future. One future in particular.

“Show me!” the watcher in the darkness demanded.

And Delphi did as she was bidden…

THIS ONE IS THE TRIGGER…

By Meriades Rai

“So, T’Challa. The absentee King returns to the homeland, reeking of European wines and perfumes, his body soft and his mind pleasantly befuddled. A weak man. A forgottenman.”

M’Baku of the Jabari tribe – self-elected avatar of Ghekre, the White Gorilla god and the warrior who answered now to the name of Man-Ape – stood at the heart of the open-air court of the Royal Township of Wakanda, surrounded by onlookers he’d once called his kinsfolk, and bared a cluster of sharpened teeth in the most outrageous grin.

“A man who shall be King no longer,” he snarled.

There was outrage in the crowd, some murmured and some more vociferous, but T’Challa stilled the discontent of his entourage with a raised hand. He didn’t meet the troubled gaze of his advisors, or the fiercer, questioning appraisal of his personal guard, the Dora Milaje, a small but potent legion of warrior women armed with spears and daggers and the resolute desire to use them. Instead the King of Wakanda leaned forward in his wicker throne and steepled his fingers at the point of his noble chin. He was smiling, but that smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Still the same old dance, M’Baku,” he said, quietly. “I would have hoped even you might have learned a new tune by now.”

It was a bright and humid day, the dense air rippling with heat haze, but T’Challa retained his customary aura of cool detachment. His well-developed body was sheathed in an impeccable black suit, a contrast to those about him in their traditional yet no less stylish attire of colorful, hand-woven cloth, fashioned into robes and scarves and sashes and accompanied by strings of beads and other beautiful trinkets. Wakandans knew a lot of things, and how to dress was not least among them.

T’Challa also wore a lavish headdress of wire and cloth and feathers that was gaudy to the point of comedy and ever so slightly too small for his head. But he wore it anyway. It had been made by the children of one of the township’s schools, a facility that cared and educated youngsters with learning and behavioral difficulties. The children had been delighted that their King was returning from one of his frequent but regrettably necessary trips beyond Africa, and had wanted to present him with a gift.

Another thing that Wakandans knew, T’Challa chief among them, was the need for humility. It was something a self-important thug like M’Baku – so obsessed with notions of power and entitlement that he’d forgotten how to be humble – would never understand.

Mindful of the threat of violence on the wind, T’Challa set aside the headdress with great care, as if were a crown of immeasurable worth – which, to him, it genuinely was – and rose from his throne. That he did so delicately, with a brief grimace of pain, was a fact not lost on the hulk of a man who stood across from him.

“You’ve been exiled from Wakandan territory, more than once, under forewarning of death should you return,” T’Challa told the Man-Ape. “And yet, here you are again. You offer another challenge to the Black Panther, then?”

M’Baku shifted his enormous head, made all the more intimidating by the fact he wore the skull and pelt of a sacred white gorilla as a trophy coronet. “I do,” he growled. “So don your second skin, coward, for I’ll not fight you in your silk and frills. Unless, of course, age has caught up with you at last…”

T’Challa’s eyes sparked, his humorless smile fixed still.

“We’re none of us young any more, M’Baku,” he murmured. And then, as he stepped forward, he accepted a boon offered him by his nearest advisor: an oak staff trimmed with feathers, no ceremonial artifact but one with a specific function. Favoring his right side, T’Challa leaned upon the staff as a crutch.

The Man-Ape’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s true, then,” he hissed. “All those whispered rumors didn’t lie. The great and undefeated Warrior King, struck lame…”

“Temporarily.” T’Challa grit his teeth, gripping the staff in his fist with more vigor than was necessary. “But there are protocols in place for… such an occasion.”

The King of Wakanda flourished his hand. “In the western parlance, there’ll be a change to today’s advertised schedule,” he said. “You’ll get your brawl, M’Baku – and with the Black Panther, as tradition dictates. But that mantle has been passed, for now…”

Across the court, the crowd of aides and Dora Milaje parted. The Man-Ape’s eyes widened in shock beneath the upper brow of his gorilla skull, his jaw agape as he turned to observe the arrival of a newcomer to the township square. This stranger was clad from neck to toe in the long-established indigo-black costume of Wakanda’s foremost warrior, the Black Panther, champion of the scared Panther Goddess, Bast. That costume had always suited T’Challa well; for his successor a few design alterations had been necessary, but it needed to be said that the new fit was even more becoming.

The new Black Panther was tall and lithe, slender at the waist and wide at the hip and rear, and high and firm at the breast. A woman. And considering that this woman currently held her ceremonial mask and cowl in her hands, revealing her lovely face with her caramel eyes and skin and black hair woven close to her scalp in a series of tiny, intricate braids, it was easy for M’Baku to recognize her.

“Shuri?” the Man-Ape hissed in dismay. “What trickery…?”

“No sleight of hand intended,” Shuri purred, with a voice like melting sugar. “I earned this, believe me.”

“You underwent the trials?”

“And then some. I’ve got the scars to prove it. Of course, I wasn’t required to defeat the previous Black Panther to take his crown for my own, what with this being a… provisional arrangement. But the Goddess was happy to accept me all the same.”

The Man-Ape stared on, nonplussed. Shuri cocked her head, her eyes large and mischievous. “I’ve shocked you, M’Baku,” she breathed. “Let me guess: last time you saw me I was, oh, knee-high to a cricket? Sweet Shuri, daughter of S’Yan and little cousin to T’Challa. Royal blood but otherwise the forgotten princess heir, singing and dancing in the dust without a mind, skipping rope and stealing fruit from the markets, always being scolded for one thing or another. Is that how you remember me? Back in the times before your ego and bloodlust got you banished from civilized society?”

The Man-Ape’s face darkened, his eyes now pitch and tar. He turned slowly towards T’Challa and the crowd of royal aides, his body visibly trembling with wrath.

“This?” M’Baku seethed. “This? A female, offered up in fancy dress to mock me? Me?”

“You asked for the Black Panther,” T’Challa said. “Well, you’ve got her. And if I can just offer you one piece of advice, M’Baku… don’t underestimate her. Don’t you dare. This honor wasn’t bestowed upon her simply because she’s of the right blood; she was the best candidate in every respect. She was faster, she was stronger, she was more intelligent, more… determined. You could say she’s been privately readying herself for this opportunity her entire-”

The Man-Ape roared, his massive arms raised high. “You offend me, absentee King!” he screamed. “Just as you offend all your people. You-”

“He offends, M’Baku?” Shuri asked, softly.

The Man-Ape turned to discover that Shuri had now donned the mask of the Black Panther, with its proud yet undeniably savage white eyes and its twin stab of bladed ears. It fit perfectly. More then just molded to the unique contours of her face; like it belonged.

“He offends?” Shuri persisted. “You stand before us, a wretch of a man in his unwashed, lice-ridden, stinking gorilla pelt, the skin of what was once a proud and magnificent beast brought low to satisfy your pathetic arrogance… you stand there, once a warrior deemed second only in prowess to the King himself, but now a clownish shadow of your past self… you stand there, a covetous vagrant so consumed with avarice that you whore yourself to anyone who’ll slip a coin into your greasy palm, be it the Grim Reaper or Baron Zemo, or whichever miserable incarnation of a Lethal Legion or Masters Of Evil has risen to disgrace itself before its predecessor has even slunk away… you stand there in your incomparable, worthless irrelevance… and you say he offends you?

“Oh, M’Baku. You still don’t understand, and you never will. And that means, right now, in words even an ignoramus like you can comprehend… boy, you can kiss my big black pussycat ass.”

For a moment, the Man-Ape simply stood and stared. And then, with an unholy shriek, he made to lunge forward and bludgeon the woman before him with his almighty fists – and Shuri, cousin of T’Challa and daughter of S’Yan, former ruler and champion of Wakanda, and now the new bearer of the sacred Black Panther legacy in her own right, she made no move to evade the oncoming blow. Instead she pushed herself forward, meeting the Man-Ape head-on, and she thrust both of her hands up into the beast-man’s throat with such speed and such savage accuracy that none of those looking on – even T’Challa himself – was entirely sure what had just happened until they saw the Man-Ape fly upwards and backwards, his enormous feet a few inches off the ground, and his fists clubbing harmlessly at thin air instead of his intended target’s head.

The Man-Ape landed on his back with a colossal crunch, gouging up clouds of dust and dirt and causing a wide radius of ground in the immediate vicinity to undulate and perforate with a spider-web of tiny cracks.

And the Black Panther stood, arms locked, hands flat, every muscle in her lissome body trembling as she held her attacking pose for a few, long seconds before her the messages from her brain reached her limbs and informed them that she could relax enough to move.

On the edge of the town square, T’Challa craned his neck slowly, his eyes growing wide.

“Oh,” he said. And then, nodding to himself and beginning to smile, genuinely this time: “Oh,” again.

As in, Oh, thank the Goddess. Because, in truth, up until that moment he’d had his doubts every bit as much as M’Baku…

The Man-Ape rolled to his feet, a slight stagger to his huge, shaggy frame as he clutched at his throat. There was a purplish hue to his face. He opened his mouth and croaked, but no words emerged. The Black Panther stepped forward, a picture of grace and beauty and terrible threat.

“In case you’re wondering,” she said, “then, yes. That first one was just to shut you up.”

M’Baku snarled and hurled a brawler’s uppercut that would have undoubtedly removed his enemy’s head from her shoulders had it connected. There was never much chance of that, however. The Panther’s stance rippled, sleek and nimble, and for a second she was as ephemeral as a shadow. M’Baku swung another clubbed fist, this time following through with a savage stamp, but the Panther ducked the first and hopped over the next like a child skipping rope. On each occasion she might have countered with a strike of her own, her opponent’s attacks were so clumsy and open, but she held back. Waiting.

On the sidelines, T’Challa now frowned. This wasn’t how he fought, or how he and Shuri’s instructors among the Dora Milaje had taught her to fight in turn. He was clinical to the extreme. Shuri was… showboating? Or something more ominous?

M’Baku roared and flailed with a backhand, and this time the Black Panther caught the blunt of his huge knuckles across her face, snapping her head back. T’Challa’s frown deepened. It had been a fast blow, but one that Shuri should have been able to avoid. She wasn’t careless by nature, which meant that she’d welcomed the strike, like a common prizefighter who sometimes let his – or her – inferior opponent get in a couple of meaty licks just to keep the crowds entertained.

Yes, exactly like that…

The Panther rolled her shoulders and touched the back of her hand to her mask, as if marking the unseen blood of a split lip through the indigo-black fabric. T’Challa couldn’t see his cousin’s smile, but he knew it was there all the same. A cat, playing with its prey.

She’d always been a feral one, Shuri. The Panther Spirit had made her wilder still. Like the most arrogant of predators out in the grassy plains she wanted to feel the hunt and taste the kill. She was tasting it now. And M’Baku wasn’t going to know what hit him.

The Man-Ape lunged, mistakenly believing he held the upper hand, but that was the instant everything changed. The Black Panther ducked in to meet him and slid forward, one leg crooked to hold her weight and the other trailing behind her like a dancer, and as she shifted her balance into her upper body she unleashed a whiplash of a punch to the Man-Ape’s right kneecap, splintering the joint and fracturing the bones along the entire length of the man-beast’s right leg with the resulting shockwaves. She could have delivered a similar blow that would have incapacitated without crippling her enemy, but she’d chosen to be unconscionably brutal.

The Man-Ape screamed, falling as his leg gave way beneath him. He would never walk again.

“Oh, look,” the Panther breathed, her tone mocking. “The great warrior outcast struck lame…”

She then moved in close and kicked her foe in the stomach, rupturing something deep inside. M’Baku spasmed, and his jaw sagged. He coughed up black blood, his eyes wide with surprise and a little fear. And then the Black Panther kicked him again, and this time everyone heard the sound of something pop.

On the edge of the town square, T’Challa’s heart seized as if in sympathetic pain. He half raised his hand, but faltered. T’Challa was not, by nature, a man who hesitated, but suddenly – inexplicably – something in him locked.

You made a mistake. She was the best, the perfect candidate in every way but one: she wanted it too much. She ascends through desire, not through duty. You misjudged this, T’Challa. So unlike you. But we’re none of us young any more…

In the heat of the battle, the new Black Panther raised her hand and spread her fingers. Five three-inch talons released with a stark click from her fingertips, razor-sharp points of Vibranium-tipped steel that glinted in the African sunlight. The Man-Ape stared up at her, blood dribbling down his chin, his body failing him. There was an accusatory gleam in his eyes that caused his adversary pause.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Shuri said, her voice indignant. “But you’re wrong. This costume? The same in every way as my brother’s, outside of cosmetic appearance; the same weave of Kevlar, Vibranium and microfilament steel. I know it’s not just ceremonial, it’ll keep me alive. But, offensively, it doesn’t augment my speed of thought or reflex, or the deadly capabilities of my fighting strategy. I’m not the costume.

“The good stuff’s all me, M’Baku. And the sacred, heart-shaped herbs, and the Panther Goddess working through me, flesh and blood and soul. Do you see? You want to believe it’s not me. You can’t accept, lying here now in your own blood and stink, that a ‘mere’ woman could surprise you, could bring you down so quickly and efficiently. But you’ve got no choice.

“I got you, M’Baku. I defeated you… and now I’m going to make sure that you never get the chance to harm anyone again.”

The Black Panther raised her claws. M’Baku the Man-Ape closed his eyes, breathing through his own blood.

And then T’Challa reached out and clasped Shuri’s arm at the wrist, holding her in place not just through physical strength but through an effort of will.

Shuri turned slowly, her true face entirely concealed by the indigo-black facemask of the Black Panther. It was strange for T’Challa to look upon such a familiar countenance; it was, in many respects, that he was staring himself in the eye. But this wasn’t him. It was his familial flesh and blood, and it was the Panther spirit he knew so well, but otherwise… no. Not him.

“We don’t do this,” T’Challa said, softly. “We kill, in extreme circumstances that demand it, but we don’t slaughter.”

The Black Panther leveled her head, her white eyes gleaming. “You don’t do this,” she replied. “Or rather, you didn’t, before your… malady. But can you really stand there and tell me that letting this man go free yet again, to commit sin and evil deed throughout Africa and the world yet again, and to one day return here to Wakanda and challenge our happy existence yet again is the right thing to do? Or was M’Baku right in at least one thing he said. T’Challa? Are you weak?”

“You believe mercy is a weakness?”

“I believe undeserved leniency endangers our people.”

T’Challa’s eyes narrowed.

“This sacred legacy is on loan to you, Shuri,” he said, quietly. “As discussed. Whilst I tend to my other responsibilities, both here and abroad, and whilst I recover, the mantle of the Black Panther is now in your hands. You represent me, out people, our nation. And, as you said, you endured the trials and earned the right; you faced the Goddess and she judged you worthy. But never forget, Shuri, I can take that legacy away from you whenever I deem it appropriate to do so.”

The new Black Panther reached up with her free hand and removed T’Challa’s unwelcome grip from her wrist. She wasn’t especially gentle.

“You can try, cousin,” she said, sweetly. “You can always try. But we both know the truth, that for whatever reason your injuries are failing to heal correctly after your recent off-world adventure.* For as long as that remains the case, my King, this legacy now rests comfortably on my shoulders. And whether you approve of my methods or not, I amwhat Wakanda needs during your… incapacitation.”

* See Marvel Omega’s new Lady Liberators mini-series for the full story!

T’Challa’s countenance was inscrutable. Shuri glanced back towards the Man-Ape where he lay, broken and humiliated – but still breathing – and, behind her mask, her expression was much the same. The she turned and strode away, black and svelte, every inch the feline predator.

And T’Challa watched her leave with a heavy measure of disquiet in his heart.

The Panther Goddess had found the host she had been wanting for many, many years it seemed. And that wasn’t a good thing. No, not at all…

Delphi withdrew her hand from the pool as the image in the waters began to fracture and fade.

“The second,” she murmured in husky voice. “Fierce in mind and in blood. The ruthless strategist. A cunning intellect, yet keener with claw. This one is the trigger, willing to instigate the action others will not countenance.”

“Interesting,” the watcher in the darkness mused. “It seems this new cat has sharper talons than her predecessor. The female of the species is deadlier, as they say…”

Reclining beside her oracle, Delphi arched her back and ran her fingers through her golden hair. “I think I’d like to meet a Cat Goddess,” she murmured, to which soft laughter drifted from the shadows.

“The vanity, the duplicity, the unrelenting enmity…? Consorting with goddesses isn’t all it’s purported to be, child,” the voice said, bitterly. “Trust me on that.”

Candlelight flickered throughout the scrying chamber, and momentarily caught upon trailing robes of green and gold as the watcher ventured close to the interior circle within the ring of marble pillars. Growing eager now, it seemed. The darkness shifted and those robes gleamed in their beauty.

“Another, then,” the voice commanded. “The third of the five.”

Delphi nodded and extended her arm once more. Her fingers slipped beneath the thick surface of the waters and began to stir.

And an image of the third Herald slowly started to form…

NEXT: Lady Jacqueline Falsworth has seen many changes in her long, long life – but she’s about to embark upon an adventure the likes of which she could never have imagined! Don’t miss HERALDS ORIGINS #3: SPITFIRE. “This One Is The Specter…”