Cross's words hung in the humid African air for a moment before Wesley nodded, his mind drifting to memories of his early days in the Fraternity.
He remembered walking through the Continental Hotel with Smith and Fox, back before Smith had become GOD. They'd been hunting down a cell of assassins who'd broken the code—killing civilians for profit, targeting the innocent. Wesley could still see Smith's cold expression as they'd identified each target, methodical and merciless.
"Criminals come in all shapes and sizes," Smith had told him during one of their first missions together. "Judge them by their actions, not their appearance. A killer who preys on the weak deserves the same fate regardless of where they're from or what they look like."
That lesson had stuck with Wesley. The Fraternity's justice was blind to everything except the crime itself.
Still, he found himself curious about this T'Challa. What made an African prince worthy of a Dragon Ball? According to the limited intelligence they'd gathered online, Wakanda was one of the poorest nations on the continent—a struggling agricultural economy that somehow refused international aid despite obvious poverty.
Pride, Wesley supposed. Stubborn, foolish pride.
Soon, they arrived outside the Wakandan palace, such as it was. The building looked more like a regional government office than a royal residence, modest and unremarkable.
Wesley glanced at the Dragon Radar. The blip pulsed steadily. "Dragon Ball's inside. Should be with the prince."
They approached the gate where two guards in simple uniforms stood watch. Wesley addressed them in accented English. "We're here to see Prince T'Challa. It concerns the Dragon Ball."
The guards exchanged confused glances. One of them shook his head dismissively. "The prince is not seeing visitors today."
"This isn't a request," Wesley said, his tone hardening. "Tell your prince that representatives from the Dragon Ball tournament are here. He'll want to see us."
The guard's hand moved toward a radio at his belt. "You need to leave. Now."
Wesley sighed. This was going to be tedious.
Cross stepped forward, moving with the casual confidence of a man who'd survived decades as an elite assassin. Before the guard could key his radio, Cross's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting. The guard gasped, dropping to one knee.
The second guard lunged forward, reaching for a weapon. Wesley met him halfway, sweeping the man's legs and putting him on the ground with minimal effort. Within seconds, three more guards rushed from a side building, shouting in what sounded like Xhosa.
Cross and Wesley moved in perfect synchronization, decades of training evident in every motion. No weapons drawn—they didn't need them. Guards fell with precision strikes to nerve clusters, pressure points, joints. Professional and efficient.
In under a minute, a dozen guards lay groaning on the ground, and Cross hadn't even broken a sweat.
One guard, younger than the others, stared up at them with wide eyes. His hand trembled as he reached for his radio again.
"Now," Wesley said calmly, "would you please inform Prince T'Challa that we're here about the Dragon Ball? I promise he'll want to speak with us."
The young guard scrambled to his feet and ran inside.
Inside the palace, T'Challa sat with Shuri in what passed for the throne room—really just a slightly larger office with some ceremonial decorations. The space was designed to look appropriately humble for foreign visitors, nothing that would hint at Wakanda's true technological advancement.
The young guard burst through the door, breathing hard. "Prince T'Challa! Two Americans at the gate. They want to see you. They say it's about... the Dragon Ball."
T'Challa sat up straighter, his pulse quickening. Finally. He'd been wondering when the tournament organizers would make contact.
"They also..." the guard hesitated. "They defeated an entire guard squad. Easily. One of them moved so fast I could barely see it. They're extraordinary, sir."
Shuri's eyes widened with excitement. "Superhumans. Finally, something interesting."
T'Challa stood, his mind racing. How had they located him so quickly? The Dragon Ball itself must have some kind of tracking capability that Shuri's scans hadn't detected.
"Bring them in," he ordered.
The guard nodded and hurried out.
Shuri leaned close, whispering, "Brother, be careful. We don't know what these people are capable of."
"I know," T'Challa murmured back. "But this is what we wanted—contact with the outside world's extraordinary community. Stay alert."
Wesley and Cross followed the nervous guard through the palace corridors. The interior matched the exterior—functional but unimpressive. Wesley noted the guards' expressions as they passed. Pride. Unmistakable pride in their eyes, despite their nation's apparent poverty. Strange.
They entered a hall where a young man sat in a ceremonial chair, a woman about his age standing beside him. Both wore traditional African clothing that looked expensive despite Wakanda's supposed economic struggles.
After the guards withdrew at T'Challa's gesture, the prince spoke. "You've come about the Dragon Ball. What's your purpose here?"
His tone was casual. Too casual. The tone of someone who believed themselves in control of the situation.
Wesley pulled out a gold coin from his jacket pocket, the metal catching the light. "We're staff from the Dragon Ball tournament. We're here to deliver your invitation and confirm some details."
T'Challa's expression shifted to one of analytical interest. "So the Dragon Ball has some kind of tracking mechanism that my sister couldn't detect. Fascinating." He tilted his head, studying them like specimens. "I assume the organizers are American, given your accents?"
Wesley's jaw tightened slightly. The dismissive tone was grating.
"T'Challa," Wesley said, his voice cooling. "Let me confirm: are you participating in the Dragon Ball tournament to compete for the championship and the wish?"
The prince didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed. "What's the nature of these wishes? Does this 'Shenron' actually exist, or do the organizers simply grant wishes through conventional means—money, connections, resources?"
He gestured vaguely, as if discussing something trivial. "And how exactly did you embed information in my mind when I touched the Dragon Ball? What technology allows for that kind of direct neural interface?"
Cross's eyes narrowed. Beside him, Wesley felt his temper rising. They weren't here to be interrogated by some arrogant prince who thought his title made him special.
"Answer the question," Wesley said flatly.
T'Challa smiled slightly. "I'm simply trying to understand what I'm getting involved in. Surely that's reasonable—"
Wesley's symbiote surged.
Severance manifested as a massive blue hand, erupting from Wesley's shoulder and shooting across the room faster than the eye could follow. The symbiotic appendage caught T'Challa across the chest with tremendous force.
The prince flew backward, his ceremonial chair shattering as he crashed to the floor. He slid several feet before coming to a stop, blood already welling at the corner of his mouth.
Shuri screamed, rushing toward her brother.
T'Challa groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow. The heart-shaped herb had enhanced his durability significantly—a normal human would be dead from that blow. But without his Black Panther suit, he was still vulnerable.
He looked up at Wesley with new eyes. No more casual dismissal. No more arrogant superiority. Just the clear understanding that he'd badly misjudged the situation.
Wesley walked forward slowly, the blue symbiotic mass rippling across his shoulders and arms. "T'Challa. Can you answer my question now?"
The prince coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. He stared at Wesley and Cross, seeing them clearly for the first time. Extraordinary individuals. Dangerous. Possibly both of them enhanced, though the younger one clearly commanded some kind of alien entity.
Whatever that blue creature was, it wasn't human technology.
"I, T'Challa, am willing to participate in the Dragon Ball tournament," he said, his voice steady despite the pain.
Wesley flicked the gold coin toward him.
T'Challa's hand shot up, catching the spinning metal. The force behind the throw drove him back several steps, his feet scraping across the floor. His palm burned where the coin had impacted, already turning red.
Wesley's expression remained cold. "You'll behave yourself when addressed by someone stronger than you."
T'Challa's face paled, but he held his tongue. The display of power had made the hierarchy crystal clear. Whatever pride he'd felt as Wakanda's prince meant nothing here. These men represented an organization that could grant wishes, track Dragon Balls across the globe, and field operatives who could level buildings.
Disrespecting them had been foolish.
Wesley saw the understanding in T'Challa's eyes and nodded. "Good. That coin is your tournament ticket and identification. Now I'll explain the rules."
Shuri helped her brother to his feet, her earlier excitement replaced by wariness. She kept one hand on T'Challa's arm, ready to pull him away if the situation escalated further.
Cross remained by the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He'd let Wesley handle the discipline. The boy had done well—established dominance without killing anyone. That was the Fraternity way. Respect through overwhelming force, but measured. Controlled.
T'Challa wiped blood from his mouth, clutching the gold coin in his reddened palm, and waited to hear what came next.
He'd learned his lesson.