"I'm very glad you could come—and not as the King of Latveria." King T'Chaka of Wakanda stood not far from his son, a speech manuscript in hand. Unlike certain African states that wore traditional dress at such meetings, the Wakandans had chosen black business suits. The deaths of Wakandans in Nigeria were the event that pushed the Sokovia Accords across the finish line; as king, T'Chaka had been given this chance to speak. His Royal Guard was still waiting at the doors, unable to enter the hall.
Only, Solomon believed part of the reason T'Chaka could take the podium was that the small amount of vibranium known to the outside world still remained in Wakanda. "I know you must be angry that Wakanda failed to fulfill the contract, but you also didn't tell Wakanda what you were going to do. That is very bad for Wakanda's international reputation after opening up. You know this, Solomon. Your cause is just, but means matter too. Right now you have only enemies, no friends. That is dangerous."
"In that case, let's say we're both at fault. But I need to correct one thing. My regent is out finding friends for me—and he's already found them." Solomon smiled. He knew exactly how T'Chaka thought. The king had always borne a confidence in the West from who knew where; that was why he sent Prince T'Challa to study at Oxford. Perhaps he believed Wakanda's agents and army could guard its borders, or that Wakanda's technological edge allowed a man who should always plan for the worst to be blindly optimistic. If T'Challa were the one deciding, he very likely would not have chosen a policy of opening up. "Still, I'm grateful for the vaccines from Wakanda's bio labs. The Eternal City cannot yet meet Latveria's demand with its own vaccine capacity. And the automated surgical machines and biotech prosthetic materials—without those, the spread of medical services in Latveria could never have progressed so quickly."
"I'm glad we can understand one another." The Wakandan king nodded, plainly satisfied by the compliment. "I think we can discuss a new agreement after this. Wakanda would not want to lose a steadfast ally like the Eternal City."
"Nor would I," Solomon said sincerely. "Latveria absolutely cannot afford to lose Wakanda. And I regret that attack. The Eternal City and Wakanda have always cooperated happily on the African continent. Several of our own personnel were badly hurt in that incident as well. I'm grateful for Wakanda's medical aid." A few more pleasantries, and both parties parted content. With a pen and paper conjured from who knew where to complete the pose, Solomon nodded to Natasha Romanoff and went off to meet "his" photographer. It wasn't in the plan, but he intended to play the scene out anyway; with the help of an illusion he already looked exactly like the unfortunate reporter. Once the delegates had arrived, T'Chaka took the stage to give the opening address, and Solomon noticed Natasha had been seated in the front row.
"When stolen Wakandan vibranium is used to forge terrible weapons, the Wakandan people must ask whether this legacy serves a just cause. Members of the friendly Wakandan mission were killed in Nigeria. Our nation has been silent too long. But we will not be beaten back by misfortune. We will fight for the better world we hope to join. We thank the Avengers for supporting our initiative. It fills the Wakandan people with pride to contribute to peace."
T'Challa beamed. He knew exactly what his father was about to say. Wakanda had been quiet long enough—it was time to show the world the true Wakanda.
Helmut Zemo switched to a tight-fitting silicone mask. Tens of thousands of tiny wires inside the mask adjusted per program to mimic the target's features—cheekbone height, forehead width, and so on. The resemblance wasn't perfect, but he knew the camera at the upper right didn't have the resolution to see much detail. When he was ready, he covered the lower half of his face with his collar, put on a hat, and stepped out of the van—he'd left it parked far too long; even the laziest guard would come ask questions. He had to go. A little over a hundred meters from the vehicle, terrified screams and loud shouts rose behind him. Static-choked chatter came from the radios on the shoulders of the scattered guards around the square, and some of them turned to look his way.
Before they could act, a rapidly swelling sheet of flame roared skyward, shredding everything within the blast radius and swallowing the entire square. The brutal shock wave and heat, like a staggering giant of fire, chased him down. Zemo was pitched head over heels by the sudden gust. In that instant, time crawled. In a hurried glance he saw the glass curtain walls of the Vienna International Centre shatter under the shock wave, the concrete blacken, and the sunlit glass fragments fall like a torrential rain onto the granite slabs heaved up by the blast. Gasping, he clawed himself upright, his lungs seeming to be stuffed with smoke. The smell of scorched metal was everywhere; his exposed skin felt dry and raw from the furnace below and the blinding flash.
He had never imagined the explosives provided to him would be this powerful.
Natasha Romanoff squeezed her eyes shut, curled up, and shielded her head with her arms to keep the shock wave and flying glass from injuring her. But the expected pain never came. She didn't smell the burn of explosives or hear the screams. She ran back through the moments before the shock wave hit—she'd felt as though she'd sunk into dark water; the explosion was something happening far away on the surface. When she opened her eyes she understood: a vast circular shield of orange-red sparks was fading away, and behind it everything was clean, untouched. She quickly looked to the other delegates. Like her, most had instinctively tried to protect themselves as the blast occurred, yet none of them were hurt.
Only one man was unlucky—King T'Chaka of Wakanda. He had been too close to the epicenter.
Nearly everyone stared wide-eyed, because a giant in golden armor stood between the podium and the seats, surrounded by the black smoke rising below and the glitter of glass shards on the floor, his deep-red cloak snapping in the hot updrafts as if hell itself were burning around him. Even so, the light pouring from him was dazzling; the smoke couldn't dim that arresting face. Many present recognized him—or rather, recognized the gorgeously ornate suit of power armor that only a giant could wear. Solomon had worn it to deliver a speech in Hungary, and it had become one of his most striking emblems.
The Wakandan Royal Guard who had just rushed in reflexively leveled their spears at him—he was the most threatening figure in the hall—but Solomon paid them no mind: their vibranium spears could not pierce his armor, not even the invisible shield around it. At the same time, a gigantic golden aircraft vomited searing exhaust as it dropped vertically beside the Centre. Praetorians astride antigravity jet-bikes came roaring down the ramp and immediately clashed with the armed security outside the hall, followed by five combat robots, iron-gray shells scrawled with red-painted numbers. They took up positions around the perimeter of the Centre to control all vehicles trying to enter or leave.
Black-and-gold assault gunships screamed down and skimmed over the floor where the hall was located. Sisters in black-and-white power armor leapt from their bays, slammed into the venue on the thrust of their packs, and—without needing orders—sealed every ingress and egress at top speed. Everyone who tried to flee was driven back, because the Sisters really would fire at runners rather than simply shoot into the air. The delegates heard only the deafening keening of engines and the heavy, beastlike thudding of something advancing fast. Outside there were sporadic gunshots, the cannon-crack of grenade launchers, and a chain of explosions—but those sounds died away quickly. The unknown force had seized the hall and the surrounding district in short order. All communications were cut. The Vienna International Centre had become an island on land.
Terror blanketed the entire hall.
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