[ Heart-Shaped Herb Cave, Holy Mountain, Wakanda ]
Snowflakes fell like tiny crystals from a pale sky as a harsh wind lashed against the holy mountain. T'Challa stood rooted in place, cloaked in a regal robe, but his face was anything but composed. His jaw clenched, brows drawn together with the look of a man deeply unimpressed.
"Are these so-called superpowers always followed by cosmic temper tantrums?" he muttered under his breath, gaze flickering upward toward the swirling clouds. "Is it so glorious to have powers now? Looking down on ordinary royalty, are we?"
His irritation wasn't entirely unjustified. When members of the Wakandan royal family underwent the heart-shaped herb ritual, they rose up, transformed, stronger—sure. But no lightning storms, no celestial theatrics, and definitely no hurricane knocking sand into royal faces.
Whoosh.
The air around them shifted violently as a sudden whirlwind erupted from Storm's body with a sharp crash, sand blasting in all directions. T'Challa got the worst of it, his dignified posture nearly blown into a cartoonish mess, hair full of red dust and indignation. Daisy, ever the tactician, moved like liquid shadow, disappearing behind a stone pillar before the worst of the sandstorm could redecorate her face.
When she stepped back out, brushing a few grains off her tailored collar, she found Storm still lying flat but hovering mid-air now—completely unconscious. A celestial goddess in repose, draped in... very little.
Ororo's chosen wardrobe was bold, to say the least. A sheer, strapless black bra and a micro T-panty that looked like it was designed more for distraction than practicality. Elegant? Perhaps. Strategic for close-quarters combat? Absolutely not.
Daisy tilted her head, her expression unreadable but not judgmental. Mutants with elemental dominion could afford to dress like this, floating above ground like weather-wielding spirits. Meanwhile, spies like herself needed reinforced stitching, hidden holsters, and outfits that didn't tear every time a blade swung past.
Then the real chaos began.
Far beyond the mountain, the winds answered Ororo's unconscious call. Hurricanes began to stir in the skies—massive, twisting columns of wrath aimed straight at Wakanda's sacred ground. Several converged, gathering strength as they approached.
"Stop the hurricane!" T'Challa barked to the royal guards.
Too late.
Vibranium couldn't punch wind, and their energy spears were useless against the intangible.
"Ororo, wake up!" he shouted again, his voice drowned by the howl of rising gusts.
Daisy, ever calm under pressure, did her own calculations. Wind speed. Trajectory. Force output. She narrowed her eyes, lifted her right arm, and strode forward like she owned the damn mountain.
"Move."
With that single command, she clenched her fist and unleashed a punch into the air. But this was no ordinary blow. Invisible tremors rippled out like shockwaves from a hammer striking the heart of the sky.
The first hurricane shattered like spun glass caught in a sonic boom.
There was no sound—yet somehow, everyone heard it. A rupture in reality. A phantom crack. The storm collapsed in on itself and dissipated into harmless wisps.
No time to bask in awe. Another hurricane spiraled down.
"Keep calling her!" Daisy snapped to T'Challa as she ran along the ridges of the sacred grounds, launching herself into the path of three more swirling vortexes. One by one, she tore through them, her arms pulsing with controlled power. Even a bolt of lightning tried to strike the mountaintop, but she intercepted that too.
Where before there had been strain and searing pain—now there was only numbness and thrilling control. No shuddering muscles. No trembling bones. Just raw, flowing precision.
She was getting stronger. Fast.
Finally, after the last charge of wind collapsed, the sky began to clear, and Storm stirred. Ororo's eyes fluttered open, and the unnatural stillness around them returned.
The quiet didn't last, when she returned to the cave on holy mountain.
From behind the crowd, a rather irate older woman arrived—wearing a very out-of-place chef's hat, no less. Queen Mother Ramonda, T'Challa's mother and a pillar of elegance and pride—was currently anything but elegant. She stormed toward Storm, hurling sharp words with an accusing finger. Ramonda wasn't lecturing, she was scorching.
Daisy squinted.
Daisy only had a rudimentary grasp of the Wakandan language and an even weaker understanding of their more colorful expressions. But judging by the Queen Mother's tone and glare, she could make out phrases that roughly translated to "homewrecker," "troublemaker," and something about bringing ruin to both kingdom and kin.
Standing beside the animated Queen was a woman Daisy vaguely recognized—likely Nakia, T'Challa's on-again, off-again flame from the original timeline. Her features were hard to distinguish under the shifting light, but the posture and presence matched the memory.
The Queen hailed from the River Tribe—one of Wakanda's five great tribes—and was known in her youth for wielding dual energy rings in battle. Her brother, the River Tribe's current leader, was the eccentric man with the ceremonial lip plate, a memorable figure from the original movie.
As a traditionalist and a proud member of the royal bloodline, the Queen had long dreamt of uniting her son and her niece through marriage—keeping the power, culture, and purity of Wakanda's ruling family intact.
Unfortunately, all those carefully crafted dreams had just been shattered by one woman—the "vixen" Storm. To the Queen, Ororo wasn't just a threat to the peace of the Holy Mountain—she was a usurper of legacy. Furious, the Queen had marched forward, demanding punishment.
Daisy, however, had no interest in wading into a domestic royal feud—especially one that reeked of jealousy and dynastic ambition. She adjusted her collar with deliberate grace and step slightly behind a taller priest to avoid catching stray verbal daggers.
Unfortunately for Daisy, subtlety wasn't exactly in her favor here. Her pale skin stood out like a flare among a sea of Wakandans—people with an ancestral gift for blending into shadows and slipping through stone corridors like whispers.
The Queen of Chef Hats didn't miss it. Her hawk-like eyes landed on Daisy, and with a theatrical pivot, she expanded her tirade to include her.
A barrage of harsh Wakandan spilled from the older woman's mouth. Daisy's brow lifted, a flicker of irritation barely visible beneath her usual composure. This woman had all the grace of a street-side fish vendor on a bad day. She spat three separate insults at Storm before looping Daisy into her condemnation—then came the classic generational blame leap—every outsider was trouble, something about outsiders bringing ruin, corruption, and bad weather, all rolled into one scornful sermon.
Before the Queen could build momentum, T'Challa swept in, gripping Daisy's arm and gently but firmly pulling her aside like a man defusing a ticking bomb.
Daisy didn't resist. She was a trained agent, after all. Endurance was part of the job description. She could endure physical pain, emotional manipulation, even diplomatic lunatics in aprons. But Storm—Ororo Munroe—was another story entirely.
As the spiritual leader of the Kenyan tribe and a battle-hardened X-Men second-in-command, she didn't take public scoldings lightly. Her expression was stoic, but the air around her began to shift. The storm clouds that had previously dispersed over the Holy Mountain were returning—called back by something far more dangerous than weather patterns: her mood.
T'Challa wasn't being dramatic when he called them human-shaped nuclear weapons. One wielded the forces of the earth itself. The other commanded the skies. And neither of them was particularly famous for their patience.
He could already see the headlines: "Wakanda Leveled by Petty Family Drama." Earthquakes or thunderstorms—it didn't matter which came first. Once either of them snapped, Wakanda's destruction would be a matter of minutes, not hours.
T'Challa all but dragged his mother away before nuclear winter returned. Nakia, judging by the jawline and posture—made a hesitant attempt to speak to Storm, but one look at Ororo's expression and she wisely backed off. That was not a face you reasoned with; that was a face you fled from.
Despite being far less modest than Daisy, even Storm seemed to feel the bite of the wind through the thin scraps of fabric covering her. She muttered something under her breath and slipped her robe back on with quiet dignity.
Her transformation had been more turbulent than Daisy's—no quiet awakening, no gentle surge of power—but the results were undeniable. Gone was the frailness of her frame. In its place stood a goddess reborn, the air itself dancing around her fingertips.
Storm showed power off with a casual lift into the air, riding a breeze that obeyed her like a loyal pet.
She landed near Daisy with an elegance that would make royalty weep.
"Thank you," she said softly. "You didn't have to put yourself at risk."
The words held weight—genuine, unpolished gratitude. Daisy gave a slight nod, accepting it without fanfare.
"You're welcome."
Intentions aside, the truth was simple: Daisy had stood between Storm and the Juggernaut. Whatever their initial acquaintance had been, this moment had forged something stronger—respect, perhaps even the early threads of friendship.
Around them, the priests moved with quiet urgency, trying to restore the sanctity of the now-violated holy mountain. Daisy and Storm helped in their own way—one wave of the hand, one flicker of wind—and the thick layers of sand blew off the shattered stone like dust brushed from ancient scrolls.
But no amount of sweeping could erase the deep fissures carved into the rock. The sacred ground, once pristine and revered, now looked like it had been raided by elemental forces—and in truth, it had.
A few priests cast lingering, wary glances at Daisy. Their gazes weren't angry, but they weren't exactly welcoming either.
Stone can be cleaned. Altars can be rebuilt. But cracks in a mountain is whole another matter.
Storm stared at the cracks.
"Was this...me?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. Her gaze swept over the fractured stone, mind tracing back to the lightning she'd summoned—wondering if it had gone further than she intended.
Daisy could have lied. Wanted to, even. But the way the crowd was already eyeing her like the aftershock of a natural disaster made denial pointless.
"Mine," she admitted with a slight smirk.
Storm's eyes gleamed. "I thought so. Earlier—when you caught my lightning attack in the forest—what exactly is your ability?"
She hadn't asked before—partly out of caution, partly because it was a bit taboo to talk about abilities. But after surviving near-death together, boundaries shifted.
Daisy hesitated. It wasn't like she passed out business cards with 'Queen of Vibrations' on them.
"Vibration," she said simply. "All kinds. Sound, seismic, molecular."
Storm's curiosity deepened.
"Can you show me?"
Daisy blinked. Of course she wants a demonstration now. She lifted a hand… and then hesitated. The problem wasn't power—it was presentation. Should she cause a tremor? Shake the holy ground even more after they'd just cleaned it? That would go over well. Punching the sky wouldn't reveal much either. And there was absolutely no way she was demonstrating her more delicate uses of vibration in front of a dozen priests without being branded some sort of heathen goddess of… questionable talents.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]