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He slams into the silencer behind him, clutching tightly with his claws to keep from falling into the abyss below him. Across from him T’Challa rises, the grace of a king, as the train speeds in front of him.
His heart pounds against his chest as his face is revealed, patches of the black panther disappearing from his clothing as the silencers lower.
This isn't the feeling he thought he'd feel. It doesn't feel powerful. His heart pounds not like drums, nor rhythmic shouts, it hurts like a wound. Like his hands, his body, his mind, tearing apart at the seams. His whole identity, nothing, not enough, never enough for him— couldn't be enough for these people. For his people.
He lets out a roar and slams his fist on the silencer behind him. T’Challa does nothing but stare.
What is there to look at? Does he really look so different to them? So alien?
"You let us die." He growls over the roar of the train, "You left us behind."
T’Challa stares, silent.
"My moms is dead" he chokes out, "My dad been dead. Ain't nothin left for me! Not even you- I ain't even got a cousin!" He slams his fist again when he feels tears sliding down his face.
What kind of king could he be, like this? A better one. A stronger one.
The train zooms by and the silencers rise.
He charges as his suit covers his face again, shiny gold, nothing like the royal purple of his cousin.
T’Challa grapples him, holding him steady as he growls and grunts at him— like a beast, his mind says.
He didn't even know his real name until he was 7. "N'Jadaka", something his dad said softly to him at night, after school, in the mornings— when he asked what that meant, his pops said it was a nickname, nothing more. His notebooks said different.
"We have nothing!" He shouts.
T’Challa shakes his head minutely, straining against him and it only fills his body with more rage, "No?" It comes out as a shriek, "No?" The panther stares back at him.
"Cousin, N'Jadaka," T’Challa whispers, but somehow he is still heard, "Please-"
"How can you say no to me? Say no to our people? No?"
T’Challa shakes his head again, stuttering out noises that only serve to piss him off even more, "You a damn king and you can't even speak!" he spits
T’Challa shoves him across the track as another train speeds by, his face being revealed again.
His cousin's face is blotchy through the panels of the train, his eyes are glossed over like he's about to cry.
"Cousin." He says deeply, "Please. Listen."
He even begs like a fucking king.
He feels himself getting hysterical, "What is there to say?"
"We can try. I am not the old kings. I am not my father. I am not T'Chaka."
Erik stares.
The train passes and an empty echo reaches his ears as the suit returns.
T'Challa continues, "I didn't want to fight you" he says, "I didn't want to battle, I didn't want to hurt you, I didn't want any of it."
Now it's his turn to shake his head, "Then why did you put me in cuffs, huh? You put me in chains. Like a dog, like a slave."
"Listen to me." He hisses out, "We are afraid." Erik scoffs, turning his head to the side. Ain't nothin to be afraid of here. "N'Jadaka. We are afraid."
Silence. Erik grinds his teeth together. Feels the rage building back up inside him— ain't nothing for them to be afraid of. Nothing!
He turns back to his cousin, lets his claws out, "So were my ancestors." He says simply.
"As were mine." T’Challa replies smoothly, "We are the same. You know what they do to us. You said so yourself, Killmonger. You know what they make us do."
Erik stops.
He sees another train coming, steps back closer to the silencer as it speeds by.
"We can still help," T’Challa nods, his eyes still glossy, but the tears unspilled, "We can help our own. We don't have to kill each other to make that happen."
The train passes, taking pounds of vibranium with it. The silencers rise.
N'Jadaka turns back to his cousin, sees the lines of his face as it's engulfed by the suit once again. He sees the creases on his forehead, that nose that looks just like his daddy’s did.
He sheathes his claws.