The Wakandan visit was unexpected. Even Korean radar hadn’t detected the jet entering their airspace, and it was only when it landed on the roof of the U-GIN research facility and dropped its invisibility that anyone became aware of it at all. The ramp was lowered, though only a member of the Wakandan royal guard emerged, demanding the presence of Dr Cho.

“The king is sick,” the guard said fretfully to Helen Cho as she was ushered on board. “We fear it is a reaction to the heart-shaped herb.”

By their tone, she half expected to find a corpse. Yet there was King T’Challa, sitting up bright eyed and bushy-tailed as far as she could tell, albeit covered head-to-foot in his armour.

“Can you describe the nature of the malady?” Helen asked. The guards kept their silence, while she noticed T’Challa shift uncomfortably. “Well I can’t diagnose anything through the suit.”

Reluctantly the king reached for a clasp and pulled back the cowl. Helen stifled a gasp.

“Nobody has ever taken the herb twice,” T’Challa said softly, as if that was in any way justification for the feline beauty sitting before her.

Helen maintained her doctorly composure. She gave the ex-man as thorough an examination as he would permit, even pretending not to notice the purr that was elicited from the king’s throat whenever her fingers tickled beneath his chin or touched the furred feline ears that appeared fused with his head, and she valiantly fought the impulse to actively stroke His Highness.

“I’ll see what I can do…” she said uncertainly.