[color=mediumvioletred][sup]Azania, East Africa[/sup][/color]
[color=mediumvioletred][sup]A Bunker[/sup][/color]
[color=mediumvioletred][sup]July 7th, 10:30 a.m.[/sup][/color]
[center][img]https://s5.postimg.cc/ya1gecutj/klaw2.gif[/img][/center]
[center][sub]”Morality is the first step toward cowardice.”[/sub][/center]
[center]- Ulysses Klaue[/center][hr]

A plume of cigar smoke trekked through the entire room. Full light made it clear to each man to whom they were speaking: one Ulysses Klaue, physicist and Nazi son, the other a veteran of war and former army man turned dictator. General Magnus Moore nestled his little nation on the southeastern tip of Africa near the Cape Coast, and it was the only nation in all the 55 countries of Africa with a predominantly white population. Moore, like Klaue, were here today with a single interest: a hermit kingdom’s metal.

Behind Moore stood his Supremacists: Voortrecker, Captain Blaze, Barricade. Across from Moore was Klaw, the origin and cause of the smoke-filled room. As host of this meeting, Moore took the involuntary pleasure of speaking first,

“Ulysses, is it? Yes, son of the renowned Colonel Fritz Klaue--Baron Strucker’s bulldog.” at the insult, Klaue stopped puffing his cigar, his legs remained propped atop the round table.

“Something foul come from your mouth about my father again and I may have to get unfittingly violent, General. Understood?” he blew smoke in the General’s face. As bodyguards do, Moore’s meta-men moved to attack, Moore waved a hand at his trio dismissively.

“Mr. Klaue jests, vriends. Let us address our business, Mr. Klue. I am told you are the finest, ehm, contractor in these dark lands. Is that correct?”

A gruff laugh escaped Klaue, he drew from his cigar again and puffed the ensuing smoke from his nostrils. Klaue plopped his head back on the chair, eyes closed as he soaked up the euphemism. Contractor. How nice of the General to dally. Klaue had no time for his nicieties, there was money to get, and the General’s love for language was too above Klaue for him to care.

“I kill people, General. People like you hire people like me--” a prod of his own chest, “to get rid of people like the Wakandans. That is why you brought me here, right? Problems with the cat man?” Moore smiled, a little flustered at how callous Klaue was. How [i]rushed[/i] he wanted everything; that was not a quality of a thinking man. Moore wafted a hand at Barricade, his resident brute, who retrieved a silver metal case and laid it on the desk.

“Calling [i]them[/i] a problem is an insult to our people, Mr. Klaue. They are simply a nuisance. A nuisance” the suitcase clicked and its lid opened, "which will be swiftly dealt with this time." Inside the velvet inseam of the suitcase lie a Vibranium coated bullet. Barricade spun it around so it was visible to Klaue. Klaue swept his feet from atop the roundtable and leaned forward.

“Well haven’t you just outdone yourself today, hey!” a boisterous laugh which turned to a cough, mucus and phlegm rattled his chest. Too much smoking. He would give it up soon is what he always told himself.

“I tend to.” smug and arrogant Moore was, he had masterminded the first ‘invasion’ of Wakanda in 1941. He had masterminded self-experimentation, siphoning and manipulating the DNA of his people to keep himself young.

“Your orders,” Moore continued,

“Orders?” Klaue objected,

“Forgive me. Your… payment... will come after you have assassinated their King. You will meet my man in the States for the specifics of your assignment.” a picture passed his way,

Klaue raised an eyebrow and scratched his head in confusion, “are you sure this is the right, uh, ‘guy’? He’s, y'know. . . white.” Moore let on another of those smug smiles,

“Yes, of course I am sure, Mr. Klaue, I am always sure. They call him the White Wolf.”