Adrift at the heart of an eternal ballet of emptiness, Doom drifted; a god unmade, a tyrant broken.

At the climax of his greatest, and final duel with his nemesis, the truth had been drawn out of him. A truth that crumbled an unbreakable will, a truth that sundered the very composition of existence as they could remember it.

For all his genius of science, for all his mastery of sorcery, for all the powers of the Beyonders, Richards bested him still, defeating him without room for uncertainty or doubt, leaving Doom to ignore the seeds of his own torment, his own failure. The Multiverse was Richard's now. His to do as he saw fit now, with his family returned to him. And once again, Doom found himself alone in the dark, accompanied by nothing but his thoughts and silence. This time though, he wasn't behind the borders of his own kingdom, where his people loved him, within the warded battlements of steel and spell that formed his castle walls. No. This was exile; limbo, in its ultimate form.

The invincible beast that it was, Doom's pride remained, roaring his chest in agony gutted but unextinguished. And though that unflinching will refused to die like that of any lesser man's, though Doom refused to dissolve away into the nothingness and blend in with the dark, a withering winter began to set into his bones. There was no more hate left to kindle, no more rage that he could direct or muster at some terrible demon or hated foe. The admission had left him empty. Doom was, for perhaps the first time, utterly beaten.

And he had admitted it.

Worse still. He had admitted it to Richards.

"I always believed that you could be better than what you are," came the words of Reed Richards, echoing through Doom's mind. Was he truly that much of a better man?

Was that why Doom couldn't stop hearing his voice, echoing through the recesses of his mind?

"Work," said Richards. "Work, damn you! I did the spell right! The spell was composed to its exact specifications! I followed the book, damn you!

Wait. That wasn't Richard's voice. That was a girl's voice. What the hell? Doom frowned beneath the mask. Was he going insane? Doom shook himself of such thoughts. That was impossible. Doom did not go insane.

"Come on," echoed the voice, desperation palpable in each syllable. "Come on your piece-Shit! Why isn't this spell working! I'm doing it right! Come on! Come on!"

Far in the distance, a small pinhole opened as the shadows snapped apart in a kaleidoscopic intrusion of light, bright and burning. Sorcery. Doom knew the taste of magic better than most would ever fathom even after lifetimes of study and training. There was no doubt here. Someone was drawing him away from here. The darkness fractured away as snow drifted into the nothingness, bleeding white into the black. Doom reached out with a hand and pressed through, breaking through the thin wound between dimensional borders.

Perhaps this wasn't a limbo after all.

Perhaps Richards had placed him here for a reason.

Sovereign

Chapter 1.1
Prodigal Son

"Damn it," the girl cursed, knees bruised for hours of kneeling at the center of the circle. The incense had long since burned itself out, leaving nothing but smoke stolen by the wind. The chalk scribed sparking patterns drawn beneath her feet-a hasty, panic scribbled patchwork of spells invoking extradimensional powers-had been rubbed and smeared across her coat. She knew that she had failed. She knew. But where her mind was aware, her heart was weak, and so, like the child that she hated being she sulked in silence. A few disobedient tears spilled out from her, drawing her ire. She rubbed her sleeve across her face and winced. He jaw was still swollen. She about forgot about that. Now the taste of metal from the rifle's butt returned. She sulked harder, kneeling there in silence.

These days, life was like a box of assholes: no matter what she chose to do, it always ended with her getting shit on in some way. Still, in spite of this setback, she could not give up and succumb to despair. Not with her entire clan counting on her. If the demon summoning was a bust for her, then it was onto the next plan. Whatever that plan was.

"Why are you crying, girl."

She froze, then looked up, face breaking into a grim smile as she greeted the figure that shadowed over her. He stood at the center of her circle a towering titan of chrome cloaked beneath a skin of green, twin suns of glowing green blazing from behind the sockets of a rent metal mask, barely hanging on as it is.

Yes. Yes! She hadn't failed after all. The must've just been a delay in the spell is all. She wasn't a practiced sorceress like her mother but the talent she did have. This proves it! She fought to stop herself from doing a merry little jig before her new minion, suppressing the spike of adrenaline with a facade of calm, domineering coolness that would be expected from a warlock worthy of respect. "I am not crying, demon."

"You were not?" said Doom, looking down at the girl, lying through her teeth. "Truly? Then I assume all the cursing was part of the summoning as well then."

She frowned at him, golden brows furrowing. For a creature with a frozen metal face, this demon had some lip. "Silence, demon, your will is mine to command now!" Drawing her arms across herself diagonally, sigils and runes sparked into light across her limbs as she tried to finish her binding spell. "By the will of the Dark-the dread-" She froze. What were the words again? It was the dark something. The ritual invoked powers of a being from a parallel dimension. She just needed to remember what it was.

Meanwhile, the demon folded its arms as waited. "Dread Lord Dormammu?"

"Yes!" Wait. Why was he helping her? Nevermind. Finish the spell. "Dread Lord Dormammu, I hereby invoke the binds-the binds of..." Her left arm promptly fizzled out. She waved it. It flickered like a dying light and went out again. "Shit."

Doom fought the urge to shake his head. She played the part of sorceress as best as she could but he knew a neophyte when he saw one. Sorcery was an art as much as it was a coded pattern in the tapestry of existence.

Though her fundamental aspects of the spell were woven cast well enough, she held little knowledge over how to manipulate the dimensional forces she was drawing on through the summoning-sigils sparking into nothingness on the ground. Such being the case, her talent couldn't be denied but her attempt was foolish at best. Even a beginner knew that personal energies were the safest to wield, universal energies most practical to manipulate, and dimension energies for complex and varied, but also dangerous. The best case for her would have been a spell failure. The worst case often could not be imagined by mortal minds.

The outer dimensions were not nice places for little girls.

"So," said the girl, taking an interest at the snow on the ground, "the spell didn't work."

"No."

"Which means I can't control you."

"No more than a gnat can command a thunderstorm."

There was a slight tremble in her lip. "...are you going to eat me now?"

Oh, the poor foolish girl. "Not before the moon hangs low and you finish summoning my seasoning."

"Seasoning?" she asked.

Doom fought the urge to massage his temples. "I'm not going to eat you, foolish child. Nor am I a demon."

"Oh," she said. "Well. What are you, then?"

He folded his arms. "Doom."

She blinked. "Doom?"

"Doom."

"That's your name?"

"Yes," said Doom.

"Doom," she said, trying the name out on her tongue. "Are you sure you're not a demon. Because that sounds like the name a demon might have."

"Doom does not lie."

She fixed him with a questioning stare. "Sounds like something a demon might say."

"Girl," said Doom, patience wearing thin.

"So, is this one name thing popular among demons?" asked the girl. "Do you all have one-word names. Like...Madonna?"

What? What was this stupid child fixating on? "What do were you trying to achieve with the summoning, girl?" Doom interrupted.

"Baron Vladimir's men. They took my clan. They said that they needed new workers for the quarry and that we were breaking the law by being on the Baron's property." She stopped the story to spit, intending to blatantly disrespect the Baron's decree. She fell silent after that, unable to meet his eyes. "So they did. And I ran."

"Baron Vladimir Fortunov?" asked Doom. Doom remembered a Baron Vladimir from almost a lifetime ago. Hatred warmed Doom from the inside like rising bile, mixing with that sweet, pleasant memory of his terrified, gasping face as the light finally left his eyes. Doom could still feel his fingers wrapped around the despot's throat. "The Baron of Latveria?"

"Yes," said the girl, eyes widening. "Are you psychic as well?"

"No," said Doom, coldness brewing from within him like a cauldron. Now he understood. An alternate Earth, or universe. That's where this was. Wherever this reconstruction of existence was, Richards had chosen this domain for him. But why?

"Demon?" asked the girl.

"Doom," came his words, colder rumbling like an avalanche in the distance, "is no demon. I am infinitely more than a slave of the hellish dimensions could ever fathom to be. Do not make me repeat myself on this again."

She lifted both her hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. Well, whatever you are," said the girl, "I still wish to bargain. Help me. Help me save my people from the Baron's guards. Help me kill the Baron. And in exchange...in exchange, I'll give you my soul."

"Your soul." Doom looked down at her through his eyes with an impassive expression. What did this fool expect him to do with her soul? Sell it to some demons for a flesh-cloak to gain a minor boost to his spellcasting abilities? Did she think him a dealer in souls? Souls were a terrible mechanism for powering things considering the potential for leakage. Even worse as a means of exchange considering the liquid nature of spiritual energies. How ignorant was she the basic fundamentals of sorcery?

She bit her lip. "I...I also have this dagger." She drew a dagger from her hip. It was a rusted thing that was around as dangerous as it could be used to cut. "And some mutton too. It's a week old but still edible." She showed him the mutton as well, discolored and rough meat that it was. Doom wager that he could have offered those chunks to a starving wolf and it would have chosen to roll over and die instead.

"You don't have much to bargain with at all, do you girl?" asked Doom

"What part of the Baron took my people and everything we own don't you understand?" spat the girl. "Are you going to help me or not? Because if you're not, just tell me or eat me or do whatever but stop wasting my time!"

From the back of Doom's mind, arrogance, though bruised and battered, came roaring back to life. Who was this girl to dare make demands of Doom? By what right did she have to command him? By what power could she compel him? Pity? Weakness?Incompetence? Why should he be compelled to obey a child's orders? What was she compared to Doom? If not by the grace that she was a daughter of Lavteria, then Doom would have...

He would have...

I always believed that you could be better than what you are

Richards. Damned Richards. Damn him and his damn words. Damn him for winning.

Damn him for proving himself right.

"Very well," sighed Doom, reaching down with an open gauntlet. "I. Dr. Victor Von Doom, the rightful ruler of Latveria, accept your request for help."

The girl looked at him with disbelieving eyes. "Rightful ruler? Did you just declare yourself king? What kind of shit is that?"

Doom glared.

"Fine, fine, take Latveria," she said, gripping his gauntlet tightly with her small hands. "I. Valeria, of Clan Zefiro hereby...thank you?"

As her name left her lips, his hand nearly crushed her's in a vice grip.

...

A/N: Yes. I dumped after-Incursion Doom into the MCU. This can only go so poorly for everyone involved. And, not to worry, Doom is going to absolutely loathe the constant stream of MCU humor that keeps happening around him for little to no reason. Oh, and brief history lesson, that flesh-cloak thing, that isn't some weird metaphor. There was actually an arc in which Doom sacrifices a former lover to gain a skin-armor to be a better wizard in an attempt to magic Richards and friends to death. That...was a disputed storyline, titled "Unthinkable." As you can infer, the characterization of Doom has ranged from a brilliant megalomaniac that was as honorable and benevolent to his people as he is badass against his foes, to giant raving asshole to everyone he thinks he's better than (which is everyone whose name doesn't begin with Dr. and ends rhyming with Room), to being a hacker wearing trash bags. Whatever you think about the guy, you got to give it to him: his portrayals really haven't been the most stable over the years.