New York.
The United Nations.
"Mister Secretary General, Mister President, distinguished delegates, ladies and gentlemen…"
The King of Atlantis stood at the lectern, hands clasped around the edges, operating—or so he thinks—behind the safety of a tough front. The black bolero jacket sat uncomfortably, and every few moments he shifted his stance.
He is nervous.
The lord smiled behind the cold steel faceplate. And listened.
"I have spoken to this body previously," Namor said, "of the need for this colony. The resolution comes to a vote today, ladies and gentlemen, and I urge you once more to vote your consciences. For too long Atlantis has been denied the sovereignty which this body has extended to other nations. Let the island nation of Genosha stand as an example of the work this body can do for the betterment of Man."
The lord raised one armored hand slowly. Namor sighted it. His brow furrowed, and he hesitated to acknowledge the speaker.
"Yes?"
The Speaker rose form his seat, on the next level down from Namor. "The chair recognizes the delegate from the principality of Latveria."
The lord stood. His eyes met Namor's.
"Was not Genosha a country built on apartheid, Namor? With the self-styled Master of Magnetism ruling Hammer Bay, apartheid has become anti-humanism—how do you say, a rose by any other name. You stand there as a man who seeks to make the ocean his exclusive domain. Majora is the first step in this plan of yours. Tell me, King of the Seas…how am I to take you at your word? What keeps Majora from becoming the militant arm of Atlantis—and ferrying the willpower of its leader?"
"The presence of Majora has been settled on for some time, Victor. For the probationary period this body has agreed to, Majora's right to exist will be subject to review by the Security Council," Namor's voice went guttural briefly. "That should be enough for you."
The Lord of Latveria narrowed his eyes and sat back in his seat quietly, and waved an expressive hand toward the lectern. Yes. Quite enough…
The speaker rose again. "The delegate from Latveria defers to Prince Namor."
"Thank you, Mister Speaker," Namor muttered. He looked at the Lord of Latveria once more, and then tracked his gaze across the assembly. "Put it to a vote, delegates. Now."
The Speaker rose. "We shall recess for one hour, during which time the delegates will cast their votes. This session is adjourned." He pounded his gavel. Slowly, the delegates across the assembly stood and dispersed as free range livestock. Namor followed T'Challa out of the assembly hall.
The Lord of Latveria stayed in his seat, leaned forward and steepled his fingers.
Two days later.Latveria.
The nation lies nestled within the Carpathian Mountains—surrounded by them, in fact, on all sides. In the fading days of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Latveria had been only one of several regions which committed men and might to the Great War. Symkaria borders Latveria to the south; Hungary, Serbia and Romania comprise the other nations locking the country in place. But Latveria is not party to the sociopolitical problems which have plagued the Balkans rather since the end of the first World War.
Its leader would have it so.
Latveria, with few exceptions, stays out of world affairs. It has better things to do. This is not to say, though, that in its capital of Doomstadt, in the so aptly-named Castle Doom, Latveria's Lord does not know of international affairs.
He is known to be ever vigilant. Ever critical. And on occasion, he inserts himself in politics where he deems his hand worthy. Such as now. Where the only lights discernibly burning in Castle Doom emanate from the highest point in the west tower. The peasants know to stay away from the castle, unless its issue requests them—and that is only rarely.
For now, the castle is quiet. And in the highest room of the west tower, the Lord of Latveria has requested audience with another—has requested an opinion. A most unusual request.
"—Or have you not introduced yourself all these years," the lord says with contempt, "as King of Atlantis?" The lord stops before a free-standing globe of the world, circa 1453. The lord runs an armored hand over the relief of Africa.
"You know what you can do with your offer, von Doom." The King hovers a half-meter above the floor, as if to make himself look greater in the eyes of the lord. But then, the lord is smart—smart enough to dispel notions of foreign supremacy. Especially from this foreigner.
Namor. The mutant king of Atlantis. Clad in his ever tiresome garb of dark, with a form-fitting bolero open at the chest. He purposefully reeks of overexerted masculinity, and a false consciousness of superiority.
The lord of Latveria is not impressed—anymore at least. There was a time when he had considered an alliance with Namor. It was only after a profound miscalculation that the lord realized certain of this world's rulers…differed from him in their estimations of power and control.
Behind the iron faceplate, the lord allows himself a judicious frown. He pulls a compass from a nearby oak table and angles a trajectory on the globe's face, tracing an arc across the globe from Wundagore Mountain to the southeast…to Madripoor in the Far East, turning the globe slowly as he goes.
"My offer…is a chance at godliness, Namor. And you have once again refused me, as you have always done. Do you not remember our once-great alliance?" the lord asks, feigning enthusiasm. "We had the family in our clutches, and while my desires have since grown beyond humbling Richards...my indefatigable sense of honor compels me to do this and to ask your assistance. The world is beginning to forget Victor von Doom. This is untenable."
"And you hope to learn new lessons from the past?"
The lord traces the compass trajectory over with a quill pen. "You and I share a mind, Namor. We are sovereigns, we are leaders. We are men of action. We belong to fame, and fame to us."
"You suggested that I join you, Victor. Subordinate myself before…what was it, 'the glory of Doom?' All so you could continue this ridiculous little jealousy against Dr Richards."
"That is the long and short of it, yes," the lord says, consciously permitting the vernacular. "And I still await your response."
Namor frowned and lowered to the floor. "Your sense of honor cripples you, Victor."
The lord turns shortly and sets the compass and quill back in their places on the desk. He looks at the globe once before facing Namor fully.
"Clearly, your affection for Susan has clouded your mind." The lord thinks about it for a moment. "Or has your cold heart finally broken after so many refused advances?"
Namor lifts off the ground again. His shoulders arch and his chest broadens in anger and anticipation. "How dare you?" His voice is restricted—whispered—anger.
Behind the iron faceplate, the lord's eyes narrow; his lips purse.
"You and Richards have your scruples; I cannot be bothered with such conventions. You forget leverage, Namor. I speak of your own child, that precious colony of Majora which the United Nations and the United States and every other united body on this undeserving mud ball sought fit to give you…out of the goodness of their hearts."
"You did not even vote for Majora," Namor says tightly. "You think you have a right to pass judgment on it?"
The lord waves uncaring hand. "The project's genesis interests me. You asked it into existence, and the world tacitly allowed it? What of Colonel Fury? What of the Avengers? What of Richards?"
"Majora exists as a satellite of Atlantis, Victor. Its subjects owe their loyalty to me. Not to Richards, nor the United States. And certainly not to SHIELD."
"Then what is to stop those bodies from encroachment, Namor? When Jakarta and Madripoor decide your little upstart can no longer be tolerated? When they decide its power is too great to survive…unaided?" The lord stepped in close to Namor. "They will come for you, and for your children, and they will attempt to legislate your behavior, Namor. They will attempt to control you, and your tacit quiescence will only accelerate the process. I can help you," the lord says, rasping behind the faceplate. "Do stop me if I begin to sound too much like a certain Master of Magnetism."
Namor lowers to the floor. His arms fall motionless to his sides. Five minutes of silence pass.
"Tell me," the lord said judiciously. "What will you do? When that comes to pass?" The lord waited, and when a response never came, he pushed forward. "Listen to me. When you asserted Majora's right to exist at the United Nations, you were very fortunate they did not laugh you off the stage."
"They wouldn't dare!"
"What's to stop them?" the lord asks. "Do you believe they take you seriously, Namor? Sitting down there in your underwater kingdom, you have no place in world politics, or so they think."
The lord turns away. He slides behind the oak desk again and opens an old atlas, thick and dusty with the accumulation of age and wear, to an indiscriminate page. He goes to the globe again and starts a new trajectory, aiming from Byelorussia across the Atlantic. By his silence, the lord allows Namor to contemplate the future.
"Unless we stop them," the lord adds, and looks back to the atlas. "Think about it."
Namor's lips contort, displeased. He raises a hand to Doom's porter—an elderly, hunched man in a fading tweed jacket and corduroys, standing motionless at the oversized double doors leading to the parlor. The porter heaves one door open with great difficulty. The King of Atlantis lifts into the air.
"Your promises are empty, Victor. I shall fight for what is mine—on my terms. Good day."
The lord of Latveria looks up and watches Namor leave. His eyes narrow.
"Boris," he says with force. "Come."
The old man obliges, shuffling toward the lord.
The lord turns from the globe. His cape sweeps around him in one motion, and he gather the length up, tossing it over one arm.
"That went well."
"Yes, Master."
The lord turns to his servant, and under the cold iron mask allows himself the briefest of smiles. "Namor must learn detachment—must learn he cannot always get what he wishes. How do we go about affecting this, Boris?"
The old man bows his head, ever obedient. "It is not my place to answer, Master."
The lord extends one arm toward the genuflected old man, and brings the wizened head, bowed in fealty, to see his own visage. The prescient silence of the iron mask, the regality of the dress and stance. The utter belief, in everything the lord says and everything the lord does, of a man who looks as if the entire world is before him, and seeks desperately to bring it to account.
"I shall retire to my laboratory now. Have the Servo-guards transcribe the coordinates and bring them to me."
"Yes, Master," the old man says, his voice a fractured whisper.
The old man kissed the signet ring on the lord's armored third finger. Under the iron grating, the lord smiles.
"Whom do you serve?"
"Doom."
Continued...