Doom sat on his throne, turning a picture over and over in his armored hands. It was of himself, trapped between Ben Grimm and Reed Richards, on graduation day.
Richards and his various cronies – Ben Grimm, Alyssa Moy – had decided to run around taking (shudder) Pictures. And, as always, they succeeded. Even if Victor had succeeded in partially shielding his face from the flash in this particular photo, they had several billion others, which would go on to fuel the formation of thousands of scrapbooks.
In years past, he would have tired of looking at the photo, and hurled it at the wall. Its cracked and battered frame bore mute witness to this fact.
However, now, he simply dropped it next to his throne. It clattered on the tiled floor, and he leaned back in his throne and sighed.
"Master?"
He sat up again, quickly. It was Vernard.
"Master, I've arrived."
"Vernard, my apprentice." Doom stood up and straightened his cloak. "We have much to do today."
Vernard was a scrawny youth, not much to look upon, but he was gifted with a mind that rivaled Reed Richards'.
"Will we be working on the Hypno-Television Set today, sire?" Vernard asked respectfully, with a slight bow. Since coming into Doom's service, he had begun wearing the traditional clothing of the household – muted greens and grays, with bits of metal armor here and there.
"Not today, Vernard." Doom turned to glance out the big bay window, over the rooftops of Doomstadt, before he walked down the dais towards his apprentice. "Actually, I believe it's time to move on to a different lesson."
Vernard seemed puzzled, but nodded. "As you wish, master."
"Come – let us go to the lab." Doom shuffled down the hall, leaning on his metal staff most of the time. The staff used to come in handy mostly for shooting high-intensity beams of Death Lasers, but now he usually just used it for balance.
Vernard followed meekly, his soft shoes whispering on the tiles. The old Doombots stood in line, powered off and frozen in a silent march, forever. He passed them one by one, a little nervously, glancing warily at their dark eye sockets, as if they might spring to life and grab him at any moment.
He followed his master down a dark stairwell. Around them, various scanners in the walls flashed recognition. Door after door parted at the sound of Doom's staff striking the floor.
Finally, they reached a wall at which no door opened. The floor shuddered.
"I don't believe we've been here before, master," Vernard said.
"Steel yourself," Doom said, and pressed a button.
The floor shuddered and began to sink beneath them. They were slowly lowered through the floor, on a broad, circular platform.
Doom watched Vernard's awed face, and smirked to himself.
The room they arrived in was bare, but filled with light—and diagrams. Diagrams everywhere, chalked up all over the walls and floors.
"What is this place?" Vernard murmured.
Doom held a finger in front of his mouth, motioning for him to be quiet. They stepped off the platform and it rose silently upward again.
The old man pressed a button on the side of his staff. A soft, metallic hum filled the air.
"Now we can speak safely," Doom said, over the sound.
"Master?"
"Look around. Tell me what you see. Tell me what you read."
Vernard obediently looked around, trying to read the scattered words and numbers scribbled everywhere.
"I . . . I see many names."
"Here." Doom jabbed at one name, written in bold blue ink. "Susan Richards."
"And there are many names, with arrows drawn to connect them." Vernard turned around and around. "It's like a web. And . . . there's Jonathan Storm's name. And Lyja Storm. And the Skrull Empress. And the Mole Man."
"And the Richards' cousins in Scotland," Doom continued, pointing out some more names. "The Sub-Mariner, and his people. Benjamin Grimm's aunt. The man who sells pretzels in the lobby of the Baxter Building . . ."
"What is this place, master?"
Doom leaned heavily on his staff. "Do you see Reed Richards' name, Vernard?"
"Yes, master." It was impossible to miss. The name took up half the far wall.
"His grandson was born last night."
"I was unaware of that, master."
"All these people," Doom said, with a wave of his hand, "are somehow inextricably bound into the lives of the Fantastic Four."
"I can see that, master." Vernard knelt and placed a finger on the name Nathaniel Richards.
"I need you to build me an army, Vernard."
The young man looked up. "What are you planning, master?"
"Oh . . . just a farewell."
"I don't know what you mean, master."
"And that is the way it must be, for now."
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