Now. Latveria.
It takes less time than expected for me to bypass Victor's aerial security measures. Automated drones—roughly fifty of them in the skies around Doomstadt--prompted to deploy explosive countermeasure chaff at a moment's notice of an intruder are….easily overcome. After all, I think I've been to Latveria enough to bat my way past whatever Victor thinks he can stop me with. A coded signal sent over a microwave frequency scrambled the aerial drones and told them to return to the nest and await further instruction.
Machines. Heartless and efficient, to be sure, but as gullible as any human.
Strange wonder, then, that with but a touch my fingers to the controls, the drones were sent away. The irony isn't lost on me. I punch a command into the computer and the car lowers itself to the ground automatically—kicking in the repulsors at the right moment and keeping the attitude just right.
The 'car finally lands in the middle of Doomstadt's forum—town square, as it were—a few feet away from a statue of Victor, wearing his armor. He's holding the excess length of his cape over one arm, and the other arm is extended to the sky. Looking for his next conquest, or relishing what he already has.
After all…how many of these 'villains' in the world have a country to call their own? I count three.
What little amounts of people are actually out and about in the nearby market steer clear of the car; they see the giant blue 4 logo on the side. They know who it is, or have a rough idea, and they stay way. The side hatch slides open, a ramp underneath the frame pops out with a pneumatic whoosh and slides down. And the frankly-small crowd stares at me.
Like a stranger.
And then I remember the last time I was here to talk to (fight) Victor. Perhaps it has been a few months.
I glance at a few of them, and tap the 4 disc on my chest: sending commands to the onboard computer for the Fantasticar to lock itself and do security checks every six minutes. Chances are slim any of the citizens would try anything with the 'car. Better safe than sorry, though. Night's coming fast, and even I can't gauge how long my stay will be.
The 'car starts running its first check, and my eyes dart around the people. Carrying modest amounts of groceries, modest amounts of clothing in leather satchels at their sides and across their backs. Heading home, or to work. Private business thrives here. No one works for Victor, though—"the Master" as they call him—unless they have some manner of technical skill. No, most people make their respective livings scraping food from businesses and farms that have been family owned since the days of Bismarck.
My eyes leave the people, and I make my way for the castle.
Sitting high on a ridge overlooking the rest of Latveria, Castle Doom is a darkened assembly of brick and metal three hundred years in the making, set against the navy-dark backdrop of a European night. From the forum, I see a few lights on the top floors glaring out across the encroaching night—watching and waiting to strike, it seems. Within the creeping darkness of the night, there's an almost palpable deepness to the shadow on the ridge. A darkness so profound and so suddenly noticeable to me…that the building almost looks like its draining light from the city around it.
I make my way up the cobblestone street—the only one of its kind and the only road at all that leads to the castle—keeping swiftness to my step. Ahead of me, the castle gets bigger and darker. As it does sometimes, my mind drifts to Victor. Our younger days, when we first met.
Then. Empire State University.
"Hi there! I'm, uh, Reed Richards."
He looks at my hand like I wiped my nose with it. I withdraw my hand and try another hands-off approach to conversation. "Do you, uh, have a room-mate yet?"
'No,' he says and turns away from me. 'And I have no interest therein.'
"Oh. Reason I ask is that, well, we're both the theoretical science majors. We've both got our respective higher-up's to please. I thought we could maybe pool our resources, y'know?"
He turns back to me, and I stare straight into his eyes. The brown irises roll in identical circles, the already-sharp eyebrows angle further and he speaks again. 'Are you always this forward…?"
"Reed. Richards."
'Richards. There is nothing you can offer me. I intend to do my research to the utmost of my ability, and then use it to my good fortunes. I fail to see where any manner of friendship comes requisite. Good day.'
He heaves his duffel bag up over his shoulder and walks away from me. Not a wasted movement in his entire body. There's something…peculiar about this von Doom. The way he carries himself. Some kind of super self-esteem, or he's genuinely not afraid of anything. At all.
Now. Doomstadt.
That was a long time ago. That was Victor and I in…another life.
This is Victor von Doom—the "Lord of Latveria":
A stunningly accomplished man, despite the evident loss in his life; the voids created by his parent's deaths and left unfilled by years of scrupulous study, devotion to mysticism and ascension to the throne of Latveria. A man of great intellect—perhaps one of the greatest on the planet. If not for his own hubris, Victor could conceivably produce fantastic things in the name of humanity's advancement. A man of Gypsy heritage—a heritage which to those who knew him best, belies his obvious genius. And he is a genius—even I'll admit that. But a man like Victor—with all his gifts and all his fortunes and all his hubris—couldn't bring himself to be some lackey for "the betterment of mankind."
Mankind, to Victor anyway, was something he gave up on a long time ago, out of a broken faith in its systems. Instead, Victor used all his gifts in pursuit of his own ends. Living in America and studying theoretical physics at Empire State University; putting his talents to practical use for the Great American Military. After a heinous incident in which one of Victor's more clandestine inventions literally blew up in his face, he was expelled…and spent the next long years wandering the Tibetan mountains. When he returned to Latveria, he returned a stronger man; no longer bound by conventions of right or wrong, such as they were. The only thing he cared about was ascertaining his rightful place in his homeland. The King and Sovereign ruler of Latveria.
But this is the public story.
The story that Victor, in his private moments, might even believe.
The truth is more complicated.
Victor is…different.
He understands passion, and fury; the two are interchangeable to him; assets to be used to his advantage to attain goals. Love, he's only known twice—and it's left him wanting twice. Friendship is lost on him.
"What are you doing?"
"I was, just…uh…I was looking over your schematics here—"
"And? What did you find, Richards? Speak!"
"There's an inconsistency here. In the transferal. It seems to fall short of your intended destination, assuming…you know…that's where you want to go."
"You question my resolve? My intentions to rescue her?"
"It's not disrespect, Victor, it's the truth. The equation is wrong. I wish you would listen to me for once. This thing could blow up on you and hurt more than just your pride."
"Your concern is noted. Tell me, Richards, have you always gloried in the appropriation of the work of others?"
"That's not what this is about."
"You're right. This is about my desire to save my mother; to rescue her from the ethereal plane. I can save her, Richards. Only you don't think so."
"Maybe."
A Doombot, clad in purple armor, stands at what a human might call parade rest—a wide, balanced stance, feet parallel, hands clasped behind his back—one pace in front and to the right of Castle Doom's massive bronze doors. Etched and crafted with intricate scenes of conquest and bloodshed—probably dating back to when the Turks danced into Medieval Latveria and made off with the King's wife—the doors are only precursory. They're art, all right, and exquisite as far as period art goes. And as the Doombot's programming dictates that it straightens its posture, I find myself rolling my eyes. I stop a foot in front of the Doombot, and the LED-red eyes stare straight into mine.
"Present identification." How very HAL-9000.
"You know who I am." My voice doesn't miss a beat. The Doombot pauses for a moment; the eyes stare out beyond me. And he comes back.
"Identification positive. Richards, Reed. Rank I-2. Proceed. The Master awaits you."
The bronze doors whine a bit and then creak open, slowly laying out Castle Doom's darkened innards. Assuming he hasn't moved his lab from the last time I saw it, it should still be in the northeast corner. The castle looks deserted on the inside, as usual; the occasional presence of Monets and Van Goghs on stone-laden walls dispels the illusion, though. I move through the massive banquet hall in the center of the castle, and my mind goes to Victor once again.
He understands jealousy—seeing it quite possibly in everyone but himself—and possessiveness, becoming angry when anyone encroaches on what's rightfully his. Or what he thinks belongs to him, like this castle. Mostly, though, Victor lives in a state of enhanced intolerance. At the world around him. At the intractability of that world—how it's treated him and how he, in turn, treats it.
Pride is a natural virtue of the aristocrat Victor fancies himself to be and indignation something he's built his life around: when anyone dares impugn the man's integrity or his place above the natural hierarchy.
And moral outrage is perfectly clear to Victor, insofar as he's outraged by affronts to his own concept of morale. Bad things happen when the inherently messy affairs of "normal people" get in the painfully obvious Way Things Should Be.
These days, he is entirely incapable of caring what any given person might feel for him, caring only what said person can do for him. Or to him.
It's quite possible that Victor is what he is because the rest of the world just…isn't as interesting.
As predicted, I find Victor in a darkened chamber in the Northeast corner of the castle. Staring at a wall of monitors, each of them showing something different going on around the globe. Tony Stark in front of the U.N. A bird's-eye view of Ben Urich getting in a taxi-cab by the Flatiron Building.
Other monitors show other things, but I tune them out, and focus on the Admiral's Chair in front of me.
"Victor." A response doesn't come for at least a minute. He's standing his ground. "I came to talk. About us."
"Richards." I sense…condescension in his voice. "Why are you here?"
"Have you read the papers lately? I know you do anyway, but I wanted to cover my bases; to see if you're still in the business of knowing everyone's business."
"The Doctorate." This is Victor being perfectly nonplussed.
"Yes."
He makes a sound that could pass for amused. A steel-covered hand issues from the chair, and reaches out to the computer console. It grabs a copy of the German newspaper Der Spiegel and tosses it over the chair's crown. I catch it in one hand, and automatically translate the headline:
Latverian Dictator Granted Clemency in America.
"They don't like you, do they? The Germans."
"Of course not," the chair says. "To falsify a headline such as that? America would not be so gracious to extend the charity. The Germans care as much for my authority as you do—disappointingly little."
More silence. I open my mouth, ready to speak, but hesitate for a moment.
"You have something to say?" he beats me to the punch.
"You know what they're talking about."
"Yes, I know. And you have come to discuss it with me. To mediate what you call a 'peaceful resolution?'"
"The University, Victor. They're going to give you a Doctorate, knowing you never technically graduated. Aside from the fact that they usually only give those to guest speakers like the President or Donald Trump, does this not strike you as odd?"
"Truthfully, Richards," he says and hesitates for a moment. "I had not given the matter serious thought. Perhaps for the very reason you mentioned."
"Good."
"How do you mean?"
"I'd hoped you were arriving at a similar conclusion. That this was a trophy exercise for them, that they wouldn't really expect you to take them up on it." After three seconds of dead air, I continue: "If you are planning on going, then I'm asking you to reconsider."
The chair rotates in place, and Victor faces me. Sitting casually—almost slouched—in the chair, in full armor. His eyes stare narrowly at me from behind the grey-steel facemask. He says nothing,and his eyes look like they're...questioning me. His eyes were always hard to read.
"Reconsider?" he asks. "How very presumptuous of you.
"What purpose would that serve, Richards? Aside from telling your kennel masters that Von Doom is afraid to travel to the United States? Nevertheless, you are correct, though it pains me to say so. This…situation foisted upon us by Empire State University seems nothing less than thinly-veiled charade for them to claim some manner of credibility. To triumph over me."
"The question is what do you do about it?"
"I am intelligent enough, Richards," he replies curtly, "to know that whatever decision I make, I shall be derided for it. Stay and the Americans would think me spineless. Go, and face ridicule for a failed endeavor which still haunts me."
"You're worried they're going to make fun of you? Victor, I hardly think—"
"Use that magnificent brain of yours for once. What force in the universe could have prompted the University to do this? Why would they do it now? Why not years ago, when such an event would have meant somethingto me?"
"When we were students, Victor?" I say, unflinching. "That was a different world. We were different."
Victor grumbles, and steeples his fingers, covered by the steel gauntlets.
"Something given has no value, Richards. I should think your cosmic endowments would have you believe that."
Silence. I fold my arms over my chest, pressing a thumb to the controls in the 4-disc. Down in the forum, the 'car should open shields and take-off, landing in front of the castle just in time for me to get onboard and leave Latveria.
"It's you the University wants to honor, for whatever reason."
"Tell me," he says abruptly. "What do you think, Richards? Their dimwitted pseudo-machinations aside, what is the verdict of the great Mister Fantastic?"
"I think you should spit in their faces. I think you should stay here and run your country—do what you're best at. I hope you will, anyway."
"True sentiment. Your honesty surprises even me."
"I'll ask again. Stay here, for your own good."
He makes that amused sound again, and stands from the chair. "Richards, any other man bringing this matter to me directly would have come to a different conclusion. I leave it to you, as always, to force a man into a frame of mind."
"I didn't force anything."
"Come now," he patronizes. He pauses for a moment, stares back the monitors and then comes back to me. "You must sense, Richards, that even a small part of your being would delight in seeing me associate with the rabble. You want to see mereceive due credit as well as anyone."
I bite my tongue, and think: this isn't due credit, this is a sloppy publicity hound trying to make the Alma Mater look good. They'll be cashing in on you, Victor, everything you are and were. And then a small part of me wonders...maybe you know that.
"We will go." I can almost see the smile under his mask. "And I shall humor your masters, Richards. I will do to them what you could not, all those years ago."
"And what's that, Victor?" I ask wearily, feeling it requisite to do so.
"Prove them wrong."
Continued...