Now.
New York. United Nations Headquarters.
A chill wind scours the United Nations plaza.
Steve Rogers stands, dressed as Captain America, on the eastern side of the plaza—the side facing the East River. His arms hang heavily at his side, the vibranium-compound shield harnessed in one of them. The star in the center of the shield reflects rapidly fading sunlight.
Rogers doesn't feel the chill, or the wind. He doesn't hear the whine of small motors behind him angling for a landing, or smell the invisible coils of smog curling from the city to the river. What Rogers sees…is Brooklyn. It's not as great as Manhattan, per se; more like a sister. The hand-me-down. It wants to be Manhattan, but isn't, for some reason.
Manhattan, though—New York proper—is one of the hallmarks of mankind. Everything great anyone ever built or crafted was brought here, to New York, for exhibition. The Greatest City in the World, showing off the greatest creations in the world.
And in a few hours, it would be showing off Victor von Doom. One of the worst things humanity ever created. Of all the threats the Avengers faced over the years, Victor von Doom was surely not the most established. But he was always high on the list of threats. Beyond Cosmic Cubes, beyond Infinity Gauntlets, Doom's main weapon was always his mind.
As Captain America, Rogers had worked extensively with the United Nations and the US government on what both bodies called "Latverian Containment Policies" to stem Doom's potential conquests.
God knows he has the ability, Rogers thinks to himself. One of those 'if, not when' scenarios.
"Storm's coming."
Tony Stark's voice is…grim. Gritty. Even through the armor covering his face—and his whole body for that matter—Rogers can tell about the man's voice. He's been drinking again—probably—but he carries himself well. Years of practicing soberness, even when the blood alcohol cries otherwise.
"Tony. What are you doing here?"
"Thought I'd come out and see what everyone's favorite Avenger was up to," Stark says idly.
"Is that so?"
"Security Council's favorite, anyway. You must be, for them to ask you to do this." Underneath the yellow armor covering his face, Tony Stark smiles. "Out of curiosity, what are you doing? Exactly."
"Who better than Captain America to hold Doom's hand?" Rogers says heavily. "Security Council asked me to watch him while he's here. Make sure he doesn't do anything he might…regret."
"You…" Stark trails off. Part of him waits for Rogers to pick up the conversation. "You don't like this do you?"
"No," Rogers says pointedly. "But I agreed to it, and you know me. Word is my bond, Tony."
"Well," Stark says, rubbing an armor-clad hand over an armor-clad chin, feigning thought. "You could have told the Security Council no. If that ever crossed your mind."
"It did," Rogers says, and begins pacing. He holds his shield loosely in one hand; the other hand clasped as loosely around his belt. As he paces, his head hangs low and he seems to take great interest in the ground. The cold and grey pavement lets his mind wander for a moment.
To Doom.
Victor von Doom.
The King of Latveria, legitimately or…otherwise.
He's coming to America, to New York specifically, to receive an honorary doctorate from the University that kicked him out years ago. And the United Nations asks America's most esteemed representatives (the ones that would answer their phones anyway) to assist.
Twilight lowers on Manhattan. Grey clouds saturate the sky in marbled patterns, and a mile away a bolt of lightning strikes the ocean. The air goes cold, and a wind kicks up. Inside his armor, Tony Stark's automatic environment processors switch on, keeping him warm.
"This is different," Rogers says.
"Hey, I'm just impressed you managed to keep the cameras away." Stark waves an armored hand passively.
"That was a condition of my agreement. No cameras and I get to welcome Doom."
"Sounds fair. So what, you'll take him to the University and then what? The night is young, y'know. You could be two wild and crazy guys." Stark sounds almost amused.
"Tony—"
"Before you start," Stark says and holds a preemptive finger in the air. "You're worrying, Steve. Don't. He's just here to bask in some kind of light for ten minutes, then crawl back to his cave with the rest of Western Civilization's worst. For those ten minutes, I think I can muster a courtesy laugh here and there. Who knows, Steve, you try to crack a dirty limerick, you might even get him to laugh."
"An optimist," Rogers says dismally. "That's…new."
"I like to think of it as extended humor," Stark replies, waving a passive hand. "You might join me for a chuckle."
Rogers cracks a smile—slightly—and lifts his head to the sky.
Through the clouds, a grey and blue hovercraft lowers from the sky; its repulsors slowing its descent to a comfortable landing. Once safely landed, a small ramp issues forth from the undercarriage and the side hatch opens with a pneumatic whoosh.
Reed Richards steps out first and stops at the top of the ramp to survey the two men before him.
"Reed?" Stark says absentmindedly. "What are you doing here?"
"You saw the 4-logo on the side of the 'car, didn't you, Iron Man? That was your first clue." Richards walks down the ramp and pats Stark on an armored shoulder. Captain America's eyes dart at Richards, and dart right back to the ramp. And the new figure in the threshold.
Doom.
Get ready, Steve. Deep breath.
In all his medieval glory, standing there and gazing out at the United Nations Plaza. Behind the grey-steel facemask, Doom's brown eyes narrow, and he steps down the ramp. A slow smile creases across Captain America's face as he feigns enthusiasm and approaches Doom with an outstretched hand.
"Victor," he says cordially. "It's a pleasure to see you again."
Behind the grey-steel faceplate, one of Doom's eyes widens—Rogers' mind registers it as Doom raising an eyebrow—and the Lord of Latveria meets Rogers' handshake with apprehension.
"Indeed," Doom says. He extends an armored hand and meets Rogers' handshake in midair.
Iron Man glanced at Rogers, silently wondering what would happen next, back at Doom. For a moment, the two men, Rogers and Doom, don't speak and stare each other down.
Like two alpha males, Iron Man contents to himself. Curious.
Stark turns to Reed. Underneath the yellow armor, Stark's lips purse. He's getting ready to ask Reed a question. Behind Stark, Rogers ushers Doom across the Plaza, to a waiting transport.
"So, uh—"
"Yes, Tony?"
"Why is that when we expect to see Doom arrive on his own…we find you escorting him?" Inside his head, Reed makes a note. Tony tries to be stern. But it comes across as hollow.
"I'm not an accessory here, Tony," Reed says, feigning defense. "I went to Latveria myself to see if I could talk him down," Reed explains and holds his hands out in front of him, offering up innocence. "I guess you could say it didn't work."
"It's alright," Stark reassures him, slapping a hand on Richards' shoulder. "If you're up for it, we could use another hand here."
Stark leaves Reed's side, making for the waiting transport with Rogers and Doom aboard, but stops short and turns back to "Mister Fantastic."
"Reed?"
Reed, caught in his own devices, stops at the top of the ramp leading to the Fantasticar and turns back to Iron Man. "Yes?"
"Are you…coming with us? I mean, you know him better than anyone. Might help us."
"He's not a rabid dog, Tony, I'm sure you'll do fine. I've got to get back uptown. I've got business of my own to do, you know."
"Yeah alright," Stark says dismissively. "Are you, uh, going to the ceremony?"
"The doctorate?" Reed asks. Redundancy, he contents to himself. You know better, Reed. "Certainly. Meantime, you know where I'll be. Good-bye."
Without missing a beat, Reed turns away from Iron Man and into the Fantasticar. The hatch slides shut, the ramp pulls under the 'car, and the craft lifts into the air. Leaving Tony Stark alone in the plaza. A voice from behind him calls his name. He reminds himself its Rogers, and starts walking toward the transport.
And inside his armor, a metallic ping catches Stark's attention. He frowns for a moment and presses a button on the underside of his wrist gauntlet. A small microphone in the wrist hisses for a moment, finally giving way to a tinny voice.
"Has he arrived yet?"
Stark glances at the far side of the plaza for a moment and turns away, replying dubiously. "Yes, he's here."
"Excellent," the voice says, carrying delight. "Things are proceeding accordingly, Anthony. Very soon we shall see if the great Victor von Doom is ready to join our…esteemed club."
Now.
The Baxter Building.
Ben.
That rat got into my Lucky Charms again.
He's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, with a blindfold over his eyes. Another game of hide and seek with Franklin.
"Aren't you a little old for that?" I patronize.
"Hey, if I can't honestly hide from the kid, I might as well get a laugh outta the kid."
"Fair enough," I say. "Hey, uh, you wouldn't know what happened to my Lucky Charms would you?"
"Nope," he says without missing a beat. "Why?"
"Boxes don't just wind up empty, Ben," I say in my best Ward Cleaver.
"Sure they do," he says, innocently enough, and shrugs. Then a smile. "If you're the type that eats cereal every fifteen minutes, that is."
"If I ate cereal every fifteen minutes, I'd know how much I was eatin'. You ate my Lucky Charms, you thieving sack 'a crap!"
"Whaddaya so worried about, Matchstick?" Ben whines and stands. He lifts the blindfold up to his forehead and stares straight into my eyes. "It's just cereal."
"It's my cereal!"
"How old are you?"
Damn. He got me there. "Fine," I say dismissively.
I turn around to see Reed leaning against the doorjamb. Beyond him, Sue's in the kitchen making a sandwich or…something. He's holding a box of Lucky Charms in one hand.
"Oh Hosannah!" I say giddily as he throws the box to me. "You're a lifesaver, Reed."
"I noticed the box was nearing empty when I left yesterday," he says and smiles. Consider this my good deed, Johnny."
I hug the box tightly. When Ben walks past me and pats me on the shoulder, I jerk away from him. Gotta keep the loot safe, after all.
"So how was the Old Country, Stretcho?" Ben asks as he follows Reed into the kitchen. They pull out chairs at the table and sit. I follow suit, and when the Lucky Charms are sitting unattended, Ben grabs a handful. As he talks to Reed he takes a few at a time.
"Fine," Reed says. Sue lowers a cup of coffee over his shoulder. "Though I didn't accomplish what I wanted to."
"What's that?" I ask, with a mouthful of Charms.
"I wanted to keep Victor in his castle, where he wasn't a threat to anyone but some self-aware Doombots. It didn't work. And now he's probably bored out of his mind while Steve and Tony drive him around like some tourist."
I amuse myself with a thought of Doom wearing an I heart NY shirt. Heh.
"So…what?" Ben asks. "He's goin' through with this degree thing, huh?"
"Oh yes," Reed says wearily sipping the coffee. "He's going to prove us all wrong."
"He's gonna feed starving children and call himself Mister Doom and say he's not all bad?"
Reed cocks his eye at me and says, "Something like that."
"What I don't get," Ben interjects, "is why so many people seem pissed off about this? What's so important about Ironbox comin' over here? I mean—and this is comin' from me, a guy who knows—how bad can it be?"
Reed sips the coffee some more, and sighs. "Ben, do you remember college?"
"Sure, who doesn't?"
"Did you ever actually meet Victor while you were there?"
"Once or twice," Ben taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "Mighta been at a kegger. Heh. What a night. Ol' Mary Wolfman couldn't keep her hands off—"
"Alright. Then you knew about what he was doing with the government? The work he and I did in our respective laboratories in conjunction with our studies?"
"I knew you were inta the space program," Ben says blankly. "I shoulda figured Vic was in something just as nerdy."
"Yes," Reed says, clearing his throat. "He was. He was in the practical side of things. Building weapons, that is."
I decide to cut in. "So…that thing he built—to find his mother—that was a weapon?"
"No, Johnny. Victor kept that secret from the military. And the military kept his real experiments secret from everyone."
When Reed speaks, he doesn't stop for what seems like an hour.
"He was a ruthless workaholic, Johnny. Spent lots of sleepless nights in his private laboratory, just off his dorm room. Victor wouldn't come out for weeks at a time; only to go to class or to ask the Generals for supplies. When that happened, it was an all-day affair at Air Force bases and places no civilian could get into without being shot. Do you remember that time-travel platform he used on us?"
"The very same one we have in the lab downstairs?"
"Yes. Victor invented that. Time travel was possible, everyone knew, but Victor was the one who materialized it and got positive test results. He made robots with sophistication somewhere below Ultron. It's possible that Victor even pioneered the technology that makes stealth jets available now."
Ben yawns. "So what's the point, Stretcho? That Vic killed JFK?"
"My point, Ben," Reed says keenly. "Is that Victor knows things. Neither one of us spent years working with the government for peanuts, you know. It's part of the reason why the UN and Washington keep me in close contact."
"To monitor you?"
"To get feedback, Ben. They have their own scientists; I'm just a consultant when they need me. The same thing would've happened to Victor had he decided his future was more important than his past."
"So….they're afraid of him?"
"Of what he knows, Ben. Intimate secrets from before he was even born; things he learned while he was talking to Air Force generals—probably taking mental notes the entire time, cataloguing everything for when it might be useful to him. Victor is responsible, as far as intellectual property goes, for probably 40 percent of the military technology we had when you and I were in college, Ben. Everything that's come since then is based on one of any of his proprietary designs. The government knows he's powerful, and true to form they're afraid of it. My point, Ben, is that Victor knows a good part of our national defense, and he's sat on it for years. If he wanted to start a one-man war, he could do it."
"Makes sense," I interject. "Too many juicy secrets to give away. Robs him of the thrill of just knowing it. Like having a great steak and not eating it."
Ben whispers in my ear, "Nice, Bic-head, always thinkin' with yer stomach."
"Johnny's right," Reed says slowly. "The University wants to honor Victor's knowledge, and everyone else seems terrified of him."
"Should they be afraid of him, Stretcho?"
Reed says nothing. He looks at Ben, both of his eyebrows arched, and sips more coffee.
Continued...