Author's Note I: I seem to do so many of these. But this one is the result of some scrupulous detective work by markmark261 (by the way, you were right about deerstalkers; I've changed it to what I originally thought deerstalker was slang for: a tweed jacket), my own stupidity, and a desire to make reading easier for you, Constant Readers. I've thus re-upped this installment with minor changes, making it hopefully more clear to the reader. See if you can guess who the King and Queen are that appear below. You may be surprised. Enjoy.
Author's Note II: The President of the University—herein noted as Thomas—is a nod to Roy Thomas, who succeeded Stan Lee as Marvel's Editor-in-Chief in the late 1960's and is well-known for his work on The X-Men, Avengers, Invaders, and All-Star Squadron for DC Comics. The date of the University's founding—1817—is meant to be a hundred year subtraction of the year of Jack Kirby's birth (1917).
Author's Note III: The incident Johnny and Parker speak of, where Johnny torched a part of one of ESU's buildings in a battle with a contingent of super-villains, occurred in 1992's Fantastic Four #371, by Tom DeFalco and Paul Ryan.
"Are you ready for this?"
Behind the grey-iron facemask, Victor rolls his eyes. When he responds, his voice is heavy and patronizing. "For what? To play patsy for your superiors, Richards?"
"I told you, Victor. They're not my superiors. But since you insist on making this my problem, I insist on making sure you're comfortable with the situation."
"Quite so. To answer your question, Richards, I am…at ease."
"That's it?"
"That should be enough for you."
"You told me before we left Latveria that you were worried about reprisals. Are you still?"
"I am prepared, Richards. For whatever manner of fight you wish to force upon me."
I sigh and bow my head. Even after all these years, he still blames me for…everything.
This graduation thing is quite remarkable. If I was a betting man—and let's say I am—I'd say only half of the people here are actually of a graduation mindset. The rest of them—particularly the three rows of press camped out in the seats ahead of us—are all about seeing a glimpse of the elusive Victor von Doom. I guess there's some kind of tabloid fascination with an eccentric king who spends all his time locked away in a castle.
Crazies.
I manage to secure a few seats on the floor, behind the Newsday people and in front of the twenty-seven rows of graduates behind us. It's a runoff benefit of being in the Fantastic Four. Oh yes, that's right, we saved the world, we'd like a window seat please. In the mezzanine above, parents look down on the spawns of their respective loins with teary eyes. I can hear the sniffles from here.
Yeah buddy, graduation. The end of one age, and the beginning of another.
The age of paying-for-your-own-health-insurance. The age of responsibility. It's a lesson Sue's tried to instill in me a few times since we found ourselves with funky new powers. Do the lessons stick? Sometimes.
Ben Urich sits on one side of me scrawling notes in a legal pad secured on a crossed leg. He doesn't bother looking up. I crane my neck over his shoulder slowly, and I swear it looks like he's doodling a rowboat.
I turn to my other side, to Peter Parker. He's sitting slouched in his chair, drumming his fingers on his knees and staring at the freakishly ornate ceiling.
"How you doing?"
"Kinda cold. Don't they have heat in this place?"
"I wouldn't know," I say distantly.
"Well, sure you would," he says. A smile creases across his face. "You went here once didn't you?"
Way to dig up ancient history, Pete.
"Wasn't this the one you burnt down?" Pete says and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling and the crystal chandelier anchored firmly in its center.
"Thank you for that," I say dryly. "For the record, I only burned down part of a building, and there were villains involved. Get off me."
"Duly noted," Pete says quietly, and snickers under his breath. "Zippo."
The Upper Mezzanine.
"Are you alright, my Queen? You seem…distressed."
"It's…been a long time since I have stepped foot on these grounds."
"Riots and massacres have no place in Academia, my dear. You are above that."
"As are most in our esteemed organization, my King. I understand this. I have felt pain, and I have known its grip."
"I sense you wish to inflict that pain on our new prospect. Don't. He will be far too useful for mere parlor tricks."
"Are you so certain, my King?"
"Yes. He will help us. Whether he wants to or not, Emma."
Backstage.
I shouldn't be surprised. I've seen this behavior in Victor before. More of that heightened intolerance.
He blames me. Still.
When it was his fault, not mine.
It was Victor's fault that caused that explosion. Victor's fault that he became disfigured. Victor's fault that he's spent his life alone. And yet he sees fit to impugn me every time we meet. Trying to make himself feel better by knocking everyone else down, so he can easily stand above us.
It was his fault. His price to bear.
He's spent too much time running from himself.
This degree is just fuel in the fire.
A blood-red curtain separates the audience from Victor, myself and Iron Man. A podium sits a meter from us, with an embossed gold symbol on the side—and probably the front—that reads Empire State University, and date of the founding: 1817.
Victor stands next to me, arms folded confidently over his chest. The intake of air through the grating in his facemask almost makes him sound asthmatic. My head lifts and I look him in the eyes. I am probably the only one who can get away with doing so.
"Have a seat, Victor."
"I prefer to stand, Richards"
"Suit yourself."
Tony sits on the other side of me, holding his helmet in his hands and staring at the parallel bars of hardwood flooring beneath his chair.
"Tony? Are you alright?"
"Yeah," he says, not looking up. "Yeah, I'm fine."
He's worried. But not about the ceremony.
My head angles away from Tony to see a man in a brown tweed suit walking toward us quickly. This is the University's President. He feigns a smile and clasps his hands at mid-torso. I stand when he stops in front of me. A look of puzzlement crosses his face, but only for a moment.
"Where is Captain America?" he asks. "I was under the impression that he was the liaison here?"
"He had some other business to take care of," Tony interjects. He stands and slides the helmet over his head. His voice sounds suddenly mechanical. "No worries, Dr. Thomas. We have this well in hand."
"Well, good," Thomas says. He turns back to Victor and claps a hand on an armored shoulder. Underneath the armor, I can almost see Victor cringing at human contact. "Let's get started."
"I'm telling you, Pete, there were lives at stake. What was I supposed to do—take the fight outside?"
"You were outside," Pete says, puzzled.
Ben taps my shoulder and says curtly: "Quiet you two, they're starting."
"Wish I had some popcorn," Pete says thoughtfully. The blood-red curtains part and lift into the darkness of the ceiling, and a sharp-dressed man in a tweed suit (yikes) stands behind the podium wearing a wide smile. Behind me, the graduates erupt in applause, as do their parents. The Newsday people get the legal pads and video cameras ready.
The President waves his hand and tells the crowd to quiet down.
"Thank you, thank you," he says, accepting the praise, doing a bad job of shrugging it off. "I'm pleased to be here and to be with all of you, Empire State's finest. You represent the best facet of this University, and simply making it to this momentous day is an occasion to be commended. Congratulations on your success thus far, and I wish you all the best for the future."
The auditorium falls silent. From the Mezzanine, somebody yells "bring out Doom!"
Thomas smiles and looks over at the three of us, standing in the blinding focus of a spotlight.
I smile and wave politely at the crowd.
Tony does the same.
Victor does nothing. His arms are still crossed over his chest. His eyes roll around in their sockets, gazing at the surroundings with practiced indifference.
This is awkward.
Thomas clears his throat. I make circular motion in the air with my finger, motioning Thomas to move on.
"Uh, without further adieu," he says haphazardly. He makes the conscious decision to take his gaze off Victor and looks back at the darkness of the auditorium. "It gives me great pleasure to introduce tonight's keynote speaker and our Guest of Honor. Some of you may have heard of him in the newspapers over the years. Whereas he once came from humble roots in Eastern Europe, destiny inevitably brought him to our shores, where he crafted some truly fantastic technologies in the name of American progress."
As Thomas continues, I find myself staring at Victor. Even through the facemask, I can see one of his eyes twitching. He's becoming agitated. Oh Thomas. You're saying all the wrong things. Destiny. American progress. Those weren't reasons he came here. He came here to get away from the world, not to play errand boy for Cold War machinations.
Thomas is singing Victor's praises, and as strange as it is, Victor's not having any of it. If the story were being told correctly, maybe then. But Thomas is spinning it—making it seem like Victor is some Shakespearean hero.
When the truth is far removed from that.
No good can come from this.
This isn't good.
But like watching any good horror movie, it's too mesmerizing to look away from. President Thomas is up there singing Doom's praises, and Doom himself looks…upset. He's starting to pace back and forth.
I lean forward in my chair. If I'm right, Doom's about forty seconds away from throwing a tantrum and vaporizing the first three rows. I wonder if Pete senses the creeping danger too. He leans close to me and whispers in my ear: "How long before Doom walks off stage?"
"I give it three minutes."
"Care to make it interesting?" Pete says and smiles. "Twenty bucks."
I shake his hand, not even looking at him.
"Thus it gives me great pleasure now," President Thomas says. "To present Victor von Doom with this honorary degree, certifying him as a Doctor of Philosophy. If he would be so accommodating, I'd like to ask that our Guest of Honor say a few words."
Thomas holds the rolled diploma in one hand, and turns away form the podium. To Victor. Thomas speaks again, still effusive. Still sadly self-assured. Victor uncrosses his arms, approaches Thomas and the podium.
Victor throws back the edges of his cape and stops before the podium. He taps a button on his wrist before clamping both arms on the edges of the podium. Behind the grey-armor facemask, his brown eyes blink once, taking in and cataloguing the auditorium and its inhabitants.
Then it comes. His voice, soft and calmly covering up a controlled disgust.
"Six months, a year ago, I would have thought this an exercise in humiliation. Another sign of the ceaseless and insincere praise which you Americans heap on one another with such minimal prompting."
I fold my arms over my chest and slowly walk away from the podium, stopping in front of Iron Man.
"He's just activated something." My voice is barely a whisper; Tony's audio processors will amplify the sound. "In his armor."
"What? What happened?" Tony asks, just as quiet.
"A reprisal," I say. "I'll be back in a moment."
I walk away from Tony, heading backstage. When I'm out of sight, I tap the 4 disc logo on my chest, opening up a channel to Ben. He and Sue are in the air, waiting for the signal. It's about to come.
"Listen," I say calmly. "Something's about to happen. I didn't want to cause a scene, but Victor's just activated something."
"Like…a Doombot?" Ben asks.
"Likely more than one," I say flatly. "He always thinks big, Ben."
"Okay, fair enough," Ben shrugs. "So what do we do?"
"Get moving. See if you can stop it, whatever it is."
Sue's voice chimes in: "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to stay on Victor. If I'm right, I won't have much time before he makes his move."
Doom's still up there making his speech. Reed walks back on stage and paces in the vicinity of Iron Man, arms folded over his chest, staring at the floor. Iron Man, meanwhile, doesn't move. Those mono-colored green eyes in his facemask stare blankly out at the crowd. My attention goes back to Doom.
"And something occurs to me, standing here and staring into your young…impressionable…feeble eyes."
It occurs to me that Ben Urich has stopped writing. He's sitting on the edge of his seat now, thumbs supporting his chin and steepled fingers shielding his mouth. Doom continues.
"Nothing has changed since I left this odious place. You Americans are all the same. So absorbed in your own pointless and manufactured battles. Such innocence I see in your eyes. It is a trait that leads to destruction of oneself and one's world, and none of you have yet to discover this fundamental truth.
"Here, then, my captivated lemmings, is your truth. You are…each and every one of you…already dead. You simply don't know it yet."
And like that, he stops talking. Steps back from the podium and allows the length of his cape to drape over his shoulders. For a long time after he finishes, the whole auditorium is silent.
President Thomas steps in front of Doom, claps his hands together like a true aspiring-host, and takes to the microphone.
"Yes, well, thank you Victor, for that. Come," Thomas says and extends a welcoming hand back towards the King of Latveria. Doom hesitates for a moment and then approaches, allowing Thomas' hand to once again wrap itself around his shoulder.
"Here we stand, ladies and gentlemen. At the dawn of a new frontier." Thomas speaks as though Doom's apocalyptic speech never even happened. "One can only hope that through continued relations with one of our most esteemed alumni, Empire State—indeed the world—may enjoy greater relations with everything Latveria has to offer.
"And now," Thomas says, standing away from Doom. He holds the rolled diploma in one hand and extends it to Doom, offering his free hand as a handshake of agreement.
"Here it comes," I whisper to myself dismally. I look to my side, and—
Damn it, Parker. He must've skipped out just a second ago. I look back to the stage. Doom stares at Thomas' hand. Motionless, he spouts hate.
And then it comes. Thomas does something very stupid as he hands the diploma to Doom.
"You know," he says, cracking a smile. "I was a little worried this wouldn't happen the way it should. I'm glad you played along, I really am, Victor. Guess I'll have to get used to legitimately calling you Doctor Doom now." And Thomas lets out successive chortles. Like a little girl.
Doom's silent for a millisecond before joining in and meeting Thomas' handshake, giving a brief chortle of his own. I tell myself he's playing along. But then again…I know better.
"Still," Doom says and turns back to the podium. "It might be worse."
"Huh—how so?" Thomas asks, momentarily off-guard.
"I could be a human fireball," Doom replies glibly. He meets Thomas' handshake again. And a bolt of lightning shoots from Doom's gauntlet.
Up Thomas' arm. Into his chest, and his brain. The circuits overload, and Thomas' brain undergoes its own blackout. His eyes bulge for a moment, his jaw slacks.
But Doom doesn't stop. He holds the electricity, and almost…increases the amperage. Thomas' clothes catch fire. The flames travel up his body and his hair vaporizes almost instantly. And then the body of Empire State's President falls to the floor with an echoing thud.
He didn't even scream.
Doom turns to the crowd, rips his cape from his shoulders. Two dark-colored wings spread out from behind his arms, and crimson fire ignites behind him. He's using the rocket pack.
I stand from my seat. A blast of light and heat blinds me, sends me to the floor. When I get to my feet after a moment's pause, I see a cloud of smoke and steam around me. It's everywhere. I squint hard, and through the cloud I almost see girders in the ceiling, lacing the hole, mangled and forced downward by the blast. Rubble from the roof rains through the gaping hole, crushing the oblivious and the stubborn—media people too obsessed with getting the exclusive to get the hell out.
I flame on and lift into the air, whirling in a tight circle trying to vaporize the dust. Trying to make sense of the chaos.
And it is chaos. There's no visibility to be had; dust and steam everywhere. People who previously had floor seats are in the aisles now, trampling over each other trying to get to the fire doors. The trampled are not much more than curled heaps on the floor, and the tramplers are desperate and wild-eyed. Amazing, the state people get into when a disaster rears its head.
I manage a look back at the stage. Doom's already gone.
Damn you, Victor.
Through the maelstrom, I manage to locate Tony on the floor, using a wrist-mounted fan on one arm to disperse the smoke and directing soot-covered people with his free hand. I stretch myself over as much of the crowd as I can manage—the ones who can't or haven't yet trampled their way to one of the exits—to protect them.
I sight Ben Urich by one of the fire escapes, warding a troublemaker or three off with the broken end of a boom mic.
I direct the people under my impromptu shelter to head for Ben Urich—"the man with the stick up there!" I say—and when they're mostly out, I assume my original size and join Tony on the floor.
Johnny and Tony have cleared away most of the storm. The hole in the roof lets in afternoon sun. When the sunlight fades slowly away, Tony and I turn to see why.
Doombots—I can tell even from this distance—high in the sky, angling in at the auditorium. Dive-bombers.
Damn you, Victor.
Continued...