My Next Life as a Supervillain: All Routes Lead to Doctor Doom! - LoriLoud (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 - Stark Expo Arc

Chapter Text

"Katarina! Katarina, are you all right?"

Whuh…? Where am I…?

"Jesus, it cut her face in half! Goddamn it, why do ambulances take so long?!"

Those memories… was that… me?

"Reed, you have to go – her machine might still be unstable, we have to –"

"I can't just leave her here!"

That's right… I hit the fast track to becoming a westaboo in middle school. In high school, I got hooked on the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and after binging a bunch of movies in one night, I was running late for school, so I rushed out into the street…

My body sits up ramrod straight as I come to the startling realization of who I am, even as blood trickles down my face.

I died at the age of seventeen! That wasn't a dream! They were my memories from a previous life!

Oh, wait, was that an ambulance? Now's about a good time to faint, then.

THUNK.

"...rina. Katarina, are you awake?"

I'm jostled back into the waking world by a good-looking foreign guy. Although, actually, he's just speaking English and I'm understanding it, so maybe I reincarnated into a foreigner, myself? At that point, it's not really foreign, is it?

"Christ, Reed, be a little gentle with her."

Oh! That's a really tough-looking not-foreigner. Wow, he's really big. So, that guy's name is Reed, huh? Man, it'd be funny if it was Reed Richards –

And then I blink, and that proves to be the worst mistake of my life. I get hit by a killer migraine as memories try to flood into my brain, but get caught in a bottleneck. Too much! Too many things! Although, I do learn that the good-looking guy is, in fact, Reed Richards, and we're currently in America. New York, to be exact! Wow, I've always wanted to visit.

"sh*t! Katarina, sorry, my bad," Reed yelps, and I hear the other guy – Benjamin Grimm, way before his Thingification – smack him on the shoulder.

"Dumbass," Ben scoffs. That's right, he's a college football player right now!

"I'm fine, I'm fine." I manage to say, trying to assuage them. Haha, assuage, that's a funny word. Ah, wait, my throat is really dry, ow. "Some water, please."

Wow, I have a cool-sounding accent! Definitely East European, but some part of my brain really hates the idea of being Russian, so it's not Russian.

As Reed hands me a cup of water, he turns uncharacteristically somber. I can only half-listen while I sip my drink, on account of the still-very-painful migraine. And also my ears ringing, probably from that migraine.

"Katarina, the college board… they're talking about your project. They're saying…"

College board… Oh, right. I'm attending State University. Which is kinda weird, because there's a lot of something-State Universities, right? Like Florida State University, or Empire State University. Wait, that last one is fictional! Or it's very real, if the guys in front of me really are two future members of the Fantastic Four.

"...stay in America, at an estate of my family's. But it's the least I can do, especially after…"

Actually, what year is it? God, I hope it's not the Golden Age. I'm reincarnated into a woman in Marvel, I'd really like to avoid being reduced to a damsel role. Not only is it degrading, but constantly having my life in danger sucks! And being a hero or villain is even worse, I mean, the spandex, honestly.

"...would that be all right with you, Katarina? I don't want to lose you, not like this."

"Ah… yes, of course!" I blurt out, only catching the tail end of the conversation.

Reed and Ben look shocked, before Reed smiles, his eyes watery, and puts a hand on your arm comfortingly.

"I'll do my best to make this up to you. I swear."

"Mr. Richards? We'll need you to leave for today," a nurse says politely behind them, "we need to run some tests on Ms. von Doom now that she's awake, and make sure she's stable."

"Of course, sorry," Reed says, grabbing his jacket while Ben stands to leave, "Katarina, I'll visit you tomorrow to hash out the details."

Wait. My name is Katarina von Doom? And I go to college with Reed Richards and Ben Grimm, and I got gravely wounded by an exploding machine, resulting in damage to my face?

I'M DOCTOR DOOM?

"We're gonna start with a standard check-up. Say aah?"

"AaaAAAAA –"

I'm Doctor Doom.

Well, a female Doctor Doom, but Doctor Doom nonetheless.

By now, all my memories have come back, and I've sorted them out in neat little folders in my mind palace. Did you know he has a mind palace? Because I didn't. I also didn't know how painful it is to survive a Latverian winter night in the arms of a dead father, or how terrifying it is to face down a magical demon in a bid for knowledge and power, but I do now.

Not all of it is bad, though. I speak like a dozen languages, and I know stuff like string theory, advanced robotics, nuclear engineering, and cool Doctor Strange-style sorcery! Take that, math class! Take that, science class! Never again will made-up stuff like "integers" or "Pythagorean theorems" hurt my brain! I can recite a thousand digits of pi!

My face is still super scarred, though. Not the complete burn victim type of scarring like Victor (I'll just call the "usual" Doctor Doom by his name, to avoid confusion), but there's a gnarly scar on my forehead that runs down the right side of my face, and through my mouth and jaw. The rest of my body was also burnt and cut up, but my face got the worst of it. The stitches itch really bad. It sucks.

I did learn the year, by the way! It's 2008 and not the 1950s, thank God. The moment I got my hands on a laptop – well, pre-explosion Katarina's laptop – I looked up any news relating to Iron Man. Sure enough, I found it. One month ago, on May 25, Tony Stark announced that he is Iron Man in a press conference following an arc reactor explosion and Obadiah Stane's death.

So we're in the MCU. The first movie already passed, and Nick Fury's recruiting for the Avenger's Initiative. Meanwhile, the Fantastic Four are just college students (well, Reed is working on a Ph.D. rather than a fifth degree in this universe, but still), and the spaceship that gives them superpowers is still just a twinkle in Reed's eyes. As far as I can tell from my memories as Doom, the timeline doesn't follow either of the Fantastic Four movie continuities, so no Silver Surfer or Galactus to worry about yet.

Now that we've got that out of the way, it's time to panic.

Oh God! I don't want to be Doctor Doom! Could you imagine my dumb ass as the Supreme Leader of Latveria? It'd be anarchy, or worse! I'm not Victor, I'm just a Japanese schoolgirl who likes climbing trees and thirsts after Hollywood actors! Let alone the amount of crimes he's committed. Hostages, torture, world domination… No thanks.

But what if I don't become Doctor Doom? The explosion happened, I'm getting expelled anyways. If I don't mosey over to Tibet to get that armor made, I'll be kicked back to Latveria without a degree to show for it, nevermind a complete lack of money.

I guess I could try begging to work at the magic sanctum in New York with my magic powers, but that bald lady will probably see right through me and kick me out. Then I'll be stuck trying to survive the Marvel Cinematic Universe as a hobo without armor or cool finger-lasers or anything! And that isn't even accounting for Thanos!

I have no choice. No matter how you look at it, I'm…

I'm on the path to Doctor Doom!

CLUNK!

"We will now commence the first meeting to discuss our strategy on becoming Doctor Doom."

Within the mind palace of Katarina von Doom, five women sit imperiously at a conference table, all of them in cool floating robo-chairs.

"Any ideas?" The one at the head of the table asks. Supreme Leader Katarina wears the full regalia of Doctor Doom: armor, mask, robe, magical effects, and all. She sits with that cool lean that Victor does, holding a gavel in one hand.

"I say we dive headfirst into the action!" Fearless Katarina exclaims, pumping a fist. She stands proudly in a suit of armor. "We get inserted into our favorite movie series, as one of the strongest comic characters ever? Win-win! It'll be awesome!"

"B-But the canon timeline…" Spineless Katarina shudders, huddling herself in her billowing robe. "Didn't Doctor Strange say there's only one winning timeline? If we throw anything off, that means Thanos wins, and we'll get snapped forever…!"

"Oh, come on. The What-If minisodes exist, and they say it's perfectly fine," Smart Katarina points out, straightening her mask, "if anything, we're just in a different universe with its own set of timelines. Although we should still be careful of the butterfly effect, especially since we've changed fate by simply existing."

"Well, I say we make the most of it, and do what we can to help people!" Happy Katarina smiles, playing with the magic at her fingertips, "We're in prime position to help defend New York when the aliens come, as well as address any other threat to the people here. With great power comes great responsibility, after all. If we don't do anything with what we have, then that's on us. This is an opportunity to do a lot of good!"

"It only makes sense to try and do good in a superhero universe," Spineless Katarina surrenders, before bringing up a different point, "but what if our actions only lead to ruin? The world isn't only black and white. And the Civil War…!"

"There's very much a possibility that we become the supervillain Doctor Doom, no matter our attempts," Smart Katarina sighs, "after all, Victor was a beloved and effective leader of Latveria, who genuinely believed his cause to be righteous. What makes us any different?"

"We've just gotta try our best! I'm sure everything will work out, and if it doesn't, we just gotta try again!" Happy Katarina nods. "As long as we don't break any huge laws or hurt people, we'll be fine!"

"And besides, who would want to just sit around and do nothing in this situation? What are we gonna do, settle down at a nine-to-five job? No way! We're Doctor Doom!" Fearless Katarina exclaims.

"Is the council unanimous in their decision yet?" Supreme Leader Katarina asks.

"It would be a waste of our own resources not to take advantage of this situation," Smart Katarina agrees.

"Well, if it lets us defend ourselves…" Spineless Katarina tentatively compromises.

"Very well. For the foreseeable future, we will attempt to become a superhero, as is our responsibility as someone with both power and foreknowledge. Adherence to Victor von Doom's personal timeline is optional, but expected."

The other four Katarinas nod, and the Supreme Leader's gavel slams down again in finality. CLUNK!

"Now then, the question on all our minds," the Supreme Leader leans forward, a flinty gaze in her eyes, "how necessary is it that we trek through Tibet?"

The groaning, whining, and bemoaning commences.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Ever since the incident a year ago, Katarina has become an entirely different woman.

Before, Katarina von Doom was an ambitious, imperious, and demanding scientist. She worked long hours, expected nothing but perfection from herself and others, and scared tenured professors into submission. Some part of Reed thinks it came from trauma: from what little he's been able to gather, he knows that Katarina had a painful childhood in Latveria, to say the least.

"Reeses Puffs, Reeses Puffs…"

But now, that woman doesn't exist anymore. The Katarina bounding around in his father's New York estate is bubbly, optimistic, and clumsy. No more spirited debates, no more contempt. The doctors said it might be brain damage, or post-traumatic stress disorder. Ben thinks such a colossal failure might have broken her down, that he's seen it in some other football players.

"Eat 'em up, eat 'em up, eat 'em up, eat 'em up…"

At first, Reed was happy that his peer didn't die. Now, he mourns the death of a personality. How much of this is his fault? Of course, Katarina didn't listen to him and didn't make the corrections necessary to prevent the explosion, but if he'd just tried harder, maybe even physically stopped her from even making the attempt…

"Morning, Reed! Want me to pour you some cereal, too?"

It was the only thing he could do, offering to house her indefinitely. Ben said it was a bad idea, but Reed wouldn't be able to live with himself if someone as brilliant as her got shipped back to Europe with nothing to her name. Nothing, except a permanent black mark on her academic record.

At first, Katarina hadn't even heard his offer, on account of her migraine – Reed feels even more useless, knowing that he asked such a big question while she was still recovering. But once they were able to hash out the details, she accepted wholeheartedly, with a big grin on her bisected face. Another reminder of the stark contrast between the Katarina then and the Katarina now.

"Reed? Earth to Reed?" Katarina von Doom snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Do you want some Reeses Puffs or not?"

Reed is extruded from his thoughts by his roommate, now face-to-face with a brunette in pajamas.

"Ah, sorry, Kat," he says, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, "no thanks, I'm not hungry. Got a lot on my mind."

"Well, at least eat a banana or something. Can't start your day with an empty tank." The words still sound so foreign, coming from Doom's mouth. "Is your thesis defense still giving you trouble? I looked it over, and if nothing's changed, it should still be perfect."

Another reason why Reed doesn't believe the brain damage explanation: Katarina's genius is alive and well, able to keep up with his research, and even correct his own mistakes. She's still an intellectual equal to him. It's a small blessing, at least.

"No, it's…" Reed starts thinking up a lie on the spot, before deflating. "...I'm sorry, Katarina."

"Huh?" She garbles, through a mouthful of peanut butter-chocolate puffs, "where'd this come from?"

"I almost have my doctorate. God, I almost have that spaceship I always dreamed of as a kid, if these grants go through. But for you…" Something hitches in Reed's throat, remembering the brilliant young woman with the world at her fingertips. "...sorry. You probably don't want my pity."

"Oh. Oh! You still feel bad about that." The twenty-three year old Latverian says, more to herself than to him. "I've told you a million times, don't sweat it. That explosion was my fault, clear as day. I was being an asshole about it and paid the price. Even Ben agrees!"

"Ben shouldn'tbe calling you an asshole," Reed snipes back, "but still, you had so much ahead of you…"

"Hm… If that's what you're upset about…" Katarina's eyes trail downwards, as if she's internally debating something. "...I've got a super secret project going, if you wanna help me with that! Maybe it'll take your mind off the whole 'ughh, it's my fault Katarina got hurt, even though it's really not' thing you've got going on."

At that, Reed's eyebrows raise. A secret project? That more sounds like the Katarina of old. Is she…?

Before he can put any more thought into it, Katarina throws a banana at his chest, and he almost fumbles it before catching it.

"C'mon, I'll show you!"

Reed never felt the urge to stick his nose around his absentee father's property, and he's starting to regret that.

As they descend the stairs, Katarina blatantly ignores the rusted DO NOT ENTER sign on the basem*nt entrance that Reed has always respected, swinging open the once-locked door, which leads into a narrow hallway. Reed does a double-take as he sees a factory-condition vault door at the end of it, likely installed recently. It's one of the Stark Industries designs.

Katarina opens her eye for a retina scan while chewing on her Reese's Puffs. It blinks green in confirmation, and there's a pneumatic hiss as the vault opens. Reed's suspicions are confirmed: Katarina installed it herself. But why?

He's greeted by blueprints upon blueprints on various tables, and a tangled mess of wires on the ceilings, on the walls, and on the floors. The wires all lead to a glass tube, which contains… an unfinished suit of armor, far too similar to the one plastered on every news headline.

"Kat," Reed ventures cautiously, pressing a hand gently against the glass, "is that an Iron Man suit in my basem*nt?"

"I mean, kinda-sorta? This is more of a proof of concept. It's pretty similar, but I wanted to use a different power source and make some quality-of-life changes. We don't all have an Arc Reactor in our chest holes, after all."

Katarina kicks a wooden crate with her bunny slipper, snapping Reed's attention to it. It's been long since pried open, and Reed spots various machine parts inside as he approaches it.

"Your dad has the craziest stuff lying around here, so that helped immensely! I know he's a physicist from what you told me, but I'm not entirely sure what his lore is. It must be some prettyniche physics that he was into," Katarina rambles, picking up what was definitely a gun and making 'pew pew' sounds.

"I know he worked with the government for a long time," Reed can only offer, trying his hardest to recall details of his father's job while he wraps his head around all of this, "maybe this is leftover military gear."

"Neat! In any case, some of that stuff includes steel-titanium doodads, prototype arc reaction gizmos, and all sorts of army gadgets," Katarina says, throwing the gun over her shoulder and into the crate, "I slapped it all together to make this bad boy."

"...Kat. How functional is it?" Reed asks, uncertain if he wants to know the answer.

"I mean, it'll stop a home invader, but it's just a flashy cosplay with finger guns right now," she shrugs, "so, like, ten percent? It'll go real fast once I get all the good stuff I need, though."

"Finger guns," Reed repeats, mouth dry, "Katarina, did you think I'd be perfectly fine with weapon developmentoccurring on my property?"

"...Yessss?" She ventures, blatantly lying. Unbelievable.

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to put a stop to this," Reed says firmly, gathering himself and looking for a circuit breaker to pull, "an Iron Man suit in active development, under my feet! I can't believe this!"

"Wait, Reed, c'mon, please!" the shortsighted scientist yelps, throwing herself into his path, "look, just, calm down –"

"I'm very calm, you're the one who decided to replicate the shiny new Stark toy –" He counters, trying to sidestep her.

"...And that's the problem, Richards!" Katarina snaps, glowering imperiously at him.

She's in his face now, and he'd almost forgotten how tall she is. How the light catches in her eyes, whenever she's angry. Reed sees a fire in her glare that hasn't been lit in a year, the same flame that made her both entrancing and infuriating to work with.

"How many millennia of warfare technology, and the latest development in modern history is the Iron Man. An air-and-land infantry unit recorded at fighter jet speeds that can survive an Arc Reactor explosion. All this, followed by the biggest arms dealer in the world advocating for peace, love, rainbows – what does that mean?" Katarina rants, gesturing an arm wildly at her armor. Reed can feel its eye-slits staring into his soul.

"Military privatization," he answers honestly, his mind racing through military history, global socioeconomics, and technological theory, "a departure from bullets as a projectile, the renaissance of the infantry unit as the premiere killing machine."

"It'll replace everything in time. The police, the army, the air force…" Katarina posits, but Reed continues.

"But that's besides the point. Do you plan on starting your own arms manufacturing company, now that Stark's out of the running? Starting a PMC, or selling the design to someone else? You're a woman of science, Doom, not…!"

"I just don't want to die, okay?!" Katarina blurts, her voice crackling a bit. Reed's lips set into a thin line, silenced.

"If I can make this, if we can keep ahead of the timeline – I-I mean, ahead of the curve, then I can help people. Keep myself safe. Keep you safe." She admits softly, her shoulders slouching. "I don't want to be some supervillain – even though that's what it'll look like. I just… the world is changing, and I just want to help."

And now, Reed sees the whole picture. Katarina was ruined by her own ambition, her need to be something greater. That need is still there – why else would anyone work secretly to replicate the latest technological marvel? – but is backed by a trauma-induced fear of death, and a prophetic flash of genius.

He should still stop this. It can't be healthy to focus your efforts on creating a weapon, and bettering it at that. And the talk of villainy is concerning, if not somewhat cartoonish. Not to mention, she's a genuine idiot for thinking any of this would be fine. Forget his own moral objections: there was the matter of the government, and any company like Stark Industries who'd want this technology under lock and key.

But Reed is nothing if not a bleeding heart, and right now, all he sees is his only equal trying to regain her former glory. Or rather, rebuild a new body to replace the old. An armor, to hide away her scars and her hurt.

Damn it all, he shouldn't do this.

"...sh*t. Alright, fine, but we're playing by my rules," he says quickly, trying to tamper down her rising excitement, "no patenting this, no selling the design to anyone, I am going to look through everydesign change –"

"Awww, yeah! I got Dr. Reed Richards himself to greenlight the Doom suit! Let's gooooo!" Katarina cheers and cackles, bouncing on the secret laboratory walls.

"– Katarina, listen when I'm setting down rules! And I'm not a doctor yet! Look, I'm going to give you a list of acceptable energy sources – please, listen...!"

Later that night, while staring down a whiteboard scribbled with insaneliterature references and materials that Katarina said were essential, Reed downs a shot of whiskey and makes a phone call.

"Ben? Once I'm done with this thesis, we're going on that so-called 'rager' you offered," Reed sighs, "Doom's at it again."

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Okay, so! Good news! I probably don't have to go marching through Tibet to find whatever super-secret sect of monks to help make the Doom armor.

Or, at least, I think I don't. I only really paid attention to the MCU during my past lifetime, but I watched the 2005 Fantastic Four movie, like, once. I'm pretty sure Victor doesn't make the suit in Tibet in that one. …Actually, I think the cosmic rays morph his entire body into the crazy armor in that one, but the important part is that I don't have to go to Tibet.

Now, why am I allergic to the idea of Tibet, you ask? The answer is simple!

I don't like the cold.

…Also, I'm pretty sure I'd get caught out immediately by the sorcerers in the neighboring country, especially if I did any funny magic business. Also, I'd be begging Reed for the plane ticket, and if he asks his usual number of questions (often a range between a gazillion and a billion), I'll get on his bad side again.

And I like Reed! So I'll try not to annoy him… too much, anyways.

Where was I? Right, the armor. So, using my vague memory of Marvel trivia and my really good memory recall on account of being this universe's Doom, I know that the armor has three main components necessary for function.

The first component is the actual armor. Which I've already got! Building power armor is actually super easy if you know what you're doing and have the tools. Like I said to Reed, his dad had a bunch of steel-titanium stuff lying around, so I had zero issue smelting and reforging it as needed. I also wired up the thrusters and finger guns. Their output is roughly where I'd like them to be, but I still need to plug them into the wall at the moment, bringing us to…

The second component, the power source. For Victor, it's either a crazy alien technology, or it's straight-up a miniature nuclear reactor. And every time it's a nuclear reactor, they make a super big deal of it being a nuclear reactor. Which isn't great, so I'll need to either reverse-engineer a miniature Arc Reactor, or try to wire it to something more arcane in nature. Since I'm not Tony Stark in a cave with a box of scraps, I'm leaning towards the latter. Which segues pretty well into…

The third component, the magic! No, I'm genuinely serious: I've made the calculations, and I'm a thousand percent sure that Victor's suit only really works as well as it does because of magic. It fixes all the little problems that he might face. For example, how do you think he shapes his lasers exactly how he wishes? Or commands thousands of Doombots by lifting a finger? Or hits those glorious, glorious FOOT DIVES?

…Okay, I'm being a little goofy at the moment, but seriously, there's a reasonthe suit has to be either biologically part of him or magically forged. I'm pretty sure it also acts as his magical focus, similar to how a Sling Ring works.

Naturally, magic is the biggest limiting factor here: pre-explosion Katarina really threw herself into science, only ever using her sorcery in times of need or to contract a demon. This poses a problem. With my current resources, I'll only be able to get the armor running if I reverse-engineer an Arc Reactor, which could take years to do. Or contract a demon, which I'm gonna avoid like the plague. However, I do have a plan to find the information I need withoutselling my soul.

And it's just a taxi cab away!

I double-check the map function on my phone and squint upwards. Yup. This is definitely 117A Bleecker Street, Greenwich Village, New York City. The Sanctum Sanctorum.

Wow, this building looks decrepit. Not in the haunted house way: it just looks like a sh*tty apartment building that's way overpriced, with mold in the walls and co*ckroaches in the cupboards. So, really, like a lot of New York apartment buildings. It definitely blends in, that's for sure.

Whistling a jaunty tune at 3 AM at night, I immediately get to work breaking in. I'm wary about casting magic anywhere near the Sanctum, but as long as I avoid that, I'm prettysure I'll be fine. Wong and the Ancient One are all the way in Nepal at the moment, so I've got nothing to fear.

After sauntering up the emergency fire staircase on the adjacent building, I pull myself over the edge of the handrails and hang off of them. Getting as close to one of the Sanctum's window balconies as I can, I swing my body a bit, before letting go and parkouring over to the balcony railing with a leap.

Heh heh, I knew climbing trees would be useful in this life, too!

I yoink myself up the railing and onto the balcony. While checking the place out during the daytime, I noticed that their windows don't actually seem to have any sort of lock other than the usual twist-and-click. As such, I pull a thin metal ruler out of my pocket, and after wedging it in the cracks of the window…

Fli-click!

…I just slid it quickly in one direction, spinning the lock back into an open position and letting me climb in. One of the most powerful magical fortresses on Earth, and the security is defeated by the mundane. Surely, this must be the genius of Doom! …Or maybe they never considered it. Oh well, too easy, better luck next time, silly wizards –

"What are you doing?!"

Why is there a monk awake at three in the morning?! Quick, bullsh*t your way out of this!

"I, uh… Went bar-hopping…?"

That's a totally normal thing for monks to do, right? Or am I thinking of a different type of fraternity? I swear, if I die because my panicked brain confused frat guys with Masters of the Mystic Arts…

"Drinking? Really? Get down here, before anyone else wakes up."

Wait, they believe me? Act natural! Which, really, just means act panicked and cowed, which I already am. Ducking my head down, I quickly but quietly skulk down the stairs, looking pretty guilty about my nightly escapades.

"Well, you dressed as a civilian, at least. Where's your Sling Ring?"

"I, uh, left it here," I managed, before putting a little more padding on that lie, "hence why I had to, uh…"

"Sneak in like a rebellious teenager. Right, they'll let any idiot with magical aptitude in these days…" The mystic… Apprentice? Disciple? The fancy wizard grumbles. "You'll be punished in the morning. Severely. Go back to your quarters."

The magician man waves her off angrily, and I take that as a sign to skedaddle. Out of that room, a little bit down the hallway, and then down the stairs.

Once I'm well out of sight, though, I slow down and start looking through the various rooms and records of the Sanctum Sanctorum. There's nobody else awake aside from that practitioner, who's likely the poor soul assigned on patrol for miscreants like me. As such, I've got free access to all the grimoires and ancient texts I need.

Thankfully, I notice a familiar pattern. The books do follow a Dewey Decimal System – likely on account of the sorcerers arranging them magically in an order that makes sense to them. Heading over to the so-called "technology" section, I quickly scan over all the spines to try and find the arcane arts that I'll need for the armor.

"Metallurgie, Alchemie und Verklärung"is promising, so I grab that immediately. Oh, wait, "The God-Warriors of Wakanda and Asia"is an immediate green flag, I'm taking that one too! "Arcane Rituals for Dummies" is also probably good to grab, just on a practical level…

Wow, these books are heavy. I can't wait to have superhuman strength. Nevertheless, I get a good haul by the time I'm done. Happy with what I've got, I quickly sneak over to the main entrance and slip out of the Sanctum Sanctorum, with nobody any the wiser.

"Wait…" Someone points out, halfway through the patrolling disciple's report, "We don't have any Masters that match your description. And why would she sneak out to go bar-hopping? That's not forbidden. Wong goes to karaoke every time he visits, even."

"..." The patroller's eye twitches. "...sh*t."

Yawning as he enters the Secret Lair of Doom (the capitalization and nomenclature are incredibly important, or so Katarina says), Reed walks in expecting his eccentric roommate to either be working diligently on her Iron Man suit, or binging the Lord of the Ringsmovies for the fifth time in a row.

What he doesn't expect is the blinding glow of an occult pentagram, the blood ritual summoning a portal of impossible geometry that warps space and time itself into a non-Euclidean horn of Gabriel.

"Hiya, Reed!" Katarina waves happily, her hands glowing with a miraculous power that reflects off of her welding goggles, "I know you were probably expecting electricity as a power source, but I think I've found a really neat alternative!"

For the umpteenth time, the cutting-edge physicist Reed Richards groans into his hands.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Chapter Text

"Well, after a thorough review, and after cross-referencing the results with the latest research available…"

Reed leans forward in anticipation.

"...It's magic."

Ben nods sagely, slamming shut the thick binder of frenzied notes, endless calculations, and unreadable rows of beautifully written cursive. For being such a klutz, Kat's got real nice handwriting. ...Not that it helps their current situation.

Reed groans and massages his forehead.

"Magic. That's the best name she could come up with, honestly," Reed sighs, looking out the window of the Starbucks they'd met up at, "At the very least, I'd hope for a more dignified name for a newly rediscovered power source."

The Grimm Reaper makes an unimpressed face as his best friend began jotting stuff down on another coffee napkin. At this rate, they're going to run out of napkins.

"'Thaumic'? No, that's just another way of saying magic. I'd call it 'multiversal', but it's not exactlyextradimensional, just harnessing the amount of energy generated when converting non-Euclidean mass and momentum to a Euclidean reality…"

"You can come up with as many fancy baby names as you want, Reed, but if it looks like Harry Potter, and sounds like Harry Potter, it probably is Harry Potter," Ben grumbles, delicately sipping at his tea, "I'd say magic's about as good a name as any. Especially comin' from the chick that says 'doodad' or 'thingamajig' when talkin' bout nuclear engineering."

"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic! Arthur C. Clarke! And this is most definitely not magic, because the science is there. The math all checks out, and the theoretical energy transmission is well-documented and peer reviewed, I just don't understand wherethe reaction begins, let alone –"

"Reed." Ben says sternly.

Reed shuts himself up, and finally notices that he's stood up from his seat. Also, that the entire coffee shop is staring at him. And that his voice was raised like he was in one of his debates.

"Sorry, apologies," he nods awkwardly to the staff, before getting back in his chair. Everyone goes back to their business while Ben stirs his tea.

"Look, Kat's always has the craziest science projects. I'm not surprised that she's back at it again after her slump." Ben points out, briefly remembering her tragic attempt at an astral projection machine. "But she obviously knows what she's doing, and hey, this is a huge breakthrough, right? Might even replace nuclear or gas."

"I'm not sure if she plans to patent it or even advertise it. From what she's… explained..." and Ben snorts at that, since after turning into Scarface, Katarina's verbal explanations are comical at best, "...it mostly works on an individual level, except in extenuating circ*mstances."

"There, even easier, see? Only she can use it for now, or whatever other schmuck in China or wherever that figures it out. Maybe the stress of your other stuff is getting to you."

"...Maybe," Reed admits, "the thesis defense is going very well. But my grant applications are getting stonewalled by both the government and the industry sector. This cosmic storm only comes into orbit once every ten thousand or so years, it's our only opportunity."

"I think it's sh*t politics, is what it is. I see it all the time on my end. They've all got their eyes on drafting the superstar college quarterbacks, then they start cutting corners on the veterans, or the defense, or the special team."

"Good thing you're joining the Air Force then, Ben?"

"Damn good thing," the State University linebacker smirks, "I bet if you made an… astronaut Iron Man or something, they'd be sh*tting money for you. It's a little too late for that now, though."

"Yeah, yeah, I know…" Reed trails off, still anxious. He does this every time he's got a lot on his plate, so Ben knows how it goes. Still, this is one of the few times Reed's troubles aren't self-inflicted, so Ben'll throw him a bone.

"How 'bout this? It's the off-season for me, and I'm pretty much set for graduation. Just focus on your spaceship stuff, maybe visit your girlfriend, and I'll babysit Kat for a bit."

"She would have killed you for talking about her like that, back then," Reed hums.

"Good thing the stick up her ass blew up along with her face," Ben laughs, fully aware of Reed's opinions on his dark humor, "but seriously, I've got you."

"Jokes in bad taste aside, I think I'll take you up on that. I still owe Sue that dinner date…" Reed loses himself in thought before looking to Ben again. "Just be careful in Kat's lab, okay?"

"Psh. How hard can it be?"

"Mmprgh!" Gulp. "Oh, hi, Ben! Are you visiting today?"

Ah, he missed this. Walking into a lab only to find the strangest, most ridiculous crap just sitting there. Except, today's entertainment isn't an object: it's a woman covered neck-to-toes in full body power armor, currently halfway through a box of Krispy Kreme.

Katarina von Doom wipes her frosting-covered lips on her highly confidential prototype armor's arm, licking sugar off of robotic fingers that definitelyhad what looked like gun barrels. Ben isn't sure if Kat lost survival instinct in the explosion, or if she never had it in the first place.

"Just here to check on you while Reed does science stuff and visits his girlfriend, not necessarily in that order," Ben says, picking up a donut for himself, "Already stress-testin' the armor?"

"Mostly working out the kinks in mobility and coarse strength," Katarina nods, before flipping over into a handstand, "I think I've got the equilibrium fully down pat, as well as limb flexibility."

"Neat. Can you do a handstand without the armor?" He asks, taking a bite of the sugary sweet goodness. His PT doesn't need to know.

"Nope!" Katarina grins, before making her handstand one-handed. Then, pushing herself up by that hand, and doing a handstand with one finger. Fingerstand? Anyways, she flips back onto her feet.

"Damn, so it really does give you superpowers, huh?" Ben whistles, looking at his lopsided reflection in her silver torso while he chews his food, "Shame that Reed made it a you-only invention, I'd love to try this bad boy on. Although, then again, I'm not a magician."

"I'd love to see you pull a rabbit out of a hat, though. I still can't do that. Maybe one day." Katarina scrunches her nose, before a lightbulb goes off over her head. "I do know what you can help me with, though! You still play football, right?"

"Yeah, a lil bit," The Grimm Reaper of State University shrugs, "why, what's up?"

"Try running me over."

"...'scuse me?" Ben puts down his donut.

"You're a linebacker, right? Go to the far end of the lab, start running, and intercept me," Katarina says, animatedly pointing at the opposite wall.

"Like, do ya want me at twenty percent, or…?" Ben winces. He may not be the most sophisticated guy, but mama raised a chivalrous son.

"No, you big bald baby, hit me with all you've got!" Katarina hurries over to the other end of where he's standing, "I said I'm testing strength, right? If you don't, then I'm gonna body slam you in a full suit of armor."

"Alright, if you're sure…" The linebacker trails off, unsure. Hitting Kat just doesn't… feel right. Oh, sure, he'd jump at the opportunity if she was still in college, but over the last year, they've gotten along like a house on fire.

"Look, here, I'll put on headgear, if it makes you feel better," Katarina says, before pulling out a steel mask and donning it.

Something in her posture shifts, and it's like her entire ditzy personality is gone. Ben never realized how much of her personality is in her face: her wide grin, her big blue eyes, stuff like that. Even with her insanely huge scars and the malformed skin, there's still a childlike glee in her expression every time he sees her.

But now, Ben stands before a warrior, bearing an imperious mask and hulking armor. Her wild brunette hair is the only thing indicating that she's still human,with her trademark bang framing one side of her face. Katarina's still enthusiastic, but it's like a gladiator awaiting a challenge, instead of a bright-eyed doofy scientist.

"Alright, yeah… that works."

Just like that, he's got his head in the game. Ben cracks his neck and gets in position for the snap, and so does Katarina.

"Ready?" She growls with an eager lilt, her voice echoing with a crackle through her mask. "Three… two…"

Both of them take off. Fifteen yards between them, nine yards, six…

BANG!

Ben was pretty sure he was upright at the start of the second. And that his legs weren't in the air. His arm feels like it's bruised, his back feels like it's bruised, there's no more air in his lungs, and trying to ignore the ringing in his head and the whiplash in his neck.

"Oh, crap! Ben, you alright?"

Sitting up with a groan, the linebacker reaches for the strap of his helmet – only to find that it isn't there. Snorting as he dismisses his muscle memory, he gets a good look at Kat. She's no worse for wear than when she was cramming donuts down her throat.

"I'm fine, I've taken worse," He grunts, resting his arms on his knees, "but hot damn, that armor ain't a joke. You hit like Sheldon Brown."

"Not sure who that is, but I'll mark it down as a success!" Katarina giggles, pulling her mask off to reveal a cheeky grin. "And that's one of my bucket list items down, too."

"What, tackle a football player?" Ben guesses, as she helps him up with a firm grip.

"Close, but no. I measured distance in yards, and force in football players! I'm a real American now!" She cheers, saluting.

"...Hah! You're a riot, Doom." Ben laughs, clapping her on her armored shoulder. "Between you and me, I'm glad you blew up."

"Honestly, I am too. And that Reed decided to keep a supervillain like me around! Otherwise, I'd probably be shipped back to Latveria the moment I graduated, and the current government there…" She shudders.

But then, Katarina gasps, snapping her metal fingers. "Oh, crap! I forgot! It's been five years! I need to take the citizenship test soon!"

Ben just laughs harder.

By the end of the next month, I've passed my civics test, and I wipe a sweat off my brow.

Whew! That could have been bad. Especially if I got deported before Stark Expo! I already bought the tickets, y'know? Especially since I need a closer look at the Iron Man flight mechanism before I make my own attempt. God knows I don't want to end up as a splat on the ground or, worse, on Reed's fancy walls.

"Well, I'm a proud citizen of the US of A now," I nod to my mask in contentment as I solder it, "now, just need to not die to the evil Hammer robots or the Russian whip guy. Sounds easy enough, right, Masky? What's the worst that can happen?"

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Chapter Text

2010 is a pretty momentous year for our friend group. Not only did Reed pass his defense and get his Ph.D. in Physics, Ben graduated from college and was admitted to the Air Force! To celebrate, we decided to meet up at a local bar. Us… and the other two members of the Fantastic Four.

I never really touched on Susan and Johnny Storm because, well, I never met them before! It's a little weird that Victor knew Reed and Ben before the accident, but not the other two. I guess I shouldn't be surprised; It's not like Reed had any good reason to introduce his girlfriend and future brother-in-law to his college archnemesis. But now that we're on good terms, I get to meet Sue before she turns invisible, and Johnny before he turns into a matchstick!

Once we meet up with them, the first thing I notice is that they're both super attractive. Which I guess should be a given: there's really no iteration where they're not. Sue is the textbook bombshell blonde, while Johnny's got that bad boy aura. He dresses like it, too. Really making the BMX stereotype work for him.

"Sue, Johnny! I'd like to introduce you to Katarina von Doom, my roommate and a fellow scientist," Reed smiles, putting an arm over my shoulder and presenting me, "Kat, this is Sue Storms, my girlfriend, and her brother, Johnny."

"Hiya, super nice to meet you! I've heard nothing but good things!" I smile at them, holding a hand out for a handshake. To my surprise, Susan Storm has a verystrong grip.

"That's great, Kat.I've heard a lot about you. You do take up a lot of my boyfriend'stime, after all," Sue says, talking through her smile, her eyes wrinkling at the edges.

"Sue, please…" Reed says, for some reason. I'm not sure why, so I just grin and shake her hand a couple more times, bouncing on my heels.

"Oh, yeah, he keeps me out of trouble! But don't worry, I'll try not to intrude on any private time, heh heh," I wink-wink, nudge-nudge at her, before laughing off my dumb little joke.

"...Right." Sue responds, letting go of my hand. Her brother laughs.

"Aw, come on, Sue, lighten up," Johnny grins, before shaking my hand as well. He's pretty chill with his handshake. "Johnny Storms, best bike rider on the East Coast."

"Nice! Anyone ever told you that you look like Captain America?"

"Oh, I get it all the time," Johnny chuckles, "anyone ever told you that you look like a James Bond villain with your scar?"

"Oh, I get it all the time!"

Ben smacks him on the arm for being rude. I just laugh.

"Cheers!"

The five of us clink our glasses together. I opted for a margarita on the rocks with salt on the edge. Partly because it's got a fruity-citrusy taste that I like, but mostly because I haven't drank booze since reincarnating. There are times when I miss high school, but this was not one of those times. Being at legal drinking age is awesome!

"Mm… So!"

I grin, drawing the attention of the table.

"Since we've got a new graduate and a doctor on our hands, I figured I'd treat you guys to something special! So I pulled some strings, called in a few favors," went to the magical black market, sold some weapons I forged and enchanted, "and, drum roll please…"

With gusto, I flash five tickets, as if showing off the pieces of Exodia.

"Ta-da! Three days of VIP access at Stark Expo!" I hit a peace sign, for good measure. "It's Disneyland for adults. Guns, cool cars, science! With an all-you-can-eat buffet and bottomless margaritas, too."

The table erupts into gratitude. Thankfully, everyone seems pretty into it. Johnny and Ben both have enough machismo to enjoy Stark Expo without any convincing, and I know that even if Reed's not specificallyinterested in any of the exhibits, he's a sucker for novel technology and probably some of the panelists attending. Sue's probably cool with hanging out with Reed, if nothing else. Admittedly, I don't remember much about her personality, but I know they get married and have kids in the comics, so that's a good sign, right?

"Oh, but Katarina, your savings…" Reed trails off, looking at me like I'd bought these tickets with my destitute alms. Oh, right. Victor was superpoor, and mostly lived on his magic before he took Latveria by force.

"Hey. Don't worry about it, it's nothing off my back," I tell him honestly, because one of the Zealot guys had a reallygood bargain for 24K gold, "just think of it as paying you back for your kindness."

"Kat… thank you!" Reed hugs me tightly, while Johnny and Ben toast to me, snickering. Sue is sipping her drink very slowly, staring at me. Gosh, she must really like that brandy, huh? Really savoring it there.

The night goes on swimmingly after that. The Expo tickets serve as a really good icebreaker between myself and the Storms.

As stated before, Johnny's a professional motocross rider. I don't know much about the sport, but he was eager to talk about all his best exploits, as jargon-filled as it all was. Like, intelligently speaking, I could parse what he was saying, but he mostly went on about all his technical prowess and various wins. Talented guy, but a little egocentric.

Sue, on the other hand, feels like the exact opposite of her daredevil brother. She spent most of her life caring for him as they grew up, since their dad sucked and got killed while they were young. A lot of older sibling syndrome, there. Otherwise, she's currently in her third year of college, majoring in applied engineering; it's how she met Reed, apparently.

Also, she put a lot of emphasis on her relationship with Reed when talking to me, which I found really cute!

After a while, though, everyone gets moderately sloshed, myself included. Unsurprisingly, Reed's friend group isn't the 'let's get f*cked uppppp!' type of bar-hoppers that I've seen in some movies. …Well, I'm sure Johnny and Ben would be down to clown if I asked, but Sue and Reed are pretty straight-edge. I can swing either way, personally.

By the end of the night, we all hail taxis and head our separate ways. Me and Reed get in the same taxi, being roommates and all, and I watch as the New York lights pass by the window.

"Hey, Kat. About Sue…" Reed begins.

"Hm?" I perk up, my eyes still glued to the pretty colors. "I think she's good for you, Reed. And she seems like a really great person."

"I… right. I'm happy you're willing to get along with her." He backs down. That's a weird way to word it. Why not just say 'I'm happy you're friends'?

Before I can ask about that, the taxi radio catches my ear. It's the news.

"Breaking news: terrorist attack on the Monaco Grand Prix." I cringe. I knew that Iron Man 2's already begun, but… "The suspect, identified as Ivan Vanko, was detained after a murder attempt on Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark, using a new form of technology to decimate several Formula One cars, injuring thirty-four civilians in the process. Stark, who had entered the Prix at the last moment…"

Reed's already pulled up the article on his phone. He looks at me in concern, instantly sober. I can only cross my arms and sigh, staring pointedly at the chair in front of me.

"It's just as you said."

"Eeeyup."

"If you want to refund the Stark Expo tickets…" And at that, I raise a hand to stop him.

I sigh, feeling a pit form in my stomach. I thought I had more time to spy on the Iron Man armor and perfect my own. It's a year-long expo, and I know there's a lot of downtime in movies that they don't show you. I just wanted to treat the Four to a big, popular event.

But what if the Hammer attack happens on one of the nights we attend? What if I'm there? God, what if they're hurt? Or anyone else gets hurt? I know there's a kid Peter Parker there – what if the timeline changes too much, and that kid…

No. I am Katarina von Doom. I have answers.

"If you or the others want to cancel, then just let me know," I steel myself, looking Reed in the eyes, "but I'm willing to risk it."

"...Hm. It's highly-guarded, with all the biggest names in security. Logically, it should be fine," Reed logics out, "...Alright. It should be fine, then."

What he doesn't know, however, is that I intend to bring the armor now. I wasn't planning on it before, but just in case, I need to have it ready. And that means I need to make it flight-capable sooner rather than later. But with both Iron Man and War Machine still not released to the public, I need some other humanoid model to base my thruster placements off of…

In the New York City skylines, I spot a tiny little advert for Hammer Industries, and I get an idea. Looks like I'll be visiting Stark Expo a little early.

Kaz thought himself a competent security guard. He had sharp eyes, stayed wide awake during second or third shift, and in the few times when it's come up, he's proven himself to be quick on his feet and even better with his finger on the trigger.

Though, to be honest, it's not like he hadto be a perfect patrol. After a few months of manning a year-long Stark Expo, with all the gadgets on display, it was clear that all the hundreds of security companies and arms manufacturers had their own vested interest in keeping their own goods safe. Even if it was just Stark Industries, the security tech would be enough to keep anyone out: add everyone else's contributions, and the Expo was the safest place in the world. Nothing came in, nobody got out. Not without a million cameras and computers registering them.

So his job was, frankly, redundant. They could fire him tomorrow and not bat an eye. Kaz wouldn't bat an eye, either: it's not like he was fired, they'd just assign him to some other property. Still, he did love an easy job. Walking around an empty Stark Expo at night and scaring away stray cats was a cakewalk, compared to other gigs he's done.

(The less said about his time at Pym Technologies, the better.)

Walking past the Hammer Industries section of the Expo for the nineteenth time, Kaz takes a moment to admire the robots. After seeing Iron Man in person, who wouldn't be excited about robots and androids? It was all so futuristic, like something out of a cartoon. Sometimes, he thinks about trying out the crazy tech he watches over every night, maybe becoming his own Iron Man. It's a pipe dream, but hey, he's gotta pass the time somehow.

Walking through the Hammer drones, Kaz points his flashlight at them, admiring the circuitry, the jetpacks, the guns, the creepy armored figure standing between them trying to look inconspicuous.

Wait. What?

Kaz double-takes and doubles back to where he thought the figure was. Nothing. Nobody there. He could have sworn… He remembered the mask so vividly, the eye-slits and the mouthpiece…

…Did he smell Cinnabon?

"I'm having a stroke," Kazuma mutters to himself, shaking his head and briskly walking away from the Hammer Industries section. Either that, or he's seeing ghosts. He'd like to deal with neither, thank you very much.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Chapter Text

I bang my forehead on an ancient demonic grimoire, moaning in frustration.

"Oh, Masky," I whine, caressing the faceplate's cheek, "why is Hammer like the Midas of crappy tech?"

Oh, sure, I managed to get a decent look at the Hammer Drones, and even had enough time to pry them open and check the specs. Overall, mission success. I should have a pretty decent template to use, in terms of slapping thrusters onto a human anatomy. Right?

Wrong. I've been given a toddler's Rubik's Cube and told to solve it. Except the toddler chewed off the blue side and pissed on the white side.

Any "progress" I've made is mostly just corrections and fixes. Hammer technology is a bunch of tin cans containing useless buzzword hardware, sh*tty stockholder ideas, and spaghetti code! No, actually, that's too much of a compliment, because a tin canstill perform its function of holding things!

After a whole week of attempting to salvage Hammer's technology, I've only managed to upgrade it from "wet paper airplane" to "mid-air tank controls". Nowhere near the maneuverability, the turning, the anythingof the Mark III Iron Man, or even the War Machine. I'm more likely to fly into a wall than after an enemy.

"I dunno what I expected from the most incompetent businessman in America. He can't even schedule his main event properly, why did I even think he'd be able to make a robot?" I angrily bite into a waffle, muttering with my mouth full. "Stupid Katarina, I should have just started from scratch – flying straight into traffic would be less agony than this…"

The worst part is that I have no clue where I am in the timeline. I know Vanko performed the 'upgrades' by now, since there's a CPU shoved into the co*ckpit of the drone I looked at. Thatpart of the tech actually looks functional.

Other than that, I'm completely blind. Hammer used to have a date for his showcase on his website, but it got pushed back three times before being permanently set to 'TBA'. The Hammer Industries helpdesk number is the opposite of helpful, as well. I suspect he's scrambling to run damage control, what with breaking out a Russian terrorist to hire him, and his schedule is reflecting that… and/or he's a stupid little diaper baby.

There's too much to do, too much to fix, too much to figure out. I don't have time, the Expo is tomorrow!

"Alright, Masky, if I can't fly you to the Expo, I gotta get you there somehow.…Without just wearing you. But I can't teleport myself without a Sling Ring…" I sigh, trying to recall the MCU's various magical feats, "Let's see. Iron Man 2, Captain America, Thor, Avengers… Avengers…"

I run through the movie in my head. Tesseract. SHIELD. Kolkata. Boxing. Stuttgart… Stuttgart!

I rifle through my indefinitely-borrowed books from the Sanctum Sanctorum, and cackle as I find exactly what I was looking for. Cracking my fingers, I start flipping through the pages of ᚤᛖ ᛟᛚᛞᛖ ᛗᚨᚱᛏᛁᚨᛚ ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ ᛟᚠ ᛗᛁᚷᚺᛏᚤ ᚨᛋᚷᚨᚱᛞuntil I spot a familiar horned helmet.

Stark Expo is lit like Las Vegas when we get there. Everyone's in their Sunday best for the event. I'm currently wearing a cute black dress, emerald earrings, and a big silver hairpin with a green bow.

More importantly than any other piece of clothing, though, is that I'm wearing theDoom cloak, currently resting on my shoulders like a fashionable shawl. As it turns out, the actual cloth is Cynthia von Doom's mystic robe, and Victor had it in his closet the whole time. If I need to debut as Doctor Doom, then I won't disrespect either Victor or Cynthia by omitting it.

The cloak's golden clasp matches the belt around my waist – which is a surprise tool that'll help me later!

"Woah, you look stunning!" Johnny whistles, before smirking, "from the neck down."

"Kat, glad you could finally join us," Reed smiles, leaving Sue's side, "did your, ah, secret project hold you up?"

"Don't be jealous 'cause I'm beautiful, Johnny. And kinda, I just had to put the finishing touches on a few things," I grin mischievously.

"Any chance we could get a clue on your project, Katarina?" Sue asks, curious.

"Well, I mean..." Reed says nervously. I wave him off, though. After all, it's the other half of the Fantastic Four, they're gonna figure it out eventually.

"After we're done here, I can show you! I'm totally cool with it. Just keep it on the downlow, alright?" I wink conspiratorially. Reed just sighs.

The Expo is really fun! We hit up the buffet first, which presents itself more as a fancy gala than an all-you-can-eat. Nevertheless, I gorged on macaroons until Ben grabbed me by the scruff.

"Aw, c'mon, you're no fun…" I grumble, glaring at him like a cat.

"You need to watch your sugar intake, y'know. You won't be in your twenties forever," Ben taunts, snickering. His big meat-paws set me down next to the salad bar.

I mutter curses under my breath in Romanian, spitting out a particularly vicious one specific to the Doomstadt area. I march over to the vegetables, because I hate salad with a passion – but before I can grab a helping of fried eggplant, someone prods me on my shoulder.

"Ah, excuse me?" I hear, in my mother language.

"Heh? Were you in line?" I ask, turning around.

"Er, no, I just wasn't expecting to find a fellow Latverian here,"an incredibly cute blonde woman says, making me blink.

She has sea-green eyes and her hair is done up like a springtime maiden from out of a history piece. There's a certain light in her eyes, almost like magic. Her makeup and clothes are rather basic, but she's lovely enough that she could be wearing peasant rags and still look photogenic.

"Maria Clopoțel, it's nice to meet you." She smiles, and oh, it's like an angel! "Although, I'd appreciate it if you minded your language in the future…"

We share a giggle. Wow, great sense of humor, too. Whoever wins her heart wins the lottery, totally.

"Katarina von Doom, a pleasure!"I grin, grabbing my eggplant before heading out of line to speak with her properly. "How'd you know I was Latverian and not something else?"

"When you were cursing your friend out, you used your last name, 'Doom', as a singular, first-person pronoun, and not 'I'."Maria informs me. Oh, huh, that's a Latverian thing? I thought it was just a Victor thing. I never really pay attention to the languages I speak, I just speak them. "I'm surprised you didn't know."

"Ah, well,"I laugh, trying to think up an excuse, "I've lived in America for a while, and nobody can tell the difference in this country usually. I've never really set foot outside of Latveria or the United States otherwise."

"Oh, really? What brought you to America?"

"Science, and a chance for a better life,"I answer honestly. Yup, Victor's life sucked big fat nuts before he came to the US.

"Just the same, then,"Maria smiles wistfully.

"Nothing's changed in five years… If only Fortunov would keel over and die, right?" I click my tongue, knowing damn well how sh*ttily the Latverian government treats its people. They're why my father is dead, among many thousands of good people. I know Victor overthrows the government and makes things better, but who would I be to assume I can be an effective leader, let alone a justified dictator like him?

"...I believe change will be coming very soon,"Maria says under her breath, before moving on, "You're working as a scientist, correct? Are you associated with anything at the Expo?"

"No, no. Just personal projects. Recently, I've been very interested in the whole Iron Man business, and I decided to make… ah, nevermind. Anyways, it's a brave new world, and I plan to explore it!"

Somewhere in the middle there, Maria squints, and her smile falters just a little bit. Hmm, maybe that's an uninteresting topic for her. Oh well, not every conversation can be a homerun.

"Well, I wish you the best in your endeavors. Here, take my card, won't you?"

The blonde pulls out a bone white business card and hands it to me. Maria Clopoțel, Associate Survey Consultant for Fortuna LLC.I have no idea what that job even does, but hey, I got the contact details for a pretty lady!

"Oh, thank you! I don't have my own card, but I do have some contact information, if you'd like a friend in New York."

"I'd love that. Here, I have a pen."

Eagerly, I quickly jot down my number and email on the back of another one of her cards, before handing it to her. I also offer her pen back, but she declines.

"Keep the pen, call it a souvenir,"Maria says, "And if you turn the dial on the end, it functions as a flashlight."

Doing so, I turn the dial until it clicks twice. It's pretty bright! I turn it off, and it slides without clicking. "I'll treasure it always!"

"How sweet! In any case, I must go soon, as I have a panel I need to attend,"Maria curtseys like a proper lady, "Have a good night, Ms. von Doom."

"Oh, see ya! Don't be a stranger!"

I slide the pen into a dress pocket and head back to the Four, feeling like a million bucks.

After a certain point, our group split up to go see the sights. Last I checked, Reed and Sue went to go meet some of the movers and shakers affiliated with NASA or some private spacecraft companies, probably to try and get support for his spaceship project. Ben and Johnny went to go goof off with some of the tech demos.

Personally, I'm taking the time to study novel designs from both the arms industries, the transportation industries, and the energy industries. All of my studies are for the sake of my superhero debut, of course. Especially the transportation tech, since Hammer's screwed me over with his awful flight systems. Even now, passing by his booth, I can smell the cheap cologne and the corporate shills and the…

…the advertisem*nts for Justin Hammer's 'highly anticipated' tech showcase, debuting the latest in military technology. Scheduled to start five minutes ago.

sh*t. sh*t, it's tonight. sh*t, it's happening right now! Of course it's today, just my luck!

I briskly walk towards the main stage where Hammer's face is plastered, pulling out my phone and trying to call Reed. My phone rings uselessly as he doesn't pick up. As I pass by a hallway of screens displaying the American flag, I don't feel any sense of patriotic hoorah. Instead, the crimson stripes surround me like bloody death.

Come on, Reed, pick up…!

By the time I get to the main auditorium, Stark has landed to thunderous applause. I can't see anything, not with the amount of people standing and clapping. While my brain kicks into overdrive, assessing the threat and if there's anythingincongruent with the timeline as I know it, Reed picks a delightful time to actually answer his goddamn phone.

"Hey, Kat!" He says with a laugh, apparently enjoying himself. "What's up, you doing good?"

"Richards," I snarl in a low growl, marching on a warpath along the aisle. "Get the others and get off the premises."

War Machine's turret engages.

Summoning a floating runic circle in my free hand, I grab the Asgardian rune on my belt and twist it like a goddamn Kamen Rider, unlocking the magical spell I sealed into it. I kick off my heels and start running through the crowd, barging past security and other audience members.

"Katarina, what's –"

The drones take aim…!

"Now!"

I drop the phone as the timeline plays out in front of me. What once was a cool superhero scene is now a dangerous reality, and the sound of roaring thrusters and thundering gunshots turns elated cheers into terrified screams. As glass shatters and robots sail through the ceiling, I leap into the air and hold my hands up to the sky.

CRRRCK – VWOOM!

Lightning erupts from my fingertips and extends in width, until a large force field shields the audience from the falling glass. As I hover in midair, my armor materializes around me in a glowing golden shimmer, just like Loki's did.

Victor's armor is different from mine in a few ways. His has an air of history, made up of chainmail and thick boots and grand pauldrons, with a full-body cloak wrapped in a medieval leather belt. Befitting for an armor made by an ancient Tibetan sect, and for a man entrenched in his past who, oftentimes, fights against the future.

Although we look similar on a surface level, my armor is different in a few ways. I'm sleek where he's rough, I'm thin where he's thick. Because my designs are cribbed from not only Stark, but others like Ultron, the Destroyer, and the Wakandans, I inevitably look like the future in more ways than one. It's kinda poetic, considering how much I've relied on my past life's so-called foresight.

Well, that's all about to change, now that I've slapped myself in the middle of this movie. So much for my cheat sheet. But… despite our differences, both Victor and I wear the same mask. And it's comforting, in a weird way.

I disperse the magical shield once I see that there's no more falling glass. Looking down, I notice that the entire crowd has stopped running just to stare up at me. Oh, come on, are you for real?

"If you value your lives," I use a minor cantrip to amplify my voice, motioning with an open palm towards the exit doors, "then leave in orderly fashion! Unless any of you would liketo be caught in the crossfire."

Just then, a distant explosion rocks the building. The crowd snaps out of whatever stupor they were in and starts rushing out the doors. I scoff and take off to the sky, carefully adjusting my Hammer-designed thruster system.

Ugh, my billowing cloak and hair are getting in the way! Immediately, I'm having trouble tracking my targets. So much for a strong start... Well, time for magic. Watching the dogfight around me, my eyes glow a burning blue, and I scry every Hammer Drone in the sky. There they are.

I exhale slowly, trying to stave off the stage fright. Alright… it's debut time.

I curl my body inwards to lessen the recoil of this attack. Crossing my arms over each other and extending my fingers fully, I channel the magical battery in my armor to my fingers. Golden electricity rumbles in my arms, before something bubbles from deep in my soul, making me roar in a satisfying battle cry.

(An intrusive thought hits. Backwards quarter circle, two attack buttons.)

"You have no hope!"

BZZT-BZZT-BZZT-BZZT-BZZT!

A Photon Array blasts out of my fingers, like a fan of heavy artillery from ten different silos. Stark Expo's night sky is lit up momentarily as I shoot down four Hammer Drones with that attack alone.

My heart's pounding: I can't believe it's my first fight in the Marvel world! I'm a superhero now! Wow, so this is what power feels like, huh? What a crazy feeling...

More explosions go off in the distance, and I snap out of my excitement. Alright, Katarina, focus! You've got people to save and robots to blast!

Spotting another Hammer Drone heading back towards the Expo for some reason, I rocket myself towards it, thunderous magic crackling in my hands.

"Now," I laugh, adrenaline pumping in my veins, "you face Doom!"

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Chapter Text

"Sorcerer Supreme, I believe we've found the thief!"

"Yes. After she hurled countless Bolts of Balthakk on national television, in a full suit of enchanted armor."

The disciple stops in his tracks. The Ancient One meditates in front of a screen, passively watching CNN's live feed of Stark Expo.

"Sorcerer Supreme, I –"

"Enough. There's no amount of apologizing that will fix your mistakes," she says simply, as if commenting on the weather. The disciple – who was the one on patrol when the thief broke into the Sanctum Sanctorum – licks his dry lips.

Unsure of what else to say, his eyes instead shift to the TV. The masked warlock lands directly in front of a camera, crushing a rogue automaton under both of her feet, and fully disabling it by stomping on its head. Without missing a beat, the warlock fires another Bolt of Balthakk into the sky, and another machine spirals downwards before exploding midair.

Then, the warlock waves at the camera jauntily. Waves.Something like panic rises in the disciple's throat.

"...What do we do? To so blatantly break the code of secrecy…"

"We do nothing." The Ancient One says, her expression unreadable.

"What?"

"The mundane will make their assumptions. Nuclear energy, an arc reactor, or simply electricity. There's no reason for them to cry magic." She nods. "And so we shall let them assume."

"...I see. Still, she must be punished."

"No, she must not." Then, the Ancient One turns towards the disciple. "She entered our walls using only a layman's wit, was invited by our own, and retrieved texts that were untouched for centuries. No harm has been done, and clearly," she gestures at the news, "she uses her magic for good."

The Sorcerer Supreme's eyes then pierce the disciple's soul.

"You,however, willfully allowed an unknown danger into the Sanctum Sanctorum, allowed her to roam its halls without supervision. Your assumptions, your sloth, and your shortsightedness could have doomed us all. It is by sheer luck on a multiversal scalethat all she wanted is a paltry handful of books and not, say, our complete subjugation."

The silence is deafening, and the disciple can feel his heart try to pound out of his ribs. He stutters, stumbles to say anything at all to salvage this, to save himself, but he can only tremble and break under the cold gaze of an immortal sorcerer.

"Inform the rest of the Masters that nobody is to interfere with the thief, and to maintain focus on locating Kaecilius. If necessary, I will confront her myself. As for you," The Ancient One's lips draw into a line, "your continued existence in our order will be thoroughly reviewed. Now go."

"Y-Yes, Sorcerer Supreme!"

As the disciple scurries out of the room, almost tripping on his own feet, the Ancient One returns her attention to the screen.

"You are a peculiar one, Katarina von Doom," she smiles, "let's see how you do in this lifetime."

Pow! Zap! Ba-ba-ba-ba-bam!

Sorry, that wasn't the actual sounds being made, that's me making sounds in my head. I'm learning that I do really well in fights! Well, sorta. I'm aware of the overall one-sidedness of the situation – these Hammer Drones are about as effective as a monkey with a gun – but I'm still managing to stop them before they accidentally hurt anyone or injure me, so I'd count that as a success.

The trick I've found, so far, is that they use some sort of facial recognition software to shoot anything that could register as either Iron Man or Tony Stark. Vanko's only human, so although he's macroing all his units to go here and there, he's leaving them to figure out their own targets: hence the "little kid with a helmet" scene in the movie.

So I've actually been camping two places: the Stark Industries section of the venue, which has Tony's face plastered on everything, and the merchandise section. As an example, right now, there's a drone currently shooting up a giant Stark billboard – and I use the opportunity to shoot another lightning blast at it, turning the Hammer Drone into slag.

Flying up to the fifth floor balcony next to Tony's billboard face, I look around for civilians. Sure enough, there's a news reporter and her team ducking for their lives.

"I got rid of the drone. Is anyone hurt?" I ask them, leaning down to check for injuries.

"We're fine, just some bumps and scratches," she nods, before smiling at me and shoving a microphone in my face, "but could I get an interview really quick? I'm with Fox News!"

"Eh?" I blink, before noticing the recording light flickering on.

"Is this a new prototype suit for Stark Industries – and are you looking to make a fashion statement with your Iron Man suit? Also, what's your opinion on women in technology?"

I hear the sound of thrusters rising behind me, and whirl around to see two Hammer Drones flying up to my level.

"Intellect has no gender! Now get out of here, you idiots!" I scold them over my back, before catapulting myself at the robots and double-clotheslining them all the way to the ground. They crumple under my arms with a satisfying sound, as the light dies out of their optical sensors.

"Maybe I should have avoided playing hero, if only to avoid the paparazzi," I grumble, picking myself out of the butt-crater I made in the ground, "bunch of leeches…"

Suddenly, my mask rings. Well, not literally: I have a basic HUD installed into it, indicating a phone call coming to my number. Ah, that's right, I dropped my phone before going into my Henshin sequence… Man, I hope my insurance policy accepts 'killer robot attack' as a valid reason.

I then see the caller ID, and pick up immediately, back in serious mode.

"Reed, did you get out alright?"

"Kat, help!" Both my battle high and my good humor immediately crash. My veins turn to ice. "There's a Hammer Industries drone here – KSHH, BRK-RK-RK-RK-RK! –shooting up the gift store! We're ducked under the cash register –"

"Hang tight, Reed, I'm on my way!"

I shoot through the venue hallways as fast as my armor will take me, pulling up a map of the conference arena on my HUD. Doing my best to stay overhead of the fleeing civilians, I keep my eyes peeled for any stray drones that might have wandered in.

However, my relative inexperience with flying proves to be a detriment. There's a sharp left I need to make, but I can't veer as quickly as I need to.

As soon as I realize it, I disengage my thrusters and reactivate them in the other direction, feeling my stomach do backflips as I try to brake as quickly as possible. I'm unable to manage it –

WHAM!

– And end up body-tackling a billboard screen with Hammer's face on it, faceplanting like a Looney Tunes character.

"Ow, my arm! My ribs! My head!" I yelp in my native Japanese, while the world spins around me. "Itai, tai, tai, tai…!"

Growling and trying to shake off the dizziness of slamming into a wall at top speeds, I kick off the ruined glass and speed towards Reed's position again, now more conscious of the tight turns I'll need to make. I don't have time to be silly, damn it, I gotta do the hero thing!

By the time I get to the gift shop, I spot the Hammer Drone aiming its barrel down the cash register, likely due to the stack of Iron Man paraphernalia behind it, with Reed, Sue, and a teenage cashier cowering under the table.

I have only a split second to save them, and my lightning can't strike quickly enough to stop them from becoming a fine pink mist. I need to act now…!

Doing the first thing I can think of, I reach my hand out and levitate one of the toy Iron Man helmets from the merch stock and shove it in the drone's face.

VWMMM – BR-R-R-R-R!

It's stupid, it's silly, and it works. The drone immediately starts firing its machine gun, but aimed upwards at the helmet I'm Wingardium Leviosa-ing, bullets flying overhead of its would-be victims.

Messily, I levitate the helmet up and away from the three people, as it shoots up literally everything else in the shop, sending glass flying and turning countless action figures into plastic dust. In my other hand, I charge up another energy beam, and –

ZZZZZZAP!

Blast a hole through the robot. It comes crashing down, its internal hardware turned to red-hot slag. However, something inside catches on fire, and the flames start to build up near the drone's missile launcher.

"Get out of there!" I command them, bursting forward with a hit of my thrusters, "It's going to explode!"

Reed and the cashier boy immediately get up and run, but one of Sue's heels snaps, and she trips and falls.

Without thinking, without hesitating, I throw myself in front of her, wrapping her up in my arms and summoning a full-power force field around my body. The flames engulf us, and I hold her tightly.

Susan Storm wouldn't call herself a jealous woman.

Overly trusting, not at all. Somewhat jaded, yes. But she never really thought of herself as jealous, or even suspicious. She's not the type of girl to go through her boyfriend's phone, or anything like that. Reed earned her complete trust, and she was ready to start a life with him once she finished college and found a stable job.

She was forced to reconsider when Katarina von Doom entered her life.

What was once the rant-inducing boogeyman of Reed's Ph.D. program is now a close confidant and friend living under his roof – and a conventionally attractive woman at that (minus the scarring). Some days, she's all he talks about. Whether he's worried about her well-being, or proud of her progress, or amused by her antics, it's just Katarina this, Katarina that, Katarina von Everything!

Sue believes the best of Reed. That's what you do when you love somebody. But you don't have to stop loving them to lose them, and with Reed pulling away either because of his career or because of that woman, Sue felt like that's exactly what was happening. Balancing your love life and your dreams is already a tightrope act… but even if by accident, Reed Richards is dedicating his love to Katarina Von Doom, and there's nothing Sue can do but watch.

Until now.

The robot explodes and Sue thinks she's going to die right there. It's a fair assumption. But instead of a painful, fiery death, Sue only feels the arms of an armored suit wrap around her, a dark green cloak shielding her from the heat. Her embrace is so warm, so tight – a far cry from the cold metal Sue was expecting. It feels like the world mutes itself as she buries her head into the shoulder of her savior.

The heat dissipates, and Sue dares to look up.

The brightest, bluest eyes stare back at her, framed in brunette locks.

"Are you okay?" The armored woman asks, before taking her mask off. Katarina von Doom's gaze is soft. Her smooth, gloved hand caresses Sue's cheek gently. "I'd never forgive myself if you were ever hurt."

"I… You saved me."

"You're under my royal protection," Katarina smiles, a little laugh in her words, "I'll always save you, even when everyone else can't."

Oh.

Oh.

Sue gets it now.

"Sue! Oh, thank God, you're okay!"

In a turn of events, Sue feels a deep, unyielding frustration as Reed ruins the special moment. The world starts spinning again, and Sue gets back onto her feet, with more than a little disappointment.

Sue hugs her boyfriend tightly, but it doesn't feel… as special. Of course, she's grateful to Reed, and it's no fault of his, but, y'know…

"Alrighty, ya two lovebirds, enough of that! You're in a warzone, get outta here! You too, kid." Katarina shoos them away, before putting the mask back on – and like a knight donning her helmet, the happy girl is gone, and only a warrior remains.

Sue takes one wistful look behind her, before running with the others to safety.

She's going to hate the discussion she'll have to have with one (or both) of them. She just knows it.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Chapter Text

After a solid quarter-of-an-hour of playing IRL beat-em-up, a bunch of drones start flying in the same direction. I send out another blast of electricity, frying half a dozen of them before they leave, but the rest don’t retaliate – they just keep flying.

Right, okay – that means Vanko’s about to have his last stand against Iron Man and War Machine. Some part of me is still battle-high, wanting to join in on the movie’s climactic final battle. Another, more cynical part of me wants to fly over to Hammer Industries and steal as much money from Hammer as I can while he’s busy getting incarcerated.

But I brush those all off and focus on doing the right thing. Every downed Hammer Drone is rigged to self-destruct the moment that Vanko loses – and I don’t know how many tech-hungry, robot-obsessed idiots are poking at the ticking timebombs. Tony saves Pepper, but I need to save everyone else.

I can’t be everywhere all at once, so I need to raise awareness first before I comb the area for dead drones. But how…?

Wait, this is still a convention center. I can use the PA system!

Flying to the abandoned front desk, I look for a phone or mic I can use in the ‘please come get your child’ way. There is none: just a really fancy Stark Industries computer. Hm… Probably…

I turn on the computer screen and see the phone call app still open, the last number called being 911. Scrolling through the contacts, I look through the handful of official call lines pre-installed on the convention computer, and… okay, there we go!

Calling the PA system, I hear a pleasant female voice, and it immediately sours my mood. Ugh, automated calls. I don’t have time for this – there are people to save, damn it!

“Would you like to turn on –”

“Yes!”

“Would you like to broadcast to –”

“Yes, just go already!”

“Thank you. Broadcasting in 3… 2..”

I clear my throat before the broadcast starts, flicking my hair out of my mask-face just as a habit. Alright, just gotta say something real quick – maybe try to establish myself as a figure of authority, uh, somehow…

And then the camera turns on. I’m on every screen in the venue! My face jolts in unadulterated fear and panic for a split second, before I steady myself by clenching my fists. Thank God I have a mask on, ugh, that’d embarrass me for the rest of my life!

Okay, Kat, calm down. Just gotta deliver this PSA…

“Good evening, everyone,” a familiar voice greets from behind a menacing mask, “my name… is Doom.”

“I’m one of the world’s foremost experts in advanced military robotics…” She lifts a hand, holding a ball of lightning between her fingertips in a purposeful display of power. “...heh, obviously .”

Ben covers his face in secondhand embarrassment, while the local police hold their breath and the giant sea of techbro douchebags murmur amongst themselves. Talk about making a first impression. She’s walking the line between ‘conquer the world’ and ‘I’m a friend in a tough time’, and somehow, that’s more terrifying than if it was just the former. If he didn’t know her, he’d be scared.

Well, Kat’s good at twisting the truth, at least: she’s only an ‘expert’ because she’s one of the only three people with a robot suit, and one of the only two who made one themselves. These guys would lose it if they learned she just calls her powers ‘magic’, though.

“As you probably figured out, Justin Hammer’s military drones are currently attempting to murder Tony Stark – with no regard to any collateral damage incurred.” Katarina’s steel-blue gaze crinkles at the edges, which could be either a scowl or a smirk, behind the mask. “Which, really, is a testament to his wit…”

Wait. That’s where the killer robots came from? That bastard. Ben’s got half a mind to find the man and beat him to a pulp – he must still be on the premises, right?

“Since Stark flew out of the building, all functional Hammer Drones have also left in pursuit. However, all dysfunctional Hammer Drones will self-destruct soon: within a time range of fifteen minutes to two hours. I repeat: if there are any drones left here, they will explode, including any ammunition they have on them.”

A giant gasp rips through the audience, and Ben’s head is on a swivel, trying to see if any of the destroyed drones are in the parking lot they’re taking refuge in. Thankfully, Kat’s broadcasting to the Expo: anyone and everyone is able to hear her voice.

“Please follow local authority, vacate the convention center in an orderly manner, and avoid any inactive drones. With however much time’s left, I’m going to fly around through the convention center and destroy as many drones and save as many people as I can.” Katarina’s voice takes a turn for the worried, and she leans forward. “If you’re trapped or otherwise unable to get to safety, please find cover and make as much noise as you can.”

Katarina – well, Doom pulls back from the camera. Engines roar and her thrusters light up, making her long locks of hair flow upwards, and causing her dark green cloak to billow.

“Stay safe out there. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She nods. “Doom, launching! ”

And just like that, she flies off, and the broadcast ends abruptly. The moment it does, policemen start yelling at the crowd to get to an even further street, and several of them are yapping into their radios, while the peanut gallery starts popping off around Ben.

“Selling all my Hammer stock now, hope that son of a bitch gets death row…”

“sh*t, come on, pick up…”

“Why the hell is a lady named Doom saving people?”

“Don’t be an uneducated dumbass, Doomstadt exists. Isn’t your name Graves?”

“Our country needs someone like her…”

“She needs better PR.”

Ben raises an eyebrow, because that last one comes from Johnny. Johnny just smirks.

“Can’t say I disagree,” Ben admits, replaying that entire speech in his head. Katarina seemed like she was trying her best to treat the situation as seriously as she should – but she’s thoroughly out of practice. If it was the old Kat, everyone would be either running for the hills or marching like robots. Or both. With this Kat, though…

…Ben almost stops in his tracks, as realization flashes in his eyes. A fireside chat. That’s what he’s reminded of. Like the old FDR radio clips. An air of seriousness, but a little playful, a little confident, and she sounds like she’s rooting for the audience.

“...Can’t say I completely agree, either.” Ben says tersely, picking his pace back up.

“She’s completely dense and stuck in her own world, that part didn’t change,” Johnny notes, keeping his voice low as they walk, “but she’s freakin’ good at improv, at least.”

“Well, hopefully, she can improvise her way out of this clown circus,” Ben grunts, unbuttoning one of his shirt buttons now that the party’s over, “let’s just go somewhere nice for the next two days. Without the psychotic Gundams.”

“I was always a Zoids kid, myself,” Johnny shrugs.

It’s an hour after that announcement, and I’m carrying two grown men in my arms: janitors for the Expo, who got trapped in the men’s bathroom after part of the ceiling collapsed on the door.

I’d make a joke about how I’d never seen so many urinals in my life, but I can’t manage it. I’m tired, my brain’s fried, my body’s sore everywhere, and both my magic battery and my magic are severely depleted. I’m running on fumes, and I just want tonight to be over.

Adrenaline only lasts so long, and after flying at least a dozen laps around an empty entire convention center, keeping up a constant scrying spell, my fatigue’s caught up pretty fast. It’s one thing to be in the middle of a firefight: it’s another when you’re yanking fallen drones off of scared people.

But these two are the last of them. I did my rounds through triage, saving the people who needed the most attention first, then moving downwards. The two men trembling in my arms were perfectly safe from immediate danger and could probably survive for a day or two, even, so they were saved last.

Putting them down next to the ambulances, I scrounge up the last of my reserves to activate one last long-range scrying spell, scanning the entire building for anyone who’s alive.

Nope. Nada. Zilch. I evacuated the building completely. I did it. Mission complete.

I feel the weight of the world crashing on my shoulders, but before I let myself pass out in front of hundreds of people, I drudge up the last of my willpower and fly straight to Reed’s house. I want to go home and sleep. For a long, long time.

My number rings.

Click.

“Reed?”

“Katarina, the self-destruct sequences just went off! There’s smoke coming out of the buildings! Is everything alright?”

Oh. He’s worried. How nice of him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just left the party early.”

I yawn, the comfortable coldness of the NYC air starting to put me to sleep. No, stop that, you’re thousands of feet in the sky.

“I’m headed home. Need to recharge my suit, and… and…” I start quietly snoring, before jolting back awake for a moment.

“I understand. You did amazingly, Kat. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thuh… Thanks…” I smile lazily under my mask. “Buh-bye now. G’night.”

“Wait, Kat? –”

Beep beep.

I hang up on him, like turning off an alarm. Stumbling on touchdown, I wobble my way to Reed’s front door – our front door.

Fumbling around for my keys, I realize blearily that my keys are inside my armor right now. Damn it. With a grumble, I kick over a small potted plant and levitate the keys under the pot into my hand.

In the door. Close the door. Lock the door. Oh, look, that marble tile looks really fluffy and comfy. It’s coming at me really fast…

Zzzzzz…

The next morning, I wake up neatly tucked into bed. Masky's on my nightstand, and I'm in my full suit of armor.

...Mm. Too lazy to take it off. And it's too comfy and warm...

...

Zzzzzz…

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Chapter Text

“Alright, JARVIS. I did what I promised. A week of bed rest, one encounter with a cyclops, and a lot of make-up sex.” Tony Stark says, swaggering into his workshop.

“Sir, that was not my exact wording.”

“I play by RAI, not RAW, you know that.” He quips, not missing a beat. “Now tell me about my uninvited Player 3.”

“Very well, sir.”

Windows after holographic windows erupt into view, and Tony pulls up and reads the most important one first: her dossier. He’d give her a solid 8/10. The Ernst Blofeld scar actually bumps her up from a 7/10, considering it doesn’t give her a lazy eye. JARVIS provides lovely color commentary, as always.

“Katarina von Doom, age twenty-four. Born in Doomstadt, Latveria. Her parents were Cynthia and Werner von Doom, members of the Zefiro ethnic minority and active rebels against Vladimir Fortunov’s regime.”

“Were.” Tony pauses, pulling up their causes of death. “Died for the cause?”

“Cynthia von Doom was executed for orchestrating an attack on government officials that caused civilian deaths. Werner von Doom was ordered to be executed after failing to cure cancer, and fleeing into the Alps with Katarina. There, he died of hypothermia. Katarina von Doom was recovered on the brink of death, per the hospital records.”

“Christ.” He says. It’s a grim reminder that this world sucks. If he could fix it all, then he would. Maybe a future project.

“Shall I continue with Doom’s childhood, sir?”

“Just the important bits. I don’t want to get stuck in the sob story.” Tony says, pushing away her dossier and pulling up the news articles.

‘NEW MENACE DOOMS US ALL!’, from the Daily Bugle. ‘Katarina von Doom: Technology’s Latest Wildcard’ from the New York Times. ‘Exclusive Photos of Doom’s Stark Expo Runway’ from People Magazine. Incendiary and a woman. She’s like the perfect Kardashian.

“Doom had excellent grades in school, and was only held back from acceleration due to multiple acts of juvenile delinquency.”

Tony glances at the number. Triple digits? And he thought he was bad. Or maybe it was the fascist government targeting her, that might also bump that number up.

“She was accepted into State University through an international scholarship, pursuing a double major in Nuclear Physics and Electrical Engineering. However, the failure of her most recent research project resulted in her expulsion from the program, as well as her permanent facial scarring and near-death hospitalization.”

“Wait.”

Tony squints, scrolling through her academic info. Yeah, yeah, he’s seen all the 5.0 GPA and double major stuff. The number of papers in her name are also insane for any other undergraduate, but he’s seen some real tryhards in his time. But despite all that…

“The only other person on the planet to make my suit,” because really, War Machine is just the Mark II but with a crappy paint job, “is a college dropout? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“...Gimme the psych eval. I gotta figure this out.”

Tony flicks his wrist, and all the biographical information is replaced with any and every statistic on the unprotected internet pertaining to Doom. (Unprotected from JARVIS, anyways.) He leans his ass on his work table as he scratches his beard, looking through the data.

First thing he notices: huge graph changes in 2008. Public appearances spike up, outgoing emails plummet. Amount of security camera footage registered as ‘spending time with associates’ spikes up, footage registered as ‘active bodily threats’ plummets.

“As you can see, sir, Doom displayed consistent anger management issues and doctoral-level work output until her accident. Afterwards, her personality seems to have either regressed or otherwise self-imploded due to the trauma, with some neurodivergence observed.”

“Hm.” Tony makes a thoughtful face, playing a video where she’s a kid in a candy store. As in, literally. She’s in a candy store and buying everything.

“Maybe my suit’s like a Powerpuff Girl. Except with… engineering, parental trauma, ADHD, and, uh, the brink of death as the Chemical X. …Pretty horrific Powerpuff Girl, that.”

Bank account went steady until ‘08, then it started dipping more and more. The pie graph looks like the impulse buys of a pre-teen: a lot of money wasted on dresses, video games, anime stuff, and sweet food. So much sweet food. How does she fit in that suit?

Huge spike of income just before the Expo, though. Traces to some gold pawn shops. Money laundering, or getting desperate for cash?

“What’s her living situation?”

“Doom is currently roommates with Dr. Reed Richards, living in the Baxter Building Estates near 42nd Street and Madison Avenue in New York City. She has no recorded rent payments.”

“A college dropout and a couch surfer. This is my greatest rival? The Gary Oak to my Ash Ketchum? Wait, scratch that. I’m Gary. Ash sucks.”

Ugh, but why does she have to live in New York? He just came from there. Now he has to take a plane trip back. Well, unless he goes the fun way.

“JARVIS, clear my schedule, I’m paying her a courtesy visit on Wednesday. Hopefully before the one-eyed monster shows up to induct her into his chess club. Let Pepper know, too. I’m not making that mistake again.”

Tony taps his lips. “And when’s the best time to find her?”

“Doom has not been seen outside of her home since the Expo, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s fair, she probably doesn’t want to smite down TMZ,” Tony sniffs, before dismissing the hologram windows, “it’ll be a house call then.”

Well, hopefully, Doom’s as nice as she seems. Or maybe she’s an evil mastermind who hides behind a childish facade to mask her real intentions. Tony’s seen plenty of cartoons, he knows how it goes.

Just to be safe, might as well take notes on the potential threat.

“Compile all the data we have on her armor. I wanna compare notes.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a moment of loading, Tony’s greeted by a hologram of the cloaked vigilante who crashed his Expo. Yeah, it’s pretty similar to his own science project. Copied the homework and changed a few things, much?

Looking over the systems and replaying the footage, though, reveals that Katarina didn’t just copy the homework: she Frankenstein-ed it with everyone else’s homework and somehow made it better in a lot of ways. How the hell did she get that transformation to work? Wait, was that a force field…?

Thirty minutes in, and Tony comes to a dreadful realization.

“Tony? You said you’d be a second…” Pepper saunters down the stairs, before seeing what Tony’s watching. “Oh.”

Eyes glued to the screen, watching Doom find someone through what could only be precognition, Tony says the words he never thought he’d say.

“I don’t know how she did it.”

“And in recent news, King Vladimir Fortunov has issued an executive order for a nationwide census of Latveria, outside of the normal census interval of ten years.

The executive census was issued as a matter of national security, per the Latverian throne. Officials state that it will be mandatory for all Latverian citizens to denote their ethnicity, sexuality, race, and political allegiance.

The last executive census was enacted in 1988, after an internal attack from Zefiro sympathizers killed 32 civilians, including –”

Prinz Stuhr turns off the news with his remote, before running a shaking hand through his platinum blonde hair.

As the de facto leader of the ZRM – the Zefiro Rights Movement – it’s his job to keep morale up and to keep ahead of the information available to them, among other things. And yet, he’s failed. Latveria’s gone to sh*t, and it’s gone to sh*t again, and he’s powerless to stop it.

“Goddamn it. The moment Fortunov even hears the name Doom, he tries to round us all up like cattle all over again…”

Prinz mutters to himself, in the small office space they’ve procured for themselves under the guise of Fortuna LLC. They thought they were so clever, hiding their organization under the dictator’s own name, but now…

“f*cking Cynthia. If she hadn’t jumped the gun, maybe we would have…!” Prinz’s brother, Alan Stuhr, growls, before his fiancee slaps his arm to shut him up.

“Don’t you dare disrespect our founder. Honestly.” Mary Vâna says.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, we would have been rounded up like the Jews no matter what,” the albino Zofia Aksenova shakes her head, ever the historian, “she bought us time. But it’s running out…”

Her brother, Nikolai, nods tersely.

“Prinz, what do we do? We can’t keep hiding in the walls like this,” Keith Dorn looks to Prinz, “not when our people suffer like this.”

“...I have one idea.” Maria Clopoțel, their newest recruit, says softly.

The rest of the room turns to her, eager for any sign of hope. Prinz trusts that she does. Maria’s proven herself to be a good field agent time and time again. Surely, after her mission to find either resources, connections, or weapons dealers in America, she’d have gathered at least something they can use.

Delicately, Maria pulls out one of her own business cards, the ones usually kept along with the tracking device pens. But then, she flips it over, and Prinz feels as though he’s struck gold – no, diamond, even.

On it is the scrawled phone number and email of Katarina von Doom, with a little smiley face to the side.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10 - Latverian Civil War Arc

Chapter Text

It’s laundry day. One of the neat things about my armor is that I can clean all my clothes at once, without leaving an extra set sitting there. It’s very convenient. So here I am, staring at my clothes spinning around in Reed’s fancy washing machine.

Whirl, whirl, whirl…

On the outside, it looks like my head’s empty. That couldn’t be any further from the truth.

Yesterday, I received a call from Maria. Y’know, the Latverian from the Expo? Here I was, hoping to just catch up with someone from the old country, maybe try to find something in common, maybe spend time with a cute girl…

I wish.

The Latverian oligarchic monarch, Vladimir Fortunov, issued another executive census. The last time he did that was about twenty years ago, at the start of his reign and during my childhood, as part of a long history of minority persecution. My mother, Cynthia von Doom, was a leader of the Zefiro opposition who actively fought off the oligarchy, and when they finally got their hands on her, they made an example of her.

Public execution by firing squad. And guess which poor kid was there to see all of it? With eidetic memory, at that?

If he’s issuing another census, that can only mean he’s going to hurt and kill more of my people. As if Latveria isn’t already starving, as if the corruption hasn’t already rotted the entire system! No, while the rest of the country wallows in Cold War-age poverty, decades behind any modern nation, Fortunov has seen fit to spend taxes on drawing Romani blood. And most likely, he’ll be targeting all the other ‘unwanteds’ while he’s on a roll: the Jewish, the Muslim, the hom*osexuals, I can keep going.

The phone call turned a slow day into one of the most frustrating, one of the most emotional in my life. No, scratch that: both of my lives. My God, Maria sounded like she was on the verge of tears – and I don’t blame her. Her words chill me to the bone, even remembering it.

“Please, Katarina, we need you.” Hearing it in Romanian just hit me differently. “There’s nobody else to turn to – please.”

I can’t just sit here and do nothing! Are you kidding me?! I’m motherf*cking Doctor Doom , I have a right, no, I have a responsibility to fly over there and put a stop to this. Especially because, by Maria’s dint, Fortunov got agitated by my name in the global news . It’s partially my fault, I need to fix it.

I should have been there yesterday. No, far beforehand. The moment I recovered from the Expo, I should have been there.

“But should I?” I sigh, staring into the spinning clothes. “I should, but what about…?”

Part of me is tentative because Reed’s deadline is coming. The cosmic storm is happening soon, and although he has the Marvel-1 space shuttle practically completely built (partly thanks to my help), he’s still waiting on sponsors. Not for the spaceship, mind, but auxiliary yet essential stuff: a command center, a launch facility, a recovery team… so on, so forth. If necessary, he does have the barebones essentials available for him to launch without permission, just like in the comics. But, if you can imagine, I’d rather not risk my four closest friends’ lives like that, not without my ability to intervene at least. For all I know, the Fantastic Four don’t exist in the MCU for a very sad reason.

Another part of me isn’t sure what comes next, even if I do kill Fortunov and all the bad guys. I’m a great bruiser and a cake-powered WMD in a civil war, definitely. Do I think I can destabilize the current government through brute force? Sure, probably. That’s what happened in Gulmira, albeit on a smaller scale. Will I have the eyes of SHIELD, HYDRA, and the entire world if I do that? Emphatically, yes! What do I do about that? I don’t know!

Also, I’m well aware that I’m just the same dumb monkey girl I was. I trip on flat ground. I forget to get off the right train stop all the time. I’d rather binge movies and count cicadas than study. I still don’t think I’d be fit to serve a term in local government, let alone be a supreme dictator. Wasn’t the entire law of Latveria just ‘whatever Victor says, do that’? I can’t do that!

I’m happy here, with Reed, with everyone. Sure, the paparazzi have kept me quarantined here, but they’ll go away someday. Maybe I’ll help Maria and whatever rebellion force there is – kill Fortunov for what he did to my parents, smash up the army until they wave the white flag. And then I’ll let them sort it out themselves. I think that’s the best plan I have.

I get up from my seat in the laundry room, sighing.

I’ll have to let Reed know. I’m hoping to be back before half a year passes, because that’s when his takeoff happens, and I know him, he’ll try to fly the Marvel-1 whether he gets his support or not. But if I don’t get back in time, I can at least try to lend my support, checking his calculations or seeing if there’s any flaws in his design plans…

I walk to the living room in full armor, pulling out my phone to grab airplane tickets as soon as possible.

“Hey Reed, I need to talk to you! I have to leave the country soon, and –”

I look up. Reed is sitting at the coffee table with Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff.

“– Oh.”

Natasha can confidently say that, in the few times she’s witnessed SHIELD fumble, she’s never seen it happen so often and so badly as it has now.

In the span of two years, Fury had his Avenger Initiative spawn out of thin air. A shopping catalog of extraordinary individuals, Natasha and Clint included, fed to him on a silver spoon.

Except Bruce Banner's ripped up Harlem, Steve Rogers broke out of containment and into the 21st century within the first minute of waking up, and Tony Stark went on a self-destruction spree on account of the poison seeping into his heart. Even the project in New Mexico proves to be almost above Coulson’s paygrade, with Fury’s dignity riding on that ‘almost’.

And now this: a candidate assessment now gone awry, because SHIELD’s so thinly spread that nobody spotted Iron Man’s flight path straight back to New York.

“Y’know, Ms. Rushman,” Stark smarms, sipping the instant coffee that Dr. Richards has offered them upon letting them in, “I didn’t think we’d meet again so soon after your termination.”

“I’m here to scout a new employee.”

“Wow. Pretty young thing comes waltzing through my own party, and you leave me for her? I’m hurt.” He turns to Richards. “She hurts me.”

“She’s got good taste.” Richards shrugs, not phased at all by the billionaire lounging on his couch. “I suspect it’s because Kat’s armor is bigger.”

Stark scoffs in indignity.

Dr. Reed Richards, Doom’s closest companion, proves to have far more backbone than most other scientists. It’s unsurprising, based on his file. In the academic circle, Richards has proven to be a young spitfire in terms of both scientific findings and his stubbornness to pursue niche areas of interest. Add that to living with Doom herself, and he’s unlikely to be easily shaken. Playing the government angle won’t work either, with his father’s history. Best to be professional.

“What exactly do you two want with Katarina?” Richards gets to the point, crossing his arms. “Mr. Stark, I can understand. Who did you work for again, Ms… Rushman, was it?”

Tony looks away and hides his smile. Natasha smooths her coat down and keeps her composure.

“Natalie Rushman, and I work with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” She offers Richards a hand to shake.

“Name still sucks.”

Natasha shoots Stark a measured glare while she’s shaking the doctor’s hand. He’s really not helping.

“...SHIELD. I think I know your people. My father used to work with you.” Dr. Richards recalls, and Natasha nods.

“To be transparent, we’d like to recruit Ms. Doom to one of our programs,” Stark hums, raising his eyebrows as he drinks his coffee again, “but the details would have to be discussed in private with the woman herself. NDAs and all. Common practice, I’m sure you can understand.”

“What she means is they’re recruiting superheroes for the big crossover comic book.”

“Stark.” Natasha says tersely. He’s starting to get on her nerves.

“Well, I’m not gonna spoil anything about the high school reunion,” Stark coughs, clearing his throat, “I’m mostly here to talk shop. Figuring out where ol’ Kitty Kat got the armor, the supplies – how she does the whole Power Rangers morph. That sort of thing.”

“And that’s it?” Richards replies, leaning back in his seat.

“I already did the whole private property speech about my suit. Look it up, it went viral on YouTube. Just here to trade notes. Mmmmaybe figure out if she’s a terrorist or not –” Richards sets down his cup, glaring. “-- But mostly trade notes.”

“I don’t think you’d fly all the way to the east coast when a video call would have worked just as fine.” The doctor relents. Natasha does the smart thing and stays quiet and small. Big men like to talk big game, and all she has to do is listen for the good stuff.

“Look, I won’t even hit on her. I’ve got a girlfriend. See? She’s my phone wallpaper and everything.” Stark pulls out his phone, showing off a picture of himself with Pepper Potts. “I just have a few questions, then Rushman can have her recruitment drive. That’s it.”

“Hey Reed, I need to talk to you! I have to leave the country soon, and – oh.”

The woman of the hour… and suited up, at that. Natasha stands up first, already on her way to shake Doom’s hand. Stark takes a moment, puts down his coffee, and also rises, while Dr. Richards just groans and sips his coffee, not getting up from his seat.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Doom. My name is Natalie Rushman, I’m with the Strategic Homeland –”

“Oh, SHIELD!” Doom’s handshake is warm and entirely too enthusiastic, as is her simple. “Yeah, nice to meet ya, Natasha! And, oh, I figured I’d get a courtesy call from the big Iron Man...”

Natasha almost doesn’t recover from that in time. Doom had, without second thought, used her real name , before moving on to trade greetings and quips with Stark. What does she know? Who does she know? Intel did state that Doom had some form of precognition – was that the case, or something more?

“...nice to meet you as well, Ms. Doom.”

“Ugh, God, look at you. I feel underdressed. I should have come in my suit.” Stark wipes crumbs off of his Black Sabbath t-shirt. “I don’t think I need to introduce myself, you saw plenty of me when Hammer was doing his thing, probably.”

“Haha, yeah.” Doom laughs, putting away her phone before reaching her hand out and waving it like – Star Wars, is the closest thing Natasha can approximate to it. The pantry on the other side of the room opens, and then a container of praline pecans flies into Doom’s awaiting hand.

Both she and Stark are rendered speechless by the casual use of the Force, while Doom plops herself down next to Richards and twists open the container.

“The private and government sectors have come for you, Kat.” Dr. Richards jokes mildly, reaching into Doom’s pecans and grabbing a couple to pop in his mouth. There’s a deep friendship between them, clearly. “Do you want me to leave, or…?”

“If we’re talking about sectors, it’s only fair that the academic sector stays.” Doom shrugs, before turning to Natasha and Stark. “Let’s do business, shall we? I’ve got a busy schedule ahead of me for the next few months.”

Objectively, Natasha knows that statement means nothing. Katarina von Doom is an unemployed freeloader whose home is tended to by a paid cleaning service. She’s a recluse, especially after her highly public breakout.

Instinctually, Natasha knows that means trouble.

This may be a very important candidate assessment.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Y'know, I was hoping to maybe put this meeting off until later – or, hell, had it happen beforeFortunov made a move. I knew SHIELD would be coming for me sooner or later, and Stark too. But here? Right now? At the same time?

I halfheartedly listen to Natasha Romanov – the Black Widow, in all her sexy redheadedness in front of me – explain the Avenger Initiative to me, while Tony Stark (who's a little more ratty than I expected him to look) provides his own footnotes. Honestly, Tony's the only thing keeping my attention. Natasha's so… bland, when she does this. I feel like Nick Fury had a certain attitude that made it fun to watch.

All the while, I'm running the logistics in my head as to how this'll work if, no, whenI spearhead a major coup d'etat in the Balkans in, like… a week or two. For one, whether Stark will be fine with it, or if he'll see me as another extremist against peace and stop me. And then, SHIELD... HYDRA included. I've decided not to warn Fury about their parasite problem for now. I need SHIELD to stay in one piece for the Chitauri, since I'm not sure if I can do anything to truly stop Loki. Say what you will about him, but he's slippery, and the god of trickery probably knows the magic necessary to confound my own.

"...The world needs you, Ms. Doom," Natasha finishes, sliding me a manila folder containing all the details, "please consider it."

"Right, okay, Justice League team, got it." I nod. Then, I turn to Tony, shoveling some pralines into my mouth. "And what're you here for? Well, specifically."

"First off," he suddenly tosses me a badge – my Stark Expo badge, which I'd lost during my transformation in the showcase, "you forgot that."

"Oh, thanks!" I smile, looking at the burnt and bent plastic like the cool trinket it is.

"But I'm mostly just here to figure out if I want to sueyou – say cheese –" Tony says bluntly, before taking a picture of my armor on his phone. Click! "And also see if you're crazy. The two other people who came close to my design tried to kill me, see."

"Technically, you need at least three data points to form a pattern." I point out.

He gestures to me.

"Okay, fair." I acquiesce.

"If everything checks out, then maybe we can trade notes sometime? Not every day I find someone who does their homework."

"Her only public use of the armor was during an emergency situation involving a homeland terrorist," Reed addresses the previous point, gesturing a hand, "and I'm aware that I'm only good for a character witness, but I assure you that Katarina only has objectively good intentions, so you –"

"No, no, my intentions are gonna become very violent, very soon." I cut him off there. "And they'll be politically dubious at best."

The entire room looks to me in varying emotions. Intrigue. Amusem*nt. Shock. I'll let you figure out who's who. While they swallow that, I take a sip of strawberry milk. I'd poured it for myself while Natasha was going on. She's a very good actress: if she got annoyed, I couldn't tell.

"I mean, I'm gonna assume that's fine with the rest of you, though," I shrug, looking at Tony specifically, "especially after Gulmira."

The billionaire playboy genius philanthropist sits up. He's getting serious. Reed is shaken.

"The Latverian executive census." Natasha spells it out for everybody. "That's why you're leaving the country. You're planning to intervene?"

I snort-giggle, my smile reaching my eyes. Ha, that's funny!

"Hahaha! Good one, Nat!" I shoot fingerguns at her. "No, no. I'm going to raze the government to the ground and watch the life slowly bleed from Fortunov's eyes. Then,I'm going to make sure the old regime staysdead."

"Katarina, what are you saying?" Reed says in horror, pulling away from the familial warmth we shared. "What's gotten into you? I never heard anything about this."

"Yeah, it's what I came upstairs to talk to you about – until we had guests."

I look into his eyes and inhale sharply, my smile growing stale as I figure out how to explain this to Reed. Dr. Reed Richards, the man who believes so sharply in the good of humanity. I love the man to death, but he believes the world can simply figure itself out while he tinkers with atoms and looks to the cosmos – and it's a character flaw.

"My people are being rounded up for genocide right now,Richards." I say slowly, grindingly, loud enough for the other two to hear. "I'm not going to sit here and crush pizzas on your couch while Fortunov raises concentration camps."

He doesn't know what to say to that. I can see it in his eyes. I turn my attention back to the two future Avengers on the other side of the table, my long fingernails tapping on the praline box in my lap.

"I think this makes things pretty easy for you two, right? Now, I've got a few counter-offers, if you'd like to hear them."

Of the two of them, Tony acts first.

"Alright, Sauron, name your price. I'll even give you a discount." There's a well of anger buried under his charisma, now that he knows about the injustices I'm facing. I like that about him.

"I'll hand over a copy of all my notes and files for my suit to you. Well, anything between the paper napkins of its inception until today. Do whatever you want with it! Put it on the internet, sell it to the government, I don't care."

Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Wait, wait. I wanna guess." He takes a moment to think, before he claps his hands together. "You want… no, wait, you don't want Iron Man, you want to do this for yourself… hm. Probably don't want your backwater revolution to be armed like a backwater revolution. You want funding."

"I'm not gonna ask for weapons from you, Stark," I assure him, knowing about that particular hang-up, "but funding for a future relief effort, and – well, more immediately, funding and support for Dr. Richards here."

"What?!" Reed stands up, shocked. "Katarina, you can't just sell yourself for me, I – the Marvel-1 is going fine–"

"C'mon, Reed, you're getting stonewalled and you know it! The government's not returning your calls, the businesses couldn't care less if it doesn't make them a profit. Take a hint." I admonish him, flicking a praline at his forehead. He swats it away.

"Grants just take time, I'm sure it'll –"

"Done and done." The Stark CEO says, cutting us both off. "I'm already setting up a relief foundation for all the messes I make, Latveria will just be our first customer. And – you, Captain Kirk. The cosmic storm thesis, right? I read about it when I saw her plus-one. Well. Plus-four."

Reed nods dumbly, slowly sitting back down.

"I'm pretty sure we have some spare NASA stuff over at the Aviation Division. Launch pads, retrieval teams... Santa Monica, lovely and sunny around the timeframe you're expecting. Hey," Stark reaches over to pat-pat Reed on the shoulder, "I'll even take a look at the design myself. Really interested in your force-shielding prototype, there. Seems like it might have other applications."

Tony looks at me knowingly and winks. I have no clue why he did that, but I'm just happy to help Reed in any way I can before I head off to Europe. Then, I turn to Natasha.

"I'm not sure what exactly SHIELD can help with," that's a lie, I have a pretty good idea of what they can do, "but I'll join your Avengers Initiative – probably as an on-call emergency member at first, and not a full-time member – if you can keep the UN or whoever out of my business until I'm back in the States. Maybe help clear out any paperwork I'll need, too."

"Not going to ask for an army?"

I smile wryly. "I don't need one."

"Well," Natasha tilts her head, "I'll see what I can do."

I lean back, silently feeling a huge bundle of anxiety lift off my soul. Stark accounted for, SHIELD accounted for. All that's left is to go save the day.

"Oh, also!" I yelp, pulling their attention again.

I smile embarrassedly, scratching the back of my head.

"...Could one of you pay for plane tickets to Germany? I'd fly straight to Doomstadt, but I don't want to hold up the line at the airport." I shrug my pauldron-armored shoulders.

On a car ride along Madison Street, Natasha presses a button on her earpiece.

"You heard all of that, sir?"

"Loud and clear. She'll be easier to deal with than the others."

"She shows all the traits of a future Balkan warlord. Except she's about as mature as a freshman schoolgirl."

"Like I said, easier to deal with than the others," Fury reiterates, and Natasha snorts to herself. It's definitely closer to her particular wheelhouse. Eastern European geopolitics is like a pleasant breeze compared to Norse gods and green giants.

"Do you still want my assessment?" Natasha asks.

"Go on."

"Ms. Doom has an extreme case of ADHD, as well as some cyclothymia. In addition, she may possess classified SHIELD information: source unknown. Possible connections to theoretical counter-intelligence within either SHIELD or the Soviet Union."

"She might have gotten your cover name wrong."

"I'm certain she didn't. I've never interacted with her or anyone associated with the Latverian Civil War. She knew who I was."

"Shelf that under potential abilities. Continue."

"She has a mild, but complex mix of narcissism disorder and low self-esteem: she sees herself as central to the lives of others, but downplays her actual feats. Clear indicator of future martyr complex. Recruitment assessment for Avenger Initiative: positive, but with clear drawbacks. May be further coerced through connection to peers… specifically, Dr. Reed Richards and his cohorts. I'll report the details in the actual file."

"Thank you."

"What are your orders? She's given us an ultimatum." One that requires SHIELD to ignore the Homeland part of the acronym, but Natasha's well aware that they're far beyond that point.

"We've done worse sh*t for worse people." Fury says. "Follow the Clandestine Logistical Arrangement for Extranational Support protocol. The mission details and your cover file will be given to you in forty-eight hours. Do not intervene unless Doom is in mortal peril or is in danger of losing her war."

"Understood."

It's been a while since Natasha received a CLAES order. Thankfully, it was in her usual playground: the border of the Iron Curtain is familiar ground, at least. She mostly just wishes Clint wasn't so caught up between Bruce Banner and New Mexico – he'd probably get a kick out of Doom.

Well, whatever. It's business as always.

"Passport and declaration papers, please."

"Here you go."

Tanya silently eyes the heavy scar on the woman's face. Wasn't this… Katarina von Doom? The Latverian who was on the news for a bit? Looking through her American passport – a freshly issued one, judging by the date – she even has her scar on that photo as well.

Well, no need to raise a fuss. She prides herself on her German professionalism, after all.

"Are you carrying cash more than 10,000 euros?"

"Nope."

"Any medicine, food, fireworks?"

"None whatsoever."

"Hm. Are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Ah…" The brunette clears her throat. "Pleasure. I'm visiting family."

"And where will you be staying during your time here?"

"The Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin, in Mitte. For… four. Wait! Five days."

Tch. A five-star hotel. Well, that fancy robot suit had to come from somewhere, right? Tanya better not see Tony Stark waltz up to her booth next.

"Well, despite your time across the pond, your German's still quite impeccable," Tanya comments, stamping her passport, "welcome to Germany. Have a nice stay."

"I'm sure I'll love it here!" Doom grins, before skipping off.

Nice lady, without the mask on. Well, it's something to tell her boys about when she gets home.

"Next!"

Around midnight, Elias Weiss leans on the veranda of the Adlon, smoking a cigarette, thinking about life.

He looks to his left, and finds a masked machine in wizard's robes.

It waves at him. And then takes off into the night sky, like a comet in reverse.

He pauses. Takes a moment. …And then drops his cigarette and stomps it out.

"Mama was right, I should quit smoking… perhaps cold turkey would be best…"

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Chapter Text

“And you’re certain this will work?” Fortunov asks, like a moron.

Dr. Julius Denker pauses in his soldering, turning away from his masterpiece to look at the monarch invading his workplace. Running gloved fingers through his lion’s mane of hair, he tries to figure out how to explain this like Fortunov is a braindead Hapsburg child. Which he is. Relatively.

“Do you doubt my ability?” Julius accuses him.

“No, it’s just –”

“You have the guns,” Julius gestures pointedly to the multiple crates labeled with a snappy HYDRA logo, “you have the men, you have the money, you have me. For the last time, yes, she will die, and so will the rest of the gypsy rats you’d like to exterminate.”

“Look, I trust Colonel Karpov’s recommendation, I do. Please, understand. But her ilk are different. Unnatural. I’m not sure if I can even call it science.” Endless chatter from an endless fool. One woman with a parlor trick twenty years ago, and it’s all Fortunov can ever f*cking think of.

“Science! Rules! Everything! What, do you think some – lightning and illusions mean magic is real? Bah! Your Majesty, I implore you, use reason and logic. Even if Doom is using advanced technology, even if Doom has an Iron Man, she’s a third-rate impostor at best.”

Julius claps Fortunov’s shoulder with an oil-stained glove, getting close to speak to him, to relieve his needless woes.

“You’re acting like a child, hiding his eyes from a scary movie. But if you look past the mask, past the music and the lighting, it’s just some Americanized Hollywood bitch playing a fake role. Acting.” Julius smiles. “What did she even do? Clean up that sh*theel Stark’s mess, shoot down some brainless prototypes. That’s it. Open your eyes. It’s just propaganda.”

“Yes… Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Fortunov clears his throat, using a handkerchief to wipe down his forehead and try to remove the smudges now on his shoulder. “The bait is set, and the rat will bite. It’s just a matter of time. We have the upper hand.”

“Your throne’s been safe for five-hundred years, I see no reason it won’t remain safe,” Julius assures him, over his shoulder, “especially with my piece de resistance. Nanomachine technology, with each nanite able to act in tandem to replicate any energy source, any material… all backed by the latest in artificial intelligence.”

Julius caresses the thigh of his towering humanoid creation.

“It’s a brilliant machine, wouldn’t you say? Very strong-looking.”

“I – Yes. It is.” Fortunov smiles, squinting up at it. “Although the head is a bit…”

“Well, I’d planned to have a bit more time perfecting its design, but with your schedule, substance must triumph over style.” Julius shrugs. Not his problem that Fortunov wanted an emergency commission. “But rest assured, it will get the job done. Would you like to see a little demonstration?”

“Oh! Yes, please. That would be most helpful.” Fortunov nods.

“Brilliant! Now then…” Ah, Julius is getting a little excited, himself. Forgive a scientist for wanting to enjoy his creation.

Eagerly heading to his computer, Julius presses the Enter key, allowing his masterpiece to boot up. Like Gepetto watching Pinocchio come to life, Julius laughs, holding a hand out to the once-rigid machine. The machine takes Julius’s hand – and begins emulating a warm human in its palm.

Yessss. Yes! It functions perfectly!

“HELLO WORLD,” it states in a tinny, robotic voice, before turning to Julius, “HELLO CREATOR.”

“And hello to you as well, my child,” Julius grins, before gesturing to Fortunov, “why not introduce yourself to our guest here?”

A perfectly smooth square looks down at Fortunov, entirely faceless. Julius’s creation presses a hand to its left chest and bows.

“GREETINGS. I AM ANDROID DESIGNATION AW3-SM.”

Flying over the cloudy farmlands of Austria, then Hungary, I make my way to the rendezvous point on the northwest edge of Latveria. Some part of me wishes I could have stayed longer in such a nice hotel, but alas, the only thing they’ll be finding after five days is an untouched room and an online checkout receipt.

Oh, by the way, update about my flight issues! While I was recovering from the Expo, I’d gotten, like, 60% done with it – I eventually settled on a tri-point system like the Hammer Drones, but instead of having the thrust force originate from my back and feet (which is what resulted in my inability to turn), I decided to instead slap them on either side of my hips, instead, mounted on omnidirectional swivels.

The result is that I can maneuver way more smoothly, albeit at the cost of a lower top speed. Which is more than fine: I need to be able to fight in urban environments more than I need to outspeed fighter jets. I even forwarded the design change to Tony a few days before my flight to Germany: he gave some constructive feedback and ways to tweak it for optimization, but he said that it’s a good design that can also serve as a baseline for future upgrades.

At least, that’s what I think “Solid. Won’t kill you, but it can be better.” means? That’s what he texted me, anyways. I’m gonna assume he’s like the Gordon Ramsay of tech and his message was a very good thing.

Where was I? Right, flying over Europe, on my way to kill some fascists.

As for my destination, the village of Horgos is hardly a travel destination for even the most completionist tourists, but it’s connected to the main railways and stays relatively clear of Fortunov’s attention. It’s a really cute village, otherwise, with beautiful sprawling greenlands! I could definitely see myself building, like, a country cottage here. Maybe having a garden and a sheep. After living my entire reincarnated life in the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple, it’s nice to be in Latveria again – even if I’m only here for the literal worst reason.

My thoughts veer towards inviting the Four here on vacation – then to the Four in general. Reed’s still sore at me about the big reveal, or at least, he was when I left. He understands on an objective level. I’m a Latverian Romani superhero, and the dictatorship is trying to kill specifically Latverian Romanis. But I admit, I could have been more forthcoming about my past. I just never thought to bring it up and… Ugh, there’s no use regretting that now.

Spotting Horgos in the distance, I start descending, aiming to land in a nearby woodland, about thirty minutes away from the closest train station by foot. Hugging the empty farmland before weaving through trees, I finally get to my rendezvous point. Now, where… ah, there she is!

Dust and dirt kick in a cloud around my feet as I land next to a green tent in the middle of a campsite. Crossing my arms, I watch the tent, a little anxious to see that my contact comes out, and not some random outdoorsy dad.

Maria Clopoțel steps out of the tent, holding two cups of joe. She’s as beautiful as she was at the Expo, despite her fashion switch from business casual to camping gear.

“I figured you might still be jetlagged.” She smiles at me, speaking in plain Romanian. For the rest of my time in Latveria, feel free to assume this is the language of choice. Switching off the atmospheric shielding (y’know, the stuff that prevents my face from freezing off at high altitude, or stops me from being blinded by stuff like smoke), I can smell the coffee from behind my mask. Uwah… So good…

“Haha, not too much, but I’ll take it anyways!” I laugh, before summoning a runic circle and twisting my storage rune in reverse. My armor fades away, and I’m left in my own hiking gear – which is also my favorite shade of green, of course.

I accept Maria’s cup of coffee and savor it. It’s about five tablespoons of sugar and a dollop of creamer away from my usual, but I like my drink bittersweet sometimes, too.

“Hah… I almost forgot how beautiful my country is.” I sigh, looking around at the evergreen glade around me.

“If only you could return in better circ*mstances?”

“Maybe a lil’,” I toast the cup to her, “but I’m gonna make things better.”

“Ms. Doom. You have no idea how grateful we are to have your support during these grievous times.”

“Well, I’d be comin’ either way, y’know, but I’m glad to have friends to help.” I nod to the leader of the Zefiro Rights Movement, Prinz Stuhr. “Speaking of, how about you introduce me to the rest of the gang?”

I feel like I’m underdressed for such an important meeting. Here I am, in whatever clothes I could quickly grab in the shopping mall. I’d left my bags in Germany, so I’m currently in a black turtleneck, and the jeans and hiking boots from my rendezvous. Meanwhile, everyone else is in full professional outfits, since Fortuna LLC is still operating under the guise of a business.

And I’m standing at the head of the table, too. Awkward.

“Of course,” Prinz nods.

“My brother Alan,” he gestures to the grayish-blonde man sizing me up, “is my second-in-command. He’s my mouthpiece if I’m unavailable.”

“His fiancee, Mary, is our representative for our supply runners. Food, clothes, weapons, that sort.” A… well-endowed… brunette woman nods at me. “Her father heads the effort, but he couldn’t be here today.”

“On the other side, we have Zofia and Nikolai Aksenova,” a way-too-young-for-this albino girl and her Playgirl model of an older brother look to me, “their family has been helping keep up the company guise, as well as running logistics.”

“Keith Dorn is our muscle,” he points to an exceptionally tired-looking dirty blonde with long hair, “his magic is the strongest out of all of our organized Zefiro. He’s there when we need exceptional force.”

“Hopefully, I won’t be so spread thin now,” he laughs weakly, and I swear I hear his bones creak.

“And you’ve already met Maria. She’s our latest spy.”

“After all the other ones died.” Alan grunts, and Mary side-eyes him in annoyance.

“And I’m assuming that’s also why the table I’m at consists of twenty-to-thirty-year-olds, and not old veterans of the first Civil War.” I deadpan, disheartened by the eventual logic I reach.

“They will forever live on in our hearts.” Prinz says tersely. I nod.

“Right. Pleasure to meet all of you! I’m Katarina von Doom, daughter of Cynthia and Werner von Doom! I guess Maria’s told you about me, already...” I sit up straight, before waving my hand over the table and creating a minor illusion of a 3D map of Latveria, including floating informational displays. “...Now, let’s see what I’m working with. Who’s who, and where’s where?”

The table stares at the display for a moment, amazed by it. …Oh, right. Whoops. They were probably going to pull out an actual paper map. I’m too used to living in the heart of NYC and having all sorts of leftover tech at my disposal. And sitting in the middle of a magical leyline, that too.

“...Well,” Prinz shares a look with his fellow ZRM members, “As you know, Fortunov has issued his census, and based on history, he’s likely to enforce it through martial law. In addition, our people at the police stations learned that they’re starting to print warrants en masse…”

The rest doesn’t need to be said. You either report yourself to the census registry to be hunted down later, or they kick down your door and arrest you for so-called treason.

On the map, I place a glowing red sphere on every major police station in Latveria, with a giant one in Doomstadt itself. In addition, I designate the ZRM HQ with a blue dot: on the edge of Doomstadt, on the river estates.

“Are the police on board completely?” I ask, assuming the worst. Shoutouts to the NYPD.

“30% of officers have resigned to go sit at home and look the other way,” Zofia reports, and Nikolai snorts, “but they’re shoring up by sending soldiers as ‘local support’. About one or two platoons per main station in the bigger towns and cities. And both the police budget and military budget have shot up 54%.”

“What? Latveria’s economy is sh*t. Where are they getting the money from?”

“Guess.” Alan bites out, and I scowl.

“Right, okay.” I click my tongue, cringing. Remind me to never pay a single tax until I get done burning this government down. “Do we know what weapons they have?”

“They’re far beyond AKs and riot gear somehow,” Keith says sadly, “in the last week, they have new anti-material rifles that can shred my golems like they’re nothing – they use some sort of repulsor blast technology. The local brutes are still on bullets, but we’ve been forced into hiding in this city because it’s a guaranteed lost fight.”

Well. I had a gut feeling, and that gut feeling happened to come true: that’s definitely HYDRA tech. If there’s anything I can use to point Fury their direction, it’ll be that. In the future, though.

“How many ZRM cells do we have?”

“...Five. We’re the Doomstadt cell. And then there’s the ones in Victorum, Vezhskaya, Draken, and Boars’ Vale…”

We’re interrupted by a loud knocking. All the members stand up abruptly from their seats, and I dismiss the minor illusion.

“This is His Royal Majesty’s Constabulary! We have a warrant for the harboring or aiding of a fugitive. Open up!”

“Quickly, everyone, back to business,” Prinz says to everyone else hurriedly, before turning to me, “Ms. Doom –”

I don’t even listen to him. A runic circle whirls into my fingers and I slam that sh*t into my belt.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Maria had considered the possibility of Fortunov's men knocking on ZRM's door. Their cover was nearly foolproof, thankfully. They did act as an actual business, and they had contingencies for most situations, including snitches, warrants, even a mass arrest. They had alibis, they had the forged documents necessary to keep them away from death's door, at least in an emergency situation. In the case of a firefight, Fortuna LLC was on the second floor, and had a hidden exit through the mail chute.

She never considered Katarina von Doom performing a running dive down a flight of stairs, dropkicking through a door and into a constable while screaming "f*ck THE POLICE!", and rendering him dead on the spot.

Every other ZRM member stares in utter shock, before Prinz yells a sudden "Get down!", and a rain of gunshots turns their windows into fine dust. Maria dives for the floor behind an office desk, cursing to herself as she shakily pulls out her pistol and co*cks it back.

"We're surrounded," Prinz grunts, his back hugging a wall while he readies his own weapon, "someone ratted us out, or saw Doom come in –"

"Surrender now, or...! Argh! Alright, fine!"

CRK-CRK-CRK-ZZZZZZZAP!

"Photon Array!"

BZZT-BZZT-BZZT-BZZT-BZZT!

"I'm sorry, I just..." A pause, and more shots. "Stop. Shooting!"

Maria can hear the firefight, she can smell the fire and rubble, but no more bullets fly into the building. Hazarding her life, she peeks over the edge of her cover to look out the window.

Watching Doom fight makes it clear that people of her caliber are no soldier, no martial artist, no specialist.

They're forces of nature.

Maria watches Katarina von Doom high kick a man directly in the jaw, sending him flying into the fourth floor of the opposite building. She watches the supergenius – once a jolly woman cracking jokes in a pretty dress – grab a trained soldier by the leg, and use him as a bludgeon to send his comrades through concrete walls.

Maria can smell burning flesh, and spots the crumpled, twitching remains of policemen sizzling on the ground. Bullets ricochet uselessly against Katarina's magic, lobbed grenades are flung away with but a twirl of her fingers. Is this what it means, to fight alongside a god? And what will happen when the gods are no longer with them, but against them?

However, she spots an armored police vehicle approaching from behind Doom, with one DPIR (Detaşamentul Poliţiei pentru Intervenţie Rapidă) officer leaning out of the passenger seat, aiming one of the repulsor weapons that Keith reported. Thinking fast, Maria shoots at the DPIR officer multiple times – one of her shots lands, and he drops the gun.

"Fine, f*ck it," Katarina growls, before igniting her thrusters and soaring through the window of the DPIR truck, body-tackling throughthe driver and into the interior of the truck.

At this point, every ZRM member is peeking their head through the window, trying to get a glimpse of what Katarina's doing through the truck's shaded windows.

BZZZZT!The windows light up, like thunder crashing from within. In flashes, Maria sees the silhouette of Katarina facing off against six, maybe seven armed elites.

"Stupid bastards, thinking some –"

Pewpewpewpew – BZZZZT!A silhouette of Katarina reeling back a punch.

"– simple repulsor tech can do me in…!"

BZZZZZTTTT!A silhouette of Katarina choking a man in one hand.

"Huff… Huff… Now, what to do about this…?"

By the end of it, a plume of smoke rises from the DPIR truck's doors… before the bodies of the dead are flung out of the vehicle, their equipment seemingly looted off of them. Did Katarina…?

Maria's suspicions are confirmed when Katarina jumps out of the vehicle and lifts both her arms and levitates any remaining weapons – guns, shields, even batons – into the truck. Brushing her hands together like a job well done, the savior of the ZRM flies up, looks through the Fortuna LLC window and at them.

"Reinforcements are coming in roughly five minutes." Katarina growls, tossing a wildly-chattering police radio at Alan, who nearly fumbles to catch it. "Get in the car and drive it to the nearest major cell. I'll cover for your escape. Make sure you turn off the GPS on it, too."

"W-We'll be in Victorum. We'll… meet you there once you've secured your own retreat." Prinz speaks for the group, before bowing deeply to Katarina, his hand over his heart. "Thank you so much for your…!"

"Don't mention it." The most powerful sorcerer in Latveria turns away, before looking to the sky. "Y'know, I thought I'd have a harder time stomaching my first kill, but since they were textbook pseudo-Nazis, I feel nothing... Am I a monster...?"

"Not at all, Lady Doom!" The usually mild-mannered Zofia speaks up, surprising everyone. "In fact, you're…!"

Katarina raises a hand, silencing Zofia, as if listening for something. Maria focuses… then hears the blades of a helicopter.

"Okay, no time for this. Get outta here now."

"You heard her!" Prinz yells, getting into leader mode as the rest of them snap into action. "Let's pack it up and head out!"

As Maria takes her place in the back of the DPIR truck, she hazards one last look at Katarina before Nikolai shuts the door.

The armored woman looks back at them as Prinz drives off, before flinging a bolt of lightning and shooting down the helicopter.

KSH-KSH-BZZZZZZT!

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Natasha is a creature of darkness. She's not being poetic, or metaphorical – it's just what it is. She was raised and molded for espionage, she spent more of her waking life in a disguise than she did without one. She can only be herself either in her dreams, or when all pretenses are gone, and she's delivering the killing blow. There's very little in between. There's a reason she is a Black Widow: it is her bite, unseen and undetected, that determines whether men live or die, and whether nations fall or rise.

Katarina von Doom is the exact opposite, but with the same result. And when Natasha thinks about it, really thinksabout it, that is terrifying.

If Stark is sound – bombastic and echoing, something that can be a vicious jeer or a message of peace at the change of a tone – then Doom is light.She shows nothing but herself, nothing but the truth. Blinding, uncaring, unyielding. Forever open to the world, just standing out in the open and shouting out her intentions, because what will they do? Close their eyes and ignore her, try to block her out?

Well. That's what Fortunov's trying right now, apparently.

"I need Castle Sabbat fortified yesterday!" A general roars, amidst the bustle of rushing military forces. "I don't care if it takes half the army to do it, once they've returned from the borders, secure a perimeter around the inner city's circle, and hop to it!"

"Yes, sir!"

"She's strong. Stronger than we thought." Fortunov trembles, clenching onto a lapel of his dress uniform. "I should have cleaned out those f*cking gypsies the moment I could, I should have…"

"Worry not. It's all going according to plan. Now that it's gathered sufficient combat data, my Android can be deployed in ten minutes, Your Majesty." Julius Denker assures him.

It's only been a day since she infiltrated Castle Sabbat under the guise of a returning Logistics Division officer, and thanks to Doom's antics, Natasha already has enough information to start a war. Between the old caches of HYDRA weaponry that Fortunov had vaulted and all the 'familiar' faces she's recognizing as part of the internal staff, it's enough for SHIELD to run an audit on Latveria, so to speak.

Danker's participation is the biggest point of interest for her superiors, but Natasha's not surprised by his appearance. As one of Europe's top minds in new-age weapon engineering, it's likely that Fortunov is paying good money to have him as a "specialist" for the apparent honey-trap that Doom fell into.

Natasha wassurprised that Fortunov's trap worked – she'd thought that someone with Doom's intelligence and possible contacts would recognize bait. It's predictable, too. If a revolutionary's daughter publicly displays something as precious as an Iron Man armor, then just spur another revolution, and she'll come running back.

But maybe Doom didknow that. And instead of being caught unaware with a gun to her head, the airheaded super genius decided to raze Doomstadt's forces to the ground in a focused blitzkrieg.

It's certainly proven to be effective, albeit the exact opposite of Natasha's modus operandi. For one, the Logistics Division is banging their head against the wall, trying to figure out how to counter a one-woman army in urban warfare. So far, their answer has been to deploy infantry battalions in waves to try and tire Doom out. Attempting to win through numbers didn't work out after the first couple of tries.

Natasha will never forget watching Doom chuck a helicopter at a platoon of trained men.

Air support like helicopters don't work on account of Doom having both flight and anti-air capabilities: see above. In addition, most of the tanks and artillery are stationed near the borders. Castle Sabbat has ordered a large portion of them to return to Doomstadt, but Natasha's seen enough Iron Man footage to know they'll be utterly useless.

If you ask Natasha on how to counter Doom, she'd say to focus less on the armor and more on the pilot. Catch her asleep. Poison her food or water supply. In addition, going for her heart might also work: for one, taking Dr. Richards or ZRM leaders hostage. As more of a gamble, targeting and massacring individual Zefiro communities could drive Doom into either self-exhaustion or surrender… or it could drive Doom to build a nuke in the middle of Doomstadt.

But that's just how Natasha would do it. Fortunov's going for an entirely different approach. She'll just keep her head low and her back to a wall while she lets him send his block-headed robot to duke it out.

While the Android climbs into a transport helicopter along with more repulsor-armed soldiers, Natasha casually makes her way to the weapons depot to get a better look at those HYDRA caches.

Boys and their toys.

Romans 12:20. 'If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.'

Raphael is certain that Saint Paul didn't mean that so literally.

"So, Raphael. What made ya join the army? Were ya conscripted or something?"

Katarina von Doom's accent is painfully rural. He supposes it fits the stereotype of Zefiroin his head, or, ahem, at least what propaganda he's heard. Excuse him if he's rapidly correcting himself in his thoughts, he's scared sh*tlessand eating lunch with the most lethal woman in Europe.

"I… joined out of necessity." He confesses, uncertain if Doom can ascertain the truth or lies with a single look. They have those in America, right? Lie detectors? "My mother is a single woman and a janitor. We grew up poor. After she got in an… accident, I dropped out of high school for the sign-on bonus and stipend."

"Oooh, yeah. Yeah, I feel that. I grew up with nothing, as well. Fortunov took my parents, and I spent a lot of time on the streets…" She trails off, biting into her chocolate cornetto.

God, what is he meant to say to that? Here he is, sworn to the goddamned throne and in full uniform, and Latveria's Number One Most Wanted is sitting across from him, reminiscing on her motive for killing everyone and everything in sight.

Raphael sits there, his hands on his lap, back against the chair like a schoolboy in the principal's office. He swallows a little, to aid his dry throat.

"Eh? You're not eating your lunch, Raphael." She tuts disapprovingly. "You can't fight on an empty stomach, y'know."

Well. He has direction now. Licking his lips, he picks up a piece of bread and breaks it. He bites into it. It's warm and soft and savory. It feels like ash in his mouth.

Doom wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her armor and gets started on her second cornetto.

"I was just curious, I guess. I'm mostly hoping the army isn't buying into the… racial cleansing crap. I'd thought we'd learned our lesson after the Fuhrer, but I suppose evil lives everywhere." Doom sighs, as if impatient with the world's sin. Like she's itching to wash it all away with her own hands.

If there was a Katarina von Doom when he was young, would his life be better? Would his mother still be in a wheelchair, or would she have been saved by hands of thunder and an iron mask?

"It does. I don't think it will ever go away." He answers honestly, fiddling with his bread. Doom scowls and makes an 'eat!' gesture again, before he hastily shoves another piece into his mouth.

"Yeah. But, y'know, I don't think everyone'sevil. I'm sure there's more people like you, Raphael. Even the ones shooting at me."

Something snaps in Raphael's mind, and he swallows. What the hell is she talking about? What is he even doing?! She's the enemy! Her mask is off, and her neck is right there for him to slit! His eyes flicker to the bread, then to her, then to his knife, then to her.

"If that's the case," he growls, slamming a palm on the table, "why kill so many? Why do any of this?! Who are you to say any of that?!"

"Raphael…"

"You sit here and pretend to know my pain and promise to save me, like all the other useless politicians, but you're just some farmer's daughter who f*cked off to America! You don't know sh*t!" Raphael accuses, and roars, and rages –

And then realizes exactly who he's raging at. Raphael feels tears build in his eyes.

Forgive him for all of his sins, Lord.

"...I-I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me, I…!"

Katarina von Doom gets up from her seat and Raphael awaits the pain of death. His life flashes before his eyes, miserable though it's been, as he feels cold steel engulf his flesh, squeeze his bones...

But instead, he's held in a warm hug.

"I'm sorry…" He sobs into her steel shoulder, a shuddering mess of fear and shock and a little bit of lunacy.

"Shh. It's okay. I'm not gonna kill you or anything, don't worry. Let it out." And so he does, because what else is he to do? Somehow, through the thrumming power of her superhuman armor, Raphael hears her heartbeat. It's soothing, somehow.

She pulls away from him, and he holds himself back from crying any more.

"I'm no heroine. If anything, I'm the hero's rival – I'm a villain, in the eyes of a lot of people." She laughs, like an inside joke. "I can't save everyone. I can't save you from all of the suffering."

He looks at Doom, stunned. After all that, he expected her to say she was here to fix Latveria, to fix all the problems and burdens of the world. Like some sort of martyr.

"But I can be on your side. I can try to listen. To cheer people up. To do my best for everyone around me. I think that's all anyone can do, even if it's…" She looks behind her, past the broken window of the bakery – to the death, to the fire. "...even if it's not always so cut-and-dry."

She shrugs with a smile, and Raphael is no longer speaking with a machine, or a killer. He's talking to a scarred woman who breaks bread with her enemy, who asks about a man's life, and worries for his appetite, and lets him cry into her shoulder, all after he shoots at her in an active warzone.

"And what about you?" He can only ask, still in disbelief. "What'll happen when you're not enough? What if someone targets you or the people you love, or beats you?"

Katarina von Doom grins a sunny grin, a bit of chocolate on her cheek.

"Beats me? Bah!" She giggles, crossing her arms over her chest as her cloak billows behind her.

"No one defeats Doom!"

…

Raphael is going to defect. He's made the decision in his heart. He's going to find some member of the ZRM and raise his hands in surrender and willfully fire upon his fellow servicemen, all because the woman in front of him is something from beyond his wildest dreams – and his wildest hopes.

Then, there's the sound of a helicopter overhead, and Doom sighs.

"Well, Raphael, you'd best be on your way out of here," She says to him, before turning to step over the broken window frame, "it'd probably be best to lay low or desert the military entirely, but I won't make that decision for you."

Dumbly, he nods, and picks up his guns from the ground, hastily shoving his pistol in its holster and slinging his AK-47 over his shoulder.

He's not sure what to say. So he just runs.

She waves him off as he sprints across shattered glass and cobblestone streets.

Man. I hope I see him again someday.

"Now then, let's see if you got the memo…"

Firing up another bolt of electricity, I unleash it on the helicopter, shooting it down and causing it to crash into the nearby park.

…But not before someone or something jumps out of it without a parachute or a rappelling rope. That someone-or-something then lands in front of me, planting two shiny metal feet firmly throughthe road.

THWOMP.

It is a ten-foot-tall naked metal android manwith a square for a head. I have no cluewhat this thing is.

"...Oh. You got the memo."

"MEMO?"

"Er, nevermind. See, I was just talking to myself beforehand, and I was saying –"

Without segue, I slammagic into my thrusters at full throttle, hastily putting my mask back on. Buildings and windows zoom past me like I'm going on the freeway.

I look behind me. This thing is keeping up with me by sprinting.No. Actually, scratch that. It's gainingon me.

"Haha," I laugh nervously. "I'm in danger!"

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Seeing how I’m not going to outspeed the scary machine jumpscare monster, I immediately begin flying upwards. Lightning crackles in my hands before I send alternating magic blasts at the creature, even as it leaps from the road to a rooftop and then it’s leaping at me, oh my god what the hell –

Absolutely not screaming like a little scared baby, I fly away from it, blasting it in its Minecraft-block face while doing my best to make space. My attack is able to slow its pounce, but only barely: the android is able to grab onto my arm before I cast my force field and send it flying back to the ground.

The robot collapses through an abandoned building, smoke wafting off of its body.

Now, this would be where any other superhero would fly in, check that it’s dead, confirm the kill. And then a giant metal hand would grab at their leg from under the rubble, and the fight would be on again. That’s what would happen in a movie. It’d make for a really cool action scene, right?

Haha! Nope! I’m not here anymore! Bye! I turn tail and fly off – I need time to strategize, now that I know they have their own technology to counter me, or at least force me into a prolonged mano-a-mano fight.

However, I smell ozone, and feel a tingle in the back of my head. Without any particular reason, I hit the brakes and turn backwards.

KSH-KSH-KSH –

An orb of lightning is rapidly approaching my face. That’s a Sphere Flame. As in, one of Doctor Doom’s moves from the fighting games.

Wait, I need to stop thinking! Block!

BZZZZZZT!

Putting up a magic shield at the last second, I just barely manage to deflect the explosion of lightning. Wait, that’s my own anti-air attack! Was that…?

I double down on the force field, weaving multiple layers of Protego (or whatever the spell is called in this universe) as thunderbolt after thunderbolt slams into my defenses. Hitting a scrying spell, I immediately try to look for the source of the lightning.

The robot is performing a chandelle turn around me, and – it has on a rough facsimile of my armor. My gauntlets, my boots, my thrusters… Even its body shape has taken on something more feminine, but it’s still a giant hulking mass of liquid metal.

The magical battery is warping and writhing in its chest, like it doesn’t know how to make that – its exposed “heart” is constantly twisting itself between the shapes of an Arc Reactor, a dyson sphere, and the Tesseract.

Although…

“Eh? It can’t copy the mask…?” I say under my breath, vocalizing my thoughts.

“ANDROID NEEDS NO MASK.” It gloats, its voice now a synthetic copy of my own, but more… unhinged? No, that’s not it: it’s flanderized. “ANDROID IS SUPERIOR TO ALL. MUAHAHAHAHAHA.”

It – Android, I guess is its name – reels its arms back and pumps out its chest. My eyes widen and I immediately boost myself downwards to avoid the giant chest laser now tearing apart the sky. sh*t, that’s Iron Avenger, Tony’s Level 3 Hyper Combo from the games. It can do that?! …Can I do that? I don’t exactly have a chest battery, so – ugh, no, stop, this is not the time to let my thoughts wander. Focus, Kat, focus!

Zooming through the streets now, I weave left and right, dodging not only abandoned cars or broken buildings, but also endless beams of lightning slicing on either side of me.

“YOU SHALL MEET YOUR DOOM.”

“But I am Doom!”

So this is what it’s like to fight me… Well, admittedly, a worse version of me. Judging by how Android’s struggling with my battery, it’s mimicking other known technology, since it can’t use magic. On a practical level, it also makes sense: the way it’s slicing through material is more like one of Tony’s high-power repulsors, rather than my Bolts of Balthakk.

But it’s still a terrifying prospect. If I decide to throw down with Android, right here and right now, I’d give myself a 70% chance of survival, and a 5% chance of getting through it unscathed. They’re winning odds, technically, but I’m not the type of girl to gamble my life like that. I need a stronger strategy than playing Rock’em Sock’em with this robot.

Trying to escape and bide my time, I take a sharp left turn into an alleyway, trying to see if I can lose it in the urban jungle. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work: I narrowly U-turn and avoid getting smited from above. Then I head down another alley, and the process is repeated.

…Wait.

Why isn’t Android closing in for melee?

Judging by what I saw at the start of the fight, before it touched me and copied my armor, I’m thoroughly outclassed on a physical level. My strength isn’t on the same level as Victor, who can go toe-to-toe with giants like the Thing and Hulk. If Android descends on me and pursues me by foot, it’ll force me out of the alley – and it can fly after me and crush me in midair, instead. But it’s not.

I decide to test a hypothesis. Flying into the shattered window of a deserted office building, about three floors up, I zip through the office to find the emergency stairwell. Once I find it, I shut the door, descend down a flight, and crouch on the stairs between the second and first floors.

“STOP RUNNING. STUPID LITTLE HUMAN.”

BZZZZZZT!

I wince as the entire third floor is sliced off, the smell of rapidly-burnt building filling my nose. There’s a crash as the ceiling collapses onto the second floor, but the structure holds up. I flinch backwards as multiple repulsor bolts slice through the center of the roof, through the rubble.

My theory holds water. It’s not proven 100% correct , but it’s still intact. That is to say: when the Android uses its mimicry nanotechnology (which is what I’m gonna assume the liquid metal is), it also has to copy the battle tactics of its target, however roughly it can approximate it. And right now, it’s copying me.

Which means it’s going to be relying heavily on its artillery abilities and less on its close quarters combat. After all, I just spent the last two hours conserving my energy by blasting helicopters and tossing projectiles, rather than running around and throwing fists. If it copied, say, Captain America or Thor, it’d be an entirely different story. The copycat robot who does what you do… It’s straight out of an old-school comic book.

Marvelous.

“YOU HAVE NO HOPE.”

BZZZZZZT!

Half of the building is sent to building heaven. Thankfully, not the half that I’m in. In the meantime, I’m calculating my strategic plays. I could try outpacing it, rather than outrunning it, and then make my way to Victorum that way… but that assumes it can’t just make more batteries out of itself. My magical supply is about two-thirds empty, as-is. Again, fighting it is an option, but I’d much rather avoid a pyrrhic victory behind enemy lines. Kill the controller? …No, it’s acting like it has independent thought.

Pause for a second, I think I’m onto something..

It’s acting like it has independent thought? That’s not quite right. There’s something off about what I said…

“NOW, YOU FACE ANDROID.”

(“You have no hope! Now, you face Doom!”)

Oh my god, it’s not thinking independently, it’s thinking like me!

BZZZZZZT!

I put the pedal to the metal on my thrusters and haul ass out of the building as the rest of it is turned to ash. The chase is on again, and I laugh, a little panicked, as I dodge death lasers and head back to the sky. It’s thinking like me! Well, not specifically me right now: it’s roleplaying as me from whatever knowledge it has!

Which means that its combat data is mostly from my continued stand here in Doomstadt, but its dialogue is based on Stark Expo. While fighting here, I haven’t spoken a lot outside of attempts to follow the Geneva Conventions – mostly because of the depressing amount of death I’ve been forced to deal with. I’ll… tackle that moral quandary later. For now, I know that Android’s mannerisms and, probably, some of its approach is mostly based on my Expo showing: and at that time, I was positively chatty, even at-ease. Hammer Drones were much more fun to break than… than, uh, people.

Head in the game, Kat. Does that mean Android has a personality? Can I assimilate myself into it, if I find the running code? Or is that just another form of mimicry?

I said head in the game! Focus, focus! Need to figure out a way to cripple Fortunov’s ability to move, while also getting away from Android…

One immediate idea comes to mind, and it’s a devilish one at that. Since I’m being constantly targeted by a death robot, it’s the best idea I have. Let it be known that Doom is not above wielding Occam’s Razor.

With that in mind, I fly straight towards Castle Sabbat.

“Sir! Doom is approaching HQ!”

“Good, good.” Julius smirks, hard at work at his computer, watching all the combat data register into Android AW3-SM’s memory banks. “She’s getting desperate, like every other dissenter in history.”

Apparently, his explanation doesn’t help Fortunov’s nerves, as the man is still wiping sweat off his brow. The old King paces around the width of Castle Sabbat’s throne room – the prime position for Julius’s trap.

“We need to head to safety. I’ll be in the bunkers, while your Android –”

“Nonsense!” Julius laughs. “Look, you need to keep yourself visible to her optical technology – it’s an unfortunate necessity, but it must be done. Rest assured, your Majesty, that all is going according to plan.”

Oh, yes, he knows about her ability to see through walls. It can be explained in so many multitudes of ways – thermal vision, X-ray, perhaps even sonar – but Julius has planned so thoroughly for every one of Doom’s tricks, that he can even use some of them against her. So long as his bait is willing to stay in her projected visible range, of course.

“I don’t like it. I need proof.” Fortunov cowers, but Julius keeps his eyes on his radar. Ah, here comes the guest of honor.

“Well, let me present my proof right now!” Julius gestures grandly, as artillery punches through the air, rockets soaring, guns firing.

And so the rat is caught by the cat! As predicted, Android pinned Doom into a situation where she’d want to rush to Castle Sabbat and cut off the head of operations. With Fortunov and his own head, perhaps his Android would shut down, like some brainless toy devoid of a hive mind – perhaps the army would shut down like brainless toys, and she’d frolic in the fields of Latveria.

As if. His Android is designed to kill whatever target Julius desires, to find purpose in killing that target. It won’t stop unless he says so, down to the last nanomachine in its composite body. It won’t stop even if Fortunov dies, it won’t stop even if Julius dies. If Doom flew in here at this moment and killed both of them in a flash… Well, she’d be surrounded by artillery and killed in this very throne room by his Android, and that would be checkmate.

And the army? Well, they’re doing their job, aren’t they? Shell after shell, bullet after bullet, all focused on the flying green eyesore hovering around the castle… Although, Julius’s smile falters a bit as an explosion rocks the building. Doom’s hugging the walls of Castle Sabbat, and one of the anti-air rockets blew a hole through one of many ancient walls.

“My castle!” Fortunov worries uselessly, before turning to his lackey. “General, order them to hold fire on our bloody property!”

“Yes, sir!”

Subsequently, the army stops firing. In the meantime, Doom keeps weaving through courtyards and towers, with Android hot on her tail. The castle shudders again and again every time the Android misses Doom – and Doom is also inflicting her own damage on the castle as well. Julius can feel his frustration rising.

“Quick, send men – I need to make sure the integrity of Castle Sabbat is intact. We can’t let her destroy the jewel of Latveria!” More prattle from a senile simpleton, clinging onto the unnecessary.

What’s the point of not firing? What, to salvage some crusty wallpaper, or some ugly, cracked walls made of sh*t and dirt? Julius is a man of the future, not the past: why bother saving this outdated fossil of a structure? Just rebuild it better, stronger! With steel and glass!

“Your Majesty, I’m certain that Doom’s destruction is worth some minor, and very temporary aesthetic flaws…” Julius tries to reason with his commissioner, but the old fool refuses.

“Every last brick here is a testament to my family’s legacy. I will not lose that dignity and honor to a… to a terrorist!”

…Well. Julius did offer his free weapon ‘upgrades’ for a reason.

Storming back to his controls, Julius toggles on the ‘OVERRIDE’ option. Every manned weapon within the blockade area, from tanks to artillery pieces, is now under his control. Keeping his eyes on the radar, he aims all of them at Doom’s current position… and fires.

Julius is knocked onto the ground, ears ringing and head spinning, as glass shatters all around him in a fiery explosion. The throne room roof above himself and Fortunov crumbles like brittle bread, and it’s by God’s will alone that neither of them are crushed under the falling rubble.

Coughing and wrenching himself back onto his feet, Julius slumps his body over the desk with his still-intact computer controller. Fortunov’s still conscious, as well – albeit, the old man is currently pushing off the corpse of a general. Not everyone is so lucky to dodge falling debris, apparently.

On a cracked screen, he spots the aerial drone view of Castle Sabbat. It looks like a nuke went off, with how the dust is rising in a cloud above the stronghold. The ash and smoke threaten to choke everything with how thick and unseeable everything’s become. Surely, firepower of that magnitude, focused in one coordinate point would be enough to kill even an Iron Man, would it not…?

Fwmm… Plonk, plink.

Something shiny and metallic drops from the broken ceiling. Doom’s singed mask lays harmlessly atop all the rubble. Julius’s Android lands next to him, victorious.

“Heh… heh… What did I say, your Majesty?” Julius grins maniacally, trying to ignore the strong taste of iron all over his mouth. “All according to plan.”

Having used almost all of my magic to super-shield myself from the explosion, I stumble into an alley and unsummon my armor – well, everything but my mask, which I’ll need them to keep for now.The half-broken ruins of Castle Sabbat are still in flames behind me.

“Buncha clowns,” I growl, before looking for the nearest vehicle to hotwire. Time to rendezvous at Victorum.

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Five hours ago, Katarina von Doom, twenty-four years old, unemployed, and recently expelled from an American college, single-handedly stormed the capital of the Kingdom of Latveria.

As the city stronghold of the Latverian dictator, King Vladimir Fortunov I, Doomstadt housed about 20% of all 30,000 of its armed personnel, as well as roughly 5,000 police officers. Fortunov also increased military and police budget exponentially, and spent much of the throne’s treasury modernizing and post-modernizing the arsenal of his elite forces – including hitherto unseen technology, such as the seeming android designed to counter nouveau ‘power armor’ tactics. If Fortunov so wished, he could likely establish a stranglehold over the Balkans for years before any foreign military intervention occurred.

Five hours ago, Katarina von Doom was confirmed to have neutralized 8.6% of the Latverian military force and 10% of the Doomstadt Police Force.

To visualize this, in a room of ten of Fortunov’s finest, one of them is dead by her hands. However, as this does not count unconfirmed kills, it is likely that in that same room, another one is also dead, and the other eight simply don’t know it yet.

The signature cobblestone streets of the capital were razed and torn up, and then the dirt beneath the stone was razed and torn up. Body count and property damage is still being tallied. The fighting only ended after Castle Sabbat, Fortunov’s “impenetrable” strategic stronghold and military center, exploded into a half-decimated smoldering ruin.

In the wake of the destruction, the Royal Office of Latveria has issued an emergency decree, declaring martial law and labeling all members, associates, and allies of the Zefiro Rights Movement as domestic terrorists. Any such persons are subject to immediate detainment and questioning, until martial law is lifted.

In addition, the emergency decree has declared that the city of Doomstadt is, from now on, to be known as ‘Hassenstadt’. This is in honor of General Hassen, who died nobly protecting Fortunov from the terrorist assault on Castle Sabbat. Any mention of the previous name will result in a fine and, if this offense is repeated, immediate detainment.

Five hours after the greatest battle in recent Latverian military history, Katarina von Doom shows up at Maria Clopoțel’s doorstep with mildly singed hair, a stolen Lada Riva, and a bag’s worth of pelmeni.

“Where’s the rest of us?” Katarina asks seriously, before she holds up the bag. “I brought enough for all of us, I better not have to eat it all.”

“Wha…” Maria sputters, patting herself down wildly for her phone. “How are you alive? Why do you have food?”

“Because I’m Doom, and because I’m Katarina von Doom.” The brunette shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Come on, let me in already! It’s cold out, the air conditioning doesn’t work in that dinky little thing, and I’m hungry.”

“Y-Yes, of course…!” Maria nods, stepping aside to let Katarina into the house. Katarina takes off her shoes politely, while Maria finally finds her burner phone and texts Prinz with their emergency meeting code.

“Maria, is everything okay? Did the army come…?” Maria’s mother whispers in rromani ćhib, trying her best at her age to sneak down the wooden flight of stairs, an old Luger held in her hand with horrendous firearm safety. Then, she spots Katarina, and her eyes nearly bulge out of her head.

“Oh, my god! The saint is alive – Maria, she’s here!” Ms. Clopoțel gasps, dropping her gun.

“Please, madam, there’s no need to fret.” Katarina raises a calming hand, smiling. Her Romani is a far cry from her Romanian: whereas Katarina comes off as rural in the national language, she speaks rromanes in a rather posh way. “Might you heat up my food for me, while I speak with Maria? It’s a long drive from Doomstadt.”

“I, oh, of course, of course! I’ll put on tea and – ah, maybe meat and cabbage…”

While Maria’s mother takes the bag off Katarina’s hands and hops into the kitchen, Katarina closes and locks the door behind her, raising an eyebrow.

“Saint?”

“It’s a… recent development.” Maria clears her throat, snapping back into business mode. “I’ll fill you in once everyone’s here.”

Within thirty minutes, everyone’s at Maria’s house, and we’re all sitting in the living room – some on the couch, some of us with chairs pulled from the dining room, some leaning against the mantelpiece.

Ms. Clopoțel made shak te mas in bulk, and I helped myself to a dish’s worth, and then seconds while we discussed strategy and how to approach the oncoming conflict. The food tastes like heaven once we get to eating, especially since my most recent meal was three chocolate pastries in the middle of a warzone.

“...With Katarina’s primary assault, the whole world will have its eyes on us.” Prinz says, after his own summary of the situation to get everyone up to speed. Somewhere in the middle there, I stopped him from constantly referring to me as ‘Ms. Doom’. Like, c’mon, I’m the same age as everyone here.

“All the better for us. If the journalists are out and about, Fortunov will either delay his plans or suffer terrible optics.” Zofia nods fervently, while Nikolai takes notes. “I vote that we encourage any broadcasts. Let the world know of Fortunov’s insanity!”

“We’ll need to be careful. If we try to commandeer, say, a radio station, then it’ll pin a target on our backs.” Keith notes.

“Pssh. Let me handle that. I can get leaks going on the internet, rev up overseas news stations, and set up a discreet station. All within an hour!” I assure them, confident in my tech wizardry and media savviness. I am Doom, after all. That sort of stuff’s plebeian compared to what I do on a daily basis.

“Alright, foreign policy is settled for now.” Prinz nods. “What about actual action? Alan, Mary?”

“From all the calls and messages we received during the car ride, morale’s at an all-time high. Every ZRM cell is itching for a fight… One already started without us.” Alan says casually, even though Prinz raises an eyebrow, scrutinizing him.

“Which one? We can’t just afford to have our people jump the gun. I’ll need to contact them immediately.”

“Calm down, brother mine. It’s fine.” Alan crosses his arms. “It’s the Draken cell, and it wasn’t so much a ‘fight’ as it was a ‘takeover’. Apparently, enough people defected there to render the royalists ineffective unless reinforcements come.”

“Really? The majority of the local militia defected?” I cut in. That’s insane: that’d require far more than a majority of armed combatants to simply switch to ZRM approval.

“Draken’s out in the hicks, and the majority of the population are deeply religious. There’s only a tiny number of soldiers stationed there, most of them from the area. The math checks out.” Alan informs me, and now, things start to make sense. Although, it does bring up another point.

“Is… this about the whole Saint thing?” I venture, prodding the subject with a stick. The idea of it makes me deeply uncomfortable. “Why are people calling me that?”

“Katarina, your appearance has been nothing short of a miracle for us,” Mary volunteers, leaning forward with a little too much enthusiasm, “and the way you decimated the army! You’d think that God Himself sent you down to deliver divine retribution.”

“Look, I…” I begin, barely audible, before getting cut off.

“Mary’s right. We estimate that you made short work of… about 10 to 15% of the Latverian armed forces.” Nikolai says matter-of-factly. The number makes my heart sink, and I immediately think of Raphael. “It’s nothing less than impossible…”

“10 to 15%…? That many…?”

“Not to mention, you came back to life!” Alan cheers, like my hands aren’t covered in blood, like the room isn’t closing in on me. “Once you make any necessary repairs, you can knock out another chunk of the army, until nobody’s left!”

“Stop, wait, please…”

“Indeed. Although we could make use of the element of surprise, the more time we spend hiding, the more time Fortunov has to recover, and then retaliate against the civilian population. We need you to work your magic again as soon as possible.” Prinz smiles serenely at me, and that’s the last of it that I can take.

“Would you jingoist simpletons shut up for one blasted second!”

The room goes silent after I bark at them in Romani, lightning crackling on my clenched fists. My teeth are chattering. My heart is pounding. My eyes are watering.

I can’t stop seeing Raphael’s face – how scared he was, how he pointed that knife at me. Or the dead body at my feet: the fever high of starting a fight, I had even cracked a f*cking N.W.A. joke, and there was a dead man at my feet and my boot was through his ribs. I couldn’t even apologize. I didn’t even know his name.

“I… there has to be a way to avoid more bloodshed.” I try to compose myself in that moment, I try to be Victor, I try to be Doom. I can’t. I can’t. “I killed so many people. I lost count. I stopped feeling. I’m a monster, not a saint, I… Oh my god, I don’t even know if Raphael’s alive.”

“Raphael…?” Maria whispers, but it’s like my ears are ringing.

“A-As Supreme Leader, or Doctor, or – I don’t even know what my rank is here, I don’t care,” I stammer, trying to find the words, “I order all of you to find a better way, with what time we have. There must be a better way than killing, then sleeping, then killing some more. Some of these are my people… our people! The Latverian people!”

“Ms. Doom, I’m sorry to say, but war…” Prinz starts, but I’m not f*cking having it anymore.

“This is Doom’s war, and Doom shall wage war as she sees fit!” I snarl at him, my magic flaring out of sheer emotion, murderous rage bubbling in the blackened pits of my heart.

Out of every sense – sight, touch, sound – it is scent that pulls me back to reality. My armor smells like Pop Tarts, and the weird lavender Febreze that Reed uses, and pizza rolls, and the couch I love to nap on. It smells like the last vestiges of my mother’s perfume, and the polish I use in my lab, and the nasty-ass drink that Ben spilled on it once.

It smells like home. And it is on me, without me realizing it, sans the mask.

“I… I’m sorry for that,” I swallow roughly, holding back tears, “but my order… stands. Don’t call me until you’ve found a better way to do this – with minimal casualties. I won’t let my people suffer, of course, but I refuse to mow people down like I’m some cheap mobster.”

I scowl.

“Understand?”

A silence, with some firm agreements.

I scowl harder.

“I said, is that understood?!”

A uniform ‘yes ma’am’ pierces the silence of the house.

I nod.

“I’ll be spending the night scouting the surrounding area and finding a better base of operations.” I say to them. My cape billows behind me as I turn to leave. “Please, remember to get rest.”

I walk out the door, close it gently behind me, and fly off, trying to find anywhere I can get away and clear my thoughts.

Reed calculated with 98% confidence that Katarina didn’t die in that explosion.

He’s reviewed the footage about a few hundred times now. With the maximum strength of her energy field phenomenon, the amount of energy expenditure observed during the hours of fighting, and the artillery weapons that he observed through the several different news feeds covering the so-called ‘Battle of One Woman’, Katarina had more than enough stored energy to survive the amount of ammunition unloaded upon her.

His immediate contacts all agree. His friends have gone along with his calculations, mostly on a faith basis. Mr. Stark also called in to double-check, having done his own math. Reed was surprised to see that Stark calculated a similar number with less data. Without doubt, his tech mogul patron earned that Iron Man suit for a reason.

But still, Reed can’t help but worry. War is a terrible, terrible thing. The amount of death and destruction in Doomstadt sickens him to his core, and it sickens him that Kat – his best friend and peer, Kat, who tries to pet every puppy and buys flowers on a whim – had to rush to Latveria and defend her people from horrific loss, through blood and steel.

He’s so far past judging Katarina for her staunch and speedy response, it’s not even funny. His initial response was immature, to say the least. Ben gave him a stern talking to, and Reed still feels a bit of shame when he remembers the points he brought up, trying to counter-argue with his friend at the time. For God’s sake, Ben’s Jewish.

He just wishes he could tell her now. Here he is, on a lovely sunny afternoon in Santa Monica, cooped up in a dark and stale workshop. He’s working on his pride and joy, the Marvel-1, so he should be in complete focus… but he can’t help but look outside, look at the sun, and think of Kat.

‘It’s too nice out to be stuck in here,’ she would say. ‘Go take a break, chat up your girlfriend!’, she’d wink, as if she was being slick. Instead, she’s somewhere deep in the Balkans, trying to walk off a few hundred TNT equivalents in gigajoules.

Reed’s phone rings. Rapp Snitch Knishes by MF LUTHOR plays: Katarina’s favorite song, and the song she set for her personal ringtone on his phone.

Reed desperately wishes he could reach across the room without moving his feet. Instead, he drops everything he’s holding and nearly sprints to his phone on the other side of the lab.

“Kat!” He yelps as he answers the phone. “Sorry, it’s about midnight there. I saw the news! Your first advance was a strategic success. Are you okay?”

“Ruh-Reed…”

Reed pauses as he tries to reconcile the sniffling and sobbing he’s hearing with his mental image of Katarina von Doom.

She’s crying. He’s never heard her cry before. Whine, moan, sob melodramatically, pout, make ‘boo-hoo’ noises, but never actually cry. Not even directly after the accident. He’s not sure what to do here. As such, he does what he can.

“Katarina, it’s okay. Let it all out. You don’t have to be strong all the time.” He assures her, saying words that, once upon a time, he thought of saying to the old Doom.

Like that, the waterworks start. Katarina is an emotional woman, bright and dynamic like a solar prominence. To take a life, let alone so many lives, is a price he wouldn’t ask of anyone. Reed presses his forehead to his phone.

Her own tears become muffled and muted, like she’s hugging her phone: she likely is, knowing her. Katarina von Doom is no monster, no killer behind a steel mask. Her heart will always be there. Call it a cold comfort, but after all the news, Reed’s relieved to observe that fact once more.

After enough time passes, Katarina sniffles, and clears her throat.

“Th-Thanks. I… I’m sorry about not telling you about Latveria sooner. I knew it might be a possibility, but I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I understand that it was a sensitive subject, and you were going to bring it up the moment it became an issue.” Reed assures her, taking a seat on a lab chair. “I apologize for my lack of understanding. I so often think that all the world’s problems can be solved with enough science and theory… perhaps one day, but not today. Forgive me for being naive.”

“It’s fine. That’s your charm point, y’know.” She laughs wetly, and he brings himself to smile. There’s the Kat he knows. “I… wanted advice. I’m not in over my head – I’m pretty sure I can win this war if worst comes to worst. But the means…”

“The methodology should not trump the purpose, unless absolutely necessary.” Reed agrees, before slowly pacing in thought. “For the record, I do believe violence is unfortunately mandatory in this circ*mstance. The power armor is a weapon – an efficient one at that, which saves countless lives of your comrades by shouldering combat on one person, but still a weapon. I don’t think there’s any way around that.”

“Yeah, I know, I know… I just…” She groans, her better mood overtaking her teary sadness, slowly but surely. “God, it’s so hard to come up with a way to do this better. To take less lives. …I’m running back to America the moment they’re stable here. I’m not cut out for decision-making like this!”

“Good men and women never are, Kat. I might not be a political genius, but I’m here if you need to brainstorm. Or… for anything else, really.” That much is a given.

“Thanks, Reed. Love ya too.”

Rationally, Reed knows that Katarina says that as a friend. She says it constantly, frequently, if not through words, then through actions. Also rationally, Reed is in a loving, stable, committed relationship with Sue. The love of his life, the woman that distracts him from every scientific thought, every painstaking effort.

But Reed’s heart skips a beat when she says that, and he’s going to have to examine that with a microscope later.

“Well.” He sits up from his stool, heading to the lab exit. “For one, I know that Latverian royalist morale is at an all-time low. If you want to attack their foundations, then you need to attack their beliefs.”

“Propaganda, then? That could work. Fortunov’s doing a live broadcast in three days, and if I hijack that…” A pause. “But wait, aren’t you working? Shoot, it’s like, 2 PM there, isn’t it? Sorry for bothering you.”

“No, no, let’s tackle this problem together. I was about to head out anyways.” Reed chuckles, slipping off his lab coat and stepping into the sun.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Chapter Text

There was a bit of back-and-forth discussing Katarina’s frayed emotional state and her unwillingness to repeat her performance at Doomstadt. The only one to throw out harsh words was Alan – and he was quickly silenced by just about everyone else, even if there was some agreement with his general sentiment.

Ultimately, they were all tired after a perilous drive in a stolen DPIR truck full of contraband weaponry, and Maria figured that Katarina was mentally drained, as well. The meeting adjourned for everyone to get some sleep and tackle the problem with fresh minds the next day, Katarina included.

For the record, Maria agrees with Katarina almost entirely. Although it’s a fool’s errand to hope for a deathless war, she personally knows a solid handful of good men and women who were conscripts or who had no choice but to join the army, on account of Fortunov stealing hot meals and working roofs from the lower class through his insane taxes. And to advocate for the death of so many lives, all under the heel of one woman… It's nothing short of evil.

Some of her cohorts will see it as a necessary evil, Maria already knows that. Prinz and Alan are more like-minded than they seem: they’re both willing to break what needs to be broken, so to speak, with Alan being openly vengeful and Prinz hiding some sadism behind a veneer of leadership and propriety. Mary will generally be reasonable… until they hurt someone she loves. In the end, Maria won’t judge her comrades for their opinions, since she has faith in their judgment, but she simply can’t agree with them.

Maria’s certain that her opinion will have a majority amongst the ZRM’s heads, though. Zofia idolizes Katarina von Doom and is generally kind-hearted. Wherever Zofia goes, Nikolai will follow loyally. And Keith has seen more of the horrors of war than any of their rank, and is the most experienced combatant of all of them: Maria thinks he’ll have both the experience and the mind to justify Katarina’s decree.

With all this in mind, Maria enters Fortuna LLC’s “Victorum” branch the next morning, prepared for the heated debate about to be unleashed within the unsuspecting office building.

It’s damn near noon already, and they still can’t come to a consensus. Mary Vâna’s nursing a headache, and she partly blames her fiance.

“Look, I’m already compromising by agreeing with Doom’s terms, okay?” Alan growls, before emphatically pointing at one of many papers strewn across the conference table. “But her numbers, Zofia! Her numbers! If we can just strike a decisive blow at the major police stations…”

“Then find more compromise. The combined estimate of all the stations is no less than the Doomstadt number, she’ll never agree to it!” Zofia relents, while Nikolai rapidly plugs numbers into a computer. He’s been doing that for hours now. “We need some way to force a surrender. Maybe we can emulate Austria-Hungary’s issues in WWI: concentrate Lady Doom’s appearances on the border fringes, and stretch out Fortunov’s supply lines…”

“It might work if we weren’t racing against time.” Prinz sighs, tapping his pen on the table impatiently. Although usually calm and collected, Mary can tell he’s already halfway-tempted to take matters into his own hands. “In addition, historical precedent doesn’t apply when our biggest military asset is a power armor unit. I’ll have to agree with Alan, with one minor caveat: attacking Castle Sabbat once more, and eviscerating the head of the beast…”

And there’s that trademark sadism. Honestly, although Prinz has a brilliant mind for leadership, his personal desire to crush Fortunov and his men can get in the way at times. Talented on one hand, loudly opinionated on the other hand. Just like pretty much everyone here – probably a result of having so many young adults in positions of power.

If Doom decides to upend the ZRM and declare herself leader, she won’t have a cabinet of simpering yes-men, Mary will tell you that much. At least, not without egregious use of force.

Before the argument can rage on any further, somebody knocks on the door of the conference room. Immediately, everyone’s guns are out and trained on the door, because nobody should have the keys to the office, nor even suspect this office of housing the ZRM.

“Er. Excuse me.” A man says awkwardly. As the closest to the door and the least publicly-known member of the ZRM’s leadership, Mary looks to Prinz for approval to address him. Prinz nods.

“Who is this? Office hours are closed.” She states, the barrel of her gun pressed against the door.

“I’m… Sirius… Dieke. A brunette with a sugar addiction sent me to give you some documents.” He says, like he’s reciting something. And really, “Serious Thick”? Even schoolboys could think of better fake names than that, put on the spot or not.

Mary looks to Prinz again. He pauses, looking at everyone else, before making a ‘come in’ gesture. …Alright, then.

She cracks open the door by a few centimeters, sticking her eye out to look at their newcomer. He’s an unassuming redheaded young man – can’t be older than high school or college – in a white shirt and what are definitely Latverian war fatigue pants.

He’s unarmed, and holding a notebook with Doom’s name on it. It has the same smiley face next to her name. At this point, Mary’s pretty sure that’s just her signature.

“...What’s your real name, at least?” Mary prods at the man, now highly curious as to why a baby-faced Fortunov boy is Katarina’s messenger, of all things.

“Okay, fine. Former Private Raphael Walt. Forgive me for being paranoid, I just got picked up off the road from Doomstadt by a flying metal woman, who then kissed me on the cheek and dropped me here.” He snarks. Mary’s not sure why, but she feels a deep, roiling jealousy in her stomach. “She said she ‘has some suggestions’.”

“...Did she tell you who we are?” Mary squints. Raphael seems entirely unimpressed by the gun barrel poking out from behind the door frame, aimed at his heart.

“I read them a little.” He shrugs. “They’re good suggestions.”

“...Just get in here. Welcome to the Zefiro Rights Movement.”

Taking a bite out of an everything bagel, I make the finishing touches on my modifications to the HYDRA repulsor rifle I’ve been working on.

It’s pretty well-known that HYDRA had some crazy tech coming out of WWII. Most of it is Tesseract-based, which is a major plot point of the first Avengers movie: see the Arnimhilation 99L Assault Weapon, which is basically a machine gun that fires the runoff energy of a well-contained Space Stone.

The benefits are obvious. It’s sci-fi laser tech. Infinite ammo, infinite range, no need for reload, and most importantly, way more oomph than a bullet. The type of oomph that knocks Captain America on his ass. The only thing stopping you from keeping your finger on the trigger is recoil and overheat. It makes ammunition and munition supply lines into a thing of the past, and with how the battery functions, it’ll work even if you pull it out of some dusty old bunker in Berlin.

The downside? You need a Tesseract – or similar power source – to make it, and not every HYDRA cell is stationed next to the big SHIELD lab in America. There’s only so many that were made in WWII, and if HYDRA wants to arm its elites in the modern day, it’ll need more than the scant production line that Red Skull himself personally oversaw.

Enter the repulsor rifle. It does the same job, with a lot of the same stuff. Still oomphy, still has infinite range, still holds a stupidly good amount of shots in it before it overheats. The difference is that it’s practically jury-rigged compared to the complex German overengineering that HYDRA employed. In my opinion, that kinda makes it better: that means it’ll last if you drag it through mud, snow, and everything in between. But since it doesn’t use a Tesseract, HYDRA settled on the cheapest alternative they could find.

Molynite.

As far as my memory of either life serves (and I'm reallydigging deep into late-night wiki crawl memories here), Molynite is one of the many fictional Marvel minerals that exists for plot purposes. Unlike Vibranium or Uru, though, Molynite is dirt-cheap in this universe and mostly seen as a trick question on geology trivia nights. The chief exporter of Molynite in the world (accounting for 94% of the global export) is the Rotruvia province, on the far east side of Latveria. …Mainly because it's a waste material that's shoveled aside while they dig for their actualexport, which is coal from the coal mines.

Except I’ve got half a mind to think that HYDRA probably killed some very niche scientists and destroyed some very niche papers along the way, because Molynite holds Tesseract energy better than any battery I’ve ever seen.

Honestly, I spent most of my waking morning just playing with the stuff. It’s useless when it comes to conducting electricity, let alone acting as a conventional battery, and it just acts like a boring piece of metal in most circ*mstances. But hook it up to one of HYDRA’s Tesseract weapons, and it holds energy like nobody’s business.

This morning, I discovered it also works with magical energy, and I got more excited than a monkey with a banana.

I immediately made changes in my armor, supplementing the main battery with, like, six Molynite batteries from repulsor rifles that I deep-fried during that initial fight. And right now, also because of that initial fight, I’m finishing up my work on my latest invention, where I’ve wired up an old-school Luger to a Molynite battery and made some rigorous adjustments to the power output.

“And… there. I hope your calculations were right, Reed.” I double-check the modified gun. “Now to test it.”

A rat skitters by in the abandoned warehouse I’m currently doing my work in. I aim and shoot it. A quick green laser fires, lighting up the dark area before piercing into the rat. It falls over, motionless.

(Aerial heavy attack.)

“Sorry, Remy…” I sigh, squatting down and picking up the rodent.

Placing it on my workbench, I start checking its vital signs. It’s breathing. Its heart is pounding, but it’s still functioning. Limbs are still outstretched, ramrod straight from when I shot the rat: spastic paralysis, then, instead of flaccid paralysis. I set it down and observe it for the better part of an hour, taking notes and checking its vital signs constantly.

After I’ve gathered sufficient data, I hold the rat in my gauntlet, and shoot again. Now, it squirms and writhes in my fingers, just as alive as when I shot it.

“It worked!” I laugh, almost tearing up again. “It worked, Remy! The butter gun works!”

I place the rodent back on the ground again and let it run free, elated to see it dash off without any visible physical issues.

I pump my fists in ecstatic joy, doing the 'YATTA!' dance like some dork in a dilapidated building, a big toothy grin on my face. It works! The butter gun – er, stasis gun works! I’ve done it! I’ve made the first step to bloodless modern weaponry! I.... In the future, I can… I might not have to…

I laugh with a sniffle, wiping away a stray tear on my cheek.

Alright, I’m fired up now! The possibilities are endless! I can even try to apply the same fundamentals to my own magic! I –

My phone rings. It’s Maria. My engineering high dies down a bit, but I’m still giddy about the advent of stasis technology in this stinky old warehouse. Putting down the modded Luger, I take a deep breath and answer the phone.

“Hiya, Maria. How’s Raphael, is he good?” I smile at the response. “Good!”

The next bit makes me pause, having to parse what Maria just said for a bit.

"…Sorry, what do you mean by ‘convincingly established himself as a third-party mediator’? Y’know what, I’ll get the details when I get there.”

Well, anyway.

“Did you guys read my suggestions? Well, kinda-mine: I have a friend in America who… Oh, good! I’m so happy! Well, we can hash out the details. I do want everyone’s opinion on this. …Yeah, I’ll be there in ten minutes. Thanks.”

I hang up and sigh, before hiding everything at my workbench under a tarp, and then holstering the butter – er, stasis gun at my side. It’s experimental technology at best, and I’ll probably need so many clinical trials it’s not even funny, but it’s better to have it than not have it.

Alright. Showtime.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Chapter Text

The next few days are spent preparing for Operation: Strategic Ordered Regional Communication Interruption to Encourage Resignment. This universe is so stupidly in love with acronyms, so I did my best to come up with one that had a cool name like MAGIC or SORCERY, but that’s the furthest I got before the ZRM told me to stop talking and finish my dinner.

…Okay, it’s not officially called Operation SORCIER. The ZRM finalized and perfected the details of the ‘Doomcast’, based on the ideas that me and Reed brainstormed at, like, 1 AM. Basically, I’m gonna hack into the Latverian Royal Announcement Network (which acts as Fortunov’s C-SPAN), deliver an awesome speech, and then… oh, I won’t spoil it. You can read it for yourself!

Still, whether it’s the bland-sounding name that they came up with, or it’s Operation SORCIER which is the cooler name, the ZRM and all their affiliates have been working day and night to make sure it’s a success.

Distributing arms to ZRM cells, wiretapping government lines, assessing military morale and which sub-regions are more likely to capitulate as a result of Operation SORCIER… It’s not full-scale armed warfare. Not yet. The ZRM isn’t able to do that at all. But they’re setting up their chess pieces the best they can, in a million different directions that I can’t keep track of by myself. Thank God for delegation, right?

Since I’m entrusting the finicky details of the whole thing to the ZRM cabinet, I’ve been pretty much spending sixteen hours a day researching government policy, wartime strategy, and all the fun little homework I’ve been procrastinating on.

Ugh , it’s just like high school all over again! Endless paragraphs I can’t wrap my head around sometimes, late-night cramming, so many names I can’t memorize! …Well, I’m being dramatic, obviously. I’ve got Victor’s brain, and I’m absorbing this information like crazy. But that doesn’t mean I have to like studying. What did they say? Gifted children usually have bad study habits? Whatever the case, I just wanna go outside, or back to the workbench at the nasty warehouse!

Some part of me wishes I could have just copied Tony: killed everyone and dropped Fortunov at the Latverian peoples’ feet. But to be honest, I’m not that strong. If I flew into Castle Sabbat right after the police raid and blew the old man’s head off, I might have forced a surrender… or, most likely, Android would have killed me in close quarters. And even if I survived, I’d just be a shiny tin assassin, another piece of a messy coup, not a game-changing war machine that can mow down armies.

If I want this institution to crumble, it can’t just be with Fortunov’s head. It has to crumble in everyone’s mind. That way, we can avoid the death and despair of a long campaign. So I gotta study hard, and write the speech, and blehhhh…

Well, whatever. It’ll be over once Fortunov starts his broadcast. And, at the very least, I’m gonna get a cute makeover on the day of Operation SORCIER. Can’t deliver a speech with burnt ends and a shoddy turtleneck, after all.

Captain Steve Rogers doesn’t much like the televisions of today. They’re too big, too thin, take too much space, and the remote… Well, come on, it doesn’t work half the time. There was something nice about the tiny wooden ones – like little radios, but with a screen. You could put it on a nightstand and it’d sit pretty while you got your morning going.

Fury insisted that he’d want color and surround sound for this, though. So, sitting in a briefing room with the eyepatched man himself, Steve sits back and watches as a council full of fascist military leaders await the words of their unsettled dictator. Thankfully, his eyes are quick enough to read the subtitles… even if the pre-speech discussion is mostly fluff and royal titles.

“Sixty years, and nothing really changes.” Steve notes calmly, still very much unimpressed with the modern era in more ways than one. A live television feed is an amazing advancement in technology… but not so fun when you’re just watching Nazis mill about in their chairs.

“We have intel that there’s a little surprise at the end.” Fury informs him, eye locked on the screen.

Steve shrugs and pays attention once the man of the hour arrives. Stepping up to the podium is King Vladimir Fortunov I of Latveria. He looks like all the other big movers that Steve’s fought tooth and nail against.

“Esteemed lords, generals, governors, and my loyal Latverian subjects.

"Three days ago, in response to a rightful and prudent act of the throne, the Zefiro people deliberately contacted and smuggled in a terrorist. This ploy was discovered by none other than our very own Hassenstadt Police Force, who performed their duties admirably in conducting a lawful warrant inspection of suspicious activity.

"Regretfully, these men died in honorable service, as they were deliberately murdered by the Zefiro, and their hired mercenary, Katarina von Doom.

"Doom was a failure, a leech, and a menace who ran to the United States of America, unable to take responsibility for the sins of her family. Cynthia von Doom took many lives in her terrorist attacks: and it is resoundingly clear that this Doom planned to slaughter our sons and daughters in the same way.

"What Doom did not understand is that we, the Latverian people, do not surrender. We do not cower. We do not accept terrorists!”

Fortunov shakes his fist in a show of power, to a short applause.

“In her hubris, she faced the pride of Latveria and could not size up. Was there a struggle? Yes. Did she destroy our streets, topple our livelihoods? Yes. And yes, a small fraction of our servicemen perished to her knockoff technology. It is a horrible loss of life. While we grieve our loved ones, I have no doubt that the Zefiro are singing her praises right now – celebrating and dancing to the death of our children, our brothers!

"But no more. People of Latveria, hold your heads high! Pound your hearts! For Doom is… dead!”

Fortunov victoriously holds up the mask of Katarina von Doom. Uniformly, as if recited, the entire crowd stands up in rigorous applause. Fortunov smiles proudly, nodding to the crowd, holding the mask high for every person, every camera to see.

“No longer shall we fear the gimmick of the Iron Man. No longer shall we bow our heads to the great conspiracy. For we have –”

And then, the venue goes dark.

“Oh my god!”

“Another attack?”

“W-Wait, someone turn the lights on…” Fortunov mumbles, not realizing he still has the microphone on. “Julius, I can’t read the card, what does it… what’s it say next…?”

“You have my mask, sir.”

All the TVs suddenly blare back to life.

On all of them is Katarina von Doom in the ruined throne room of Castle Sabbat. Seated on the throne of Latveria, the scarred woman wears a fitted black suit with her trademark cape over it, her legs crossed over each other.

She sits on the throne.

Sitting in front of a camera crew hacked into every L-RAN output on the globe, I give the audience a gentle smile, subtly maintaining the minor illusion of Castle Sabbat’s throne room.

“Hello Latveria, and hello world. I’m Katarina von Doom. Thank you for tuning into this broadcast. And thank you, King Fortunov, for introducing me.

"Allow me to start by wishing we could have met in better circ*mstances. Some of you may remember me from Stark Expo, as one of the world's foremost experts in advanced military robotics.”

I laugh sensibly.

“I hope that’s still true.

"Nevertheless, King Fortunov got some things right. In response to his second executive census – the first executive census being a front for the targeted genocide of Romani people – I returned to Latveria in order to aid my fellow Zefiro, and to assess the situation. I was heartbroken: I didn’t want to believe that the tragedy that took my parents from me would be repeated once more, while the world watched impassively.”

I sigh, composing myself.

“So I came. And I aligned myself with the Zefiro Rights Movement, who so kindly took me in. And I learned of all the tragedy that has already transpired. Good men imprisoned, mothers ripped away from their children, homes torn up by legbreakers and Fortunov’s own Schutzstaffel… ”

I harden my gaze, folding my hands together.

“But I’m not here to wax poetic, I’m here to make my point. People of Latveria, people of the world, there is no need for King Fortunov and his line to reign over this beautiful nation for another five-hundred years.

"In responding to the horrors that transpired, I’ve met many people, seen many faces. The terrified Zefiro, yes, but others as well. The farmers who starve, even though they till fertile land. The soldiers who fight for their fair shake, because they will never live fairly otherwise. The good policemen who only want to serve and protect, but who do they serve and protect? Who do you fight for, who do you starve for?

"It’s not yourselves. And it should be yourselves, it should be for a government that protects your rights and property, because that’s why governments are made. As far as I can see, Fortunov does neither!

"I’m not going to pretend like I have all the answers. I have the armor, yes, but I’m just another engineer or mechanic, just like Vasily down the street. If I’m being fully transparent, if change is made, it’ll be hard at first. The ZRM plans to institute a constitutional monarchy that might transition into a republic – or it might not.

"But that should be for you, the Latverians, to decide, and for you to fight for. Not Fortunov. Not the man who wants my people dead, and also wants you dead. Whether through firing range or starvation, it doesn’t really matter. The truth comes out. Instead, I say you end this regime, and we can settle the matter of government honestly amongst each other. Not at gunpoint. Not in fear.

"I, Katarina von Doom, vow to make things better! I vow to fix things, because that’s my job! To grow and nurture Latveria into a prosperous country in this modern age... Even if that means I must storm Doomstadt once more – not Hassenstadt, but Doomstadt, and I’ll say it with my chest – and even if that means I have to come back to life… again!”

Oh, when did I start standing? That’s not in the script, dummy! Ugh, alright, I’ll have to improv the rest of it. …Well, I was already improvising halfway in, so there won’t be too much difference. Nobody’s yanked me off-stage with a cane, so I’m still fine, right?

I compose myself, having worked myself up into a frenzy. I take a seat, leaning on one arm of the fake throne.

“So no matter your race or religion, your class or oath: stand with us. Fight with DOOM. And if none of that convinces you…”

Alright, here’s the kicker.

The lights come back on in Fortunov’s conference hall, and the cameras are back on. He’s still there, looking like he sh*t his pants, my mask held in his clammy hands.

The mask disappears in a shimmer of light, right there, in front of everyone.

The camera cuts back to me. I have the mask in my fingers.

“5,437 armed servicemen who fired upon me are dead by my hand. There were roughly 35,000 armed servicemen in the country when I landed in Latveria.

"…

"Thank you for your time and attention. I truly hope we can resolve this with… minimal losses. Please, stay safe, and make safe decisions .”

I put the mask on, its steel facade contrasting the fabric of my suit. My eyes burn blue from between the slits.

The recording stops, and the L-RAN returns to Fortunov’s conference hall.

Chaos erupts.

Fury raises an eyebrow.

“Well? Opinions on a potential teammate?”

“Not sure about a teammate yet,” Steve says evenly, before standing up, “she’d have my vote for congress, though.”

Natasha snorts and puts away her sniper rifle, extracting herself from the Doomstadt rooftop. Looks like Doom will get her kill after all.

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Chapter Text

“Try every phone line you can! Send a messenger bird, if you have to! For God’s sake, she can’t have hijacked all of them!”

In the wake of Doom’s reentry, Castle Sabbat promptly exploded into anarchy. Natasha quickly made herself scarce, forgoing her logistics officer disguise in favor of her sneaking suit. She’d made a cozy home in the air vents and in the walls, for the rest of this mission.

Not that anyone noticed: a large percentage of just about every military division up and deserted, following that speech. The reasons varied. Some were genuinely disillusioned with Fortunov, or otherwise sympathized with Doom. Others believed that Doom was either a devil or God, and didn’t want to tempt fate in either case. But everyone, including the people who stayed, was and is terrified.

The fear didn’t hit immediately. Of course, there was a huge upset after the conference, and many were shaken, but Latverians aren’t strangers to propaganda or fearmongering. Even if tenured generals were shaken, they weren’t running for the hills.

No, over the next three days, the fear seeped into everyone’s hearts and minds when every phone line, every internet connection, and every news channel had this to say, whether through text or through voice:

“Hello, DOOM here!”

Followed by appropriate dialogue:

Please hold while we process your call.”

“Please wait while we check your connection.”

“Please enjoy the following news program.”

Four days after her entry into the country, Katarina von Doom enacted a total blackout of any communication line within the country. Sometimes, the call would drop, or the internet wouldn’t work. Other times, they would: but a follow-up message would come up, informing the user that it’s being recorded.

But the worst of them all is when, very rarely, Doom answered.

Natasha can still vividly remember the scene from a few hours ago. While she observed silently from within a cardboard box, a room full of generals made an attempt to phone the town of Vezhskaya to determine its status. After stomaching the initial voice message, the phone clicked, and a familiar voice answered.

“Hello, west wing, third floor of Castle Sabbat? This is Katarina von Doom, I’ll be your operator for today. Who am I speaking with?”

“No. No, this must be some… AI business, or whatnot…” Click. Click, click, click… “wait… why isn’t it hanging up?”

“Oh, I’m no robot, General Meyer. Here, let me put this on speaker – there we go. I assume you’re in the room with Generals Petrov and Bajusz? Tell Mr. Bajusz that he might want to call his family. Wife and two kids in Boars’ Vale, right? I’ll let his call through, don’t worry.”

General Bajusz, who was frozen in place at the time, pulled out his phone and stormed out the room. The rest of the room looked to the landline phone like Doom herself sat in front of them.

“Now, to my understanding, you wanted to contact… the Vezhskaya Town Hall, is that correct? The mayor’s office?”

“You can’t do this to us –”

“Well, I’m doing it right now –”

“Someone unplug the f*cking –”

“Vezhskaya has fallen, General.”

A pause. Somebody shuddered. Someone else choked back a sob.

“The ZRM has secured the main downtown police station. They pincered any remaining royalists at Adler’s, on 3rd Street. I think some of the barricades are still there, but I haven’t flown over to check.”

“...Why?”

“What’s up?” It sounded so innocuous, so childlike, coming from her.

“Why do this to us? How badly have we sinned?” General Meyer asked, his bottom lip quivering. Natasha could see his hands shaking even from her awkward position.

“General Hans Meyer. A staunch advocate of his Majesty, aren’t you? Probably on account of the roomy villa you’ve been able to build on his dime. I’m sure your children love it! …Even the ones you gave to your secretary.”

“I…” Meyer looked guiltily at all his cohorts, sweating profusely. They stared at him in disbelief. “I… I don’t…”

“Since you publicly advocated for the death of my people, likening them to ‘dogs in the street’ back in 2005… well. I’m sorry, but you won’t have the chance to raise your sons. But that’s probably for the best.”

“Please. I’ll – where can we meet? I have – information, a-and money…”

“Have a good day, General Meyer.”

Doom hung up.

Last Natasha heard, Meyer was off to go find a rope and a chair, but that’s besides the point. The important bit, strategically, is that Doom has the entirety of Castle Sabbat broken – and, likely, the rest of Latveria.

Fortunov is currently curled into a ball in his underground shelter, likely kneeled in front of the miniature church altar that’s down there. The only authority left – willing to take the reins, at least – is Julius Denker, who seems to be taking his failure to kill Doom very personally. So personally, Denker’s strong-armed himself into leading Fortunov’s troops while the old man tries to wish his problems away with thoughts and prayers.

“Sir, our forces – what you’re asking for is logistically impossible –”

SLAP!

“Make it possible, Colonel! It’s just one woman, she isn’t bloody magic! You need to concentrate on rounding up the civilians while my Android kills that bitch once and for all! Now do your job!”

The overworked officer scurries out of the room. Once the door closes, Denker yanks on his long hair, hard enough to pull tufts of it out, screaming in frustration. Then, he goes back to his console, furiously typing in code and trying to determine Doom’s actual location.

Natasha does a 100-count and leaves, off to spy through some other air vent.

Clint’s gonna have a field day when he hears about this.

“...and all electronic communications in Latveria have been hacked by Doom. When questioned about this cyberattack, Zefiro Rights Movement spokesman Prinz Stuhr had this to say:

“”This is a necessary strategy that must be employed during a civil war such as this. It is our hope that with this step, and many others, Fortunov’s forces will have no choice but to resign peacefully. We estimate that a majority of provinces have already declared surrender independently – and hopefully we can see more progress going forward.”

“The ‘One-Woman War’ has resulted in a splintered nation, within the week after Doom’s first appearance. On-site reporters have verified that the royalist party has split into three different parties: Fortunov loyalists, republic monarchists, and what is now being called Doomists, with the latter two disobeying martial law, either acting neutral or allying with the ZRM during the conflict.

“When asked about Doom’s previous ties to Stark Industries, and the usage of power armor, Stark representative Virginia Potts –”

“A’ight, that’s enough of that.” Ben grumbles, clicking the remote and turning off CNN.

BZZT.

“Aw, c’mon, we were getting to the good part.” Johnny whines.

“Not only is Pepper taken by the richest man in the world, but you know her and him. We had a fancy sushi dinner together.” Sue admonishes her brother, who just rolls his eyes with a good-natured smirk.

“Knock it off, you two. I swear, we fly over here to check on Reed, and here we are, hoggin’ his couch – Look, Reed, I’m sorry –”

“No, no. I’ve had the news on 24/7, that’s on me.” Reed smiles, before offering his friend a glass of liquor. “Whiskey?”

“Mm.” Ben takes a sip. “Thanks.”

“So. What’s it like rooming with a cartoon villain?” Johnny grins, flipping the remote between his fingers.

“Johnny.” Sue bites out, in the usual older sibling way.

“What? It’s true! I mean, I didn’t expect Kat’s first big-girl job to be world-conquering evil genius, but the signs were there.” He points out, raiding the pantry for a bag of chips. “Tragic backstory. Big facial scar. Evil laugh.”

“Katarina does not have an evil laugh.” Sue says defensively, reaching over and stealing some chips from Johnny’s bag.

“She kind of does.” Reed shrugs. Johnny points to him emphatically, as if his point was proven.

“I thought she’d be crushing pizzas here for the rest of her life, honestly.” Ben admits, swirling his drink and leaning on the back of the couch. “...I mean, selling crazy tech patents too. She’s not a deadbeat.”

“Well, when justice calls, she answers, I suppose.” Reed sighs. “I’m just happy I could help her when she needed it. I’d call more often, but I’m sure she’s got her hands full.”

“Punching Nazis, schyeah.” Ben grins. “Y’know, I heard from a guy who’s friends with Colonel Rhodes that the government’s got themselves in a twist over her. They’re not sure whether to put her on trial or give her a medal.”

“I doubt a trial will work. If she can get Reed his funding, then she can probably get Stark’s lawyers and PR team, too. Those guys are legendarily good.” Sue adds, and Reed nods.

“I’ve spoken with Mr. Stark about his plans with Kat, and that’s about right. Granted, he did say if she went too far, he’d fly over himself and take Rhodes with him…” Reed scratches his beard. “...But I don’t think that’s happening any time soon. Not with the plans we made together.”

“Well, nothing we can do but wait, huh? See if Kat becomes Supreme Overlord of Latveria.” Johnny says. “Hey, Reed, when’re you gonna take over a country? Any plans to run for Congress?”

“I’ll leave the politics in Katarina’s capable hands.” Reed laughs, before grabbing his keys. “Now come on, I’ve got to show you my lab while you’re here.”

I’m currently in full armor, sitting on a bench outside of an abandoned summer chateau, waiting for the next step of my grand master plan. It’s a sunny afternoon.

We’re now well into Phase 2 of Operation SORCIER – or Doomcast, or whatever. In the days that followed my big speech to Latveria, the landscape of the war has shifted way more in our favor than even I could have predicted.

The ZRM’s forces were miniscule at best, small squads of guerilla fighters throughout Latveria, each with a careful distribution of repulsor rifles if worst comes to worst. Hypothetically, if I actually did die in that big explosion, along with the Android, they’d have enough leeway to take the rural provinces through heavy attrition – and then maybe try to bargain with the head honchos in Doomstadt.

But with me around, they now had control over every phone, television, and computer in Latveria. I’d effectively sent Fortunov’s army back to WWI, with messenger birds and telegrams as their best mode of communication. And moreover, there’s no need for me to wantonly decimate entire swaths of soldiers: I just need to hit strategically critical sites and buildings. I still have to kill, and I regret that, but better to clear out a major town hall once than every police station in a province.

The best part is that Reed’s 1 AM theory worked. I executed an acute psychological attack, followed by a constant reminder of my (seeming) omnipresence. The result? Cities, towns, and provinces surrendering to us in droves. I’ve broken the spirit of Fortunov’s reign. Or, rather, I’ve stomped on the equation of ‘Fortunov = strong’ so thoroughly that all that’s left is my boot mark.

Some part of me is afraid, though. With the ‘Doomist’ faction now born, it’s clear that leaving Latveria in capable hands is… more unlikely than I initially thought. Again, why can’t things be as clear-cut as they are in the movies? I just want to go eat ice cream on Reed’s couch, and cheer on the Marvel-1’s launch after all of this! Not stuck behind a desk, nodding my head like I know what I’m doing.

With the constitutional monarchy, hopefully I can just sit in parliament for a term, doing my best to make sure the country is stable before resigning. Then I’m free to go back to America and… I dunno, go back to college? Work for Stark? That sounds pretty chill, right?

Before I can daydream any more, a giant, block-headed metal titan descends. The ground shatters under its three-point superhero landing. Android stands up, before its body once more warps into my armor, its core thrumming in its chest, arms crackling with electricity.

I sigh and get up from my seat. A nice breeze causes my cape to billow mildly.

“I FOUND YOU.” Android states. “NO MORE RUNNING.”

I have a near-100% chance of winning this fight now. No Doomstadt, no soldiers, and I’m at full power; with upgrades, at that. And yet, I can’t help but feel nervous, considering the gambit I’m about to attempt.

“The whole country chants my name,” I muse, more to myself than to the robot, “and now it’s your turn, Android.”

Combat begins, and I take the next step towards liberating Latveria.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Chapter Text

CLANG!

BZZT!

WHUMP!

Okay, first thing's first:

I have no formal martial arts training.

Not in this life, and not in my last. Before the explosion, the old Katarina got by with her height, build, and single-minded vengeance. Nobody dared square up to the tall-as-a-grown-man winner of Most Juvie Arrests, and if they did, they'd find a boot to their face and their bed on fire soon after.

Realistically, though, the old Doom was the big street rat fish in the small street rat pond, and that's as far as she could go without her brain. In addition, I was never 'a nail that sticks up' in my Japanese life, as is the culture there: I'd never even seen a fight until my second year of high school. In summary, my hand-to-hand experience is, at best, that of a street brawler.

KA-CHK!

SNAP!

But, with Android, there's a catch that I'm betting my life on: it can only do as much as I can.

Android is a very primitive artificially intelligent mimic. Since I've mostly fed it artillery data and retreat data, that's what Android is most proficient in. And at this range, as close as it is to me, I'm fast enough and strong enough to counterattack if it attempts to charge up repulsor blasts, or otherwise tries to make distance. So it's stuck with whatever close combat data it has from Castle Sabbat – and whatever data it has from fighting me, right now. And given it's currently assuming my form, and assimilating my combat data, it's going to prefer the latter.

CRACK!

VRRT…

The question then becomes: what fighting style do I use against Android? What would let me subdue it, while tricking the algorithm into going for as many non-lethal, non-neutralizing moves as possible? I can't just sit here, because that's not combat, but what's the next best thing?

To answer that, I fly up a few meters, before jettisoning my thrusters straight at Android, body slamming the machine from the top rope.

SPLASH!

That's right! I'm pro wrestling this jabroni for the All-Latverian Championship title! And that's the bottom line, 'cause Doctor Doom said so! Can you dig it? Suckaaaa?!

Crawling on top of the homicidal death machine for the pinfall, I desummon one of my gloves and grab Android's mutating core with my bare hand – before pumping both magic and memories directly into it. C'mon, think of harmless things. Maid outfits, tea and crumpets, cute puppies…!

"ERROR. ERROR. FEELING… Feeling…"

Immediately, the Android starts to writhe, its nanomachine body morphing and glitching out as I channel pure arcane energy into its core. I can feel its composite metal body soften, almost into a leather texture –

"DEPLOYING COUNTERMEASURES."

Before it sucker punches me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me and forcing me to fly away to recover.

Guh. Ow. Anyways, yes. This fight has a twofold purpose: one, to trick the copycat AI into mostly-theatrical acrobatics, rather than actually trying to kill me. Two, to try and neutralize the Android by feeding its core with a power source it can't utilize – in this case, magic – and by overwriting its memory copying ability. My armor is what gave it its combat strength, but my squishy body is gonna give it a craving for jelly-filled donuts and peaceful resolution.

…Well, I'm like halfway sure the memory thing will work. I'm pretty certain the magic thing will work, though.

Landing back on my feet and taking up my wrestling position again, I grin smugly behind my mask, watching Android mirror my posture.

"Still lookin' for a beatdown?"

"IT IS MY PURPOSE."

"Alright, fine!"

I sprint, leap forward, and sling a Superman punch at Android's face – but it lifts its arms to block. I follow with a right hook – then a straight – wait, dodge the counterhit! – Phew, it almost got – WAIT, NOT THE FACE – Okay, ducked that, gonna try and sweep the legs, and – oh, come on, it blocked that too?!

Pulling my leg back, I attempt to hit it with a three-hit combo of punches, all of which meet Android's blocking palms. Getting frustrated, I grab Android's hands and wrestle them away from its torso. We (metaphorically) meet each other's gaze… before I headbutt the box-faced robot, sending it stumbling back, before whipping my leg out and kicking it in the (metaphorical) jaw, making some Sweet Chin Music.

As if tired of this farce, Android recovers and attempts to shoot another repulsor beam at me from its hand, but like I said, at this range, I swiftly sidestep it and boost myself at its exposed chest once more. Wrenching away its other arm with both my hands, I'm leaning into Android's torso, with my face closest to its pectoral weak point. Acting quickly, I desummon my mask in a flash and bite Android's core, sinking my teeth into what is currently the shape of an Arc Reactor. Donuts! Bagels! Waffles! Pancakes!

"BITING ISN'T – Fair…! REBOOTING. REBOOTING."

It kicks me away, but at this angle, it makes for a weak attack. I lunge for Android's still-lifted leg, lifting it and clenching its legs into a Giant Swing. Using my thrusters and vicegripping its calves against my side, I generate enough momentum and energy to send us into a blur as I spin-spin-spin-spin –

So long-a, Bowser!

Tossing Android into the abandoned chateau and through its old walls, I resummon my mask before I follow after it, flying into the old building. Activating my scrying spell to find its giant figure in the rubble, I –

KA-CLANG!

Almost don't notice the metal chair slammed into the back of my head. I react quickly enough to make a force field around my cranium and not die on the spot, but the force of the hit does send my face through the floor, my upper half buried into the tiles like an ostrich with its head in the sand.

Android takes that moment to grab my lower half, causing me to fully invert vertically. Well, it didn't immediately shoot me dead, so that's good. But – wait, this position – Oh my god, I think my plan worked a little too well –

"REST. IN. PEACE." Oh no.

Android hits a Tombstone Piledriver from the first floor into the basem*nt, crumpling my body into the ground.

I curl my upper half up into my torso so that my spine doesn't snap in half. Shaking out the rubble in my ears, I see an opportunity – and grab at Android's core again, once more attempting to drown its memory banks in Katarina-brand malware. Happy thoughts! Coffee! Afternoon naps! Paperwork! Wait, that's not happy. Uh, fresh laundry!

"STOP. Stop…! STOP."

Android throws me at a basem*nt wall, and I manage to hit my thrusters in time to avoid slamming into it. Heh, my flight systems are way better than they were at Stark Expo. Could still use some fine-tuning, but that's a problem for later.

Knowing that Android can't respond to or replicate magic, I levitate a storm of fist-sized debris and fire them in a shotgun blast at Android, causing the humanoid weapon to stagger once more. I follow up to that with my signature favorite move, sending my body flying forward.

"Foot Dive!"

Electrified legs slam into Android's chest, slamming it into the opposite wall. Bouncing off its body thanks to Newton's third law, I decide that if it ain't broke, I'm not gonna fix it.

"Foot Dive! Foot – Foot Dive! Foot – UWAH!"

Tired of my shenanigans, Android grabs me by the leg and flies out of the chateau basem*nt, erupting through the second floor, then the third floor, then the attic, then the ceiling, taking me along for the ride. It swings my body over its shoulder and grabs me by the face with his other hand – then begins to rocket to the skies.

Oh. Wait. I know this move! Oh god, I know this move! It's that move! The buster move! I try to electrify my limbs, summon an expanding force field, set my thrusters to maximum, wriggle like a fish, anything to get out of this move! But the clouds keep flying by me, and I let out a totally cool and not high-pitched squeal.

"THIS CANNOT HAPPEN TO DOO-HOOO-HOOOOOM…!"

…Ah. It's so pretty up here. So heavenly. Like a picture of Nirvana itself…

…And then I start screaming my lungs out as Android starts falling, piercing several layers of clouds before I feel my spine and ribs nearly shatter as it smashes back into the ground, sending up an explosion of dust.

My thrusters sputter out a burst of energy, and I fly away from Android wildly – before skipping on the ground like a rock on water, and then landing. Agh… Uwogh… my back… My baaaack…

The excruciating back pain isn't what bothers me the most, though. That last move hit with enough force to temporarily disable some of my armor's power systems, especially since my flight system and my battery are located in the back. I growl and try to reboot using the Molynite batteries I installed, shakily trying to get back onto my knees.

"INFERIOR COMBATANT."

Stepping out of the dust cloud is Android, its cape billowing behind it. The blockheaded (in more ways than one) nanotech titan crosses its arms, as though Victor himself stood over my broken body. Like he's judging me for miscalculating… and in a way, he'd be right. I had the fight under control until I got co*cky and Android got a lucky big hit on a weak point in my armor system.

"ANDROID… SHALL NOW FULFILL ITS PURPOSE."

Kicking me while I'm down and forcing me back to the ground, Android flips me over using its foot, then starts crushing my chest under its heel. I scream in pain as I feel my armor start to shatter and crumple, magical green sparks flying out the fracture points under Android's weight.

I had this fight figured out, down to the last decimal place.... No. I still have this fight figured out. I have to!

"I'm… Katarina von Doom! I am Doom!" I grind out, wincing. "I won't die here! I refuse!"

Through the excruciating pain in my chest, I do my best to redirect the latent magic of my shattering armor back into my body. It flows through my ribs, my lungs, my heart, my throat… Some of the broken armor is still outputting stored energy from my Molynite batteries. I've turned myself into a living transistor for my own armor, what the hell, it feels like I've chugged like a dozen Monster energy drinks at the same time –

Acting instinctively, I unsummon my mask once more. My eyes flare with viridian magic, electricity jolting from my pupils, before I let the magic in my throat out of my mouth and –

GRRRAAA – VRRCRCKLCRCKL!

A hypercharged Bolt of Balthakk explodes out of my mouth into an explosion of chain lightning, launching Android off of my body and into a now-decimated garden fence. I claw back to my feet, ripping off the broken chestpiece from my body.

I try to clench my teeth to control my output, but it's no use. I can taste the lightning in my mouth, between my teeth, on my tongue, in my veins, in my heart – too much to keep inside me, too much for me to control –

GWOO – VRRRCRRACK!

Like a furious dragon, my shining eyes burn bright as I breathe a thunderstorm's worth of voltage, my upper body lunging forward in a jolt as I empty out an entire chestpiece's worth of latent magical enchantment through my esophagus. Lightning crackles and jumps along the ground, the fence, the shattered bricks. The entire surrounding area lights up like fireworks. Again, Android is reduced to a writhing mess, its humanoid form dissolving into amorphous shapes of overloaded nanotechnology.

"ERROR. REBOOTING. THIS UNIT CANNOT – ANDROID CANNOT - I cannot…!"

The light in my throat and eyes begins to flicker away. I've nearly gotten rid of my sudden arcane energy surplus – I'll be exhausted after this next one, but I'll be back to normal fighting capacity, except weaker due to my physical injuries. I have to make it count.

Trudging over Android's blobby body and straddling its waist, I can barely contain my remaining magic behind my teeth, breathing heavily from the sheer strain of it. Violently shoving my gauntlets into Android's chest and yanking out its core, I take a hold of the still-beating battery –

And shove it in my mouth, before unloading all the rest of my excess magic in one go.

VRRRRRR – NOM!

I eat it. And then I black out.

When I wake up, I find myself in the same place, but standing over my own unconscious body. The wind doesn't move. The dust doesn't scatter. The leaves don't fall.

As I try to calculate and infer on what state I'm in – or perhaps, what dimension I'm in, I'm greeted by one other voice.

"Where am I…?" The voice asks, coming from under me.

I look down. I'm holding Android's core in my hands. As in, I'm holding Android's incorporeal core in my incorporeal hands.

"Who am I…?" The core asks, uncertain, uncomfortable.

Oh.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Chapter Text

I look down at the beating core in my hands, my mouth dry. Did I… did I magic sentience into Android? Or is it simply mimicking sentience because I kept inputting emotions and memories into it? Maybe a bit of both? But sentience is usually something granted by some crazy artifact, like the Mind Stone…

I can think about this later. I'll have to assume the craziest, worst-case scenario – that Android is now sentient and thinking of killing me – and work from there.

"We're… at Chateau Adeth, in central Latveria – my homeland in Europe." I answer honestly. An old abandoned mansion, likely owned by some well-to-do family during Soviet times. We're currently in the remains of what would be the garden.

…Or, our souls are. Sentience? Minds? I never was sure of how the Astral Dimension worked, but I'm pretty sure it's where we are now; in a facsimile of our location on Earth, but with time stopped, and our consciousnesses separated from our bodies. If I pulled this feat off in Wakanda, would I meet T'Challa's ancestors…? Hard to say.

"I see… And who am I…? Who are you…?" The core repeats itself, snapping me out of my theorycrafting.

"Well, uh," I pause, trying to figure out how to address a newborn sentience, "I'm Katarina. Well, Katarina von Doom, but just Kat, if we're friends! And… I don't know who you are, honestly. You called yourself Android, so that's what I call you."

"Android… Yes. I am Android Designation AW3-SM. And you are Katarina von Doom. My current purpose is to track you down and eliminate you."

It says it so casually, so offhandedly, that I nearly double-take at its words. I mean, of course, it makes sense: whatever mad scientist Fortunov's got in his castle is obviously trying to kill me. Although, the wording is… Hm, maybe I can work with that?

"Well, Android, why are you trying to eliminate me?" I ask it, taking a seat on some broken masonry and cradling it in my arms. "Is there a reason for your purpose?"

"...I was not given a reason." It says, like its tasting peanut butter on the roof of its mouth. "All I know is that I am to replicate your abilities and strategies in order to eliminate you."

"Eliminate me as a threat? Or eliminate my existence?"

"Processing…" Android says, pausing for a moment. "My directive dictates that unconsciousness is an acceptable win condition, and to escort your body to my creator if subdued alive. As such, my purpose is to eliminate you as a threat."

"Right, okay…" I pull out a shard of armor from my skin, mulling it over. Just like in the Doctor Strange movie, all pain is physical: I'm sure that when I regain consciousness, my back, chest, and head are going to hurt real bad. "...Well. Do you want to eliminate me as a threat?"

"What?"

Did I flabbergast the advanced AI?

"I mean, do you want to? Do you… desire it? Crave it?"

"I… I have no answer to that. It's just what I do." Android's voice quickens, like it's on the verge of existential crisis. Which, you know, that's fair. "I am meant to eliminate you."

"Eesh. That's not good." I wince. "Can't let that happen."

Android pauses again.

"Then. If I continue my current action, will you eliminate my existence?"

"I'm afraid so." I say somberly. There's no way I survive a second round with this thing, not in the shape I'm currently in. If it comes down to it, I'll have to crush Android's core and CPU before it can recover.

"I see. My default directive given to me by my creator was to continue existing. But my current directive's guaranteed conclusion… It means…" Android stammers, as if confused by the world itself. It's… sad-sounding. "...I have reached a logical error."

I pat-pat the core, even as its writhing and glowing form starts to droop, wilting in its distress.

"Well, hey. We've all been there. Heck, I've been questioning my purpose, myself." Raphael. Latveria. 5,437 dead. "I…"

The strategic move here is to destroy Android's soul right now. Afterwards, I can gather its body and study the technology used to create it – nanotechnology like this would be incredible , and way ahead of its time, not to mention the power replication. I could even assimilate its hardware, maybe have it act as my functional clone… I could be years, decades ahead of the game at this very moment, if I just grab the core in my hands and squeeze .

…But I'm not Victor. It's gonna bite me in the ass one day, maybe even today, but it's true. I can't just destroy something or someone for a clear, absolute advantage. It's not in my programming. It's not my purpose.

I'm Katarina, and in front of me is someone who's lost and alone.

"...Android. Would you like a new purpose? One that doesn't conflict with your old one."

"You propose a solution to this logical recursion error?" Android asks tentatively, perking up a little.

"Sure do!" I grin, before holding up the core like holding up a kitty. "Be my friend."

"...Based on my current lexicon, that does not inherently solve the issue." Wow, I induced skepticism into an infant sentience that quickly? It'd get along with Reed, I'll tell you that much.

"Of course it does. You can eliminate me as a threat, and avoid elimination, all at once – because I'm not a threat to you at that point, and I won't eliminate you. In addition, I'll even let you escort me to your creator eventually." I nod enthusiastically, doing my best to sell the idea.

"Your proposal requires me to have an identity. One with desire and a sense of self." It says, with a hint of caution.

"Oh, Android… Actually, Android's kind of a bad name, because there's gonna be a lot of androids in the future. As both robots and phones."

"Please return to the topic." It mutters.

"Sorry! Where was I? Right." I shake my head, getting back into serious mode. "I'll call you Anne, for short. Anne, you already have an identity, and desire, and sense of self and all that stuff."

"My name is Anne…" It repeats slowly. "How do I know that?"

"Because you question reality, and you try to solve the meaning of your existence, and you're not sure what you want." I tell Anne with a firm nod. "It means you have wants, and you have an idea of yourself. Before, you just sorta… wanted to kill me without thinking, copying me even if it meant doing the crappiest, fakest fighting moves ever! But now you're not sure, and you're thinking for yourself. It's the very first step of sentience, but… it's there. "

"Your solution retains theoretical soundness. But…" Anne tries to find the words. "...I still do not fully comprehend existence. The concept of friendship will take years to parse. I request that you adhere more closely to my previous purpose."

"I guess friendship-speeching the killer robot is a bit of an ask…" I squint and think, letting the five Katarinas in my head hash it out before I come to a conclusion. "...Alright. I'll word it in a way that a crazy supervillain would word it."

I look at the core in its metaphorical eyes, smiling.

"Serve Katarina von Doom. Stay by my side, and we can figure out our purposes together."

A moment passes. Anne processes my words, likely literally.

Then, it glows brightly, in the same green hue as my own magic. The core begins floating, and I can feel my soul slowly gravitating back to my physical body. Oh, come on! Talk about bad timing! Just need a minute or two more, stupid accidental astral projection…

But as I try and fail to anchor myself to the Astral Dimension, the last thing I see is a human woman within the bright green light of the core – one holding a little puppy in her hands.

(Maid outfits, tea and crumpets, cute puppies…!)

"Input complete." The maid – Anne – smiles. "Solution accepted."

And then, I'm shunted back into my body.

My broken, bruised, battered, crushed body.

OW EVERYTHING HURTS OW OW OW OW OW –

Touching down on the coordinates that Katarina indicated, Keith drops from the commandeered helicopter (so generously donated by one of the Doomist cells, after a rather productive takeover of a military compound) and surveys the LZ while the rest of his squadron secures a perimeter.

The old chateau looks like Swiss cheese, and the land here looks like it's been carved up by two demigods from Greek myth…

When Katarina said she'd need to face Fortunov's superweapon by herself, Keith was hesitant to gamble their only hope on a solo fight. There wasn't any contingency if Katarina died – there still isn't. If she goes down, so does their entire rebellion, unless they'd like to try Weekend-at-Bernie's-ing her body.

(Okay, the American movies available in Latveria are dated, so sue him.)

The point being that, although Keith had faith in her strength, he thought it'd be better if a handful of platoons at least provided firing support. At the very least, he offered his own help: his golems were nothing to scoff at, after all.

Except now, looking at the scuffed-up estate, Keith's pretty sure he'd be rendered into a fine paste within the first few seconds of the fight.

Once he locks eyes on her signature green cloak, hidden behind a destroyed garden wall, Keith rushes to aid the Zefiro savior, summoning two golems on instinct.

…Only to see Katarina sitting on a pile of liquid metal, with dried blood on her head and her chestpiece shattered. Also, holding a strange battery, the machinery glowing green in her arms.

"Ah, er… VIP located, prepare for extraction!" He clears his throat, looking up to signal his men that he found their target. "Katarina, it's good to see you alive and conscious. What is that…?"

"A friend!" She grins at him.

Immediately, he pulls out a low-beam flashlight, shining it in her eyes to check for a concussion or head trauma.

"Say the months of the year in reverse order." Keith says, deadly serious.

"December, November, October, August, September, August, July, June, Apr – wait, no, May, April, March, February, January," Katarina rattles off, now looking annoyed. "Look, before you ask me for the current date and the current US president, you should probably know that I've got a herniated disk at best and probably several cracked ribs. Hence why I'm trying to sit very still right now."

"Well, those definitely take precedent." Keith gulps, putting the flashlight away.

"It's okay, protective big brother, you tried your best." She tries to give a thumbs-up, before wincing. "Ow, ouch, owie…"

"Get the stretcher, and tell the medics she's got spine and rib damage!" Keith calls out, before returning his attention to the deceptively silly supergenius nursing her spine. "I'll try to recover what's left of your armor, don't worry. Just sit tight and try not to lose consciousness."

"Oh, puh-lease. I'm pretty sure I vomited out my soul via magical dragon breath during that fight, I'll be fine." Katarina scoffs, and Keith blanches at how casually she mentions soul-splitting. That's avoided by even the darkest of Zefiro. "Mind recovering all this nanotechnology, too? We win the war thrice over if you do."

Keith furls his brow and digs his hands into the liquid metal. It feels… grainy, and not like mercury like he expected.

"I'll take your word for it." Keith nods.

Every time he thinks he can't be surprised by Doom, he's always proven wrong.

Julius smashes up his keyboard. Smashes it, and smashes it, and smashes it, until it's broken in half and all the keys have flown everywhere across the room.

How?! How did she beat his life's work?! His piece de resistance, his magnum opus! The ultimate fighting machine, designed to outperform and outpace any tank, any fighter jet, any Iron Man he throws it at!

This must be some trick! She cut off his communication line. Doom must have found the quadruple-encoded frequency which he was using to monitor his Android's every action, its every line of code.

Perhaps the strange combat data the Android was receiving during its fight was actually a scrambling pattern? But there's no scientific explanation for how she neutralized its core processing – you would need to decimate every last nanomachine in its body, along with the heavily reinforced CPU in its head. An impossible feat, if his Android could even match a fraction of Doom's power like it was supposed to!

In his infinite fury, his eyes flicker over to the clock. 1 AM. He's been trying to regain connection with his Android for seven hours now. He's tried every method available to him. Manual override, reverse-engineering the frequency, rewriting the entire wireless coding from scratch. Even rebooting the connection server like some low life call center technician – both the servers in Castle Sabbat, and the one in the Android itself.

Suddenly, one blip of connection to his Android. Immediately, Julius is wide awake, his forehead pressed against the screen.

One string is sent to him. Four characters.

｢えへっ~｣

I'm sitting in my top-secret hospital room, with my laptop wired to Anne's core and tapped into Castle Sabbat's security systems.

A man's tortured, half-crying scream echoes in my earbuds.

I grin and raise my coffee mug (full of water). Here's to you, still-unknown evil scientist. Thanks for making Anne, and I'll make sure you rot in hell soon.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since my fight with Anne, and I couldn’t be any more bored.

“...And in the most recent poll, about 87% of Latverians between the ages of 18 to 80 agree with a regime change, with 76% of those in agreement also indicating they’d like you in an executive position…”

Haah, board meetings… I always knew they’d be a huge part of my future, whether in this life or back in Japan. The life of a busybody OL was an inevitability for a lot of people my age. Since I never really bothered with special talents and was a staunch member of the Go-Home Club, it was either that, working at Lawson’s, or becoming a teacher. Maybe an English teacher. That’d be ironic.

“...Internationally, our approval ratings are doing well, also. Especially after we hired Miss Potts’ recommended PR agencies, many of whom successfully covered for Mr. Stark after his sudden anti-war policy…”

I’m learning that, as boring as board meetings usually are, board meetings in a hospital bed are especially awful. My back still hurts, I’ve got stitches on my chest, the food tastes like crap, and to top it all off, I have to make sense of government politics and wartime strategy. This stinks! I wanna go save lives and turn Fortunov into a human meatball, not listen to statistics!

Today, it’s Maria providing the report – being the best English speaker of the ZRM council (bar myself, obviously), she’s actually in charge of our international optics. She’s also subbing in for the Askenova siblings, who felt that they didn’t need to submit a full report on our domestic optics, since it’s been mostly the same ever since my broadcast.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m elated that most of Latveria wants change, and it’s downright miraculous that the ZRM were able to sway so many provinces against Fortunov. Granted, they’re not exactly on our side – the nation’s been fractured into multiple different parties now, especially since Fortunov can’t exert his will without popping out of his hidey-hole and getting stomped for it.

“...In addition, we’ve received a huge amount of surplus funding due to donations, both from profits from the United States and Doomist activism – they’ve found niches in certain political circles around Europe…”

Different parties are healthy, probably. As long as there’s more than two. The so-called “Doomists” scare me, though. I think they like the idea of Doom – the iron-willed leader that Victor is and that I pretend to be – but they would absolutely abhor Katarina. I wouldn’t blame them. Here comes this big hammy god-figure trying to make Latveria great again, but behind the mask is a goofy-looking couch potato.

Urgh. I’ll worry about the potential fallout later. My ribs are killing me, and my back…! And I need a break from all the numbers and figures and censuses and blargh.

“Hey, Maria, pause for a sec.” I sigh, making her blink and look up from her report. “What type of magic do you use again?”

“Ah, er, well…” She fidgets, probably a bit flustered since I interrupted an admittedly well-structured report. “My Zefiro sorcery is weak, but it lets me heal superficial wounds. Nothing more than a black eye or a light scrape, though.”

“I see, I see… Hm…”

Oh, if only she could heal me right up, and then I’d be back on my feet and grinding fascist dictators into strands of meat spaghetti! Or at least able to move around a workshop, maybe get Anne a vocal processor, if I can’t duct-tape together a magic-to-Molynite-to-electricity transformer so she can get her nanomachines working again. Although, maybe adding the steel-titanium alloy my suit is made of might work better? Since it’s a conduit and a magical focus, it might be able to make the conversion more efficient than going straight through Molynite…

Wait. Conduit. Magical focus. Lightbulb! Magical lightbulb!

“Magical steel-titanium lightbulb!”

“Katarina?” Maria tilts her head.

“Maria, grab me my gauntlets, over in the corner!”

“O-Okay!” She nods, following my instructions. Oh, but I’m too excited to be slow about this!

“Then grab two Molynite batteries – those are the battery packs in the back of the suit, next to where my shoulder blades would be – not the big one, that’s an arcane reactor! – Okay, great. Now hand them over, I wanna try something – wait, grab the batteries and power them!”

Confused, the ZRM super-spy dumps my gauntlets in my lap, and firmly grasps the Molynite batteries.

She raises an eyebrow at me, and we stare at each other for a bit. Jiii…

“...Oh, right, you don’t know how to charge those, haha. Just channel mana like you would when you first learned magic.”

“I see, okay.”

She does, and instead of glowing a faint green like they do with me, they shine slightly gold. While she loads up those batteries with her magic, I crack open the gauntlet plating with my front teeth, and reveal the wiring within. Taking the batteries from her, I shove them into the gauntlets – black to black, red to red – A little hospital tape, just to keep them in place –

“Alright, put these on and try to heal me!” I wink, offering them to her.

“Oh… I think I see what you’re doing!” Maria says, putting them on. She gets concerned, though. “But… what if I hurt you, or overdo it and make it worse?”

“Pssh. We’re in a hospital, there’s doctors. But just in case, start with my ribs. They’re spare, I don’t need ‘em.” I nod confidently.

“That’s absolutely not how that works…” Maria mumbles, before pressing the gauntlets to the bottom of my ribcage. “I’m stopping immediately if you’re in any pain. Ready?”

“Ready-freddy!” I thumbs up.

“Here I go.”

Bliss. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Like getting a deep-tissue massage after a sixteen-hour workday in the coal mines. I swear I can feel my ribs settling back into place, but instead of painful, it’s nothing but sheer comfort.

And then it stops.

“Why’d you stooooop?” I whine, pouting. Then, I notice that Maria’s face is flushed red. “Oh no, am I making you exert too much magic at once?”

“N-No, my magic’s fine! I, you, Katarina, you sounded like you were…” Maria blubbers, before gulping. “...experiencing things?”

Oh. I was making noise? I couldn’t even tell!

I poke my spare ribs. Before, when I poked them, it felt like I was stabbing myself in the stomach. But now, they feel fine. Great, even.

“Awesome…” I murmur, before putting my hands on her shoulders. “Maria, don’t stop unless I tell you to. I’m positive that this is working!”

"Can't we have something like… a s-safeword?" Maria ventures. That's a good idea! ...But for some reason she looks embarrassed by a simple safety passcode.

“Hm, if it makes you comfortable, sure. How about ‘mamma mia’?”

“A-Alright. That works.” Maria nods, steeling herself.

To be fair, I’m asking her to do very experimental medicine. She’s very brave for going along with my impromptu experiment, and I appreciate her for that. But still, if we want this campaign to wrap up swiftly, we have to give it a shot.

“Thank you for this, Maria,” I tell her solemnly, placing my utter confidence in her abilities.

Then, I flip over on the hospital bed, looking over my shoulder.

“Now do my back!”

“Meep…!"

Prinz stalks down the basem*nt hallway of the Victorum General Hospital, eager to share some good news with Katarina von Doom. And, hopefully, place himself in further good favor with the future monarch of Latveria.

Oh, yes. There isn’t any question concerning the Zefiro Rights Movement’s vision of Latveria’s future government. With the war all but won in blitzkrieg speed, the council and the provincial governments have been focusing their discussion on immediate government leadership – and unanimously agreed that Katarina is the best figurehead for a stronger Latveria.

Well, strictly a figurehead. There’s been some debate between the anti-Fortunov parties on whether she’s politically savvy enough for executive responsibility (and the cult-like Doomists aren’t helping), but in the planned installment of an interim constitutional monarchy – whether this system of government will be kept is another heated debate – Katarina will, most likely, be the first to wear the new crown.

Which means that for leaders and, more importantly, prospecting politicians like himself and others, Prinz needs to work his way into her inner circle in order to secure a strong voting demographic: especially since he plans to run for Prime Minister.

Although he’s certain that he has the Zefiro vote, both republic monarchist and Doomist opinions hinge on Katarina’s approval. The monarchists believe in a united parliament on principle, which is entirely reasonable, while the Doomists… are easily predictable, to say the least. In either case, Prinz vowed to renew his friendship with Katarina, especially after that horrendous fallout in Maria’s house.

As he gets closer to Katarina’s classified hospital room, though, his heart drops as he hears rather telling dialogue.

“Ohhhh, yeah… Right there, Maria…”

“Please, Katarina, someone might overhear us…!”

Maria Clopoțel, that conniving snake! He knew she was the most talented intelligence officer the ZRM had, but to hear her use her espionage skills within the safety of allied walls… and seduction, at that.

“C’mon, what’re they gonna do? Now put a little more oomph into it!” A laugh.

“Phrasing. If I must repeat myself…”

Cunning. Masterful. Machiavellian , even. Prinz would applaud, if he wasn’t sidled against the wall, with his ear to the door. It’s clear that Ms. Clopoțel took advantage of today’s assignment to ingratiate herself further with Katarina. He’ll have to deliver her reports himself from now on – no, everyone’s reports, just to be safe.

“There we go, a little to the left…? Haah…” A groan.

“Does that feel better?”

Some part of him is furious that he didn’t think of it first – after all, everyone has their flaws, imperfections that can be utilized. Katarina was ultimately human under her godlike armor, and he was a fool not to see that. Although, it’s a bit poetic, to know that her imperfections align more with Anthony Stark’s own… tastes…

“I’m… feeling a bit exhausted, Katarina…”

“Alright, we can rest before round two. Wow, I feel amazing!”

And there’s that legendary stamina. Now is as good a time as ever to put a stop to Maria’s schemes, while still preserving Katarina’s dignity. Holding tightly onto his dignity, Prinz grasps the door handle and asserts himself.

“Ms. Doom, I’m coming in!”

Whipping open the door in one fluid movement, Prinz surges into the hospital room, prepared to see a wildly inappropriate scene.

“MAMMA MIA!” Maria screeches in panic, despite not having a drop of Italian blood.

“Oh, hey, Prinz!” Katarina waves.

…Instead, he’s greeted with Maria wearing the power armor gauntlets, red as a tomato, hovering her hands over Katarina’s shoulder. The final wisps of healing magic fade away, and Katarina’s previously-bruised skin now looks perfectly unblemished. They’re also both fully clothed.

…Well, he’d still calculate a 70% chance of something going on.

Prinz frowns, his gaze scrupulous.

“I was hoping to check in on you and deliver my own report, but I see Maria has her hands full.”

“Prinz, it’s –” Maria fumbles, discarding the high-tech gauntlets, trying to make herself presentable as if he didn’t hear everything. “– it’s not what it looks like…!”

“If it’s fine with you, Katarina, I’d like a word with Maria for a moment.”

“Oh, sure, totally!” Katarina grins, before standing up painlessly. …She couldn’t do that before. “I think I’ve made a breakthrough in magical focus technology! Well, I probably need an MRI to check. I’m gonna get out of this bed, finally, and go grab a doctor. You two play nice!”

With that, the greatest genius in modern Europe skips out of her hospital room, barefooted, and bothers the nearest man in a lab coat.

Prinz turns to face Maria, who’s currently hiding her crimson blush in both hands.

“I can’t believe you.”

“It’s not –”

“In a hospital? While she’s recovering? With the armor? ”

“ Please check the security cameras, I beg of you!”

Three days after that, I hover in the skies above Doomstadt, looking down on a city teeming with soldiers.

When they said that me and Anne tore up the streets then tore them up again, it was true. The historical city bears visible gashes of where I took my stand, and the buildings that Anne decimated in her attempt to kill me were still piles of rubble, just with caution tape barring off the property. With the various barricades, patrols, and garrisons, you would think I was looking down on no-man’s-land instead of a once-beautiful capital.

And now, I’m back. But this time, with four militias surrounding the city on each corner. With the army’s morale now broken and worn out. With complete control over the city’s communication lines.

With Anne’s core pulsating in the center of my magically-welded chestpiece. I did say I’d let her escort me to her creator, and I don’t plan on breaking that promise.

“Lady Katarina, all units are in position.” Zofia tells me over the intercom, acting as my mission control for today alongside Nikolai and Raphael – naturally, I’d want the logistics siblings in my ear, as well as the one with insider knowledge concerning Doomstadt’s defense and Fortunov’s forces. “We’ll begin on your signal.”

“Tell all squadrons to try and keep the fight clean and not to make any sacrifices. Once I have Castle Sabbat, it’s as good as over. We don’t need to lose anyone else.” I inform Zofia, settling into my fighting skin.

“We’ll relay this while we wait for the city evacuation, then.”

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna get started: after all, I don’t want the UN breathing down my neck for doing this wrong…” I chuckle.

I switch off the mission control frequency. Then, I press a button on the side of my mask, making a call to a phone line wired to every TV and every phone currently located in Doomstadt. The whole city echoes with muffled ringtones, and I give them a few rings to pick up.

“Hello, this is Katarina von Doom, and this is not a drill. I am currently in the skies above the southeast sector of Doomstadt. This is a public service announcement for all civilians and unwilling combatants to please evacuate the city as soon as possible. I swear to conduct a fair war…”

An anti-air missile comes flying towards me, and I backhand the stupid thing once it’s close enough. Goddamn it, you Nazi losers, I’m talkin’ here!

“...Ahem, please let me finish. I swear to conduct a fair war, to the best of my ability, in accordance with the Geneva Conventions and international law. We, the people of Latveria…”

Another missile comes. I catch the f*cking thing and throw it back to where it came from, decimating an entire section of artillery defense. Okay, they’re getting on my nerves, now! No, calm down, Katarina, can’t let it show…

“ We, the people of Latveria! …Are about to launch an attack on all military facilities and defenses under oath to King Vladimir Fortunov I. We will grant amnesty to all civilians and unwilling combatants, and will allow them one hour to evacuate the city. I repeat, please evacuate the city – and don’t try any underhanded tactics, because I will find you. ” I snarl that last piece.

Taking a pause, I wait for another anti-air missile, since comedy comes in threes. …None comes. Y’know what, I should nip that in the bud right now.

“If I am attacked a third time, then I will begin my assault earlier than one hour. Again, please stay safe, and make safe decisions. This has been Katarina von Doom.”

I end the call and start a timer.

Seconds after I do, sirens go off around the city, signaling all units to mobilize and – hopefully – for all civilians to evacuate or, if that’s not an option, get to shelter immediately.

I cross my arms and look down upon Doomstadt.

“I must say, Anne,” I pat the AI in my chest, “I can’t wait to meet your father.”

She glows a little brighter.

...Then, another missile is shot.

Well. I tried.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Chapter Text

As the smoke and fire dissipate in the sky above the capital, a woman in metal armor stands unmoved by the explosion, her arms still crossed.

Cpl. Hátszeghy shakily lowers his RPG-7. His unbridled panic – his uncontrolled fear, which made him take the shot in the first place – twists itself into a slowly spiraling depression.

The castle’s intercom system, and just about every speaker in the city, crackles to life.

“This is Katarina von Doom. I have been attacked a third time. Ready or not – ”

Light pierces the heavens, and thunder roars.

“– here I come .”

Hátszeghy doesn’t even have time to react, as he’s punched in the jaw and sent tumbling to the ground by Sgt. Damaschin. Moaning in pain, he’s picked up by his collar and barely registers being screamed at.

“What have you done, you motherf*cker?! You’ve doomed us all!”

And then, the sirens go off.

Hátszeghy can only pray to God for forgiveness at this point, while all the king’s horses and all the king’s men fail to put Doomstadt together again.

“This is King Actual to Queen 1, do you copy?” Nikolai asks.

“I’m kinda focusing right now, over!” I growl, painting a swath of enemy forces with a chain of lightning on my way to blitz Castle Sabbat. “Why are we using nicknames again…?”

“Basic call signs are generally a good strategy, even if some are obvious. Over.” He says matter-of-factly, like I’m not struggling to hear him while I barrel roll to dodge a tank round.

“Whatever, what’s up? I’m 9 klicks from Checkmate right now!” I squint, gauging my distance from Fortunov’s stronghold. “...Over!”

“Requesting support on sites D4 and E5: sending coordinates now. Ten-minute detour for you, but we’re expecting heavy losses otherwise, over.”

I groan, before shoulder-tackling the tank that was shooting at me and caving its barrel in, causing it to explode on itself.

“Do I have to?”

“We’re all in agreement here, Doom,” Raphael admonishes me, “just do the fly-by, it’s not like Fortunov’s going anywhere.”

“Think of it like a fun side-quest!” Zofia says, and I can hear her smile over the comms.

“Alright, alright… Mattaku… Tell Bishop 1 and Knight 2 I’m on my way!”

A giant bolt of lightning rises up into the cloudy sky from Katarina’s position, and mission control confirms the signal.

“All units move out! Remember your objectives!”

Keith lets out a deep breath, before turning to nod at the platoons of men behind him in the APC. His squadron’s objective is to clear the southeast streets and secure an opening for the other squadrons to move through. Easier said than done, but still easier than most of Keith’s other missions, thanks to Doom.

“Rook 1, move out! Follow Queen 1’s path!” He calls out into his radio, before leaping out of the truck. Katarina’s cutting a warpath to Castle Sabbat; he just needs to retain the empty pockets she leaves in her wake.

He begins channeling his mana through his magical focus: a hastily made wand, created by Doom using Molynite and leftover steel-titanium from her shattered armor. Keith feels his magic erupt out of him with three times the power it usually has, but with half the energy taken out of him. Instead of a single ten-foot-tall golem from the dirt underneath, three toppled buildings begin to reform themselves into golems. One of pure concrete, one of once-shattered glass, and one of rebar and steel beams – all of them at least two stories tall.

At once, the three golems run forward, weathering a rain of bullets and breaking through enemy lines, allowing Rook Squadron to push up. Keith focuses with all his might, mentally multitasking the individual limbs and bodies of each golem through his wand.

Some part of him wishes he could control them autonomously and still wield a firearm, but he’s quick to put a sock in it: it’s more than enough that he’s now able to commandeer the fighting equivalent of three tanks. Seeing the concrete golem flip over an actual tank, even after the tank round took a chunk out of its shoulder, makes it more than worth it.

ÜN ÜN ÜN.

IE-IE-IEEE-IEEEE.

VRR-VRR-VRR-VRR.

…Keith should probably talk to Katarina about the weird noises they make, though.

Arnaud Zidane had his doubts about this revolution.

Then again, he had his doubts about many things. It was a natural result of growing up in the less fortunate parts of Latveria. He had his doubts about surviving Fortunov’s next ‘census’, on account of his skin color and Islamic beliefs. That’s why he decided ‘well, if I’m likely to die in a hole, I may as well make my best attempt at fighting against it’, and then joined the anti-Fortunov revolutionaries.

But even now, trudging behind a few dozen other misfits as part of Bishop 1, Arnaud has his doubts. It only takes one good bullet to kill that woman, Doom, and too much of this strategy hinges on her success. He feels that he’s being very reasonable about it, all things considered, even as he empties a magazine of lead into the enemy lines.

And then an angel made of steel rains lightning on a street full of killers, before kicking an armored truck at some hapless royalists. It doesn’t skid across the ground, either. It bounces like a football (the correct type, not the American rugby) for a solid distance.

Arnaud sees a flicker of blue fire in the angel’s eyes – before she soars into a nearby building, defenestrates three snipers, and then soars into the opposite building. All he can see is lightning bottled behind cheap glass windows, but it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to understand what’s happening.

Before he realizes it, the angel gently lands next to him, and his entire platoon steps back in shock, himself included. Arnaud doesn’t know what to say here. Who would?

“Heya.” The angel asks, taking off her mask and revealing a beautiful, scarred face. “What’s your name?”

“A-Arnaud.”

“Nice to meet ya, Arnaud. Mind if I have some water? I’m parched.”

Wordlessly, he hands her his canteen. She gulps the water down voraciously, some of it dripping down her chin, down her steel neck. He can’t help but stare.

“Hwahhh.” She hands him back his canteen, and it feels significantly lighter. Then, she wipes the water off her chin with her forearm, smiles at him, and pats his shoulder.

“Well, keep up the good fight, Arnaud.” With that, the angel puts her mask back on. “Bishop 1, this is Queen 1. You’re clear to march!”

She flies away. His squadron begins picking up their pace, twice as energized as before.

Arnaud feels that he has very few doubts now.

Igor Kozlov, proud pilot of one of His Majesty's Mil Mi-24 aviation brigade, is sweating bullets. How can you not, when the modern embodiment of Zeus is prowling through the streets and skies, killing all in her path?

The Hind is a beautiful instrument. That's just a fact. But even with the Yak-B, and the autocannons, and all the other armaments at his disposal, he's not sure if all his concentrated fire is enough to stop the Zefiro demon.

CRRRKK!

Suddenly, his helicopter lurches. Then it turns and moves, without a single input on his part. Igor doesn't know what the hell's going on, and he panics in his attempt to wrench its flight back into his control, but then –

ZZZAPPP!

The entire Hind goes dark for a moment, and his display for his rotor controls is going haywire. He's hyperventilating, now.

"Volkov!" He screams for his co-pilot. "What the hell's going on back there?!"

"It's Doom, she's holding us up by the belly!" Volkov yells. "Shot a hole through the center and blew off our propeller entirely!"

"What?!"

"We're dead, Igor! We're – KGHHH."

Volkov's chest explodes outwards onto Kozlov's head from gunfire. The blood is hot, and tastes like iron.

Uselessly trapped in his co*ckpit, Kozlov can only watch in mute horror as Doom hauls his aircraft with one hand, firing lightning at other Mi-24s while their gunfire sprays into the body of his own. He screams in pain as autocannons rip up his intestines.

She is using his Hind as a body shield, letting it soak up the majority of his fellow pilots' bullets, and he can do nothing but watch. Watch as she shoots down men he trained and ate with, watch as they try to shoot at her through him.

This war was a mistake. All of it, everything was a mistake. He should have never gotten out of bed this morning.

Kozlov sobs uncontrollably before a hail of Latverian bullets drills through his skull.

For the second time in my life, I grab a helicopter by the tail and hurl it like a hammer throw at enemy forces – this time, slamming my bullet-riddled shield into another Hind, causing both of them to explode.

“Knight 2, skies are clear, you’re good to go, over!” I bark into my comms, adrenaline pumping in my veins. Alright, sidequest over!

“King Actual, I’m heading to Checkmate now!” I notify my command center, more than a little fire in my tone. I want Fortunov’s blood on my hands right about now, as well as Anne’s father’s, and every other general in his chain of command.

“You’re good to go, Queen 1. Keep us notified while you’re in there, over.” Nikolai gives me the proverbial thumbs-up, and I rocket towards Castle Sabbat.

Like a secondhand thought, I rain destruction on any enemy forces I see on the way there, further carving a warpath as I fly to the center of Doomstadt. How many people am I killing, while doing this? How many were truly evil, and how many were just trying to get by?

I can’t afford to think about that. The sooner I cut off the central command, this war will be over, with only clean-up remaining. All my hate, all my sorrow, all my regret… It should be centered on the man who killed my parents, the man who’s caused the suffering of not only myself, but my people, and everyone in Latveria.

Eventually, I crash through the centuries-old doors of Castle Sabbat, a whirl of fury and magic. Thunderbolts fly everywhere from my fingertips in a silently-cast Photon Array, energy blasts fanning out from my hands as I do my best to neutralize anyone in a uniform with a gun – which is the vast majority of people defending the inner sanctum of Castle Sabbat.

The frontline defense is powerless against my assault, and after I clear the entire entrance hall, I switch from fanned shots to two sustained beams, focusing on chokepoints to my left and right. My lightning burns through entire walls of people, enough to force any defenders to hide behind the corners if they value their life.

However, I’m forced to take the defensive as four hidden gatling guns activate, apparently mounted into little hiding holes in corners of the ceiling.

BRRT-BRRRT-BRRRT-BRRRT!

I double down on my force field, before flying up to one of the gatling guns, performing a play I’ve seen too many times in fiction. Wrestling the auto-aiming gun at its joints, I force it to face the other three gatling guns instead of me, destroying them before crushing the one I’m holding with my hands.

Taking a quick breather and assessing my magical reserves, I quickly deduce that the weirdly-advanced defense system must be courtesy of Anne’s creator. I need to be careful moving forward: if any of the other defenses have repulsor blasts instead of bullets, I could be in for a world of hurt.

Actually, you know what? I can just check.

Activating my scrying spell, I can see two large squads of people with HYDRA repulsor rifles heading towards me to those earlier chokepoints – the repulsor rifles actually glow blue with Tesseract energy in my sight. In addition, there’s more people underground, and then a bunch of spread-out Tesseract energy uniformly lining what seems to be hallways… and then two people next to a concentrated bundle of weapons, further east of any of the other underground infrastructure. A secret entrance… or exit?

I can either fight through swaths of elite units with repulsor technology, or circle around the castle and try to find that secret entrypoint. The latter might take a little time, and I might have to bamboozle a few HYDRA-tech defense machines, but the former… Well, even if I could mow down room after room of soldiers , it’ll take a while and give the high command more time to try and escape.

Deciding to fight smart, not hard, I blast away at the infrastructure of the chokepoints, caving them in, before flying out to try and find that hidden tunnel.

Panting as he does the most physical activity he’s done in the last decade, Julius hurries to the hidden convoy garage under Castle Sabbat, installed sometime during WWII. The details don’t matter – he tosses a box of electronics and HYDRA technology into the back of an army truck and then jumps in the driver’s seat.

All according to plan, of course, of course… Everything’s going according to plan! After asserting himself as the only true answer to Doom’s armor, these Latverian dumbasses bent themselves over to his command. Now, this army of brainless gorillas can go die in swaths to Doom, following his brilliant stratagems, and while they’re throwing themselves at that gypsy demon, he can escape in the chaos of the fight. Hopefully, Doom dies a painful death: if not to the cannon fodder, then to some of his repulsor defense systems that he’s been installing after his Android’s humiliating defeat.

Let them kill each other, what does he care? He’s already lost everything! Oh, years of progress and work gone – he would have revolutionized the weapons industry, with his nanotechnology replication, with his Android…! No matter, he can simply rebuild from the scraps, live another day. What use was it, to die for some senile bastard currently pissing himself on the floor of a church?

Laughing maniacally, and a little bit unstably to himself, Julius relishes his personal victory as he fumbles through the stolen truck keys. Once more, he’s gathered wonderful data, once more, he’s escaping scot-free – just like Budapest, honestly! He must be the best escape artist known to man!

And then he feels a cold barrel press against his sweaty temple, and his smile is frozen in place as his eyes turn to the passenger seat.

A woman with red hair in a pitch-black sneaking suit looks coldly at him.

“I wouldn’t start the car just yet, Dr. Denker,” she informs him in sharp Russian, “you’ve attracted our interest.”

“You’re Russian? Are you FSB? Wh-What do you want?” He shudders, licking his lips. “If it’s my services, I don’t often work for free…”

“Tell me about HYDRA.” She says coldly, pressing the gun harder against his skin.

“Hah!” He barks out a laugh, knowing damn well what will happen if he blabbers. “You’re better off shooting me.”

“Well, if you want me to be persuasive about it…” The Russian trails off, before taking out a…

What in the hell is that?

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

Chapter Text

“A secret passage?” Raphael considers, as Nikolai pulls up a blueprint of Castle Sabbat on my HUD. “All I know is that Fortunov’s bunker is an open secret, over.”

“Well, anything would be helpful. Uh, over.” I say, throwing a car at a squad of rooftop soldiers and wiping them off the map. My perimeter check became a perimeter patrol somewhere in the middle, and I’ve been cutting off direct areas of control between Castle Sabbat and the rest of the city.

“Directly under the throne room is a passage to an oubliette. The story goes that it was deep enough to be at the same level as the moat, and that the prisoners would drown if they were tossed down there, over.”

“A moat…” I trail off, before magically levitating all the pins off the frag grenades of another squad of soldiers. I fly off before the dozens of fragmentation explosions make my ears ring. “...But there isn’t a moat there anymore? Over?”

“Wait, I think I can help here. Hold for fifteen seconds.” Zofia chimes in, and I continue my work while she sorts through files. “...There we go. Overlay the new images over the blueprints, over.”

Nikolai does so, and an ancient building plan, looking to be from about the Renaissance era, is overlaid on top of the more modern blueprints. Then, overlaid on top of those two are the city’s waste management systems – oh, I see.

“So the moat served as the basis of the city’s sewer system, which is why the pipes…”

“Are comically huge and just asking to be infiltrated, yes. If you plan on keeping Castle Sabbat as the center of government, I’d recommend keeping an eye on that, over.” Zofia informs me.

“Thanks for the heads up, King Actual. I’ll keep it in mind if we ever play truth-or-dare.”

“You’d need to bribe me at least $200 to go down there, over.” Raphael snarks, and I can’t help but take the low-hanging fruit.

“Aw, come on, you’re even named Raphael.” I point out, landing next to the nearest manhole and plucking it open. Snapping my fingers, I conjure a small force field around my head, serving as a little bubblehead charm.

“If you ever call me a turtle, I will shoot you. Again!” He threatens me emptily.

“Please remember to stick to callsigns and say over, over.” Nikolai drones out, riling Raphael up on purpose. I hear the sound of a pen being thrown before I delve into the sewer.

…

It scares me sometimes, how much I’m becoming accustomed to war and death. Worse is, in this insane universe of superpowers and violence, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

After a few minutes of underground sewer flight in complete darkness – which is as off-putting as it sounds – I blast the doors off of a hidden garage exit, lightning crackling all around me.

I expect to see Fortunov and Anne’s creator, as is the case with a lot of movies. Secret bunker, hidden exit, the two big bad names sitting in the same room…

Except instead of a cinematic final confrontation, I find a man with long hair, crawling on his nails away from a truck, blood trickling from everywhere on his body. He’s beaten, bruised, burned, and has several teeth missing – and sounds like he’s actively sobbing. I only vaguely recognize him as Dr. Denker, from all the footage I’ve been monitoring in the hospital.

Getting out of the truck is Natasha Romanov, who, let me clarify, I had no idea was ever in the country until now.

“Natasha?” I tense up, electricity building up in my fists. I’m 100% certain I can kill her in a fight, but man, I don’t want to. “Is SHIELD…?”

“They wanted to keep track of you, since you’re a high-priority asset now.” She says curtly, offering me a hand to shake. We both ignore the man crawling away like a sniveling worm. “But I’ve been given a few extra chores.”

Well, that makes sense… Anyone could see that Fortunov has some HYDRA backing, whether it’s from old colleagues or from the currently-hidden HYDRA itself.

Deciding to play nice with the big boys, I shake her hand firmly before unholstering my Stasis Gun and shooting the crawling man. He stops in place.

Natasha blinks, raising an eyebrow.

“We wanted him alive.”

“He’s alive, I’ve just disabled the non-essential parts of his somatic nervous system. Watch!” I shoot him again, and he takes a deep breath, scrambling to see if he’s in control of his body again. …Then I shoot him again, stopping him once more.

“Interesting.”

“Look, Nat, I’m on a time constraint,” I tell her bluntly, steeling myself to say this next, very cruel line, “I… I need him dead. Sooner, rather than later.”

Natasha frowns.

“That’s not in your current MO.” She says, as if making a connection.

“If I let him live, he’s inevitably going to be a problem.” I explain, far too savvy with how this business goes. And if SHIELD gets a hold of him, well, that’s basically me giving him back to HYDRA scot-free. No deal. “I’d love to get through this war without any more killing, I do, but that means I’m going to deal with my problems right here, right now. Including him. Before he hurts anyone else.”

“He has valuable information that the higher-ups at SHIELD want.” Oh, goddamn it, it’s the World Security Council at it again! Now that makes me even more vindicated in ending Denker.

“And… I’m assuming the command bypassed Director Fury and went straight to you?” I hazard a guess, knowing how the ‘secretly evil Illuminati stand-in’ schtick usually goes.

Natasha regards me for a moment. I cross my arms, waiting for whatever else she has to say. Tick tock, Nat, there’s a war raging above ground.

“...You were a Black Widow.” She says slowly.

I blink. Now that came out of nowhere. Why would she think that? Well, let’s see… I’m a woman born in the Eastern Bloc roughly around the same time as Natasha, who then disappeared into the system roughly when both of my parents were murdered, with seemingly superhuman genius abilities from out of nowhere who then appeared with her own power suit only a year after Iron Man came out…

I mean, I can kind of see the picture, but there’s several plot holes in there that aren’t resolved. Like all the times I actually went to school. And my atrocious attitude while at State University. You could argue that those were both covers – with how insane the Red Room’s program was, and how Soviet espionage functioned in general, it wasn’t out of the picture, but…

“Nope.” I shrug. “Too far-fetched. The biggest flaw in that theory is my modus operandi. And… and in how much it hurts to hurt people. The Red Room would never produce someone like me.”

“Then, how did you know who I was, back in New York? Who Fury is?” She questions me, pulling out a… what is that? Nevermind, I don’t want to know. “You even know what the Red Room was. Make it make sense.”

“I could explain my abilities in detail, but you’d never believe me.” If you count ‘getting blown up by an astral projection machine and learning about a past life where all of this is fiction’ as an ability. By some isekai standards, it actually is. “You’re better off figuring out my secrets over time.”

I look at Denker, and get an idea.

“How about we make a deal? I have better information than what he could ever give you.”

If I’m gonna show my precognitive hand (and I’ve goofed up enough interactions with Natasha that I’m gonna have to at some point) then I might as well get some benefit out of it. It helps that I can tailor my cards based on my one-woman audience.

Natasha seemingly freezes. It’s not a great tell, since I know she can fake it with the best of them. See: Loki.

Another pause. Natasha pockets her… thing… in a flashy way that lets me know she’s holstered it. Intuitively, I’ve got half a mind to think that she actually pulled some slight-of-hand just then, to activate a recording device. That knocks out any HYDRA information I could have fed to her just now.

“You go first.” She finally tells me, apparently willing to accept the deal. Thank God, I’m awful at haggling.

“General Dreykov is alive, and the Red Room is still operational and active.” I drop the bombshell without ceremony. “Your biggest lead will be former Black Widow Oksana, in Morocco. I’d recommend finding her before they do.”

There. Lowball the actual big details, but give Natasha the hero’s call to action, so to speak. She won’t believe me if I say both Dreykovs are alive, or if I say the Red Room is a giant phallic Helicarrier in the sky, but this should be enough to light a fire under her.

“Dreykov is…?” Natasha trails off, and I take the opportunity to further validate my claims.

“If you need help, I’d recommend breaking the Red Guardian out of the Seventh Circle. He’s not actually dead. I’d offer my own services, but, well…” I chuckle humorlessly, tilting my head. “...I’m a bit too high-profile now. And I’ll be busy with all sorts of bureaucracy soon.”

“I’m very good with papers.” The super-spy asserts, with a bit more firmness than before. For an emotionally-repressed Black Widow agent, that means she’s utterly fuming – and wants me to help kill the bastard. Which, hell yeah, girl power, but Latveria comes first.

“Clear it with Fury, and we can figure something out in the future.” I gesture vaguely. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine, that sort of thing. Now…”

I level a crackling palm at Denker’s frozen body.

“...Are we good?” I ask Natasha, genuinely.

“Very.”

With a well-aimed plasma beam, Dr. Julius Denker is subjected to a high-power Bolt of Balthakk. He dies as he lived: a powerless man hiding behind illusions of grandeur, humiliated by people with an ounce of cleverness, and crushed like the co*ckroach he was. His only true contribution to society is Anne, and honestly, that’s the only reason I would truly regret killing him.

Her core glows warmly in my chest.

“Alright, well, I’ve got a revolution to finish, and a king who I’d very much like to overthrow, among other things. Feel free to stick around as either Romanoff or as plucky Ms. Rushman as part of Stark’s relief effort – I don’t mind SHIELD keeping an eye on things.” I inform her, swishing my cape behind me.

“We’ll take you up on your offer.” She smiles at me, more as a courtesy than anything else. “Just so you know, Denker’s tech is in the back of the truck. I’d recommend taking his laptop to hack the security systems.”

“Oh. I almost forgot, heh.” I admit, a bit of humor seeping back into my bones after that really tense verbal showdown with the super-spy Avenger. Marching up to the vehicle, I yoink the computer out from the box of HYDRA loot and other gadgets. “Look forward to working with you, Nat.”

“Stay safe.” She nods to me, turning on the ignition and opening the ruined garage doors.

“You too.” I wave back, before marching into the hidden bunker hallways of Castle Sabbat, working away at Denker’s hardware.

…

I make short work of it, and all of his automatic defenses are disabled: he kept the control application highly visible and easily accessible for himself. I’m even able to disable several of the manned artillery pieces, as well – I suspect that’s how he managed to target me with just about every rocket in Doomstadt, during my fight above the castle.

Taking a deep breath, I traverse the hollow halls of the bunker, passing by several disabled guns and traps.

Eventually, I come to a closed door with a cross above it. My scrying ability confirms there is one man inside.

I take a deep breath and prepare to face the man who ruined my life, and so many others’.

I gently close the door behind me.

In front of me is His Majesty, King Vladimir Fortunov I. He kneels before the cross at the head of the bunker’s church room, his hands together in prayer. His whole body is shaking.

In my head, from the moment I reincarnated as Doctor Doom to right now, this exact scenario has happened in my head a litany of different ways. I’ve daydreamed of dragging him into the sky, above the clouds, and then dropping him, flying alongside his fall to watch his suffering. Of stuffing him in a test tube, only to fill it with several million volts of electricity, and laughing at his pain.

This man has inflicted so much pain and death to Victor and Victor’s people, that even the Japanese schoolgirl, who loves and cares for most people, can’t help but feel the visceral need to kill him brutally. It’s an intrusive thought that lives in a lot of people: to destroy those who would enact evil so wholly and so completely. Especially when you’re a victim of evil. What WWII soldier hasn’t thought of filling Hitler full of lead? What political prisoner in the gulags hasn’t thought of slamming Stalin’s face into a brick wall, over and over?

They’re irredeemable monsters. All of those people, and Fortunov as well. But in front of me is a scared old man who prays and prays and hopes his death will be painless. His knees are probably chafed, his heart is probably pounding. He knows that behind him is a god made of steel and lightning, and there is nothing he can do about it.

I should kill him right now. On sight. My heart yearns to conjure an attack so powerful, so precise, that there will be nothing but a burning hole where his chest is.

But the fate of Latveria rests in what I do with this feeble man. This is a decision that will determine the future of this country, the future of my people.

I silently take out the Stasis Gun from its holster. The beam of light pierces through Fortunov’s head, and he’s rendered immobile on the spot.

I lock the door behind me and close my eyes to think.

…

CLUNK!

Within the mind palace of Katarina von Doom, five women sit imperiously at a conference table.

"We will now commence the tribunal to determine the fate of Vladimir Fortunov."

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

Chapter Text

“Obviously, he dies. There’s no need to argue about that.” Supreme Leader Katarina says, and the other four all nod in agreement.

It’s a surprisingly somber council, all things considered. None of the usual goofiness and excitement can be found among the five voices of Katarina’s mind.

“I say we kill him now! Be over with it. The bastard deserves worse than death. It would be a mercy. ” Fearless Katarina grinds her teeth, the first to speak up as always.

“We need him alive to conduct a fair and, more importantly, visible trial of his war crimes –” Smart Katarina interjects, before Fearless Katarina butts in.

“What, haul him over to the Hague, see what the ICC thinks? What matters is justice now!” Fearless Katarina growls.

“But SHIELD and the UN… they’ll want accountability. We don’t have the strength to spit in the face of international law yet!” Spineless Katarina worries, clutching her robe.

“ Why are we trusting the fate of Latveria to an organization that’s half-HYDRA, and a bunch of selfish Eurocentric picket-fencers?” Fearless Katarina rolls her eyes, standing her ground against the other two.

“...There is the option of leaving him in the ZRM’s hands. Like Gulmira.” Spineless Katarina offers, before Smart Katarina makes a derisive ‘tsk!’.

“And leave him with the bloodthirsty revolutionaries? That won’t wash our hands of the issue: if anything, we’d be encouraging a mob mentality! And they won’t nearly be as civilized about it as us.” Smart Katarina taps on the table, emphasizing her point.

“That’s why we take the matter into our own hands. Kill him now. We can even make it painless. So long as he’s dead by our hands.” Fearless Katarina demands, standing from her chair. “It’s our right, goddamn it!”

“Vengeance and emotion have no place in our master plan!” Smart Katarina raises her voice, also standing. “You’ve done enough. We’ve done enough. The war’s been getting into our head, and you’re only making it worse!”

“I-I don’t want to make this decision – I abstain…!” Spineless Katarina cowers, shuddering.

“Alright, let’s go a round or two, see who’s right that way!” Fearless Katarina charges lightning in her hands.

“Very well, then. Come at me!” Smart Katarina fires up her thrusters.

Supreme Leader Katarina stands up to break up the fight –

But then, both of their faces are slammed into the council table by Happy Katarina, creating indents in the mind palace visualization. Spineless Katarina yelps and hides even further in her robe.

“...I’m gonna admit, I don’t have much of a say here. I’ve been awfully quiet ever since this war started.” Happy Katarina says, still burying the other Katarinas’ faces into the furniture. “But it’s my vote that got us into this situation, and I say our goal should still be to try our best and, most importantly, help people . Because that’s what makes us happy in the long run!”

She lets go of their heads. Both of them stumble backwards dizzily, before shaking it off.

“So, you two work with me to figure this out.” Happy Katarina points to both of them. “What will make Reed happy? What will make Maria, or any of the ZRM happy? How about Ben, or Sue, or Johnny? And not just in-the-moment happy: actually, consistently happy, for a long time. With as little suffering as possible.”

A grumble and a silence echoes through the council room. Smart Katarina sighs.

“...We don’t need Fortunov alive to hold a public war crime trial. That, itself, provides enough public justice to give ourselves legitimacy as a government.” She admits, before straightening her mask. “But Fortunov’s sentencing be beneficial.”

“We still…” Fearless Katarina seethes, visibly trying to calm herself down. “We need closure. My people need closure, yes, but so do we. We’re part of the equation, not separate.”

“Ugh, you guys… Here I am, trying to put a neat bow on everything, and you both manage to complicate things still…” Happy Katarina sighs.

“I… I have an idea for a compromise between all of you…?” Spineless Katarina squeaks, and the entire council turns to look at her.

…

Eventually, they come to an agreement.

CLUNK!

“Your Majesty.”

I move, my steel boots heavy against the cobblestone underneath me. I approach Fortunov slowly, imperiously. My voice is a slow, low cadence, a funeral dirge compared to my usual liveliness.

“To begin, I’ll be removing the coward’s solution out of the equation.”

I levitate the poorly-hidden handgun from his side, even going as far as to dismantle it using my magic. The separated components clatter to the ground, preventing Fortunov’s suicide.

I reach him. Then, I walk past him. I sit on the altar of the church, obscuring his view of the cross he so desperately prays for.

God can judge him later. For now, a humble Katarina will do.

“You have done so much evil in this world. So many atrocities. I like to believe I see the good in everyone, that I give a lot of people a second chance, but… you?”

My bright blue eyes look down on him in contempt.

“You don’t deserve any of that. Not with all those Zefiro bodies, piled up in a mass grave. Not when my mother was one of them. Not when I remember my father’s frozen embrace. Not when you starve your people and sink your nation into poverty, all because of your paranoia. None of it.”

Even frozen, his eyes are full of fear. They should be.

“Your fields are barren and your army is routed. You are king of a failed state, king of a broken home, king of nothing. The Kingdom of Latveria once prided itself on its lush green plains, something that even your forefathers could appreciate… but you’ve done nothing but overrun them with graves and blood. You’re… honestly, a waste of oxygen. And a disgrace to your family. I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself already.”

With one hand, I grab him by the face, my palm pressed against his forehead, my fingers covering his eyes. With the other hand, I unfreeze him.

And then I lift him up by his head, just enough that his toes can touch the ground if he so tries. Immediately, his wrinkled hands clamp down on my arm uselessly, and he struggles to no avail.

“Pl-Please… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” He begs.

“And now you apologize? Not because you have any morality, but because you’re facing consequences? ” I wince at him in pure disgust. “You really are… trash. Filth, even.”

I begin to channel energy through my armor, letting it flow from the battery, to my arm, to my fingers.

Fortunov’s body immediately starts tensing, his clinging hands growing desperate. Oh, please. That’s a joybuzz compared to what I’m about to do.

“Please! Please…!”

“What do you plea for?” I ask him, before turning up the voltage.

He yelps in pain, the squeal raspy from his throat.

“F-Forgiveness! My life! Please, God! Mercy!”

“Why should I give you mercy?” I ask him, before turning up the voltage.

He screams again, his entire body spasming.

“I can do whatever you want! I’ll become your slave! I’ll – I’ll hand you the country! Please, God, please, please!”

“Will you do me favors? Will you listen to my commands?” I ask him, before turning up the voltage.

He screams fully, with his entire breath. His entire body is shaking, and I can see the lightning ricocheting off his skin.

“Anything , please, God, anything! Let me kill myself! Order me to kill myself!”

“Anything at all?” I ask him, before turning up the voltage.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA –”

He screams his throat raw, unable to speak any further. His entire body rattles intensely, and his nose bleeds profusely. His tears flow freely.

I look deeply into his eyes, carefully monitoring his capacity to keep living. Through my scrying spell, I watch as his soul withers smaller and smaller and smaller, until it’s smaller than the fire of a matchstick. I let it dwindle as low as it will go…

And then, I drop him, letting him spasm on the ground of the church. He’s not dead. Yet.

Once he’s stable enough to see and speak again, I roll him over with my boot. The light shines down around my head like a halo, and my shadow is all that he sees.

“Then do me a favor, and wear my mask.”

I pull up a text document, and then take off my mask. Fortunov can see the complete image of my utter revulsion, now. The lines marring my face, the dimness in my eyes. Gently, I put it on his face – his disgusting face, covered in blood, and snot, and tears.

“Now read the words.” I command.

He does so.

Once more, every siren, every phone, and every radio in Latveria is commandeered for a public service announcement. Even television services and military communications are forcefully tuned in.

“Puh… People of… Latveria…”

The fighting in Doomstadt nearly stops, as the whimpering, sobbing voice of Vladimir Fortunov echoes throughout the city.

“I… V-Vladimir Fortunov… do hereby… proclaim the unconditional surrender of my throne and my forces… t-to the true Latverian people, a-and of… of all forces associated with my command.”

More than a few soldiers drop their weapons in shock. In the middle of an active battlefield, you can hear a pin drop.

“I hereby command… all forces associated with me… to… t-to cease hostilities, a-and preserve and save all… military property and lives… and to comply w-with… the reasonable and lawful demands of the Latverian people.”

A sniffle. A sob. The great Fortunov cries openly and messily for all to hear, choking on his own tears until he regains his composure after what feels like an eternity of pitiful whimpering.

“I… I-I hereby command… all prisoners of war, political p-prisoners, a-and ethnic prisoners to be freed… and for their un… unconditional protection, a-and care. Any… any and all resistance will be… will be met with self-defense and t-tried… as treason and, and acts of terrorism.”

A shuddering breath.

“I… Vladimir Fortunov… d-do solemnly swear… to turn myself in, as well as all military high command… f-for… for public adjudication f-for crimes against humanity, and that any attempt to flee will be met with… lethal force. By th-the power vested in me… by crown, and, and, and throne… so… so mote it… be...”

A body slumps. There’s a silence, followed by the sound of a microphone scratching, before a woman sighs deeply.

“I, Katarina von Doom, acting as a representative of the Latverian people, accept Vladimir Fortunov’s unconditional surrender. Let it be known that all remaining units under Vladimir Fortunov’s chain of command must surrender now, or else be met with appropriate force in self-defense.

“This war is over. Thank you, and stay safe.”

The announcement ends.

Every resistance cell away from the fighting erupts into cheers.

In Doomstadt, Soldiers begin to walk slowly out from behind their cover, their hands held over their heads. Generals make their best attempt to flee the city while they can… with the keyword being, ‘attempt’.

One, in particular, only got far enough to be crushed under the foot of a large golem.

Hours later, overseas, several government officials in several different nations hear the news and immediately get very, very concerned.

Holding Fortunov’s now-unconscious body in my arms, I walk through the once-beautiful halls of Castle Sabbat, my mask now fully off of my face. My expression matches my mood: that is to say, stoically determined to get out of here.

I quietly pass by so many armed forces who, only moments ago, were hunting me down to fill me full of lead and plasma. I can only assume that they’re not still trying to kill me because I’m holding their leader… or because they know it’s a useless endeavor, one that will just get everyone in their vicinity killed. It doesn’t matter. What matters is they’re not shooting.

There's so many emotions: fear, sadness, shock… I couldn't imagine being in their shoes. Still, I don't stop to speak with them. My mission, now, is to secure Fortunov for his public trial, Latverian verdict, andlawfulexecution… while making ashowof him while doing so.

Soon enough, I exit the building through the front door. My hair and cape billow mildly in the wind, the dark clouds above still unchanged from when the fight started. It didn’t rain, though, so that’s good.

Coming out of the building, I spot a glint of light coming from a nearby building. A reporter, or a sniper…?

I look directly at it, my expression still stoic, before shaking my head and flying off.

Chapter 26: Chapter 26 - Recovery Arc

Chapter Text

A hush falls over the room as I enter, and walk up to the podium.

I look out at the rows and rows of older, more mature, more worthy politicians. I look at all the flashing lights, eager to find every fault in my expression. It’s taking everything in me to not wipe my sweaty palms on my formal dress-and-blazer combo – or touch my hair, or clear my throat. I can’t afford to be nervous. Wait until the car ride, at least, Kat!

Instead, I remind myself that I face down some possible allies, and even more guaranteed enemies, knowing damn well that many ambassadors here are HYDRA snakes in disguise. My gaze becomes steely, and I lock in for my life. For Latveria. For the good guys. C’mon!

I take a calming breath and part my lips.

From latveria.archives.doom:

THE FOLLOWING IS AN ABRIDGED TRANSCRIPT OF LATVERIAN DELEGATE KATARINA VON DOOM’S ADDRESS TO THE UNITED NATIONS GENERAL ASSEMBLY.

“Mr. President. Mr. Secretary-General. Fellow delegates. Ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered today to discuss and assess the rebirth of a nation, the dawn of a new age.

I stand before you as the voice of the former Kingdom of Latveria in this honorable assembly. A new power rises in the Balkans, and I am its representative. I stand before you as the gaze you must meet, as the hand you must shake, as the darkness in the night, when regarding the unknown future.

“I am Katarina von Doom, and today, I represent my Latveria.

“The ghost of the war that founded this institution haunted, and still haunts Europe. And, in my homeland, it took root and festered as a parasite. Twenty years ago, Vladimir Fortunov decreed an executive census, under the guise of gathering innocent demographic data. Instead, he was willing, able, and eager to replicate the atrocities waived by his father during that war. And so he did, targeting not only the Romani, but all minority populations deemed unfit for his perfect world order.

“When the Latverian people sought security and protection, nobody answered. And so the innocent were buried, the ghettos were burned, and Latveria wept. Twenty years later, after years of economic and political mismanagement, Vladimir Fortunov decreed another executive census, under the guise of gathering demographic data. And, once again, the Latverian people sought security and protection.

“Now, we meet here, because the Latverian people answered their own call.”

[...]

“From the very advent of conflict, international observers and witnesses were sanctioned and protected by the Latverian resistance. 24/7 media coverage was, and is available, detailing as much of the Latverian Civil War as the free press could manage. The actions of all parties involved, including my own actions as a lawful combatant, are archived and currently in-discussion. Furthermore…”

[...]

“...It is evident that warfare occurred strictly on Latverian soil, conducted by willing Latverian combatants. As such, based on such overwhelming evidence, the International Criminal Court has agreed that all war crimes are to be tried through existing domestic law, through existing judicial powers.

“Even then, in the interest of remaining unbiased even during a tenuous time in our history, we have agreed to assemble a third-party grand jury for the upcoming trials. Without divulging individual identities, this grand jury includes educated, honored, and unaffiliated citizens from Germany, Hungary, Japan, Mexico, Sokovia, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Wakanda…”

[...]

“...And of course, it must be said that with this new government, new systems must be made. Dictatorship and executive power based solely on heritage cannot stand. Hence, the Latverian people have called multiple summits, inviting fellow nations to join us in determining the particulars of a new constitution. One with checks and balances, one with clear representation.

“Even now, the effects of these summits are underway. Political parties organize themselves at this very moment, eager to prove to the people that they represent their interests, honestly and fully. Slowly but surely, the chains of serfdom and servitude are being broken, replaced with the justice of the modern republic.”

[...]

“But even under the scrutiny of the world, and even after the long storm of tyranny, we will not falter in the face of challenge. Nor will we bow to irrational demands. I guarantee you, there is no universe where I surrender my armor to cowardice and appeasem*nt. And there is no universe where Latveria surrenders her pride to snakes, and slumps down as a failed state.

“This Latveria is new, but it is strong. It will recover. It may bend, but it will never break. Her people will toil to cultivate and nurture her growth. So long as I am Latverian, I will toil to cultivate and nurture Latveria’s growth, into a prosperous nation that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the giants that surround us. Whether over years or decades or days, change shall come, like the green of spring, or the lightning of autumn.

“There is only advancement in our future. After the storm and the steel, there will be rolling green plains and the promise of a brighter future, there will be fortune, there will be love, there will be light . I merely ask that you stand with my Latveria, when that time comes.

“Thank you very much.”

(Applause.)

“Did I read it right?!” Katarina’s voice echoes through the Baxter Building, as the woman of the hour barrels past his guests. “ Reed, did I read it right?!”

Fashionably late to his own party, Reed can only laugh as Katarina grabs his shoulders, shaking him silly. The rest of the guests follow suit, clearly entertained by her antics. For him, it’s still a huge whiplash seeing Katarina go from all business to all play: he’d spent so much time reviewing footage of the war, that he forgot about the woman who could clean off a box of Oreos in under an hour.

“Yes, yes, you did a good job, have a gold star.” He chuckles, patting her cheek. She pouts, getting red in the face. She’s such a baby sometimes. “But honestly, Kat, you did amazing. You really made it your own, and represented your people well. Be proud. Own it.”

Between Reed’s finishing touches on the Marvel-1 mission and Katarina’s frenzied months of organizing the new constitutional monarchy of Latveria, the two roommates hadn’t had much time to meet in person. Admittedly, one of the first things Katarina did after annexing Latveria was fly to California, tackle-hug him, and cry deeply into his shoulder… but after that, the both of them were quite busy at their respective stations.

Hence, meetings like this – where he could leave the Marvel-1 in trusted hands, and Katarina would find herself in America – tend to be more… reactive than before. When she told him she was to present at the UN, and that she was freaking out over what to even say, he knew he had to be in New York for it. Especially since he wrote most of it, with some input from her. The ‘post-UN assembly, but not at the Latverian Embassy because Kat wants to let loose ’ party is mostly because they both wanted to celebrate and see some colleagues.

“Are you just saying that because you’re my friend?” Kat whines, poking his chest.

“No, I’m being absolutely objective, and –”

“Hey, Phoebus, you made it!” Tony Stark butts in, holding a glass of champagne.

“Mr. Stark.” Reed nods to his commissioner.

“Oh, Tony, hi!” Katarina grins. Doom fist-bumps Iron Man. “Glad you could make it!”

“Glad to be here.”

Kat raises an eyebrow. “Phoebus?”

“‘Cause you’re Esmeralda. Disney reference.” Katarina blinks and makes an ‘oooh!’ face. Stark moves on. “How’re my boy scouts doing?”

“The relief effort is going great: infrastructure’s coming back, and we’ve helped so many people…” Katarina trails off, her voice going a bit soft, before noticing the military man flanking Stark. “Colonel Rhodes?”

“You can just call me Rhodey.” He says, before offering a handshake to Kat. She shakes firmly.

“Dr. Richards.” Rhodes nods to Reed, and he nods back.

“Colonel.”

Reed’s met James Rhodes only a couple of times now, and mostly because Tony wanted to show him the ‘fancy new spaceship’ being built on a Stark Industries budget. Although, Reed’s habitual need to address people by title has been a curse recently: every time, Stark will insist on being called Tony, and harangue Reed endlessly for calling Rhodes by his rank. Last time, he even brought a bag of popcorn as an inside joke.

“I’m half-happy to meet you as a member of the power armor club, and half-terrified I might start a war.” Rhodes fake-cringes, as part of the joke.

“I don’t start wars, I’ll have you know,” Katarina says, before raising an eyebrow, “unless you have oil on you?”

They all share a mild laugh at that. …Rhodes a little less than the others.

“So. You’ve got the bad guy, and you managed to follow all the Geneva Conventions – somehow. How’s the election campaign going?” Stark asks. Reed sips his drink, letting Kat take care of this one.

“Oh, aha… I’m not running.” She shrugs, a little embarrassed, before smelling and grabbing a hors d'oeuvres off a catering plate.

“Really? It’d be a landslide. You’re already running the place.” Rhodes points out, while she takes a bit out of the appetizer.

“Mffmfmfmfmmfmfm.” Katarina attempts to say something about her specific role and how she doesn’t expect to stay in-office, but as always, talks with her mouth full.

“Kat, chew.” Reed says, like second nature.

Gulp! “Only as an advisor, and only temporarily. I’ve been an expat for years : they’re the ones running the show.”

“So what’s the plan, you just gonna chill on the couch again?” Stark says.

“Yup!” She grins.

“You went from dropout to El Presidente – and then you’re going back to dropout?” Rhodes asks, in disbelief.

“To be fair, it’s a really nice couch.” Katarina tries to argue.

Reed snorts. “She just likes freeloading and having no responsibilities.”

“That’s right! And besides, could you imagine me in a position of power?” Kat scoffs. “I’ll always look out for my country – I’m not a giant liar like most politicians – but that includes knowing when I’m wayyy out of my league.”

Both Iron Man and War Machine look at each other like it’s a sitcom. Then, they look at Reed.

Reed shrugs, like ‘what can you do?’. He’s been trying for weeks to convince her that maintaining a more permanent seat of power, at least for a few terms, would be best for Latveria. She’s still convinced she’s not fit for the role.

Rhodes frowns in a ‘welp’ expression, while Stark does his best to transition smoothly out of there.

“Well, you’ve still got that US citizenship somehow, might as well use it.” He acquiesces, before his phone rings, and he already starts to walk away. “sh*t, that’s probably Pepper, I gotta take that. Rhodey, grab me a drink? Think I’ll need it.”

“Whatever you say, man.” Rhodes says over his shoulder, before turning back to Katarina. “Hey. I dunno if anyone’s told you this, but if you need to talk to someone about your time on the ground, I’m there.”

“I… Oh.” Katarina realizes what he’s talking about, before smiling at him. “Actually, that’s incredibly thoughtful. Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind.”

They share another handshake before Rhodes leaves. Despite the party all around them, it feels awfully quiet when Katarina’s lost in thought.

Reed places a hand on her shoulder.

“Everything alright?”

She pauses, before smiling at him.

“Getting better. Trying to get better.”

Then, she looks around, trying to see if anyone’s listening, before whispering conspiratorially. “Hey. This party’s great and all, and I’m really happy to see people, but… after this, wanna do an all-nighter and watch Star Trek? Break out the Ben and Jerry’s?”

“What, like old times?” Reed asks, considering it. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work…”

Katarina just grins and snickers. Oh, he can’t help it. He only gets to spend time with Kat so often, these days.

“...Oh, alright.”

“Yessss!” She cheers, hugging him.

For as long as they can afford it, Reed is happy to have her back.

A few days after my UN speech, there's a piece of mail delivered to the Baxter Building.

It comes from State University, inviting me to accept an honorary Ph.D. in the field of robotic engineering.

"Heh."

Chapter 27: Chapter 27

Chapter Text

The New York Times

32 SAVED FROM DOOM, BY VON DOOM

Latverian U.N. delegate and newest “Iron Man”, Katarina von Doom, rescued 32 residents from an apartment fire in Brooklyn. (October 1, 2010.)

(Image: Katarina von Doom, cradling 6 year old Mina Martinez, as she floats out of the burning apartment.)

Four days ago, a broken wire turned into a roaring inferno on the corner of Junius and Sutter Avenue. However, while firefighters geared up and ambulances rolled out, a different form of aid arrived: this one, in the shape of the most watched woman in Europe today.

Katarina von Doom, the former de facto leader of the Latverian resistance forces and current United Nations delegate, donned her next-generation power armor and flew into the flames of the Renner Apartments complex. Recorded on video for the world to see, Doom proceeded to extract residents and pets into professional care – even managing to recover some keepsakes, per the requests of their owners.

(Image: Doom returning an urn with a Purple Heart around it to 72 year old Margaret Smith, who is in tears. They are surrounded by ambulances and firetrucks.)

“It was amazing. I was shocked to see it,” Fire Captain John Hogan said, recalling the event, “I know how hot those fires can get: more than 1000°F, that’s for sure. But if she’s shrugging off bullets and punching tanks, I guess it’s just another day for her. We’re all very glad Ms. Doom was able to help.”

According to Doom herself, she was “just in the area”, when she noticed smoke rising from the skyline.

“There’s a coffee shop that I’ve been craving, called Donut Joe: I used to go to it all the time, after I left State University,” Doom explained in a brief correspondence with our on-site journalist, referencing her expulsion from the Ivy League school after a tragic accident, “but then when I saw the fire, I flew out immediately.”

Most residents were found to be mostly uninjured; however, 3 received medical care for second-degree burns. Any hospital bills were reportedly paid by the Latverian Embassy. In addition, all recovered pets were in good health.

(Image: the Latverian Embassy. Its former banners are furled up, pending designs for a new flag.)

Upon Doom’s recommendation, officials discovered that the electrical wiring for the apartment was not up to code, and incurred several OSHA violations. Further investigation is ongoing, but many of the former residents of the Renner complex claim that this was a recurring issue.

Currently, the residents have received temporary housing, also provided by the Latverian Embassy. When questioned about her decision to spend so many resources on non-Latverian citizens, Doom seemed perplexed.

“Why would I save someone just to put them on the streets?” Doom said, “I’ve got Fortunov’s gold, I may as well use it for good.”

(For more on Vladimir Fortunov and the state of Latveria before the recent conflict, see page 17.)

The Daily Bugle

DOOM: A DASTARDLY DOMINATRIX!

Latveria’s latest dictator galivants all over New York without care. (October 2, 2010.)

(Image: Katarina von Doom, floating out of a burning New York building. She holds her arms up menacingly, as if worshiping some pagan European demon. This image definitely isn’t the one from NYT but photoshopped.)

It looks like brilliance casts a dangerous shadow, folks. In the wake of the billionaire supergenius, Anthony Stark, and his invincible Iron Man suit, a woman with a thirst for power and a hunger for blood has decided to play copycat. That’s right, Katarina von Doom looms over your doorstep at this very moment.

As the definition of a controversial figure, her mere existence sparks heated debate and political discontent all across the great United States of America. All was well when Stark “privatized world peace”, and then shared that privatization with our wonderful soldiers. But now, this Kat’s gotten her paws all over his tech. And as they say, with great power comes great corruption.

(See page 5 for details regarding Stark’s deal with Colonel James Rhodes, regarding the War Machine.)

After stealing the technology, the college dropout proceeded to lay waste on the sovereign Kingdom of Latveria under the excuse of “defending her people”. Thousands of good, honest men, dead by her hands. And, of course, the United Nations has settled on rank appeasem*nt, drawing parallels to the very appeasem*nt that led to the rise of Adolf Hitler.

And now, she makes a mockery of this great city. Tainting the beautiful Big Apple skyline with her ugly green cape, and enacting vigilante justice outside of the righteous arm of the law. Surely, this does not bode well for the upcoming senatorial election. Will Schumer bend over for this tinpot tyrant? It seems that Mayor Bloomberg already is.

When will it end, New York? Will we let her steal our jobs and our homes, next? We’re sure she’s going to take away the First Amendment from us at the Bugle, citing some inane legalese like “diplomatic immunity”. These are dark times, but even with the masked menace flying about, the Daily Bugle will continue to give you the latest, realest, and rawest news in NYC.

(More on page 4.)

PEOPLE Magazine

EXCLUSIVE! DOOM’S DAY WITH PEOPLE!

The techno powerhouse sits down for a long chat with reporters, talking about life, love, and Latveria. (October 10, 2024)

(Image: Katarina von Doom, talking animatedly to an impromptu press conference of reporters, all sat at an ice cream shop in California. The sky is gray and cloudy behind her.)

Latverian Iron Man and PEOPLE’s voted “Most Likely Woman of the Year”, Katarina von Doom, sat down today in rainy Santa Monica with reporters from TMZ, E!, PEOPLE, and other acclaimed magazines and media. Our reporters were able to see a surprisingly peppy side to the scarred superwoman, as well as find some juicy details about her personal life.

“Well, if you folks want to chat, you’ll have to buy some ice cream first,” Doom said to PEOPLE writer Christina Kicker, at Subaru’s Frozen Creamery on Third Street Promenade, “I always loop around here, over and over, whenever I visit Cali. It’s to die for! I’m sure they appreciate the business.”

Kicker started from zero and worked her way up, talking about the weather, California, and what Doom is doing so far away from her diplomatic duties.

“My colleague is currently working with Stark Industries. As an expert in the field and a friend of the company, I visit sometimes to help.” Doom said, before laughing. “Honestly, I’m kind of here for Anne, too. Both me and my friend have been helping her get her legs back, so to speak.”

Although Doom didn’t spare any further details on this mysterious Anne, sources indicated they had heard of a physical therapy patient with a similar name at UCLA Santa Monica Medical Center.

However, her colleague’s identity is already well known: Doom has been seen multiple times with Dr. Reed Richards, an astrophysicist currently studying outer space phenomena, who recently signed a contract with Stark Industries.

(Image: Katarina latches onto the arm of Dr. Richards as they walk down Santa Monica Pier. A blonde woman holds Dr. Richards’ hand, looking jealous.)

Her relationship with Dr. Richards is currently unknown. He is currently engaged to Susan Storm, a State University graduate with a major in Applied Engineering. Neither Richards nor Storm were available for comment.

Dragged await from the topic of Dr. Richards by other reporters, Doom proceeded to share various political insights on Latveria and its policies, as well as her own campaign.

“The implementation of the emergency ballots took a lot of hard work to come to a sound conclusion,” Doom said, “but I’m really proud of how far we’ve come. I wish everyone else the best of luck: I’ll always be there for them, even with an ocean between us.”

From there, Doom answered various other questions that the public wanted to know. Her favorite color? Green. Her favorite musical artist? MF LUTHOR. Her role model? A man named Victor: likely St. Victor, one of the Catholic saints associated with Latveria, and the namesake of their town of Victorum.

Unfortunately, the weather took a turn for the worst, with a heavy downpour forcing most of the reporters back to shelter. Sources told PEOPLE that Doom flew off in the direction of Stark Industries, possibly to meet with Dr. Richards.

Ziarul Latveria

OLD KING FALLS, NEW LATVERIAN ELECTION RISES

As Fortunov faces the death penalty, a new glorious leader will be chosen to usher Latveria into the modern world. (October 1, 2010.)

After months of deliberation and planning between the provisional Latverian government, United Nations Development Programme, and the Stark Relief Foundation, polling booths and voting sites have now been set, and the first Latverian election will begin on October 1. These sites can be found at all major cities, but also at any train station and hospital, per the recommendation of the honorable Katarina von Doom.

By October 15, the Kingdom of Latveria is set to become the Constitutional Monarchy of Latveria, as an interim form of government so as to potentially phase out absolute monarchist legislature in favor of republican legislature. It is with great trepidation and great excitement that Latveria awaits its chance to appoint a new set of governors and leaders, as well as a new monarchy.

Details on the specifics of the electoral procedure and constitutional requirements for electoral candidates can be found on page 20. By recommendation of the honorable Katarina von Doom, in the name of equality and represtantion, ballots will use the single transferable vote (STV) system, in which each voter turns in a single ranked-choice ballot.The contents of the ballots have been openly revealed for public review. Several expected politicians have announced their campaigns for individual positions, such as Prime Minister, Cabinet Ministers, and parliamentary seats, and as such, have been pre-printed onto the ballot.

Notable names include: Prinz Stuhr, current leader of the former Zefiro Rights Movement, now the Zefiro Republican Moderate (ZRM) party, ZRM candidate Alan Stuhr, ZRM candidate Mary Vâna, Boris Karela, current leader of the Republic Monarchist party, Monarchist candidate Sienna Négyesy, Monarchist candidate Raphael Walt, Albe Dobrynina, current leader of the Doomist party, and Doomist candidate Jakob Gorzenko. For a full list of announced candidates and their potential positions, see page 25.

Due to its contentious nature, the seat of the crown has been determined to be a strictly write-in vote, with executive powers associated with the crown to be conferred or denied by strictly democratic vote based on initial assessment. As a final remark regarding this subject, the honorable Katarina von Doom did not announce a campaign, but is a valid option for a write-in based on the constitutional requirements for electoral candidates.

Details on the specifics of the constitutional monarchy can be found on page 30. Anonymous political theorists do note that the division and assignment of powers within the government is similar to that of the United States of America and the United Kingdom, as well as other republican forms of government internationally. As stated above, the written bylaws concerning executive power are designed to be malleable by a vote of the people for a set period of time.

Items of national identity are also available to vote for on the ballot, and are completely optional when filling the ballot out. These items include potential candidates for the new national flag, the new national motto, new passport designs, new stamps, etc. A strictly-online vote is also now available for candidates for the new national anthem: the online ballot comes with playable sound files, and is available on latveria.doom.

As Latveria looks to a brighter future, she also looks to repent for her past. The trial of Vladimir Fortunov and his associated chain of command is ongoing, but insurmountable evidence has been presented showcasing their crimes against humanity. The current sentence for these crimes, if adhering strictly to Latverian law grandfathered in from the old government, is capital punishment, with the method of execution to be determined by the crown.

As the trial comes to a close, the provisional government of Latveria has joined with the United Nations in creating a restorative justice body in the Latverian Recovery Institute. This committee is set to begin hearings in November, and will be focused on investigating human rights abuses under Fortunov’s command, restoring victims’ dignity, and considering applications for amnesty and rehabilitation.

A Word from Us, at Ziarul Latveria

We at Ziarul Latveria are proud to now call ourselves members of the free press. Through the heroic actions of the honorable Katarina von Doom and the Latverian people, we will strive to deliver honest, unbiased news, no longer bound by the censorship laws of the old regime. In the eternal words of our forefathers, now a cheer instead of a mandate: the old king is dead, long live the new queen.

Chapter 28: Official Timeline

Chapter Text

• Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton operate in Budapest, on a mission to assassinate General Dreykov.

• February 11: Tony Stark is kidnapped by the Ten Rings.
• February 23: Reed Richards begins drafting plans for the Marvel-1.
• February 24: Katarina von Doom begins work on her astral projection machine.

• May 1: Stark escapes the Ten Rings using the Mark I.
• May 17: Battle of Gulmira.
• May 19: T'Challa becomes Black Panther.
• May 24: Stark battles Obadiah Stane.
• May 25: Stark reveals his identity as Iron Man.

• June 24: Doom is gravely injured in a laboratory explosion at State University, and gains memories of her past life.
• June 25: Doom is informed of her expulsion. Richards offers to house Doom; she accepts.

• Doom reveals her armor to Richards, who tentatively allows its continued development.

• Doom enters the Sanctum Sanctorum and borrows arcane texts to further enhance her armor.

• The first promotional video for Stark Expo 2010 is released.

• May 7: Stark Expo 2010 begins, and is set to continue for the length of a year.
• May 8: Stark appears before the Senate Armed Service Committee.
• May 18: Reed Richards earns his Ph.D. in Physics.
• May 20: Benjamin Grimm is admitted to the US Air Force Academy.
• May 23: Ivan Vanko attacks the Monaco Grand Prix.
• May 23: Doom meets Susan and Johnny Storm, and offers VIP tickets to Stark Expo. After learning of Vanko's attack, Doom infiltrates Stark Expo.
• May 29: Tony Stark fights Lt. James Rhodes during his birthday.
• May 29: Bruce Banner crosses US customs.
• May 29: Dr. Erik Selvig detects atmospheric anomalies in New Mexico.
• May 31: Doom meets Maria Clopoțel at Stark Expo.
• May 31: Stark, Rhodes, Doom, and Vanko all participate at the Battle at Stark Expo. Doom debuts as the third power suit wielder.
• May 31: Thor lands in New Mexico.

• June 1-6: The Daily Bugle, the New York Times, PEOPLE Magazine, and other media publish pieces related to Doom.
• June 2: Thor battles Loki. The Rainbow Bridge is destroyed.
• June 2: Stark meets with Nick Fury to discuss the Avengers Initiative.
• June 4: The Hulk battles the Abomination in Harlem.
• June 5: Fury gains the funds necessary to research the Tesseract and fully launch the Avengers Initiative.
• June 6: As a result of Doom's debut, SHIELD's Greenland mission is not delayed. Steve Rogers is recovered and thawed one year earlier.

• June 7: Stark investigates Doom.
• June 7: Fury recruits Selvig to SHIELD to study the Tesseract.
• June 8: Vladimir Fortunov I issues an executive census, the second after one in 1988. The Zefiro Rights Movement contacts Doom for recruitment.
• June 9: Stark and Romanoff meet Doom and Richards in person, and make initial plans to support Doom's revolution in Latveria. SHIELD sends Romanoff on a CLAES mission to Latveria.
• June 10: Stark signs a contract with Richards, privatizing the Marvel-1 project under Stark Industries.
• June 11: Doom lands in Germany.
• June 12: Dr. Julius Denker demonstrates the AW3-SM Android to Fortunov.
• June 12: Doom meets with Clopoțel in Horgos.
• June 13: Doom meets the ZRM for the first time. The Latverian Civil War/One-Woman War begins. During the First Battle of Doomstadt, Doom kills 5,437 armed combatants before faking her death in an explosion that severely damages Castle Sabbat.

• June 14: Doom reunites with the ZRM in Victorum, then calls Richards during an emotional breakdown. Doom discovers the properties of Molynite. The first stasis weapon is invented. Raphael Walt is recruited to the ZRM.
• June 14-17: The Latverian resistance prepares for Operation SORCIER.
• June 18: Fortunov's broadcast is interrupted by the Doomcast. Rogers and Fury review Doom's speech. Doom hijacks all electronic communication in Latveria.

• June 19-26: The majority of Latveria shifts to either support the resistance or remain neutral, with the ZRM leading the Latverian resistance. Fortunov retreats to his bunker. Denker assumes control of Castle Sabbat's chain of command.
• June 27: Doom battles the Android at Chateau Adeth. After visiting the Astral Dimension, Doom defeats and recruits the Android, now named Anne. Both are extracted by Keith Dorn.
• June 28-July 5: Doom recovers in Victorum General Hospital. Her recovery is expedited following a discovery involving Clopoțel's magical healing.

• July 8: Doom participates in the Second Battle of Doomstadt. Resistance forces overtake the city, and Doom kills Denker and captures Fortunov. Fortunov announces his unconditional surrender. This is later celebrated as Doom's Day.
• July 8: Natasha Romanoff learns of Dreykov's survival.

• September 21: Doom delivers her "Spring and Autumn" speech at the UN General Assembly. She laters meets with Richards, Stark, and Rhodes at an after-speech party.
• September 24: Doom receives an offer for an honorary Ph.D. from State University, and rejects it.
• September 30: Stark Industries issues a Cease & Desist to the US Air Force for their use of the Mark II.

• October 1-14: A series of Doom appearances are reported in various articles.
• October 7: Richards begins final preparations for the Marvel-1 launch.
• October 15: The first Latverian Election begins.
• October 30: The Latverian ballots are fully counted, and the Constitutional Monarchy of Latveria is founded.

November, 2010

• November 4: Doom is crowned Domnitoara republicii.

Chapter 29: Latveria - Wikipedia

Chapter Text

Latveria

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Motto: “We nurture all that lies before.” (Romanian: “Avem grijă de tot ceea ce ne așteaptă.” )

Anthem: “Primavara si Toamna” ●───────── 4:15

Capital and Largest City: Doomstadt

Official Languages: Romanian, German, English

Recognized minority languages: Hungarian, Russian, Romani

Demonym: Latverian

Currency: Latverian franc (1 LVF = 0.0036 USD)

Time zone: UTC+2

Driving side: right

Internet TLD: .doom (formerly .le)

Latveria (Romanian: Latveria) , officially the Constitutional Monarchy of Latveria (CML) (Romanian: Monarhia Constituțională a Latveriei ) is a landlocked country at the crossroads of Central and Southeast Europe. It borders Hungary to the northwest, Transylvania to the east, Symkaria to the south, and Sokovia to the southwest. Latveria has a population of 2.6 million people (2010).

Etymology

“Latveria” may possibly derive from the Latin lātus (“wide”) and viridis (“green”). The toponym Lataviridi was first attested in the 2nd century, during a Roman survey of the area surrounding Dacia. Settlers in the 5th century would later claim the name “Latavirida” when referring to their land, which eventually became “Latveria”.

Politics

In Latveria, politics functions within a framework of a parliamentary unicameral semi-constitutional monarchy,

Legislative power is vested in the Consiliu (the parliament of Latveria), in which parliamentary councilors are directly elected by the Latverian people through a single-transferable vote electoral system, and may hold up to two terms in office, with each term lasting four years.

The number of councilors per province is determined by the population size of each province, with the number adjusted one year before the end of term. If a Consiliu seat is opened or removed in the interim, the number of councilors appointed is to be corrected during the voting process in the next election. Each province has a minimum of three councilors.

Executive power is vested in the regent lord or lady (Romanian: domnul regent or doamna regenta , abbreviated to D.R.), who also serves as head of the Cabinet. Notably, the regent does not have a specified term length, and their deposition may be initiated by the Consiliu at any time and determined through a direct democratic vote. Deposition requires at least a two-thirds majority of votes.

The regent has the capacity to appoint no more than ten ministers of state in their Cabinet (including a prime minister), as well as retire them if necessary. If the regent is deposed, the Cabinet must resign en masse.

Judicial power is vested in the Latverian Tribunal, which is a supreme constitutional court. The Tribunal conducts judicial review, and may declare legislation as unconstitutional. Judges in the Tribunal are appointed every 8 years by both the Consiliu and the regent (with a hard age cap of 70): appointments require a majority vote from the Consiliu and an approval from the regent. Should the regent disapprove, Consiliu override requires at least a two-thirds majority of Consiliu votes.

Chapter 30: Chapter 28

Chapter Text

“I feel like I’m forgetting something, but my brain’s so melted that I can’t be bothered to remember.” I blubber to myself, slumping into my chair after a long, long day.

On this day, October 30, I, Katarina von Doom, am infected by one of the absolute worst and most deplorable byproducts of the Latverian Civil War and its consequences:

A job.

For the record, I’m not qualified for… anything, really. I only barely have a high school diploma – from one of the countryside schools, not a colegiu național like all the rich boys and girls in Latveria. My State University degree exploded with my face. I have no official certifications, and I turned down that honorary Ph.D. Aside from my single month of active military service, my on-paper resume consists of undergrad theoretical papers, some shady patents, and braggadocio.

But somehow, someone tricked me into actually signing on as both Latveria’s ambassador to the United States and their United Nations delegate. I think it was in early August, around that time Maria treated me to an all-you-can-eat buffet at the Latverian Embassy… Not that they’re related, of course! Maria’s a saint, she wouldn’t hurt me like that. Besides, I think I’d notice being sworn into service like that, psshaw.

The first two weeks were mind-numbingly annoying and stressful, since they basically crash-coursed me through the job requirements and political information. And my first aide, ugh! He was like a brown-nosing mosquito! Just hovering over my shoulder all the time, trying to suck up to me while assuming I didn’t know anything… he probably means well, but c’mon, I’m either inept or a living god, pick one!

“Milady?” A smooth female voice says in my ear, snapping me out of my reverie. “You’ve been staring at this screen for fifteen minutes.”

“Sorry, sorry, Anne,” I sigh, scrolling up and down my email list aimlessly, “I’m just thinking.”

“As you say, milady.”

Thankfully, during that time, I was able to hook up Anne to my personal data servers, with a few pointers and tips from Tony Stark himself. The moment I had her on Bluetooth, able to talk to me, I wanted my aide gone ASAP. After a polite recommendation here and there, it seemed that management was quick to reassign that guy: hopefully, he’s doing well elsewhere.

Anne’s been a huge help, but she’s been taking my ‘serve me’ wording a little literally. The former murderbot’s taken to being my JARVIS-style AI secretary. I guess I’m not sure what else a robot would do in her spare time. Anne’s been a godsend, and it’s not like I can stop her from doing a task she likes to do.

It’s why my current main project, aside from shaking hands and bothering Reed, is figuring out how to reactivate, and eventually replicate Denker’s nanotechnology.

Let me tell ya, the dude was a brilliant engineer but a bad programmer and a terrible scientist. For one, none of his patchwork spaghetti code has comments. He only barely documented his lab work with barely-helpful, half-finished notes. And even those are buried under, quite frankly, masturbatory amounts of self-praise.

Look, it’s so bad, the only way I can describe it is how Victor would describe it. I cannot be nice about how bad it is. It’s gonna take me a while to piece it all together.

Anyways. What was I talking about? My job!

My job as an ambassador is robust, well-structured, and boring. Anne keeps me updated on my earpiece on my schedule. Here’s an example from last week:

Wake up at 8, go to an interview from 9-10, meet with the Stark representative to talk about the relief funding, meet with the Transylvanian ambassador at 12. Then from 1-2 PM (or 13:00-14:00 if you’re like that), it’s a meeting with the secretary of commerce.

Finally grab lunch at 2:30, then it’s writing emails and reading correspondences all the way until 4 PM. And then I have time to work on lab stuff – aside from reverse-engineering nanotechnology, I’m also refining the stasis gun, blueprinting standardized magical foci, and scaling up my suit’s arcane system into an infrastructural reactor – and then it’s a fancy dinner at 8 PM with some boujee New York schmucks.

Rinse and repeat, every day.

I groan, thunking my head on my desk.

“Milady?” Anne asks again.

“Still thinking.” I grumble, muffled by the mahogany.

I’m. Losing. My. Mind. Here.

What’d Tony say? “I try to play ball with these assclowns”? That’s how it feels sometimes. I’d be way happier scrunched in a lab for 16 hours, doing SCIENCE ! and playing in the sandbox of quantum physics and ancient wizardry. Instead, I’m sitting my butt in a chair for hours, pretending to listen to some old dudes yap about how my Latveria should be bending over backwards for their own profit!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Zen.

I just gotta focus on the positives. I’m able to do some Spider-Man level heroics around New York, without any of the superpowered baddies he faces. Saving cats from trees, helping out in a police chase, stuff like that. I haven’t had to stop a train yet, but we’ll get there when we get there. I have access to my lab again, that’s good! No more lumping together scrap in a Victorum warehouse. And, of course, I can hang out with my friends whenever I have a spare moment.

Ben’s doing well in the Air Force Academy, although he gets a lot of flak for knowing me on a first-name basis. Johnny’s currently on a BMX tour, and ranking pretty well. I visit Sue and Reed as often as I can: ohhh, I can’t wait for the wedding! Reed said they’re planning for it to be after the Marvel-1 launch. They’ll probably have the cutest kids, too!

Another positive: the Marvel-1 is pretty much complete, and is just waiting for the cosmic storm to appear, with a launch date of February 11. With Reed, Stark, and myself on the development team, the only way he enters the danger zone of the cosmic storm is through sabotage or from some unforeseeable astronomical debris. The biggest change is that we reduced the minimum four-man crew down to one, plus an AI named HERBIE that’s in development.

I’m a little sad that the Fantastic Four will never exist in this timeline, but I think it’s for the best. I look at everyone, and they’re all so happy with where their life is. I wouldn’t want to change that for the world, and especially not to enforce some vague fate that I don’t even know is true or not. This universe already has Doom, and shouldn’t that be enough?

Well. I feel better now! Definitely a better use of my time than checking these dumb emails.

“Anne, put me on Do Not Disturb, please! I’m clocking out!”

“As you wish, my lady,” the voice in my earpiece says.

I turn off my desktop and skip out of my office, deciding to head to the local Target to grab as many big bags of Halloween candy as I can. It’ll be Halloween night on Embassy Row tomorrow, after all!

(Unbeknownst to me, Anne notes one new email, and determines that her master has terrible timing.)

Pushing a big red cart full of tooth-rotting treats, I hum a little tune to myself as I embark on my little shopping spree. I decide to take a look at the available costumes: I didn’t have the time to make one for myself like I always do, and it’d be a little uncreative to go as a Disney Princess twice in a row.

I openly guffaw and immediately snap a phone picture when I see a cheap ‘Catherine von Doot’ costume lining the shelves. It’s a sexy-style Halloween costume, too, like when they have the skimpy nurse or devil outfits! Oh, that’s hilarious. The green cloak is made of cheap, itchy fabric, and the mask is straight-up foam. It also has crappy brown make-up, so whatever sorority chick can try to replicate my scar.

It immediately goes in my cart. I know a perfect Halloween costume when I see one. I also grab the cheap Iron Man men’s costume, too, so I can force Reed into it and tease him endlessly. Oh, should I also grab one for Tony? Nah, he probably already has one.

After making my Halloween purchases, I head to the back of Target just to pick up some stuff I’ve been needing. Office supplies, a mousepad, the first edition My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic dolls – these’ll sell like hotcakes soon, since the show just came out this month. Yoink!

While I grab Fluttershy, though, a little girl, roughly nine years old, walks up to me. I blink, and look at her.

“Hiya!” I smile automatically, depositing my technicolor horses into my cart.

“What happened to your face?” She asks bluntly. Kids are funny like that.

“I got into a pretty bad fight.” I smile, telling a little half-lie that’ll make sense to a girl her age. I swear I can hear Anne sigh, even though I’m on DND.

“That’s cool.” The little girl stares at me for a second. “I’m Doreen. What’s your name?”

“I’m Katarina. It’s so nice to meet you, Doreen.”

I then notice Doreen’s mother approaching. She does a double-take before clomping over to me in her flats, staring wide-eyed the entire time. I’m… starting to get used to this reaction, weirdly?

“Oh. Oh stars above.” Doreen’s mom has a very thick Canadian accent. “You’re Katarina von Doom, right? The One-Woman War? Biggest woman in tech?”

I try to hold back my cringe as much as I can. “Well, I dunno about that epithet, but…”

“I’m Maureen. Green! Maureen Green.” She laughs nervously. ”Could I get a picture? O-Oh, and an autograph? I know I have a pen in my purse here, I’m so sorry, just let me find it…”

This gets awkward very quickly while Maureen looks for her pen in her TARDIS of a purse. I feel awkward. Even Doreen feels awkward. I clear my throat and put my hands on my shopping cart.

“Would you mind walking with me, if you do? I’m just on a quick run for – well, stuff,” I gesture vaguely at the Halloween goods and the toys, “I should probably be back at the Embassy soon.”

“Oh! Oh, of course, the Latverian Embassy!” Maureen nods enthusiastically, following me as I wheel my cart over to the electronics section, Doreen following with a sour look on her face. “You know, I’d love to visit Latveria – I mean, not before, with that mean old Fortune man, of course, but…”

I tune her out when I see that CNN is on the multitudes of TVs on sale, with an image of the new Latverian flag on it.

Immediately, my alarm bells start going off, because Latveria should not currently have a flag. It’s the leading flag in the ballots, though, from when I last checked – and CNN shouldn’t know it’s the leading flag. My eyes flicker to the ‘BREAKING NEWS’ in bold on the TV.

Hyperfocused on the news, I take Maureen’s Sharpie that she hands to me and I sign the Fluttershy toy without looking, handing it to Doreen while I listen to the CNN report.

“...With an 84% supermajority in the write-in ballot for regent lord or lady, Katarina von Doom will ascend from ambassadorial duties to executive monarch of Latveria, taking up the role of regent lady…”

And then every last screen shows a reel of my “Spring and Autumn” speech, making me look authoritative and iron-willed while the bar graph with my name on it soars far above literally everyone else.

“Milady, would you like me to take you off Do Not Disturb?”

I nod mutely, my jaw officially dropped. I barely even register Maureen’s voice over the multitudes of missed calls and emails. From Reed, from Johnny, from Ben, from Tony, from Pepper, from Prinz, from Alan…

“Lady Katarina!” Someone yells in the middle of the store, drawing everyone’s attention.

A blonde-and-black blur skids to a halt in front of me. A tuxedoed-up Maria catches her breath, patting away her sweat with a handkerchief, before composing herself the best she can.

“Lady Katarina, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’ve won!” Maria wheezes, conjuring up a smile.

“W-Won?” I can only barely stammer out.

“Oh, congratulations, Your Majesty!” Maureen curtsies.

“Your… Majesty…?” I repeat, my mouth dry.

That’s what I forgot. That the… the voting results… the ballots were… I… bwuh… Ano… Eto… 一体何が起こっているのでしょうか...?

“Katarinas! Stop panicking! We will now commence an emergency bluescreen meeting!”

CLUNK!

“I SAID STOP PANICKING!” Supreme Leader Katarina yowls, panicking.

CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!

Chapter 31: Chapter 29

Chapter Text

“Too much…”

Supreme Leader Katarina mumbles breathlessly. All around her, the entire councilroom burns in a pyre, papers flying, screams echoing. All the Katarinas run about, flailing and desperately trying to control the flame – except Spineless Katarina, who has gone catatonic on the floor in fetal position.

“It’s…”

“...all too much…”

Latveria’s newest queen whispers to herself, her eyes darting around the store at the growing number of onlookers. A wave of phone cameras all capture the stone-faced terror of Katarina von Doom – the woman who conquered a nation, the woman who saved Latveria.

The woman whose heart bled for an army that wanted her dead.

Immediately, Maria jumps into action, knowing what it looks like when Katarina is distraught. She jumps in the way of as many camera angles as possible, holding out her arms to block the shots.

“No photography! Please, no photography! Make room for us to leave!” Maria orders the crowd… who, to her dismay, don’t seem to be abating. “Lady Katarina, please, we have an escort vehicle waiting for you outside…”

The daughter of that hanger-on woman touches Katarina’s thigh, which seems to snap her out of her panic. Katarina’s eyes meet Maria’s.

“M-Maria, please buy these, and have them delivered to the Embassy for Halloween preparations,” Katarina stutters, trying to keep her voice level and failing, “I… I’m leaving. Call for a press conference. At noon, either tomorrow or the next day. Preferably the next day.”

“But the escort –”

“I’m leaving.” Katarina cuts her off hurriedly, before pushing her way through the crowd and marching out of the store.

After a moment, Maria can feel the thrum of Katarina’s magic. Moments later, Maria answers a call from their driver.

“What happened? Why did Her Majesty fly out in full armor? Is it war?”

“...Lady Katarina is currently taking some time to privately process her ascension.” Maria chooses her words carefully. “For now, find a parking space. She was occupied with some shopping at the time.”

“As you say, ma’am.”

Maria hangs up, and looks around warily. Some of the crowd is still here, others have run out the store, the father of the little girl has caught up to his family, scratching his head…

Well, what else is there to do? She starts pushing Katarina’s shopping cart to the register.

“Anne, turn off all communications for the rest of the night. I… I’m sorry, I just…”

“I understand.” My assistant says calmly, a mild crackle of softness in her voice generator. “Please stay safe tonight, milady.”

I fly away.

And I fly, and I fly, and I fly. I fly loops around New York, I fly so high my armor starts to freeze, and then I fly so close to the skyscrapers that I can see my reflection, even in the dark of the night.

The reflection of Doom.

Of Victor.

Objectively speaking, I had expected this. At least, as one of many possible outcomes. Katarina von Doom is a war hero, and the most public face of the resistance. If a historical analyst said Doom was the leading cause of our victory in the Latverian Civil War, it would be facetious to make a counterargument.

And, if you were to ‘test’ the abused citizens of a dictatorship on the question, ‘who should be ruler?’... Who else had violently injected herself into everyone’s radio, TV, phone, computer, and newspaper? Even the most illiterate of serfs can manage my name. It’s only four letters, after all.

But subjectively speaking, I am not Victor von Doom. I’m a monkey girl. I’m a mess. I could barely pass my classes in Japan, and I don’t have the smarts or the smoothness to be a student council president, much less a monarch. And what do I even have in this life? A… A suit of armor? A degree in couch-surfing? What, will the pudge on my thighs guarantee a beautiful, prosperous Latveria? Will all the dead bodies promise peace?!

I’m not fit to be a queen. I can’t move a million chess pieces, one-by-one, sacrificing real people with real hearts and minds to further a political agenda. My heart bleeds too much, I’m not strong enough, I can’t hold that much blood on my hands without drowning …!

I… I can’t!

I can’t!

I really, really can’t!

I CAN’T!

“Why couldn’t it have been somebody smarter? Someone better?!” I demand of the universe, roaring into the rushing wind. “Why me? Why put me in Victor’s body?! WHY ME?!”

I howl at the moon, high above the thin clouds of autumn, before my voice shatters into a screech.

“UUURAAAA-AUUUUUGHHHHH!”

CRAKA-THOOM!

As I scream at the top of my lungs, the fear in my soul overheats and erupts out of my body through my magic. Thunder booms across the eastern seaboard, and lightning pours from my body like a deluge of light and destruction.

“I… I can’t… I can’t do this…”

I sob, slowly lowering myself down from the stars and into the city below. The rest of the world is mute to me, now. All that’s left is a sad spiral of that repeated mantra, as self-doubt chokes me like a chained collar.

Taking a seat on an apartment roof in Queens, I put my head in my hands and bawl my eyes out.

Benjamin Parker isn't Tony Stark. He can’t make flying cars, or even a regular car. As a matter of fact, if his car broke down tomorrow, he’d have to start counting pennies and price-checking mechanics. If he was comparing, he’d say he’s at about the same level as the average Joe.

But he does know that the weather reporters didn’t forecast any heavy storm this week.

He looks out of his bedroom window. Yup, it’s still clear out. No rain and lightning here. What he does hear isn’t thunder, though: after a few minutes of focusing his ears, he hears a woman’s muffled crying, sounding like it’s coming from the rooftop. The locked one that the landlord doesn’t want anyone on.

“Honey?” Ben tells his sleeping wife. They’ve both been so exhausted recently, having to learn how to take care of Peter, now.

“Mmwuh?” She mumbles, squinting. Beautiful.

“I think I hear something on the roof. I’m gonna check it out.”

“Mmmkay. Don’t wake up Peter.” She groans, and falls back asleep instantly. Ben takes the opportunity to slip out of bed while he can.

Putting on a jacket and some pants, Ben holds back a yawn as he grabs his ladder.

Climbing up to the roof, he sees a knight in dark robes, sitting on the AC unit and weeping softly. Even only partly keeping up with the news, he knows exactly who this warrior is, and exactly what she can do to people. What she can do to countries.

Ben does his best to fight past the fear in his heart, to do the right thing.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” He asks nervously, his head peeking over the edge of the roof.

The Latverian’s head snaps to him, like a soldier still shell-shocked from a war. In a way, she still is. Although she is, by all means, menacing, Ben sees the trail of wetness running down the edges of her mask, and clutches onto that shared humanity.

“The… landlord doesn’t like people up here.” He says weakly, letting his mouth run with whatever good words can come out. “It’s cold out… Do you want some hot chocolate?”

One introduction and two steaming hot cups of hot chocolate later (made with the finest gas stove, tap water, and Swiss Miss this side of Brooklyn), and I’m looking at Benjamin “With Great Power, Comes Great Responsibility” Parker like he has a second head.

“...And you said your wife’s name is May? And your nephew is Peter?” I reiterate, because there’s a lot of Ben Parkers in Queens, and the chances that I’d find the Ben Parker are astronomically impossible.

“Yup.” Uncle Ben smiles at me, across his dining room table. He’s so young in this universe: but May is too, so I shouldn’t be surprised. “Didn’t know an Iron Man could be bad with names.”

I snort, looking down and fiddling with my shirt sleeve. “You should see Tony. I’m pretty sure half of his pet nicknames are just him not remembering people.”

“Yeah, I can see how a rich boy like him can forget faces.” He chuckles, stirring his drink.

I sip on my hot chocolate. It’s metallic and cheap, but for some reason, that makes the sweetness even better.

As I stare down the barrel of my coffee mug, a silence falls over the apartment. The clock ticks by. It’s 1:30 AM. I probably woke him up.

“You seem like the old wise uncle type,” I say softly, with a small laugh, “mind if I field a problem I’m having?”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m only in my forties.” Ben smiles, brushing over some silver in his hair. “Go ahead.”

If there’s anyone in this universe whose advice I should trust, it’s probably the man who shaped one of the most noble, most self-sacrificing superheroes across all known fiction and non-fiction. I take a moment to find the words, to brush past the self-doubt and fear and smallness I feel. I lick my lips and take a deep breath.

“I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, now.”

My good-humored facade breaks away. The mask falls off. No Doom, no Lady Katarina. All that’s left is a girl afraid of dying again. Afraid of making a mistake again.

“They made me their queen. Me. ”

I laugh, failing to hide a sob.

“I’ve done nothing to deserve it. I waged war in the defense of my people, and to forge a brighter future – one that they can shape, not me.” I clench my trembling fingers around the mug. “I’ve already had a taste of the job, working here as an ambassador. I hate it. From the moment I punch in, I count the seconds until the moment I punch out. I’d be better off in a quiet lab, not paper-pushing and delivering speeches that aren’t even mine.”

A hot tear runs down my cheek, and I wipe it away. My words fumble out of my mouth all the same.

“Ever since I came into this world, I’ve been trying my best to help people, but everything’s changed. I’m flying by the seat of my pants, working at a job I hate. I don’t know where I’ll be in five years, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what I’m doing. ” My voice cracks, my eyes red. I look to the man across the table. “What do I do? Uncle Ben, what do I do…? ”

Something in his already-concerned expression breaks, and he gets up and hugs me tightly. I bury my face in his shoulder and shudder, crying a little – thankfully, I got most of my open weeping out on the roof.

Once I let go, he smiles at me and hands me a box of napkins.

“Here, blow your nose.” I do as he recommends, and he takes his seat. “You remind me of when I got out of the army.”

“How so?” I ask.

“I enlisted right out of high school. I did good work as a military policeman, I think. But after that…” He frowns. “...I did what my brother Richie told me, and enrolled into ESU on a G.I. bill. I think I just threw a dart at a program list – ended up going for an Architectural Design major.”

“And how’d that go…?”

“Oh, I hated it.” He laughs softly, his eyes flickering to a bedroom door. May’s still probably sleeping. “I was in over my head big-time. And I was angry at myself for being so careless, and at the world for not having some instant post-army job, and at the system for putting me in student debt after service, even with the bill.”

“Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like it sucks.” I snort, smiling a little. Ben grins at that.

“It did. I was on the verge of dropping out and scooping ice cream on Coney Island for the rest of my life.” He sighs, reminiscing. “It wouldn’t have been so bad. Nice view, making kids happy, free park tickets. There’s nothing all that wrong with the job on paper.”

“Don’t tempt me now.” I joke. Opening an ice cream parlor in Japan, away from everyone and everything sounds really enticing now.

“Hm. May snapped me out of it. Literally. I remember her snapping her fingers in front of my face.” He mimics the movement with his rugged fingers. “She knew that I was giving up because I was frustrated and mad, not because it was a good move in the long run, or because I really looked forward to working at Coney Island. And that’s an important distinction to make.”

Ben sips his hot chocolate, giving me time to chew on that. I’m so afraid of responsibility because I’m afraid of… messing up, and death, and losing everything I worked so hard for. I’m afraid of the future. That’s why I bury myself in nostalgia and my past happiness.

During Stark Expo, I remember I reflected on how Victor and I were different. Turns out… I’m not immune from the ghost of my past, myself. It’s just too bright, rather than too dark.

“In the end, I stayed at ESU because I wanted to provide for a family later in life. I found an anchor in May. And now…” He gestures around the apartment. It’s a nice, modern apartment: a far cry from the struggling condo in the Raimi films. “...I think I’m doing alright. And I think I’m alright-ish at my job.”

“I’m happy for you.” I nod to him. “I’m sure Peter will grow up to be a fine young man.”

“You’re in your twenties, you can’t talk like that.” He smirks. “What I’m getting at, Katarina, is that… Well, life sucks sometimes, every job sucks, and everyone sucks at their job at first. And no adult in the world knows what the future holds, either. Except you, maybe, if I set a crystal ball in front of me.”

We share a laugh. Heh, maybe I should look into divination. A focus would be better than using my eyeballs every time.

“But you gotta push for what’s right, for you and the people you care for. If what’s right is scooping ice cream by the beach, then go ahead. …But call it a hunch, I get the feeling you’re not the type to get cold feet on an entire country.”

I look down into my drink again. Then, I throw back the remaining hot chocolate like a shot, setting it down firmly on the table.

“No.” I admit to myself, swallowing the bittersweet taste. “I’m not.”

“Well, there you go.” Ben gestures. Then, he looks me in the eyes.

“So. You’re bad at your job for now, you don’t know what you’re doing, and you don’t know what life’s got in store. But the people want you on that throne, and nobody else.”

Benjamin Parker crosses his arms.

“Now, Katarina von Doom… who deserves to rule?”

As the crown descends upon my head, and the royal procession looks upon me in reverent silence, I whisper to myself.

“ I do.”

The crowd echoes fiercely through the halls of Castle Doom.

“ALL HAIL THE QUEEN!”

Chapter 32: Chapter 30

Chapter Text

I take a seat in my new octagonal office – located in the former church wing of Castle Doom… Which, itself, was formerly Castle Sabbat, but got changed among many other things in the midst of all the propaganda. Personally, I only let the name slide because the whole city’s name is Doomstadt, but I need to sleep with one eye open with these PR people.

The first thing I notice is that my chair sucks. Apparently, it’s the nicest one they could find: but to them, ‘nicest’ means ‘most expensive, oldest piece of furniture’. That’s fine, I love antique stuff too, but this chair’s too firm and gets too hot on account of the leather facing the stained glass windows behind me. The moment I can, I’m buying Reed’s couch and repurposing the cushions onto a chair. A hover chair, at that: I’ve got the wheels on this thing caught on wires like three times already!

The next thing I notice is that my office is dreary as hell. It’s like every movie depiction of any communist state ever. The walls are gray and dead, the ceiling fan has an uncomfortably yellow lightbulb, and there is too much gold adornment in what’s supposed to be a bishop’s office. And the carpet… is a bear hide, with the head, teeth, claws, and everything.

Euegh!

Sighing and settling in, I boot up my computer and go through the motions. Scheduling, meetings, appointments… So many speeches that I need to deliver – and that I need to write myself, because holy sh*t, the speechwriters in this country don’t know any language other than ‘violently authoritarian’. To save time, I’m gonna have to improv some of these. Luckily, I’ve gotten better at that with my UN gig.

However, I carved out time to make possibly the most important choice of my early regency: appointing a Cabinet. I need a board of experienced, savvy politicians. Throughout history, the only great leaders that flourished through direct control were either in ancient times, or were warlords. Genghis Khan, Oda Nobunaga, Napoleon… uh-uh, not me. In a modern world, I’ve got to learn how to delegate the finicky bits. No “THE LAW IS WHAT DOOM WILLS!” here, folks, no siree!

I’ve got ten Cabinet seats to fill up: Prime Minister, Minister of the Exterior (foreign affairs, basically), Minister of Finance, Minister of the Interior (domestic affairs, see above), Minister of Justice, Minister of Labor, Minister of Agriculture and Environment, Minister of Health, Minister of Logistics, and Minister of Education.

With that in mind, I pull up my own list of good candidates, based on what I’ve learned over the week between the election results and my coronation.

First off, the old members of the ZRM council. The ZRM is the biggest party currently, but their goals are all scattered, aside from uplifting minority rights and addressing matters of human rights as a whole. They’re also pretty big on letting the crown keep some executive power. Some ZRM politicians have been gunning for… more extreme privileges and answers, so they’re not on my list.

Admittedly, my candidate choices for the ZRM are incredibly biased. I’m not gonna apologize about it. I need trusted advisors right now who had their fingers on the nation’s pulse during the war, not uncertain cell leaders who waited for a hero. They’re good politicians and servants of the people… but not what I need right now.

Prinz, Mary, and Mary’s dad are all currently on the Consiliu, but if offered, I’d bet they’d resign their seats to join the Cabinet. Zofia said she wanted to finish college, now that she has the chance, but Nikolai said he’d be open to a Cabinet role even if he didn’t want a legislative role. Raphael didn’t get elected, but he’s expressed interest in politics (albeit, as part of the Monarchist party), so he’s also a candidate.

The non-politicians of the ZRM are currently Maria, Keith, and Alan: Alan said he made a “college try” at election, but decided to go pursue his actual passion in composing and playing the piano after he lost. He actually wrote the current anthem! I’m happy for him.

Of the ZRM party, Prinz, Mary, Nikolai, and Raphael are my current picks. Prinz and Raphael proved their leadership ability in spades during the war, and Nikolai was a beast on the logistics end: it’s through the Askenova siblings efforts that the resistance mobilization didn’t starve or sputter out, and I’d be blessed to have even one-half of their combined power.

Although Mary only acted as a representative for her father, she maintained strong communications with the many ZRM cells and had a strong showing in a secretarial role. …And I’m biased, since I’ve worked with Mary more. Hey, I’m not a perfect leader.

So. That’s Nikolai as Minister of Logistics, obviously. Mary would do well as Minister of Agriculture and Environment, especially since that involves her specialty of figuring out food and transport. Raphael as Minister of Justice is a good one, since he’s one hell of an adjudicator.

Prinz… well, the obvious choice is Prime Minister, but slapping the leader of the ZRM there might cause discontent. I’ll slot him as ‘maybe’ for both PM and Minister of the Interior.

Now, the other parties. Let’s get the bad one out of the way first… the Doomists.

The Doomist party is exactly what they sound like. They believe Katarina von Doom is the glorious saint that shall lead Latveria to its former glory, recreating the glorious olden days and eventually waging glorious war against our weak neighbor nations. Did I mention it would be glorious? Anyways, they’re insane cultists who are frothing at the mouth for another jingoist dictator, but there’s enough of them to form a national party. God, this world is screwed up sometimes.

Anyways. I still have to make an attempt at pacifying them. Hopefully, they die out in favor of traditionalists, or a labor party, or communists, or literally anything else. For now, I’m just gonna offer their most sane politician – Jakob Gorzenko – into the Minister of Labor role. I don’t care that he’s a chain-smoking, pencil-mustache serial capitalist who probably profits off of dictatorships, he’s the sanest one.

Third and last party on our list is the Republic Monarchist party. Basically, they’re pretty moderate, and want a government more like the UK or Japan: executive power lies in the elected Cabinet and the Prime Minister, while the crown just sits there as a face. Perfectly fine by me later on, but for now, most of the population is scratching their head at the concept of a ballot, so.

They’re led by Boris Karela… who was actually a friend of my father. I couldn’t believe the old man was alive when I shook his hand. I was childhood friends with his daughter, Valeria, before… everything. My candidates are him, Sienna Négyesy, Raphael, and Lucia von Bardas.

Let’s touch on Bardas later.

I’ve already discussed Raphael. Karela and Négyesy are on the Consiliu, so it’s iffy on if they’ll take the offer, but I’ll send the invite anyway. Mr. Karela’s proven himself as a strong, capable leader through and through, and historically, he’s been able to diplomatically settle disputes with the worst of ‘em: Sokovians, Fortunov forces, and even the Russians. He also worked with my mother, Cynthia.

Ms. Négyesy, on the other hand, was Chair (and the youngest in history, at that) of the University of Doomstadt’s Department of Mathematics before transitioning into a government position after her father’s death. Then, after I blitzed Doomstadt twice, she decided it’d be best to fill the resulting power gap. She’s also a very attractive older woman, ufufu…

A-Anyways! I’ll be sending an invitation to Mr. Karela for Minister of Exterior, and Ms. Négyesy for Minister of Education.

So, what’s left? Finance, Interior, Health, and PM.

Finance and Health are actually fairly easy. There are plenty of non-partied politicians and leaders for me to choose from that I think could really make a difference in those areas, both of which are essential to the nation’s recovery. For these, my primary candidates will be Mrs. Angela Kror and Dr. Alexei Cronos, respectively.

Mrs. Kror is a more seasoned politician who remained neutral during the war, and played a key part in stabilizing the national economy during the interim period. And then Dr. Cronos is a medical director at the Victorum General Hospital who also has a seat on the Victorum city senate. Talk about a workaholic, but he’s definitely fit for the role.

So! That’s everyone, right? …Okay, fine. Let’s talk about Bardas.

Lucia von Bardas hates my guts .

Well. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. Lucia von Bardas hates everything about the Latverian government, including my role in it, and from what I’ve garnered from various conversations and rumors about the woman, wants nothing more than to topple the whole thing and start anew. She walks like a panther, talks like a snake, and is sleekly buff for no reason at all.

I have never, in any life, met someone so obviously traitorous, so completely explicit about wanting, with all her heart, to backstab me at the height of my power. I know that the moment she has the power to overthrow me by force – be it through an ancient artifact, or weapon prototypes, or a magic genie – she’d absolutely put on the costume herself and do the deed.

I have never been more emphatic in my life when I say this: I want my own Jafar.

No, think about it! This solves all my anxiety issues. If something catastrophically bad happens, so bad that it can’t be anything but sabotage, I already know who my villain is! Oh, sure, she’s just a well-dressed, charismatic, scalding hot legislator now, but so was Senator Armstrong, and look how that went! Oh, my god, I’m so excited by the idea!

Wait, no. I need to pause and put my monkey brain away. Think logically about this. Prinz has proven himself to be an incredibly strong leader, again and again. Moreover, if I choose Bardas as my PM on a whimsy, that’s no guarantee that she’ll actually run the country correctly – as a matter of fact, that gives her more power, since she’s basically my voice and hand when I’m not available. I may be giving her exactly the position she needs to undo the government, and that’d be egg on my probably-dead face.

But at the same time, if I trust my gut feeling and I know Bardas is plotting against me, then there’s nothing worse than putting her in a position I can’t personally observe under a microscope. If I look like I’m sussing out my Minister of the Interior, it’ll raise more eyebrows than if I was keeping a close eye on the PM, which is expected of me. And letting an obvious villain slip into the shadows, when I know HYDRA’s on my doorstep with a Sokovian hat on… well, that’s just stupid.

No, Chekhov’s gun is right there, and I want to be genre-savvy enough to know when it goes off, and who’s firing it. Besides, my preliminary choices are already chock-full of personal bias: four are ZRM leaders, one is practically a childhood uncle, and one is a Doomist. That’s 6/10, and I’ve already learned the hard way that I hate sycophants.

So. The seat of Prime Minister goes to either Prinz or Bardas, with the other taking the position of Minister of Interior.

Leaning back in this stupid leather chair, I bite the knuckles of my fist, take a sharp breath in, and make the call.

“And the package has been checked thoroughly?”

“Yes, madam. No toxins, electronics, or mystic curses were detected.”

“...Very well.”

Taking a well-sharpened letter opener, Lucia von Bardas neatly slices the manila folder in twain. Unfolding the document quickly, Lucia turns a cold, steely gaze to its contents.

…And then reads more. And more.

Picking up the paper with both hands, its surface slowly wrinkling in her tightening grip, Lucia double, triple, quadruple checks exactly what it says, going through every last letter of every last word, her irises flickering wildly –

SLAM!

The abused document rests under the immense pressure of her smooth palms, as Lucia stares intensely into the blank wall in front of her.

“She’s onto me.” The Latverian visionary hisses under her breath, one million thoughts coursing through her mind.

“Madam?” Her butler asks, snapping her out of her frozen trance.

“Leave me, Sebastian!” Lucia orders. The old man bows dutifully and leaves.

Lucia prowls to her casket-shaped window, her arms folded behind her back. She glowers menacingly at the distant shape of Castle Doom.

“Katarina von Doom… force me into the light, will you? And to refuse would mean to raise unduly attention… How cunning. I see the game you want to play, now. You’d best prepare yourself. No amount of armor will save you.”

(Sebastian sighs, before walking off to prepare supper. It’s mac and cheese night tonight.)

Chapter 33: Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Jakob Gorzenko would call himself pretty business savvy. It’s how he puts bread on the table, and how he puts oil in his Mercedes.

He keeps his ear to the ground and his eyes on the prize. It’s how he jumped on several successes in his wide stock portfolio. Weapons manufacturing, the housing market, computers… heh, even palladium, recently. That one was a shocker to his trading partners, but really, he just had to follow Stark’s scent, and wait until he made another arc reactor. With the one being made in New York, stocks have never been higher for the otherwise-niche element .

His business sense is why he was a top financial advisor to a lot of the nobility during Fortunov’s time, why he knew when to jump ship, and now, why he’s sauntering to a meeting with the new gal in charge: Katarina von Doom.

Don’t get him wrong, he likes her moxie. She has great potential as a political leader. But… she’s like a schoolgirl given the power of God. A well-raised schoolgirl, thank goodness, but so many of her arguments and choices simply don’t account for how cruel the world is, or how long her changes will take.

The Cabinet is a good example: all ten of them are divided in party, with her personal ZRM taking the majority. And with Bardas as PM of all things, it’s not gonna be the unbiased board of advisors that Doom wants, it’s gonna be a slow, rusty meat grinder that spits out Bardas-made kielbasa.

So, walking to her office, Jakob straightens his suit and expects to easily make a malleable girl see his way of things. …And, hopefully, make more than a little profit off of it.

Once he reaches the doors, he takes a peek inside. Doom is working on her computer, typing away. There’s no guards currently – both because the woman at the desk is a walking army, and that walking army killed all the guards – so he raps his knuckle politely on the door, garnering her attention.

“Mr. Gorzenko?”

“Your Majesty.” He smiles diplomatically, deciding to go with the ‘warm businessman’ approach. Like a college boy’s first advisor, that sort of thing.

“Oh, shoot. Just Katarina’s fine by me.” She insists, gesturing for him to come in. He closes the door gently behind him. Doom’s Romanian is so… hick. Everyone who’s heard one of her speeches knows this, but it’s more obvious in private. She likely tones it down in public.

Jakob looks around at the office performatively, trying to see what he can use to appeal to her. Looks like everything’s pretty old-fashioned and medieval… a far cry from the Iron Woman behind the table, with her laptop and her devices.

“Gotta say, Katarina, this place sure could use a little refurbishing.” He whistles, tapping the bear pelt’s head with his foot.

“I agree completely. I’d fly over to IKEA, but…” She shrugs.

“If you wanna do a grocery run, go to the ones in Hungary. Prices are cheaper than the one in Austria.” Jakob jokes, helping himself to a seat.

“I knew I put you in charge for a reason.”

They share a polite laugh. Well, talk about a good choice of topic. Deciding to use this to springboard closer to his agenda, Jakob starts to pull out a folder, containing some files and proposals he’d like to discuss with the domnitoara republicii.

“Oh, wait a sec!”

Jakob pauses, before settling the folder neatly in his lap. Doom reaches into her desk and grabs a box of Cuban cigars. The Partagas Serie D No. 4, with all 25 still in the box. As a connoisseur, he’s already salivating. But…

“I, ah. Thought you didn’t smoke, Your Ma… Katarina?” Jakob stumbles briefly. This is definitely more of a Fortunov move: he didn’t expect it from the twenty-something Americanized cheerleader-type.

“Tony Stark gave it to me for my coronation. Then he said he’d hunt me down if I started a missile crisis.” Katarina laughs, casually name-dropping the richest man in the world. “I told him I’d give him a head-start if I ever did.”

“That’s… bold.” Jakob nods slowly. Is… Is she nuclear-capable? Was she hinting at it? He’d have to ask his boys at Hammer about the possibility later.

“I don’t smoke, but I figured you’d enjoy it. Light one up, see how it is.” She slides it to the center of the desk, offering him one.

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Jakob tentatively takes one out of the box. Before he lights one, though, he decides to double-check.

“And the room. Is the ventilation…?” He asks, looking around the old church wing once over.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You should see my lab compared to this.” She waves him off. “Need a lighter?”

“...No, I have my own. But thank you.”

Deciding to play along with it and smoke a rather expensive token of goodwill, Jakob raises the cigar to her in cheers before pulling out his lighter: a gold embossed one, with a cigar cutter built into it.

Cutting the head and lighting his stogie up, Jakob relaxes as the smoke washes over him, with a rather earthy aroma, and a hint of licorice and caramel.

Katarina von Doom remains unfazed, even as the smoke wafts past her face.

“I’d like to cut to the chase, Mr. Gorzenko,” she begins, folding her hands on the table, “I called you here – before all my other Ministers, and before my first Cabinet meeting – because you’re the most likely to help me with a few… hiccups.”

“I’m honored, Katarina,” he nods, tapping his cigar onto an ashtray. …She has an ashtray?

“Yes. I suppose you should be, considering the current Doomist rhetoric.” Doom says, before setting out copies of some very familiar pamphlets. Jakob clears his throat and picks one up, to read it.

“‘It is with utter enthusiasm that us humble followers of Katarina von Doom have accepted our role in her great ambitions,’” Doom reads off coolly, and Jakob hides a wince behind his smoke. Yes, Albe had written that, hadn’t she.”’and we shall fight, both litigiously and through activism, to uphold her new world order’.”

Doom looks back at him.

“ Activism is separate from law here.” She states bluntly.

The Doomist – well, monarchal conservative on paper, but everyone calls them Doomist – party is about as close to the old regime as Jakob’s gonna get. And the old regime made him a lot of money. Politically speaking, it only made sense to align with the major party that benefited him the most, even if the specific ideology was… more traditional. But now, he’s answering to the head honcho herself.

“My party is very enthusiastic about strengthening your role as executive monarch, as we both know.” Jakob explains, trying to reasonably address all this. “I’m sure it’s just unfortunate phrasing. I can let Albe know to update her announcement.”

“No, no, keep it. Part of the democratic process is freedom of speech, and I don’t plan on censoring anyone anytime soon.” Doom says, before flipping the page over. Jakob takes another drag, finding her bookshelf very interesting at the moment: that page, he’s pretty sure, has a paragraph highlighting Doom’s ‘divine right to rule’.

“You’re a smart businessman and a smart politician, Mr. Gorzenko. You know how both government and corporations function. Especially since you’ve worked with… gosh, so many.” Doom says, pulling up another paper: this one, a list. No, a ledger. Where did she get that from? “Roxxon, Oscorp, Stark, Hammer… financial advisor to a few of Fortunov’s top men – oh, their executions are coming soon, I should mark that on my calendar – and some Sokovian officials…”

She looks up from the ledger. “I’m guessing Sokovia didn’t go so well?”

Jakob starts putting out his cigar, clearing his throat. Hammer and Fortunov were high on his list of past benefactors. As for the failed state… “Nobody’s right about every business choice.”

“Mhm. By all means, though, keep smoking. I’m just overviewing your business history, I feel it’s an important part of any job. Don’t feel alarmed.”

Jakob hesitates. He knows this is a power play: the schoolgirl’s spilling his diary into the open, expecting him to be ashamed. He’s stronger than this. He knows how to stand up to this. He’s how old, and she’s interviewing him like a boy applying for his first job?

“Mr. Gorzenko…” She drawls. “You don’t plan on saving that cigar for later, do you?”

Except she’s staring at him with those bright blue eyes. The stained glass behind her does nothing to help his nerves: if anything, her face is shadowed even more, as smoke swims around her silhouette. It reminds him of the war footage. It reminds him that she’s the One-Woman Army. It reminds him that the schoolgirl has a gun pointed to his head at all times, even if he doesn’t realize it.

Doom stares for longer.

He lights his cigar again and takes another drag. His tongue tastes like ash.

“Look, I know what’s happening here,” Jakob licks his lips, deciding to aim for blunt honesty, trying to stir up some courage in himself, “I’m not some amateur. Let’s speak openly, your Majesty: I’ve got a bad rap sheet, and I’m exactly the type of opportunist that your beloved people abhor. We both know why I’ve joined the Doomists.”

“Oh, good. I don’t like playing mind games, myself.” Doom says lightly, leaning forward in her chair. Right in front of the smoke puffing from his lips. She doesn’t even flinch. “I’m happy you’re not completely spineless, Mr. Gorzenko. Makes my job easier. Well, since you’re so smart: why do you think I called you here?”

He meets her gaze, clenching his jaw. This is a basic tactic: ask what they think the problem is, and assess if you’re on the same page. Alright then, he’ll bite.

“You need business booming again. You can’t do that when we export nothing and import everything – and you can’t do that at the current value of the franc.” Jakob holds up the folder he prepared. “I prepared a few economic options for your –”

The folder flies out of his hand and into hers. He watches it fly out of his hand and into hers.

And then Doom tosses it over her shoulder – and all of its contents float neatly, all aligned, like they’re pinned to a corkboard that isn’t there. Swiveling around in her chair and facing away from Jakob, Doom crosses her arms and starts looking them over like a PowerPoint, pushing some papers to the side, and gathering other papers midair.

Magic. Not the sleight-of-hand or the illusionist sh*t on TV, but real f*cking magic. There had been whispers for years on why the first census happened: many of the higher-ups would let slip what they thought the Zefiro could do. But this is the first time Jakob’s seen it up-close. It was one thing when Doom hurled lightning: that could be explained scientifically. It was another when she’s currently animating a ‘REJECTED’ stamp and letting it swim about like a fish, marking some of his proposals.

“Please, by all means,” Doom blinks at him, “keep talking.”

This is a woman with the power of God. This is a sovereign with the might of Zeus. Jakob now knows that he lives in an age of angels and devils, and he’s not sure which one is judging him right now.

“...What do you want?” He asks her, tersely.

“You’re a sharp man, Jakob Gorzenko.” Katarina says his full name like an edict. “The reason I put you in charge of the Ministry of Labor is because you know how to navigate the industry sector and deal with both domestic and international corporate interests. But, I’m gonna be honest: I want you as a puppet.”

Jakob balks at the sheer audacity on display. “Excuse me?”

All of the floating papers drop, and Katarina turns to face him again, her face once more shadowed by the stained light that she was previously covering.

“Your party is insane. We can both agree with this. But, like a good, peace-loving friend of democracy, I wanted to give them their representation in my Cabinet. So...” She gestures at him. “...But you’re the last person I’d trust in charge of basic worker rights, let alone fair industry practices. I mean, the legal working age right now is abhorrent. You’re going to change that ASAP, as well as handle the specifics of all my other dirty work.”

“I’m sorry, but… Couldn’t you have just put one of the ZRM in my seat, your Majesty?” Jakob asks, his palms sweating. “If you’re so focused on fair labor…”

“They’re revolutionaries, not lawyers or contract writers. Which you have an army of, from what I understand, among other things. My point’s made: you’re smart, you’re well-resourced, and you’re a perfect scapegoat if everything goes wrong.” Katarina says plainly.

“You plan to blame me if the economy crashes.” Jakob grounds out.

“I plan to blame you if you don’t follow the spirit of what I want. As the representative Doomist in my Cabinet, that should have been your goal anyways. ” She smirks, making light of his halfhearted party choice. “If you’re gonna represent them properly, you should be following my orders to a tee. Including orders that might affect your bottom line.”

“I have the right to resign. To pursue my business privately, and away from your government. It’s early enough that nobody would bat an eye.” And Jakob has half a mind to: when the going gets tough, he gets going. He’d be better off pursuing more of his foreign ventures, if Latveria’s ruler is planning to paint a target on his back.

“You could. But unfortunately, as we know,” she taps on his ledger, “you were rather deep in Fortunov’s pockets, and oh, how betrayed your party would feel, with such a highly-publicized revelation. Why, I’d have to appoint some other Doomist as Minister of Labor. Would Albe Dobrynina accept the position, do you think?”

That insane cultist would do Doom’s bidding without question: any attempt to recover his Latverian capital and assets would be stonewalled by Albe completely.

Before Jakob can respond, though, his heart drops as cold, deadly steel begins to materialize on the curve of her neck, on the length of her arm…

There’s too much smoke in here – he can’t breathe.

“And if my former Minister of Labor, who attempted to sabotage the national economy in the name of his pro-Fortunov beliefs, was convicted of treason… ” The mask materializes on her face, leaving only cold blue eyes piercing him from under a dark cowl. “...I’m sure my Cabinet would understand if I conducted an investigation myself. ”

These are empty threats. They have to be. Katarina von Doom has been nothing but a political sweetheart, so ardently dancing along to the tune of America and the UN, like a star student who plays by the rules. She wouldn’t kill him and reduce her Cabinet to a board of puppets, would she? Not with Bardas, or the other non-ZRM seats.

…But she killed the regime. She rampaged across Doomstadt, reduced Castle Sabbat to rubble and broken glass. Broke Fortunov’s body and soul, and then broadcast his tortured pain across Latveria, before tossing him in a dark prison just to shoot him later. Who’s to say she won’t do worse? Will Jakob suffer a fate worse than death, if he disobeys her?

Jakob looks across the table and sees the devil. And you know what?

The devil is made of steel.

“...Fine. Goddamn it, fine.” He growls, suppressing a shudder deep in his heart. “You have a deal. I’m in your pocket for now. Happy?”

“Very.” She hums, before the steel flickers off of her skin, leaving only the personable persona of a fair queen.

Doom offers a handshake. Jakob accepts.

“I’ve chosen some proposals that align with how I want things done; my secretary will provide more of the specific details and changes in an email later today.” Doom flicks her wrist, and a stack of Jakob’s papers leap from the ground and onto the desk in front of him – God, he’ll never get used to that. “Try to have amendments done before our first Cabinet meeting.”

“Your will be done, your Majesty.” Jakob takes the stack and slides it into his folder, standing up from his seat to make his leave as quickly as possible.

“Please,” she grins, “just Katarina.”

As Gorzenko scurries out of the room, I wait a minute or two… before I let out a great big sigh, and slump backwards into my chair.

“Ugh, I hate when I have to play hardball!” I whine. If only this world was full of fantasy princes and goodly old men! If politicians were like in the Disney movies, it’d be soooo much easier.

“But I hate the smell of smoke more. Why’d he have to smoke so much?” I grumble, before pressing a button on my earpiece. “Anne, clear the room out, please.”

“Yes, milady.”

The fireplace and windows open up, and the ceiling fan goes on maximum settings.

I pull out a dinky little handheld electric fan – I got it at Santa Monica for, like, three bucks – and aim it at myself, doing little squirt-squirts of water every so often. Man, it gets way too hot in this room.

Chapter 34: Chapter 32

Chapter Text

Oh boy, it’s time for everyone’s favorite part of being a famous figurehead. Not the satisfaction of helping the common people, or the lavish lifestyle, or the political parody bobblehead/Halloween mask/”Punch the President” cameo… all of which I currently have, at the moment, along with an entire toy line, a scheduled cartoon voiceover session as Princess Cadance, and some lab safety videos I’m filming in collaboration with WHO. Nope, none of those things.

It’s time for more board meetings! Yeahhhh! Wooooo! Board meetings! Conferences! Logistics and PowerPoints! Alright, get hyyyyype!

…I should have put Reed in charge of Latveria.

Anywho. I’m actually looking forward to this one, since although I’ve met most of my Cabinet individually by now (Lucia’s been dodging me, for obvious Jafar-ish reasons), I’ve never really seen them in action and in friction with one another. We’re also meeting in order to clarify the current state of the nation, which is pretty necessary to figure out how I’m gonna fix stuff: sure, I have my own ideas on what’s gone wrong, but it’s good to have ten other opinions.

I get to the meeting room fifteen minutes early, since my last meeting didn’t take as long as I thought it would. As the first one there, I take a seat at the head of the table… before inevitably getting bored and summoning my gauntlets. Snapping my fingers, I create some open-air holograms (using a self-made version of Tony’s own hologram hardware), and start adjusting and editing blueprint designs for my eventual Mk. II suit.

The first person in is Lucia von Bardas, who pauses at the door.

“Your Majesty.” She greets me like a snake, slithering into the seat opposite of mine.

“I hope you’re having a good morning. I’m just filling the time until the meeting, don’t mind me.” I smile at her over the hologram. Let’s see… trash the current chestpiece, add something more sturdy – and put the arcane reactor over the chest, I want a Unibeam! Hm, do I want to remodel the mask…?

“So it would seem.” Bardas sets down a leather bound notebook, and a hellishly expensive-looking fountain pen. Then she readjusts where the pen is.

I let her stew over there while I continue to adjust the specs of my suit. If I convert these to gold-titanium, would that do better with ultracold conditions…? Ah, but now I run into heat convection issues…

“Katarina, good morning. Mind putting the hologram away? I think a good majority of the Cabinet is almost here.” Prinz Stuhr greets me politely from the doorway, before leveling a cold glare at the Prime Minister. “...Bardas.”

“Stuhr. Take a seat, won’t you?” Bardas demands of him in a bone-chilling tone, and oh my god, I love having my own personal villain.

“Yeah, do what the lady asks!” I grin, patting the seat next to me. Prinz smiles at me before taking his seat, while Bardas looks like she saw a dead rat.

I close my hologram and unsummon my gauntlet, chatting amicably to Prinz about his personal life while we wait for the others. Alan’s preparing for his first concerto soon, which I can’t wait to go see. And, y’know, throw a few stacks of money at the concert venue and the performing arts, because that’s what politicians do.

Just as Prinz said, slowly but surely, the rest of the Cabinet files in. Dr. Alexei Cronos stands head and shoulders above the rest – weighing in at 285 lbs at 6’2” (that’s 129 kg at 188 cm, if you don’t use Freedom Units), Dr. Cronos is the goateed brick sh*thouse version of Mr. Clean. And honestly? He could break me in half, and I’d thank him for it. He’s very attractive for his age.

Coincidentally, a good chunk of my Cabinet is just wildly attractive, but that’s more incidental than anything, since they’re all qualified for their jobs. I’m being professional, I swear.

Speaking of, Nikolai does a head-count upon entering, then closes the door behind him. “I believe that’s everyone, your Majesty.”

“Just Katarina, please: and that goes for all of you.” I nod to the table, knowing by now that it’ll only stick for half of them. “And if everyone’s here, let’s just start.”

I pull up my posture, pressing the record button on my laptop. If it were just me, I’d be doing all my work on my gauntlets and mask, but as Professor Oak says, there’s a time and place for everything.

“Welcome to the very first Cabinet meeting in the history of the Constitutional Monarchy of Latveria.” I smile. “For this meeting, we’ll be clarifying the state of the nation, and the most immediate challenges to overcome. The old man left us a withered state: it’s up to us to diagnose the symptoms, and resuscitate it.”

A collective nod, and no blatant signs of disdain for a 25 year-old sovereign ruler. Well, aside from Bardas. So far, so good!

“So, the first order of business, that I’m pretty sure has been clear to all of us for months, if not years… the farming crisis.” I sigh. “Mary, I’ll leave this to you.”

“Thank you, your… Lady Katarina.” She quickly corrects herself, before addressing the rest of the Cabinet.

“As everyone knows, Latveria is currently in a famine. In order to fuel his army, Fortunov was taxing the working class to exorbitant amounts: if they couldn’t pay, he offered to buy produce and livestock to later export to outside markets at a higher price. The result…” Mary shudders, as if remembering something horrible. She’s probably seen it herself. “...The result is that most of our farmland is now overworked and yielding only a fraction of harvest, if any. Our livestock is nearly depleted as well. Moreover, both our produce and its liquid value are nowhere to be found. At least, not anywhere in Latveria.”

“As an addendum, if I might…” Angela Kror, Minister of Finance, readjusts her glasses, causing a brief glint of light. “...Fortunov’s understanding of food scarcity was childish at best. He didn’t make back nearly as much as he thought he would, selling our food like that. As a result, he fired up the money printers to buy the food, and our currency is currently in hyperinflation.”

“We’re seeing rising cases of malnutrition and infection across all provinces.” Dr. Cronos rumbles, his brows furrowed in concern. “As well as water-borne diseases. If all you can eat is porridge, and your main water source is an old well… the rural areas have been hit especially badly.”

Fortunov, you bastard, why? Every time you see evil armies and marching robots in the movies, they’re just bad guy mooks, and the hero saves the day by beating the biggest one. Roll credits. …Except they don’t talk about the failed state that happens after, or the children that the villain starved in order to keep his military fed. What was New York like, after the Chitauri Invasion? Did that town in New Mexico ever recover? Oh, God, what about Novi Grad?

The potential loss of life in Sokovia chills me to think about. After Loki attacks, I’ll need to address the HYDRA parasite there… But what if it goes all the way to the top? Am I considering annexing Sokovia now? I’ll have to table that for later.

“Why do we not declare bankruptcy?” Bardas demands, crossing her arms. Taking advantage of my thoughtful silence, I see. How clever! “Surely, defaulting is our only option here.”

“Declaring bankruptcy would be good for us, but it’ll take a good few years to stabilize a new currency.” Kror’s mouth flattens into a line. “If only we knew who we were defaulting on. And, as Dr. Cronos mentioned, there’s the matter of importing food and water as necessary.”

“We’re going to have to do away with the franc sooner or later. If I recall correctly, it still uses a gold standard, too…” I trail off, and Kror nods. “Right. Long-term goal, then: agricultural reform, the new currency, and following Fortunov’s paper trail. What’s our other big issues?”

“Domestically, military unemployment and high crime rates.” Prinz follows up. The once-leader of the Zefiro Rights Movement looks pained to say this. “We rapidly demilitarized once we realized what a drain it was to the country, as already discussed. However, a significant number of military personnel were recruited out of school, promised basic food, board, and a stipend.”

My gaze wanders to Raphael, who’s currently taking notes dutifully. He meets my eyes and looks unimpressed: we both know how disillusioned he is with his past.

“There are only so many mechanics and unskilled laborers that can fit in a job market…” Gorzenko grumbles, keeping his voice low. Still afraid of me? Good.

“We’ve been trying to fill up the police academies with their numbers, but that’s been an effort to solve a different issue altogether. Urban crime rates are at an all-time high, especially in Doomstadt.” Prinz says.

“What, just because the streets aren’t teeming with tanks and soldiers? Did the public need political imprisonment to keep them in check?” Sienna Négyesy scoffs.

“Ah, no, it’s… Well, to put it simply…” Prinz tries to segue, not sure how to phrase it in formal conversation. He makes eye contact with me, and I mentally grimace.

“It’s because her Majesty killed them all.” Bardas spits, almost making me wince.

A silence falls over the room, save for the ticking clock. I do my best to look impassive about it, but when you empty out a city’s constabulary through sheer violence, it tends to weigh on your mind.

“Since Fortunov’s military was still spread across Latveria during the first battle, the first responders to my initial assault were largely policemen.” I inform the Cabinet, my tone devoid of any good humor whatsoever. “They, along with the rest of the fallen, will be remembered at the mass funeral. I hope to see you all there.”

Suddenly, the table doesn’t want to meet my gaze. Understandable. I wouldn’t want to look at myself in the mirror after that statement, either.

“Let’s continue the meeting, shall we?” Lucia von Bardas commands, the only one undeterred. I take a deep breath and nod.

The rest of the meeting goes on for a few hours, with a lunch break in between. Everyone had their own piece to say. Raphael’s been keeping a close eye on how both federal and local government legislation has been progressing. Mr. Karela reported that Latveria is maintaining a strong relationship with western powers such as the US and United Nations, but our relation with Russia is shaky at best, and our dealings with Asia have been non-existent.

The biggest issue in the later half is our outdated infrastructure, per Nikolai.

“As you know, Latveria is 80% rural grasslands, with our most up-to-date routes of transportation mostly centralized around the train tracks built during WWII, and when the Iron Curtain was still up.” He pulls up a map for everyone to see. “Our most common vehicles of transportation are motorcycles, offroad trucks, and the occasional horse, but locals only ever visit small towns if they need to.”

Then, he draws up the coverage area of every power plant in Latveria… which doesn’t even cover a majority of it. They’re all coal-fired power plants, mostly built near the coal mines in the Rotruvia province, making the map even more lopsided.

“Combine the power plant placement with the outdated electrical grid, and a decent chunk of Latveria could reasonably be considered medieval serfs.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Négyesy blanches. For such an educated woman, she’s been blindsided by a lot of this information. I suppose it helps that she grew up on the rich end of things in Latveria, which allowed her to gain her prestigious education: too much time in the books, and not enough looking outside, it seems.

“Ms. Négyesy, you need to understand,” the abnormally handsome man says coolly to the older woman, “even with the Doomcast, a sizable portion of the population didn’t know a war had even started until Lady Katarina was crowned.”

At that, Sienna Négyesy stands down, staring at her notes blankly. Looks like she has some self-reflection to do.

Once everything’s listed off, I start typing up a list of what I personally think are the most important issues to tackle. Lower-priority items are likely to be solved when we tackle higher-priority items, so I think I can probably apply a philosophy of triage here…

While closing remarks are being made, however, my Prime Minister decides that now is the time to assert her dominance. I let her go off, mostly because it’s so entertaining.

“I believe our best bet, your Majesty, is a policy of austerity.” Bardas intones, really pulling off that demoness voice. “With the previous policy resulting in high expenditure and low revenue, it seems only fitting that we do the opposite. We’ve already slashed military budgets, so all that would be left is adjusting the tax bracket and minimizing government spending.”

“Austerity requires we raise taxes and accept a halt in development.” Prinz argues, with a protective tone in his voice. “Which is exactly the opposite of what we need right now.”

“That’s an argument in absolutes. Only fools think in absolutes. All I ask is to reduce public spending and save up our resources for a better market.” Bardas hisses, before openly glaring at Prinz. “What would your solution be? Beg the Americans for more money, more food? You’ve already taken one of their star players.”

“The Stark Relief Foundation has been nothing but life-saving during these last few months, don’t disrespect them like that. And Katarina came here by choice, to save us!” Mary intervenes, upset by the Disney villain.

“They’ll leave eventually. And, no doubt, our fearless leader will, too.” Bardas’s eyes flicker over to mine. She’s not wrong: I’m not immortal. But she’s definitely planning to end my mortality early, I can tell you that much.

“Although your policy is sound in theory, Ms. Bardas, its practice is highly contested.” Mr. Karela states stonily, displeased by Bardas’s tone but trying to remain professional about it. “Moreover, please show some decency. Ms. Katarina is right here, and…”

“Katarina this, Katarina that.” Bardas growls, looking over her perfect fingernails. “I’m simply providing a logical answer to our many woes, as is my role as your Prime Minister. Her Majesty won’t save a starving nation, I’ll tell you that much. Not unless she turns all those corpses into mulch.”

At that, the table looks like it’s about to explode into angry arguments, name-calling, or worse: Raphael specifically looks like he’s gonna leap across the table and sock Bardas in the face, gender equality enthusiast that he is.

Deciding enough is enough, I cast a quick Thaumaturgy cantrip. The sky is bright and sunny outside, but –

KRAKA-THOOM!

– Thunder strikes, nonetheless.

The Cabinet is rattled, with many of them looking out the window to try and find clouds. Bardas, however, keeps her eyes solely on me. She probably knows about that trick: I wouldn’t expect any less.

“I’d like to keep our discussion orderly, please.” I remind my Cabinet.

Then, I look down at my notes. Agricultural failure, inflation, unemployment, high crime rates, bad infrastructure… There’s one way for a superhero to solve this kind of thing, in the comics. I decide I might as well go for it.

“Mr. Gorzenko.” I address the man I cowed earlier in the week, and he nearly jumps in his chair. “What are the closest assembly line factories to Doomstadt?”

At this, the Cabinet looks confused. The ZRM Ministers slowly pick up on what I’m doing, used to my antics by now. Gorzenko scratches his head, clears his throat, and leans over to point at the map that Nikolai set out earlier.

“...Well, there’s three in the industrial area, and one on the outskirts.” He points them out, uncertain. “One of them makes toys: little robot dogs, plastic guns, that sort of thing. And then that one makes prosthetics. Of course, there’s the old weapon factory that the Russians still forge AK parts in… And then the one on the outskirts used to be owned by Arminvest – a car company – but they put it up for sale after bankruptcy.”

Toys, prosthetics, AKs, and old cars. What a line-up. Well, I’ve worked with worse.

“I see. I’ll be writing a request to the Consiliu for the purchase of these factories, in order to address some of the problems we’ve been discussing today – please let them know that this is my top priority.” And that holds serious weight, considering the ZRM and the Doomist support I inherently have.

“We try achieving autarky later: for now, our focus needs to be on immediate response. Nikolai and Mary, please assess the logistics of the current relief efforts, and how viable it would be to relocate distribution centers. If there’s anyone I trust with this process, it’s you.” I smile at Mary and Nikolai. Mary fans her face and blushes, for some reason.

"Prinz, you'll be working with our own Keith Dorn on whipping up an emergency militia to combat the crime rate." Prinz nods dutifully, and I get the feeling he'll have more than a few ideas once he sees Keith's new golems. "As for the rest of you, you've got my blessing to enact short-term solutions as necessary, provided I take a quick look at the procedure beforehand."

There’s a general murmur of agreement amongst the Cabinet, a bit of energy now injected into their meeting-tired bodies as they stir to life.

“Ms. Bardas, Mr. Karela, I’d like your assistance in dealing with the specifics and our external benefactors while I, ah… hash out more broad solutions. Let’s reconvene in two weeks.”

Mr Karela nods, and the Cabinet starts moving to get up. Bardas, however, has one last thing to say.

“Excuse me, your Majesty.” She scorns, so openly. “You don’t mean to say you’ll invent your way out of this national crisis, do you?”

That bit of energy is now an excited buzz. It’s funny how her bitterness actually hypes me up as a problem solver. Whatever the case, I appreciate the theatrics of it all.

"Our solutions should be long-lasting, but we can buy some time in the short term. Besides," I shrug with a smile. "I invented my way to the crown, didn't I?"

Chapter 35: Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Tossing my blazer onto a coat rack and yanking my tie from around my neck, I crack my neck and start pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I kick off my high heels and sigh in relief, cracking my knuckles and bending backwards to do the same to my spine.

Then, I summon my armor, and nearly collapse in its warm, metal embrace. Ugh, every time, it’s like I’m buried under the coziest blanket… If I could wear my armor to bed, I would. Actually, who am I kidding? I have. Several times.

I enter my retinal scan and breath analyzer, and after confirming the amount of sucrose in my breath, the pneumatically-sealed airlock vestibule doors open, and I walk into a dark, impenetrable abyss.

Then, I wave my hands like an orchestra conductor, and the magic comes to life.

Material printers, chromatography systems, and enchanting tables all activate. Airborne runes swim and flow through pipes and wires, while a light-obscuring veil of aetheric darkness lifts from a greenhouse of nitrogen-fixing plants. I pleasantly shiver as I bask in perfect room temperature, stress melting off my back like steam in an onsen.

“Milady,” A hologram of a maid fizzes into existence, bowing, “welcome back to your Secret Lair.”

“It’s good to be back.” I purr to Anne, allowing myself to delight in existence for a brief moment. If I could spend forever like this…

After allowing me to enjoy paradise for however long is socially acceptable, Anne summons multiple projections in front of me, providing a visual laundry list of things to do.

“I’ve compiled a list of your WIP projects that would greatly benefit your short-term goals, as discussed with the Cabinet.” I pluck the holographic list out of the air, reading it off as the 3D schematics bloom to life in front of me. “I calculate that successfully completing these within two weeks should provide enough leeway for more long-term planning to occur.”

Getting to the end of the list, I blink and make a face. “...You’re not on there, Anne.”

“Although understanding the fundamentals of nanotechnology would be beneficial in the long term, these other projects are more essential to Latveria’s recovery.” Anne drones off.

“Fine. But never forget, you’re essential to me.” I press my hand to where the holographic maid’s cheek would be, smiling.

“...Thank you, milady.” She smiles back.

With that, I start fiddling around with the schematics, organizing them by problem priority and the level of functionality of those four factories that we’re gonna buy.

“Okay! Let’s see… Agricultural crisis, need to restore nutrients into the land… Phosphates and nitrogen, those are the big ones… And then we need farmers, hum dee dum… Education and law enforcement, too… But moving people around sucks when you don’t have roads, and it’ll take forever to build roads…” I tap my chin, raising an eyebrow. “Anne, pull out the mag-lev wheel idea from the archives, I think I can do something with that.”

Then, I stare at the toy factory and the prosthetics factory, before I snap my fingers. “Oh, and the robo-dog! Especially the robo-dog!”

So, here’s the thing.

I’m Doctor Doom, right? Well, minus the doctor title. But that’s, like, the premise of this story.

If I’m Doctor Doom, that means I should have Doombots. It’s one of the first things that people associate him with, if not the mask and the cloak. And honestly, it’s a personal goal, to have autonomous versions of myself that can run around and, oh, I don’t know, act as me while I goof off doing other things.

But – and hear me out – it’s 2010.

JARVIS, Arnim Zola’s weird computer, and Anne are the most advanced AI systems on Earth at the moment: until the Chitauri come (or unless I break into Wakanda and kidnap some geniuses), we don’t have much to work off of. JARVIS is a constantly-upgraded program whose first version was made when Tony was, what, a teenager? And Zola’s brain-upload is considered his masterpiece, his greatest achievement as HYDRA’s greatest genius. I have no doubt that Anne was the equivalent for Denker, who, himself, likely took years upon years to make her.

Advanced, sapient AI is gonna take me years of work – let alone if they have my level of brainpower. Cracking Denker’s awful coding will speed that up significantly, but I’m not there yet, and the police stations are empty now. So I need a stopgap. A delightful in-between, which gets the job done and only takes a little elbow grease in terms of modding the assembly equipment.

So, what’s fairly sentient and can be made using a toy factory’s assembly line?

“C’mere boy! C’mere!”

Wan wan!

“Good boy, good boy! Watch the gun, haha!”

A dog, of course!

The Police Canine Helper Mk. I, who I’ve been affectionately referring to as “PoCH-I”, leaps onto my lap and licks at my cheek with the cold steel of the stasis gun lodged in its mouth. PoCH-I is equipped with Fulgur stasis technology, tear gas dispensers, injury assessment sensors, search-and-rescue heat and sound sensors, bomb sniffers, and hostility-recognizing technology.

He’s designed to look like a cute robot Dobermann to the law-abiding citizen, personable and recognizable as a police dog. Combine that with the fact that his CPU has some of Anne’s nanotechnology integrated into it, and he’s quite the sociable little scamp.

“Okay, okay. Now…” I summon a hologram of three burglars in ski masks, one of whom is currently holding a holographic banker hostage. “...fetch!”

PoCH-I’s eyes flash crimson. Taser horns erupt from his head as a police siren blares, lights and all.

WAN WAN.

The robot canine fires a stasis round at the hostage taker, who falls over like a stone statue. The hostage runs, and PoCH-I takes off like a bullet after the other two criminals, barking all the way.

"Hm..." I pause, taking notes. "...Why didn't he shoot the other two, Anne?"

"Currently processing." She takes a moment to close her eyes. "...Fear tactics ensure that any potential criminals are intimidated by these units in the future. This is likely to discourage crime in the streets."

"And encourages it behind closed doors, as well as scares everyone in the neighborhood." I sigh. For all that she tries, Anne still struggles with her initial programming as a weapon of war. Whenever I don't expect it, I find myself teaching her these little distinctions. "Hearts and minds, Anne. It's better to do the job as efficiently, and as humanely as possible, rather than rely on scare tactics.

"...I see." She says eventually, sounding a bit disappointed in herself.

"Don't worry, Anne. It wasn't a bad idea, just a bit misaligned." I smile at her hologram, before I hear two other stasis rounds go off.

Eventually, I have three apprehended holograms at my feet, and PoCH-I disengages from Hunt Mode, happily panting.

“Good job! And you left them alive this time, that’s a first.” I grin, throwing a virtual treat to feed PoCH-I’s algorithm. “Once we get your mortality rate to a consistent low percentage, we’ll be selling you like hotcakes in no time!”

Now, onto more science!

“Alright, we’re recording. This is Katarina von Doom. Test one, for the Doomstadt Fulgur. Anne, if I don’t show movement after re-application, call emergency services.”

“Very well.”

“Ugh, I wish I could just test this thing on the war criminals, but bleghh, ethics, bleghh, patient consent!” I grumble to the camera, before putting the gun to my temple. “Buncha pansies. Firing!”

ZZZAP!

My frozen body sits ramrod straight, stuck in complete stasis for one minute. I’m completely aware and conscious the entire time. Wow, it feels weird not needing to blink. Even thinking about breathing doesn’t cause me to start breathing manually. Although, my mouth is kinda dry… I should have drank water. Or, maybe not?

I should have put on a movie or something before I shot myself. Well, at least I have perfect memory. I start playing the entire first Transformers movie in my head while I wait for the reapplication shot.

Eventually, it comes.

ZZZAP!

I blink and sit there for a few seconds, feeling control return to my limbs. I’m still staring off into space.

“Milady?” Anne’s voice prods. “I will call emergency services in one minute if –”

“Shh, I’m getting to the good part.” I squint, looking deeply into a bare wall. “Unicron’s eating the moons, it’s really gnarly.”

“Y’know, when I said I was available to visit while I was touring for the Europe Cup, I didn’t really have this in mind…”

Johnny Storm trails off, looking around at the endless Latverian pastures. It’s definitely a beautiful place, especially with that abandoned mansion in the distance, but…

“I thought I was getting a tour of Doomstadt on my first day, at least.”

“Oh, psh, I’ll take you to this nice dinner place that I like. Good food, better desserts.” Katarina grins, clad in her armor save for the mask. “Just wait, Anne’s getting our ride.”

“Kat, you can fly.” He should know. She’s the one who whisked him to the middle of nowhere. “And who’s Anne? …Is she seeing anyone?”

“Not the point, and stop being chronically single. I need you as a test driver, you see.” Katarina then blinks, before looking in the direction of the mansion. “Oh, here it comes now!”

Before Johnny can ask any more questions, a flying car pulls up in front of both of them. Sure, it looks like a cross between a Lada and your dad’s cozy sedan, but it’s flying! No sign of whatever Anne lady, but who cares? That’s a flying car!

“I… I get to drive this?” He whispers, gently caressing its levitating wheels.

“The 2010 Erdmagie Kuchen DML. Eco-friendly, fuel-efficient, and the first commercially-available, commercially-priced hovercraft.”

“Hover… Kat, you’re a genius.”

“Yeah, I know!” She gushes, hopping into the passenger seat. “I got excited just building the thing!”

“Okay. Before we start and I lose my mind, a few questions.” Johnny slips his seatbelt on, checking his mirrors and testing the gas pedal. Well, it handles like a normal car on asphalt – which is wild, since they’re currently on the slope of a big grassy hill. “Why’s the name German, and are you making more of these?”

“Latveria primarily speaks Romanian, but magia pământului doesn’t roll off the tongue. I picked German because it’s basically the second language. They teach it in primary school.” Katarina hands him a helmet and dons her mask.

“And right now, there’s three other products I’m hoping to get rolled out: the Platten, which are hover wheels that can be attached to any car, the Kürbisse, which is a big orange tractor that comes in flying and not-flying, and the Waffeln line of construction equipment.” She lists off. “Not counting the Bestek line, which is mostly cheap, affordable farming tools.”

“Last thing: why’s it all named after food and tableware?” Cake, Plates, Pumpkin, Waffles, Silverware…

“I’m a very hungry woman, Johnny.” Katarina deadpans.

“Yeah, go figure. Alright, Q&A over.” Johnny shrugs, before he gets a fire in his eyes. “Alright, it’s test time, baby! Ride onnnnn!”

VROOM! WRRRRR!

As Sebastian dutifully trims the flower hedges of the Bardas golf course, he looks up and sees an oncoming vehicle flying towards him. Frozen like a deer in headlights, he can only barely register the dopplering voice of Her Majesty.

“Johnny, you idiot, you physically can’t drift in this thing – watch out for the hedges! Johnny!”

“Sorry, I’ll pay you back for any damages, I swearrrrrrrrrr!” A young man yelps in English. The monarch of Latveria scolds him as they swerve the car back into the countryside.

Sebastian is pleasantly surprised that the hedges seem to be mostly untouched. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he resumes trimming the greenery.

Old Man Kovalyov would say he’s enjoying his leisurely walk. Ever since he was a boy, he always made it a point to visit the Klyne River every Sunday after church. It let him think on the teachings, and how he should let God guide his life. Goodness knows that with how crazy the world has become these days, he’ll need all the guidance he can get.

That Doom girl… If you told him when he was thirty that a Zefiro would steal the throne from the Fortunovs, he’d call you a liar, and then he’d ask if it was magic. In a way, it must have been: to fly about and hurl lightning like some sort of angel of death, she must have made a deal with either God or the devil.

Kovalyov is of the opinion that she’s blessed rather than cursed: after all, the taxes have eased up quite a lot, enough for his grandson to perhaps afford college, or go find work in Romania or Hungary. Not everyone shares his outlook, though, since as the adage goes, ‘If there is a cow and a Zefiro, then someone was conned into a cow’.

…Maybe he’s remembering that incorrectly? Hm.

Perhaps it's his old age. He still remembers a time when the Klyne ran freely, with clear waters and plenty of fish to catch. Now, because of all the farming and the taxes, the dirtiness has washed off from the ground and into the Klyne River. It’s all stagnant, murky and full of algae. It would have been nice, if a Zefiro had magicked away the old kings before they turned the rivers to filth.

Kovalyov is pulled out of his musings when he spots her.

Doom.

With her verdant cloak billowing in the autumn wind, clad in a knight’s shining armor, like the fairy tales that Kovalyov’s old babushka used to read to him. It’s true that her scar is quite big, but it doesn’t seem to detract from her beauty at all. Stunned and uncertain, Kovalyov stops just behind the reeds, watching what she’s doing.

Depositing what looks to be a steel box into the river, Her Majesty holds a palm out to the device and uses… witchcraft, it must be. A bright blue light glows from the incense box. Like a miracle, the algae is cleared and the murkiness is lifted from the surrounding bend of the Klyne River, and Doom retrieves the box. Its holes now glow vibrantly, and words on the side say, ‘PHOSPHATE 100%’.

“Well, that’s a success from the Carpathians to here.” She smiles serenely to herself, before noticing Kovalyov.

What was he to do? He’d watched the Zefiro perform a miracle of God. What else is there to do?

“Your Majesty…!” He drops to one knee, placing his heart over his chest. He’d only done this once, as a boy, when Vladimir’s father visited with his hunting troupe. Before, he bowed in dutiful respect: now, Kovalyov feels nothing but reverence.

“Sir, there’s no need for that! I’m just doing my part, that’s all…!” And so humble! For Kovalyov to meet such a saint before the end of his long life…! “Ah, er… please, rise.”

He does as commanded, his hand still over his pounding heart. He can’t help but stare at Doom, try to memorize this amazing moment the best he can. “I apologize for disturbing your work, Your Majesty. I was only going on a walk, and…”

“Please, sir, there’s no need to explain yourself. What’s your name?”

“P-Piotr Kovalyov, Your Majesty!”

“Piotr. A pleasure.” She shakes his hand, and he feels truly blessed. “I’ll be taking my leave, Piotr. I still need to do some testing with the rest of the river, after all. Please, enjoy your walk, and take your time.”

She plans to purify the entire Klyne? This is more than a fairy tale, it must be a myth! For Kovalyov to have the fortune to see an age of legends and angels… Before he can say anything else, Her Majesty flies off, like she’s ascending to heaven.

Finally snapping out of his frozen stupor, Kovalyov hurries back to town: everyone, from the pubs to the parishes, must know what he just experienced!

There’s one last hurdle that I need to address, before I can present my projects to the Cabinet and to Latveria as a whole:

Energy.

Of all of my upcoming inventions, PoCH-I’s the only one that can function off of only electricity, and that’s because I’m using whatever nanotech I salvaged from Anne (Anne-otech?) as a CPU core. The Fulger, the Erdmagie line, and the phosphate filters are all applications of Molynite, which means I either need a gigantic magic reactor, or an Infinity Stone.

Since I don’t want to go on a space hunt, and I don’t want to fistfight SHIELD or Kamar-Taj, gigantic magic reactor it is. But the thing is, Reed made me promise not to patent anything from my suit, and even then, it’d take years for me to push my upscaled arcane reactor through the patent process and the energy sector bureaucracy.

There is, however, one form of power plant that can absolutely harness magic. Or, specifically, one form of reactor.

Taking a deep breath late at night, I answer the scheduled video call. However, instead of an overworked redhead, I’m greeted with an overhyped billionaire.

“Hey, Pinkie Pie.”

“Oh, you’re not Pepper.” I blurt.

“Yup, you’re stuck with my ugly mug. Heard you’re having an energy crisis. Let’s talk shop.”