At the Latverian Monument—once a monolithic structure named in honor of George Washington, and now referred to as “The Monument of Doom” only by those who ran the risk of punishment for their disrespect—armed guards dressed in deep-blue armor patrolled the grounds, occasionally stopping people—even small children—to run quick scans for weapons or explosives. Golden Age of Mankind though it might be, these were still times for caution—one never knew when one of Emperor von Doom’s cowardly enemies—few though they were—might come out of hiding long enough to threaten the lives of the noble citizens who lived under his protection. And a child—even one possessing the sweetest of smiles and the face of an angel—was just as capable of carrying a bomb as any crazed adult bent on destruction.
Cautious times, indeed.
And at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in the master bedroom of the White House, in private living quarters once occupied by forty presidents and their families over a 193-year span, the planet’s Empress slowly awoke to face the new day.
As resting places go, the room was somewhat at odds with what one would normally expect to find in a mansion that, for nearly two centuries, had been a representation of the hopes and dreams of the country’s population. Its walls a deep blue, its carpeting a lush red, the sanctum’s furnishings were a strange mixture of antique fittings— French settee, Viennese crystal chandelier, Louis XVI-era chairs and sofa—and hi-tech gadgetry—viewing screen, holographic projector, a cell phone or three—though, oddly enough, the combination seemed to go well together. To the left of the Empress’s oaken four-poster bed, on the western wall, hung an ornate tapestry of the coat-of-arms of Latveria—a golden eagle, wings spread wide, beak open as though it were shrieking a cry of victory over its fallen enemies; below it, an ornate “L.” And all set against a blood-red background. On the eastern wall was a 4' X 6' oil painting of Victor von Doom, his strong, handsome features those of a stem, but loving, father—a likeness of the subject perfectly recreated by the artist who had been assigned the daunting task of capturing the power and majesty of the Lion of Latveria on canvas. Indeed, there was almost a lifelike quality to the hypnotic brown eyes that stared out at the room—watching, always watching.
Rubbing her own sleep-crusted eyes with the edges of her hands, Ororo I—the sovereign formerly known as Ororo Munroe—blinked three times to clear her blurry vision, then sat up in bed. But even before she could look up to face the northeastward window that stood across from her to greet the sun, she was plunged into darkness once more as a mountain of white hair cascaded down over her face.
I really should start tying it back before I go to bed . . . she thought with a chuckle. But then, Victor always preferred her hair loose.
Throwing back her head, Ororo kicked away the white satin sheets that covered her and sinuously stepped onto the lush carpeting; her feet sank deep into the pile. She crossed the room quickly, stepping into the light that poured through the window; the warmth of the rays made her skin tingle.
She smiled. Mild, bright mornings like this reminded her of her years as a “goddess” on the plains of Kenya, in East Africa—back when she really thought she might be some sort of Earth-bound deity, pos-
sessing an innate ability to control the weather; how this might be so, considering both her parents had been “mortals,” had never troubled her. But whatever the source of her powers, if drought threatened the land, it only took a single thought to summon a modest-sized storm that prevented the crops—or her faithful worshippers—from dying; too much rainfall, and she could banish the clouds before the precious top-soil was washed away. It was a simple life, with simple responsibilities—one light years away from the days she had spent as a child on the streets of Cairo, Egypt, following her parents’ deaths.
Ororo frowned, her thoughts turning dark from the unbidden memory. And above the streets of Washington, a thundercloud suddenly formed, its icy fingers reaching out to block off the sunlight; it was quickly joined by another. The sky filled with an ominous rumbling.
A knock at the bedroom door snapped Ororo out of her reverie.
“W-who is it?” she asked.
“Paterson, Your Majesty,” replied a deep, male voice. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Joseph,” Ororo called back. “Why do you a—” Her attention was drawn to the dark clouds that continued to form in the skies directly above the historic mansion, threatening to wash out the streets of the world’s capital in a deluge of biblical proportions. Wincing slightly, she realized that she’d allowed her wandering mind to affect the weather patterns in the area. “Oh. I see what you mean.”
Closing her eyes, the dark-skinned maharani cleared her mind, letting her psionic powers reach out, beyond the mansion, to the farthest edges of the district, searching for—
There.
A jet stream of air coming down from Canada. She could practically feel the cool wind playing across her skin; goose flesh prickled its way along her arms and legs. It would miss Washington by a few miles . . . unless it had some help.
All it took was a thought.
Outside the White House, trash receptacles overturned, spilling their contents; papers and food containers fluttered down Pennsylvania Avenue, then leapt skyward like a murder of crows taken flight. Caught in the sudden gale, the storm clouds swiftly retreated from the capitol, bound for the Atlantic Ocean.
Eyes still closed, Ororo smiled as warm sunlight once more bathed her face.
“Ma’am?” Paterson asked.
“It is all right now, Joseph,” Ororo replied, opening her eyes. “I have taken care of the situation. And please—stop talking to me through the door. You know how much I find it distasteful. Come in.”
“Sorry, Ma’am,” Paterson said. The door opened, and Ororo’s personal bodyguard entered the room. At six feet, five inches, and 240 pounds, forty-year-old Joseph Paterson cut a dashing figure in his emerald Guardsman armor, which shone brightly in the restored sunlight. The protective helmet that normally covered his head was tucked under his arm, allowing Ororo to see his rugged features: squarish jaw, piercing blue eyes, a slightly off-center nose that showed signs of having been broken a time or two, and closely-cropped dark hair. A former field operative of the international law enforcement organization called S.H.I.E.L.D.—an acronym for Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistic Directorate—he had been assigned to the Empress by Doctor Doom himself on the basis of Paterson’s service record, having fought against such terrorist groups as Hydra and A.I.M.—Advanced Idea Mechanics—when they had attempted to overthrow the Emperor on more than one occasion. It also didn’t hurt that Paterson had been recommended for the job by S.H.I.E.L.D.’s beautiful and oh-so-deadly director, Viper . . . though she had wisely neglected to mention to von Doom that she and the handsome agent were lovers.
Neither the Emperor, nor Joe’s wife, Maria, would have understood that to refuse the director’s bed was to invite an early retirement—at the wrong end of a gun.
But for all the dangerous situations in which he’d been involved, none had prepared Joe Paterson for the sight that greeted him when he walked into the master bedroom: his Empress in puris naturalibus. And facing him.
“Ah, jeez!” he cried, eyes wide and cheeks turning a bright red. He quickly averted his gaze, concentrating instead on the portrait of von Doom to his left.
Ororo raised a hand to suppress a laugh. No matter how long she lived in the United States, she would never become used to its conservative climate. Back in Kenya, no one worried about such inconsequential as modesty, not when there were far more important concerns to address. Certainly, her people would never have asked their goddess to cover herself up with strips of cloth—it would have been an insult.
Of course, her attititude toward clothing had eventually changed, once she had met. ..
Had met. . .
Ororo frowned. How odd that she couldn’t remember the name of the man who had come to visit her in Kenya four years ago; who had
explained that she was no deity, but a mutant—a “child of the atom,” as others of her kind were later referred to. A human being, not a goddess, gifted with wondrous powers that could help shape the future of the world. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to conjure up a mental picture of the strange man who had changed her life. But none came.
“Umm . . . bad dreams again, Ma’am?” Paterson kept his eyes fixed on the painting ... and the stem face that seemed to glare down at him.
Ororo shook her head to clear her thoughts. The identity of her visitor back then didn’t really matter; he was probably just one of the many Imperial bureaucrats working for Victor. There were so many of the annoying little drones—constantly hovering around the White House, eager to please their master—that one face just seemed to blur into another.
“In a way,” she said to Paterson, shrugging into a floor-length silk robe that was draped over a chair by the bed. “I have to stop letting my thoughts ran away from me like that. After all, how can the people feel secure when their Empress has such trouble keeping her emotions in check?”
“It doesn’t happen that often, Your Majesty, but you’ve got a point,” Paterson said. “Then again, it does keep the weathermen on their toes. And it lets everybody know when it’s a bad time to ask you for something.”
Ororo laughed. “So, that is why the staff avoids me on rainy days.” She tied the robe’s belt tightly, then smoothed the flowing garment with the palms of her hands. “You can turn around now, Joseph.”
Paterson hesitantly pivoted on one foot, momentarily staring down at his feet before working up the nerve to look at her. When he at last saw the robe, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable, Joseph,” Ororo said, smiling warmly. “It will not happen again.” Paterson smiled sheepishly, and glanced back at the painting of von Doom. Being the wife of the most powerful man on the planet, Ororo knew what that look meant. “And don’t worry. This is the only room in the house that isn’t monitored by Security, so no one will have to know of my . . . indiscretion. I certainly would not think of ever mentioning this to Victor.”
Paterson visibly relaxed, a smile lighting his face. “Thank you, Ma’am. You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
Ororo nodded benignly. She also knew what that comment meant. For all the good things he had brought to the world—the abolishment of crime, an end to homelessness and hunger and war—still was Victor von Doom a man to be, not just respected, but feared . . . even, sometimes, by his own wife and children. His rage could be a terrible thing to see when unleashed—a roiling, thunderous darkness that rivaled the most powerful storm she could create; to be caught in its fury was an experience few survived. And not even a former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent would be foolish enough to tempt fate by openly gazing at the undraped form of the wife of such a man.
“Leave me now, Joseph,” Ororo said. “I have much to do for my people today, and I need time to prepare. I will summon you when I am ready to depart for my first appointment.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Paterson said, clearly grateful for the dismissal. Bowing sharply, he marched backward to the hallway, exited the room, and closed the door.
Chuckling softly, the image of her bodyguard’s shocked expression still fresh in her mind, Ororo I slipped out of her robe and headed for the shower.
Outside, Joe Paterson drew the thumb of a gauntleted hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there. He felt drenched inside his armor, and his left eye had suddenly developed a nervous twitch—a tic that hadn’t bothered him since he’d left behind the world of international espionage for what he’d always thought would be far less strenuous palace duties.
“More thought, less reaction, moron,” he said, quietly admonishing himself. “That’ll teach you to go barging in to the Royal Chamber.” He tightly squeezed his eyes shut and gently rapped his forehead with a metal-encased fist, trying to force the vision of the breathtakingly beautiful woman in the next room from his thoughts. The Psi Division could be making one of its periodic mental sweeps of the grounds for possible intruders at any moment; it would only end in tragedy if one of the “mentos” happened to detect any impure images playing on the projection screen of his mind.
What the Empress probably had not realized was that it wasn’t his own life for which he had been concerned; rather, it was for the lives of his wife, Maria, and their son, Gregory. Joe had heard the stories over the years—stories of what had happened to some of the unfortunate souls punished by von Doom for perceived transgressions: their children abducted, never to be seen again; wives or husbands forced to watch helplessly as their spouses were killed before their eyes; entire families slaughtered. He had the feeling that the Empress was aware of the severity of some of the punishments her husband meted out, but chose not to question them; after all, any doubt shown by the royal family toward its monarch’s decisions would be seen as a sign of weakness— and neither von Doom nor Ororo could ever be described as “weak.”
But as terrible a man as Magneto might be—and based on his actions in Paris, “terrible” was a mild description for the international terrorist—his most savage reprisals paled in comparison to those inflicted by Victor von Doom upon his enemies. If anyone doubted that was so, they had only to ask of the fates of the Thing, or the Human Torch. Or Captain America.
Or Susan Storm-Richards.
The Invisible Woman. Joe felt a shiver run along his spine. He’d heard that her husband lost his mind when he saw what von Doom had done to her.
And the Emperor had laughed.
Rumor had it that Reed Richards was locked away in a nuthouse back in Latveria, scribbling jagged 4s on the walls and floor of his cell— and on himself—with a broken blue crayon all day long; his nights were spent screaming his wife’s name over and over until he finally cried himself to sleep.
Could something like that be his own fate, for such a harmless mistake as seeing the Empress unclad?
Yes ... if the Emperor were ever to find out.
For a moment—one that seemed to last an eternity—Joe formed a mental picture of arriving home at the end of the day, only to find his modest apartment in Georgetown wrecked, his family missing.
And one of Maria’s severed fingers on the kitchen table; the blood seeping from the digit was still warm.
Joe violently shook his head, trying to dispel the nauseating image. Where had that come from?
And then he felt it—an itching at the back of his mind, like a spider crawling along the base of his skull. An involuntary tremor ran through his body, and he listened in horror as a small, sinister voice quietly echoed in his mind.
It “said” only two words, but they were enough to make him fall to his knees and weep, body hitching uncontrollably as tears streamed down his cheeks. Two words that let him know he should never have allowed his thoughts to wander, as his Empress had done before. Two words that made it clear that, even if he abandoned his post now and raced for home, he would still be far too late.
Two words—that heralded the end of his world.
We know.
It was a good day to be king.
Strolling through what had once been known as the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden, located on the east side of the White House, Victor von Doom paused long enough to feel the warmth of the sun upon his bare face—a rare moment of pleasure for a man whose days were normally spent constantly tinkering with the smallest parts of his near-perfect world, trying to smooth over the imperfections, few though they were. Dressed in a dark, pinstriped business suit—o, to at last be free of that damnable armor!—the purple silk sash of royalty draped from his right shoulder down to his left hip, he looked every part the strong leader that he was; after all, it was more than a mere suit of metal that made the man—it was the strength of his character, his sheer determination to overcome adversity, his constant drive for perfection . . . and the satisfaction of knowing he could thoroughly destroy his enemie
s.
A slight breeze ruffled his dark-brown hair; he smoothed it back into place with a well-manicured hand. Each finger of that hand contained a ring, as did the other; ten baubles in all, possessing an amazing variety of powers, despite their outward gaudiness—prizes recovered from the corpse of the Chinese warlord called The Mandarin after von Doom had stripped the flesh from his bones with an earthshaking blast of cosmic energy collected from the spent bodies of alien creatures like Annihilus, the self-proclaimed ruler of the anti-matter universe called The Negative Zone, and the brutish Blaastar, “the Living Bomb Blast.” In the early days of von Doom’s regime, a great many of Earth’s so-called “super-villains” had made various bids to depose this modern-day Alexander the Great; all had failed, their rotting corpses raised high for all to see. Matters had quieted down quite a bit after that, though every now and then some misguided fool had to be reminded of his or her place in this brave, new world.
More often than not, that place was a grave.
Dispelling the pleasant but utterly useless memory of his many victories with a slight wave of his hand—for only the weak-minded lived in the past—von Doom turned his attention to the work that his wife had done on the garden in just a few short months: rose and oleander bushes were bursting with color, the sweet fragrances of their blooms mingling with those of hyacinth and hibiscus and gladiola; and somehow, despite the severity of Washington’s summers and winters, Ororo had even found a way to maintain a row of megaflora normally found only in the hothouse-like environment of the Savage Land, that bizarre world beneath the snow and ice of Antarctica where native tribes still fought for survival each day, and all manner of dinosaurs still roamed, apparently unaware that they were supposed to be long extinct.
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