“Damn it all. ..” she muttered.
Pushing herself to the limit, Betsy moved as quickly as her injuries would allow. She leapt over Rogue and the comatose Nightcrawler, shoved the recall device into the carryall, and bolted for the door... only to stop short as, in a burst of brimstone-laced smoke, Rogue suddenly appeared in her path.
Kurt, as Betsy well knew, also possessed the ability to teleport. Now that she had momentarily inherited his powers, Rogue could, too.
“I never did like your stupid TV show,” Rogue said, flashing her newly-acquired fangs.
Betsy leapt away from the leather-jacketed mutant, executing an impressive but slightly off-balance backflip that caused her to land on one instead of both feet halfway across the room. Fire seemed to shoot up her left leg—she’d twisted her ankle. Ignoring the pain, Betsy turned and dove for the window, just as another of Scott’s power-blasts blew apart the wall behind her. Glass and termite-weakened wood shattered as she catapulted herself through the window.
Luckily, there was a lower-constructed roof on the building next door that broke her fall.. . and almost her neck, if she hadn’t dropped the bag and concentrated on landing safely. Considering the alternative, scraping off the top layer of skin on her hands and knees as she rolled across the rough concrete didn’t seem like such a bad trade-off. Unfortunately, her expensive clothing hadn’t survived as well as she—the blouse was tattered and tom, and the leather skirt had split along one seam.
“She’s down there!” she heard Scott yell. Betsy looked up to see him pointing at her. “Rogue—”
Before he could finish giving the order, the skunk-haired Flight Instructor soared through the broken window frame and took to the air. Her skin color was now a pale blue, which made it to clear to Betsy why she hadn’t simply teleported to the roof—the powers she’d “borrowed” from Nightcrawler were fading.
Retrieving the carryall, Betsy hobbled her way across the roof, ignoring the whistle of air that grew louder behind her as Rogue started her attack ran. She needed to concentrate on escape, getting as far from here as possible.
Paris, she told herself. Think about Paris. About getting to Magneto.
The scream of rushing air filled her ears.
She dropped down quickly, her chin bouncing off the concrete roofing; it caused her to bite the tip of her tongue. Betsy groaned, annoyed at herself for adding another to her growing list of injuries. And yet, although it seemed to her that she was doing more damage to herself than the X-Men had tried to do, she had managed to avoid having her skull smashed open by Rogue’s granite-like fists. Based on the speed at which the Southern powerhouse had borne down on her, it was all too clear to Betsy that, under Magneto’s Cube-powered influence, her former teammate was set on killing her.
Looking skyward, Betsy spotted Rogue turning sharply, like some sort of red-and-purple-hued heat-seeking missile. She wouldn’t miss her target twice—unless . . .
Betsy closed her eyes—it was now or never. ParisParisParis, she thought quickly, and was rewarded with the icy sensation that always crept through her bones when her teleportation power was starting to kick in. She felt herself sinking into the concrete as the darkness flowed over her and pulled her into its murky depths.
Rogue crashed into the roof a half-second later, her momentum carrying her all the way down to the building’s second floor.
Of her intended target, there was no sign.
He was lost in darkness.
Unable to move, the Victor von Doom of Earth 616 struggled against the infinite blackness that surrounded him, that held him ini' mobile. How that could be possible, he did not know; it was more than likely the work of those two infuriating women and that insufferable little physician. What he did know, however, was that he needed to escape from it, so that he would be able to enact his revenge upon them* There was no doubt in his mind that he would—he was Doom, after all, and he had vowed to punish his captors for their lack of respect. In the end, their deaths were as certain as his escape. It was merely a question of time—time, and opportunity . . .
Forcing himself to cease his struggles, he tried to recall how he might have ended up in this situation. The last thing he remembered was a brilliant green light flowing over him, through him, the voice that had spoken to him from the depths of his subconscious suddenly crying out in pain, and then . . .
And then, nothing. He had found himself here, alone with his thoughts, the other voice silenced, perhaps forever.
It had served its purposes, though. From it, he had heard the stories of the Starlight Citadel and its master, Merlyn; of the cosmic schemer’s daughter, Roma—the dark-haired woman who would be the first to bow before von Doom and acknowledge his superiority; and of Satumyne, the white-haired cow who had shown the greatest disrespect for the man who would have her put to death soon enough. All this information, the voice had explained, came directly from the mouths of Roma’s own servants—members of an organization called the Dimensional Development Court, who had been captured while visiting another- Earth in order to initiate a process called “The Push.”
The agents, once the depths of their knowledge had been fully plumbed, had not lived beyond their last moment of usefulness.
What interested von Doom the most, of course, was the power contained in both the citadel and its mistress—power, according to the voice, over the forces of time and space themselves. Power that made the world-transforming energies of the Cosmic Cube pale by far in comparison . . .
To von Doom’s surprise, the darkness began to fade, its limitless depths giving way to a spot of light that grew brighter as the former emperor watched. An image began to form before his eyes—hazy, at first, devoid of color, but it quickly solidified into a familiar white shape:
A laboratory coat.
“Awake at last, I see,” said a terse voice. “Excellent.”
The former emperor opened his eyes fully. He was still in the medical ward, lying once more in bed, his battle armor removed—for security purposes, no doubt. But the man standing above him was not the annoying little fop who always seemed to be hovering around him. This person—another physician, from the looks of him—was taller, balding, and perpetually scowling.
Von Doom opened his mouth to speak; his tongue felt bloated and extremely heavy.
“If you plan to launch some colorful stream of invectives my way, I’ll be more than happy to sedate you,” the physician said sternly. “Unlike the Chief Physician, I’m hot nearly as patient of verbal abuse as he is, and I’ve already had my fill of such language from your counterpart.”
Counterpart? Von Doom turned his head to the right, though the sudden movement caused his temples to ache. Lying on the bed next to his was an older version of himself—a face with which he was intimately familiar, since it had stared back at him every time he looked in a mirror during the time he controlled the Earth with the Cosmic Cube. It was the face that had constantly reminded him of how quickly the flawed device was killing him, minute by minute.
How, then, could he be staring at that face, when it was his?
Wasn’t it?
“What is the meaning of this?” he mumbled around his leaden tongue.
The physician gestured from one tyrant to the other. “Victor von Doom of Earth 616, meet—” he leaned forward to consult the old man’s chart, which appeared on the monitor above the bed “—the Victor von Doom of Earth 892.” He grunted. “It took the DDC some time to track down his point of origin—since you moved it.”
The former emperor forced himself to speak—he had to know more. “What are you talking about, you fool?” he rumbled.
The doctor folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “I’ll thank you to address me as ‘Dr. Stanton,’ not ‘you fool.’ And from what the Supreme Guardian has deigned to tell those of us she sees as ‘lesser beings’—not counting the Chief Physician, of course,” he added bitterly, “it would appear that, in the course of whatever experiment you were r
unning, you succeeded not only in abducting one of your counterparts from an alternate reality and taking control of his body, but you brought along his entire world and layered it on top of your own.” He snorted. “Not exactly what I’d call a well-thought-out scientific endeavor.”
The news was a genuine surprise for von Doom. If what this smug cretin was telling him was true, then it would explain a great deal, from his advanced aging to the false memories he’d been experiencing—like the one involving his conflict with the Mandarin—to the “voice” in his head. The memories weren’t false, they were the recollections of his alternate, and the voice had been that of his counterpart, providing information about Roma while fighting to regain control of the body von Doom had taken over when the Cube was activated. It would also explain the reality in which he had lived as emperor: not a physical reconstruction of the world, as he had commanded the Cube to perform, but a transfer of the closest approximation of the world he desired, shifted from one dimension to another.
It was beyond belief. It also meant that the device he had held in his hands not so long ago was probably the most powerful reality-influencer ever created—and he had allowed it to slip from his grasp. Now, the Cube was in the hands of that mutant dog, Magneto, and he was powerless to stop him.
Or was he? If the withered body and sagging face actually belonged to the Doctor Doom of another Earth, if it was that von Doom whose body had been ravaged by the Cube’s life-absorbing flaw, then—
“A mirror,” he ordered.
Stanton clearly didn’t seem to understand why the request had been made, but he did as he was told, and handed von Doom a small mirror from a portable equipment cabinet that stood nearby.
The scars, the mottled flesh, the ghastly complexion—they were all there, but on a face that, though severely disfigured, still bore the features of a man in his early forties, not late eighties.
The face of Doom.
The Latverian dictator was pleased. He reveled in what he saw in the reflection, no longer bothered by his grotesque appearance as he had been in his youth, when a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong had forever scarred the face of a teenaged Victor von Doom. Now, he saw only the power, the majesty, the nobility that were carved into the visage of this man, this conqueror, this intellectual giant known far and wide as “The Lion of Latveria.” True, while holding the Cube, he had allowed his vanity to get the best of him, causing him to place part of his consciousness in the electronic brain of a Doombot—an android replica of the emperor, but one with the handsome features of that younger Victor—so that he could travel across the length and breadth of his brave, new world at the side of his wife, Ororo—the white-haired, African, elemental-controlling mutant known as Storm ... or, had she actually been the wife of his counterpart?
It didn’t matter anymore—that was another time, another dream, lived through the eyes of the decrepit old man lying in the next bed. And through those eyes, von Doom had ruled the world; now, though, he wanted so much more ...
He looked at the straps binding his limbs, then to the physician. “Release me.”
Stanton shook his head. “I can’t do that. Beyond the fact that you’ve just undergone a traumatic, multiphasic transformation from which your body is still recovering, you’re . ..” He paused. “Well. . . you’re a very dangerous man ... or so I’m told.”
“Dangerous only to my enemies, physician,” von Doom replied. “Do you wish to be counted among them ... or among my allies?”
“I’d rather not be counted at all,” Stanton said.
Muscles twitched in von Doom’s face, approximating a smile. “Ahh, I see. You would prefer anonymity.”
Stanton nodded. “Something like that.”
Von Doom chuckled softly. “You surprise me, Stanton—I would have thought a man of your station would desire more from your life.”
“How so?”
“I have seen the way in which you look at your superiors, Stanton,” von Doom replied. “You stand in the shadows, your skills unappreciated, your opinions ignored, while that buffoon you call a ‘Chief Physician’ orders you about and makes infuriating asides to your peers about your apparent lack of medical abilities. Were I in your position, I would take steps to show the Supreme Guardian my true value—and prove to her the poor administrative choice she made in passing you by for the position that should have been yours, and not that prancing clown’s.” He paused, then shrugged. “But perhaps you are right, Stanton—perhaps it is far better to remain in the shadows, rather than to be ridiculed in the light.”
The former emperor fell silent, waiting for a response. He had played this sort of game before—many times—and he knew when it was time to speak ... and when it was time to let the other player make the next move.
Stanton stared at him, his face slowly reddening, his teeth pulling back in a feral snarl—and with that, von Doom knew that he had won. With just a few well-chosen words, he had shattered the physician’s thin veneer of detached professionalism, and reached the enraged, insecure, easily manipulated egotist lurking beneath the surface.
“I can end all that, Stanton,” von Doom purred. “The anonymity, the disrespect. . . I—we—can make it right. Together.” His eyes blazed with a cold, hypnotic fire. “All you need do ... is join me.”
The moments passed slowly, and von Doom waited—tried to wait— patiently. Push too soon, too hard, he knew from experience, and Stanton might back down, the heat of anger raging in his heart replaced with a mindnumbingly cold fear—of Roma, of Satumyne, of losing his job. And then all would be lost... at least, until the next opportunity presented itself. The Lion of Latveria, however, had never been known for having that much patience .. .
“What. . . kind of steps would you take?” Stanton asked haltingly. Scarred lips pulled back in a Cheshire Cat-like grin. “Free me from this bed, provide me with my armor, and I will show you . . .”
“How many guards are on-duty?” von Doom asked one hour later, fitting his mask into place. The seals along its edges closed with a satisfying click. Clad once more in his armor, he at last felt complete—and ready to set his plans into motion.
“Two members of the Captain Britain Corps are stationed right outside the door at all times,” Stanton replied. “But if they suspect anything is wrong, they’ll be able to summon reinforcements within seconds.” “Then they must be rendered incapable of raising such an alarm,” von Doom stated. “You will call them in—then I shall deal with them.” He glared at Stanton. “Do not fail me, physician—or Doom shall make certain it is your last mistake.”
Stanton swallowed, hard. “I... understand.”
“Very good. But first. . .” Von Doom turned to face the other bed. His counterpart slept soundly, deep in the throes of a drag-induced coma. It appeared Stanton had been quite serious about his intense dislike for being the target of verbal abuse ... and his ability to put a swift end to it.
“Umm . . . what are you doing?” the physician asked as von Doom moved to stand near the top of the bed.
The Latverian dictator raised a gauntleted fist above his head. “In the chessgame of power, there is only room for one king.”
The sound of metal smashing through bone and brain was quickly swallowed by the vastness of the infirmary.
Von Doom wiped his gore-slickened hand on the bedsheet, then turned wordlessly and walked across the infirmary to stand at one side of the entry portal. He looked around for something with which to attack the guards; after a few seconds of searching, he found it. He nodded to Stanton.
“Um . . . guards?” the physician called out. “Could you please lend a hand? I’m having some . . . trouble with the patients.”
The door irised open.
Projectile or energy weapons were useless on the citadel, as Satur-nyne had explained when von Doom had attempted to use his armaments. “A state of temporal grace,” she had called it, which prevented them from firing. That security system, however, had no effect on the
syringes he plunged into the bases of the guards’ brains as they stepped through the door—syringes filled with nothing but air.
He rammed the plungers home as the guards, panicked, reached back to pull out the needles.
They were dead before they hit the floor.
Stanton looked ill. “Is all this killing really necessary, von Doom?”
A gauntleted hand shot forward, to grasp the doctor by the throat. “Doom does as he pleases, lackey—and it pleases him to eliminate all who stand in his way.” His grip tightened, cutting off Stanton’s air. “Are you at Doom’s side, physician—or have you chosen to stand in his way as well?” He opened his hand, and Stanton staggered back, rubbing his reddened throat.
“At. . . your . . . side . . .” the doctor gasped.
“You show a glimmer of intelligence, worm,” von Doom commented. He relaxed his grip, and Stanton staggered back a few steps, rubbing his tender throat. “My counterpart told me of a ‘stasis chamber’ that may prove useful to my needs,” the dictator continued. “You will take me to it.”
“There’s only one prisoner being held there right now,” Stanton said, finally able to breathe normally. “Someone who’s supposed to have been no end of trouble for Roma, and her father before that. I’ve heard it said that just her presence in the citadel makes Roma nervous—even though she’s been sealed away since her arrest.”
Behind the gleaming mask of Doctor Doom, an eyebrow rose in an inquisitive fashion. “How . . . interesting. And what is the name of this individual whom the Supreme Guardian fears so greatly?”
“Opul Lun Sat-yr-nin,” Stanton replied. “She’s the Majestrix’s counterpart from Earth 794. The X-Men of your Earth aided in her capture not too long ago.”
“Indeed?” A malevolent, electronic chuckle burbled out from the mask’s mouthpiece. “Then, I should like to meet this extraordinary woman. It would appear we share similar tastes in enemies....”
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