My Next Life as a Supervillain: All Routes Lead to Doctor Doom!

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

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 2, 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

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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 half a 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 the Prime Minister 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.

Notes:

If you'd like a bit of music for that last scene:
"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. "'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

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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…

Notes:

Why it's Doomstadt, and not Hassenstadt:
That's a creative decision. Big capital names don't change that easily unless there's a huge regime change. Which is likely the case for Victor, but if we're being honest, if Katarina took over, she's unlikely to insist on the name change. I did it mostly to give credence to "Doom" as an actual name/place that exists in Latverian culture.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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.

Notes:

Have a double update on the house. Also, I wonder which actress would play Katarina in the MCU.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

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 goes missing somewhere in South Asia, Steve Rogers breaks out of containment and into the 21st century within the first minute of waking up, and Tony Stark goes 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

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

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…"

Notes:

Check out the original SpaceBattles thread for some fanart I got!

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

Notes:

This chapter went through a revision, since it was pointed out that Katarina was a bit too sad*stic and brutal to be in-character. As such, I've rewritten some parts of it to have more empathy and sorrow, concerning the nature of war.

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!

It's about two hours after I shot down that helicopter, and I am still fighting.

Well. Technically. There's a lull in reinforcements right now.

I've learned the hard way that flying constantly takes a lot of energy out of me – well, not the leisurely flying, just the I'm-in-the-middle-of-combat flying. I'm explaining this really badly, aren't I?

Let's put it this way: since my armor requires me to trigger the magical battery within, and pulling the trigger requires me to use my magic, then keeping my finger squeezed on the trigger takes a lot out of me, especially if I'm multitasking, like I was doing at Stark Expo.

If I conserve my energy, though, I actually have a pretty easy time keeping up, because it's less like a trigger, more like a click. Sure, I won't be going as fast as if I were maintaining my top flight speed, but during times like these, I don't really need to.

Victorum's about two hours away from here by car – at least, that's what my GPS says – so I mostly wanted to keep the police force busy while the ZRM got there safely. That way, all their attention is on me, and not on the stolen truck.

Now, it's mission complete, but... I'm so full of rage, and sadness, and disappointment.

I never caught the name of the man I killed. It's one thing to blast up robots: it's another when it's a human life. I can't sit here and pretend all of them are cartoon Nazis, socking them in the face like Captain America. I reduced some of them into paste. I grabbed a helicopter by its tail and flung it at a platoon, at some point, because it was the fastest way to get rid of as many enemies as I could. These were people with hearts and minds. Yes, they knew what they signed up for, and the Nuremburg Defense is no way to justify evil, but...

God, I wish I was reincarnated in a simpler world. One full of roses and castles, princes and teacups. Maybe everything would be better.

After the first ten waves of forces, they've been trickling in slowly. Maybe it's because Fortunov's army is untrained. I mean, the last military exercise this country had was during my mom's rebellion – and that was more of a one-sided hunt than an actual war. Either way, every new wave of police or military just didn't have the same oomph as the first few.

Growl…

Tch. I'm hungry, too… I haven't eaten yet, and it's already afternoon…

"Hello, commander?" I speak into the radio coldly, plucked off a dead army captain that I turned into microwave ramen. "I'm rather hungry after all this fighting. Would you mind if I take a quick lunch break?"

"G-Go to hell! Monster! Demon! Devil!"

"Okay, well, I'm going to take that as a yes." I sigh. Their blood will be on his hands, as well as mine. "Don't worry, I'll work overtime to make up for it."

I crush the radio and toss it over my shoulder, trying to look for any shops or street food stands. Naturally, there's not going to be any employees working there, since they all should have evacuated by now, but I figure I can just leave behind cash.

Doomstadt is barren and lifeless as I meander through the carnage I left behind. It feels kind of wrong and eerie, like a big monster came and ate everyone up. I'm sure that once I help get the new government set up, the streets will look twice as lively as they did before, though.

Somehow, through the burning meat and the smoldering ashes, I pick up the smell of freshly baked bread and sweet chocolate. Following my nose, I round the corner and see an Italian-themed bakery, with chocolate cornettos on display in a window.

My eyes light up and my mouth waters, and I approach.

But then, someone unloads an AK-47 clip into my chest from behind the counter, shattering the display glass behind me and ruining an entire window display of baked goods.

Well, now I can't eat those. Luckily, though, there's the actual shelf of tasty treats inside the store, next to the counter.

I wave my hand and levitate the rifle away, yanking it out of his grip. The shooter – a redheaded soldier, barely of recruitment age, pulls out his handgun and empties it into my mask. Bullets ricochet uselessly off of my face plating. I levitate that gun away, too.

Walking up to the counter, I look him in the eyes.

He's scared. Scared numb, scared out of his life. I wouldn't be surprised if he died of shock or a heart attack right now.

Uselessly, he holds up a combat knife, pointing it at me. I can see his teeth chatter.

"Dang. I think you're probably the bravest person I've ever met." I say offhandedly, without even thinking, partially numb due to the carnage I've been perpetrating for the last three hours.

"Whuh… What?" He stutters, like a pretty purple unicorn princess popped out of nowhere and said he won the lottery.

"I mean, you don't seem that strong. Relative to me, of course, but also to the others I've faced." I levitate a small serving plate from the back of the store into my hands.

"Could you grab those cornettos?" I ask him politely. "The chocolate ones! Three, please."

Scrambling back on his feet, the young soldier holds his knife forward and keeps his legs bent like he's ready to run at any moment. Shakily, he grabs three of the delicious-smelling sweets and throws it onto my plate, as if he were holding red-hot irons.

"Thanks. Now, as I was saying, you're not strong, but you do have enough heart to still try to fight me to point a knife at me, after all that," I gesture to the warzone outside, "and that takes courage. Bravery, y'know?"

I pull out some change from my utility belt and start counting it. Five, ten euros… Leaving the correct amount (plus a tip) on the counter, I take a seat at one of the bakery's little tables, setting my plate down.

I take my mask off, and the soldier flinches.

"Oh, come on, is my scar that bad?" I sigh, taking a bite out of the fat end of the cornetto as God intended.

"N-No, it's just…" He gulps. "You're… you're not a machine."

"I'm only human, after all!" I quote while eating, before swallowing and licking my lips. "I'm sure you saw my pictures during the mission assignment."

"Y-Yes, but… I…" The soldier squirms awkwardly.

An idea crosses my mind. Sure, I could kill the guy now, but that doesn't feel great. What was it that Victor said? It amuses me to let him live? …Okay, maybe not that insane, but c'mon, he's a sweetheart with balls of steel. And I... I need a break from the killing. I need to remind myself that the enemies are people, not faceless hands of war.

"Hey. Sit here and have lunch with me. Pretty please? I wanna know what makes ya tick." I ask him, pointing my half-eaten cornetto at him as I cross my legs.

The redheaded soldier takes a moment to look at me, then to the treats next to him. To my pleasant surprise, he grabs a piece of bread and scurries around the counter to me – before looking back at the counter, and seeing the change.

He curses, reaches into his pocket, and slaps a bill on the counter before sitting across from me.

"I think we started off on the wrong foot," I smile a brittle smile, knowing how abysmally understated that is, "I'm Katarina von Doom. What's your name, soldier?"

"...Raphael. Private Raphael Walt."

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

Notes:

Did you know you have to include an opening quotation mark at the beginning of each new quoted paragraph when writing stuff like speeches? I didn't. I hate how it looks, but oh well.

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

Notes:

I'm admittedly not great at writing fights, so have some shonen goofiness.

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.

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

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

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Chapter 2: Chapter 2

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Chapter 3: Chapter 3

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Chapter 4: Chapter 4

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Chapter 5: Chapter 5

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Chapter 6: Chapter 6

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Chapter 7: Chapter 7

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Chapter 8: Chapter 8

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Chapter 9: Chapter 9

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Chapter 10: Chapter 10

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Chapter 11: Chapter 11

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Chapter 12: Chapter 12

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Chapter 13: Chapter 13

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Chapter 14: Chapter 14

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Chapter 15: Chapter 15

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Chapter 16: Chapter 16

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Chapter 17: Chapter 17

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Chapter 18: Chapter 18

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Chapter 19: Chapter 19

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Chapter 20: Chapter 20

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