Universe 616 (Multiverse Marvel)
Castle Doom, Doomstadt, Latveria
One week.
A week had passed since Doom sent the Doombot B-78 to steal the Mother Box from the Justice League's space headquarters.
During this time, Doom had investigated the object. According to the tests, the diagnosis was clear: superior technology of extraterrestrial and divine origin, far too resilient, making adamantium and vibranium seem like mere paper. It had technological and divine patterns that would make the Kree and the Shi'ar Empire envious.
The ruler of Latveria, unable to uncover further information about the object, had to improvise. Doom touched the box with his palm and expelled some of the Beyonder's remaining residues from his body, using his protective magic to prevent it from draining him or causing his malady to resurface. As he touched it, applying his strategy, he saw flashbacks of events from thousands of years ago in that universe. The Beyonder translated them in its own way, showing him glimpses of history.
The object had been created by a being from a faction known as the New Gods, named Himon.
These powerful beings, called the New Gods, included figures like Lightray, Orion, Avia, and the Forever People, belonging to a faction that sought light, peace, and goodness on a luminous planet called New Genesis, governed by a being known as Highfather, whose true name was Izaya.
Another faction of these beings sought conquest, war, suffering, and the elimination of free will. This faction included figures like Kallibak, Desaad, Steppenwolf, Grail, and Granny Goodness, who lived on a hellish planet called Apokolips, ruled by a being named Darkseid, whose true name was Uxas. This was the place where Mr. Miracle and Big Barda hailed from.
These worlds were opposites—the yin and the yang. The war between Uxas and Izaya, the treaty between the two worlds, the exchange of the children from both worlds, the equation of life and the anti-life, and finally, Source Wall, whose location was unknown.
A being called Metron sat on a floating blue throne in the middle of the scene between both worlds, illuminating the cosmos.
As Doom gathered the information from these flashbacks, he understood that there were several beings with unique energy, vastly different from his own. Even if these beings united, they could destroy Thanos and his forces or defeat the Eternals and the Asgardian gods combined. These equations surpassed the Infinity Gauntlet—or perhaps even the Cosmic Cube.
His thirst for power had borne fruit. He envisioned a world where heroes, cosmic beings, and the UN would kneel before him. But that was not possible now. He remembered that he would die in a few years. The pain began to manifest again in his body, reminding him of his last discovery.
Doom vowed never to use the Beyonder's residues again for a long time. It had left him thoroughly shattered.
///
In Doom's personal laboratory, the object from the Fourth World now rested inside a transparent sphere held by a metallic stand, its pulsating energies adorning its form. Doom left it there for later, intending to combine its technology with his own to enhance his power and strengthen Latveria's defenses against anyone who might attempt an invasion. He did not have the strength to wield the powers of such an artifact, as he had already repeated to himself—his illness would not allow it.
Victor von Doom, clad in his armor and green cloak, stood several centimeters away from the Mother Box. He was not looking at the object itself; instead, his attention was fixed on a hologram—a transparent simulation of that universe's planet Earth projected before his eyes. Images of the world's nations appeared as the virtual Earth rotated horizontally, alongside the faces of each nation's rulers, all thanks to data siphoned from LexCorp and Wayne Enterprises.
Themyscira, Paradise Island of the Amazons, ruled by Queen Hippolyta, dressed in a white gown with a short purple cape. Symbols representing the Greek gods surrounded her image, and she wore a yellow crown with a small red star, similar to that of Wonder Woman. The queen was the mother of Diana Prince and of all the Amazons.
Atlantis, ruled by Aquaman, Arthur Curry—member of the Justice League. Doom already knew this: the blond ruler wearing an orange and green suit.
Bialya, dominated by Queen Bee, true name unknown, a telepathic tyrant with a blend of bee-themed and Arabic attire. Located within the Arab nations.
Qurac, ruled by Rumaan Harjavti, neighboring Bialya, with high tension between both nations.
Kahndaq, under the iron fist of Teth-Adam, also known as Black Adam, wearing a black suit with a yellow lightning bolt on his chest. A theocracy rooted in ancient Egyptian power, with pointed ears, wielding lightning-based strength similar to the mutant Storm and bearing a resemblance to Namor—worth taking into account.
Vlatava, a small nation in Eastern Europe, ruled by a young blonde queen, Perdita Vladek, her father deceased. She had an uncle named Werner Vertigo, known as Count Vertigo, a sworn supervillain of the Justice League and a personal enemy of the blonde heroine Black Canary and the green-clad archer hero, Green Arrow—rough equivalents to Black Widow and Hawkeye, respectively. To Doom, the young Queen Perdita reminded him of his goddaughter, Valeria Richards.
And finally, Markovia, also located in Eastern Europe, ruled by Gregor Markov. He had siblings who were heroes in that world: Brion Markov, also known as Geo-Force, and Tara Markov, also known as Terra.
More images appeared—additional nations and locations.
Santa Prisca, a Caribbean island ruled by drugs and the world's most dangerous criminals, the most notable among them being Bane.
Nanda Parbat, a hidden city among the Himalayan mountains of that world, used as a base of operations by the League of Shadows, led by Ra's al Ghul, the Demon.
Zandia, an island nation where the Church of Blood was located, whose faithful worshipped Brother Blood.
Kravia, Zambesi, Boravia, Solvionia, and more.
Doom confirmed that the names Latveria, Symkaria, Wakanda, Gehenna, Madripoor, K'un-Lun, Kamar-Taj, Krakoa, and Genosha did not exist in this universe.
"This universe is far too interesting… a canvas of untapped power," Doom thought, though the present denied him that desire for conquest.
The hologram of the planet shifted to a scene showing the bat of that world—Batman—typing at his computer inside a cave, searching for clues about the origin of the latest intrusion caused by the Doombot's theft of the Mother Box. This footage was possible because B-78 had deployed a Doom-Fly, a drone smaller than a standard fly, which it left on Prime Earth to track the heroes' movements without being discovered. Doom was not in a condition to face that group of heroes in a direct, large-scale battle—not for a long time.
"This is my little introduction. Search for everything you want, Batman—you and your band of misfits. You cannot match the intellect of Doom," Doom murmured authoritatively, crossing his arms.
The theft had been calculated. The prior multiversal—or omniversal—breach created by the Doombot's journey to that universe, powered by the stolen crystal and part of the time platform, left no residue, no energy signature to betray a future incursion. The lingering power of the Beyonder within the crystal ensured this. These breaches were whispers across realities, undetectable by the Watchtower's sensors, by gods, or by the cosmic guardians of that reality.
The search for his next lineage was approaching. Soon, he himself would cross the bridge, claim what was necessary, and secure the eternity of Latveria.
Speaking of which, one figure dominated Doom's thoughts: Wonder Woman, Diana of Themyscira—the Amazon princess whose divine lineage, strength, and warrior spirit made her the perfect vessel for an heir.
She would give birth to his child, a scion of von Doom, to nullify the UN pact and secure the eternity of Latveria. Doom does not fail—especially not in this. The culmination of his legacy.
It was decided.
To achieve this, the Doom-Fly—his eyes on Prime Earth—recorded every detail unseen as it moved among those so-called heroes, the images flowing directly into Doom's neural interface.
The hologram before him shifted to collected footage of Diana Prince: interacting with the heroes of that world; her time at the Themysciran embassy and her relationships with that world's politicians; her life on Paradise Island; then her as Wonder Woman fighting common criminals, beating them mercilessly; then battling a mutated woman with the form of a leopard named Cheetah, binding her with the Lasso of Truth and knocking her unconscious; and finally, fighting a giant red-haired woman named Giganta with the help of her partner, a dwarf man calling himself Doctor Psycho—defeating both with great difficulty.
These images were sufficient for one of the Doombots to scan her appearance and personality, perfectly replicating the likeness of Wonder Woman—nothing extraordinary for von Doom. The Doombots' camouflage abilities were so advanced that the Skrulls themselves would demand the head of Latveria's ruler once more. Doom had many precedents: the time he used Wanda Maximoff's image as a replica, his promise to the woman who cared for him during his university years in New York—deploying several Doombots to watch over her so she would not die alone. Doom always keeps his promises. And many other cases throughout his life.
The deception had to be flawless. No hero, no telepath, and no sorcerer would suspect the Doombot, protected by Doom's advanced arcane forces. Diana Prince's Amazonian physiology, forged by Olympian gods, was easy to adapt to his creation.
Now came the true challenge: capturing Wonder Woman herself.
Doom could attempt diplomacy, weaving words to influence her. Diana Prince was noble and idealistic, perhaps susceptible to a plea for alliance. But perception was a risk—she might sense Doom's aura, mortality, and intentions before loyalty could be secured. Words were too fragile.
Alternatively, Doom considered spells of manipulation and mind control, inspired by his former lover, the Asgardian enchantress known as the Enchantress—chaos magic, Darkhold sorcery, and Latverian arcane magic. These spells would bend her will to Doom, not through brute force, but by enveloping her mind and igniting devotion. This too was impossible. According to the information gathered about Wonder Woman, she had been subjected on multiple occasions throughout her life to various forms of magical, telepathic, and technological mental manipulation, or anything beneath them. She had always managed to break free.
Both options were discarded.
Doom continued thinking of other alternatives in his position, his mind reeling—until a spark of light ignited within him.
Flashback
Six months earlier, early February
Deep within the bowels of Castle Doom, where the air hung heavy with the damp scent of forgotten centuries and the faint crackle of arcane energies, lay Victor von Doom's grand personal library. A labyrinth of towering shelves carved from ancient Latverian oak and reinforced with enchanted iron stretched seemingly into infinity beneath the flickering glow of levitating orbs. These orbs cast long, wavering shadows across tomes bound in dragon hide and scrolls sealed with runes of arcane magic.
At the center of the library, Victor von Doom—wearing only his mask and green tunic—floated in a seated yoga position, his non-metallic limbs and body suspended inches above the cold stone floor. The terminal illness, an insidious curse born from years of constant power excesses, gnawed at him like a relentless parasite. It sapped his vitality, turning his once unbreakable body into a vessel of fragility hidden beneath an impregnable façade.
He had retreated here after exhausting every scientific avenue: synthesized serums from his cutting-edge laboratories, cybernetic implants humming with advanced technology. None had been sufficient. Now, in desperation, Doom turned to the arcane heritage of his Romani ancestors, delving into forbidden spells Latveria had accumulated since the fourteenth century. He discarded his mother's books—no solutions there—then Asgardian spells, the Darkhold, and magic from the Dark Dimension. Finally, he considered the Book of the Vishanti, but it was guarded in its own dimension, watched over by Earth's Sorcerer Supreme. Doom was not in a condition to face Strange.
Before him floated a line of ancient arcane books, selected by his Librarian Robots. Around Victor, several volumes lay scattered across the cold floor. Doom's hands trembled slightly—a betrayal he despised—as he turned the next page of the book he held.
"The Grimoire of Eternal Flesh," he murmured, his voice a metallic whisper through the mask's vocal filters. Yellowed pages revealed rituals of flesh-weaving age: enchantments to bind wounds with shadows, potions brewed from the marrow of mythical beasts. He performed one of the rites immediately, chanting in guttural Latverian while tracing runes in the air with a dagger forged from meteoric iron. A surge of dark green energy coursed through him, knitting torn tissue and extinguishing the pain—for a moment. Then the aura faded, and the agony returned. Doom hurled the book to the floor, joining the rejected volumes.
Hours blurred together. "The Codex of Unyielding Vitality," another tome, offered spells to infuse the body with eldritch vigor drawn from ley lines buried beneath the castle. He invoked it, feeling a temporary surge of power straighten his spine and clear the fog from his mind. Yet as the magic waned, the weakness returned twice as strong, leaving him slumped against a reading pedestal, breath labored. Sweat pooled beneath his mask, mingling with the scars that marred his face—a constant reminder of his decay.
"Doom will not succumb," he growled at the empty air. But the words rang hollow; each passing day eroded his resolve, his body a clock ticking toward oblivion. He imagined Latveria without him—his people desperate at the death of their master, with only Kristoff and Zora trying to calm them and earn their trust.
He pushed the thought aside and reached for the next tome.
It was a slender volume made of a black material that pulsed with a contained glow beneath his touch, like living skin. No title adorned its cover or spine. Instead, faint pink sparks shimmered weakly, as if stirring a presence. Curiosity—that eternal spark within Doom's intellect—overrode caution.
He opened it. A glow flared instantly before Doom's mask, though it did not affect him. The pages unfurled with a sigh that echoed like a lover's whisper. What lay within was unlike any grimoire he had encountered—not healing spells, but something far more insidious. The letters formed phrases of a sexual and lustful nature concerning the male and female body. Doom sensed this was not magic as he knew it; he could not categorize it. It was another kind of energy altogether—too mysterious. Small, undefined pink energies spread across the pages, intricate patterns that seemed to writhe if stared at too long, promising dominion over the human form.
Turning page after page, Doom's eyes—sharp despite his affliction—scanned explicit illustrations accompanying the texts.
The engravings depicted scenes of raw, unrestrained carnality: naked figures entwined in positions of power and submission, bodies arched in ecstasy under the influence of glowing sigils. One word was etched boldly across the page: pheromone energy.
One page displayed several sexual positions meant to be performed by two individuals of opposite sexes in moments of passion.
Another showed various wooden and ancient-material accessories associated with sadism, masochism, bondage, submission, and sexual domination, according to mortal BDSM standards.
A king bending his naked wife against her will, her eyes glazed with forced lust as ethereal chains coiled around her limbs against a wall, amplifying every sensation until resistance crumbled.
Another illustration showed an ancient sorcerer implanting seeds of desire into a rival's mind, turning enmity into an insatiable craving. The art was exquisite, almost hypnotic to any mortal.
A medieval woman stood naked, enjoying her naked husband's member while another man penetrated her from behind, striking her buttocks with a wooden rod.
Doom turned the page, and there—dominating it—was a female figure: the image of a silver-haired sorceress. Her attire was a web of shadows and black lace, accentuating high breasts and a narrow waist that flared into hips promising both pleasure and danger. Her blue eyes, rendered in vivid ink, pierced the page with a predatory gleam, staring directly at the ruler of Latveria, as if knowing she was trapped here. This did not unsettle Doom.
Beneath the portrait, a single word pulsed with latent power: Ratri, engraved in letters heavy with potential, accompanied by invocation words—simple yet potent—meant to activate her essence, to unlock the book's true potential. The words were written in Romani:
"Me mukhav tut, miri devlikani voja, Ratri, ker mancar sar kames!"
Doom knew what those words meant.
His scientific mind dismissed it as folklore, a relic of primitive superstition. He chose to close the book, unsure how it had even come to be here. He was not seeking such methods; Doom was no fool to be ensnared by such temptations.
"Illusions for depraved mortals," Doom growled.
He hurled the volume toward the others scattered on the floor and returned to his search. Whatever Ratri was—a demon, a goddess, a sorceress, or a mere myth—she held no interest for him. What mattered now was finding a solution to his illness. If he could not, he would only be delaying the inevitable.
Returning to the present.
Doom remained deep in thought, recalling that book of sexual domination, of so-called pheromone power—non-magical. Still standing, Doom tried to reason through it. He knew of only one such tool available that could make Diana Prince accept bearing his next heir. Said in the way of Von Doom, this meant he would capture the heroine, just as he had done with several others before. His physical strength would not work on her, given his weakened state; his magic and technology could only grant him brief moments of leverage. He would have to be cautious and careful when the time came—his illness spared him nothing, day by day.
As Doom repeated to himself time and again, Latveria is paramount. It was decided. He needed to find that book again in his library. Despite the mental discomfort he felt over the book's connection to sexual lust—he was not a pervert—Doom was not alien to sex. The times he had shared it with his lovers, he had felt relief, forgetting his enemies for a moment. Doom knew, of course, that sex—the union of man and woman—results in a new form of life, made in the image and likeness of both. This present situation had to be exploited to its fullest.
Meanwhile, the hologram before him shifted to multiple images of various villains.
Doom saw again the images of Black Adam, Queen Bee, and Count Vertigo—information already known to him.
The image displayed the same bald billionaire, Lex Luthor. A description noted that the man was running for President of the United States. This did not surprise Doom; villains were always in power.
Doom saw an image of a boy magician in an elegant outfit with black horns and pale skin—Klarior the Witch Boy—wearing a sinister smile that reminded him of the god of lies, Loki.
Then came familiar information on Ra's al Ghul the Demon, the primary leader of the League of Shadows, wearing medieval Asian robes similar to Doom's own.
Lady Shiva—Sandra Wu-San—an expert assassin and Asian martial artist clad in red with ninja swords, reminded him of Elektra Natchios.
Other names and images followed: Ultra-Humanite, Black Manta, Brain, Ocean Master, Zvlad Baazovi, and the mercenary Deathstroke.
Finally, at the center, the primary figure: Vandal Savage—the immortal leader of The Light. All the previous figures shown were part of this supposed group or council of supervillains, united by their ideology regarding the next step in the evolution of humanity in that world. It reminded Doom of his time in The Cabal.
The ruler of Latveria examined the immortal's profile, reviewing details of his origin and of the group itself.
The image then shifted to the following names: Amanda Waller and the Cadmus Project.
Victor von Doom merely refrained from indulging in all the information that Prime Earth was offering him.
------------------------------
Prime Earth (Multiverse DC)
LexCorp Tower, Metropolis
In the opulent penthouse office, everything stood as a testament to Lex Luthor's ego—walls lined with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Metropolis, its advanced buildings bathed in the glow of the sunset; polished marble floors reflecting the soft light; and an enormous mahogany desk that could easily double as a throne. Holographic screens flickered in the air, projecting stock tickers, polling numbers, and news from around the world. One screen looped footage from Luthor's most recent rally in Gotham, where he had charmed a skeptical crowd with promises of "technological rebirth" and "security for all American families." Another displayed endorsements from the United Nations—subtle nods from international delegates swayed by his discreet arms deals and philanthropic façades.
At the center of the room sat Lex Luthor, the world-famous billionaire and industrialist, rigid in his high-backed leather chair. His custom-tailored charcoal-gray suit with a subtle pinstripe was accented by a crimson tie, immaculate despite the late hour. At forty-five, he cut an imposing figure: his bald head gleaming under the lights like polished chrome, piercing green eyes narrowed in concentration, and a jaw set with the unyielding determination that had built an empire from nothing. His presidential campaign was in full swing—a meticulously orchestrated symphony of redemption and reinvention.
For months, he had crisscrossed the country, delivering fiery speeches from the crowded districts of Metropolis to Gateway City, denouncing the recklessness and devastation left in the wake of Superman and the Justice League's battles against invading forces, positioning himself as the rational savior the United States—and the Earth—needed.
The UN's support was his ace in the hole, a web of diplomatic favors spun over years of backroom dealings. Resolutions praised his "humanitarian" initiatives—clean energy projects in states ravaged by war or crime—funded by LexCorp's profits.
Even the Justice League couldn't touch him. The law was his armor, so long as he wasn't once again entangled in acts of terrorism or illegal arms sales to criminals. Luthor's lawyers and legal teams had buried any evidence of his past atrocities—kryptonite weapons, experiments with Doomsday's blood—beneath layers of plausible deniability.
The public was buying it. Polls showed him neck and neck with the incumbent, his image clean as a freshly minted coin.
Yet amid this triumphant march toward the White House, a shadow had slipped into Luthor's calculations—an unforeseen variable, one that corroded the edges of his genius like rust on inferior steel.
A week ago, an intruder had breached his private satellite network—his orbital fortress. It wasn't merely a hack; it was a surgical dissection. This ghost in the machine had sifted through terabytes of data: blueprints for experimental weapons disguised as "defense prototypes," personal dossiers on Luthor himself, medical records, psychological profiles of his own therapists, even encrypted logs of his vendettas against Superman. Employee files were opened, Mercy Graves's combat training regimens exposed, followed by allied contacts and past weapons sales records. But the true horror lay deeper—the intruder had uncovered everything about The Light.
The Light—the clandestine cabal pulling strings from the shadows, of which he was a part. Vandal Savage, Ra's al Ghul and his League of Assassins, Queen Bee, Klarion's chaotic magics, and the other members. The Light's movements—schemes to destabilize governments, experiments in meta-human enhancement, intentions to orchestrate a new world order and the next step in human evolution—had been laid bare. Even evidence of cloning by Project Cadmus and everything connected to Amanda Waller had been exposed. The data breach rendered Luthor's cybersecurity obsolete; a fortress of firewalls and quantum encryption collapsed like paper. No League hacker could have done this—he had designed the system to repel Batman's and Oracle's digital tendrils, even alien cyber-infiltrators. This was something else: precise, undetectable, almost elegant.
Otis had delivered the news four days earlier, bursting into Luthor's office during a campaign strategy session. The man, part of his security detail, said it was like a ghost—no alerts sounded during the attack, no IP addresses, no AI sentinels flagged it in real time.
Since then, Luthor's fury simmered, directed outward at Otis through petty humiliations, extra shifts, and menial tasks—but inwardly it burned far hotter. The intruder had vanished as cleanly as they had arrived, leaving his empire exposed.
The bald billionaire had worked in seclusion, hunched over his personal laptop—a sleek device armored with biometric locks and self-destruct protocols, linked directly to the satellite through a secure quantum tunnel. He rewrote the code, deploying diagnostic programs of his own design: algorithms to patch vulnerabilities, neural networks to simulate counter-hacks. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the climate-controlled air, fingers flying across the keys in a blur of commands.
At last, he sealed the breach, reinforcing the system with layers of adaptive AI that learned from the intrusion. But the hacker had left behind a digital signature embedded in the logs—a cryptic string of code that defied analysis. It wasn't binary or hexadecimal; it pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm. It bore human traits—subtle inefficiencies, a flair for drama.
Now Luthor sat alone in his office, the laptop humming softly on the desk, its screen casting a blue glow across his taut features. He typed furiously, cross-referencing the signature against global databases, Interpol records, NSA leaks acquired through back channels, even black-market hacker forums.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with a growl.
Coordinates flared across the screen, tracing pings to dead ends in Siberia, ghost servers in the digital abyss of the Mariana Trench, loops leading mockingly back to LexCorp itself. Nothing. No rival in his vast intelligence network.
Sweat trickled down his temple, soaking into his collar; the room felt stifling, his pulse racing with uncharacteristic anxiety. This wasn't just a setback—it was an affront to his intellect, a crack in the armor of invincibility he had forged. Frustration boiled over.
With a snarl, Luthor snapped the laptop shut, the sharp click echoing like a gunshot in the silent office. He leaned forward, arms tense against the desk, veins bulging beneath his sleeves as he gripped the edges. His thoughts raced: Waller, Savage, Shiva, the others in The Light—none of them could know. If word got out, if this ghost shared what they'd found, it could fracture the alliance. Savage would see it as weakness. This wasn't strategy; it was sabotage.
He straightened, exhaling sharply, eyes drifting to a holographic display of The Light's latest communiqué—an encrypted message from Queen Bee about influencing UN votes in Luthor's favor.
Irony twisted his lips into a grim smile. The real question was: who was it? Anthony Ivo? Someone from the shadows working against The Light's grand design?
Luthor knew there would be no second trick; the intruder had already taken the secrets. He rose from his chair and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out over Metropolis. The Daily Planet globe spun lazily in the distance, a reminder of his enduring enemies as the sun dipped below the horizon.
"Whoever you are," Lex whispered to the dusk, his steel voice wrapped in silk, "I will find you."
Time would reveal the culprit—perhaps through a slip in their next move.
------------------------------
Universe 616 (Multiverse Marvel)
Castle Doom, Doomstadt, Latveria
In one of the many catacombs Doom possessed beneath the castle, he stood alone, his green cloak swirling in turbulent air currents from hidden vents, brushing against his pristine armor and tunic. In his metal hands he held the book related to sexuality; before him burned a great bonfire, blazing as if in hell itself, its flames warming the chamber of rock and sand. Fire was part of Latverian summoning traditions dating back centuries. Doom always respected his nation, as the good—or evil—ruler that he was.
Latveria needed an heir—not just any offspring, but one forged with power to rival his own. A child to inherit the throne, to nullify the treaty. Princess Diana Prince was Doom's chosen candidate. As these thoughts coalesced within him, a sensual whisper slipped into his mind, unbidden and insistent.
"Free me, Victor. I can help you in this quest. Your body fades, but I offer vitality through conquest."
It was the tempting voice of the silver-haired woman from the book—Ratri.
Doom opened the book to Ratri's page. Her illustrated form seemed to ripple, her eyes locking onto his with predatory hunger. This time, he recited the full invocation, his voice heavy with authority:
"Me mukhav tut, miri devlikani voja, Ratri, ker mancar sar kames!"
Doom hated saying the words—he belonged to no one.
The book transformed into pink energy. Victor had not anticipated this and stepped back slightly from the surge. The air warped, a vortex of shadow and silk twisting into form, violently bending the bonfire's flames. Silver-haired Ratri materialized, pink sparks cascading as remnants of her transformation—not an illusion, but flesh and essence. Her silver hair fell in a moonlit cascade, her black attire clinging like a second skin of lace and shadow to curves sculpted by temptation. High-heeled boots clicked against the stone floor; her lips curved into a smile that promised ecstasy and ruin. Her scent—jasmine mixed with forbidden spices—ignited flickers of desire that Doom quickly suppressed.
"Ah, Victor von Doom, ruler of Latveria. A pleasure to meet you in person," Ratri purred, her voice a velvet caress resonating deep within him. "Thank you for freeing me from that book. I was bored, unable to do anything."
"Ratri," Doom said with commanding authority, "tell me—where do you come from?"
"Haha, I love how rough you are with me, Victor," Ratri replied without flinching, smiling with pure lust. "That's not what matters, darling. You only need to trust me. You already know my name."
"Why would Doom trust you, after seeing you hiding inside a sexual grimoire?" Victor replied in his characteristic tone.
"Victor von Doom, I did not do that on purpose. I was sealed inside that book—I don't know who did it. I've lost my memory. I don't know how much time passed while I was sealed or how I came here, but I remember being born in the sixth century," Ratri said as she stepped closer, her breasts brushing against his armor.
Doom studied her words carefully. Her eyes did not waver, nor did her voice. He stepped back slightly—he disliked women attempting to manipulate or seduce him with words.
"If you wish to know what little I remember," she continued, "I am the daughter of one of the goddesses of lust named Rati. I am a demigoddess who descended to Earth centuries ago to awaken sexual instincts in men and women—same sex and opposite sex alike—sexual conquest through my pheromonal power." She spoke casually, touching her right breast. "My divine power isn't magic, I couldn't explain it in detail... it's simply pure and natural lust. And it's more powerful than any mortal on Earth... I enjoy watching men and women manipulate their partners and others through various forms of sexual punishment, followed by sexual depravity. It's fun… and exciting."
Doom merely stared at her coldly. Pheromone control power. Like Purple Man, Mandrill, Stacy X or Daken, Wolverine's son, they use it. But this woman whispered to him that her powers were divine. He could feel it, her power of manipulation could rival or surpass Thor's or any Asgardian's, or even Silver Surfer's.
"I saw your case, Victor, when you opened the book," she continued. "Your illness, your shattered soul—only treatments to delay your inevitable fall. I am not telepathic, but I feel your need: an heir, your nation on the brink, a distant consort to crush your enemies."
Her sensuality deepened as she floated into the air, then seated herself atop Doom's shoulders, wrinkling his green hood. Victor tilted his head upward, watching her face as she lowered herself to his level, her legs wrapped around his metal neck.
"I offer you my power of sexual dominion and conquest—my specialty with you, darling. Powers to bend any woman you desire through lust, sadism, masochism—to make her body and being crave your will. They will kneel before you naturally, without damaging their minds," she whispered with a playful smile. "You deserve this, dear, for freeing me from that seal. In exchange, you become my vessel—not my possession, but a conduit for my essence, spreading my influence through your next sexual conquest. All kneeling before Doom and me."
Doom recoiled, tearing her from him and throwing her to the ground. Ratri only laughed at his reaction.
"Doom requires no companion in his triumphs. Your power intrigues me, but your price is an insult. I will not indulge you in this manner, madwoman." Doom raised his metal gauntlet, arcane disruptors charging with green lightning. "I will find another way to resolve my situation."
Ratri laughed—a sound like shattered glass infused with dark delight. "Foolish king. You cannot deny what destiny demands."
In a blur of motion, she lunged at Victor von Doom and clung to him like a koala to a tree. Doom was caught off guard, struggling to pry her from his metal body. She only smiled again.
"Get off me, madwoman," Doom growled, straining.
"Never! You need me. Sexual conquest is better than power—you truly need it. Don't resist." Ratri brought her lips close to his mask, gazing into Victor's brown eyes behind the metal. "I know this is your last option, Victor. Latveria needs you now. A child in your future lover—your target—will make your ego flourish."
Then Ratri kissed Victor von Doom, her lips pressing against the opening of his mask. He hadn't expected it. Seconds passed. The pain in his body eased slightly. The heat of the bonfire continued to blaze behind them. Doom tried to pull away—but mentally, he did not reject it.
Ratri disintegrated into pink energy and merged with Doctor Doom's being, flooding the chamber with radiant light. Doom's eyes snapped open—she was gone. The bonfire burned as before.
"It is done, dear," Ratri's voice echoed within his mind. "I am not controlling you. You alone will wield my power—to satisfy the mother of your next heir… or perhaps more."
"This is depravity? Doom stands above such basic tools," he replied mentally as her essence fused fully with his body.
"Use it, Victor. It is your only path," she whispered sensually, still not influencing him directly. "I've seen fragments of your memories. Perhaps you could begin with these women, Invisible-Woman,Scarlet Witch, She-Hulk, Thundra or Spider-Woman. Use them as future bearers of your children. Latveria will never fall to the UN."
Doom ignored her.
He already had someone specific in mind.
Diana Prince, Wonder Woman.
------------------------------
Prime Earth (Multiverse DC)
Watchtower, The headquarters of the Justice League
In the sterile, gleaming expanse of the Watchtower cafeteria, Diana of Themyscira—dressed as Wonder Woman—radiated presence in her Amazonian red armor. Her golden bracers gleamed, the golden eagle upon her chest symbolizing divine heritage. Red boots, a golden tiara with a red star at its center, and a short blue skirt that revealed her battle-hardened thighs. The Lasso of Truth was coiled at her hip. She sat alone at a large, elegant yellow metallic circular table, her tray and plates empty after her meal. Her presence was a striking contrast against the empty room.
She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed, though her expression betrayed a flicker of unease. The vast dining hall, designed to accommodate the full roster of the Justice League, was silent save for the faint hum of the station's systems. No clatter of trays, no banter among teammates—only the weight of solitude as she fulfilled her rotation monitoring the Watchtower.
Her fellow heroes were scattered across their own cities and beyond.
Clark Kent, as Superman, was in Metropolis, rescuing civilians from some calamity with his unwavering heroism.
Bruce Wayne—ever the relentless Batman—was hunting the Riddler through Gotham's shadowed alleys, the villain's recent escape from Arkham a fresh thorn in his side.
Hal Jordan, Green Lantern, was presumably on Oa, entangled in the cosmic bureaucracy of the Green Lantern Corps.
Hawkgirl, Kendra Saunders, had joined Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian on Mars, pursuing the remaining White Martians attempting to seize control of the Red Planet.
Barry Allen, the Flash, raced through Central City, chasing the Weather Wizard.
The others—Aquaman, Cyborg, Green Arrow, and Black Canary—were battling crises of their own.
Her thoughts churned as memories resurfaced. The theft of the Mother Box and the League's confidential personal data two weeks earlier had left her deeply unsettled—a violation of the League's sanctity. Images of Batman haunted her: that green, robotic figure with a metallic mask and mysterious white eyes, bypassing their defenses with surgical precision. No alarms. No point of origin. Just a ghost in the systems.
Bruce had told her there had been no further hacking attempts of that kind. Everything had been quiet—for now. The only noise came from Luthor's presidential campaign and the shadowy maneuvers of The Light. The billionaire in the bat suit had explained that he'd tried to decipher the clues left behind during that time—but nothing. Nothing at all.
Her Amazonian instincts whispered that something was about to happen.
Diana noticed a fly resting on her plate, staring motionless at her. She tried to catch it with her hands to see whether it was paralyzed or dying—but the insect suddenly darted away. It struck her as odd, normally there weren't any flies or insects there. Thought she shouldn't pay any attention to it. She sighed, rising to stretch her legs, intending to head to one of the satellite's quarters for a brief respite. She picked up her tray from the table.
Suddenly, all the lights in the Watchtower went out.
Instinctively, Diana dropped the tray to the floor. Alert mode. Someone had entered—she was sure of it. Then, without warning, the lights flickered back on. Wonder Woman saw that everything appeared normal in the cafeteria. No alarms blared—but something was wrong.
Then, in the center of the cafeteria, a white vortex materialized. From its depths emerged a figure. The hum of the Watchtower wavered as the vortex shimmered, then vanished in a spray of sparks, leaving the figure standing alone.
Diana focused on the being. He was imposing—clad in a flowing green tunic and cape, a hood casting shadows over a gleaming metallic mask radiating cold menace. Beneath the tunic, armor forged from some unknown alloy—steel-like, yet etched with strange designs. Diana's eyes narrowed. She recognized him.
The one who hacked the League's data.
The one who stole Big Barda's Mother Box.
She locked eyes with the pale, white-glowing gaze of the figure.
"You!" Diana shouted, her hand flying to her lasso, fingers brushing its golden coils as she squared her stance, every muscle tightening for battle. "Who are you?"
"Diana Prince of Themyscira… congratulations," said the metal-clad man in the green tunic. "You have been selected by Doom. You are the chosen one for his next plan."
"What?" she demanded, her voice a blend of royal authority and warrior steel, echoing through the empty hall.
The figure of Victor von Doom remained silent, his masked gaze fixed upon her—unyielding, predatory.
Waiting for her next response.