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The snow fell in long, deliberate lines over the jagged cliffs of Doomstadt, as if even the weather knew to carry itself with reverence here. Victor Von Doom sat upon his throne, his metal face resting against a clenched fist, while the fingers of his other hand drummed a quiet rhythm on the armrest.

He had been still for hours, if not in body then in mind. He had no mountains left to conquer, no reason to use his near infinite knowledge for anything his Doombots couldn't already do. Machines purred and ticked softly in the vaulted silence, but their presence was ceremonial at best. Even the fire in the hearth dared not crackle too loud.

The monitors embedded in the walls displayed a dozen threats, a dozen unstable nations, and a dozen more potential crises. Doom ignored them. None warranted his attention today, or any other day for that matter. Latveria was safe for the time being, and would remain so if the other countries of the world knew what was good for them.

His thoughts were elsewhere, as they often were, focused inward. Focused backward.

[color=0072bc][b][i]Richards.[/i][/b][/color]

For years the absence of Reed Richards and Susan Storm had been a dull ache beneath his metal skin. A wound that refused to scar over and commit itself to the past. For Doom their disappearance was eternally present, something he could never truly accept. He watched the void they had left incessantly, studied everything they left behind them, measured their downfall to the smallest inch. And, in his quietest moments, hated it. Hated it for stealing from him the only rivals worthy of his intellect - and from the satisfaction of being the one to defeat them.

It had become a ritual. Every anniversary of the day they had disappeared, Doom would return to this chamber and allow the stillness to reach inside of him, to fester within his heart like a parasite. To confront the silence where there had once been challenge. The doors hissed open, Doom glared at the figure entering the room.

A servant in forest green, flanked by two Doombots, crossed the chamber quickly but without panic. The man knelt at the base of the dais and bowed.

"My Lord Doom." he said, "They've returned."

Doom did not move. He continued to glare at the scrawny, pale man at his feet. The words seemed to drift through the chamber like smoke.

"Clarify." he said at last.

"Richards and Storm, my lord. They are alive. News broadcast from New York clearly show them infiltrating the Baxter Building."

The rhythmic drumming of Doom's fingers stopped. His hand closed into a fist, and the wooden armrest beneath it cracked, splintering slightly under the pressure. He stood, the gravity in the room seemed to shift, it felt heavier.

With a motion of his gauntlet, he dismissed the servant. The man bowed again and retreated as the throne room began to shift. Screens unfolding from the walls, arcane projections forming rings around Doom as he stepped forward. Glowing circles danced around his gauntlet, each touch of his fingers conjuring new data.

The face of Reed Richards plastered every screen, staring back at Doom as if he was taunting him. He allowed himself a small smile behind his mask. The game begins again.

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Victor Von Doom stepped from the ramp of his gleaming aircraft and onto the manicured lawn of the White House as though it were the court of a lesser king. The guards had been given orders to stand down; even the dogs kept behind the gates. The skies were clear. The cameras were rolling. He did not wait to be summoned. He was not here as a petitioner. A flank of Doombots followed him in similar green cloaks, like a procession of bishops walking to the vatican.

He passed through the corridors of American power like a dictator taking hold of new land. Portraits of past presidents seemed to recoil in their frames as he walked past, his armor hissing faintly with each step. When he entered the Oval Office, the room seemed to contract around him, as if shrinking beneath the weight of two egos too vast to share its space.

Inside the Oval Office, Maxwell Lord rose from his seat behind the Resolute Desk,  its mahogany surface polished to a mirror sheen, smoothing his cufflinks with an unhurried elegance. Lord was relaxed, smiling as the metal man and his robots filled the room. The two secret service men by his side were decidedly less relaxed.

"Victor!" Lord said, voice silked with civility. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Doom grimaced at the sound of his first name. It had been years since anyone had called him that. "You've asked before." He said, striding closer to the desk without invitation. "You begged, in fact. Latveria does not forget such things. But now, circumstances align. I have reconsidered." He paused. "With conditions."

Lord gestured to the armchairs before the fireplace, then poured two glasses of Bordeaux from a crystal decanter. "I always welcome discussion, Victor, you know that. I'm not an unreasonable man." Begging was not how he would have described his initial request, but he knew better than to deny a man like Doom his small victories.

The tension in the room didn't ease, if anything it grew worse. Doom did not take a seat next to Lord. The psychology of standing above Lord was not lost on him, despite it seeming to have no affect on the president.

"No." he said "You are many things, Maxwell Lord. But unreasonable is not one of them. Calculating, yes. Opportunistic. Predictable in your ambition." He stepped forward, letting his cloak drag across the Oval Office carpet with slow, ceremonial weight. "But not unreasonable." The secret servicemen grew jumpier by the minute, the Doombots stared at them with the kind of malice only an unthinking machine is capable of. "You've wanted me at your little table for years now. Not because you admire Latveria's sovereignty. Not because you respect my rule. But because you know that sooner or later, the world would start to spiral - and when it does, you would need someone smarter than you to keep it from falling apart."

Lord didn't disagree. He took a sip of his wine.

"And now," Doom continued, "You've run out of clever little algorithms and savants. You want me in your Shadow Cabinet because you know Reed would never agree to be a part of this. And with your Iron Patriot programme being shut down your lines of defense are breaking down. The barbarians are at the gate and you need a king to hold them back."

Lord put the wine glass down in front of him and folded his hands. "You’re not wrong."

"I never am." There was a pause. The two rulers never broke eye contact. "You have your roster of titans and tacticians." Doom said, his tone curling with disdain. "But you don't have Reed Richards. Or anyone close to him. And now that he's returned, you need something close enough to keep balance. That is why I'm here. Not to advise your puppets. Not to protect your empire. I want eyes on Richards. I want his moves tracked, his allies exposed. I want full access to the intelligence you scrape from your satellites and your spies."

"You'll have it." Lord said, without hesitationl a smile playing on his lips. "You'll be briefed directly. No filters."

Doom stared at him for a long moment, then finally sat. "Then understand me, Lord. I do not join you for peace, nor prosperity. I join because Reed Richards walks the Earth again, and I will not be denied the end of that story."

Lord nodded once. "So we're agreed."

Doom's voice was as cold as the metal that encased him. "We are aligned. Do not mistake that for friendship."

"No." Lord smiled, "I wouldn't dream of it." He held out his hand to finalise it with a shake. Doom stared down at the fleshy mitten before finally grasping it. Lord held his grip a moment longer than necessary. "Welcome to the Shadow Cabinet."

Doom's hand withdrew. "A foolish name."

Lord smiled. "Perhaps."

Doom turned, his cloak dragging behind him like a shroud. He paused at the doorway, speaking without turning.  "Know this Lord. I enter into this alliance begrudgingly, but I am also a man of my word. As long as you hold up your end of the bargain, so shall Latveria."