"Susan is so annoying!"
"Fool, fool! I didn't let you enter Latveria City on purpose!"
Adrian's mind suddenly flashed back to the moment when Doctor Doom had turned his half-metal face towards the Invisible Woman with a shy look. The thought made him shudder—how revolting. But thankfully, Doom hadn't actually done that.
After hearing Adrian's words, Doctor Doom tapped his finger lightly on the table. "Doom cannot deceive himself. From now on, Latveria will establish a temporary cooperative relationship with you." His voice was low, with a hint of ironic amusement, as he emphasized "you," making it clear he meant Adrian, not S.H.I.E.L.D.
Doom rose and extended his hand towards Adrian, his metal-covered fingers glowing faintly green. Adrian smiled, stepped forward, grasped Doom's hand, and shook it firmly. "It's a pleasure working with you," he said softly.
Now, with an alliance with Doom, an escape from this soon-to-be-destroyed world seemed certain.
"One more thing Doom would like to know: Why did S.H.I.E.L.D. send you here? I've checked everyone from the janitors to Nick Fury himself, and there's no record of you. Who exactly are you?"
"I—" Before Adrian could answer, Doctor Doom lifted his hand. A dim green light radiated from his fingertips, covering Adrian's body. This strange energy started at his head and spread over him like a thin, translucent veil.
Adrian felt no pain, only a strange sensation. He frowned, trying to gauge Doctor Doom's intentions and what this green aura signified.
"It's just a spell to remove disguises. It appears you're not Loki," Doom murmured. "I had wondered, since Loki hasn't appeared anywhere in the Nine Realms in recent years."
Doom's suspicion was understandable. Across universes, he and Loki often collaborated, whether as Norman Osborn's advisors in Dark Reign or as sorcerers trading dark magic. When this mysterious figure suddenly appeared with apparent authority within S.H.I.E.L.D., Doom had naturally assumed it could be Loki in disguise. But now it seems otherwise.
"Fury sent me to negotiate with you because he owes me more favors than he can count," Adrian explained. "And I think he doesn't want to risk his own life."
"After all, you two have been at each other's throats for decades, with countless battles, both open and hidden."
"Hmph! Do you really think Doom is that petty?"
Of course, you are, Adrian thought. He recalled when Namor, the King of Atlantis, had almost begged Doom for help—only to be ruthlessly rejected.
Who was Namor? He was temperamental and proud, often surrounded by admirers. If he wasn't deep in the ocean, he was scheming against humanity. As a king, he'd never stoop to begging for help. But he had, and Doom had dismissed him without a second thought. The only reason? Doom wasn't Namor's first choice; Namor had asked others before coming to him.
"Do you happen to have the Book of the Dead in your collection?"
Doom glanced at Adrian, and after a moment, replied, "Yes." He walked over to a shelf, pulled a dusty gray book from the second level, and placed it on the table in front of Adrian.
Adrian's eyes narrowed slightly. The book seemed almost alive, as though it held countless secrets and powers within its pages. When he touched it, he felt a faint shiver, as though the book itself pulsed with life.
The cover looked like the skin of some ancient creature, with a coarse texture that emitted a subtle warmth, almost as if it had a heartbeat. Adrian squinted, noticing two small slits on the cover that looked eerily like closed eyes.
"This is the book you wanted. Doom has never used it—it contains dark magic of immense power." Doom's gaze was fixed on Adrian as he spoke.
Adrian fell silent. If the book held such dark magic, why hadn't Doom used it? Are you kidding me? Adrian thought. Doom was notorious for his dark dealings; he wouldn't be afraid of a small book made of human skin. Yet, Doom's words seemed to carry a warning—dark magic often came with sinister requirements.
There were countless conditions for casting dark spells: offering hearts, tongues, lungs, even sacrificing half of oneself.
"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the gift, Doctor." Adrian stood, tucking the book under his arm, and gave Doom a small nod.
Doom returned the nod and raised his hand, gesturing that Adrian could leave.
Aboard the Helicarrier
On the tarmac, a janitor named Old Jack was cleaning the Quinjet that had landed just half an hour ago. Humming to himself, he worked cheerfully. This was his thirteenth year on the job, and he knew every inch of the carrier. Nearly sixty and with no family, he'd shed a few tears when he heard the news of Earth's end, but they had been brief. Without family, there was little for him to mourn.
Water sprayed from a hose as Old Jack meticulously polished the jet's exterior, checking for missed spots as he worked his way down its length. When he reached the cargo hatch, he found it closed, which was unusual. He pressed the button, and the hatch opened smoothly. Curious, he stepped inside, hoping to find some forgotten trinket left behind by a careless superhero—an item he could later sell for a profit.
Despite the world ending, Old Jack's habit of scavenging for lost items hadn't waned. These little treasures were his main source of income, fueling his occasional, alcohol-soaked escapes.
"Good days are gone," he muttered, reflecting on the heroics of old. He didn't expect Earth's champions to flee the apocalypse, but he, an old man, had survived.
What kind of world is this?
As he stepped further into the cabin, a sharp pain suddenly pricked his neck. "Ouch! What the heck was that?" He swatted at his neck, figuring it was just a pesky ant. The bite made his skin