"Ugh, Susan is the absolute worst!"
"Y-you idiot! It's not like I wanted you to come to Doom Castle or anything!"
Noah's mind, uncontrollably, conjured up an image of Doom shyly turning half his iron-masked face away as he spoke to the Invisible Woman. A shiver ran down his spine. Disgusting.
Fortunately, Doom refrained from such theatrics.
After hearing Noah's words, Doctor Doom raised a finger, lightly tapping the table. "Doom cannot deceive himself. From this moment onward, Latveria will enter a temporary alliance with you." His voice was deep, with an undercurrent of menace.
When he said "you," he deliberately emphasized the word, implying that his cooperation was with Noah personally rather than with S.H.I.E.L.D.
Finishing his statement, Doom stood and extended a hand toward Noah.
Noah glanced at Doom's iron-clad hand, faintly glowing with an eerie green light. Smiling, he stepped forward and shook it firmly. "Pleasure doing business," he said softly.
With this deal secured, escaping this doomed world seemed all but guaranteed.
"There is one more matter Doom wishes to address. Why did S.H.I.E.L.D. send you? I've just combed through their personnel database—from janitors to Nick Fury himself—yet found no record of you. So, who are you?"
"I'm—"
Before Noah could finish, Doom raised a hand. A dim green light radiated from his fingertips, enveloping Noah. The mysterious energy spread from the top of his head down to his feet, like a thin veil of mist.
Noah felt no discomfort or pain. He simply furrowed his brows, keeping a wary eye on Doom, trying to discern the purpose of this energy.
"This is merely a spell to strip away disguises," Doom explained, shaking his head. "It seems you are not Loki."
Doom then added, "Loki hasn't appeared in any of the Nine Realms for years. I had thought…"
Doom and Loki's collaborations were well-documented across many universes—whether as shadowy advisors to Norman Osborn during the Dark Reign era or as peers trading dark magic secrets.
For a stranger to suddenly appear, holding sway within S.H.I.E.L.D., it was hard for Doom not to suspect Loki, the trickster fond of roleplay. But clearly, that wasn't the case here.
"Fury sent me because he owes me quite a few favors… and likely because he didn't want to risk coming himself."
"After all, you two have been trying to get rid of each other for decades, both openly and covertly," Noah added.
"Hmph! Does he think Doom is so petty?"
You absolutely are, Noah thought, recalling how Doom once coldly rejected Namor's plea for help, even when the King of Atlantis was practically on his knees.
And who was Namor? An erratic, temperamental monarch prone to fixating on married women and plotting against humanity from his underwater kingdom. For someone like him to beg Doom was unheard of. Yet Doom refused—because Namor had sought someone else's help first.
"Do you possess a tome called the Necronomicon?" Noah asked.
Doom glanced at him before curtly responding, "Yes."
He walked over to a bookshelf and, without hesitation, pulled out a gray book from the second shelf. Setting it gently before Noah, he said nothing.
Noah's eyes narrowed as he sensed an unsettling vitality emanating from the book. It seemed almost alive, holding untold secrets and immense power. As he touched its surface, a faint tremor ran through it, as though something living resided within.
Examining the book closely, Noah noticed that its cover resembled coarse, organic skin, warm to the touch and faintly pulsing with a lifelike rhythm. For a moment, he thought he saw two fine slits—like closed eyelids—barely parting.
"This is the book you seek. Doom has never used it; it contains powerful dark magic," Doom said.
Hearing this, Noah couldn't help but roll his eyes internally. Seriously? Doom, afraid of dark magic?
Doom had ventured into Hell itself and brokered deals with demons. His avoidance of this Necronomicon was unlikely to stem from fear. More plausibly, it was a warning for Noah to tread carefully, as the book's power likely came with twisted and dangerous costs—sacrificing a heart, boiling tongues with lungs, or worse.
The memory of Strange losing half his body during a recent incident lingered in Noah's mind.
"I'll be cautious. Thank you for the gift," Noah said, tucking the book under his arm and giving a small bow.
"Good." Doom gestured for him to leave.
Aboard the Helicarrier
On the flight deck, an older janitor known as Old Jack was washing down a recently returned Quinjet. Whistling a cheery tune, Jack moved with practiced ease.
At nearly sixty years old, Jack had been doing this job for thirteen years. With no family left, he had thrown himself into his work. His wife had passed from a heart attack years ago, his parents decades before, and his only friends were his coworkers.
As the ship's crew mourned the losses of their loved ones in this apocalyptic world, Jack shed a few tears before returning to his jovial self. He had no family to grieve.
Spraying water over the jet's exterior, Jack meticulously cleaned every corner. Occasionally, he'd find small trinkets left behind by careless superheroes—hats, glasses, or other items—which he could sell online for a tidy profit.
Even with the world ending, his scavenging habit remained. Those small finds had once funded his nightly drinks.
Those days are long gone, he thought wistfully.
As he stepped inside the jet to inspect it, something stung his neck.
"Ah! What the hell?" he yelped, swatting at the spot. He assumed it was an ant bite—common enough during their breeding season.
Feeling itchy and unsettled, Jack resolved to wash the area with soapy water, dismissing the incident as trivial.
What's the worst that could happen?