It had been some time since Victor von Doom had returned to his old base. The subtle comfort of familiarity welcomed him with an almost nostalgic air. How long ago had it been that he had been visited by the god known as Loki, proposing a means to destroy the Avengers? Perhaps under normal circumstances, Victor might have considered a return to the base of operations he had hidden away in eastern Europe to be a sign that he was in need of hiding.
But these were not normal circumstances.
Victor was well aware that -despite a small amount of idealistic hope that Ultron could be trusted- the Helicarrier was constantly being watched. The cyborg observed everything upon the Helicarrier, making the large mobile base an extension of it’s mind and as such, entirely under it’s control. There had been a mild sense of discomfort in the realization he was being observed in what could only be considered to be an extension of Ultron’s own loose sense of a body.
And, as such, he had temporarily relocated. Business in Europe would keep him here for some time, and he was quite certain it would be only Nemirovsky that could keep up that contact with him here. While he was indeed bothered with the prospect that the Helicarrier may well be lost should Ultron deem his partnership with Doom to be no longer serving it’s own imperatives, he considered his own privacy to be something of much more important focus.
Especially with the particular associate he ultimately intended to speak with.
And so here Victor sat, observing one of the many monitors before him as it briefly filled with static, attempting to establish a connection with a line he had not called in some time.
Soon, the screen was dominated by a tall, muscular man. His gaze intense, though not out of any sort of rancor. No, this was a view of respect from Namor, the King of Atlantis. Doom’s own gaze was just as focused, even beneath the metal mask that dominated his features.
“Victor, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Namor’s voice was calm, confident. Doom’s smile grew beneath the mask, hidden beneath the omnipresent scowl.
“Namor. I’m pleased you were able to answer so swiftly.” Doom spoke, casually reaching to a small table set at the side of his throne, retrieving a glass of wine. “No doubt you’ve heard of my recent efforts at bringing the surface under my own rule.” Even now, some small inklings of nations had sent word of their own secret admission to his rule. He needed a new method, however. Something to secure his position, as it were. “You needn’t worry of Atlantis, of course. My aims are for the surface. And it would be most unwise of me to attempt to conquer a land of which my understanding is little.” Casually, Victor pulled the cup to his mask, drinking the liquid as it moved to his lips. “Which is why I have come to ask you to become my partner in this endeavor of mine.” He knew that Namor would prefer that. To even presume to call him a subordinate would undoubtedly harm the King of Atlantis’s ego. Something he was not keen on doing in the slightest, more out of respect for his friend than caution for his ally.
“Your assistance in this endeavor would be invaluable.”
