(no subject)
God, I'm terrible with titles. Anyways, this was a prompt at Norsekink, which has swallowed my brain. The part that it's from has nearly reached its comment limit, so I'll be posting the rest of the story here.
Doctor Doom snarled and smashed his fists down onto the control panel. This one had been burnt out as well, unable to channel the chaotic magic needed for his plans.
All around him in his lab clones of his former partner Loki floated in tubes of liquid, connected with wires that pumped tranquilizers into their bodies. Directly in front of the control panel was a metal, throne-like chair covered in wires. A smouldering corpse sat in it, immobilized by cuffs around its still-smoking wrists and ankles.
Turning away from the panel, Doom strode out of the room to issue new orders to his agents. He needed a more powerful focus for his clones. Even though he had failed so far, he was still unwilling to destroy the clones, despite the fact that it was now looking like it had all been a waste of time to even grow them.
Loki. It always came back to Loki. As he strode through the stone halls of his castle Doom thought of his dead partner. Loki was the only one who could control the power that lay within his body, and without someone to guide and shape their magic, the clones were worse than useless; they were a liability. All of Loki’s power, unguided and likely to go off if the tranquilization system failed. Such power would destroy Latveria in moments. And yet, Doom found himself unable to erase all trace of Loki from this world.
Doom felt the embers of his rage flare whenever he thought of how Loki had died. Sacrificing himself for creatures that could not understand his power and brilliance. They were not worth the loss Doom had suffered with Loki’s death.
The rage subsided slightly as he continued to think about his former partner, being replaced by melancholy. They had worked well together, even with the occasional falling out, and he had Loki to thank for the leaps forward in his research in gaining immortality.
In his magic workroom there was a report from one of his teams of Latverian agents scouring the world for magical talent. Taking off his cloak, he hung it upon his chair before picking up the report from his desk. This particular team of agents, their loyalty ensured with a charm tattooed on their skin and a bomb in their skull, were in Paris. It seemed that they had found an extremely powerful magic user. Skimming over the photographs provided, he stopped.
The boy in the photo. His eyes, his hair; they were Loki’s features staring back at him. Doom remembered his features intimately, knowing them nearly as well as his metal mask. He did not notice the corner of his desk crumbling in his grasp as he wondered furiously why Loki had not contacted him after coming back from the dead. With new energy, he arranged the ingredients needed to contact the agents.
He would not allow Loki to slip away again.
Doctor Doom snarled and smashed his fists down onto the control panel. This one had been burnt out as well, unable to channel the chaotic magic needed for his plans.
All around him in his lab clones of his former partner Loki floated in tubes of liquid, connected with wires that pumped tranquilizers into their bodies. Directly in front of the control panel was a metal, throne-like chair covered in wires. A smouldering corpse sat in it, immobilized by cuffs around its still-smoking wrists and ankles.
Turning away from the panel, Doom strode out of the room to issue new orders to his agents. He needed a more powerful focus for his clones. Even though he had failed so far, he was still unwilling to destroy the clones, despite the fact that it was now looking like it had all been a waste of time to even grow them.
Loki. It always came back to Loki. As he strode through the stone halls of his castle Doom thought of his dead partner. Loki was the only one who could control the power that lay within his body, and without someone to guide and shape their magic, the clones were worse than useless; they were a liability. All of Loki’s power, unguided and likely to go off if the tranquilization system failed. Such power would destroy Latveria in moments. And yet, Doom found himself unable to erase all trace of Loki from this world.
Doom felt the embers of his rage flare whenever he thought of how Loki had died. Sacrificing himself for creatures that could not understand his power and brilliance. They were not worth the loss Doom had suffered with Loki’s death.
The rage subsided slightly as he continued to think about his former partner, being replaced by melancholy. They had worked well together, even with the occasional falling out, and he had Loki to thank for the leaps forward in his research in gaining immortality.
In his magic workroom there was a report from one of his teams of Latverian agents scouring the world for magical talent. Taking off his cloak, he hung it upon his chair before picking up the report from his desk. This particular team of agents, their loyalty ensured with a charm tattooed on their skin and a bomb in their skull, were in Paris. It seemed that they had found an extremely powerful magic user. Skimming over the photographs provided, he stopped.
The boy in the photo. His eyes, his hair; they were Loki’s features staring back at him. Doom remembered his features intimately, knowing them nearly as well as his metal mask. He did not notice the corner of his desk crumbling in his grasp as he wondered furiously why Loki had not contacted him after coming back from the dead. With new energy, he arranged the ingredients needed to contact the agents.
He would not allow Loki to slip away again.