"Latveria must be purged completely! The bourgeoisie of the past must all be hanged! They cannot be reformed, and I will not allow these flies to gorge themselves on the corpses of Latverians and then lay their fat, squirming maggots!" Marek Kolecki kept pounding the table, making the cups, maps, and chess pieces on it tremble. "Comrades, we are fighting for Latveria's future! How can those who robbed generations of Latverians of their past deserve to enjoy that beautiful future? They must atone—utterly atone…"
His words drew nods from many commanders, but not everyone in the tent agreed. The more perceptive ones cast sidelong glances at Victor von Doom, seated in the place of honor behind his iron mask, trying to read something from it. All in vain—Victor not only wore no expression (and even if he did, none could see it), he didn't so much as move a finger. Faced with Marek's fiery rhetoric, he couldn't be bothered to lift a hand.
Every guerrilla group had its own name, usually inspired by folk tales thanks to the fighters' limited literacy—like the Ivan Guerrillas, named after the Russian folktale "Ivan the Fool." Once Doom and the Eternal City arrived, all those jumbled names were abolished, replaced with designations like Latverian Mountain Corps, Guerrilla Unit Stationed at \[Location], with other slots in the structure reserved for the future Latverian regular army.
Absorbing these guerrillas wasn't just about supplying Eternal City materiel. Some so-called "guerrilla units" were in fact private armies of the local gentry, used to strike at other guerrillas and lure interested civilians into traps. A few of those people were even sitting in this tent. Doom had purged such "guerrillas" with the bloodiest means, wringing the locations of local grain and fuel depots from their former commanders, then forcing newly promoted ones to raid them—killing all who resisted, leaving no one bold enough to run. Under Doom's shadow of terror, they had to attack the very masters they had once served.
Doom made sure they obeyed, because the only reason they still lived was that he had not yet decided they should die. Returning to Latveria and encountering so many guerrilla bands, Doom had quickly realized he needed them as a counterweight to the short-sighted ones. He couldn't simply slaughter and absorb them the same way; he needed them as a façade to draw in the common folk, then let the Eternal City's lecturers slowly instill the great ideals into their ranks, seizing leadership imperceptibly.
"…Give them back exactly what they gave us—an eye for an eye, blood for blood!" Marek spat, his voice rising as he pronounced sentence on the woman caged outside the tent. "Not just her—her family, her bloodsucking kin must all be dealt with!" He looked at the iron-faced man at the head of the table. "We don't need another master! We will be our own masters! We have the right to decide Latveria's fate—everything, everyone!"
Even a fool could sense the shift in the tent's mood. The invisible sword now pointed squarely at the man at the head of the table. Marek's real target was never the woman—it was Victor von Doom, the Eternal City's representative. But the man at the eye of the storm merely waved his hand, as though shooing a fly—his only gesture in the entire meeting. "That's what you came here to say, Marek Kolecki?" he asked. "That was your performance today?"
"You just want to be another tyrant! You're no different from them, Victor von Doom!" Marek strode right up to him, the other commanders making way. "Don't think the guns and food you brought can buy us… though they help a little. Our cause is to overthrow the vampires, not to trade them for a gentler master. Old Marek can see your goal—you want to be king, not one of us!"
He was so close Doom could see his pores. Even so, Doom remained unmoved.
"You really think the illiterates you lead can build Latveria? You really think you know how to wage economic war, cultural war, intelligence war? You really think you can face NATO soldiers and win? You really think giving everyone power means Latverians will live well?"
"You may know these things, but that's no reason to sit on our necks!"
"You misunderstand me, Marek Kolecki." Doom slowly rose from his seat. The dust-covered bulb strained to shine, yet still could not dispel the darkness behind him. "I mean you, and your guerrillas, are only useful in war. You… you… and you—yes, you too, Marek Kolecki." The steel-clad finger pointed at several commanders. The Eternal City's standard uniform was dark gray; with the cold weather, everyone wore tailored gray overcoats. Even so, the men he singled out felt a chill run down their spines.
"Your purpose is to die, to be the nourishment for a new generation of Latverians. They will have the passion, the skills, and the knowledge to face all I just spoke of. They will fight for an even greater war, so that the next generation may be braver still. That is Latveria's cause. We fight for the human race—not petty revenge. Your generation fights on the ground, the next in the skies, and the one after that in space. The warrior's blood in Latverians will run to the ends of the universe—not for you, not for me, but for all of us. We pass on ideals, not the shallow thing called rage."
"They will atone—but according to law and justice." Doom paused, then went on. "I admire you, Marek Kolecki. You're an idealist. I can't agree with much of what you say, but I admire your passion and courage. The master of the Eternal City will too. But I'm sorry—your ideals have come too early. Humanity isn't ready to live so rationally. I am willing to forgive you, if you keep leading troops and obeying orders…"
"Pah! Forgive!" Marek's face twisted, and he spat onto Doom's breastplate. "I'll never need another master! Never!"
Doom was silent for almost twenty seconds. Then a moth, burnt and broken after striking the light bulb, fell onto the map littered with chess pieces. Its fluttering wings and the men's heavy breathing filled the tent's stillness.
A horse neighed in the distance, breaking the quiet.
"I'm sorry."
"What?" Agony tore through Marek's back as cold steel slid into him, draining his life away. Every officer carried a monomolecular combat knife forged in the Eternal City—an adult with training could easily pierce flesh with it.
With the last of his strength, Marek looked back. In the dim light he saw familiar faces: artillery commander Sherwinski, infiltration unit leader Berezovsky, and newly joined infantry commander Zhebrovsky. Last was a tear-streaked face—his sister's son, Pavel Kolecki.
"You too, Pavel?"
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