Victor von Doom did not wait for permission.
The metallic scrape of his chair against the marble floor echoed through the chamber, sharp enough to cut through the lingering tension left by my words. When he stood, the room instinctively leaned away from him, as if proximity itself were dangerous.
"Well then," Doom said calmly, folding his gauntleted hands behind his back. "Let us begin."
The sound of his voice alone was enough to silence several delegates who had been whispering frantically only moments earlier.
I simply leaned back in my seat, perfectly content to watch things unfold for now.
"The question before us," Doom continued, "is not whether this council should exist. That matter has already been settled." His mask tilted slightly—toward me. "Reality itself has rendered its verdict."
Several politicians bristled at that.
An Irish delegate—one who had spent most of the meeting pretending not to sweat—cleared his throat loudly. "With all due respect, this body has not voted on anything. The United Nations—"
Magneto laughed.
It was not loud. It was not cruel.
It was tired.
"The United Nations," he repeated, rising slowly from his seat. His cape shifted behind him like a living thing. "You mean the same institution that watched my people be hunted, imprisoned, experimented on, and legislated out of existence?"
Metal groaned faintly across the chamber as several chairs bent under sudden pressure.
"You speak of votes," Magneto continued, his voice carrying effortlessly. "My people bled while you voted."
The delegate went pale. "This council—if it exists—must be representative. It cannot be dictated by those who—who threaten—"
"Threaten?" Magneto's eyes glowed faintly. "No. I am simply explaining consequences. Something your kind seems pathologically incapable of understanding."
A German diplomat stood abruptly. "This is precisely the concern! You are proposing a council dominated by superpowered individuals with no accountability to the people of Earth!"
Steve Rogers stood.
The scrape of his chair sounded impossibly loud.
"That's enough," he said, his voice steady, carrying the kind of authority that did not need volume. "You don't get to hide behind fear now."
Magneto turned toward him, expression unreadable. Doom remained perfectly still, watching the exchange like a chess player observing an inevitable sacrifice.
Steve continued, undeterred.
"You failed," he said to the assembled political leaders. "All of you. When the world needed leadership, you reached for a button that would've killed millions. So don't pretend this is about accountability."
He turned then, meeting Magneto's gaze.
"But you don't get to replace one tyranny with another."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
Magneto's lips curled—not in anger, but in something closer to disappointment. "You speak of tyranny as though it were a theory, Captain. I speak of it as lived experience."
"And that gives you the right to decide the fate of everyone else?" Steve shot back.
"It gives me the right," Magneto replied calmly, "to ensure my people are never at your mercy again."
Doom finally moved.
"If I may," he said smoothly, and the room obeyed without realizing it had done so. "This debate is already circling the wrong axis."
He turned slowly, letting every camera catch the polished steel of his mask.
"This council is not about morality. Nor democracy. Nor absolution." His gaze swept the politicians dismissively. "It is about capacity."
Several delegates recoiled.
"When the next invasion comes," Doom continued, "no treaty will stop it. No vote will delay it. No speech will shame it into retreat."
He paused, just long enough to let the silence harden.
"Only those capable of action will matter."
A French minister slammed his hand on the table. "So what? You propose a council of tyrants? Of warlords? Of gods who answer to no one?"
Doom turned toward him.
"I didn't propose this council; I am merely facing reality," he said. "Something you all seem incapable of."
The French minister flushed. "Reality? You stand here as if you were appointed by God. Latveria is not even—"
"Be careful," Doom replied, mild as falling snow.
The minister stopped mid-sentence, as if he had just remembered what metal was—and what it tended to do when Doom decided it was time.
I watched the man swallow. His hands tightened around the edge of his desk, knuckles white.
He remembered that Doom wasn't like him; he wasn't a man of words, but of actions. Doom was a dictator, one who ruled with an iron fist and through force. And he was someone fearless, someone who would dare kill anyone, at any time.
He wasn't the only one. Many of the people in here were used to having power—political power—but in front of tyrants, they found themselves struggling and fearful.
Magneto leaned back slightly, as if amused to see someone else do what he usually did. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, and somewhere in the back row a camera tripod creaked under pressure, metal joints whining.
Subtle.
Yet an undeniable show of force, a reminder that he was there, and not to be overlooked.
Across the chamber, the Irish delegate's breathing had grown shallow. He kept his eyes forward, but his posture screamed the truth: he could feel Magneto like a knife at his throat, even if nothing touched him.
I could hardly blame him. Ireland had never been anything more than a board to be played on by larger powers—London, Washington, now Erik.
The world always loved small nations, as long as they remained small.
A hand rose.
A woman—one of the Scandinavian delegates, pale hair in a neat bun, her voice steadier than most—spoke carefully. "If this council is to exist in the light, then we must define what it is. A defensive alliance? An emergency authority? A tribunal?"
Eyes once more turned toward me, clearly wanting me to speak up and clarify what I wanted.
But it wasn't about what I wanted. It was about what they needed. Clearly, they still didn't realize what was happening.
They saw me force them into this, but they ignored the reason behind it. They chose to forget that Earth had just been invaded, that half of humanity had nearly been wiped out, and went right back to bickering among themselves.
Part of me wanted to bring out Excalibur Morgan—or my black Rhongomyniad—and simply clean house.
But… that wasn't right.
It wasn't something I should do.
I could help push humans together, past their divides, but I shouldn't be the one to force them together.
Unity could indeed come from outside pressure. A common enemy could unite Earth—but in the end, I couldn't be that enemy, because I was too strong and not evil enough.
Humanity would simply divide between those who were happy under my rule and those who weren't.
No. True unity had to come from within.
Still, since they asked, I had to answer.
"The Illuminati should do what its name implies," I said. "Illuminate the way forward. A guiding light of unity and power. Strong enough to protect. Wise enough to guide."
That, at least, stopped the room from tearing itself apart for a moment.
Only a moment.
"A guiding light?" the Scandinavian delegate echoed cautiously. "That sounds dangerously close to governance."
"And who guides the guides?" a Spanish diplomat pressed. "Who watches them when they decide the world would be better off without a city? Without a nation?"
Several heads turned toward me again.
I did not answer.
Steve did.
"They don't," he said flatly.
The answer unsettled more than a few people.
"They don't get watched?" the German diplomat snapped.
"They get challenged," Steve replied. "By each other. Constantly. If this council works, it works because no one on it is allowed to be comfortable."
Magneto scoffed softly. "A charming fantasy."
"Is it?" Steve shot back. "Because from where I'm standing, you're already uncomfortable."
That earned a few sharp breaths.
Magneto's eyes narrowed, but he did not rise to the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, fingers interlacing.
"Let us be honest," he said. "The fear in this room has nothing to do with oversight. It has to do with relevance. You are afraid because, for the first time, your power is no longer absolute."
A South American delegate stood abruptly. "That is not true! We represent millions—"
"You represent paperwork," Magneto cut in. "And signatures. And speeches written by committees terrified of public opinion. None of that stopped the Chitauri."
The delegate flushed. "Nor did you!"
Metal creaked.
Not violently.
Not yet.
The iron beams supporting the chamber's lighting trembled just enough to be noticed.
Magneto smiled thinly. "Merely because I would have been treated like an enemy. Who knows if they would have sent another nuke to get rid of me? I would have loved to help, but sadly… my kind isn't allowed to do it."
A ripple went through the chamber—half outrage, half uncomfortable recognition.
The South American delegate's mouth opened, then closed again, as if he realized arguing the point would only make him look guilty.
Someone else—an older man from one of the smaller European states—found his voice anyway. "This is absurd. You cannot speak as if you're a victim while threatening everyone in the room."
Magneto's eyes flicked toward him with lazy curiosity. "Do you hear yourself?"
He leaned back, folding one leg over the other as if this were a lecture, not a trial.
"You are offended by my tone," Magneto continued. "But you were not offended when children were taken from their homes. When mutants were sterilized, imprisoned, experimented on." His smile sharpened. "Your outrage is very selective."
The man's face reddened. "That is not—"
"Is it not?" Magneto asked, and the steel nameplate in front of the man lifted a fraction of an inch from the table, then settled again.
Not a weapon.
Not an attack.
A reminder.
The man went pale.
Steve stepped forward before the fear could spread into panic.
"Stop," he said, his voice low and controlled.
Magneto's gaze slid to him. "Stop what?"
"That," Steve replied, pointing at the nameplate. "You're proving their point."
Magneto's lips twitched. "No, Captain. I'm proving mine."
Steve's jaw tightened. "Your point doesn't matter if the council becomes a threat."
"A threat," Magneto repeated. "I wonder what you would call a government that tries to incinerate its own city."
Silence.
Even the politicians didn't have the courage to answer that.
Doom, meanwhile, had not moved. He stood like a statue carved from inevitability, watching the argument the way one watched a storm roll in—not with fear, but with assessment.
Reed Richards finally spoke, his voice careful. "We're circling the same trap. Either we create something so weak it collapses the moment it's needed… or something so strong it becomes what we fear."
"And what do you propose?" a Japanese delegate asked sharply. "A third option?"
Reed hesitated.
Sue spoke instead, her tone steady. "A council that's public. Defined. Limited. It should have purpose, and it should have boundaries."
"And who enforces those boundaries?" Doom asked.
Sue met his gaze without flinching, though her posture tightened. "Each other."
Doom's mask turned slightly. "An interesting faith."
"It's not faith," Sue replied. "It's the only system that doesn't rely on your benevolence."
A few delegates actually nodded at that.
I noted it.
It was rare for mortals to say something sensible while staring down men like Doom.
"Boundaries," Doom repeated. "Purpose." His voice carried faint amusement. "How quaint."
The French minister—still pale from before—found his courage again. "So… what? You expect the world to accept you, Doom? Magneto? To accept you as guardians?"
Magneto's eyes narrowed. Doom did not react at all.
Finally, Tony Stark spoke up. "Well, that's assuming either of them will be part of this. That's why we're here—to decide who gets the big chairs."
A new wave of whispers went through the room.
Though clearly, both Magneto and Doom didn't approve of his words. They believed in themselves, believed themselves worthy—nay, deserving—of this new power, and both were eager and greedy for it.
"This council is meant to gather the strong," Doom's voice boomed, the arrogance he had kept in check finally breaking free. "And who is stronger than Doom?"
(End of chapter)
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