Anchored to Doom (Open)

Participants: Doom and anyone
Open/Closed: Open to Mystics
Location(s): Hell
Time of Day:
Weather: Very very very HOT
Summary: Doom has been killed and is trapped in Hell. However, he refuses to stay put, thus Doom summons another mystic by force to assist him in escaping the afterlife before the devil Mephisto becomes aware of their presence. 

He had been framed and then a coward murdered him. Needlessly to say Victor von Doom was having a rough week. His quest to clear his name and find the true culprits of the Antlion Space Station attack had suddenly hit a wall, due to not fault of Doom's own. His guard had dropped for only a moment and that was all it had taken to end the life of Latveria's Monarch. In the next instant Doom awoke in the rivers of fire. He dragged himself across the molten mega and broken bones of those who had fallen to the torments of Hell before him. Victor was unimpressed by the rolling fires that flickered and roared for his immortal soul. He was similarly unimpressed by the the collective of orange scaled demons towering over him. The masked ruler stared up into their coal black eyes, unmoved by their jagged smiles as they bared down on him.

This was not Doom's first death, not his first trip into the burning chasms of the underworld, and highly likely wouldn't be his last. What it was however, was a mistake. Doctor Doom was not meant to be there, Hell could not claim him, least of all these poor devil substitutes. Perhaps he would have been more orderly in the presence of one such as Mephisto, but no, not even that would bring Doom's will to bend.

"You cretinous bugs operate outside of your scope. Step aside now or see what sort of death awaits soulless things."

Time was not on Victor's side. By the appearance of these meaningless underlings of Hell, Doom could surmise that the realm's ruler was not yet aware of his death. The longer Doom was able to avoid the attention of Mephisto the better his chances of escaping Hell and returning to the world of the living. It would likely require powerful magic to do such a thing. Thus, time to work up a potent spell would be a crucial component of any escape plan.

"NO HUMAN CAN THREATEN LORDS OF HELL AND EXPECT TO ESCAPE TORMENT."
"AND NO DOUBT THERE ARE GRAVE PLANS FOR ONE SUCH AS YOURSELF, MORTAL."
"YESSSS. WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE."

"Fools! You do not know me. To know Doom is to know fear. But do not fret," he gripped the edges of his green cloak as he took off in a running start for the demonic behemoths. Doom sprang up at them, magical crests and sigils materializing around the fists he threw toward the monsters of the fire rivers.

"Doom will teach you thoroughly!"

Howls commonly echoed across the mountains of Hell, this was perhaps the first time the howls belonged to the jailers and not the poor damned souls they tortured. Finding a place to hold up in the shadows Doom. dropped to a crosslegged sitting position. His eyes shut behind the slits of his titanium mask, his breathing steadied as he began to meditate. Emerald orbs burned into existence around the form of Doom, his magical energies trying desperately to latch onto something from the living world.

"By lended powers of the Vishanti: Agamotto, Hoggoth, Oshtur. Anchor mine tether, give me a lifeline home."

Doom's cloaked body began to glow and the orbs swirled around him at a quickened pace. "Bring forth aid to escape my prison!"

The orbs spun in a blinding speed until they were little more than a blur. The orbs lifted higher and higher over Victor's head, suddenly collided into one another and exploding in a brilliant light show. In an instant the magic portal latched its mystical energies into another on Earth, and all at once pulled them through and deposited them into the ashen soil of Hell.

Doctor Doom stood over the person who had been spewed out of his magical portal, his eyes scanning the horizon to be sure they were still in relative safety. "Get up. There is no time to waste, your very soul is at stake."

Nico stood by the percolator, eyes heavily lidded, the skin beneath them sunken and dark. She stifled a yawn – poorly, for within seconds of the attempt, her mouth dropped open and she gulped in a mouthful of air. Her dark hair, usually hung about her shoulders in an orderly fashion, was tousled and wild, strands tangled and plastered at odd angles by a restless night’s sleep. Not that she could refer to anything she’d experienced the night before as ‘sleep.’ Frustrated rolling and mentally draining self-criticism interspersed with the occasional nap was perhaps more accurate. Getting into her own head was as much Nico’s superpower as witchcraft was, and the previous night had seen her flex those particularly frustrating muscles.

Raising her hands to her face, she rubbed her fingers, nails tipped with chipped black varnish, across her eyes in an attempt to free them from the clutches of drowsiness. She gave up after about a minute, having been thoroughly unsuccessful. The ambient hum of machine ahead of her suggested her coffee was all but brewed. Reaching for her favoured mug, one fashioned into the shape of a black cat’s face, she waited for a few more moments, before pouring herself a drink – the liquid dark and thick as tar.

Nico lifted the mug toward her nose, inhaling deeply and tendrils of steam coiled up a pierced nostril. She sighed softly, and then positioned the drink against her lips. About to sip, she was interrupted by a strange tearing sound behind her, as if a piece of clothing had been caught on something and ripped whilst being freed. Instantly, her brow raised, and she laid her mug upon the countertop, whirling toward the noise. She was alone in her flat – or so she thought – and the sound alerted her to the presence of another far before the strange, dancing lights in her peripheral vision did.

As she turned, her brown eyes went wide, their tiredness forgotten. In the middle of her apartment’s kitchen, a void of pulsating light had torn open the very fabric of reality and a dark, swirling hole lay at the dazzling light show’s centre. “What t-“ Nico didn’t have time to finish her sentence, for the moment the first word left her lips, she was tugged from her feet and toward the glittering miasma, as if leashed by in invisible rope. She reached out to grab at something, anything, in order to slow her travel, but her fingers found nothing but air. The light was blinding as she inched closer and closer to the portal, and she screwed her eyes shut, letting out a high-pitched shriek as the arcane abyss swallowed her whole.

Within moments, she had vanished, leaving her mug of coffee steaming on the worktop surface…

When she finally opened her eyes, Nico found herself staring up at a dark, starless night, lit by sheets of flame. Sounds of torment assailed her, and the overpowering smell of sulphur threatened to destroy her sense of smell. Scrambling into a sitting position, hands clawing at the ashen ground about her, she looked about herself – eyes filled with desperate confusion.

Rocks. Bones. Spires of flame. Rivers of crimson magma. A man in a metallic suit and emerald robes, looming over her seated form. Too many things for her racing mind to process at once, let alone the command direct her way.

“What…what the actual HELL?!”

Never had one of Nico’s questions answered itself quite so literally.

Victor von Doom
Note: Hope that gives you enough to work with!

Doom sought a way out, he gravely needed to be freed from Hell and returned to the world of the living. There was much work to be done and none of it could come to fruition it he were stuck in the throes of the afterlife. His magic had been chaotic, not as sharp in its focus as Doom wold have liked, surely it was the effects of being an occupant of Hell. He knew there was no simple means of escape and Doom fully trusted in himself that no matter what aid that came to him he would be able to use such a mage to fashion himself a way out of this predicament. However, he could never have foreseen what his spell deemed worthy to send him.

In an instant Doom's familiar metal mask and deep green cloak all whisked away from him, leaving him in the sick green hoodie and dingy brown cargo pants he had died in. As his bravado dissolved so did the image of his former self that he had projected before the collective of demons he had defeated moments ago. Doom now stood starring at the person whom had traveled through his portal, his look dejected as the world seemed to spin around him.

He may not have been too picky and specific in his hastily casted spell but he had sought out a sorcerer, someone who proficient and long studied in the ways of the mystic arts. Stephen Strange, Jericho Drumm, Wanda Maximoff were probably all expecting too much at such short notice, but what about the Scarlet Witch's son, or Daimon Hellstrom? Doom would have even accepted the aid of Illyana Rasputin, the girl who used Magik as an alias.

Doom would have been happy with any of those candidates of strong magical ability, but instead he was met by a child who looked to hold nothing but infinitesimal mystic knowledge.

"Get up," he repeated himself much firmer and completely void of any emotion. He pulled his hood up over his head and drew the strings as tightly as they would allow, hiding away the face he never allowed to be viewed.

His bed had been made, as the saying went, and now he would have to deal with what he wrought.


"Listen to Doom, Child. You are quite right, we are in the literal Hell. Myself because I was murdered, and you because of me."

He paused a short breath of a moment to allow those facts to sink in but not a moment longer to allow any reaction from the teen witch. She could be angry at the circumstance but it would change literally nothing.

"Portals can bring you into Hell but they cannot bring you out, don't waste time trying. You are here to assist me in my escape and by extension your own. Now come, we do not have long before He catches wind of us." 

Mephisto was a foe that Doctor Doom was entirely sure he could best- on Earth. In his suit of armor. Things would be infinitely more difficult in the demon's own domain.

 Nico Minoru

If given the chance, Nico Minoru would have spent a good half hour sat where she was, gawping at her surroundings in shock and confusion. At that point, she would have likely begun to piece things together and work out how on Earth (or in Hell) she could get back to her apartment’s kitchenette and the coffee that awaited her, preferably without dying or suffering any serious injury en route, though that often seemed too much to hope for. However, rather than be given the opportunity to acclimatise, the being that stood over her demanded she rise again, more firmly than before.

Slowly, Nico turned her dark eyes toward the commanding individual, finally focusing solely on him, rather than on the inferno about her. She blinked twice – what she’d first thought was a hooded robe and metallic armour was actually a sickly green hoodie and tattered jeans. Shaking her head, she pressed her hand to her forehead: apparently, whatever teleportation spell had been cast upon her had her seeing things too.

"Listen to Doom, Child. You are quite right, we are in the literal Hell. Myself because I was murdered, and you because of me."

Or not.

Nico Minoru knew of only one man pompous enough to refer to himself in the third person. The Lord of Latveria was renowned for his frankly ridiculous manner of speech, and his general attire – an emerald green cloak worn atop a suit of armour – matched that which she’d thought she’d seen upon her arrival in -

“Wait. I’m actually in hell? You…brought me…to HELL?!”

Pushing herself back away from Doom – who did not look like Doom at all, but a teen skateboarder – she eventually found her back pressed up against a rocky outcrop. Her movement halted, she sucked in deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, trying not to focus too much on the scent of brimstone and sulphur. Nico had experienced many strange happenings in her life -she was, after all, a teenage witch - but being unceremoniously dragged to the underworld by one of Earth’s most infamous villains would rank as one of the strangest – and probably one of the worst.

"Portals can bring you into Hell but they cannot bring you out, don't waste time trying. You are here to assist me in my escape and by extension your own. Now come, we do not have long before He catches wind of us."

Nico cast a withering gaze at her summoner. “You pulled me out of my apartment, trapped me in Hell, in my pyjamas, and now you want me to help you escape?” As defiant as she might have wished to be, Minoru knew that it was a pointless endeavour. She was out of her league – majorly – and though she would have happily let Doctor Doom spend eternity roasting in some demon’s back yard, it wasn’t the life she wanted for herself.

If she was going to make it home, she’d need all the help she could get.

Victor von Doom

While Doom was in need of assistance at thus at the mercy of another, it did not mean his personality slipped in even the slightest. He remained the hard and insulting man he had always been. For he was Doom, power and mastery incarnate. Results were their best when his words were followed closely without deviation or amendment. Even in the plain and mundane clothing of someone lesser he still possessed the wit and will of a ruler; a genius. Children were reckless and impudent at best, uneducated at worst. 

Her questions were stilly. Perhaps her disbelief or admonishment could be understood but posing such questions after just being informed in a way that could not be deciphered as a joke or jest of any kind, Doom found it...concerning.

"Yes."

Victor was mindful to keep it simple for her. One singular word that could not be misconstrued, nor could it take up more time than necessary. Time was not on their side and if the only aid Doom was to receive would be little more than an assistant then the time factor was all the more pressing. There was no debate to be had or any other forms of conversation, Doom could not stand by and hold this child's hand until she accepted that Hell was indeed the place she was in. The Latveria ruler grumbled quietly as he turned away from the girl and began a brisk pace for a line of caves.

Doom possessed no map of Hell though he had trifled with the realm and its occupants before, that did not make him its lord or anything closely adjacent to it. All he knew for sure was that there existed sections more magically in tuned that could, in theory, be used to root a spell and grant him expulsion from the underworld.

The adolescent prattled on more, she seemed to be in a loop of disbelief, almost impressively so. Doom would have thought someone versed in spell casting would have less trouble with coming to terms that Hell both existed and that they were now trapped there.

"Yes," he repeated, not slowing his stride even a margin. "You are a witch, behave like it. I...apologize for forcing you into this," that was harder to say than Doom imagined in his mind. "But now is the time to get over the fact and move on. Our only chance of survival is to do as you are told, when you are told to do it." The deep shadow cast by the wide cave fell over the two of them and Doom halted for a moment. The innards of the cave was pitch black, a darkness that was thinly sliced by the harrowing glow of a stream of magma cutting through the cave floor. "Do you understand?" A soft red glow danced over Doom's bandaged face, illuminating only the bright green of his eyes against the sinking darkness of the cave. Doom waited, briefly, for her answer before thrusting a hand toward the stream of rolling magma.

"Jump in."

Nico Minoru

With a disparaging ‘Yes’ thrown over his shoulder, the only answer he offered her query, Doom began marching toward a cluster of nearby caves, his pace brisk. Watching after him for a long moment, Nico considered her options – not that many were open to her – before pushing herself up, muttering quiet, frustrated curses under her breath. She started after him, almost jogging to keep up, wincing as her bare feet scraped across the wickedly jagged rocks underfoot. As she fell into step at his side, the Latverian-Monarch-turned-Teen-Skater offered something of an apology, though he disguised it well, and demanded she do what she were told, when she was told, lest their survival be forfeit.

He paused, as if for effect, at the cave’s mouth, before asking if she understood what was required. Nico just looked at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. She shook her head, incredulous. “I have basically never done what anyone has told me. Ever. I have this thing about controlling authority figures.” The fire in her, bright though it burned, was dampened somewhat by Doom’s unflinching stare, and the abject realisation that, without his help – not that she was overly thrilled about receiving it – she’d be stuck in Hell until someone came looking for her. And that could be a long while.

With pursed lips and a frown, she sighed. “Just - fine. But I’m changing. If you think I’m running through Hell in kitty-cat pyjamas… - and if my ex-boyfriend shows up, you’re keeping him occupied and generally away from me.” After all, Alex Wilder still existed somewhere in the bowels of the underworld; it hadn’t been too long since he had last been summoned to the realms of mortals. Nico could really do without coming face to face with him again and if he did turn up, she had no real desire to stick around and chat.

Reaching down to the rocks below, Nico dashed her palm against one of the sharper formations, only just breaking the skin, causing a few crimson drops to rise to the surface. “When blood is shed, let The Staff of One emerge.” The tone of her summoning was almost bored – she’d done it so many times it had become a somewhat tedious ritual. The moment the last syllable was spoken, the circular top of the stave burst forth from her chest, and taking hold of the obsidian staff, she pulled it free.

A brief, red glow emanated from her body, lighting up the dark cave entrance, until her spellcasting focus was in hand. Then, turning her back on Doom, she tapped the Staff’s pommel twice against the ground. “Presto change-o!” She imagined her clothes taking on a different appearance, spoke words of power – ones she was pretty sure she hadn’t used before – and her pyjamas began unravelling and rethreading themselves, rapidly interwoven with ambient strands of shadow. It took no more than seconds for her sleep-wear to have become day-wear: a cat-print skirt, dark corset, frilled undershirt and heavy boots.

Satisfied, she turned back to her kidnapper. “Now you want me to hurl myself into a burning hot river of lava?” That was, after all, the last command he’d given.

Victor von Doom