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  Without warning, the base of Viper’s seat collapsed as its metal supports suddenly twisted out of shape and snapped. Unable to react in time, the S.H.I.E.L.D. director yelped loudly as the chair fell backward, tossing her to the floor. In an instant, she was back on her feet, assuming a combat-ready position.

  Wanda, however, remained seated. Picking off an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of her jacket, she looked up at the “unfortunate” recipient of her hex-bolt.

  “I am so sorry, Viper,” she said, smiling sweetly. “That’s the problem with a power like mine: who knew that the odds of you making me angry enough to cause your seat to fall apart could be so great?” Viper hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, little girl. . .”

  “Enough!” Shaw bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table. A powerful vibration ran through the marble, immediately bringing everyone’s attention to bear on him. “If the two of you want to engage in a catfight, I’d be more than happy to arrange the event at my Hellfire Club in New York. I’m certain the members would find it. . . stimulating. But for now—he glared at each woman, almost daring them to challenge him “—try acting like the professionals you are.”

  “Well said, Sebastian,” said a voice from the upper level of the bunker. The quintet looked up to find von Doom, accompanied by Lancer, standing on the platform above them—but for how long? The four seated councilors jumped to their feet.

  Gripping the railing, the Emperor lowered his gaze to lock eyes with his espionage expert.

  “Viper,” he said, voice rumbling with barely controlled anger, “there are times when you test the limits of my patience. Do you need another reminder of what happens to those who anger Doom?”

  Glancing from the comer of her eye, Wanda was startled to see the instantaneous change that came over Viper: one moment, she was a confident, powerful woman skilled in a hundred different ways of destroying a man’s very soul; the next, her one visible eye had widened in horror, and an uncontrollable tremor ran through her body.

  “N-no, Y-your Majesty,” Viper said, quickly lowering her gaze to the floor. She clutched her right hand with her left, holding it close to her chest, then winced slightly, as though more from recalling an unwanted memory than from any actual pain. Around her, the other war councilors did their best to avoid looking at her... or von Doom.

  “Excellent,” the Emperor said. Signaling Lancer to remain where she was, he stepped over to the end of the platform; the part on which he stood quietly detached itself from the main section and floated down to the main level. Once it touched the floor, von Doom stepped off and walked over to join his advisers. One of the guards seemed to suddenly materialize near him, just in time to pull back the chair reserved for the Emperor. Von Doom eased into the seat, then motioned for the others to join him. And, as quickly as he had arrived, the guard moved back to his position.

  “What news?” Von Doom asked.

  The advisers glanced at one another, then Stark turned to face the monarch. “I gather from the way we’re all staring back and forth across the table that the situation remains the same: there’s now been no sign of Magneto for a year. The Avengers, the Thunderbolts, even Excali-bur—none of the super heroes who are still active have seen hide or hair of him, not since the destmction of Paris.” He frowned, clearly upset by the memory. “We’ve sent search teams into the Mole Man’s realm, even worked with Prince Namor of Atlantis—” Dorma emitted a sharp, short laugh at the mention of the sovereign’s name “—and Lord Plunder to plumb the depths of the oceans and the Savage Land, respectively. Nothing.”

  “He also hasn’t used his powers in all this time,” Viper added, regaining her composure. “If he had, we would have detected it with the network of satellites we have orbiting the globe. And he can’t be off-world—there have been no recent signs of extraterrestrial vehicles in our solar system to allow him the possibility of hitching a ride, and no unauthorized spacecraft have been launched—at least, none that haven’t been shot down within minutes of liftoff. His body wasn’t in any of the wreckage.”

  The Emperor waved a hand in a dismissive manner. “Nor would I have expected you to find it, Director. Lensherr is a bold, clever man, in his own way ... though still a child in comparison to Doom. Escape might be his plan, but he would not go about it in such a way that he would face the possibility of capture or death.” He shook his head. “No, he would find some other means of avoiding the punishment due him..

  Von Doom’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Wanda.

  “Ms. Maximoff?” he asked.

  Wanda drew a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly released it. Though she had cut all ties with her father years ago, and had been horrified by the destruction of Paris—how could even Magneto have brought himself to crash a nuclear-powered space station onto the City of Lights, killing millions of innocent people?—she was still hesitant to respond whenever she was asked to provide information about him. A case of blood being thicker than water, she often surmised; even though he was now a mass-murderer, on the run from the citizenry of an entire planet, she was still his daughter, and a small piece of her— one she constantly fought to ignore, often failing—continued to love him for the gentle man he had once been, continued to hope for the day when they might be reunited as a family.

  A futile hope, Wanda knew. She had been drifting away from her father even before his most infamous act against the Empire, growing increasingly disenchanted by his continuous plans for striking out at von Doom, in some misguided bid to seize power for himself. Eventually, she just walked away, fearing that, if she did not put distance between herself and her father’s obsessions, the madness would overtake her as well.

  To her surprise, Magneto had allowed her to go. She had never looked back.

  On the day he wiped out one of the most cherished cities in the world, though, he died in her heart for all time. Now, for Wanda, he truly was the monster von Doom had once proclaimed him—an uncaring, remorseless brute who had to be put down like a rabid animal before more people were harmed.

  Still, he was her father . . .

  Wanda shook her head to clear her thoughts, then looked to von Doom.

  “He’s not dead,” she finally said. “His . .She paused, licked her lips, which had suddenly become dry. “His spirit has not passed on to the astral plane, nor have any of my spies in the higher dimensions detected his presence, which eliminates the possibility that he might have employed someone with magical abilities to escape this dimension.”

  Von Doom sat back from the table, slouching regally in his chair.

  Frowning, he rested his chin in his left hand and stared off into space, deep in thought. His advisers sat quietly, glancing at one another while they waited.

  “Not dead,” he muttered, “yet not active, either.” The hint of a malevolent smile played at the comers of his mouth, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “What are you up to, my old enemy? What dark thoughts run wildly through your mind each time you are reminded that Doom is master of all, and there is nothing you can do to make it otherwise?” The smile broadened. “Had I the opportunity to look into your eyes, to see what such knowledge can do to a man’s soul. ..” Von Doom chuckled softly, then straightened in his chair, eyes clearing. He fixed each of his advisers with a steely gaze.

  “Find him, ” he commanded. “Lensherr is clever, but not so clever that he can eliminate all traces of his movements. I will tolerate his existence not a moment longer, nor will I tolerate failure from any of you. On the night that all the world celebrates the glory and majesty that is Doom, I have every intention of presenting to my beautiful wife a gift that no other but Doom could give to her on such a momentous occasion:

  “The head of the Empire’s most infamous villain, resting on a silver platter for the world to see.”

  Von Doom smiled then, and to Wanda Maximoff, it was an expression that she found disturbingly familiar—one she had often seen etched on the featur
es of her father many times.

  It was the face of madness.

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  The Present

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  “NO!” he roared. “NOT AGAIN!”

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  HALF A world away, the target of the Emperor’s ire shivered uncontrollably—an unconscious reaction to, as the old saying went, _ the feeling that someone had just walked across his grave.

  An odd sensation, considering he was standing at the edge of a desert.

  Body wrapped in a thin, coarse blanket, head covered by the red-and-purple-hued, metal, gladiator-style helmet that was his trademark, Erik Magnus Lensherr—the man more infamously known to the citizens of the Empire as Magneto—pulled the makeshift cloak tighter around his shoulders and gazed at the world around him. He stood on the outskirts of a village called Araouane, in the West African state of Mali— less a proper village, really, then a scattered collection of rough, mud-brick buildings now worn smooth and half-obscured by the constant ebb and flow of the dune sea around them as it washed against the decades-old constructs. Beyond the village was the vast wasteland called the Sahara—nothing but miles of sand stretching off to the horizon, the monotony of the less-than-impressive view occasionally broken by a blast of hot, dry air that created dust devils that danced and swayed across the landscape as though moving in time to a beat that only they could hear. If any spot in the world could truly be considered the last place in which one would expect to find the Empire’s greatest enemy, it was here, in this former oasis 160 miles north of Timbuktu.

  And yet here he stood, and it was here that he had lived for the past year.

  But it hasn ’t really been a year, Magneto thought. At least, I do not think it has... He frowned. Time in the desert was meaningless—the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening; what you did in between was pass the hours not so much living as merely surviving. But could enough days have passed to equal an entire year? Magneto shook his head. No, it’s less than that—I’m sure of it. But how long, then? Seeking some sort of proof for his belief, he opened the blanket and looked down at his body, and wasn’t pleased at all with what he saw: the chiseled, weightlifter’s form he once possessed had grown soft with disuse, and he had lost some weight. The washboard-like abdominal muscles and rock-hard pectorals that once had looked so striking coated in red spandex had lost their well-defined edges to a diet of coarse meats and rice, and a lack of exercise brought about by the fact that there was really nothing to do here.

  “Perhaps it has been a year, then,” he muttered softly, then sighed.

  He turned his gaze to the oasis, if only to take his mind off his current state of decay; it was in no better shape. The village was a far cry from the elegant splendor he had once enjoyed when he had been headquartered aboard an asteroid that he had forced into geosynchronous orbit around the Earth with his awesome powers. Christened “Asteroid M” in honor of its owner—for Magneto was never known for his humility—the hollowed-out rock had served as a space station of sorts... as well as a launching point for some of his most ingenious plots to seize control of the planet. Floating high above the Earth also had its defensive advantages, as his enemies had learned, since it was next to impossible to launch a counterattack when the mutant overlord could clearly see it coming and take measures to stop it. Sadly, though, that sense of luxury and security had come to an end the day the asteroid fell from orbit.

  Lensherr shook his head. How the mighty have fallen, indeed... he thought ruefully.

  He wiped away rivulets of perspiration that trickled down his face from beneath his helmet, reached up to remove it so he could run a hand through his matted, shoulder-length white hair, then stopped. No matter how uncomfortable it was to wear in the constant heat, the helmet was probably the only protection he had against von Doom’s much feared Psionics Division, its delicate micro-circuitry creating a “barrier” that shielded his thoughts from any unwanted mental probes. An ironic situation, he had come to realize, since he had originally created the circuitry to subjugate the minds of his own enemies, wiping hatred and bigotry from their subconscious as part of his ongoing efforts to make the mutant race the dominant species on the planet. He’d managed to create similar circuitry for the small bedroom of his house, which allowed him to remove the helmet so he could sleep with some sense of security, but he had run out of supplies before he could extend the barrier to encompass the entirety of the building.

  A sharp wind from the east suddenly ripped through the village, threatening to tear the blanket from his grip. Lensherr tilted his head and body into the superheated gale, fighting for possession of his meager cloak—his only protection from the airborne grains of sand that punished his exposed skin with what felt like the sharp pricks of a million needles.

  Gritting his teeth—a movement that afforded the desert sand yet another opportunity to try and pour into his mouth like an ocean rushing to fill a pitcher—the Master of Magnetism once more fought down the urge to use his powers to create some sort of barrier that would separate him from the granules that coated him in ever-thickening layers, even if only for a short time. Tempting as it might be—just to be able to breathe clearly for a few minutes!—he knew that any use of his mutant-spawned abilities would result in death; he was well aware of the satellites that orbited the globe, waiting for him to slip up and provide von Doom with his precise location. And once the “Emperor” had that, it wouldn’t be long before S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers and the other countless lapdogs who served von Doom would be sweeping across the dunes, like hounds bearing down on the lonely fox.

  But this fox, as Magneto had been more than happy to demonstrate in the past, was a most dangerous animal when cornered ...

  Nevertheless, as frustrating as the wind and sand and oppressive heat were, he was willing to tolerate them, if such resignation meant that he would have one more day to survive, if only to spite his enemy.

  One more day, he thought darkly, to plot his revenge.

  As suddenly as it had sprung up, the wind abated, and Lensherr was at last able to relax, the muscles in his arms now twitching uncontrollably and burning like fire after their battle with the elements.

  I really do need to get back into shape ... he thought wearily, rubbing his limbs to alleviate the spasms.

  A scraping sound from just behind him caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. As he had expected to see, the source of the small noise was no villain or Guardsman creeping up to attack, but a dark-skinned woman in her thirties, using an oversized bowl to dig away at a pile of windblown sand that had accumulated on her doorstep. She was wrapped in a flowing, colorful blanket of yellow, blue, and green patterns set on a red field. Wordlessly, the woman lifted her filled bowl, walked a dozen paces from her home to dump the load, then walked back to start the process again; this would continue until she had cleared the entrance to her satisfaction, then she would head over to one of the other houses to do the same. She was one of the village’s three “sand women” who labored from dawn to dusk, clearing the doorways and courtyards of the thirty buildings that had not yet been swallowed by the desert, as more than a hundred other homes—plus a mosque—had been over the years. It was a never-ending battle, and one they were ultimately destined to lose, but that knowledge did nothing to dampen their spirits, nor did it deter them from their task—not when the payment for such work was a small bag of rice or sugar. Enough food to go on working for another day; to keep their families alive for one more day.

  Just past the woman, her daughter—a girl of three or four years— stood in the open doorway, sucking on a piece of raw lamb fat and d
oing her best to shield it from the grainy particles that still swirled in the air. Like her mother, the girl looked older than her actual age, eyes bright but somber, body as worn down by the elements as the building in which they lived. It was a sobering sight, this child with the eyes of an adult, and one that forced even the mighty lord of magnetism to turn his gaze elsewhere. He focused on the mother.

  “Good day, Abena Metou,” Lensherr said pleasantly.

  The woman looked up from her labors and smiled warmly. “A good day to you, as well, John Smith. The Bright Lady must smile upon us, for two things have now occurred: the wind has stopped so that I may work, and I see that you have begun to master our language.”

  Lensherr shrugged. “Not as much as I would like, good lady,” he admitted. “But enough to hold a ... um ... a ...” He paused, suddenly unable to recall the right word for—

  “A conversation,” Abena said.

  Lensherr smiled lopsidedly. “Yes. That.”

  Abena nodded in understanding and raised the sand-filled bowl, turning her attention back to the work; one never knew when the next gust of wind might race through the village and force her to start the cycle all over again, so she tried to move as quickly as the heat would allow. Lensherr watched in silence as she carried the pile from one spot to another, making no offer to help, for this was how the woman made her living and, as meager as the pay was, it still provided some comfort for her family. To interfere would have been akin to taking the food from her daughter’s mouth.

  At least it would provide some exercise, he thought, his gaze drifting down toward his softened body. Granting harshly in disgust, he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

  Besides, he reminded himself, performing such menial labor was beneath the great Magneto, a man who could move entire buildings with the merest application of his powers, let alone a mere pile of dust. A man who dreamed of the day when all Homo sapiens were down on their hands and knees like this sand woman—though, under his rule, such a submissive position would be a sign that humanity had at last recognized him as their undisputed ruler, and that they had acknowledged the fact that they were an inferior race.