M116- The Doom Con

Snape stepped off the plane as it touched down in Doomstadt, capital of Latveria. The air was cool and brisk, the sky a clear slate gray. A single armored transport waited near the tarmac, flanked by four Doombots standing at attention. One of them stepped forward as Snape approached.

“State your designation.”

“Severus Snape. Alchemist. I’m here for the symposium.”

The Doombot scanned him quickly, then moved aside, "Welcome, Master Snape. His Majesty is pleased with your presence." The transport door slid open. Snape stepped inside after a brisk nod.

Somehow, Snape doubted that. But he climbed into the transport anyway.

The ride through the city was quiet. Doomstadt was clean, organized, almost unnervingly so. The streets were laid out in perfect grids, watched over by sentry drones perched above. Banners bearing Doom’s insignia hung from buildings and lampposts. The vehicle stopped at a tall tower near the palace.

As Snape entered, a greeter walked toward him, dressed in sharp formal wear with no insignia—efficient, clean. The man gave a shallow bow and reached for Snape’s luggage.

“Welcome to Doomstadt, Master Snape. I will escort you to your quarters. Your belongings will be delivered.”

Snape passed him the case without a word and stepped into the elevator. The inside was silent except for the soft hum of movement. The greeter remained silent in the elevator, which suited Snape.

They arrived on the twenty-third floor. The doors slid open to a wide hallway with polished floors and uniform lighting. No decoration, no unnecessary flair. They stopped at the last door on the left.

“Your suite,” the greeter said, opening it with a keycard. “Should you need anything, the front desk is available. Meals are delivered at standard intervals unless you specify otherwise. His Majesty has invited you to the reception tonight. Formal dress is encouraged. You may use the provided wardrobe.”

Snape inclined his head briefly. The man stepped out and left without waiting for a response.

The suite was large. Bedroom to the right, study to the left, bath and wardrobe ahead. Nothing ornate, nothing personal. A desk by the window had a datapad already open, displaying his itinerary. Symposium events, private demonstrations, scheduled meet-and-greet sessions. His name was listed under “Independent Alchemical Studies: Eurasian Synthesis.” A fabricated specialty—ambiguous enough to pass scrutiny, rare enough to pique curiosity.

He ignored the datapad and opened his trunk. Most of the contents were harmless—robes, notebooks, writing tools, a few basic potions in sealed vials. The useful things were hidden in the false bottom.

After a quick check of the wardrobe, he picked out the simplest black formal coat. No lace, no absurd trims. A high collar, dark buttons. It fit well enough.

At precisely 19:00, a chime rang from the door. Another servant stood outside when he opened it.

“His Majesty is expecting you. I will escort you to the reception.”

He trailed behind the attendant, descending to a lower floor... Busy chatter filled the banquet hall by the time Snape arrived. Dozens of figures in formal attire, mostly scientists and alchemists, some clearly not from Latveria. A few wore traditional robes, others had high-tech augmentations embedded into their clothes or skin. One woman’s left arm was replaced entirely with crystalline circuitry.

A servant approached with a tray of drinks. He took one glass and didn’t touch it.

Someone approached to engage him. A balding man with copper rings around his wrists started with, “Ah, Master Snape, from England, yes? I’ve read your papers on reverse caustic inversion—brilliant."

Snape was mildly surprised. And intrigued. Since his arrival in this world, summoned and repurposed into yet another war, he hadn’t met anyone who could hold a real conversation about potioneering or alchemy. Most of the talk had been power, strategy, or chaos. But the man in front of him, copper rings gleaming faintly, had cited one of his actual papers—real research, not nonsense. If Nero hadn’t already warned him this world had its own brand of magic and fringe science, he would’ve thought the man was a lunatic talking in riddles.

He smirked, just enough to show the curiosity. “Reverse caustic inversion is considered outdated in most contemporary circles.”

The man laughed, shaking his head. “Only by those who can’t make it work. The reaction rate is unstable, yes, but with the right catalyst—elemental or otherwise—you can maintain balance long enough to achieve transmutation. I tested it with a synthetic salt-based ether solution. Low burn, but it held for six seconds.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. What were you trying to convert?”

“Titanium into an active stannum matrix,” the man said, clearly proud of himself. “Failed, obviously. Structure collapsed before the alignment stabilized. But the residue had some reactive qualities. I catalogued it.”

Snape sipped from his untouched drink. “You document everything?”

The man nodded. “Of course. Observation before theory. I’m Dorian Wendt, by the way. New Carthage University, Elemental Conversion Department.”

“Severus Snape.”

“From Albion,” Dorian said like it was a known name. “Your essay on temporal stasis through alchemical circle entrapment—revolutionary. Most assumed it was theoretical.”

“It was not.”

Dorian chuckled again. “Clearly.”

Snape checked the name in his mind. Dorian Wendt. Sofia had loaded the profiles into his memory beforehand. With Occlumency reinforcing the recall, the details surfaced without effort.

Dorian—mid-level academic from New Carthage, focused on reactive transmutation and fringe catalyst theory. Loud in papers, quiet in results. Not aligned with any major power or resistance movement. Probably here out of ambition, not ideology.

“I thought the stannum matrix hypothesis was still unverified,” Snape said.

“It is. I’m the only one who’s managed partial stabilization. Though the residue—”

“Had reactive qualities. You said that already.”

Dorian didn’t seem fazed. “Right, yes. Still cataloging those. Might get something out of it if I cross-reference with a high-oxygen ether shell.”

“You’re mixing salt-based ether with oxygen variants. That’s unstable by design.”

“Unstable doesn’t mean useless.”

Snape didn’t argue. He took another sip.

“Have you presented?”

Dorian nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Section B, second rotation. I’ll be showing off a composite transmutation loop. Mostly theoretical.”

Snape scanned the room. “How many here are actually practicing alchemists and not just glorified theorists?”

“Less than a third, I’d say. Most of them couldn’t hold a stabilizer without setting the lab on fire. But Doom’s symposium always brings in the variety—mages, scientists, fanatics, the usual mess.”

Snape didn’t respond. Dorian gestured with his drink. “You’ll be giving a demonstration?”

“No.”

Puzzled silence.

“His Majesty invited you personally. I assumed—”

Snape turned to him. “Assumption is for people who need validation. I came to observe.”

Dorian nodded, awkward for a second before shifting topics. “I’ve always wondered—how did you manage to stabilize the loop for circle entrapment? You mentioned temporal fixation, but the paper was light on the method.”

“It was.”

“Intentionally?”

Snape tilted his head slightly. “Would you hand your best results to a stranger?”

That shut him up for a beat. Dorian chuckled again, more to himself. “Fair. You’ve got a reputation.”

Dorian eventually ran out of steam. When he circled back to a theory he'd already explained twice, Snape cut him off with a deadpan, "You’ve repeated yourself. Either make a point or find someone else to talk at."

That ended it.

Dorian muttered something about finding his department and scuttled off, ego mildly bruised. Snape didn’t watch him go. He had no time for wide-eyed theorists clinging to half-failed experiments like war medals.

Fortunately, better company found him soon enough.

A woman in a sharp gray jacket, silver crest stitched onto her collar, slid into the conversational vacuum without missing a beat. She didn’t waste time with flattery.

"Your paper on structural aether reactivity," she began. "You never published the follow-up."

Snape glanced at her sideways, mildly impressed. "Because it was classified."

She nodded like she expected that. "Figures. You proposed stabilized aether could maintain copper enchantment past decay thresholds. We replicated it. Only worked in zero-gravity."

Snape gave the faintest twitch of an eyebrow. "How much copper?"

"Half a gram. Any more, and the field collapsed."

That, at least, was interesting.

Before he could respond, another voice joined—low, accented, older. "You should’ve offset the arcane flow by embedding a second aetheric coil."

Snape glanced over. A tall man with gray hair, lean like a fencing blade, was watching them like he was weighing their worth.

"You’re assuming their containment runes could hold the extra channel," Snape said.

The man smiled faintly. "Then it wouldn’t be stable, would it?"

The woman grinned at the floor, like she enjoyed being corrected.

And just like that, the real conversations began.

One by one, the pretenders melted away, and the actual alchemists—the practitioners, the obsessives, the ones who smelled faintly of burnt metal and sleepless nights—drifted to Snape like moths to an old, dangerous flame.

The hum of conversation dipped, like a string pulled taut and silenced. Snape noticed it before he even turned. A ripple through the crowd, conversation dying mid-sentence, posture straightening. Some of the lesser academics all but shrank.

Victor Von Doom walked in like he owned the air in the room.

Doom wasn’t fully armored—just enough steel to remind everyone who stood above them. A formal green coat trimmed in black, high collar, heavy shoulders. Beneath it, fragments of his trademark plates—gauntlets, boots, and the faint metallic shimmer beneath the cuffs. No mask, but a half-face plating covered his jaw and cheekbones, as if he'd chosen to leave just enough of his humanity visible to make people uncomfortable.

It worked.

Conversations stopped entirely. Even the real alchemists, the ones who’d been fencing theory with Snape moments ago, paused like someone had yanked their strings.

Doom didn’t look around. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence did the work for him.

One of his attendants—nondescript, well-dressed, forgettable—stepped forward and raised a hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests. His Majesty welcomes you to the Latverian Symposium of Alchemical Sciences.”

Doom finally spoke, voice rich and deep.

“Esteemed scholars. Practitioners. Innovators. You stand in a kingdom where power is not begged for, stolen, or theorized in books—it is made.”

"However," Doom continued, "You didn’t come here for applause. Knowledge without discipline is chaos. And Doom does not abide chaos."

Some guests shuffled, shoulders stiffening, drinks lowered.

Doom’s gaze moved like a blade across the room.

“I know my infamy outweighs my fame,” he said, not pretending it was a joke. “I know they call Latveria a land of tyranny and fear.”

He paused, just long enough to let that sink in.

“They are correct—about the fear. But not the reason.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone cleared their throat and stopped halfway.

Doom folded his hands behind his back, “Latveria is feared not because we crush freedom, but because we do not shackle progress. The world stifles you. Binds you with regulation, with committee votes, with empty moral outcry from cowards who cannot comprehend what you are building.”

Several heads nodded. Snape noticed one man grip his glass tighter, another shift like he wanted to applaud but didn’t dare.

He lifted a hand, “They say this is a kingdom of chains. Yet here, you are free—to fail, to break the rules of gods and men, to chase the impossible without asking permission.”

Doom’s hand dropped to his side.

“All I ask,” he continued, “is that you do not waste my time.”

Doom turned back to the room. “You are here because your work matters. Because your mind is not bound by failure or fear. So long as you stand here and build something worthy—this nation will stand behind you.”

When the night ended, it became clear to Snape it was nothing more than a networking gala disguised as intellectual congregation. A parade of theories, most half-baked, thrown around between wine glasses and forced smiles. In his view, a waste of perfectly good hours.

The real business was tomorrow.

According to the schedule, he would meet with the Kingdom's Chief Scholars—individuals Doom kept on a short leash—to propose his "research" in exchange for funding and resources. Officially, it was a chance to pitch his breakthroughs. Unofficially, it was how many in this country secured Doom's protection when their work wandered outside the lines of acceptable science. Snape's fabricated field fit the pattern: fringe alchemy, dangerous theory, promising but controversial.

On paper, he was here to secure support.

In truth, he was here for the twins.

The next morning, the knock came precisely at eight. Not a second early, not a second late. Snape opened the door to another uniformed attendant, eyes expressionless.

"Your audience is scheduled in forty minutes. I am here to escort you."

He fell into step behind the attendant.

The meeting room was at the heart of it—simple, wide, with a circular table. Waiting inside were three men and two women, all dressed in muted tones. Scholars, engineers, alchemists. Doom's chosen intellectuals.

One of them—a woman with sharp gray hair tied back, datapad in hand—gestured to an empty chair.

"Master Snape. We appreciate your presence. Please, sit."

Snape moved to the chair with a polite nod.

Another man spoke. Older, lean, with narrow eyes that tracked every movement like he was dissecting a problem. "His Majesty has taken interest in your previous works. We would like you to outline your proposal."

Snape nodded, opening the file in front of him. The folder contained schematics, complex formulae, and simulated reaction patterns—all part of the fabricated project Nero's team had prepared. He added his own notations the night before, just enough to thread an alchemist’s madness into a scientific framework.

"My proposal is a structural synthesis between conceptual alchemy and quantum-coded particle dynamics," Snape began. "The focus lies in applying controlled transmutation circles to influence reality-bound gene structures and encoded energy fields. The target: manipulation of latent abilities within biological subjects without chemical interference."

The woman with the gray hair flipped through her datapad. "You suggest affecting genetic codes through alchemical patterns rather than biochemical means?"

"Correct. The concept bypasses traditional genomic sequencing. Instead, we alter the metaphysical lattice that defines genetic behavior."

One of the men leaned forward. "You’re proposing that abilities—mutations—are not just physical but rooted in a metaphysical template. And you intend to rewrite that template?"

Snape shifted the next page toward them. "Proof of theory. A series of closed-loop transmutations applied to dormant aether fields in subjects with residual abilities. Results indicate that given the correct pattern, the subject’s potential can be unsealed or reshaped."

The gray-haired woman narrowed her eyes. "You expect us to believe you can change genetic markers without splicing or exposure to mutagenic substances?"

"Not change. Rewrite. Directly from the conceptual layer of reality. It is inefficient to tamper with physical genes when the underlying structure exists at a higher constant."

One of the men tapped the datapad. "Your report references 'Cognizant Catalyst Theory.' You correlate metaphysical energy fields with psychological states. How does that factor in?"

Snape turned a page. "A subject’s cognitive resonance—their perception of self—anchors the lattice in place. External modification is possible, but long-term stability requires internal alignment. It is, in practice, a negotiation with the subject’s mind."

The gray-haired woman’s gaze sharpened. "You believe power expression can be modulated by reshaping reality perception."

"Belief is unnecessary. It is observable. In test subjects, self-perception altered the lattice’s flexibility. The stronger their internal resistance, the more complex the transmutation pattern required."

The man to her right spoke next. "And you believe this can awaken latent abilities?"

"It has."

"Practical application?"

"Preliminary trials involved low-tier subjects—minor energy manifestations. Successful. High-risk application on subjects with reality-bending potential is untested."

The gray-haired woman folded her hands. "Your report references theoretical parallels to psionic amplification and metaphysical condensation theory. You imply compatibility with structured consciousness manipulation."

Snape closed the folder. "Correct. Any metaphysical catalyst with affinity to cognitive structures—artifacts, for instance—could serve as an external stabilizer."

Another of the men glanced at the others. "A project of this nature would require oversight."

"Naturally," Snape replied. "I will require resources, subjects, and access to your metaphysical archives."

The gray-haired woman exchanged a brief look with the others. "Your theory is bold. Dangerous."

"You will approve it—because you crave what others fear to touch."

The room was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "We will submit this to His Majesty. He alone will decide if this project proceeds."

Snape stood. "I expect nothing less."