Just something I'm thinking of, and the direction of what I want to write.
Setting:
Arc 1: Cyberpunk 2000 – 2010
Arc 2: Cyberpunk 2010 – 2020
*Victor attempts to travel back to his universe*
"Fails = plot reasons"
Arc 3: Cyberpunk 2076 – 2077
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Chapter Prologue:
Victor von Doom leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on the screen before him. Neon light bathed his face in a cold glow, its flickering hues casting distorted reflections on his ironclad expression. He remained unmoved by the grotesque images flashing before him—scenes of depravity, injustice, and horror.
The room reeked of tar and stale nicotine. He rose slowly, deliberately, leaving the screen aglow behind him, its sound drowned by the cacophony of traffic below. He stood by the window, allowing the city's hum to flood his senses—voices, engines, sirens—all blending into a numbing blur.
"How dare you sabotage me, Richards..." he spat, venom thick in his voice.
Victor had traveled far—far beyond his own world.
Never trusting Reed Richards, he had taken matters into his own hands. He built a spacecraft of his own design, crafted through sleepless nights and genius unmatched. All of it for one purpose: to prove his superiority. To best him.
But pride has its price.
He launched early, alone. And when the cosmic storm came—wherein one universe it birthed the Fantastic Four—it did something else to him. It tore at his very soul, dragging him into another world.
Not another dimension of magic or myth. But a twisted mirror of his own vision. A future choked by technology. Where flesh fused with circuitry. Where man became machine—and machine, man.
In many ways, this world was the inverse of Doom's own ideals. And yet, its core was just as rotten.
"This world is detestable. No greater than my own..." he muttered. "I must return. Latveria—my Latveria—needs me. This world can save itself."
He strode past the dim, cluttered room. Before leaving, he seized the crude firearm resting on the bedside table. He turned it over once in his hand, sneering.
"Pitiful," he muttered—at the weapon, at this world, and perhaps, at himself.
Despite his years in America, despite all he'd conquered, memories clawed their way to the surface.
Once again, he was that orphan on the empty streets of Latveria.