He stepped through the Portal in the air into the depths of Moscow.

Technology purred and hummed around him, replete with energies he was not familiar with, in configurations both familiar and strange. He could feel magic among the powers leashed here, in ways he was not accustomed to and which, despite his awesome intellect, seemed very contrary in how they functioned.

He would need closer study and some time to decipher what was going on, and learn them all, but that would not be difficult. Who could conceal their secrets from him? For was he not...

The walls around him began to shuffle and shift, and he stilled his armored foot as the floor in front of him flowed and reconfigured. The humming walls of metal and ceramics vanished behind rich facades of wooden paneling, even hunting trophies of fantastic beasts not of this world rotating into place.

In a matter of seconds, he was in a plush trophy hall of sorts, a thick carpet and rugs upon the ground, with all manner of dangerous things dead upon the walls and on display, with weapons from beings darkly mystical and of high science sitting inert, still, and broken among them.

He did not feel fear, but caution? Caution was warranted.

The double doors on the far wall opened in invitation.

“It seems this Great Bear is more adept than I expected,” he mused to himself, straightening fractionally. It was unlike him to skulk about like a thief, and he was a ruler. He took a step forwards.

There was a breeze that blew past him, and his eyes widened.

His armor, his prized weapon and defense, his greatest tool and mightiest support, broke apart like dust, swirling away from his hands, arms, across his chest and legs, and was gone, all its enchantments and instruments with it.

Leaving him clad in what he knew to be a very expensive suit, and even leaving him his cape intact.

He put his hands up to his face, feeling the cool wind upon his skin, and he tensed up, his outrage starting to bubble inside him that his face was exposed for others to see.

He fought down his temper and his outrage, cooling it with the knowledge that not only had his arrival been sensed, it had likely been expected, and his entry deflected to exactly where this Great Bear had wished him to arrive. Being able to remove his armor so easily was a clear display of power, and his attire a warning to be polite and diplomatic.

Very well. He could swallow his anger and be polite, if the situation called for it.

He strode forward, his head held high, and passed into the room beyond.

Well, it was more a corridor than a room, with more trophies mounted on the sides, although these seemed to be more like... diagrams...

His steps slowed as he turned to survey them, and despite himself, could not ignore them.

They were all of his technology.

How could he not fail to recognize them? From his earliest armor types and time machine, through his cosmic siphons and white hole power sources, up to his most current magic-enhanced teleportation devices, including schematics for the very device that had sent him to the Great Bear’s door.

It was a parade of his technology, there for anyone to view, and while few would be the minds who could understand it, the fact that it was openly on display for anyone to admire as they walked this corridor bespoke the fact that it was, in the end, not all that important to the person who dared to do so.

But if his technology was not so prized, then-!

He tried to draw the magic to him, to reassure himself that he still had surprises, still had power.

A warm wind seemed to blow past him, and absolutely nothing happened.

He tried to draw in magical energies once more, and once again, there was no reaction at all, only that warm wind blowing past and over his soul as the magic he could feel about him totally ignored his presence.

This... is unnerving, he admitted to himself. He was not helpless... but he was definitely not in a position of strength.

The polished, gold-trimmed wooden door at the end of the corridor opened silently as he approached. He stepped out into it, and found himself in an arched and beveled antechamber, as might be found outside the audience hall of a king. The wealth on display was not that of a vain or pretentious man, but one showcasing the skill and loyalty of his subjects, with works of art from artists and craftsmen that Doom had no knowledge of, ranging from landscape paintings to a simple, yet almost sublimely perfect set of chairs and a table.

There were people here, too. They did little more than glance at him, startling him with how casually they treated him, but he supposed they must have been warned of his arrival.

The towering doors at the far end of the chamber were open, and he turned his steps that way, down the deep red carpet that would spare the polished marble floors of his tread.

There was a crowd there. He slowed to a halt for a moment, tensing his fists at the implied insult. They would see his shame, his...

Perfectly unmarked face?

He stared for a long, low moment at the unscarred visage in the mirror spaced strategically to the side, precisely where one might turn to give themselves a final inspection.

His brown eyes looked himself over in unexpected astonishment, from the perfectly fitting dinner tuxedo to the styled hair, and even the undergreen of his cloak blending perfectly to the black and grey of his colors, and the sash of the monarch of Latveria across his chest.

“When did-?” he started to ask, putting a hand up to his face despite himself, and then lowering it just as quickly.

Without his mask, how were they to recognize him? His face was not known to the public, only the image he chose to present to them.

He turned and strode into the room, both determined to get to the bottom of this mystery and restored to confidence, for his perfection was unmarred.

The man in the chamber was being attended to by a small number of attendants and courtiers, doubtless seeking favors. The chair he sat in was raised only one step, wide and broad and comfortable instead of over-carved and adorned. Their eyes met, and he saw recognition in the pale violet gaze of Neanderthalic man there.

“Dismissed. Bring out a table and chairs, and a bottle of wine,” rumbled the deep voice of the other.

There was no hesitation, and the men and women scattered instantly as the brute rose to his feet. Quite in keeping with his girth, the man was well over seven feet tall, and moved as if weightless, broadcasting primal strength and power, and the confident rulership over all he surveyed of a King. Even Doom had to admit the brute had the air of an emperor.

“You must be Briggs, the Great Bear,” he hazarded, the first to speak. “I am Viktor von Doom.”

“Indeed you are,” the other affirmed with the casual ease of greeting an old associate. “I was the instructor of your alternate on this world.”

That did manage to startle Doom, as he had few men he had called teachers, and even fewer he respected in that role. Generally his ‘instructors’ were all lesser men with narrow specialties he had rapidly mastered and proceeded beyond. He waited for the table and chairs for two to be brought in, proud old wooden things that fit each of them perfectly. The Great Bear gestured to him to be seated, and they sat down together.

“You were expecting me,” Doom judged of the other, trying to measure the extraordinary power he could sense of the man, and how it might match up to the mind behind those domineering pale violet eyes.

“Indeed I was. I was the random factor you did not know of which was easiest to ascertain. You were confident in your powers and technology, but you had only expectations of mine that might match a more mundane governmental figurehead, and thought you would have little effort penetrating my defenses.” He waved it off nonchalantly as the crystalline glasses were placed before them, and the silent, nearly-invisible steward standing there poured calmly and precisely for both of them.

Doom took a sip of the wine, and barely held himself back from exclaiming in surprise as the mélange of flavors chased themselves around his mouth and down his throat. He could not help staring at it in amazement, and turned his head as the steward politely proffered the bottle for his inspection.

“The Storm Gardens of Freyalise, the Western Slopes, 1994,” he read aloud, finding none of it familiar. “A personal vintage?”

“By no means. Freya runs an eclectic agricultural holding in the Tribal Lands. This particular vintage is one of the less exceptional ones, as it only sells for about ten thousand rubles a bottle to her preferred customers. Her wines sit at the tables of the Shi’ar and Skrull Empresses, the wealthiest merchants in four galaxies, and have graced the tables of the Skyfathers Odin and Zeus, among others. That fop Bacchus even tried to kidnap her once, although that did not end well for him.”

“I see.” Any thoughts of taking her for his own personal vintner were quietly set aside as he took another drink, dwelling on the swirl of flavors that seemed to come from beyond anything a grape could yield, and yet it was indubitably wine. “This was made with alchemy...”

“Yes. She is the most skilled natural alchemist on the planet, among other things. Her sister Anning actually gives her the formulae, as she is the better brewer and pure vintner, but no mortal can beat the grapes that Freya grows,” the Great Bear rumbled thoughtfully, taking another sip from his own glass, plainly enjoying it. “I’m more a beer man than wine, but there is almost no way not to enjoy Freya’s work.”

“I have had... little opportunity to study the history of this world,” Doom stated, inhaling the smell of the wine again, and feeling himself get a little light-headed when he did. Truly a remarkable vintage, as he knew exactly how tolerant of alcohol he was. “You claim to be my counterpart’s instructor. How well did you know him?”

“Too well. In the end, I had to kill him.”

Doom failed to hide the tremor of movement, and the narrowing of his eyes as he rapidly reassessed the situation he had found himself in. He carefully set his wine down. “Are you offering me a last courtesy before you do the same to me?” he asked directly.

“No. That will come at another time.” The other empty glass descended next to his own, and the steward departed with a fingerflick. “I am merely here to tell you why I will not kill you.”

Doom frowned, and yet relaxed, sensing the other was of the tediously overly truthful sort, and not one to lie. “I am listening, Master Briggs,” he said warily, deciding courtesy was appropriate here.

“You are less than twenty days old.”

Von Doom blinked at the sheer audacity of the statement. “You... jest? No, you do not.” Doom frowned, considered the timing. “You refer to the time your worlds appeared here in this timeline.”

“No,” Briggs replied patiently. “I refer to the time your world was created out of nothing and appeared in our solar system, along with another Venus and Mercury.” Von Doom stared at him, wondering if he was mad. “All that you know, all your history, began at that moment. Everything you remember doing, having done and experienced before then, never took place.

“That includes all your sins, your treacheries, your ambitions, and your fleeting triumphs. Your contracts with Hell? They have not happened. Your travels across time seeking dark masters to learn from? You have never been there. Your rivalries and contests with Reed Richards? They have not taken place.

“Your mother’s soul is long rescued from Hell and gone to her final rest. Your counterpart’s son will one day inherit the throne of Latveria, and has inherited at least some of his genius.”