Latveria, also known as the "Pearl of the Balkans", is a small impoverished nation nestled between Hungary, Serbia, and Romania...
To its north lie the Carpathian Mountains, while the southern regions border the Mahlera highlands.
Like most Eastern European countries, Latveria has long been mired in political upheaval and instability. Economic decline, partisan strife, and the ravages of war and disease have left deep scars... reverberations from the Eastern European upheavals that continue to this day.
Since the collapse of the great red empire, the situation in Central and Eastern Europe has been dire. Skyrocketing unemployment, rampant inflation, and widespread public discontent have led to massive strikes and economic crises... enough to drag the entire region into an inescapable quagmire.
Latveria is no exception...
After the complete disintegration of the Yalta system, the world shifted toward multipolarity.
Some countries, like Hungary, the Czech Republic, and Ukraine, managed to cling to survival by joining the EU. But small backward nations like Latveria could only struggle to survive amidst the chaotic tides of change, scrambling for any lifeline they could grasp.
This is a lawless land where the strong prey on the weak, a haven for vampires and werewolves hunted and exiled by the Sanctum's sorcerers. Even the influence of the London Sanctum cannot penetrate this chaotic paradise that was ruled by gangs, warlords, and political factions.
After twelve days of travel; first by ship, then by plane... Doctor Doom, cloaked in deep green, finally set foot on the barren soil of his childhood. The gray overcast sky was pierced occasionally by flashes of lightning, as if a storm could break at any moment.
Victor Von Doom stepped out of the country's only airport, carrying a black suitcase...
Outside, rows of outdated taxis waited. Most foreign tourists who boarded these vehicles would inevitably be fleeced... the drivers kept wrenches and iron pipes in their trunks, ready to extort extra money mid-ride.
And that was the best-case scenario. More often than not, passengers would be robbed clean.
Call the police? In Latveria, even the cops weren't immune to scams. A gun on your hip meant nothing against a ruthless cabbie.
Pointing a gun at a taxi driver meant making an enemy of the entire transportation industry. These drivers banded together and were backed by local gangs... a third of them smuggled drugs or contraband. Those who tried to make an honest living were swallowed whole, leaving no trace behind.
A popular joke in Latveria went like this: If you lose a dog, call the police. If your house gets robbed, call the gangs.
To many, the local mafia was far more efficient than law enforcement. They had their fingers in every pie, legal or otherwise, forming a tangled web of interests.
But compared to the warlords and aristocrats with their private armies, the gangs were powerless lambs...
Every month, they had to pay a "tribute". Fall short or pay late, and your home would be blown to smithereens by rocket-wielding thugs that very night.
At the top of the food chain sat the Prime Minister, who controlled the military, and the political parties backed by Western powers. To them, the warlords, the landed aristocracy, and even the gangs were nothing but ants to be crushed underfoot.
Victor Von Doom randomly chose a taxi. His luck, it seemed, was not good...
The driver's greed was barely concealed, his eyes constantly flicking to the suitcase. No doubt he was already calculating how much he could extort from this passenger.
Sure enough, the taxi didn't head for the luxury hotel in the city center. Instead, it veered toward the outskirts.
Doom paid no mind, his gaze fixed on the scenery outside... clusters of haphazardly built houses, most constructed from galvanized iron sheets. The zinc coating made them rust-resistant, allowing these shanties to survive the rainy season.
In the slums, these were considered decent homes. The outer shacks were made of wooden planks, leaking and rotting in the rain, reeking of damp and mildew. Every year, strong winds toppled these structures, burying their inhabitants alive.
Behind his steel mask, Doom's expression twitched. He had grown up in such a slum, trudging miles of muddy roads to the only school in town. Children from poor families like his could never afford private schools in the city.
Even public schools which were funded by the municipal government were a struggle.
He had barely scraped by on scholarships. Had fate not intervened, Victor Von Doom, the man who once dominated Wall Street, might have dropped out after high school, toiling in some factory or apprenticing in a shop. With luck, his sharp mind might have earned him enough to start a small business, clawing his way into the middle class and escaping the slums.
The turning point came at fifteen, when a kind priest recommended him to the central library. There, he devoured books like a starving man, each dusty volume a key to a new world, a stepping stone to greater heights.
Poverty could crush a man's spirit, or ignite his potential...
Victor Von Doom, the prodigy who taught himself, earned a scholarship to New York State University, sponsored by Latveria.
What came after (his journey to America, his rise and fall) was another story entirely.
The memories faded as the car sputtered to a stop.
The wiry driver pulled a wrench from under his seat, eyeing Doom with ill intent.
He pointed at the suitcase and spoke in heavily accented English: "Hand it over."
His tone brooked no argument. The wrench in his right hand could easily crack a skull, while his left held a phone, ready to summon a swarm of fellow drivers.
If this foreigner resisted, the best he could hope for was being robbed and dumped on the roadside.
The worst? He might join the pile of missing persons cases gathering dust in police files, or end up in a back-alley clinic, his organs harvested and sold.
The light of justice does not reach every corner of the world. Darkness is everywhere. Evil thrives.
"You shouldn't have done this," Doom replied in the rural dialect of Latveria.
The driver blinked in surprise... then froze as the cloaked figure lifted his hood, revealing a cold, sinister steel mask. Empty eyes gleamed with a lethal chill...
"You– Ghk!"
*Crack*
Doom snapped the man's neck without hesitation. He glanced at the fallen phone, then picked it up and dialed...