[Third Person Pov]
Rama-Tut, the Pharaoh of Ancient Egypt, extended his scepter in hand. A shimmering ribbon of energy—pale blue threaded with deeper green—unfurled from his weapon and wrapped around Doctor Doom. With a single, measured gesture he dragged the Latverian monarch out of the frozen battlefield and into the stasis void that existed within the time-platform's influence.
The world beyond the void remained locked in black-and-white stillness. Inside it, motion remained only to the two of them and the platform beneath Rama-Tut's sandaled feet.
Doom's armored head turned slowly, surveying the suspended chaos outside the bubble—heroes frozen mid-strike, Mindless Ones halted in mid-blast, debris hanging motionless in the air. Confusion flickered behind the iron mask, quickly replaced by cold, warranted suspicion. His glowing eyes fixed on the elaborately dressed figure before him.
Emerald flames suddenly blossomed along the thick strands of webbing that still bound him. The mystic fire burned through every sticky filament in seconds, freeing his limbs without so much as scorching the metal of his armor. Doom rolled his shoulders once, testing his freedom, then leveled Mjolnir toward the stranger. The hammer's head crackled with restrained lightning.
"And who," Doom demanded in his metallic, echoing voice, "are you supposed to be?" His gaze dropped to the glowing platform. "That does not belong to you."
Rama-Tut offered a theatrical little bow, one hand pressed lightly to his chest. "Oh, but it does—if you will grant me the opportunity to explain."
Doom's patience was a thin, dangerous thing. "Proceed."
The Pharaoh straightened, a wide, almost delighted grin spreading across his face. "I have gone by many names across the years. At present I am known as Rama-Tut, Pharaoh of Ancient Egypt. My true identity, however, is Nathaniel Richards of the thirty-second century." He paused for effect, eyes gleaming. "And I am one of your descendants."
Doom's eyes narrowed further behind the mask. He did not speak. He simply stared, the silence itself a challenge.
Rama-Tut was undeterred. "My future was… boring. A world of near-total peace. Conflict had become negligible, almost academic. So I turned my mind to the past—and to my ancestors. I am something of a historian, you see." He gestured gracefully toward the platform. "During my research I uncovered the ruins of an ancestor of mine. Within those ruins I found blueprints."
Doom's intellect filled in the rest before the words were finished. "You used my time machine to travel into the past. With your technological advantage you installed yourself as Pharaoh of Egypt under the name Rama-Tut."
"More or less," Rama-Tut confirmed with an approving nod. "You grasp the essential truth of the matter."
Doom's grip tightened on Mjolnir. "I still do not understand why you have traversed the centuries and sought out Doom. Explain yourself. Descendant or not, if your answer fails to satisfy me, I will mark you an enemy of Doom. And all who stand in Doom's path are dealt with without prejudice."
Rama-Tut's grin only widened. He stepped down from the platform and approached with measured confidence. "You may consider me an admirer of your work. It is thanks to you, after all, that I am able to be what I am today. I want you to join me." His voice dropped into something almost intimate, almost hungry. "Imagine what we could create together—your genius married to my knowledge of the future. Our limits would be nothing but imagination itself. We could extend our dominion past Egypt… past any single era… throughout all of time—"
"Ughhhh…"
The low, strained sound cut through the void like a knife.
Both men turned.
Spider-Man stood where he had been frozen only moments earlier, but his body was no longer still. Violent tremors wracked his frame. Static electricity crawled across the black-and-blue suit in sharp, crackling bursts.
*Chtzz! Chtzz!*
Peter's form began to blur at the edges as he forced raw speed into existence against the temporal lock. His voice, when it came, was distorted and vibrating, as though spoken through a broken radio.
"D-Did you… ask for my permission… yet?"
Outside the void everyone emained locked in perfect stasis, fully aware of the conversation unfolding within the temporal bubble yet utterly unable to move or speak.
…with the sole, stubborn, exception of Peter Parker of course.
"How is that possible?" Rama-Tut whispered, the words laced with pure, undiluted disbelief.
Peter began walking toward them.
Each step was a struggle against the temporal pressure still clinging to his body. The tiles beneath his boots cracked and spider-webbed under the impossible weight he seemed to carry, as though the very air had thickened into solid stone. His movements were slow, almost sluggish, yet relentless. One heavy footfall after another carried him across the void until he finally came to a stop directly in front of the two men.
They stood face to face, chest to chest—two hooded figures locked in silent confrontation. Electric-blue eyes blazed beneath the lenses of Spider-Man's mask. Dark emerald light glowed from the slits of Doom's iron helm. The air between them crackled with barely restrained power.
Rama-Tut's gaze dropped to the stylized spider emblem on Peter's chest. Recognition dawned. "Wait a minute… I know you." His voice softened with a strange reverence. "Well—more like I've heard of you. You're the Amazing Spider-Man. The Pioneer of Peace. In my time it is said, again and again, that the first true step toward the peace my future enjoys… began with you."
Peter ignored him completely. His attention never left Doom. He lifted his open palm toward the armored monarch.
"The hammer, Victor. It clearly doesn't belong to you. I don't care if afterward you want to have your little family reunion—but you're going to give me back Mjolnir."
Doom regarded the weapon resting in his gauntleted hand, turning it slowly so the light caught the ancient runes. "You want the hammer?" His metallic voice dripped with cold amusement. "Then Doom will give you the hammer."
He swung without warning.
Mjolnir crashed into the side of Peter's face with the full force of a god's weapon and the stolen might of Latveria's ruler. The impact launched Spider-Man backward across the platform. He slid to a halt in a low three-point stance, one hand braced against the glowing floor. Slowly he reached up, tugged the lower half of his mask above his nose, and spat a thick stream of blood to the side. The red droplets hung suspended for a moment before the void claimed them.
He pulled the mask back down.
"Fine," Peter said, voice low and steady. "You want to do this the hard way? Let's do this the hard way."
He sprinted forward at a deceptively human pace.
The brutal slugfest that followed was immediate and vicious.
Doom's suit computers whirred, calculating trajectories and predicting strikes, allowing the armored tyrant to sidestep and counter several of Peter's openings. Yet every blow that did land carried enough raw strength to rattle even the mystical alloys of Doom's armor. The monarch felt each impact through the metal like a hammer striking an anvil from the inside.
Rama-Tut stood transfixed a short distance away, both hands wrapped around the shaft of his ankh scepter, watching the predatory, almost graceful exchange with fascination.
Peter ducked under a sweeping hammer blow and answered with a lightning-fast three-hit combination—torso, sternum, chin. He raised one forearm just in time to block Mjolnir's return swing. The hammer rebounded, spun behind Doom into his opposite hand, and smashed into Peter's exposed ribs with bone-jarring force. Pain flared white-hot through the suit. Peter hunched with a grimace but refused to give ground.
What followed became a continuous, coordinated flurry of strikes, blocks, and counters. Fists and hammer blurred. Sparks and static burst with every collision.
Doom finally caught Peter's arm, pivoted, and hurled him over one armored shoulder. Spider-Man twisted in mid-air, landed on one palm, and used the momentum to push himself into a smooth, effortless backflip that carried him several meters away, creating distance.
A glowing magic circle bloomed in front of Doom. At the command of Mjolnir, bolts of arcane energy lanced outward.
Peter pivoted and weaved between the blasts. Those he could not fully avoid he struck aside with open-handed deflections, each impact ringing like struck metal. The final two beams came too fast to dodge. He caught them both in his palms, spun once with the absorbed force, and hurled them back the way they had come—now crackling with his own added lightning.
The twin projectiles detonated against Doom's chest and launched the armored figure several meters backward across the platform.
In that same instant a sudden blue-white blast struck Peter from the side, striking him before he was even fully able to react. The force sent him flying into the nearest wall of the void with a bone-rattling crash.
Rama-Tut stood where Peter had been only a heartbeat earlier, ankh scepter extended, its tip still billowing with residual blue smoke. His expression had hardened into something cold and resolute.
"I detested the peace of my time," the Pharaoh declared. "By killing you… perhaps a new, more interesting era will await me."
Peter pushed himself off the cracked wall. He rolled one shoulder, then slammed both fists downward. Twin bone claws *shnnked* into place along his wrists, gleaming under the light of his suit and energy.
A sharp, almost eager grin tugged at the corners of his masked mouth.
"Two against one, huh? Finally…" he said, settling into a ready stance. "A fair fight."
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