In a shabby Moscow apartment, mottled walls were plastered with schematics. The place sat in a notorious slum, its rickety wooden door letting winter's icy wind and snow whistle through the cracks.
This year's Moscow winter was especially bitter. Ivan hurried back with the government's relief bread, praying it would be enough for his bedridden father's lunch.
The warped door creaked open, and Ivan shut it quickly against the cold.
Inside, his father lay in bed, eyes fixed on the flickering television—Tony Stark's press conference. The flamboyant Stark openly admitted he was Iron Man, boasting that he alone would safeguard world peace.
"Ivan, those honors belonged to us," his father rasped. "The arc reactor was my work—our work—but Howard Stark cast me aside… stole everything."
A harsh cough wracked the frail man. "All my years, wasted… I won't accept it!"
That fury-laced vow became Ivan Vanko's final memory of his father. Illness and poverty claimed him soon afterward.
Though young Ivan had received little affection in his early years, his father still stole time from research to teach him. Under that guidance, Ivan grew into a prodigy.
After the funeral, hatred fueled his every breath. He stared at the last arc-reactor prototype left in the apartment, rage burning hotter each day.
"I'll take back everything, Tony Stark."
He connected twin cable whips—his Mulberry Whips—to the reactor. Electricity crackled along their length, bathing the room in pale blue light.
Six months later, Ivan's weapon was complete. Only one obstacle remained: reaching America. He certainly couldn't ship a high-powered energy weapon through legal channels, nor could he afford it.
Under Moscow's night sky, Ivan ambushed a local gang, looted their cash, then traveled overland to Poland. From there, he paid smugglers to slip across the Mexican border into the United States.
Thieves tried to rob him along the way. Each one died beneath the searing arcs of his whips.
…
At New York's Stark Expo, fireworks burst overhead while dancers in glittering costumes swayed onstage. Crowds packed the plaza—some drawn by the Expo, most by the dancers' long legs.
A roaring engine cut through the noise. A golden-red figure streaked from the sky, landing on the Expo platform: Iron Man, Tony Stark himself. The audience erupted, cheering their shining idol.
With Stark's flamboyant entrance, the Expo seemed a guaranteed triumph—Iron Man was Stark Industries' greatest advertisement.
After the ceremony, Tony headed for his beloved R8, but a striking woman blocked his path.
"Mr. Stark, I'm Lilith from the Department of Defense. You are to appear at a military hearing tomorrow at 10 a.m. regarding the Iron Man armor's technology."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Really? The armor is my personal design. What does the military have to do with it? Do they even understand the tech? If they did, they wouldn't ask such a stupid question."
Lilith's smile vanished. "This is an official request. Ignore it, and you'll face the consequences." She spun on her heel and stormed off.
Happy Hogan chuckled. "Boss, turning down a beautiful woman? That's new."
"What was I supposed to do—take her to dinner and spend the night?"
"Isn't that your usual playbook?"
"Happy, that's your bonus next month—gone."
"Boss, I can't lie to protect my pay."
"You're right. No bonus next month either. Still happy?"
"Just joking! Is it too late to beg mercy?"
---
The next morning, Tony arrived at the hearing in a sharp suit. He might mock the military, but even he knew better than to snub a congressional summons; Stark Industries' future was on the line.
Reporters thronged the chamber entrance, cameras flashing nonstop—Iron Man was global front-page gold.
"Mr. Stark, a quick autograph?" a young journalist called, thrusting an Iron Man poster forward.
Tony obliged, pen swirling across the glossy paper. More reporters pressed in, seeking signatures as much as quotes.
"Mr. Stark, please take your seat," the congressman at the podium barked. "This is a serious proceeding."
Tony flashed a grin. "Sir, it's not that I'm slow; my fans are just eager. Unlike you, I actually have some."
-------------------------
The congressman on the podium was nearly livid. This is a U.S. military hearing, not your personal fan meeting, Tony Stark.
More than ten minutes passed before the hall finally fell silent.
"Very well," the congressman began. "This hearing is now in session. The issue is simple: Tony Stark, do you possess the individual-mecha weapon known as the Iron Man armor? I assume you won't deny it, since you have publicly admitted you are Iron Man."
He wasted no time, diving straight into the heart of the matter.
"Sir, that depends on how you define a weapon," Tony replied, leaning toward Pepper for a quick whisper before turning back to the dais. "I admit I'm Iron Man, but I refuse to label the suit a weapon. You can't condemn it just because I have unique skills—just as I can't accuse you of corruption merely because you're a congressman. Accusations without evidence are slander."
"Tony, do you think we're fools?" the congressman barked. "The Iron Man suit is clearly a weapon."
"High-tech prosthesis," Tony corrected, straight-faced. "The latest model, personally developed by me."
The congressman scoffed. "Your remarks are absurd."
"May I ask, sir, your academic background?" Tony countered smoothly. "Do you have the expertise to judge my prosthesis?"
"What does that matter?"
"It matters because a layman calling my invention a weapon is slander."
Reporters burst into spontaneous applause, impressed by Tony's audacity. Everyone in the room knew what the armor could do; still, his bold denial drew admiration.
"Fine, Mr. Stark. Perhaps I lack technical knowledge," the congressman conceded, "so I've invited an expert. Please welcome Justin Hammer, president of Hammer Industries."
The room buzzed—Hammer Industries was Stark's chief competitor, though usually a distant second.
Hammer stepped forward. "From a weapons standpoint, the Iron Man armor is clearly a single-soldier combat system. As head of Hammer Industries, I must state the obvious: it is a weapon. The 'prosthesis' argument is laughable."
Tony smirked. "Professional, Justin? I've never seen your products outperform a toaster."
"I admit I'm no genius like you," Hammer said humbly, "yet I'm still an industry leader. Armor is a weapon; I can't deny that."
Feigning objectivity, Hammer tried to sway the crowd—but Tony was already moving.
"How about I show everyone your research?" Tony tapped his phone. The courtroom monitors flickered, revealing Hammer Industries' lab footage.
"Ready? Step forward," a technician said on-screen. A clunky knock-off suit lurched, then collapsed in pieces.
The video cut to another test. "Turn around." The armor's torso spun while its legs stayed put. A scream pierced the audio as the test pilot's spine twisted. The suit spun again—180 degrees—before the feed went black.
Power cords yanked free; Hammer had pulled the plug. "Believe me, the operator's life isn't in danger," he stammered.
"No worries, Justin," Tony clapped sarcastically. "He's not dead—just paralyzed."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"Seems both Hammer Industries and the military are tinkering with my prosthesis," Tony said, rising. "But even walking is an issue for you. Relax, gentlemen—my technology is at least twenty years ahead."
He spread his arms confidently. "I can eliminate nuclear deterrence. One Iron Man keeps America—and the world—safe."
Thunderous applause erupted. The congressman and Hammer stood red-faced, unable to respond under the barrage of cameras.
The hearing fizzled out. Clips of Hammer's disastrous tests went viral; Hammer Industries' stock plummeted billions in days, turning the firm into an industry joke. Tony, gracious for once, withheld the military footage.
Outside, Pepper looked uneasy. "Tony, were we too showy? The military is still our biggest client."
"Pepper, the weapons division is closed. We're pivoting."
"That's sudden. Shareholders are complaining—"
"Then buy them out. Stark Industries needs no dead weight."
News that evening replayed Tony's fiery performance. His legend only grew. The military? A pack of seasoned foxes—today's embarrassment was just another footnote. Real power cared only for results, not pride.
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