Title: The Escape
Author: Merci
For: 2013
Character: Ivan (Whiplash)
Rating: PG
Source: Iron Man 2
Wordcount: 596
Summary: Whiplash-centric. Following Ivan's escape from prison.
Warnings: Violence.
Disclaimer: I am making no profit from this fanfiction. I do not own Whiplash, nor the Iron Man franchise.
Notes: I doodled this up one morning as I woke and there was some idea semi-fresh in my mind. I'm not too sure what more I'd imagined that was lost as I woke, but I just know that I'm fascinated by the man who took Whiplash's place in prison (and died). That sort of thing could keep my brain working for hours with all the "what ifs" that surround that sort of situation.
Anyway, yeah. I'm not too sure what this is. If you like Whiplash, I guess enjoy?
Also, I've written another Whiplash story that's too explicit for this site. Check my profile for links to it on aff .net.
The Escape
With a flick of his eyes Ivan could take in his surroundings. His private cell in the French prison were the same lifeless-grey hue he remembered from Russia. Perhaps they all went to the same supplier for their paint. Somewhere down the cell block he could hear whispers in French. He tilted his head ever so slightly, but could only pick up every other word. Something was happening, and he was vaguely interested in knowing what. It didn't matter, since he'd done his damage to Tony Stark. Whatever happened to him now was pointless.
Then the potatoes came.
Ivan heard the guard approaching, even before he appeared at the cell door. He watched the man in uniform approach and slide a food tray through the slot in the door. There was a strange energy about him that made Ivan take notice. He waited for the guard to walk away before pushing off from the bed, feeling the bulk of his muscles shifting under the simple endeavour as he reached for the tray.
The mashed potatoes looked off, but the note hidden underneath said all he needed to know – written in English with its harsh articles that rubbed Ivan the wrong way. Potatoes, good.
Ivan finished inspecting the explosives disguised as food, when the door clanged shut and a man stood before him. He inspected the newcomer with a flick of his eyes and half-smiled. He looked… scared and sheepish. Same build, same height… same prisoner number on the grey-blue jumper. Ivan looked down at his prisoner number, to double-check before be got to work on his dopleganger.
The stranger was passive. He didn't flinch when Ivan hit him; he was expecting it.
As Ivan pummeled him, mangling his face against the wall, he idly wondered where they'd found him. He hadn't seen many other prisoners that looked like him… or perhaps he was a free man willing to die for some promise of what would happen to his loved ones.
Ivan sneered as he slammed the stranger's face through the toilet; never die for promises.
He dropped the man to the floor; a ruined mess wearing Ivan's prison garb.
He was Ivan now – Dead Ivan. The Russian paused before grabbing the potatoes, considering thanking the dead man, before he smacked the potatoes against the wall and armed the explosives.
The key was waiting for him in the door slot and Ivan smoothly unlocked the door and left, mentally counting down how much time he had as his feet stepped quickly over the prison hallway.
Ten, dyeviat, vosyem, syem, six…
A guard – possibly the only one without a bribe in his pocket – called out to him. "Prisoner! Quest-que tu fait?" He rushed towards Ivan, getting within range and the Russian snapped out, breaking his neck in a swift move. It made the same sound as dead-Ivan; snapping twigs.
Then all hell broke loose as Ivan's cell exploded and people were shouting from all directions. Ivan rushed towards the stairs, when several guards with heavy wallets put a bag over his head. They rushed him through the chaos, to a waiting van and his freedom.
The vehicle rumbled along and Ivan listened to the sounds of the prison that faded in the distance. All that was orchestrated for him; under the hood his mind turned over the facts, weighing the possibilities of who would orchestrate his escape.
Perhaps someone thought they could hire him. Heh. Someone might be foolish enough. He smiled, quality prison-dentistry glinting silver in the darkness. In his mind, the crackle of his whips flared.