"Mister Stark," the lead investigator said, "we ran his prints. We got nothing back, not even a name." Biela quickly translated it, even though Tony didn't need her to. But the Monegasque police didn't know that. "Where are we going?" Tony asked. Biela quickly repeated it in French. "Over there," the investigator pointed. "We're not even sure he speaks English. He hasn't said a word since he got here." Biela translated, then told the man, "I speak more than fifty languages, there is a very good chance that we can communicate. And he said a few words to Mr. Stark after the attack." "Five minutes," Tony said. Biela repeated it.
The investigator opened the door. "Thank you," Biela said, as Tony didn't seem to intend to. Tony stepped inside, followed closely by Biela. The door slammed behind them. Before them was a man clad only in a thin pair of shorts. His back was to them, but they could see his numerous tattoos. Tony took three steps forward, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. Biela stayed where she was. "Pretty decent tech," Tony finally said, continuing his walk. "Cycles per second were a little low." He came to a stop near the corner, so that the man could see him.
"You could have doubled up your rotations," Tony advised. He walked closer to the man. "Focused the repulsor energy through ionized plasma channels. It's effective, not very efficient." He stopped next to the man. "But it's a passable knock-off." He sat down on the bench. "I don't get it, with a little fine-tuning you could've, uh, made a solid paycheck if you'd just sold it to North Korea, China, Iran…or gone right to the black market." The man finally turned to look at Tony. He still couldn't see Biela. "You look like you've got friend in low places," Tony finished.
"You come from, uh, family of thieves, and butchers," the man said. Biela silently pulled her StarkPad out. The man was talking. Talking was good. Talking meant information. Information meant answers. "And now, like all guilty men," the man continued, "you try to rewrite your own history, and you forget all the lives the Stark family has destroyed." Biela could tell that Tony was hurt, but it was very subtle. The man, who sounded Russian, probably couldn't tell. "Speaking of thieves, where did you get this design?" Tony asked.
"My father," the Russian said. "Anton Vanko." Biela quickly typed the name in her StarkPad and came up with a name for the son: Ivan. She wrote it in really, really big letters on her StarkPad and held it up so that Tony could see. He acknowledged it with the slightest of nods. "Never heard of him," Tony said. "My father is the reason you're alive." "The reason I'm alive is because you had a shot, you took it, you missed," Tony shot back.
"Did I?" Ivan asked with a smirk. "If you could make God bleed, the people will cease to believe in him, and there will be blood in the water, and the sharks will come. The drones, all they have to do is sit there and watch, as the world will consume you." "Where will you be watching the world consume me from? That's right, a prison cell. I'll send you a bar of soap," Tony said as he stood up. "Have fun in jail…Ivan."
"Hey Tony," Ivan said as Tony walked back towards Biela. "Before you go, at least my father cared enough about me to give me his knowledge. Yours just gave you hate." Tony's eyes widened as Biela knocked twice on the door. "C'est vas," she told the police as they walked out. She slammed the door, but she could still hear Ivan Vanko laughing through the thick steel door.