Chapter 14: Monaco Grand Prix
May 5, 2010 – Wednesday
Monaco Grand Prix
The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as Race Day unfurled its adrenaline-fueled spectacle. Tony, fueled by the thrill of the moment, couldn't resist engaging the Canal-Plus trackside commentator in a lively exchange. "What's the point of owning the car unless you can race the car?" he quipped with a mischievous glint in his eye, his words echoing with the fervor of a true enthusiast.
Meanwhile, nestled within the confines of the booth reserved exclusively for Tony's entourage, Faith and Willow shared in the excitement, their eyes alight with anticipation. Behind them, Buffy and Dawn occupied their own space, the latter comfortably settled in her wheelchair, a silent observer to the unfolding drama on the track.
"You only live once, right?" Tony mused, his voice carrying the spirit of joie de vivre as he embraced the thrill of the moment. "Joie de vivre! Sacre bleu! Ménage a trois! All that stuff," he added with a playful flourish, flipping down the visor of his helmet in a gesture of readiness.
"Bruce would love that car," Buffy remarked wistfully, her gaze lingering on Tony's 1978 Wolf WR Ford Replica.
"Probably," Dawn concurred, her agreement tinged with a hint of longing as she imagined the delight it would bring Bruce to own that car.
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Amidst the vibrant atmosphere of the track, Ivan found himself in the midst of titans, mingling with the elite whose affluence afforded them the pleasure of indulging in their fathers' prized sports cars. Yet, despite the proximity to power and privilege, none spared a glance for Ivan, their attention consumed by the allure of speed and spectacle. Even as he brushed past Tony Stark himself, a fleeting opportunity for recognition presented itself, but Ivan hesitated, recognizing the intimacy of the moment as unsuitable for his purposes, devoid of the requisite grandeur he sought.
Undeterred by his lack of acknowledgment, Ivan clung to his resolve, his unwavering determination concealed beneath a facade of anonymity. Within him, a deep-seated passion for machinery thrummed, the legacy of a natural-born engineer coursing through his veins. As engines roared to life around him, Ivan seamlessly melted into the throng of technicians and journalists, their roles momentarily fulfilled as they observed the drivers' last-minute preparations.
With a sense of purpose guiding his every step, Ivan slipped away from the bustling crowd, his destination a strategic vantage point beneath the grandstand. From there, he would orchestrate his entrance, positioning himself to command attention as the pivotal moment unfolded before the spectators' eyes.
As he contemplated the uncertainty of his eventual departure, Ivan remained steadfast in his conviction, refusing to entertain the notion of defeat. To plan an exit would be to concede defeat, a possibility that Ivan simply could not entertain. For him, victory was the only outcome worth considering, and he was determined to see his plan through to its triumphant conclusion.
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The race roared to life, the thunderous sound of engines echoing around the track as the cars hurtled forward with exhilarating speed. Buffy, Willow, and Faith, seated together in rapt attention, exchanged grateful glances as the commentators seamlessly switched between English and French, ensuring everyone could follow the unfolding drama. Yet, their appreciation was tempered by the knowledge that Dawn, with her linguistic prowess, effortlessly translated every word spoken in French, ensuring nothing was lost in translation for their group.
Eyes glued to the spectacle before them, they observed with bated breath as Tony closed in on Justin Hammer's car, the tension palpable as they navigated the hairpin turn with precision and finesse. Ahead loomed two more crucial turns before the tunnel, presenting Tony with a strategic opportunity to seize the advantage.
Aware of the pivotal moment approaching, anticipation hung thick in the air as the group braced themselves for the impending maneuver. They knew that if Tony harbored any hopes of overtaking Hammer, the moments following those turns would be his best chance to make a decisive move.
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Ivan's left-hand whip sliced through the chain-link fence beneath the grandstand with a swiftness that defied belief. It was as if the metal mesh was but a wispy veil before his might, offering no resistance as his weapon effortlessly cleaved through it. In that moment, the oft-used phrase "cutting through like butter" felt inadequate; there was simply no comparison to the ease with which Ivan's whip tore through the barrier. The chain link evaporated under the force of his strike, leaving behind a jagged gouge in the concrete, a testament to the raw power at his command.
With two more deft flicks of his whip, Ivan widened the breach in the fence, creating a passage through which he could pass unhindered. Emerging on the other side, he confronted the safety barrier separating him from the track itself, a three-tiered metal railing that proved to be no more formidable than the chain-link fence. With a calculated precision, Ivan slashed through the barrier, his actions synchronized with the thunderous roar of a passing car, the rush of wind from its wake tousling his hair as he worked.
Glancing back towards the grandstand, Ivan met the gaze of a security guard, whose futile attempts to intervene only served to fuel Ivan's resolve. With a flick of his right-hand whip, he delivered a precise strike that crackled with energy, the impact exact and devastating. As the guard crumpled to the ground, Ivan raised both arms triumphantly, his whips crackling with an otherworldly energy that mesmerized onlookers. With a sense of invincibility coursing through his veins, Ivan stepped out onto the track, ready to seize his moment of destiny.
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As Tony's car trailed behind the Hammer car, lap after lap, he remained unfazed, his confidence buoyed by the knowledge that his own vehicle held the edge, having been meticulously refurbished under his expert hand. Patiently, he navigated each twist and turn of the track, honing his understanding of his car's capabilities with every passing moment.
Three laps in, as the race funneled into the tunnel, Tony sensed the opportune moment to make his move. With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he seized the chance to unleash the full potential of his driving prowess. Tony thrived on the thrill of the pass, the exhilaration of executing a flawless maneuver—whether it be an audacious inside move on a tight curve or a cunning draft and slingshot around a wide turn.
For Tony, victory wasn't merely about crossing the finish line first; it was about dominance, about leaving his competitors in the dust and etching his name in the annals of racing history. He craved not just a win, but a resounding triumph—a victory so decisive that it left no room for doubt, no margin for error.
As he surged past Hammer's car in the heart of the tunnel, Tony's engines roared in harmony with his own primal scream of exhilaration. In that moment, all his ambition, expertise, and unyielding desire coalesced into a single, breathtaking display of skill and determination.
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Faith, Willow, Buffy, and Dawn sat in stunned silence as the chaos unfolded on the track, their attention riveted to the commentary detailing the alarming intrusion. A sense of urgency permeated the air as they absorbed the gravity of the situation—an unknown assailant wielding a menacing electrified rope, wreaking havoc among the passing cars. Panic rippled through the teams as they scrambled to warn their drivers, frantic attempts to establish communication amidst the chaos.
The description of the intruder sent shivers down their spines—a formidable figure, towering and imposing, his shirtless form highlighted by long, unkempt hair cascading around his metallic exoskeletal frame. Their eyes widened in disbelief as they tried to make sense of the surreal scene unfolding before them—an enigmatic figure wielding what appeared to be ropes or cables, emanating from a pulsating power source nestled within the center of his torso.
Amidst the turmoil, Willow's gaze flickered towards Faith, her unspoken plea for action hanging heavy in the air. Without hesitation, Faith sprung into action, swiftly inserting an earpiece into her ear to establish contact with Jarvis, the ever-reliable AI assistant.
"Jarvis?" Faith's voice rang out with steely resolve through the earpiece.
"Yes, Ms. Faith?" Jarvis's voice responded promptly, a beacon of reassurance in the midst of chaos.
"I need my armor," Faith declared, her tone resolute as she rose to her feet, ready to confront the threat head-on.
Amongst the bewildered crowd, a hushed murmur of disbelief spread like wildfire as the race fans bore witness to the unprecedented spectacle unfolding before their eyes. One among them, awestruck by the sheer ferocity of the intruder's weapon, could only muster a comparison to the iconic lightsaber from a galaxy far, far away.
In the commentary booths, the French announcers teetered on the brink of hysteria, their exclamations blending with the escalating fervor of their English counterparts. Even the typically composed color commentator found himself swept up in the intensity of the moment, his incredulity palpable as he marveled at the audacity of the assailant. "You've got to have quite a pair of attachments to do this," he remarked, his voice tinged with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
As the chaos unfolded on the track, the lead announcer's somber tones resonated through the air, his words laden with despair as he lamented the unprecedented nature of the assault. "The Monaco Historic Grand Prix is making another kind of history," he declared, his voice heavy with solemnity. "Track invasions have happened before, but never has an interloper destroyed a car. This is a terrible day."
"Shocking," echoed the color commentator, his words a grim acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation.
Amidst the chaos, a deafening explosion rent the air as a passing car succumbed to the onslaught of the invader's weapon. Shards of metal hurtled through the air, crashing into barriers and chain-link fences with a force that sent shockwaves reverberating through the crowd, leaving in its wake a trail of destruction and despair.
"Ms. Faith, Mr. Hogan has both yours and your father's suits," Jarvis's voice resonated in Faith's ear as she gracefully vaulted over the fence separating the track from the grandstand, her movements propelled by a fierce determination to confront the threat head-on.
As Faith embarked on her mission, Dawn's keen observation couldn't help but penetrate the air of tension enveloping them. "You wish you could join her, don't you?" she queried her sister, her gaze following Faith's figure with a mixture of admiration and concern.
Buffy's response was measured, tinged with a hint of resignation. "My days as Huntress are over," she stated matter-of-factly, her words carrying the weight of a decision made long ago.
But Willow, ever perceptive, interjected with gentle insistence, her eyes flickering between Buffy and Faith. "Buffy, you want to be out there helping her. It's in your blood. Been in your blood as long as I've known you," she asserted, her voice a soft but unwavering reminder of Buffy's innate sense of duty and heroism.
Buffy sighed, her resolve wavering in the face of Willow's astute observation. "You're right," she conceded, a flicker of longing betraying her stoic facade. "But I left that life behind three years ago. Huntress is retired," she declared, the finality of her words underscoring the distance she had put between herself and her former identity.
Americain Bar
"That can't be good," Pepper murmured, her eyes fixed on the television screen as she tried to decipher the unfolding chaos. With furrowed brows, she juggled multiple tasks in her mind—trying to decipher Tony's actions while simultaneously tracking his whereabouts on the treacherous course.
On the screen, a figure wielding what appeared to be a miniaturized arc reactor made a startling appearance on the track of the Monaco Historic Grand Prix. Pepper's mind raced through the possible implications; each scenario more alarming than the last. Had Obadiah Stane betrayed them, sharing the coveted design of the arc reactor with nefarious forces during his machinations against Tony and Faith? Or was there a mole within Stark Industries, a traitor lurking in the shadows, leaking sensitive information and endangering their lives? Or perhaps, chillingly, someone harboring a deep-seated vendetta against Tony and Faith had independently developed a technology strikingly similar to the arc reactor.
None of these possibilities offered solace. Each presented a nightmarish reality fraught with danger and betrayal, sending shivers down Pepper's spine.
Into the tense atmosphere strode Happy, his presence a welcome distraction from the looming threat. "Where's the football?" she inquired. Happy held up two aluminum briefcases adorned in the signature deep red hue that Tony had come to favor. They were secured to his arms, a tangible reminder of the weighty responsibilities they carried.
Pepper rose to her feet with a sense of purpose, her resolve unwavering. It was time to ensure Tony's safety, once again stepping into the role of protector and confidante. "Let's go," she declared.
As they made their way through the lobby towards the waiting car, Happy's keen eye caught sight of Natalie engaged in a conversation on her phone. There was a sense of urgency in her tone, and though he couldn't quite discern the specifics, he suspected it had something to do with the unfolding events at the race.
"Natalie! You on this?" Happy called out, his voice cutting through the air with a sense of urgency.
Natalie quickly ended her call, her attention snapping to Happy. "Yes," she affirmed without hesitation, her demeanor poised and focused.
"Good," Pepper interjected as they headed towards the exit, her tone brisk and decisive. "As soon as he finishes up, you should be thinking about how we're getting him, Faith, and Willow home."
As they stepped outside, the door closing behind them, Natalie wasted no time in providing reassurance. "The Stark plane is fueled and on the runway," she reported, her voice steady and confident. "And should that not work, I have also contacted the Wayne Enterprises pilot. He has the Wayne Enterprises plane fueled and on standby."
Pepper, her mind already racing ahead to the next steps, wasted no time in taking charge. "Give them to me," she directed, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
As they sprinted out of the hotel toward the VIP lot, Happy passed two keys to Pepper, his arm outstretched to facilitate her access to the lock on the handcuff. With a sense of urgency propelling them forward, Pepper fumbled with the lock, her fingers working frantically to unlock the case as they raced against time.
In the midst of the chaos, Pepper couldn't help but marvel at the irony of their situation. They had never tested the functionality of the briefcase under real-world conditions, yet here they were, thrust into a scenario that mirrored the intensity of actual combat. An armed assailant wreaking havoc at the Monaco Historic Grand Prix—a situation that demanded swift action and decisive measures.
Determined to reach Tony and Faith before the threat could escalate further, Pepper's focus remained unwavering, even as she struggled to coax the stubborn lock into compliance. "Hold still, Happy," she urged, her voice tinged with frustration as she wrestled with the mechanism.
Happy, ever the pragmatist, attempted to steady his arm amidst the frenetic pace of their flight. "What, and run at the same time? You try it," he retorted, his words laced with a hint of humor despite the gravity of their predicament.
Finally reaching the car, Pepper's efforts to unlock the second briefcase proved fruitless. With a sense of urgency mounting, Happy assumed the role of driver, guiding the vehicle with one hand while Pepper continued her struggle with the unyielding lock. Together, they hurtled towards the track gate, their determination unwavering in the face of adversity.
In the midst of the chaos, Pepper grappled with the stubborn lock, her fingers trembling with urgency as she attempted to coax it into compliance. The conditions were far from ideal—a small, temperamental lock was hardly conducive to quick and efficient work. Frustration mounting, Pepper resorted to grabbing Happy's wrist in a bid to steady his hand, her gaze darting out at the bustling streets of Monaco.
Despite the unfolding events on the racetrack, it seemed that news had yet to reach the wider populace. Oblivious to the impending danger, the city continued to bustle with its usual activity, providing a stark contrast to the tension mounting within the confines of the car.
Happy wasted no time in navigating the streets with reckless abandon, careening past traffic with blatant disregard for the rules of the road. Pepper's attempts to reach Tony and Faith via phone proved futile, their usual practice of patching their phones through to their suits proving ineffective in this critical moment.
"Let's go, let's go, let's go," Pepper urged, her voice edged with urgency as she implored Happy to hasten their progress.
Happy shot her a questioning look, his brow furrowed with concern. "You want to drive?" he asked, a note of skepticism in his tone.
"No, I want you to drive faster," Pepper retorted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And I want you to hold still so I can get this goddamn key to work."
Monaco Grand Prix
"Dad," Faith's voice crackled through her earpiece as she raced across the racetrack towards the menacing figure, her heart pounding with a mixture of urgency and frustration. But there was no response, no reassuring voice on the other end. "Damn it, Dad," she muttered under her breath, her worry intensifying as she scanned the chaotic scene for any sign of Tony.
Meanwhile, Tony surged down the longest straightaway on the Monaco course, the exhilarating rush of speed coursing through his veins. With Hammer's car hot on his heels, anticipation crackled in the air as they approached a sharp turn looming ominously ahead. Tony could almost sense the tension radiating from his rival's vehicle, relishing in the thought of outmaneuvering him once again. As they navigated the challenging terrain with precision, Tony couldn't resist a triumphant jibe. "Suck it, Hammer," he crowed, his voice laced with exhilaration.
But amidst the thrill of the race, Tony's attention was abruptly yanked away as chaos erupted ahead. Cars veered erratically, and a sudden explosion tore through the air, engulfing his view in a fiery inferno. Through the haze, Tony caught a glimpse of a figure on the track, sparks flying like live wires— a harbinger of impending danger.
As the smoke cleared, Tony's worst fears were confirmed— a man, defiantly striding against the flow of the race, a deadly weapon in hand. Instinct kicked in as Tony swerved to avoid the looming threat, his mind racing with a flurry of desperate calculations. But it was too late. With a sickening realization, Tony watched in horror as the whip lashed out, slicing through the chassis of his beloved historic car with chilling ease, rendering it nothing more than a shattered relic of its former glory.
Tony found himself suspended in a disorienting upside-down position amidst the wreckage of his once-majestic car, his senses reeling from the violent impact that had left him inverted and vulnerable. With a deft maneuver, he disengaged the steering wheel and tossed it onto the track, clearing the way for his escape from the confines of the driver's seat, a task made all the more challenging by the unconventional orientation.
As Faith sprinted to her father's side, she wasted no time in assisting him, swiftly extricating Tony from the twisted metal and guiding him away from the menacing figure wielding deadly whips and clad in a menacing metal exoskeleton. "Where are our suits?" she asked, her voice edged with urgency.
"Happy has them," Tony responded, his words laden with a sense of resignation as he assessed the dire situation unfolding around them.
Meanwhile, whip guy approached the wreckage of Tony's car with calculated precision, methodically reducing it to rubble with each savage stroke of his weapon, his foreign words echoing through the chaos.
Faith, seizing the nearest available weapon—a jagged piece of debris from the shattered vehicle—prepared to confront the assailant head-on. With a determined resolve, she lashed out, delivering a powerful blow to the intruder's face with the rear wing of the disintegrated car. Yet, to her dismay, the attack seemed to have little effect, whip guy undeterred by the force of her strike.
Glancing at her father for guidance, Faith's resolve wavered as she realized the futility of their situation. "Are we beyond talking this through? Finding some common ground?" Tony's question hung heavy in the air, a sobering reminder of the desperate need for resolution amidst the chaos and destruction.
"Stark destroyed my family!" the whip-wielding assailant snarled, his voice dripping with bitterness and resentment. The distinct accent marked him as originating from the depths of Eastern Europe, adding an ominous layer to his already menacing presence. Unfazed by his declaration, Faith unleashed another blow, her frustration boiling over as the man remained impervious to her attacks.
"I'm sorry," Faith retorted with a hint of sarcasm, her words dripping with disdain. "That was rude. I cut you off."
In response, the whip guy unleashed a primal roar, his rage fueling a vicious swipe of his weapon that narrowly missed its mark as Tony and Faith swiftly evaded his onslaught. With adrenaline coursing through their veins, they darted across the track, their senses heightened as they searched desperately for any semblance of cover.
"I was going to tackle the guy when I saw him invade the track," Faith explained, her voice tinged with frustration. "But with the fact he took blows at full Slayer strength... Well..."
Tony nodded in understanding, his mind racing with possibilities as he surveyed the wreckage strewn across the track—once magnificent race cars reduced to nothing more than expensive debris. It was then that inspiration struck, and Tony formulated a daring plan.
Motioning for Faith to follow, Tony led the way towards a sizable piece of chassis, a remnant of a race car flipped upside down at just the right angle to provide fleeting refuge. "This way," Tony instructed, his voice laced with urgency as they sprinted towards their makeshift sanctuary.
With a burst of speed, they slid beneath the car, seeking shelter from their relentless pursuer. Acting swiftly, Tony yanked the gas cap off, unleashing a stream of high-test fuel as he and Faith scrambled forward
As Tony and Faith sprinted desperately, the menacing whip guy closed in with alarming speed, his weapon poised to strike. In a swift and merciless motion, the whip slashed down through the race car's engine, cleaving through metal and machinery with terrifying precision. The deadly arc of the whip intersected with the spreading pool of fuel on the track surface, igniting a cataclysmic explosion that rent the air with deafening force.
The force of the blast obliterated the car, reducing it to a maelstrom of unrecognizable debris, while Tony and Faith were hurled through the air like rag dolls, their bodies careening uncontrollably towards the barrier of hay bales at the track's edge. With a thud, they collided with the makeshift barrier, the impact driving the breath from their lungs as they struggled to regain their bearings.
As they began to right themselves amidst the chaos, their gaze was drawn inexorably towards the dissipating fireball that marked the site of the explosion. Through the billowing smoke and flames, a chilling sight greeted them—the whip guy emerged unscathed, his figure shrouded in an eerie aura as he strode purposefully towards them, a harbinger of impending doom.
With grim determination, Tony and Faith braced themselves for the inevitable confrontation, their hearts pounding in their chests as they prepared to face their relentless adversary head-on. In that moment, with danger looming ominously on the horizon, they stood as the only barrier between chaos and salvation, their resolve unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds.
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"I see them!" Happy's voice cut through the chaos, a beacon of hope amidst the tumult of destruction and despair. They were moving against the flow of traffic, their path littered with the shattered remnants of once-magnificent race cars. Pit crews scrambled frantically to rescue trapped drivers, while spectators surged back and forth in a frenzy of panic. Flames licked at the edges of the track, casting an ominous glow over the scene.
As Happy navigated the treacherous terrain, his attention was torn between the road ahead and the urgent search for Tony and Faith. Yet, before he could locate them, another explosion erupted, engulfing the vicinity in a fiery inferno and obscuring his view of the unfolding chaos.
"Where are the keys?" Pepper's voice rang out, a note of urgency coloring her words as she rifled through Happy's front pocket in search of the essential tools needed to unlock the briefcase.
"Check my front pocket," Happy directed, his focus split between the road and Pepper's frantic search. Glancing over at her, he caught sight of her profile, illuminated by the flickering flames dancing on the track. Her hair cascaded over his shoulder, a tangible reminder of their shared peril in the face of imminent danger.
The realization of their mortality weighed heavily on Happy's mind, loosening his tongue in a moment of unguarded vulnerability. "I've always loved you!" he blurted out, his confession hanging in the air like a fragile thread.
Pepper froze, her movements halted by the unexpected declaration. Swerving to avoid a crew of volunteers, Happy attempted to diffuse the tension with a feeble attempt at humor. "I should have said that before you had your hand in my pocket," he quipped, his attempt at levity falling flat in the midst of their dire circumstances.
Silence enveloped the car as Pepper retreated to the backseat, resuming her task with renewed determination. Happy, his mouth now firmly shut, focused on the road ahead, grappling with the realization that his impulsive confession had come at the worst possible moment.
There they were, Tony and Faith, emerging from the chaos like beacons of hope amidst the devastation. Happy's eyes swept over the scene in a single, sobering glance, taking in the dire situation with a sense of urgency and determination.
Tony and Faith lay sprawled amidst a tangled heap of hay bales, partially obscured by the remnants of collapsed barriers. Despite the perilous circumstances, they were stirring, a testament to their resilience in the face of danger. Nearby, a fierce inferno raged, engulfing a sizable portion of the track in a blazing spectacle of destruction.
Through the flames strode the menacing figure of the whip-wielding maniac, his presence an ominous reminder of the imminent threat they faced. With a chilling grin, he cracked his deadly weapons against the pavement, the sound reverberating through the air like a harbinger of doom.
In that moment, Happy knew what needed to be done. Without hesitation, he executed a daring maneuver, wrenching the wheel and slamming on the brakes with all his might. The limo careened into a bootlegger's turn, hurtling towards the unsuspecting assailant with lethal force. The impact was bone-jarring, the crash barrier buckling under the sheer force of the collision as the vehicle came to a shuddering halt, battered but still operational.
As Tony and Faith approached the limo, their voices rang out in a cacophony of urgency. "You got the football?" Tony inquired; his words tinged with a hint of uncertainty. Before Happy could respond, Pepper raised the briefcases in a silent confirmation of their success.
"Thanks?" Tony's gratitude was laced with disbelief. "Is that what I'm supposed to say?"
"Of course, it is," Faith interjected, her voice steady with resolve as she reached out to claim her share of the precious cargo. But before their exchange could be completed, chaos erupted once again.
With a primal yell, the maniac lunged forth from beneath the vehicle, his lethal weapon poised for another strike. In a desperate bid to protect her loved ones, Pepper acted swiftly, flinging the cases towards Tony and Faith with practiced precision.
"Tony!" Pepper's voice rose above the fray as she propelled his case across the slick pavement,. With trembling hands, she then extended Faith's case, her resolve unyielding in the face of imminent danger.
Faith and Tony swiftly punched in the access code on the pads flanking the briefcase handles, eliciting a chirp of confirmation as the cases unlocked. With practiced precision, they swung open the halves and stepped inside, their anticipation palpable as the Mark V suit assembly process commenced. From the soles of their boots upwards, the suit materialized around their bodies, layer by layer, forming a sleek and formidable armor that would serve as their defense against the whip-wielding assailant.
Though not as advanced as the full Mark IV, the Mark V boasted impressive capabilities, combining cutting-edge technology with enhanced mobility and protection. It was a formidable piece of equipment, ready to meet the challenges ahead head-on.
As the crack of the energized whip reverberated through the air, Tony and Faith sprang into action, their movements fluid and coordinated. Dodging and weaving with practiced skill, they evaded the lethal strikes of their adversary, analyzing his attack patterns and adjusting their strategy accordingly.
A close call with Faith's Arc reactor served as a stark reminder of the danger they faced, prompting Tony to seize the opportunity and counterattack. With a swift motion, he sent the whip wielding maniac hurtling into the smoldering wreckage of nearby cars.
Yet, to their astonishment, the assailant rebounded with seemingly undiminished resolve, his tenacity unwavering in the face of adversity. As the trio clashed once again, the dynamics of the battle shifted, with the whip guy unleashing a barrage of attacks from all angles, his movements unpredictable and erratic.
Tony and Faith found themselves increasingly challenged by the limitations of their Mark V suits, their usual arsenal of weapons and defenses noticeably absent. While the suits provided enhanced physical strength, they lacked the sophisticated weaponry of their predecessors, forcing Tony and Faith to rely on their wits and combat prowess to gain the upper hand.
Recognizing Faith's inherent strength and agility, Tony devised a plan to exploit her Slayer abilities to their advantage. With her Mark V suit specifically tailored to augment her formidable abilities, Faith emerged as the ideal candidate to confront the whip-wielding foe head-on.
"Faith," Tony's voice cut through the chaos, a beacon of determination amidst the tumultuous fray.
With a resolute nod, Faith understood her cue. Seizing every opportunity that presented itself, she launched a relentless assault on the whip-wielding assailant, striking with precision and ferocity. Using whatever debris lay at hand, she hurled makeshift projectiles at her adversary, unleashing a barrage of attacks that kept him off balance and on the defensive.
Closing in on her opponent, Faith engaged in close-quarters combat, delivering punishing blows with all the force she could muster. She could feel the searing heat emanating from the lethal whips, a constant reminder of the danger she faced with each passing moment. Yet, undeterred by the threat, she pressed on, determined to bring an end to the relentless onslaught once and for all.
As the battle raged on, Faith knew that the time for decisive action had come. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she launched herself into a final clinch with the whip guy, overpowering him with sheer brute force. With every ounce of strength, she possessed, she pummeled him relentlessly, refusing to relent until his resistance was broken and victory was assured.
Meanwhile, Tony rushed to the aid of Happy and Pepper, assisting them away from the battered remains of the limo that had borne the brunt of the intense confrontation.
Breathing heavily, Tony moved in to dismantle the source of their adversary's power, tearing the arc reactor from the whip guy's chest with a mixture of disbelief and determination.
Amidst the chaos, law enforcement officers descended upon the defeated assailant, apprehending him with grim determination. Despite his defeat, the whip guy's defiant grin remained, a haunting reminder of the havoc he had wrought upon the Monaco Historic Grand Prix. "I win," he declared triumphantly, his words tinged with defiance as he was led away into custody, leaving behind a scene of devastation and destruction in his wake.
Tony and Faith strolled away from the scene of the intense showdown, their minds still reeling from the encounter. Tony gazed down at the arc reactor clutched in his hand, a perplexing marvel that defied the boundaries of possibility.
"Pepper," Tony's voice broke the silence, his tone tinged with a mix of intrigue and urgency. "We need to get to the plane and test this."
As they were joined by Willow and Buffy, who was pushing Dawn in her wheelchair, Tony's revelation sparked a flurry of questions. "Test what?" Willow asked before she caught sight of the arc reactor in Tony's grasp, her disbelief mirrored in her expression. "He had an arc reactor?"
Tony nodded solemnly, his mind racing with implications. "Yes," he confirmed. "An arc reactor, which shouldn't even exist. Its mere presence suggests a breach in our security—either someone has gained unauthorized access to our servers or, even more troubling, to my own thoughts. It's a breach that shouldn't be possible. Once our whip-happy Russian friend there undergoes interrogation, we may uncover the truth behind this anomaly. But if he remains tight-lipped, this," he gestured towards the arc reactor, "will speak volumes."
"And on another note," Faith added, her attention shifting to the Mark V suits they had donned for the battle. "The Mark V performed adequately, though not without its flaws. It'll need some fine-tuning before it reaches its full potential."
Monaco Airport
As they reached the airport, a bittersweet moment unfolded as Willow and Faith bid farewell to Buffy and Dawn. As the Summers sisters prepared to board the Wayne Enterprises plane, Tony stepped forward, his expression a blend of sincerity and determination.
"Firstly, I just want to express how much of a pleasure it was to finally meet you both," Tony addressed Buffy and Dawn with genuine warmth, his gaze shifting to Dawn in her wheelchair. His words carried a weight of resolve as he made a solemn promise. "And Dawn," he continued, his tone earnest. "While I've entrusted Willow with the controlling interest in Stark Industries. Rest assured; I'll ensure that our resources are directed towards researching a solution so that you can walk again."
Dawn's eyes sparkled with gratitude as she absorbed Tony's words, a glimmer of hope reignited within her. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice tinged with emotion, a silent acknowledgment of the profound impact Tony's commitment had on her.
Buffy stepped forward, her expression a mix of gratitude and determination. "Tony, that means more than you can imagine," she said, her voice steady despite the swell of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. She reached out, clasping Tony's hand in a firm grip, her eyes meeting his with unwavering resolve.
Monaco Police Department
By the time Tony, Faith, and Willow walked into the police station, the air was thick with tension and anticipation. The trio had used the journey to run some preliminary tests on the RT recovered from Whip Guy, and the results were nothing short of provocative. It was almost as if the Ten Rings operative from Afghanistan had peered into Tony's very soul, recreating the RT with an uncanny precision that mirrored the device Tony had fashioned in the cave with Faith and Yinsen. The sense of déjà vu was palpable, the implications unsettling.
Inside, the station was a hive of activity, officers bustling with the urgency of an ongoing investigation. The French cops in charge were hesitant, their suspicion evident in the hard set of their jaws and the wary glances they exchanged. They seemed reluctant to allow the trio access to their mysterious detainee, who they identified as Ivan Vanko. But Willow, with a serene confidence, produced her credentials from the ISC. The French chief of police, an ex-Watcher with ties to the ISC's predecessor, the Watcher's Council, immediately recognized the significance of the credentials, his demeanor shifting from skepticism to begrudging cooperation.
As they were escorted back to the holding cells, the stark corridors echoed with the sound of their footsteps, each step amplifying the gravity of the situation. The officer accompanying them, fluent in English, was their reluctant guide through this labyrinth of law and order.
"So where did he come from?" Tony asked, his curiosity barely masking his anxiety.
"Not sure yet. He's covered in gulag tattoos, so we're assuming he's Russian," the officer replied, his tone clipped and professional.
Tony exchanged a glance with Faith and Willow, recalling the thick Russian accent that had cut through the chaos on the racetrack. The officer checked his watch, a gesture that seemed to underline the urgency of their mission. "Go now. He's about to be taken to an Interpol way station outside Nice."
They were led to a holding cell by another officer, this one silent and imposing, his glower a silent warning. Inside, a manacled Ivan Vanko sat with his back to them, his broad shoulders a testament to his formidable physical presence even without his lethal RT apparatus and whips. The intricate web of tattoos snaking across his skin spoke of a dark history, a tapestry of symbols and stories inked in pain and defiance.
Tony leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Could your friend Dawn decipher those?" he asked Faith and Willow, nodding toward Ivan's tattoos.
"Possible," Willow replied, her eyes narrowing as she studied the marks. "Russian was one of the first languages she picked up."
"Is that you, my friends?" Ivan said softly, his voice carrying a sinister undertone that sent a shiver through the air. Tony, Willow, and Faith didn't answer, their silence a calculated response. Ivan shifted his weight slightly, the chains clinking with the movement, but he didn't turn his head. "Tony and Isabella Stark?"
"I prefer Faith," Faith replied, her tone firm as they moved around to face Ivan.
Tony held up the RT where Ivan could see it, the device glinting ominously under the harsh fluorescent lights. "It's pretty good," he said, and meant it. "Cycles per second are perfect. Elemental composition is pretty decent." This initial compliment, though sincere, was a prelude to the interrogation. Tony's eyes hardened as he asked, "Way too good for a dirtbag like you to make. Where did you get it?"
Ivan's eyes drifted shut, and he tipped his head back, a dreamlike smile spreading across his face. The look was one of perverse satisfaction. "You like it?" he said, the sarcasm in his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "I'll make you one."
"You didn't make this," Willow said, waving a hand dismissively at the RT.
Ivan's smile widened, a slow, menacing grin that revealed a glimpse of his twisted pleasure. "It wasn't so hard."
Tony took a step toward Ivan, his frustration boiling over. "Who made this?"
Opening his eyes, Ivan met Tony's gaze with a look of mockery and contempt. "...every country in the world is twenty years away!" He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Your technology is built from stolen goods. You come from a family of thieves. Today, Tony and Isabella Stark became beggars."
Faith glanced at her father, her brow furrowing in confusion and concern. "Beggars?" she mouthed to him silently, her mind racing with questions about what Ivan might know—or think he knows—about their family.
Tony's jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. "Where did you get it?" he asked again, his voice edged with urgency and anger.
"It came from the past," Ivan replied, his voice dripping with a cryptic intensity that hung in the air.
"What?" Faith said, glancing back at Ivan, her eyes narrowing in confusion and suspicion.
"Anton Vanko," Ivan said, reverence lacing his tone as if invoking a sacred name.
"Who's that?" Willow asked, her curiosity piqued, leaning in slightly as she studied Ivan's reaction.
Suddenly enraged, Ivan surged against his manacles, the chains rattling violently. "It is a name your wife and her father should know!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the cold, sterile walls. Veins throbbed from the base of his neck up to his forehead, his face contorted in a mask of fury.
"Why?" Tony asked, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of urgency.
Ivan cooled off, his expression shifting from one of raw anger to something more calculated and insidious. His eyes gleamed with a predatory gleam as an ethereal smile spread across his lips. "It's killing you, isn't it?"
"What is he talking about?" Faith asked her father, her voice tinged with concern and bewilderment.
"You haven't told your daughter?" Ivan laughed, a cold, mocking sound that sent a chill down Faith's spine. He looked directly at her, his gaze piercing. "The reactor. It's. Killing. Him." He touched his forehead, right by the temple, his fingers lingering ominously. "I know these things."
The English-speaking officer entered and held the door open, his expression stern and unyielding. "Time's up," he said, his voice a curt reminder of their limited time. His presence seemed to suck the air from the room, pulling them back to the reality of their constraints.
Ivan leaned his head back against the cold, hard wall and closed his eyes again, a contented smile playing on his lips. He seemed disturbingly happy, as if reveling in a private victory. "If you can make God bleed, people stop believing in Him," Ivan said, his voice filled with a sinister satisfaction. His long, slow chuckle echoed ominously, a haunting sound that trailed Tony, Faith, and Willow as they walked out into the dimly lit hall, its oppressive weight following them all the way to the heavy security door.
Faith, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anger, turned to her father. "Is he telling the truth?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, a fragile edge of desperation in her tone. "Is your reactor killing you?"
Tony's expression softened, a profound sadness clouding his eyes. "Yes," he replied, his voice tinged with resignation and sorrow.
"We knew about the risk of palladium poisoning," Willow said, her voice gentle yet probing. Her eyes searched Tony's face for answers. "But you never said it had gotten that bad. That's the real reason you gave me controlling interest in Stark Industries, isn't it? It wasn't just a wedding gift, was it? You were thinking of what would happen if you died?"
Tony nodded slowly; the weight of his secrets finally laid bare.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
After the Starks left, Vanko slipped into a familiar routine. He had been in prisons before, and the grim routines were second nature to him now. He knew how they operated, how to bide his time, how to endure. He could grow old and die in this French prison, or even find himself back in a Russian one, and it wouldn't matter… because he had looked Tony and Faith in the eye and told them the truth. The seeds of doubt and fear he had sown would take root, forcing them to follow the story to its devastating conclusion, one that would unravel and potentially destroy the Stark family.
The CRS processed him out of the French system and shoved him into the back of a van that reeked of sweat and stale desperation. The trip lasted about an hour; Ivan overheard the guards mentioning Nice and deduced they were going to warehouse him somewhere nearby until Russian authorities came to claim him or the French decided to prosecute him themselves. The politics of his fate played out like a distant, irrelevant game. To Ivan, none of it mattered.
"It's done, Papa," he whispered in the rank darkness as the van jolted to a halt and the sound of booted footsteps approached the rear door. "I did not kill the Starks, but we won anyway."
An hour later, he found himself sharing a cell with a terrified Frenchman. Vanko spoke no French, but his expressions conveyed all that was necessary: stay away to survive. Two hours after that, a guard arrived at the cell door and tapped to get their attention, indicating for them to step back while he unlocked it. Ivan's cellmate eagerly complied, shrinking to the farthest corner. Ivan remained seated on his bunk, unmoving. He knew that a little resistance could make prison guards either pick a fight or decide to leave you alone.
The guard, a hulking figure with a steely gaze, met Ivan's eyes. For a moment, Ivan thought there might be a confrontation, and he was ready for it. But then the guard set a tray down next to him, caught his eye, and subtly scratched at the side of his neck. Ivan's gaze followed the motion, noticing the Ten Rings tattoo hidden just under the guard's collar.
"Drink up," the guard said in Russian.
Things happened quickly after that. Ivan examined the food. The mashed potatoes didn't smell like mashed potatoes. In fact, they didn't smell like any food he had encountered, and his years in the Russian penal system had sharpened his senses to detect even the slightest hint of nourishment. He picked up the cup of juice and found a note tucked beneath it. Ivan read the note, then glanced at the number on his cellmate's uniform. His eyes shifted from it to the number on his own uniform.
They were identical.
His gaze then caught something he initially mistook for a malfunctioning digital clock. It displayed :30, then :29, then :28… and Ivan put it all together. He knew what the mashed potatoes were, what this small LCD device represented, and why the guard had left them here. He understood that if he didn't act now, he would be dead within seconds.
He moved swiftly. His cellmate, who had no idea that the mashed potatoes were a deadly ruse, was staring at them with undisguised hunger. Ivan crossed the cell in two quick strides and had his cellmate's head in the crook of his arm before the man could react. A sharp twist and pull of the jaw snapped the cellmate's neck. Ivan let the body fall.
The detonator read :24. Ivan slapped the mashed potatoes against the wall and shoved the detonator into the center of the gooey mass. It said :17. Ivan turned back to the door just as the guard opened it again and led him down the hall. Prisoners shouted in French, their voices a chaotic chorus of confusion and curiosity. Ivan wished he could speak French so he could tell them what was about to happen.
Then he reconsidered and felt a cold satisfaction that he didn't know French. He couldn't say anything to ruin what was clearly a daring and ruthless plan to break him out of jail before he vanished into the Interpol bureaucracy, probably forever.
Who was this benefactor? Ivan could not think of a single person on Earth who would reasonably be expected to take such a risk on his behalf. Apparently, however, if he survived the next few minutes, he would meet exactly such a person.
Just as the guard opened a door and got Ivan into a stairwell, the charge went off with a thunderous boom that echoed down the prison's halls and—for a moment—left the prison in perfect silence. The sudden quiet was eerie, a stark contrast to the explosion. Then noise crashed back in from every direction and source. Prisoners screamed, debris rumbled and clanged as part of the prison wing collapsed. Sprinklers kicked in, drenching Ivan to the skin as he hurried down the stairs at the guard's direction, water mingling with dust and smoke to create a choking haze.
Three floors down, they came to a fire door. As Ivan walked through it, he was ambushed. Strong hands grabbed him, pulling him off balance. He started to resist, muscles tensing for a fight, but he held back. He was in a foreign country, sprung from a jail by a mysterious organization that appeared to have taken an interest in him beyond their initial financial transactions.
Perhaps what he needed to do was relax and see where it was all going to lead. Hooded, cuffed, and bundled into a van, Ivan felt the vehicle lurch into motion, bouncing along an access road. The smell of damp earth and exhaust filled his nostrils as he tried to piece together the puzzle of his escape.
He was being erased. Someone had enough of an interest in Ivan Vanko to remove him from the realm of the living. The duplication of inmate numbers and the instructions in the note revealed a plot to dupe the world into thinking that Ivan Vanko was dead. As the van sped away, Ivan's mind churned with possibilities. Who was behind this? What did they want from him? The unknown stretched out before him, dark and full of promise.
Unknown Hanger
Sometime later, the van stopped and Ivan was led out into a large, echoing space that he immediately recognized as an airplane hangar. The sound of his footsteps against the concrete floor reverberated in the cavernous expanse.
The hood was stripped away, and Ivan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the stark fluorescent lighting. He had guessed correctly about his surroundings. Across an expanse of oil-stained concrete stood a Gulfstream G5 jet, its sleek frame adorned with a corporate logo Ivan had seen but never paid much attention to: Hammer Industries. The G5, a symbol of opulence, was a sixty-million-dollar plane even before all of the custom touches that a company like Hammer would insist upon.
The man who traveled in such a plane might not have Stark money, but he had money to spare. This man, currently seated at a table between Ivan and the plane, was eating a meal off fine china with a decanter of wine at hand. His casual demeanor was at odds with the tense, high-stakes situation. He watched Ivan, and Ivan watched him, both measuring the other.
Ivan started to put two and two together. He had been broken out of jail by an arms merchant. A highly illegal act had been performed to secure his services. This meant that whoever had performed this act considered Ivan's skills highly valuable and worth significant risk—or that whoever had performed this act considered himself above the law. Either possibility was present. Just as Ivan had known that he was in a hangar, however, he knew that this man sitting before him had willingly taken a risk because he wanted Ivan to do something critically important.
It was good to know this. Someone was beginning to recognize Ivan's talents and was not immediately inclined just to squeeze him for knowledge and dispose of him.
Ivan relaxed ever so slightly—not enough that anyone other than him would have noticed, but enough to let him look at the situation in a dawning new light. It might just be, he thought, that his mirage imagined in the back of the van was becoming real.
The man gestured at a chair opposite his own and said, "Please. Sit." Ivan did, noting the American accent. "I'm Justin Hammer, and I would like to do some business with you."