"Am I not your guardian? Kid, do you have any idea how much data I just pulled on you?" Tony's helmet had retracted completely, revealing a face that looked like it had been carved out of expensive confidence. "Your address, your school transcripts, even your uncle Ben's employment history. It's all right here in my HUD. So, I'm giving you a five-second window to rethink that 'not my guardian' line. One phone call from me, and your unemployed uncle isn't just back in the workforce—he's heading a department."
Peter's jaw dropped under his mask. He was a kid from Queens who worried about the electric bill; being threatened with extreme generosity and financial leverage was a tactical maneuver he hadn't prepared for. He looked at Huang Wen, hoping for some backup, but the martial arts master was already moving on.
"Alright, Tony, stop flexing your bank account for five minutes. It's tacky," Huang Wen waved his hand dismissively, then turned to Jack. "The Peter Parker debate is a headache for another time. But since Tony just volunteered to be the world's most expensive recruiter, I'm holding him to it. Jack, where are your guys? We need to get these two clowns into a cell before the press manages to bypass the perimeter."
"They're two minutes out, Boss," Jack replied, his eyes scanning the entrance.
A squad of military personnel, seeing that the "gods" had finished their display of power, finally moved in. They didn't approach Huang Wen or Steve Rogers—they weren't that suicidal—but they descended on Justin Hammer and Ivan Vanko. Hammer went quietly, whimpering about his lawyers and "unconstitutional detainment," but Vanko was a different story.
Because of the acupuncture lock, the Russian was still lying in a rigid, twisted heap on the concrete. His legs, broken from the impact of Tony's "unplanned delivery," were bent at angles that made even the soldiers wince.
"When did I ever agree to find Ben Parker a job?" Tony muttered under his breath, though he was already instructing Jarvis to find a high-paying, low-stress position in the Stark Industries logistics wing. He looked down at Vanko and winced. "Hey, Wen. Can you unlock the Russian? I need him to be able to talk, and right now he looks like a very miserable piece of modern art."
"Sure, no problem," Huang Wen shrugged. He made a subtle flicking motion with his fingers toward Vanko's spine. "But don't say I didn't warn you."
The release of an acupuncture lock isn't a gentle process, especially when the body has sustained physical trauma during the stasis. The moment the energy flow was restored, every single pain signal that had been blocked by the "stasis" hit Vanko's brain at once. It was like a dam breaking.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
The scream was guttural, raw, and filled with a level of agony that made the hair on the back of Steve Rogers' neck stand up. Vanko thrashed on the ground, his broken bones grinding against each other. It was a sound that didn't belong in a high-tech exhibition hall; it belonged in a medieval dungeon.
The room went silent. Most of the people there—the soldiers, Logan, Tony—were used to the ugliness of the world. But Peter Parker was still a boy. He flinched, his hand flying to his chest as he watched the man suffer. Even Justin Hammer looked away, his face pale. It was the "rabbit mourning the fox" moment—seeing a fellow predator reduced to a screaming pile of meat.
"Kid, keep it down," Tony snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "I'm trying to conduct an interrogation here."
Vanko didn't hear him. He was drowning in his own nervous system's fire.
"He's not going to talk like this, Tony," Huang Wen said, stepping forward. He didn't wait for a request this time. He gestured again, hitting a specific node in Vanko's neck. "There. I've blocked the pain receptors from the waist down. He can talk now, but he won't feel his toes."
Vanko's screaming stopped instantly. He gasped for air, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He looked down at his bleeding, mangled legs with a look of pure confusion. "My legs... I can see them... why can I not feel the cold?"
"Finally, some peace," Tony said, stepping into Vanko's line of sight. He didn't look like a hero right then; he looked like a vengeful legacy defender. "Alright, Ivan. Let's talk about that Arc Reactor. I know the design. I know the output. Where did you steal it? Did you find an old blueprint? Did Hammer pull it out of a dumpster?"
"Stolen?" Vanko's head snapped up. His hatred for Tony Stark was the only thing stronger than the shock in his system. A bloody, mocking grin spread across his face. "You call me a thief? That is the Stark family specialty, is it not? My father, Anton Vanko... he was the co-creator. He and Howard Stark sat at the same desk, drank the same vodka, and drew the same lines!"
Tony's expression didn't flicker. "My father was a genius. Your father was a footnote."
"He was a genius until he wanted all the glory!" Vanko spat, the words coming out like venom. "Howard Stark used his Washington connections to brand my father a spy. He sent him back to Siberia to rot in a cold room while the Stark name grew fat on the world's praise. That technology belongs to me! It is my birthright!"
"Is that right?" Tony raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely bored. "Jarvis, check the archives. See if 'Anton Vanko' is listed under 'partner' or 'terminated for lack of vision.'"
"Actually, sir," Jarvis whispered, "there is a record of a joint research project in 1963, though the patents remain—"
"I don't care about the patents!" Vanko roared. "I built it in a shack with scrap metal! I matched your power!"
Tony leaned in close, the Arc Reactor in his chest glowing with a brilliant, steady blue light. "That's where you're wrong, Ivan. You didn't match anything. You're playing with 1970s toys. Look at this."
Tony tapped his chest. "You're using palladium. It's heavy, it's toxic, and it has a ceiling. I didn't just iterate on the design; I discovered a new element. Something that doesn't exist in nature. Something your father couldn't have even imagined in his wildest vodka-soaked dreams."
Vanko's eyes went wide. "Impossible. Palladium is the only stable isotope capable of—"
"Only for a mind like yours," Tony interrupted. "You're a clever monkey, Ivan. You can copy. You can even improve. But you can't create. You're stuck in the past, trying to settle a grudge over a drawing while I'm rewriting the periodic table."
To a man like Ivan Vanko, who had sacrificed everything for the belief that he was the rightful heir to the world's greatest technology, this was a fate worse than death. It wasn't just that he had lost the fight; it was the realization that his rival was playing a game he didn't even know existed.
"No... you lie," Vanko whispered, his voice shaking. "A new element? Discovered by a Stark? A thief who plays at being a hero?"
"Watch," Tony said simply. He didn't fire a lethal shot. He adjusted the output of his gauntlet and fired a concentrated laser beam at a nearby drone fragment. The beam was a pure, shimmering violet-blue, vibrating at a frequency that made the air hum. It sliced through the reinforced alloy like a hot knife through butter. "That's the power of the new core. No palladium. No toxicity. Just pure, limitless energy."
Vanko stared at the molten metal, his world-view crumbling in real-time. He had believed Tony was just a lucky thief. Now, he saw the truth: Tony was a god of industry, and Vanko was just a shadow chasing a ghost.
What Vanko didn't know—and what Tony would only realize later—was that the "new element" wasn't just Tony's brilliance. It was a final gift from Howard Stark, hidden in the map of a 1974 Stark Expo. The legacy Vanko hated had actually provided the very tool that broke his spirit.