Chapter 9: The Russian Physicist
The Moscow winter bit through Justin's coat the moment he stepped off the plane.
Frank Morrison walked beside him, alert and silent, scanning the sparse crowd at the private airfield. The security chief had barely spoken during the eight-hour flight, just watched Justin review Vanko's research notes and occasionally asked pointed questions about their destination.
"This physicist," Frank said as they climbed into the waiting car. "The one obsessed with destroying Tony Stark. You really think he'll work with you instead of against him?"
"I'm offering him something better than revenge," Justin replied. "A legacy. Recognition. Everything his father should have had."
"And if he says no?"
"Then at least I tried to stop him before he does something stupid."
Frank grunted. The car pulled away from the airfield, heading into the gray sprawl of Moscow. Justin watched the city pass by—Soviet-era apartment blocks mixing with new construction, a city caught between its past and future.
Like me, he thought. Neither wholly Justin Hammer nor Justin Hammer. Something new built from both.
His phone buzzed. A text from Natasha: Coincidentally in Moscow for SHIELD business. Small world.
Justin smiled. She wasn't even pretending anymore. Let her follow. Let SHIELD watch him turn a potential terrorist into a productive member of society. That was the kind of thing that proved his value.
The car stopped outside a building that looked like it might collapse if someone sneezed too hard. Crumbling concrete. Broken windows boarded up with plywood. The kind of place where desperate people went to hide.
"Wait here," Justin told Frank.
"Sir, that's not—"
"I need to do this alone. He won't trust me if I bring muscle." Justin checked his watch. "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, come get me."
Frank's jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Justin entered the building, climbing stairs that creaked under his weight. The hallway smelled like mold and despair. He found apartment 4B and knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again. "Dr. Vanko? My name is Justin Hammer. We need to talk about your father."
The door opened six inches, revealing a chain lock and half of a face. Dark eyes studied him with the flat, calculating gaze of someone who'd decided life was already over and consequences didn't matter.
"I know you," Vanko said. His English was thickly accented. "Justin Hammer. Arms dealer. Stark's lapdog."
"Was," Justin corrected. "I'm not that man anymore. May I come in?"
Vanko stared at him for a long moment, then unchained the door.
The apartment was a disaster. Newspapers covered the windows. Empty vodka bottles lined the kitchenette. And the living room—the living room was a workshop, filled with salvaged electronics, hand-drawn schematics, and in the center of a makeshift workbench, something that glowed with familiar blue light.
An arc reactor.
Crude. Unstable. But functional.
Justin's Scientific Intuition activated immediately, analyzing the design. Vanko had reverse-engineered Howard Stark's original reactor using stolen blueprints and salvaged parts. The engineering was brilliant, the execution desperate. This was the work of a man with genius-level intellect and poverty-level resources.
"Impressive," Justin said quietly.
Vanko's laugh was bitter. "You mock me."
"I'm being honest. You built an arc reactor from scraps in an apartment that probably doesn't have consistent electricity. That's more impressive than anything Stark Industries has produced in the last decade."
Vanko studied him suspiciously. "Why are you here?"
Justin gestured to the Stark Industries newspaper clippings papering the walls. Photos of Tony. Articles about Iron Man. A map with Monaco circled in red marker. "I know what you're planning. The Monaco Grand Prix. Tony races his car, you attack him with weaponized arc reactor technology. You hurt him, maybe kill him, definitely ruin the race. Then SHIELD or the authorities kill or capture you, and you die a terrorist while Tony Stark becomes a martyred hero."
Vanko's expression didn't change, but his hand moved toward a wrench on the workbench.
Justin continued: "I know about your father. Anton Vanko. Brilliant physicist who partnered with Howard Stark on arc reactor research. Howard stole the credit, had your father deported, left him to die in poverty while the Stark name became synonymous with innovation. Your father deserved better."
"He deserved everything," Vanko said, his voice rough. "Howard Stark was thief. Tony Stark is same. They take and take and take, and men like my father—men like me—we are left with nothing."
"You're right."
Vanko blinked. "What?"
"You're right. Howard Stark stole your father's work. The arc reactor should have had both names on it. Anton Vanko should have died famous and wealthy instead of drunk and forgotten." Justin took a step closer. "But attacking Tony doesn't fix that. It just makes you the villain in someone else's story."
"I don't care about story. I care about justice."
"Justice that lasts thirty seconds before you're dead?" Justin shook his head. "That's not justice. That's suicide with extra steps."
Vanko's knuckles went white on the wrench.
Justin pressed on: "I'm offering you an alternative. Work for me. Full funding. State-of-the-art facilities. Access to materials Tony Stark can only dream about. Build something that doesn't just challenge his reactor—build something that surpasses it. Make your father's name synonymous with innovation that eclipses everything the Starks ever touched."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because I'm not trying to use you. I'm offering partnership. Your work stays your work. Your name goes on every patent. When we unveil what you've built, the world will know Anton Vanko's son proved his father was the true genius."
Vanko was silent, his dark eyes calculating. Justin could see the war happening behind them—rage versus hope, revenge versus legacy, the easy path of destruction versus the hard path of creation.
"And Stark?" Vanko asked finally.
"We'll compete with him. Legitimately. Build better technology. Win contracts he wanted. Beat him in the marketplace instead of at a race track." Justin met his gaze. "And when we've proven ourselves superior, when your father's name is recognized globally, then you can tell Tony Stark to his face that a Vanko accomplished what a Stark never could."
"You want war."
"I want competition. There's a difference." Justin gestured to the arc reactor. "You've already proven you can match Stark's core technology with nothing but scraps and brilliance. Imagine what you could do with proper resources. Imagine your father's name in history books as the man who revolutionized energy, not as a footnote to Howard Stark's legacy."
Vanko set down the wrench slowly. "You talk big. But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"Full access to materials. No secrets about what you're building. I don't trust men who hide things."
Justin's Scientific Intuition was already warning him about the hypocrisy—he was hiding plenty. But Vanko meant corporate secrets, technical limitations. That he could provide.
"Agreed."
"My name on patents. Not buried in fine print. Primary inventor."
"Absolutely."
"And when we move against Stark—" Vanko's eyes hardened. "When we prove superiority—it must be total. Not small victory. Complete domination. He must know he was wrong about everything."
Justin extended his hand. "I can work with that."
Vanko stared at the offered hand. Then, slowly, he reached out and shook it. His grip was strong, calloused from years of manual work.
"When do we start?" Vanko asked.
"Now. Pack what matters. You're coming back to New York tonight."
Natasha watched from a cafe across the street as Justin emerged from the building with Ivan Vanko in tow.
She'd been tracking their movements since they landed—Frank Morrison's rental car was easy to follow, and Justin hadn't bothered being subtle about his destination. SHIELD had a file on Vanko two inches thick, filled with increasingly concerning intelligence about his mental state and weapons development.
The man was a ticking time bomb. Or had been.
She took a photo of them loading bags into the car, then called Fury.
"Report," he said without preamble.
"Hammer just recruited Ivan Vanko."
Silence on the line. Then: "Explain."
"Vanko let him into his apartment. They talked for forty minutes. Vanko is now voluntarily leaving with Hammer, bringing his arc reactor prototypes. No coercion visible. No threats. This looks like genuine recruitment."
"Vanko is planning to attack Stark."
"Was planning," Natasha corrected. "Present tense suggests he's changed his mind. Hammer must have offered him something better than revenge."
"Or offered him a better way to attack Stark."
"Possible." Natasha watched the car pull away. "But my assessment is different. Hammer treated this like a job interview, not a manipulation. He spent an hour on the plane reviewing Vanko's published research. He came alone, no security visible in the meeting. And Vanko's body language when they exited suggested relief, not coercion."
"You're defending him."
"I'm reporting what I observed." Natasha's voice stayed professional despite the accusation. "Hammer is either the most patient long-con in history, or he's genuinely trying to prevent disasters by offering alternatives. Either way, if he keeps Vanko productive instead of destructive, that's a net positive for global security."
Fury was quiet for a moment. "Continue monitoring. But Romanoff? Don't let this guy get into your head. Empathy is useful. Attachment is dangerous."
"Understood, sir."
She ended the call and stared at the empty street where Justin's car had been.
He prevented a terrorist attack before it happened, she thought. Not by force. Not by exposure. Just by offering a broken man something better than his worst impulses.
That wasn't the Justin Hammer from the files. That wasn't the incompetent arms dealer who'd spent years chasing Stark's shadow.
That was someone else entirely.
Someone she was starting to respect despite her professional detachment.
"Damn it," she muttered.
Because attachment was dangerous. And she was definitely getting attached.
On the flight back, Justin sat across from Ivan Vanko while the physicist examined a sample of Prometheus Steel.
"This alloy," Vanko said. "It's not in any materials database. Where did you source it?"
"I made it."
Vanko looked up sharply. "Made it? You mean synthesized?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Explain."
Justin hesitated. His transmutation abilities were his deepest secret—revealing them would open questions he couldn't answer. But Vanko deserved some truth if they were going to work together.
"I have methods," Justin said carefully. "Unusual methods. They produce materials with properties conventional manufacturing can't achieve. That's all I can tell you right now."
Vanko's eyes narrowed. "You expect trust but give no trust."
"I expect partnership. Trust comes with time." Justin met his gaze. "I'm offering you resources to build your father's legacy. You'll have everything you need to create revolutionary technology. The methods behind some of those resources—that's my secret to keep."
"For now."
"For now," Justin agreed.
Vanko grunted and returned to examining the steel. "It's good material. Very good. With this and proper arc reactor design, could build suit that makes Stark's look like toy."
"That's exactly what I'm hoping for."
Frank Morrison leaned over from his seat. "Boss, you sure bringing a guy obsessed with Stark into our organization is smart?"
Justin smiled. "Frank, I'm building a team of people with grudges, traumas, and dangerous capabilities. Vanko fits right in. Besides, everyone deserves a chance to be more than their worst moment."
Frank shook his head but didn't argue further.
Justin looked out the window at clouds passing below. In the original timeline, Ivan Vanko would attack Tony at Monaco in a few months. Would nearly kill him. Would then partner with the original Hammer in a desperate alliance that ended in disaster.
But Justin had just rewritten that future. Vanko was coming to work for him willingly, with his genius intact and his revenge redirected toward productive competition.
One potential disaster prevented before it could begin.
The void marks on his arms pulsed faintly, reminding him of the price he paid for every victory. But this one—this one felt worth it.
He'd given a broken man hope. And maybe, just maybe, saved both their souls in the process.
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