"I trust no one, not even myself."

- Joseph Stalin

media:

"The Dark Night"

by Mark Bernes

November 24, 1942; Vienna, Austria

A brisk breeze cut through the Ringstrasse, and Tony tightened his coat around his shoulders as he perched on a bench across from Vienna's city hall. From above the slender roofs of the street stretched the steeple of St. Stephen's Cathedral, juxtaposed against the boxy anti-aircraft flak towers. Spindly Viennese airships patrolled the skies – the city had been attacked recently by a squadron of Soviet bombers and was on high alert – but they were obviously of Austrian make. The gentle curves and weak supports were meant for aesthetic appeal, not warfare, and they didn't have the bulky physique of German ships.

He was surprised to see the airships didn't bear the ever-present swastika that seemed to stifle every available wall space in Vienna. Massive posters of Adolph Hitler bridged street corners, and scarlet flags dangled from windows like so many drooping flowers. Perhaps if he were in the airship, drifting above the skies, he could imagine the city streets without the Nazi flags. They looked horribly garish and modern against the curving medieval stone of Vienna, and only marred the natural beauty of the Ringstrasse.

The Nazis were certainly proponents of propaganda, but their science divisions were equally invested. They were among the many who had reached out to Tony after the international news sensation of the flying man, and he had responded to their interest cheerfully. But he had not traveled all the way to Austria to meet the Nazis.

Dmitry Vasiliev was the contact that most intrigued him. Despite all of Tony's and Jarvis' research, he couldn't find anything on the man except for his questionable track record. Vasiliev was a cheese merchant, which was not a very high-brow job to occupy, except that he resided near a tsarist resort on the Crimean Peninsula and lived as lavish a lifestyle as a king. The Russian had a curious history of appearing in a town, selling his wares and extending his network for a few days, and then leaving a day or so before the discovery of a dead government official. The supposed culprits were always caught, and Vasiliev moved on to his next target.

The connection was so subtle Tony almost missed it the first time he studied the documents. A benefit of not associating with Steve and Clint anymore was that Tony didn't have to suffer through their plodding thought processes; he had no doubt they would have missed such an imperceptible link. Vasiliev was very well known wherever he went, but he was careful to make sure his realm of interaction and that of his targets never overlapped. It's gratifying to meet another genius to spar with, Tony thought as he brushed away the remains of his lunch from the bench with the end of his newspaper.

The Russian was not a low-profile man. This Tony could see from his approach in an expensive American fur coat, a tan hat pulled fashionably low over one brow like a movie star. Pristine leather shoes ascended the marble stairs to where Tony reclined, and a cream-colored overcoat brushed against the wood as Vasiliev took a seat. He was ready for business in an instant, glancing at the paper beside Tony with casual disinterest.

"Nasty weather, isn't it?" Tony began, and Vasiliev tilted his head to the side as a stiff breeze ruffled his overcoat.

"You must be cold. A young man alone the streets of Vienna... Too young to enlist, I assume?" His accent was sharp, with the slightest bite of Russian consonants the only flaw in his English. Back straight, eyes as steely and cold as the sky.

Tony's cheeks flushed with a flash of anger. Did everything have to be about the damn war? "You know why I'm here. I don't expect a merchant such as yourself to understand the importance of my work, but –"

"I understand in great detail the various plans my contact has interest in. I understand the function of the thrusters you equipped into your flying suit, which intrigues my contact most of all. I can also have any of the people in this courtyard kill you at any moment. How about him? Or him?" Vasiliev pointed to a collection of Hitler Youth boys standing near the city hall. "So do not for a moment coddle me, thinking you are smarter than me. I can assure you, you are not, and if you even dare to assume that you are I will have you slain brutally on these streets. Shall we proceed?"

Tony's expression was unfazed, but his heart pounded as he forced his eyes to remain on Vasiliev and not the multitude of people who could be his killers by the end of the day. "Are you willing to buy?"

How very unlike Dasch. No mind games, no backhanded strategies, just business. With a few death threats thrown in to spice things up, of course. "My contact is a government man. He would like to purchase the rights to a variety of your designs. I have the list here." From the leather-lined interior of the Russian's pocket came a folded slip of paper. Tony's eyes scanned the neat, small print, a list that went on and on until his heart was throbbing against his ribs with excitement. He would be richer than Vasiliev if this deal went through.

His only qualm was that whoever Vasiliev's contact was had requested a great deal of his technology. If he were to sell everything on the list, he would have slim pickings if he wanted to advertise his services in Germany or Japan. But did it matter? Tony would be paid handsomely, and he could use the funds to create more weapons for new countries until they blew themselves to bits and he was fabulously wealthy.

"There is one stipulation," Vasiliev added, carefully pulling the list from Tony's fingers. "My contact will only go through with the exchange if I can see a demonstration of your suit in action."

Tony laughed, sounding hollow against the howling wind. "My what, sorry?"

"Do not attempt to fool me, Tony Stark. It will not work." The Russian noted, a cold smile on his face.

"I-I didn't bring it with me," Tony hedged, and Vasiliev's smile hardened to a deep scowl.

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to lie to me."

Standing briskly, Tony crossed his arms and glowered down at the man seated below him. "This is ridiculous. I am rescinding my consent for this exchange. Have a good day." The last sentence was infused with as much anger as he could manage, to make expressly clear that he hoped Vasiliev had a perfectly rotten day, and he was about to pull off a flouncing, dramatic exit when the Russian towered over him.

"You will not. You are talented, but your ego damages your chances for real success, seeing as you are willing to bargain off your designs for a fraction of their worth. It is this ego that lets me know this transaction will continue. Your designs are dated back a year or so, are they not? A successful and enterprising child like yourself, you would surely try to sell them to other powers before coming to me. America? Italy? They all turned you down, I assume.

"You're desperate, not because you need the money, but because your pride demands you need to have made something of your wartime work and soon. I believe the suit is something you've kept for yourself, but it was also the key to projecting yourself to the scientific field of interest. You are reluctant to sell it, or reveal any secrets about it, but you are willing to in order to feed your selfish instinct. Do you think I am an idiot? Sit down."

Tony sat. "Um, is it true what you were saying about me selling for a fraction of the price? Because I'm very willing to negotiate."

"The suit, or I'll tell my contact your original price. I am sure we can come to a reasonable conclusion." Vasiliev folded his hands in his lap, watching Tony expectantly. A gust of wind whipped past the two like knives, the bitter cold ruffing Vasiliev's overcoat and sweeping Tony's hair into his face. He stifled the urge to shudder and lifted his chin.

"I'm walking away. Thanks to you, I'll be selling my designs for much more now," Tony smirked, but his confident expression faded when he heard the Russian's laughter. It was a low, throaty laugh, like Tony had genuinely amused him, which was even more frightening.

"If you haven't sold the designs yet at dirt-cheap prices, you think anyone will buy when you increase them? Admit it. I am your best and only option."

Tony scrambled for any possible alternative, any other way around the Russian's cruel and cutting logic, but he was helpless before Vasiliev's calculating stare. Only a master could have orchestrated such a complex web of deception, and it occurred to Tony that he was Vasiliev's next victim. He wouldn't end up stiff in an alley, but he might as well have been, trapped in a deal with the scum of the earth who could manipulate him like a puppet. Despair filled him, replaced in an instant with simmering anger.

Nobody played Tony Stark for a fool and got away with it.

"You are searching for any other ways out. There are none. If you let me see the suit in action, my contact will buy for four times the previous price. Then we will be finished here. Do we have a deal?"

"Five times." Tony stuck out his hand, having half the mind to spit on it, but before he could Vasiliev extended his hand and shook.

"I eagerly await the demonstration."

"I'll bet you do," Tony muttered, turning away from the bench and hurrying down the steps. He wove his way through the crowds rushing to escape the bitter chill, darting behind the carefully sculpted bushes that formed the gardens leading up to the city hall. The pack of Hitler Youth boys crowded in front of the bush where his suitcase was stashed, and he thrust his hand into the foliage while their masses disguised his actions. A sea of khaki whirled behind him as he grasped to cool handle the case, then strode forward up the steps of the city hall looking every inch a proper, if somewhat young, businessman.

Ducking into the main entrance of the building, Tony scanned the windows and sweeping architecture of the foyer. He was certain Vasiliev was tailing him somehow, or maybe it was his sudden paranoia from the Russian's scathing analysis of his character that was putting him on edge. Never before had he been so exposed before. The Stark family was one great facade, and Vasiliev had taken a hammer to that carefully structured front.

He took to the stairs immediately, feet pounding against the stone and lush red carpet that stretched across the center of the rising steps. Fatigue was the last thing on his mind as he took the stairs two at a time, yearning to reach the roof and strap into the suit. When he was in the suit he was free, he was in control, and no one could touch him as he rocketed through the air. Tony felt the desire to fly stab at him like a physical wound, and in minutes he burst through the door onto the roof. Dragging in a deep breath of air, Tony unlatched the suitcase and keyed in a command into the back of the headpiece. Green lights flickered on as the other parts came to life, but Tony selected a small earpiece from the velvet interior of the case.

"How are we doing, Jarvis?" he called, and the faint hum of static sounded from the earpiece as his artificial intelligence system came through.

"I'm having to piggyback on radio signals, sir. I hope the Austrians like to dance to binary code." Jarvis responded testily. International expeditions always made him nervous for Tony's safety - he cared more about Tony than Tony did.

"C'mon, we've got a Russian to upstage. Send the parts on up."

The hiss of hydraulics sounded from the briefcase as the smallest segments of the suit rose on spiraling pillars. Metal pipes released bursts of steam as they elevated from their carrying case and fitted around Tony's knees and elbows. The larger segments came next, including the plates surrounding his legs, arms, and chest. Crimson blurs surrounded him and fitted into place, each joint snapping cleanly into the other with the flexibility and lithe strength that Tony had shaped himself. The thrusters spun like drills against his heels and hands, powerful fuel cells resting against his calves and forearms.

The final piece was the face mask, which Tony applied himself. It clicked into place and illuminated with lightbulbs and holographic displays Jarvis superimposed on his vision. A map of the Ringstrasse minimized against the glass of his vision slats, along with the weather and a calendar, for some reason. Tony dismissed the popup with a wave of his hand.

Flexing his toes inside the metal boots, Tony ran for the edge of the roof and leaped to the sky. The thrusters fired immediately in full force, propelling him forward into the air as the world accelerated to a blur before him. The rush of adrenaline left Tony's stomach hundreds of feet beneath him. The ancient streets of Vienna stretched on for miles, dappled by the rays of sunlight that fought through the dull clouds. From his vantage point Tony could make out the troop movements along the major streets, waves of brown-shirted Hitler Youth and ordinary Austrians trying to scrape by with lowered heads.

The benefit of flying in occupied territory was that no one looked up.

He was wary of staying in one place for too long – even though Austria had been thrown flat on its back when Germany invaded, those anti-aircraft towers looked like they could still pack a punch – so Tony's heels skimmed the slate-gray clouds as he pushed the suit higher into the air. The frigid temperature chilled him to the bone, but the pure elation of being in the suit surpassed and material discomfort.

Looping through the air with a lazy turn and somersault, Tony descended so that Vasiliev would be able to see the maneuverability of his craft. The hand stabilizers performed perfectly, reacting and adjusting to his every motion to ensure a level flight. Jarvis' contributions continued to give him a readout on his location, speed, and altitude, the latter of which were reaching dizzying levels. As soon as he felt he could climb no higher, Tony cut the controls and allowed himself to free-fall through the autumn wind. The world spun through his helmet, flashes of streets and buildings and patches of green swirling before him like a painting.

Cutting his fall, Tony kicked off the side of a brick building and rocketed back to the park. A whir of warning from Jarvis alerted him that he was traveling too fast, but he was too excited to care. The world dissolved into one sonic blur, and he was unstoppable as he sliced through the crashing waves of wind like a bullet.

A shot split through the air, jolting Tony to a halt as his automatic protocols leaped into action. A red blaze of light flashed beneath his visor, and his speed was slashed as energy was diverted to assess the trail of any projectiles. The map of the Ringstrasse bloomed into three dimensions and the trails of bullets traced themselves along holographic lines. Those air towers are firing back!

Tony was sure he had given a few Austrian soldiers the shock of their lives, and their lousy shooting was indicative of surprise or simply lackluster training. Unwilling to give up his moment of freedom, Tony dropped from the sky and landed in the midst of a dense group of trees. No more shots fired above his head, and the sounds of the city overwhelmed the pounding of Tony's heartbeat once again.

When he returned the suit to its container and emerged from the trees, Vasiliev had left a note behind him. Three words stood bold on the back of a creamy business card: A done deal.

Tony took the card and crumpled it between his fingers. The thrill of the flight was beginning to wear off, and Vasiliev's words began to echo in his ears again. The Russian had humiliated him, treating Tony like a child. Like a fool. Tony was nobody's fool, certainly not some Russian cheese merchant's. His pulse throbbed against the thick paper balled in his fist.

If Vasiliev had planned to crush his spirit, he had failed. Tony had never been more determined about anything in his life. He would prove Vasiliev wrong. He wouldn't play along with the Russian's little game. Tony was not a child. With his wits and his suit and the world before him, Tony was untouchable.

Vasiliev was going to learn that the hard way.

(Russian spies, secret plots... What are you thoughts so far?)