"History knows no greater display of courage

than that shown by the people of the Soviet Union."

- Henry L. Stimson, U.S. Secretary of War

media:

"Mack the Knife"

by Bobby Darin

Berlin, Germany; May 9, 1943

Vasiliev's first mistake was leaving the door open.

Upon arriving, the Russian had most likely noticed the papers and files strewn across the vintage Chippendale furniture, each document connecting to another one of his crimes. Tony had studied Vasiliev incessantly for the past two weeks. It took him a night to master nuclear physics, so by the time Tony happened upon his hotel room door yawning wide open, he could have masqueraded as Vasiliev and played the role to perfection.

He delved into every quirk, every personality trait. Interviews, phone calls, records upon records. Documents from Japan and Argentina, each stamped with the familiar name of Vasiliev or one of his many aliases, which Tony had committed to memory in minutes. Every scrap of information he could muster on the Russian was piled up on the hotel furniture.

To defeat one's enemy one must know him. Tony thought this seemed like a generally sound rule of thumb, so he had spent every spare minute poring over classified documents and programming Jarvis to tap into outbound Russian radio feeds. The case file of Vasiliev was massive, Tony's confidence even more so. The mystery assassin was more familiar to Tony than his own father, and he was confident he could strike the Russian down during their next encounter.

Tony had dived into every murder case file with vigor. Vasiliev's modus operandi was devastatingly simple: a blade to the heart, a gunshot fired at point-blank, always in close combat and always instantly fatal. In typical Russian fashion, Vasiliev didn't beat around the bush. He struck for the heart. And he never missed.

As much as he hated to admit it, Tony saw some of himself in the Russian assassin. Both were geniuses in their own craft, tossed around by their governments and thrown by the wayside. Vasiliev had made a mockery of Tony's weakness, and Tony had learned from his mistakes. He had swallowed his pride for the past two weeks while learning how to inflame his enemy's. My, how the tables have turned.

So when Tony saw the door to his hotel room open he was ready. Gathering his files to his chest, he pressed his shoulder against the door to fully open it and peered into the semi-darkness. Seams of light drifted through breaks in the shuttered windows, mapping a pattern of lines against the wallpaper to Tony's right.

His fingers flexed at his side, activating the four sensors implanted between his knuckles. The small devices had stung like hell when he put them in, but they would serve their purpose when Vasiliev showed himself. Another admittance of inferiority Tony had had to shoulder was his lesser strength compared to the assassin. The Russian made a name for himself through his combat skills and excellence in the art of killing. Tony had robots for that sort of thing. Not exactly an even fight.

The different parts of his suit were hidden in clever nooks and crannies throughout the hotel room. The hands were stowed in the chandelier in the entrance hall danging above Tony's head. He called one down with the tug of his right fist, and the hiss of fuel ignited in the heavy silence. Metal clasped onto his fingers, dancing over his knuckles before folding outward across his palm. The interlocking parts snapped together in oiled synchronicity, fitting Tony's hand like a glove. The thruster warmed against his palm, a flicker of comfort in the darkness and fear that surrounded him.

Tony had read all of Vasiliev's case files, and never had his victim emerged alive.

I've been the first to do a lot of things, he reassured himself with a smirk. Let's set another record today.

Leaning onto a rickety floorboard, Tony activated a pressure panel he had installed days ago that swiveled the floor away and brought the calf-high boot of the suit spiraling up to activation. The frame of the boot snapped evenly around his dress shoes, tracing the leather shape with its flexible aluminum structure. Segments of the upper portion of the boot spread from the twin support struts, wrinkling his freshly pressed pant leg.

"You'd better pay for my dry cleaning after this," Tony called, and a light on the coffee table snapped on in response. Vasiliev sat on the couch with legs crossed, leafing through one of the multitude of files available like he was reading the Saturday Evening Post.

"Very interesting. You've been doing your homework, like the proper schoolboy you are." The Russian smiled, tipping the file in Tony's direction like a toast. The insult was dismissed before Tony could even process its sting. Trying to nail me for my ego again? How stupid do you think I am?

"Let us get down to business, then. You are dealing with the Nazis now. My contacts have problems with such an arrangement."

"The Germans," Tony corrected, "And I'm a free radical. I can deal with whoever I want, no matter how badly your feelings get hurt."

Vasiliev's expression darkened. Tony realized he was about to stop playing with his food and go for the first strike. His eyes glanced across the table, which was a hopelessly disorganized explosion of paper that could easily conceal a weapon. Why didn't he think of that before?

Can't change that now. Stay on your toes, stay ahead of him!

"I made a deal with you, Stark. I hiked up the price not because I wanted to swindle my contacts, but because I felt sorry for you. You were like a little lost puppy, about to be eaten alive by the capitalist swines they call the Nazis and the Japanese. And then you go back on our mutual contract?

"Your weapons have wreaked havoc on Russian towns. My fellow comrades have been slaughtered by your mechanical monstrosities while the Russian government lines your pockets with American dollars. This cannot continue."

"Oh, really? How so? I haven't seen a penny." Tony pressed his shoulder against the doorframe leading into the living room, concealing his armored hand behind his back and his boot behind his other leg. The darkness that had shrouded Vasiliev was now doing him the real favors.

"You will default on your connections with the Nazis and continue to service the Soviet Union, or you will not continue. Do I make myself clear?"

Shaking his head, Tony managed a solid impression of a confident laugh. "The Germans are paying me more. They're not blackmailing me into forking over my life's work, and they're actually using my designs. Can't say the same for you, compadre. Tell me again why I should stop dealing with them?"

Tony's eyes followed the trail of the knife from Vasiliev's sleeve to its wobbling position buried hilt-deep in the doorjamb beside him. The blade slammed into the wood and hung there, trembling, with the sharp end pressed against the skin of his neck. A prickling pain raced across his throat, and a thin trail of blood dripped onto his collar. "That was a warning. My next strike won't be off target."

Cameras positioned in the corners of the room had traced the knife's path, analyzing the Russian's pattern of motion and style to add to the algorithm Tony had coded into the suit's self-defense program. Jarvis' signal, a slight buzzing against Tony's wrist, indicated that the motion had been added to the database. Once he had Vasiliev's fighting style mapped, Tony would be unstoppable. If he lived long enough to find out, that was.

"I'm sorry, Vasiliev, but the Germans do better business, but you wouldn't know about business, would you?" Tony spat, grin widening as Vasiliev's eyebrows drew closer. "Yeah, I know you hate having to work under those government buffoons. You're used to bullying people to get what you want, and now you can't throw your weight around. Joke's on you, because that's how I work too, and I can do whatever the hell I want. Does it burn?"

"You shut your mouth before I cut your tongue out," Vasiliev growled, rising to his feet in a single lithe motion. A second blade slid into his palm, and he fingered the weapon with practiced confidence. Little did he know that Tony was just as well-equipped.

The blade sliced through the air, a sliver of silver dancing through the slats of light on its deadly arc toward Tony's chest, but his hand leaped up to catch the knife in midair. His metal-sheathed fight tightened, crumpling the steel between his fingers, and he released his fist to drop the useless hunk of metal to the tastefully patterned carpet. Vasiliev's eyes widened for a moment, exposing his emotions for the briefest of seconds before his eyes hardened.

"So, I finally get a real demonstration. Come out and play, little mouse."

Tony lunged forward and kicked his booted foot down on the coffee table, firing the guidance thrusters in reverse to give him extra power. The table snapped up and clipped Vasiliev on the chin, forcing him back onto the couch as he clutched his bruised jaw. The Russian recovered more quickly than Tony had expected, pivoting and scissoring a leg out in a kick. Tony's knee buckled as the boot of Vasiliev's shoe punched his leg forward, and another kick to his head sent him sprawling against the decorative china cabinet. Shards of plates and cups rained down on his shoulders, and Tony shook his head in an attempt to get his eyes to focus. The hotel room spun in lazy circles around him, swimming and wavering before his clouded mind.

"I expected more from you! Tony Stark, armed with his most fabulous weaponry, taken down by a single kick!" Vasiliev taunted, but Tony tuned out his jabs and leaped to his feet. He clenched his left fist, sending the second metal glove flying in from the entryway. The cool metal surrounded his hand in moments, and the Russian eyed the new arrival with admiration. "You really would have done so well with me, young Stark."

Long legs waltzed over the ruined coffee table, but Tony was ready when Vasiliev's punch came like a freight train for his eye. His forearms crossed, blocking the oncoming fist with both guarded hands, and Vasiliev howled with pain as each of his knuckles split along the bone. Tony kicked out with his unguarded foot, which the Russian deftly caught with his uninjured hand. He yanked upward on Tony's ankle, flipping him over his shoulder and smashing him down with his face pressed into the carpet. The paintings on the wall trembled from the impact.

"I'm gonna have to explain this to housekeeping," Tony groaned, forcing himself up on his elbows. Behind him Vasiliev shook out his hand, blood streaming down his wrist and caking his sleeve. His scarlet fingers reached into his jacket, pulling out the sleek black handle of a switchblade.

Spinning on his knee, Tony turned and stood. He flexed his index finger, and the shoulder piece from the suit disengaged from its position on top of the armoire and snapped into position. The metal extended down over part of his arm, and not a moment too soon. Vasiliev's switchblade glanced off of the metal guarding, a strategic jab toward his chest that Tony deflected by thrusting his shoulder forward and turning into the face of the attack. Tony lifted his leg and fired his thruster, scorching the length of Vasiliev's leg before kicking him in the stomach.

To his credit, the Russian merely staggered away. His arms hung loose at his sides but his body was coiled like a spring, eyes flickering around the room to assess every aspect of the fight. Tony's programming was coming in handy, as was his research – Vasiliev hadn't done anything other than what Tony had expected him to.

"You are deluding yourself if you think you can win this fight." Vasiliev scoffed, feigning right and forcing his blade where Tony's unprotected body had stood moments ago. Tony took to the air, launching all of his thrusters and soaring above the low blow.

"Really? And to think I was doing pretty well." Tony beamed, his head grazing the ceiling. Leaping up on one foot, Vasiliev scissored his other leg around in a lightning-quick blow that Tony fully anticipated, bringing his arms down over the extended limb as he somersaulted over the Russian's body. Twisting away, Vasiliev managed to avoid the blow and planted his heel into Tony's back, sending him crashing into the ruins of the china cabinet again. Fragments of glass pressed into his shoulders and chest, drawing pinpricks of blood that bloomed across his dress shirt when he wheeled to face the assassin again.

Tony ducked beneath a high kick and fired his left-hand thruster into Vasiliev's chest, flipping the man back into the entryway of the hall. He called the right shoulder piece and the right side of the shield's chestplate from their places in hiding in the dresser, the snug-fitting metal pressing uncomfortably against his bleeding wounds, but he pressed forward and leveled his arm at Vasiliev to fire another shot. The Russian reacted too quickly for the wounds he had incurred to allow, lunging beneath Tony's outstretched hand and forcing his fist into Tony's unprotected side with three unforgiving jabs. Tony heard something snap as a dizzying wave of pain rushed over him and spun him senseless, the suit drifting to the side as its pilot fought for consciousness. A leering smile wavered before his face, and Tony's left foot thruster sputtered out. He landed on the couch as the right thruster gave a shudder of defeat, arms slumped motionless to the side as fiery agony ravaged his body.

"Did you really think it wouldn't end this way? I was going to kill you regardless. It was only a matter of when. I expected the boy genius to put, as you Americans say it, two and two together. It didn't tip you off when an assassin officiated the exchange?"

Tony's woozy mind could hardly focus on the words. Vasiliev was panting, his labored breaths rasping in the silence the pause in the fight had wrought. Some sort of savage pleasure before I die in disgrace.

"Then again, this is the child who travels the world with murderers. What was I to expect?"

"What are you talking about?" Tony groaned, his head lolling back. A red fog had crept across his vision, and something warm and damp was dripping into his eyes. He would raise a hand to wipe it away, but the slightest motion set his broken body on fire.

"You didn't know?" Vasiliev snickered. He hobbled forward, favoring the leg Tony hadn't charred with his thrusters. "I would advise you to take a closer look at your friends, young Stark. They aren't who they appear to be."

"I thought you were going to kill me. You chicken or something?"

Dipping his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, Vasiliev drew a snub-nosed pistol and pointed the barrel at Tony's chest. His grip was firm despite his wounds, and the world seemed to bend and stretch around the dark hole of the barrel. "Not chicken, boy. Just waiting for the right opportunity."

"Yeah, me too," Tony growled, and he pulled both of his fists back, the gesture to call all of his gear at once. The hotel room was filled with a hellacious buzzing of machinery as an arm girder rocketed over Vasiliev's shoulder. The left chestplate struck the Russian in the back, forcing him to stumble forward. Tony dragged his arm to the side to guide the heaviest instrument, the thigh guard, into the back of Vasiliev's head.

The Russian crumpled over the coffee table with a wet crunch, his breath faintly wheezing beneath the clatter of the pistol as it rattled on the wooden floor. With no small amount of help from the suit's propulsion abilities, Tony stood and staggered until he stood above the gun. Its molded grip fit smoothly between his shaking fingers, and he leveled the end toward Vasiliev's bleeding head.

An inkling of doubt slithered forward in his mind, staying his hand for the briefest of moments. Could he really kill someone lying defenseless before him? Wouldn't Vasiliev be important for the information he could provide?

Forcing these thoughts aside, Tony drew in a painful breath and squeezed the trigger.

A bang like a cannon thundered, and Tony closed his eyes to look away from the mutilated body lying dead before him. The visor of the suit illuminated his view with all of Jarvis' tools and applications, but Tony waved them away as he limped for the door of the hotel. He didn't bother to pack any of his things – he just needed to get out.

"Jarvis, check me out, will you? Housekeeping will have an aneurysm when they see this."

"Consider it done, sir. Where shall I book your next residence?"

Casting one last look over his shoulder, Tony grimaced at the sight of Vasiliev fallen across the table. "Anywhere but here, Jarvis. Anywhere but here."

(What are your thoughts so far? I appreciate all of your reviews more than I can say!)

(P.S.: the music for today is "Mack the Knife" which originally premiered in the German satire play 'The Threepenny Opera,' in 1928 and reached major popularity with Bobby Darin's recording in 1956, which I chose for the selection. Not actually from the era, but still a great hit!)