Date: 23/04/2009
Location: Somewhere in Moscow
In a shabby looking room, old photos and newspapers from over the past few years were stuck in different places. Some covered cracked plaster or growing mold, others were drawn over with the words like 'liar' or 'thief' in dark ink, with the eyes of a specific man in said photos exed out.
If you were to look into one of the back rooms, you'd see an elderly man , hair grayer than the snow storm raging outside as his eyes stared hatefully at the ongoing news on a small box television. Russian subtitles translating every word the speaker says.
" Yes, I know that it's confusing. It is one thing to question the official story and another thing entirely to make wild accusations, or insinuate that I'm a superhero."
The figure on the screen spoke fluidly, with a confidence that most would think smug. He stood at a podium , dark hair slicked back and a perfectly cut beard that gave his already smug expression a cocky effect.
"I mean, let's face it, I'm not the heroic type."
The elderly man's breathing grew heavier, knuckles gripping the sheet till they turned white. His wheezing increases as he works himself up, alerting his caretaker in the other room to his increasing agitation .
Said man enters, a bowl of soup in hand as he tries and fails to calm the old man down .
"That should have been you."
His agitation only worsened his condition, his face turning a pale white as his caretaker shakes the man out of his stupor.
"Don't listen to that crap." he urges, but the old man's awareness was elsewhere.
"I'm sorry." he apologized, a shaky hand reaching over for his caretaker's arm.
"Stop it!" he yelled , shaking the man once more, panic creeping in as he realizes what was inevitably going to happen.
"I'm sorry, Ivan" a look of clarity crossed his face as his eyes turned from the television to his caretaker, his son.
" A laundry list of character defects, all the mistakes I've made, largely public."
The program playing in the background only deepened the resentment of the caretaker.
The old man coughs, dry enough to make a lung deteriorate .
"All I can give you," his voice weakened , eyes clouding up with tears, "is my knowledge, Vanya."
The caretaker, no, Ivan stared at the old man, his lifeless form stiffening as the minutes passed by and began to sob. The noise was heartbreaking as it grew into a wail and the broadcast kept rolling, ignorant to his grief.
"The truth is… I am Iron Man."
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Date: 25/04/2009
Ivan hadn't really moved since the body was taken. At most, he'd open a cabinet and set a glass down to fill with whatever cheap vodka they had left. He hadn't gone out much, only when needed and that too was rare cause he'd rather skip meals than deal with the reality of his father's death.
Taking another swig of his cheaper than dirt vodka, he sighed looking around at the old boxes he'd dug up looking for a proper photo for the funeral.
It felt pointless. His father was already marked a deserter, stained by dishonor when he was taken by those Americans, it was only made worse when he was deported back to Russia . No one but him would ever want to remember what he sacrificed for this decrepit country.
He should burn all of them. Maybe that would finally put that past away. He got up to do just that but of course the box was basically flakes from water damage.
"Дерьмовая, никчемная коробка." he cursed as all the papers, miscellaneous sketches and random models fell to the floor .
Sighing, he bent over to pick up the mess of watermarked paper and stopped over one particular blue dyed one. The drawing was familiar, like he'd seen it recently. He took it out and examined it under a nearby lamp. At the very bottom corner had a Stark Industries' logo and below it, two names "Creator: Howard Stark and Anton Vanko."
"Ha…ha ha." The laughter grew violent as he now knew what he had , what he should do. He might not get his father's honor back, but he can surely make the Starks pay. For profiting off him, for succeeding while they rot away in this shack. This frozen waste land. He pushed aside everything on the kitchen table and flattened out the blue print.
First , he'd need to make it smaller and better than that toy suit Stark made. He could do that, it wasn't as hard as it seemed , he just needed a few things and he had contacts for that. A favor was all he needed and it would be glorious. He grabbed a pencil and started to sketch. The beginning of what would be the end of those damn Starks.