Lucas knew what was coming. In just a few minutes, that hulking Russian would walk straight onto the track near the finish line and start tearing cars apart. So after one exhilarating lap, he gradually eased off the accelerator, letting several racers overtake him.
He'd already had his dose of Fast & Furious—and he had to admit, F1 really lived up to the hype. The thrill of controlling a top-tier machine at insane speeds was unlike anything else. That moment when man and machine became one, the world blurred, and nothing existed except the rush forward—it was indescribable.
As Lucas's car approached the finish line, chaos erupted. A massive man in an orange maintenance jumpsuit stepped over the barrier and strode onto the track—Ivan Vanko, better known as Whiplash.
The crowd gasped in horror. A man appearing on an active F1 track? That was a death sentence waiting to happen.
Zzzzzt!
The giant ripped off his shirt, revealing a crude but glowing arc reactor embedded in his chest. With a flex of his arms, two high-voltage electric whips snapped into place with a sizzling crack!
BOOM!
He lashed out at the nearest car. The electrified whips sliced through metal like paper, splitting the vehicle—and its driver—in half. The car exploded in a fireball, debris scattering across the track.
Screams filled the stands. Some spectators ran, but most—true to the modern disease of "entertainment above all"—pulled out their phones to record the carnage. Saving lives or calling for help wasn't their instinct. No, what mattered most was the views, the likes, the clicks. To them, a viral video was worth more than a human life.
"TONY STARK!" the Russian roared, his voice booming through the chaos. "I know you're here, you thief! Come out and face me!"
He swung his electrified whips again, each strike detonating another car in a storm of sparks and fire.
Tony's car rounded the bend and screeched to a halt right in front of the raging giant.
"Who the hell are you? And how do you have an arc reactor?" Tony demanded, eyes narrowing at the crude device glowing on the man's chest. The tech was rough—but real. Had someone stolen his blueprints?
"Hahaha! Tony Stark, the world's beloved genius, the pioneer of modern technology—just a filthy thief in reality!"
Ivan cracked the whip toward him.
Tony dove aside, rolling across the asphalt just in time to avoid being cleaved in half. His car wasn't so lucky—the whips cut it neatly down the middle.
"Do you have any idea how much that car cost?" Tony snapped as he scrambled to his feet. "I mean, I don't care, but I'll still have my lawyer send you a letter just for fun."
He was already speaking into his comms. "Happy! I need the suitcase! Now!"
"Come, send your lawyer!" Ivan mocked, twirling his whips. Then he struck again, forcing Tony to sprint across the track—straight toward Lucas.
"Hey, buddy," Tony panted, ducking behind him, "you're not just gonna stand there and watch, right?"
Lucas glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. "Really? Using me as a shield? You do realize you're about to lose your best friend."
"Details, details," Tony waved him off. "You're my bodyguard right now, remember? Just stall him until my suit gets here. I'll handle the rest."
Lucas sighed. "Fine. I'll play with him for a bit."
He strolled toward Ivan, unhurried, not even bothering to summon his weapon.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Ivan sneered, electricity crackling around him. "Tony Stark's little errand boy?"
"Errand boy? You're the errand boy! Your whole family are errand boys!" Lucas snapped, instantly triggered. "I'm a shareholder at Stark Industries, thank you very much!"
A spark of violet lightning flashed in his hand.
CRACK!
A bolt of lightning exploded from his palm, blasting Ivan off his feet and sending him skidding across the track.
Bzzzt!
The sound of crackling electricity filled the air. Then Lucas realized, to his horror, that Ivan's arc reactor was glowing even brighter.
"Oh, for—dammit! I just charged the guy up!" Lucas cursed aloud. "I'm out here playing power bank for free!"
Just like Thor accidentally recharging Tony's armor in another universe, Lucas's lightning had juiced Ivan's whips to full power.
"Wow," Tony called from behind, grinning like a fool. "Didn't know you came with a built-in charging function. We'll have to test that later."
Lucas glared at him. "You're half-dead from palladium poisoning and this is what you find funny?"
Ivan climbed back to his feet, feeling the new power surging through his weapons. "Your tricks don't work on me, boy. If you've got more, use them now!"
He swung his charged whips, the crackling arcs slicing through the air with blinding intensity.
Lucas simply waved his hand. Two invisible wind blades shot forward.
Ivan dodged the first—barely—but the second sliced through his left whip cleanly.
At that moment, Happy Hogan's car screeched up to the crash barrier. He jumped out, clutching the red suitcase armor.
"About time!" Tony barked, snatching it from him.
He dropped it on the ground, stomped once, and the case unfolded with a hiss, revealing two metal grips. Tony grabbed them and pulled upward—armor panels snapping into place over his torso, arms, and legs in rapid sequence.
The faceplate locked down with a satisfying clank.
Iron Man was back.
"Hey, look who's here—Daddy's home!" Tony quipped as his thrusters roared to life.
He shot upward, then slammed down like a meteor, his metal fist connecting squarely with Ivan's chest. The Russian was launched several meters back, crashing to the ground in a heap.
It took him a long moment to stand again.
"Tony Stark!" he roared, voice cracking with rage. "You stole my family's work! You'll pay for what you did!"
He lashed out wildly, his remaining whip unleashing torrents of electricity that warped the air around them.
"What the hell is he saying?" Tony muttered, exasperated. "Forget it—doesn't matter."
He raised both hands, repulsors glowing.
BOOM! BOOM!
Twin blasts of energy erupted from his palms, striking Ivan dead-on.
The briefcase armor wasn't designed for heavy combat—it lacked missiles and built-in weapons—but the repulsor blasts and chest beam were still more than enough to make a point.
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