"Everybody calls everybody a spy, secretly...

Everybody is under surveillance. You never feel safe."

- Agnes Smedley

media:

"A Little Bit Independent"

by Tommy Dorsey and Warren Covington

The Stark Mansion; August 7, 1942

Tony's first fan club was struck up in the neighborhood beside the mansion. It was comprised of elderly men and women with nothing better to do than gossip about the streaks of light they saw in the sky every night. They had even snapped some blurry photographs of the suit at work, which looked more like coffee stains than robotic suits or aliens or whatever their addled minds could comprehend. Not exactly the attention he had been expecting.

The attention he wanted, however, came quickly. He had been leafing through a copy of the Ladies Home Journal, which was detailing the nightly exploits of the so-called media sensation, the 'Flying Man,' when a business card slipped free from the crease of the binding and fell to the floor. Tony glanced from side to side, but no one was around to see the card fall except for a maid dusting the china cabinet down the hall. Stooping to balance on his heels, he plucked the card from the carpet and began to read.

The blocky Cyrillic characters were pressed deep into the creamy paper card. Tony skimmed them with his fingers as he read. Brief and not at all subtle, very Soviet.

Presence requested at 2200 hours - Empire State Building.

Business discussion.

So the Russians wanted to do business. Tony was immediately wary. The message could just as easily been picked up by his father, who would be the most likely candidate from the Stark mansion entourage to be flying around the sky at night. A snarl of suspicion rooted in Tony's gut as he perused the paper again. The card was so blunt it was almost familiar. Did Howard regularly get house calls from Russians?

It seemed like an adventure from the pages of a spy movie, so Tony dressed accordingly. He wore his second-nicest suit with a tasteful green tie – red would seem like he was making an effort to please the Communists, blue too closely associated with the President – and he even buffed some of the scuffs from his shoes. The flight to New York would take less than half an hour, thanks to his new iron suit, but he wanted to be prepared.

The briefcase containing his suit clasped in one hand, Tony surveyed his reflection in the mirror and smoothed back his hair with a shaking hand. He released a short breath and drew himself up, chest out, and gave his most confident smile.

"Always a pleasure, Comrade Ivan. How's your mother doing? No, too amicable. Be cool, be cool." He breathed out again, ready for another attempt. "Comrade Ivan, how nice to hear from you. What is this business you would like to discuss with me?"

Swinging the briefcase onto his desk with casual ease, Tony opened the clasps to reveal a compartment jammed full with neat reams of paper. Each was slightly smudged with pencil marks or the smallest of water stains, but they were just as legible as they were valuable. Tony leafed through artillery pieces and super-tanks before his fingers brushed against the false bottom to the suitcase. Fumbling for the hidden clasp, he pulled back on the lever and dragged the stacks of designs onto the table as the compartment swung open and the suit began to unfold.

The ankles had just snapped into an upright position when Tony slowly pushed them back into their hiding spot with a hiss of hydraulics. There would be no dress rehearsal with this meeting. He would be going in cold, with no idea who his opponents were are what they wanted from him.

Tony hated not knowing things.

The shadow of the Empire State Building loomed above Tony's head as the bloated form of a zeppelin edged toward its finial. From his vantage point on the second observation deck, the rigging crewmen seemed to scurry like miniatures. Flashing lights illuminated the outlines of their wiry frames as they tied off ropes and extended ladders, a hair's breadth away from certain death.

Fingers flexing on the handle of his briefcase, Tony checked his watch for the umpteenth time and tapped his toes against the brick floor of the deck. The Russians thew all social mores of what qualified as 'fashionably late' out the window. It was edging on eleven o'clock, and they hadn't shown.

Tony braced his elbows on the railing of the deck and peered down the dizzying drop. After flying in his suit for so long, a fall like this wasn't nearly tall enough to faze him. A few yards away, a cluster of Army men gathered near the rail and blustered about, their loud chatter drawing the looks of a few girls on a nearby bench. Their intention all along, Tony assumed. Guys his age were getting stood up by girls, not Russian agents.

"Stark?" The low growl made him jump, and he whirled around to see a craggy-faced man with hunched shoulders standing before him. He peered at Tony through bushy eyebrows, a dark gray overcoat shrouding his figure. And maybe disguising a weapon, Tony thought as his eyes scanned the Russian's waist. The telltale bulge of a gun handle would be easily concealed by the swallowing fabric.

"Shall we take this somewhere more private?" The man didn't seem to talk – his mouth cracked open and he creaked, like his body was sculpted from rigid stone. Not waiting for a response, he shuffled to the stairs to reach the top deck. Tony trailed after him, watching his furtive glances from side to side as they forced their way through the throngs of late-night dates and mobs of uniforms.

"You seem nervous," he began, and the Russian snorted. "Who are you looking for?"

"Germans. British. Japanese," he shrugged, reaching out with a gnarled hand to grip the stair railing, "Anyone who could interfere with our arrangement. I am surprised the Germans aren't here yet."

"Oh? Why's that?" Tony pried, but the man brushed off his question with a jerk of his head.

"Loathsome people. They are the perfect customers for what you are trying to sell."

"Yeah? It's bad business to tell me who I should be selling to. Not that I don't appreciate your business, of course."

They emerged on the highest observation deck, New York sprawling beneath their feet in a haze of smoke and a sea of swimming lights. Off to the side, the shape of the zeppelin bobbed as it was lashed to the finial. The deck was noticeably emptier, with the wind whipping from all sides and the grinding of the zeppelin engines detracting from the breathtaking view. The Russian sat at one of the benches and beckoned for Tony to take a seat beside him.

"I am Ivanov," he began, extending his hand to shake. Tony knew the name was fake, of course. Ivanov was as common as a last name could get in Russia, ensuring that this contact would be completely invisible and untraceable. "I contacted my superiors when I read about the flying man. Naturally, you were the only possible architect for something so elaborate. And when I was informed about your previous efforts to sell to the state... My superiors were very intrigued."

Tony's eyes narrowed. Ivanov was smarter than he had expected, for a Russian sleeper agent. He had expected the stiff old man to be more of a grunt. "I'm glad they're interested. How can I help you?"

"I am only the messenger." Turning away, the Russian's square jaw stood in sharp profile to the dancing lights beneath him. "If all goes well, I will connect you with –"

"With your superior, yeah. I figured. Look, why can't I just see the guy now? Anything he wants, I can make. I have technology like no one's ever seen!" Tony watched as Ivanov's eyes flashed. Was that a shiver of fear passing over the man?

"My superior is a reclusive man. He needs to know an investment is worth his time and money before he dives in." A pause, the ghost of a threat hanging in the air. "I will tell you this because you are young and vulnerable, Stark. Most people who meet my superior face-to-face end up on the wrong end of a gun barrel."

A thrill of exhilaration ran through Tony; he was glad he had worn his second-nicest suit to this exchange. Ivanov, the Empire State Building, the secrecy, all could have been pulled straight from a movie script! "What do you want? I have guns, tanks, mines, white phosphorus..."

Cutting him off with a wave of his hand, Ivanov glanced back to the dazzling skyline. He wouldn't meet Tony's eyes. "We know of your capabilities. The Soviet government wants to make sure of your loyalty."

"Loyalty? I won't hold anything back. I'll make sure you get everything you pay for. Easy."

Ivanov shook his head, a jolting motion like the ticking hand of a clock swaying from side to side. "You misunderstand me. Loyalty to the state. You will not sell to any other countries."

Tony's brows furrowed, mulling over what Ivanov had just said. If what the Russian revealed about the Germans being perfect customers was true, he didn't want to miss out on that opportunity. He had been shunned by America and Italy, but he still hadn't had a crack at Japan yet, and he was sure they would be interested in his maritime technology. Would he really put all of his eggs in the Soviet basket?

"What about selling to your allies? The British, say, or even America? They don't pose a threat to you."

A toying smile hung on Ivanov's gray lips for a second, like Tony's ignorance amused him. "America and the Soviet Union... Are not on the best of terms at the time. It is better to restrict our business to just my country. Better for us all." He emphasized, leaning closer while Tony edged away.

"How do I know your man will even buy in the first place?" Tony accused, an empty question to earn him a little more time.

"This is coming from the man who builds flying suits. If your works are half as good as you say they are, I have confidence that he will buy."

Tony straightened his shoulders, his fingers toying with the end of his tie. The fabric was beginning to fray between his nails. "And if I say no?"

Another jerky shrug. "Then we depart from this place as friends. No harm done."

No harm done, my ass, Tony thought. He studied Ivanov's expression, the lines carved deep into his face from years of work in a dangerous business. This man would walk home to some apartment next to Americans, and no one would be the wiser of his true identity. Tony didn't care about that, though. The money on the line, recognition from the largest militia in the world, and immense prestige to boot... When the dust of the war settled, everyone would know his name. He felt Ivanov's promise like a physical ache in his chest, his better judgment at war with his heart.

"We're unlikely friends, you and I," he mused, eyes tracing the city skyline. "A capitalist and a Communist, a free man and a slave to the state. Poor and rich. A strange combination, huh?"

"Who is really free here, Stark?" Ivanov intoned, his voice dry and quiet beneath the gust of the wind.

Tony's nails bit into his palms as he thought. He needed more time to make a decision, to sell his life away to the mysterious machine of Soviet bureaucracy. It technically wasn't treason, like Dasch had been, not like Tony concerned himself with such things. A lightning-bolt of fear ran through his body for a moment – did the Soviets know about Dasch?

They'll kill me in an instant if they find out.

"I won't do business with you unless I can meet the man who's calling the shots." Tony crossed his arms, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his wavering confidence.

Ivanov's pitted face remained impassive, his only betrayal of emotion a slight tilt of the head. Then, slowly, a smile stretched across his fleshy lips, revealing a flash of dull-colored teeth. He extended his hand to shake, his palm enveloping Tony's hand as he pumped his arm vigorously.

"I wish you the greatest luck, my young friend," he muttered, "For I would really like to see someone come out of my superior's meetings alive."

(yo yo yo thank you so much for reading!)