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Over the next few days, Marcus stayed busy with company business while Tony started doing... weird things.
Really weird things.
First, he donated half his art collection to various museums. Then he promoted Pepper to Executive Director—the highest position in Stark Industries besides CEO, which Tony still technically held. And then he started pushing for deeper cooperation between Stark Industries and Rockwell, basically handing Marcus's company access to technology and contracts that should've been competitive advantages.
Pepper was confused.
She knew Tony and Marcus were friends, but this was excessive. The two companies already had significant cooperation agreements. According to the trajectory Tony was pushing, Stark Industries might as well just merge into Rockwell entirely.
She'd tried asking Tony about it, but he'd just brushed her off with vague comments about "strategic partnerships" and "future planning."
Pepper was half-convinced Marcus had somehow hypnotized Tony.
A few days later, Tony flew to Monaco.
Supposedly for business. Some kind of investment opportunity or corporate partnership—Marcus hadn't paid close attention to the details.
But then Tony did something completely insane.
He entered himself in a Formula One race.
Like, personally. Behind the wheel. At the Monaco Grand Prix.
The race was broadcast internationally, and Marcus caught it on the massive LCD screen in his office. He watched Tony get suited up and escorted into a bright blue racing car, looking way too pleased with himself for someone about to drive at lethal speeds with zero professional training.
"This guy is completely losing it," Marcus muttered.
He knew exactly what was happening, of course. The palladium poisoning from the arc reactor was eating away at Tony's blood, slowly killing him. Tony had hit the point where he'd given up on finding a solution and decided to just... live recklessly for whatever time he had left.
Donate the art collection. Secure Pepper's future. Make sure his friends were taken care of. Then go out in a blaze of glory doing stupid, dangerous, exhilarating things.
Classic Tony Stark self-destructive spiral.
On screen, the race began. Cars shot forward from the starting line in a thunder of engines, Tony's blue vehicle right in the middle of the pack.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, watching with mild interest.
In Monaco, Tony was fully focused on the race—adrenaline pumping, hands steady on the wheel, mind sharp despite the toxins in his blood.
He didn't notice the maintenance worker who'd slipped onto the track.
The man was massive, built like a tank, wearing orange coveralls that barely contained his muscular frame. He walked calmly toward the center of the circuit, completely unbothered by the race cars screaming past him at two hundred miles per hour.
Then he reached up and tore open his coveralls.
Beneath the fabric was a crude harness—metal plates and wiring, clearly homemade but functional. At the center was a glowing arc reactor, smaller and rougher than Tony's but unmistakably the same technology.
The man activated it.
Blue-white energy flared. The reactor hummed to life, and the man reached down to his belt, pulling out two metal handles.
With a flick of his wrists, electrified whips extended from the handles—eight feet of high-tensile cable wreathed in crackling arcs of electricity. The heat was so intense it burned away what remained of his coveralls, revealing the full power suit underneath.
Whiplash had arrived.
Marcus sat up straighter in his office, eyes locked on the television screen.
"There he is."
Ivan Vanko. Son of Anton Vanko, the physicist who'd worked with Howard Stark on the original arc reactor design before Howard kicked him out for trying to weaponize and sell the technology. After Anton died in disgrace, Ivan had dedicated himself to destroying the Stark family.
Brilliant physicist. Gifted engineer. Completely unhinged.
Marcus watched as Whiplash stood in the middle of the racing circuit, whips trailing sparks against the asphalt.
A red Formula One car came around the bend at full speed.
Whiplash swung.
CRACK!
The electrified whip sliced through the car like it was made of paper. The front half separated cleanly from the back, both pieces tumbling in different directions. The car flipped, rolled, and crashed into the barrier in a shower of metal and fiberglass.
Marcus couldn't tell if the driver survived. Probably not.
The crowd erupted into screams. People started running for the exits.
Whiplash ignored them, standing motionless in the center of the track.
Waiting.
Tony came around the corner and saw the wreckage.
His brain processed it in fragments: destroyed car, flames, a massive figure standing in the middle of the circuit holding—
Whips?
"What the—"
Whiplash swung both arms.
The electrified cables hit Tony's car from above and below simultaneously, carving through the reinforced frame like a hot knife through butter. The entire front section of the vehicle separated from the cockpit, and suddenly Tony was sliding forward in half a car with no steering, no brakes, and no control.
Physics took over.
The remains of the car hit the ground, scraped against asphalt, flipped twice, and slammed into the safety barrier hard enough to buckle the metal.
Tony's head rang. His ribs felt like they'd cracked. Every part of him hurt.
He was lucky to be alive.
But luck wasn't going to last long, because Whiplash was walking toward him with those electrified whips dragging sparks behind him.
"Shit, shit, shit—"
Tony scrambled out of the wreckage, crawling through the destroyed cockpit toward the back of the car. His hands found purchase on twisted metal. He pulled himself free just as another whip strike slammed into the driver's seat, splitting it vertically in two.
If Tony had still been sitting there, he'd be dead.
He came around the back of the ruined car, keeping the wreckage between himself and Whiplash. His eyes scanned the ground desperately.
There—a piece of metal paneling, torn loose from somebody's car.
Tony grabbed it and threw it as hard as he could.
The improvised projectile hit Whiplash in the chest. The big man staggered backward, surprised.
Tony felt a moment of hope—
Then Whiplash recovered, turned, and lashed out with one electrified whip.
Tony barely got the metal panel up in time. The whip hit it dead center, and the impact nearly ripped his arms out of his sockets. The panel flew from his hands, and Tony hit the ground hard.
Whiplash advanced.
Tony rolled backward, scrambling away on hands and knees as the whips cracked against the asphalt inches from his body. Sparks flew. The smell of ozone and burning rubber filled the air.
He was going to die here.
No armor. No weapons. Just him and a piece of scrap metal against a maniac with electrified whips powered by stolen Stark technology.
Marcus watched the whole thing unfold on television with the detachment of someone watching a movie he'd already seen.
Tony was in serious danger. That much was obvious.
But Marcus wasn't particularly worried.
First, Tony had his own resources. Happy was there, somewhere. Pepper would be calling for help. And SHIELD wouldn't let Tony die—he was too valuable.
Second, Natasha Romanoff was in Monaco with Tony's group.
Tony's "new secretary," the woman who'd applied to work at Rockwell Industries first before ending up at Stark Industries instead.
Ada had spotted her immediately. One former spy recognizing another. Ada had taken one look at "Natalie Rushman's" fabricated resume and rejected her application without even bothering to interview her.
When Ada mentioned it to Marcus later, he'd just smiled. Of course it was Natasha. Black Widow herself, SHIELD's top operative, inserted into Tony's life to keep tabs on him.
Marcus had no intention of exposing her. Let SHIELD play their games. As long as they left Rockwell alone, he didn't care who they put where.
Besides, Natasha would probably save Tony's life in the next few minutes. She always did.
Corporate espionage was a fact of life for any major company.
Rockwell Industries had attracted spies from day one—government agencies, rival corporations, foreign intelligence services, all of them trying to get inside information on Marcus's technology and business strategy.
Marcus and his team had discussed it early on. Some positions in the company needed ironclad security: anyone with access to sensitive research, financial records, or strategic planning had to have a completely clean background. No exceptions.
But for less critical roles? Receptionists, junior analysts, administrative staff?
It was better to let some spies in.
Rejecting everyone suspicious would just piss off the intelligence community and invite more aggressive infiltration attempts. But if you let a few operatives get hired for low-level positions, gave them access to mostly harmless information, and kept them under surveillance?
That was manageable.
Plus, with Skynet monitoring every digital communication in and out of Rockwell headquarters, Marcus knew exactly what information was being leaked and to whom. The spies thought they were being subtle. They had no idea every encrypted message they sent was being logged, analyzed, and filed away for future reference.
Some people were safer inside the company where Marcus could watch them than outside where they'd be unpredictable.
So Marcus had made peace with it. Let SHIELD have their plants. Let the CIA, NSA, and whatever other alphabet agencies wanted in. Let competing corporations buy off mid-level employees for insider information.
As long as Skynet was watching, none of them could do real damage.
And if any of them tried? Well, Marcus had files on all of them. Leverage was a useful thing to have.