Ten Minutes Earlier
Afghanistan.
A land of chaos and anarchy, ruled by conflict and bloodshed. In this place, kidnappings, terror strikes, and armed skirmishes were as common as the shifting sands.
It was here, in this lawless desert, that Tony Stark—a billionaire industrialist and unwilling prisoner of war—had achieved the impossible.
Using his unmatched ingenuity and the assistance of a brave companion, Stark had built the prototype of all prototypes: the Mark I suit.
The suit had been rough, crude, and unwieldy, but it worked. With it, Stark had incinerated the terrorists' munitions depot and launched himself skyward, leaving the chaos in flames behind him.
For a brief, triumphant moment, he had soared above the ravaged landscape, a man reborn.
And then it happened.
A black rift had ripped open in the sky, swallowing the sunlight for a fraction of a second before spitting out a figure—a human-shaped meteor plummeting straight toward him.
"WHAM!"
The impact sent Stark hurtling downward, the Mark I suit groaning under the combined weight of both his body and the intruder. The desert floor loomed closer with terrifying speed.
At this altitude, survival was impossible. The suit, the sand—none of it would save him from the brutal force of impact.
But then, against all odds, a powerful gust of wind materialized out of nowhere, cushioning their fall. They hovered for a moment, suspended mid-air, before descending safely onto the soft dunes below.
Once grounded, the stranger—a small figure with pale blue hair—immediately got to work. Without hesitation, they began digging Stark out of the sand, prying apart the Mark I's bulky armor.
Except, they didn't use tools.
No wrenches, no screwdrivers—just bare hands.
The teenager grabbed at screws and bolts, twisting them loose as if they were made of clay. Cables snapped under their grip with ease.
With a series of metallic groans and snaps, the suit fell away, leaving Tony stunned—and more than a little unnerved.
Barehanded.
No assistance, no machinery. Just sheer force.
Tony, for once in his life, was at a loss for words.
….
Tony Stark's gaze didn't waver as he repeated his question, sharp and insistent. "So, Echeverría—who are you? And where the hell did you come from?"
Lemu sighed inwardly. Of all the questions Stark could ask, why this one?
The truth was, he had no idea how to answer.
First, he wasn't exactly a master liar. Second—and perhaps more importantly—he genuinely didn't know how he had ended up here.
What he did know was this: A long, long time ago, he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. When he woke up, he found himself trapped in an endless black void.
The darkness was suffocatingly vast. No sense of touch, no need to breathe, no concept of time or direction. Just an infinite, crushing emptiness.
Years passed—or maybe centuries; it was impossible to tell. Then, one day, without warning, a crack of light tore through the darkness.
Desperate, Lemu had thrown himself toward the light, using every ounce of strength he didn't even realize he still possessed. Just as the fissure began to close, he managed to hurl himself through it.
And then—
WHAM.
He collided head first with Tony Stark.
Or, as Stark preferred to tell it, Stark collided with him.
The Mark I armor hit the desert with a resounding crash, digging deep into the sand, while Lemu bounced off the billionaire like a pinball, landing unceremoniously atop him.
And that was how his grand escape from the void had concluded: with a faceful of dirt and Stark's accusations ringing in his ears.
As he sat cross-legged in the scorching desert, Lemu flexed his fingers experimentally.
They were long and slender, pale and delicate, but slightly smaller than he remembered. His strength, however, was anything but ordinary.
He had torn apart electrical wiring and disassembled Stark's armor barehanded, feats that would have been impossible before. Even falling several meters from the sky had left him unscathed, save for a faint tingling sensation.
Lemu raised his head to the sun, squinting. No pain. No discomfort. He could stare directly into the blinding light without so much as a blink.
Even the oppressive heat of the desert felt oddly pleasant, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
Then there was the strange new ability—the power to summon gusts of wind seemingly at will. And, of course, the mechanical voice that now whispered cryptic information in his mind.
What is this body?
Questions swirled in his mind, but answers would have to wait. For now, one thing was clear: escaping that eternal, suffocating void was a blessing, no matter the cost.
Lemu glanced down at himself, tugging awkwardly at his pale blue hair. The unfamiliar color still felt strange to him, a glaring reminder that this wasn't the body he had once known.
Still, deep down, he clung to one comforting thought, 'I'm human—or at least, I used to be. A parallel universe version, maybe, but human nonetheless.'
Gathering his thoughts, Lemu finally looked back at Stark, meeting his scrutinizing gaze with a mixture of honesty and mischief.
"Alright," he said with a straight face, his amber eyes shining with sincerity. "You got me. I'm an alien."