Tony Stark sat gingerly on the edge of the cot, using a small, reflective piece of metal—likely a component salvaged from a weapon—to examine the crude, bulky device strapped to his chest.
Around him, the cave was dark, damp, and smelled of earth and smoke. Yet, the small, frail man tending the simmering pot of gruel, Ethan, whistled a calm, almost cheerful tune.
Ethan moved with a strange composure, retrieving a piece of shrapnel with tongs and placing it into a tiny glass vial, which he then handed to Tony.
"In my village," Ethan said quietly, his gaze distant, "we see many like you. We call them the living dead. The remaining shrapnel will reach your vital organs in less than a week."
Stark, still focused entirely on his current predicament, absorbed the technical information but failed to register the deep sorrow in Ethan's voice.
"What is this monstrosity?" Stark asked, poking the device on his chest.
"An electromagnet. It is connected to that car battery," Ethan pointed toward a rusty, massive battery pack nearby. "It generates a field that holds the shrapnel away from your heart. For now."
Stark's brilliant mind immediately engaged, assessing the components, the risks, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. He quickly fastened the collar of his now filthy shirt to hide the humiliating device.
Ethan, in stark contrast, was immaculately dressed in a relatively clean suit, a bow tie perfectly knotted, and a pristine handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket. In the suffocating darkness of the cave, they seemed like inhabitants of two separate universes.
Ethan pointed towards a hidden, crude surveillance camera. "Now, you must look at the camera and smile. It is the polite thing to do."
Stark forced a grimace. The ease and control Ethan demonstrated made Tony suspicious. "Are you working for them? Are you the good cop?"
"We met," Ethan replied, his face settling into a faint, sad smile. "Bern Tech Congress, Switzerland, 1999."
"I don't remember."
"You wouldn't," Ethan chuckled softly. "If I had been as intoxicated as you were, I couldn't have stood up, let alone delivered a presentation on micro-integrated circuits." Ethan's subtle, shared history seemed to ground Tony slightly.
Before they could continue, rough shouts in a foreign language echoed from the cave entrance. Ethan's entire body immediately tensed.
He quickly rushed to Tony, grabbing his arms and pulling him up. "Just follow my lead. Do exactly as I say."
The short, stout, bearded deputy leader entered with several armed henchmen.
Through Ethan's terse translation, Stark learned their demand: they wanted him to build the Jericho missile he had just demonstrated.
Stark instinctively refused, but the deputy leader's response was brutal. He was shoved headfirst into a rusty bucket of freezing, dirty water. Tony gasped, choking on the liquid. A small amount of water sloshed onto the electromagnet on his chest, causing a terrifying, painful short circuit.
Tony Stark, the untouchable genius, the billionaire playboy, had never faced such raw, physical humiliation. The rough hands pressed his head back into the water repeatedly, forcing him to confront mortality. For a brief moment, the sound of the water was replaced by the echo of Pepper Potts's frantic voice: "Tony!"
Ethan stood by, his face etched with agonizing pity, but utterly powerless to intervene. His own life hung by a thread; his priority had to be survival.
Dragging himself out, soaked and shivering, holding desperately onto the heavy car battery that kept him alive, Stark felt an unprecedented wave of shame. I have to carry this crude, bulky battery just to breathe. The humiliation was profound.
They were dragged out, covered in sacks, and the sacks removed to reveal the weapons cache: massive stockpiles of missiles, rockets, and bombs littered the Afghan mountainside. Every single one bore the unmistakable logo: "STARK INDUSTRIES." Even the guns carried by the terrorists were his company's products.
The bearded Afghan deputy chief swelled with perverse pride. "What do you think of our collection?" (Translated by Ethan.)
Tony's voice was hollow. "You have a lot of my weapons."
"We have all the materials you require to build the Jericho missile. Give us the component list now!" The deputy chief gestured sharply. "Start the manufacturing immediately. Complete the missile, and I will release you!" He extended his hand in a binding gesture.
Tony, prioritizing immediate survival, saw Ethan translate the final words, placed his hand on Ethan's, and clasped it tightly.
He forced a genuine smile at the bearded man and spoke clearly in English: "He won't."
Ethan looked straight at the deputy leader, his own face composed, and replied in the local language: "Yes. He won't."
Seeing the confident smiles of both men, the bearded deputy leader laughed, utterly convinced he had won.
Back inside the cave, only Tony and Ethan remained, illuminated by a small, flickering campfire.
Stark, wrapped in a tattered, dirty blanket, stared blankly into the flames, his mind a whirlwind of memories—Pepper's coffee, Obi's trust, the models, the sun, the humiliation.
Ethan crouched beside him, his voice low and intense. "I know your people are searching, Stark. But they will never find you here in these mountains."
He looked Tony directly in the eyes. "You just saw it. Those weapons... that is your legacy. Your life's work is being used by murderers! Do you truly intend to give them more?" Ethan's voice was filled with a moral urgency Tony had never encountered. "Is this the final act of surrender from the great Tony Stark?"
Ethan leaned back, his eyes blazing. "Or are you going to do something about it?!"
The images in Stark's mind accelerated: Pepper's face, the bulky car battery, the giant Arc Reactor back at Stark Industries, the terrifying glimpse of the sun outside the cave. Then, the image that broke through: the small, exquisitely crafted model given to him by the strange boy in Las Vegas.
He remembered Pepper's face as she showed him the model—the tiny, frustum-shaped metal block with the delicate coils. His gaze fixed on the mental image, which began to rotate, breaking down into its essential components. It collided with the long-forgotten concept of a cold fusion micro-reactor buried deep within his mind.
A strange, determined light ignited in Stark's eyes. A new idea, an impossible idea, sparked to life.
"Alright," Stark said, his voice husky but resolute. "Let's get to work."
Ethan saw the change—the resurrection of the genius he had admired. A look of profound relief crossed his face, and he smiled.
A day later, the cave was transformed. All the necessary equipment—tools, wires, and salvaged materials from the Jericho warheads—were brought in. Under the glare of bright work lights, the simple cave became a makeshift laboratory.
Stark meticulously began disassembling a missile warhead, pulling out an internal detonation device.
"If I help with the preparation, we can work more efficiently," Ethan offered.
Stark, focused completely, ignored him, using tweezers to pull a wafer-thin sliver of metal from the device. He tossed the remaining bulky components behind him. "What is this sliver?"
"Palladium. Only 0.15 grams," Stark said, looking at Ethan. "We need at least 1.6 grams. You're going to dismantle the other eleven missiles. Start with the detonation devices."
Ethan, though bewildered by the physics, followed the instruction instantly, a genuine excitement returning to his eyes.
The final, critical step was the melting and pouring of the palladium into a mold. Because the massive battery was still tethering Tony to the device on his chest, only Ethan could perform this task.
Ethan picked up the crucible with tongs and walked toward the mold. Stark stood nearby, clutching the battery, his voice tight. "Careful. Be extremely careful. We only get one shot at this."
"Don't worry, my hands are steady," Ethan smiled easily. "How do you think you survived the first five minutes? I've got you." He steadily poured the molten palladium into the mold.
"What should I call you?" Stark glanced at Ethan, finally acknowledging him as more than a translator.
"Just call me Ethan," he replied, focusing on the pour.
"Ethan. It's a true pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine, Stark," Ethan smiled widely.
Soon, a small, perfectly circular palladium ring cooled in Stark's hand.
Three days later, the miracle was complete: a small, round mechanical device sat on the table. When connected, it fully activated, emitting a startlingly bright, pure blue-white light that caused the surrounding lights to flicker violently.
Stark stared at the device, his lips trembling slightly—not from cold, but from sheer awe at his own creation.
Ethan stepped back. "That certainly doesn't look like a Jericho missile."
"This is a miniature Arc Oscillation Reactor," Stark explained, gently touching the humming device. "I have a massive version back home that powers my entire factory."
"This should finally stop the shrapnel from killing me."
"How much power does it generate?"
"If my calculations hold true—and they always do—three billion Joules per second."
"That's enough to run your heart fifty times over!" Ethan exclaimed, shocked.
"Yes," Stark replied calmly, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Or enough to power one very large toy for about fifteen minutes."
"How did you manage to compress the design to this size?" Ethan asked, genuinely perplexed by the technological leap.
The question pulled Stark's mind back to the night before his capture. He picked up the reactor, caressing its smooth surface. "Ethan, the day before I came here, a child gave me a model."
"A model of what?"
"This," Stark held up the reactor. "It's nearly identical to this shape, but far more refined. And I completely dismissed the idea at the time. The irony is excruciating."
"How strange..." Ethan murmured, shaking his head.
"If I survive this," Stark vowed, his voice low and serious, "I will find that child. I absolutely will find him."