In Marvel With Unique Skill Great Sage (MCU) [73]

Lemu took another sip of water. Performing small, mechanical actions while talking helped him keep his thoughts flowing smoothly.

“A friend told me. A friend who can fly. She was born on Earth, but she left a long time ago.”

Nick Fury adjusted his coat and crossed his legs, a casual gesture meant to mask the storm raging beneath his calm exterior.

“So, what you’re telling me is
 you’re an alien?”

“Of course. That’s my backstory. Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

Fury spread his hands, as if accepting this absurd explanation.

“Alright, fine. Alien. Too bad, though—the cat’s dead. No cat lives that long. I can’t bring it to meet you.”

Old fox.

Lemu smiled and nodded.

“Now that’s a shame. I was hoping it could live a thousand years or so.”

“That friend of mine mentioned you once. Said you were a decent guy. Just
 a bit talkative.”

Lemu delivered the line with an absolutely straight face. Not a hint of hesitation. Because, after all, slimes don’t have hearts, so he had no conscience to weigh on.

Nick Fury was not just talkative. In his younger days, he had been a full-fledged chatterbox. Even now, despite mellowing out with age, he still had a habit of dropping “motherf—” into conversations like punctuation.

After a moment of silence, Fury finally furrowed his brow and asked the question that had been pressing on his mind.

“Your friend. Is it Captain Marvel?”

Lemu blinked innocently.

“Take a guess.”

Fury’s already dark expression grew darker.

Sensing that pushing his luck any further might result in some serious consequences, Lemu decided to cut the act short.

“Carol Danvers.”

Tony Stark, who had been watching this whole exchange with an arched brow, turned his gaze from Lemu to Fury and back again.

Carol Danvers? Never heard of her.

Wait. Wasn’t Fury supposed to be here to talk to him? How had these two ended up deep in their own conversation instead?

With an air of complete nonchalance, Stark reached under the table, pulled out a bottle of beer and a small bag of pine nuts, then leaned back into the couch.

You two go on. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the show.

Nick Fury’s expression eased slightly, and a faint smile appeared on his face. It was the kind of smile one gives when they recognize a shared connection. As if, because of a mutual acquaintance, he now saw Lemu as something closer to a friend.

“When did you two meet?” Fury asked, his tone casual but probing. “She mentioned she’d be coming back soon. Didn’t she come with you? The old gang misses her.”

Lemu rolled his eyes, hiding a sharp sneer in his heart. Every single word was a trap.

He weighed his options before finally replying, “First off, she doesn’t come back unless it’s absolutely necessary. Or, to put it another way, she hasn’t returned since she left. Secondly, according to her, she hasn’t contacted you in over a decade.”

Then, he added, as if to hammer in the final nail, “And lastly, if I don’t get to pet a cat soon, I might just drop dead. From now on, I refuse to answer any of your questions.”

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “We can have a discussion, but I won’t be interrogated.”

That was enough information to keep Fury busy. Any more, and he risked exposing himself.

From that point on, no matter how Fury tried to press him—whether with direct questioning or subtle leading remarks—Lemu either remained silent or deflected with vague, meaningless answers.

His stance was clear: Give me the cat, and I’ll talk. No cat? Then you can dream on.

Of course, there was no way Fury could deliver on that demand. He had no idea where the Flerken had disappeared to.

After a long, frustrating ten minutes, Fury finally gave up. With an irritated sigh, he stood and made his way toward the exit.

Tony Stark, still nursing his beer, watched the SHIELD director leave. His gaze flickered to the swaying hem of Fury’s signature leather trench coat, moving side to side with each step. He frowned.

“Doesn’t he get hot in that thing?” Stark muttered to himself.

Now that the infamous spymaster was gone, Lemu exhaled, stretching out his arms in exaggerated relief. “Good question. I’ve wondered about that too. But what I do know is that you should upgrade JARVIS. The fact that just anyone can stroll in here is pretty embarrassing for a so-called genius billionaire superhero.”

To everyone’s surprise, JARVIS—who had been unusually quiet throughout the whole encounter—suddenly chimed in, “Sir, I must admit, I share the same concern.”

Stark considered that for a moment, fingers absentmindedly drumming against the couch’s armrest in a rhythm reminiscent of typing. “Yeah
 you got a point. Got any suggestions? Help me look into it later.”

Obadiah had only managed to infiltrate the house because he had access privileges. But for Fury to waltz in unnoticed? That meant someone had actively cracked JARVIS’s defenses—possibly even implanted backdoors or hidden exploits.

That wasn’t just concerning. It was a direct challenge.

Meanwhile, Lemu simply stood up and headed for the stairs, making it clear he was done for the night. Just as he reached the first step, he suddenly paused, as if belatedly realizing that someone had asked him a question.

Then, without looking back, he gave an indifferent shrug and continued up the stairs, leaving Stark alone with his thoughts.

Lemu turned his head halfway, letting out a lazy yawn. He waved his hand dismissively, his voice muffled and drowsy.

“Yeah, yeah
 I’m moving out soon. No way I’m wasting my time writing code for you
” He paused briefly before adding in an even softer tone, “Good night
 (Dream on
)”

On a normal day, he wouldn’t lift a finger for Stark, let alone now when he was this exhausted.

The mental duel he’d just had with the world’s top spymaster had drained him far more than expected. He’d have to eat an extra two eggs in the morning just to recover.

In hindsight, he should’ve let the Great Sage handle it. Going in himself had been a bit of a stretch.

That one-eyed bald guy had a gaze sharp as a blade, constantly analyzing, constantly prying into people’s thoughts, as if he could see right through someone at any given moment.

Keeping up the act had been exhausting.

If he had to rate his own performance, he’d say it was
 acceptable. Not great, not bad—just barely satisfactory.