Darren stood up on wobbly legs and stumbled over to the locker room. A dim bulb barely lit the tiled walls and faded graffiti. He grabbed his towel again and wiped his face, then peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and shorts. Cool air bit at his damp skin, easing muscles that protested every move.
In the cracked mirror, he caught sight of himself his hair slicked back soaked in sweat. He posed for a moment, flexing a bit, oh yeah real action hero vibes right there, but then the bruises on his back caught his eye, and he grimaced. Ugh, why do I always end up looking like I lost the fight? He pulled on a clean hoodie, the fabric soft against his skin, and slipped into his trousers and runners.
Each move sent a fresh pulse of soreness through his knees and hips, the good kind of soreness, the satisfying ache that quietly reminded him he'd worked hard.
He slung the gear bag over one shoulder, pushed open the gym door, and stepped out into the biting air of a January night.
Rain had turned Dublin's cobblestones into black glass; the neon light from a distant pub sign shimmered red and green across the puddles. The air smelled of wet concrete, piss and diesel, sharp and earthy, mingled with the faint sweetness of spilled cider. Just another January night, off Camden, quiet and cold.
Every noise echoed in his head, his own steady breathing, a drip-drip from a gutter, distant laughter from drunk students spilling out of The Harp & Crown. Everything was so much louder at night.
He bounced from detail to detail: shoes echoing on cobblestones, duck cries from the Liffey, are ducks even awake this late?, the buzz-hum of a whiskey sign flickering.
Did I remember to lock the door? What's for dinner? I should really call Mom. No, focus!
He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the moment, but the world around him buzzed with energy, each sound and sight pulling at his attention like a kid in a candy store.
He ducked down the familiar alleyway, his usual shortcut. Brick walls closed in, wet with moss and rain, lit unevenly by neon signs bleeding down from the street. Shadows flickered weirdly, dancing like ghosts. A sudden noise. Bang
Fox? .... Maybe.
As always, the silence in this narrow way gave him goosebumps... but tonight was worse. No pub noise, no distant footsteps. Just the sound of the dripping rain and his heart thumping against his ribcage
Badump-thump, Badump-thump.
He stopped, fingers grazing the icy brick wall. Off. Everything felt off. Instincts roared, loud and urgent in his ears.
Breathe. Just breathe. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, filling his lungs with cold, damp air, and tried to focus on the sound of the rain instead, gentle and steady, but the silence was unsettling. Why was it so quiet? He could almost hear his own thoughts echoing back at him.
He dropped to one knee, yanked the mask from his gear bag's side pouch and tugged it over his head and down to cover his mouth and nose, fabric damp, smelling faintly of blood and detergent. Contacts in, eyes briefly gleaming white. Belt buckle snapped shut. Click.
Now that he was suited up. He kept going down the alley.
He moved forward carefully, nothing clear yet, no voices, no distinct scents, just that familiar prickle crawling up the back of his neck. He wasn't sure what he expected, maybe nothing, maybe paranoia. Wouldn't be the first time. But his instincts kept buzzing, refusing to let it go.
A few more careful steps, and his eyes caught something freshly sprayed across the wet brick wall: a sharp, stylized "D," paint still glossy, rain tracing thin lines down the letters.
His gut tightened. Ah for fuck's sake, not this lot again.
Another careful step forward, and he caught something, a faint vibration, a steady thrum hovering just at the edge of hearing.
The fuck is that?
A strange scent drifted with the sound. Like the smell before a thunderstorm...
Ozone?
He took another step. Petrol fumes hit him clearly now, sharp, cutting through the dampness. Voices, muffled but tense. A few more steps, slow and careful, he could see something now in the distance.
A battered old van idling quietly near an old storage shed. Four figures clustered around it, movements stiff and tense, clearly feeling the pressure.
"Careful, Jesus, careful with it," one hissed sharply.
"I'm fuckin' trying," another snapped back, voice strained tight. "You heard Diaz, one scratch and we're fucked."
They wore dark jackets, hoods pulled up tight against the rain, faces half-hidden by shadow. Tracksuits, runners, the usual gear.
Darren moved closer, watching carefully as two of them strained, struggling to pull something heavy and metallic from the back of the van. Awkwardly shifting their grip, one cursed sharply under his breath, clearly terrified to fuck up whatever they'd been tasked to do.
The crate hissed softly as they moved it, a faint mechanical whirr pulsing from inside. One of the lads flinched visibly, nearly dropping it. the lid shifted slightly, just enough to reveal a mess of tangled wires and metal parts. A faint purple glow leaked from within, throwing strange shadows across the wet cobblestones.
"Watch it, for fuck's sake!" the other spat, voice sharp with fear.
He edged closer, heart pounding in his ears.
Whatever was in that box, it sure as hell wasn't supposed to be here.
Alien tech? Stark gadget?
He couldn't be sure in this light, but it definitely looked hi tech with all those smooth metal panels, etched with those weird lookin' patterns.
He squinted, leaning forward just a fraction, straining his eyes. Something about it felt familiar. His mind scrambled, the answer flickering in and out, almost within reach. Then...
Click.
May. New York. Aliens.
His stomach twisted.
He vaguely remembered seeing something about it online and on the news, grainy clips, shaky phone footage from New York, shared like a bajillion times. Aliens, superheroes, Captain America throwing cars around or something. Honestly, he'd barely paid attention to all that stuff. Probably should've, but, well...he didn't. He was busy with preparing for the Leaving Cert exams. Besides all that stuff it all seemed so far away, not really real, like something out of a movie or something. America's problem, not his.
Except now it looked like it was his problem...
He edged closer, watching them carefully. They were jumpy, on edge, clearly aware they were handling something way above their paygrade.
One of the men spoke low but urgently. Darren couldn't make out all the words at first, but one phrase cut through: "We gotta get it there before dawn. And be fuckin' careful, you fuckin' eejit! Diaz wants that reactor cell intact!"
"Wait a minute... I remember that name."
Second time this week.
Keeps popping up with the nastiest fuckers.
Gotta figure out who the hell that is before it bites me in the arse.
Call the Garda? Nah they'll be gone before they get here. I have to do something.
He crept along the wall, careful footfalls splashing lightly in muddy puddles, masked by the steady hiss of rain. His eyes flicked across the alley, catching details quickly: a loose pipe near the van, a random plank of wood lying on the ground. Why the fuck is that even there?
He clenched his fists, frustration twisting in his gut. Really needed something better than bare fists; swinging punches every night was a quick way to break bones, but not his....
He paused then dropped to one knee, heart thudding. A quick, silent prayer slipped out, even though he wasn't even religious.
Please. No dead bodies.
Then, just as he started to rise, careful and quiet...
Click.
Darren spun—gun.
Shit.
He lunged forward in a blur, feet slipping slightly on the slick cobblestones, shoulder driving into the man's gut. They hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of the guy with a grunt, his head smacking firmly against the stone.
The gun skittered loose, clattering across the wet stones. He scrambled quickly, snatched it then, the metal creaked faintly under his fingers as he twisted it just enough to ruin the barrel.
Useless now.
The guy beneath him suddenly stirred, grabbing weakly at Darren's jacket. He yelped, startled, fist snapping out reflexively.
Crack.
"Oh shit, sorry!" Darren hissed. The guy's head lolled sideways, instantly out cold. Darren hovered anxiously, fingers trembling as he checked a pulse. Still breathing. Still alive.
Christ, mate. Ya scared me.
Voices erupted from behind him, startled and sharp.
"The fuck was that?"
"Shit! Someone's over there!"
Two of the figures scrambled to lower the crate, cursing and panicked, desperately trying not to drop it.
Frantic shuffling, metal scraping on stone. "Where's the gun?"
"Jimmy had it—"
"Fuck's sake!"
The other two charged straight towards him, shoes splashing wildly across the wet cobblestones, grabbing whatever was handy one lad had a crowbar the other had a hurley.
Ah, bollocks. Here we go again.
He groaned as scrambled to his feet.
Just once, a quiet night would be nice.
Crowbar. Screaming. "Oi! Gobshite!"
Darren snapped upright, vision narrowing instantly. His heartbeat steadied, pounding clear and sharp.Raindrops hung mid-air beneath the streetlamp glow, metal glinted wet, breath steamed pale in the night. Focus.
A shout from behind near the van broke through the quiet clarity:
"Give me the fuckin' machete!"
"I don't need a pussy machete, you fuckin' retard!"
Great. Real professionals, these lads.
The crowbar swung wide. Darren ducked smoothly inside, pivoted tight, short and sharp. Liver shot. Perfect connection. The lad folded instantly, eyes bulging wide in slow-motion shock. He followed that up with a knee to the face.
The guy crumpled.
Out like a light.
Movement flickered at Darren's peripheral vision. Hurley was coming in fast from behind.
Two on one, huh? Fair play.
The hurley swung down in a wild, clumsy arc. Darren sidestepped, clean and tight, elbow snapping up hard under the guy's chin. His head rocked back, mouth hanging open mid-scream.
Over his shoulder, Darren caught a glimpse of movement back at the van. A glint of metal, the machete guy finally stepping clear of the crate, blade held uncertainly, like he wasn't sure whether to run or join the fray.
No time to worry yet.
Darren didn't pause, grabbing hurley-lad by the shoulders and driving a knee straight into his crotch. The man folded instantly, dropping like a sack onto the wet stones.
"Oooh ouch. Sorry, mate," Darren muttered. "Sort of."
The machete guy hesitated just a second longer, blade trembling slightly in his grip. Darren squared his shoulders, fists loose but ready, adrenaline still buzzing loud in his ears.
"Ah, c'mon," Darren called out, heart pounding but voice steady, cocking his head slightly. "You really wanna do this?"
The guy glanced nervously at his fallen mates, clearly weighing his odds. He swallowed, visibly steeling himself, then took a shaky step forward, machete raised.
"Guess that's a yes," Darren sighed, fists tightening again.
The machete guy lunged.
Darren stepped sideways, boots sliding slightly on slick cobbles as he slipped the blade's arc, and countered with a snapping side kick that blasted into the man's chest.
The impact sent him stumbling back, eyes wide with surprise.
Darren exhaled tightly. "Mate, seriously, drop it."
The machete clattered sharply to the stones, skidding a short distance away. The guy staggered back another few steps, gasping for air, eyes flicking wildly between Darren and his fallen mates.
"Fuck this," he croaked, turning abruptly and bolting into the darkened alley, splashing through puddles as he vanished into the shadows.
Darren relaxed slightly, chest heaving, rain dripping cold down the back of his neck. He glanced at the machete on the ground.
Smart choice, lad. The Guards will get ya later anyways.
Wait.
There were four at the van… one behind me.
He counted again.
Where the fuck's the fifth guy?
Crunch of gravel behind him, too close, too late.
Darren spun, barely getting his guard up as a huge fist slammed into his ribs like a wrecking ball. His body folded sideways with a grunt, boots skidding across the slick cobblestones.
Fuck me, okay, there he is.
Big lad. Built like a brick shithouse, scar down one cheek, buzzcut, arms thick as steel cables. A weird, bulky glove covered his right hand, faintly glowing along the knuckles.
Some kind of powered gauntlet?That explains the punch.
Big lad didn't speak, just rolled his neck, cracking his knuckles with a faint hum from the glove.
Avoid the glove. Easy enough, right?
"Alright," Darren muttered, chest burning. "You're a big fucker, aren't ya."
The big lad surged forward, gauntlet humming, and swung hard, a massive haymaker aimed right for his head. Darren ducked low, glove passing just inches above with a crackle of energy.
He snapped back up, driving a sharp jab into the man's jaw, solid impact, but the guy barely flinched, only grinning wider.
Ah, shit. This might take a bit more than usual.
He barely got his guard back up before he was lifted clean off the ground, his back smashing hard into a rusted dumpster. Metal screamed sharply behind him, pain exploding along his spine.
Vision blurred for a second, his brain going blurghghgh fucker Ow shit fuck.
Darren staggered, forcing his eyes to focus, breath hitching tight in his chest. He dropped low on instinct, just in time to avoid another gauntleted punch that hammered into the dumpster, leaving a deep dent.
Yeah, definitely avoid the glove.
He ducked another wild haymaker, dropped low, and hammered a nasty body shot straight into the bastard's gut.
Nothing.
Oh come on!
The big bastard just smirked, barely flinching. He swung again, that weird glove humming dangerously close. Darren sidestepped, breath tight and controlled, shoulder clipping the wall as he moved. He felt his patience wearing thin.
"Ah, for fuck's sake," Darren muttered, circling wide. "Why do I always get the ones built like brick shitters?"
Fine. Time to stop playing nice.
He surged forward, driving a heavy knee directly into the man's thigh, then pivoted sharply into a vicious left hook. This time the lad's head snapped sideways, spit flying into the dark.
That wiped the smirk away.
"Yeah," Darren growled, fists tight, blood pumping hot. "Felt that one, didn't ya?"
He still didn't go down.... the stubborn bastard.
Just grinned and spat blood.
"Gonna snap your twiggy neck, princess," the thug sneered.
"Cool," Darren breathed. "Love that typa shit."
Darren flexed his fingers, knuckles throbbing slightly, adrenaline surging hot through his veins.
"Last chance, mate," Darren warned, voice low and dangerous. "Walk away."
The motherfucker fucking laughed, blood-stained teeth gleaming in the dim glow. He lunged forward, glove crackling with energy, swinging hard and reckless.
Darren ducked the gauntlet's arc and countering with a crisp jab, then a punishing right cross that smashed into the bastard's jaw. The impact rattled through his arm, sharp and satisfying.
Still, the bastard stood, swaying but stubbornly upright.
"You're a tough fucker, I'll give you that," Darren admitted grudgingly, breath coming in hard gulps. His fists tightened again. "But you should've walked away."
The guy snarled, wild-eyed now, and charged again—glove humming dangerously. Darren pivoted, weaving under another reckless swing, and drove a powerful front kick directly into his chest. This time, he didn't hold back as much.
The bastard flew backwards, airborne, crashing into the van with a deafening bang. Metal warped, the vehicle groaning from the impact. The big lad crumpled to the ground, coughing, struggling to rise.
Darren exhaled sharply, shaking out his aching fists, his pulse still roaring. "Stay down, you stubborn prick. For both our sakes."
The bastard roared suddenly, charging forward again, glove crackling with renewed fury.
Darren stepped in, fist cocked back—then his boot hit a loose stone. His balance vanished instantly, feet slipping wildly beneath him.
"Oh, shi—"
Too late.
The gauntleted fist slammed square into his chest with the force of a speeding truck. Darren flew backwards, air violently punched from his lungs, crashing hard into the wall behind him. Brick cracked and dust exploded, pain radiating through every bone in his body.
He dropped to one knee, gasping desperately for breath, vision swimming..
OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK.
He dropped to one hand, coughing, lungs heaving.
Okay. Okay. Come on. You've taken worse. Get up ya stupid fuck.
The big bastard staggered back, dazed, blood trickling from his busted lip, but the cocky smirk stayed put.
"Ya ain't shit, ya fuckin' bitch!" he spat, voice thick with blood and mockery.
Darren's jaw tightened. Heat flared in his chest, rage whispering at the edges of his control. One heartbeat. Two.
He took another deep, ragged breath. The sharp bite of pain faded gradually, first from stabbing agony to a dull ache, then melting away altogether as his body quietly did...whatever the hell it usually did. Just needed a minute.
Across from him, the big bastard spat blood onto the cobblestones, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand without the Gauntlet. He laughed roughly, shaking his head as if Darren was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.
"That all ya got, princess?" he sneered, rolling his shoulders with exaggerated ease. "All that fuckin' fancy dancin', an' look at ya now. Crawlin' on the floor like the little bitch ya are."
Darren's vision steadied slowly, the alleyway coming back into sharp focus. The pain was nearly gone now. His knuckles scraped the cobblestones, cold and gritty under his fingers, as he slowly pushed himself upright again.
He locked eyes with the smirking bastard
Don't go too far.
"Alright," Darren rasped, rolling his shoulders, fists curling tight again. "My turn."
The big bastard charged again, gauntleted fist crackling, swinging wild and hungry for blood.
Fuck it.
Darren ducked beneath the punch, stepping tight into the guy's guard. A vicious uppercut snapped the thug's head back, followed by a sharp left hook that cracked hard against his jaw.
The bastard stumbled, blinking dumbly, cockiness replaced by confusion for the first time.
Darren pivoted and drove a front kick squarely into the man's chest.
He didn't hold back as much this time.
The guy flew backward, smashing straight through the rusted metal sheet of the shed wall with an explosive crash of snapping wood and warped metal.
He just stood there for a moment... motionless. Eyes fixed on the ragged hole he'd just knocked the big bastard through. He flexed his fingers nervously, heart kicking up a notch.
He'd held back. He was almost certain. Hadn't he?
But that whisper, that irrational, twisting voice at the back of his skull started muttering again. What if? What if he's dead, Darren? You hit him pretty hard there.
"Shut up," Darren growled softly, stepping forward, forcing his breath to slow. The voice kept chattering anyway, quiet but insistent. What if?
Carefully, he picked his way through the rubble, boots slipping a little on the wet stone and splintered wood. He felt that small spike of fear twist in his gut. Just a little fear, but enough.
"Please don't be dead," he muttered, half-pleading, half-annoyed at his own anxious mind.
He knelt down, fingers fumbling only slightly as he reached toward the big lad's neck.
A heartbeat.
Steady. Strong.
He exhaled, tension uncoiling immediately, leaving him lightheaded with relief. The voice finally shut up.
"See?" Darren whispered to himself, sagging back a bit, hands trembling slightly. "Controlled. Fuckin' told ya."