The alley smelled like wet brick and something chemical underneath, sharp and wrong, like the air before a storm that hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.
Darren noticed it before he noticed anything else. His senses had been doing that lately, catching things at the edges, sounds a street over, smells that didn't belong. He hadn't figured out yet if it was useful or just exhausting.
Probably both.
He pulled his hoodie tighter and kept walking. Mask in the side pouch of his bag. Contacts in. Just a lad cutting home through Camden on a wet January night, nothing to see, nothing to worry about.
Then he saw the tag.
Fresh paint on wet brick, a sharp stylised D, still glossy, rain tracing thin lines down the letters. His gut tightened.
Ah for fuck's sake. Not this lot again.
He stopped. Listened.
The alley should have carried sound. A passing car. Pub noise. Someone shouting two streets over. Instead there was just rain ticking off brick and metal, and beneath it, after a second, something else. A faint vibration. A steady thrum hovering right at the edge of hearing.
The fuck is that?
He took another careful step. Petrol fumes reached him first. Then voices, low and tight.
He dropped to one knee and pulled the mask from his bag's side pouch. The fabric was a little damp, smelled faintly of detergent and old sweat. He tugged it up over his nose and mouth. The belt buckle snapped shut with a small click.
Then he moved forward.
A battered van sat near the old storage shed at the far end of the alley, engine idling low. Four figures crowded around the back of it, shoulders hunched against the rain, movements tense and clumsy.
Two of them were struggling with a crate, shifting their grip every few seconds like it kept surprising them with its weight. The lid had shifted slightly, just enough to leak a thin purple glow across the wet cobblestones.
"Careful, Jesus, careful with it," one hissed.
"I'm feckin' trying," the other snapped back, voice pulled tight. "You heard what Diaz said. One scratch and we're done."
Darren edged closer, watching the glow pulse faintly through the gap in the lid. He'd seen that colour before. Everyone had, really. Grainy phone footage from New York, shared a billion times. Aliens falling out of a hole in the sky while Iron Man flew through it. Captain America throwing cars. The whole world watching America have its worst day on live television.
He'd barely paid attention at the time. Leaving Cert was coming up. It all seemed so far away, like something out of a film, America's problem, not his.
Except now it was sitting in a crate in a Dublin alley and two lads from the southside were scared half to death of it but not scared enough to walk away from whatever they were getting paid.
He moved closer.
"We gotta get it there before dawn," one of them said, low and urgent. "And be careful, you eejit. Diaz wants that reactor cell intact."
Reactor cell.
Right.
He'd deal with figuring out who Diaz was later. Right now he had a decision to make.
Call the Gardaí? They'd be gone before a squad car got within three streets. He had to do something.
He scanned the alley quickly. A loose pipe near the van. A plank of wood on the ground for reasons he genuinely could not explain. He flexed his fingers, knuckles cracking softly in the cold.
Please. No dead bodies.
He started to rise.
Click.
He spun, already moving, shoulder dropping into the man behind him before the gun finished raising. They hit the ground hard, Darren's weight driving the air out of the guy's chest with a grunt. The back of his head connected with the cobblestones and he went still.
The gun skittered loose across the wet stone. Darren grabbed it, felt the barrel creak faintly under his fingers as he twisted it just enough to make it useless.
The guy stirred beneath him, grabbed weakly at his jacket.
Darren's fist snapped out on instinct.
Crack.
The man went limp. Darren pressed two fingers to his neck, pulse hammering in his own ears while he waited.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
Christ, mate. You scared me.
Voices erupted from behind him.
"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!"
"Give me the fuckin' machete!"
"I don't need a pussy machete, you fuckin' retard!"
Great. Real professionals, these lads.
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.
A hurley.
Darren groaned as he scrambled upright.
Just once, he thought, a quiet night would be nice.
The crowbar swung wide. He ducked inside it, pivoted tight, drove a short liver shot that folded the lad instantly. One knee to the face on the way down.
Out.
The hurley came in fast from behind, clumsy and desperate.
Two on one, huh? Fair play.
He sidestepped, let it pass, snapped an elbow up hard under the guy's chin. His head rocked back, mouth open in a cut-off shout.
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."
Darren straightened. Rolled his shoulders. Let the silence stretch.
"Ah, c'mon," he said quietly. "You really wanna do this?"
The guy looked at his three mates on the ground. Swallowed. Took a shaky step forward anyway.
"Guess that's a yes," Darren sighed.
The machete came down in a rough, panicked arc. Darren stepped off the line and drove a side kick into the man's chest, enough to knock the air and the courage out of him in one go.
The guy stumbled back, eyes wide, gasping.
"Drop it," Darren said. "Seriously."
The machete hit the cobblestones with a clatter. "Fuck this," he croaked. The guy looked at Darren, looked at his mates, looked at the alley exit, and made the only sensible decision he'd made all night.
He ran.
Darren watched him go, chest heaving.
Smart choice, lad. The Guards will get ya later anyways.
One crate. Three down. One runner.
Wait.
There were four at the van. One behind me. That's five.
Where's the fifth?
Crunch of gravel. Too close. Too late.
A fist like a wrecking ball slammed into his ribs.
The world folded sideways. His boots skidded across the slick cobblestones as he staggered, vision spiking white at the edges.
Fuck me. Okay. There he is.
Big lad. Built like a brick shithouse, scar down one cheek, buzzcut, arms thick as steel cables. His right hand was covered by some kind of gauntlet, bulky and asymmetrical, glowing faintly along the knuckles with that same purple light.
Chitauri tech. Jury-rigged. Dangerous.
Avoid the glove. Simple enough.
The man didn't speak. Just rolled his neck, cracking it once, and came forward.
"Alright," Darren muttered, chest burning. "You're a big fucker, aren't ya."
The haymaker was massive and telegraphed and still nearly took his head off. He ducked under it, felt the displaced air across the top of his hood, came back up with a sharp jab to the jaw.
The man barely moved. Just grinned 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 swing, stayed low, drove a body shot into the man's midsection.
Nothing.
Oh come on!
Another swing. He slipped it, shoulder clipping the alley wall as he moved.
"Ah, for fuck's sake," Darren muttered, circling wide. "Why is it always the ones built like brick shithouses."
Fine. Stop pussyfooting around him.
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 said, fists up, breathing hard. "Felt that one, didn't ya."
The man straightened. Rolled his jaw. Spat blood onto the cobblestones.
"Gonna snap your neck, princess," he said.
"Cool," Darren grinned. "Love that typa shit."
Darren flexed his fingers, knuckles throbbing slightly, adrenaline surging hot through his veins.
"Last chance mate," Darren said, voice dropping. "Walk away."
The motherfucker laughed, blood-stained teeth gleaming in the dim glow. He lunged forward, glove crackling with energy, swinging hard and reckless.
Darren ducked the gauntlet, stepped inside, drove an uppercut up through the man's guard that snapped his head back. Followed it with a right cross that cracked hard into his jaw.
He still didn't go down.
But he was slower now. The grin was gone. His footwork was getting sloppy.
"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 man snarled and came again, wild now, the gauntlet swinging heavy and reckless.
Darren pivoted, let the momentum carry the man past him, planted a front kick square into his back.
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."
Darren stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, hands aching. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching the man's chest rise and fall.
Darren stepped in to check and see if he was actually out, 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.
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.
Then the anger came in behind it, hot and clean.
Alright. Fuck this.
He pushed himself up, ducked the wild swing, shoved the bastard back a step, and drove a front kick square into his chest.
The guy flew backward, smashing straight through the old shed's brick wall with an explosive crash.
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."
He straightened up slowly, looked at the alley around him. Four men unconscious. One crate of alien tech glowing faintly in the dark. Rain coming down steady and cold.
In New York they'd had the Avengers for this. In London there was MI13. In Wakanda, from what little anyone actually knew, there was an entire country built around it.
In Dublin there was him, nineteen years old, standing in a puddle with bruised ribs and someone else's blood on his gloves.
He looked at the crate.
He looked at the unconscious men.
He pulled out his phone, dialled, and waited.
"Gardaí? Yeah, hi. There's been an incident near Camden Street. You'll want to bring a van. A big one. And maybe... don't touch the glowing box."
He hung up before they could ask questions, melted back into the shadows, and started the long walk home.
Somewhere in Berlin, a screen flickered to life.
INCIDENT ALPHA-213 - DUBLIN, IRELAND. POTENTIAL ENHANCED.
Maria Hill looked at the footage for a long moment.
"Eyes on Dublin," she said quietly. "Observation only."
Then she went back to work.