Darren stood up on wobbly legs and stumbled over to the locker room. A dim light revealed 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 as his muscles relaxed with each motion.
In the cracked mirror, he caught sight of himself his hair slicked back soaked in sweat.He posed for a moment, flexing like he was in a movie, 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 kind that whispered, "You worked hard today!"
He slung his gear bag over one shoulder and stepped out of the gym and into the cold 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 and diesel, sharp and earthy, mingled with the faint sweetness of spilled cider.
Every sound seemed ten times louder than it should be, his own steady breathing, a drip-drip from a gutter, distant laughter from drunk students spilling out of The Harp & Crown.
His mind flicked between details: the echo of his shoes on the stones, a duck cry from the Liffey, wait, are there ducks out this late? the hum of a neon whiskey sign flickering on and off. It was sensory overload, but his lifetime of experience with ADHD had trained him for nights like this.
Thoughts raced like a rollercoaster: 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 turned down a familiar alleyway, a shortcut he'd walked down a million times before. The walls here were an old brick maze, slick with moss and rain. Neon signs from the main street leaked colored light onto the rough stone, casting strange shadows that danced like ghosts. Dumpster lids rattled with each gust of wind, wait was that a raccoon?
As always, the silence in this narrow way gave him goosebumps. Normally, he'd at least hear the far-off murmur of pub music or the thud of a pedestrian's footsteps, but tonight, everything felt too quiet. Just the sound of the dripping rain and his heart thumping against his ribcage
Badump-thump, Badump-thump.
Darren paused, fingers brushing a cold brick. Something's off, he thought.
His instincts were screaming at him.
Breathe. Just breathe. He took a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs, and tried to focus on the sound of the rain instead. It was soothing, almost like a lullaby, but the quiet was unsettling. Why was it so quiet? He could almost hear his own thoughts echoing back at him.
He knelt, pulled his mask from the side pouch of the gear bag and tugged it over his mouth in one practiced motion. The fabric was damp, smelled faintly of blood and detergent. As he put in his contact lenses they glinted white in the dark. A flick of the belt buckle. Click.
Now that he was suited up. He kept going down the alley.
Eventually he came across four figures by a battered old van: two inside, two crouched at the back unloading some weird metal box.
They wore dark coats and knitted caps, faces mostly hidden.
The crate hissed. A soft whirr pulsed from within. The crate was partially open, revealing tangled wires and metal pieces that glowed faintly purple in the night.
Instantly, Darren's mind buzzed. Alien tech? Stark gadget? He couldn't be sure in this light, but it looked hi tech with smooth metal panels, etched with weird patterns.
His pulse hammered in his ears as he remembered watching that first shaky YouTube upload from Manhattan, Captain America flipping a taxi over like it was nothing. Darren had been 18 then.
He remember the rumours that after New York, bits of alien weapons had turned up on the black market. He'd always half-believed those rumors, but seeing it here in Dublin was quite literally hitting way too close to home.
One of the men spoke low but urgently. Darren couldn't make out all the words at first, but one phrase cut through: "…Helicarrier scrap… more money on these streets in an hour." Another goon growled, voice rough: "We gotta get it there before dawn. And be careful, you idiot, Diaz wants that reactor cell intact!"
Reactor cell? Adrenaline leapt in Darren's veins. The words sank in with a jolt. He exhaled slow to steady himself. These weren't petty mugglers – they had something explosive, literally.
"Diaz... 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.
Darren's mind raced: Call the Garda? Nah they'll be gone before they get here. I have to do something. He crept along the wall, careful footfalls in muddy puddles. The rain muffled him, a fortunate beat to time his steps. His eyes darted around: a loose pipe near the van, a rusted chain on the ground. Anything to use if he had to fight.
I seriously need to get a staff or something I cant keep fighting them like this without anything to help soften the blow. I gotta be careful or I might kill them. And I really don't need some superhero comin' at me thinkin' I'm a supervillain or something.
But as he was lost in thought...
"Click."
Darren spun—gun.
Shit.
He was already moving.
He blitzed forward, tackling the gunman like a freight train and driving him into the cobbles. One hand ripped the weapon free. The other, CRACK, smashed it into the thug's temple. Blood splattered. The guy shrieked.
Darren didn't wait. One more slam and the man was out cold.
"Okay," Darren muttered. "Maybe a bit much. Hope he's not dead."
He turned
Crowbar guy was charging.
"Oi! Look at this retard—thinks he's a feckin' hero!" the man jeered, swinging his crowbar with a snarl.
Darren ducked under the wild swing, drove a savage hook into his liver. The man collapsed mid-motion, legs giving out. Darren followed up with a brutal kick to the side of his head.
Out like a light.
"That was clean," he thought, nodding to himself.
Two more thugs rushed in. One had a Hurley. The other, a machete.
Oh great.
"Gonna knock that freaky mask off your face!" the Hurley guy howled.
The Hurley came first, fast, but sloppy. Darren weaved under the swing, stepped in, and hammered a left elbow into the guy's chin. He staggered. Darren grabbed his collar, twisted, and kneed him in the balls. The man dropped like a sack.
"Sorry," Darren muttered. "Sort of."
The machete guy lunged. Darren pivoted, slipped the blade's arc, and countered with a snapping side kick that blasted into the man's chest.
The thug flew backward, smashing through the rusted door of a warehouse. The impact rang out across the alley.
"Oh come on, he went flying! That was barely half power. I was holding back, I swear. God, I hope he's not dead."
Darren turned, just in time.
Hurley guy, dazed but standing, came back for round two.
"I'll cave your skull in, you mask-wearing bastard!"
Darren ducked, uppercut, CRACK. The man's eyes rolled. He collapsed.
Darren wiped his mouth with the back of his glove.
"Night night." He muttered.
Then he froze.
Wait. There were four at the van… one behind me.
He counted again.
Where the fuck's the fifth guy?
A crunch of gravel behind him, too late to dodge.
A fist slammed into Darren's ribs like a wrecking ball. His body folded sideways with a grunt, boots skidding across the wet cobblestone. Fuck me, okay, there he is.
Big lad. Built like a brick shithouse. No mask. Scar down one cheek, buzzcut, arms like steel cables. He didn't say a word, just rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles like he enjoyed this sort of thing.
"Alright," Darren muttered, chest burning. "You're a big fucker, aren't ya."
The man charged.
Darren barely got his guard up before he was lifted clean off the ground, back slamming into a rusted dumpster. Metal screamed. His brain went blurghghgh kill kill run maybe both fuck ow fuck. He ducked a wild haymaker, dropped low, and hammered a nasty body shot into the bastard's gut.
Nothing.
Oh come on.
"Ah for fuck's sake," Darren muttered under his breath, sidestepping just enough to let the blow graze his shoulder instead of letting loose. "Why do I always get the ones built like brick shitters? Still gotta hold back, can't kill every gobshite who throws a punch at my beautiful face."
Darren twisted, drove a knee into the guy's thigh, then followed up with a left hook that cracked something. The man's head snapped sideways, but he didn't go down. Just grinned and spat blood.
"Gonna snap your twiggy neck, princess," the thug sneered.
"Cool," Darren breathed. "Love that typa shit."
The guy came in swinging, hook, elbow, stomp. Darren blocked most of it, but the last strike clipped his ear and rattled his skull. He stumbled, boots slipping in the rain-slick alley, but kept upright by instinct alone.
Then open.
Darren roared and fired a teep straight into the man's chest. This time he put in more power.
The big man went airborne like he'd been hit by a truck, launching clean off his feet and crashing into the side of the van with a thunderous BANG. Metal groaned, the reactor crate inside jolting visibly from the force.
"That one... yeah, that might've cracked a rib."
Darren followed fast. One-two punch to the face, each blow landing with bone-snapping weight, then a brutal low kick to the shin. The big guy reeled
and came back with a fucking knee that slammed into Darren's sternum.
OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK.
Darren dropped to one hand, coughing, lungs heaving.
Okay. Okay. Come on. You've taken worse. Get up ya stupid fuck.
He surged upward with a savage headbutt. CRACK. That dazed the bastard. Darren spun, elbowed the man in the jaw with a CRUNCH that shook his arm, then pivoted and drove a front kick into his face with full superhuman strength.
He didn't hold back this time. Not even a bit.
The big man flew.
Literally. Smashed through rusted sheet metal and crumbling brick like a battering ram. The wall exploded inwards, debris flying. The guy vanished into the shadows of the warehouse with a crash of splintered crates and warping steel.
Darren staggered back, wiping blood from his mouth, panting like a dog, chest heaving, soaked in rain and blood and sweat.
"Yeah," he gasped. "Stay... down, ya tanky bollocks."