[DUBLIN – STREET LEVEL, 4:20 PM]
Boots hit stone. Hard. Darren stumbled on the landing. Ankles jolted. Left knee tweaked. Hoodie soaked and clinging. The wind bit into the bruises already forming beneath his ribs.
He didn't stop. Couldn't.
Screams. Sirens. A child crying somewhere behind the wreckage. All background noise now.
Diaz stomped through the chaos, steps heavy enough to rattle windows. Sparks lit the mist. The street was cracked beneath his boots.
"HEY, SCRAPHEAD!" Darren yelled, chucking a chunk of brick.
It pinged off Diaz's shoulder. Nothing.
The helmet turned. Red slits found him.
"YOU!"
No time to quip. No time to think.
Diaz lunged.
Darren moved. Fast. Faster than most could. But not fast enough.
First fist missed.
Second one didn't.
Crack.
Pain lanced his side.
Deep. Crushed ribs. Maybe broken.
He screamed through gritted teeth as he flew sideways and hit the cobbles. Rain washed into his mouth. Smoke burned his nostrils.
Focus.
His hands fumbled for ground. Elbows buckled. Knees scraped. He pushed himself upright, pain flaring.
He saw her.
A little girl. Crouched beneath a bench. Frozen. Sobbing. Eyes wide, locked on the flames.
Above her, concrete groaned.
The tram wreck embedded in the building shifted, structural beams screaming. A slab of steel and stone, massive, started to fall.
No time.
Darren moved.
One breath. One motion. All instinct.
He lunged.
The debris dropped.
He caught it.
Everything went white. Knees collapsed. Back bent. Shoulder screamed. Jaw locked so tight it felt like it might crack.
He threw it.
Concrete thundered against the road. Shattered on impact.
The girl shrieked.
He crouched next to her, breath shallow and scraping.
"Go," he panted. "See the Guards? Run. Now."
She ran.
And Darren...
He didn't get to stand.
Diaz grabbed the back of his hoodie and lifted.
Spine stretched. Vision went red. Every nerve in his neck screamed.
And then—
SLAM.
Panic lit his chest. As Diaz lifted him for the second time
SLAM.
Concrete split. Darren's back flared with pain. Shoulder dislocated on impact. He heard the pop.
Head whipped. Skull cracked pavement. His vision flashed white. Ears howled.
A second blow coming.
He rolled. Just in time.
Palms scraped stone. Rain soaked his gloves. Blood on his lips.
He struck upward with his right. The left arm hung limp. His breath caught from the movement.
Thunk.
Hit landed, but Diaz didn't feel it. No reaction. No sound.
He pivoted. Drove his knee at Diaz's thigh. Bounced off. Shoulder screamed. Couldn't raise that arm.
He slipped around Diaz, keeping low. Tried an elbow strike from the right. The mech twisted, barely phased. Darren was breathing hard now—his movements tight, shallow, compensating for his left side.
Every motion jolted pain down his ribs. The dislocated shoulder hung heavy and wrong, useless and flaring white-hot agony every time he forgot and let it shift.
He used only his right now, kicks, backfists, a quick knee that landed but did nothing. Just tactics. Footwork. Stay moving. Stay small.
He ducked a wide swing. Rain blurred his vision.
He slipped. Recovered. Slid sideways into a low kick. Diaz didn't budge.
Elbow connected with his skull.
Flash of light. Ears popped. Legs buckled.
Keep going.
He surged forward, slammed a kick into Diaz's chest. It barely moved him. One step back.
Darren followed. One-two. Pain shot through his knuckles. Bone-on-metal contact. His glove tore at the seam.
Diaz cocked back.
Darren couldn't dodge.
BOOM.
Chest caved inward. Breath gone. Air knocked clean from his lungs.
He flew. This time harder. Faster.
Tram car stopped his flight. Metal dented. Glass shattered. Bones rattled. He dropped, limp, to the street.
Everything hurt.
His right arm shook. Left arm screamed when he tried to move it. Shoulder dislocated. He gasped. Tried to breathe through the rising panic.
"Move, move…"
He crawled. Dragged himself behind cover. Breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
He pressed his shoulder against the edge of a bin. Grit his teeth.
Slid.
Pop.
White-hot pain. He almost blacked out.
But the arm worked again. Sort of. Numb. Weak. But usable.
Diaz still coming. Steam rising off him. A walking furnace of hate and power.
Darren forced himself up. Legs trembling. Rain stinging his eyes.
He coughed. Red hit the pavement.
He was strong enough to survive a grenade blast or fall five stories — but this? Not forever.
He staggered sideways. Slipped again.
Diaz raised the cannon.
Darren dove behind wreckage, scraped his shoulder again, nearly vomited from the shock. His whole left side throbbed like a drum.
No more hits. Not one more.
He blinked away water. Blinked away blood.
Diaz stepped through flames.
Darren's fists clenched. His legs shook. His thoughts scattered.
But something locked in.
"New plan," he muttered.
His voice was hoarse. Raw.
"Don't get hit."
[SHIELD TEMPORARY OUTPOST – 4:35 PM]
Inside the mobile command van, the air buzzed with low hums and tight breath. Flickering feeds from drones, streetcams, police dash units, all synced into a web of surveillance over Dublin's downtown.
Blue and green displays flickered in dim lighting. Rain streaked across the reinforced windows. A hum from the satellite dish overhead. The tension was palpable.
Dr. Malhotra hovered over a tablet, one hand buried in cables, the other scribbling notes.
"Rookie!" he snapped. "You plugged the output into the diagnostic! Fix it. Now."
The young agent flinched and stammered. "Yes, right away, Doctor."
Kwan's voice cut through. "Target visual. Camera six. Rooftop entry. He's in."
Park tapped the terminal. "Confirming. That's Diaz. Exosuit signature is a match."
The screen locked onto grainy drone footage — Diaz stomping into frame. Glitching armor. Exposed core. Purple power flaring through the fractured metal.
Malhotra's tone dropped. "Former Raft inmate. Suit specialist. Should've disappeared. Didn't."
Hill's silhouette loomed behind them. Arms crossed. Eyes cold.
"Somehow he got his hands on alien tech. Again."
Park toggled cams. Another angle. Another feed.
Darren hit street level.
Leaping. Darting. Slipping.
Hill's jaw tightened.
"Sentinel's in. No backup."
Kwan: "He doesn't need backup?"
"No," Hill said. "He's the test."
Park: "Ma'am?"
Hill's gaze stayed locked on the feed. "Let them fight. We watch. We learn."
Malhotra: "Suit's running too hot. Power core's unstable. If it ruptures, that's a street-level explosion."
Hill: "Good. Push him."
They watched.
Sentinel thrown. Slammed. Pinned.
He crawled behind cover.
On screen: Darren pressing his dislocated shoulder to a dumpster.
The rookie leaned in, eyes wide. "He's not... he's not gonna..."
Pop.
Darren's scream was silent on the feed. The motion wasn't. The shudder. The recoil. The face twisted with raw pain.
The rookie turned away, gagged, then bolted toward the rear of the van.
A retch.
Hill didn't move.
Malhotra didn't blink.
He simply said, "Mark the timestamp. Run biomechanics comparison. That joint shouldn't be usable."
The drone feeds kept rolling.