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 hit 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. Five of them. Shoulders hunched against the rain, movements tense and clumsy.
Two of them had a crate between them, shuffling it sideways through the lane. Heavy. Had to be. You could see it in the way they moved - short steps, backs bent, not talking. The lid had shifted slightly, just enough, and a faint purple glow was leaking out across the wet cobblestones, throwing strange shadows up the walls.
He knew that colour.
Everyone did, 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. America's problem.
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 Diaz was paying them.
He pressed himself flat behind a skip and pulled the notebook from his jacket. Phone next - he wedged it against the edge of the skip, camera just barely poking over the top. Hit record. Red light. Good.
One guy was looking at the crate. "What's in it?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It's humming."
"Yeah it does that. Don't touch it. Grab that end."
He glanced at his phone. Still recording. The purple glow was catching on camera, barely - just a faint wash of colour in the dark. Better than nothing.
crate - heavy - humming - tech?
They lifted again. One guy had his end too high and the other fella hissed at him to lower it. They made it another few metres before setting it down by the van.
"Careful, Jesus, careful with it."
"I'm feckin trying. You heard what Diaz said. One scratch and we're done."
Diaz. Second time this week. Kept coming up with the worst crowd. He needed to figure out who that was before it bit him in the arse.
"Where's this going?"
"Van. Where d'you think. Would you stop askin questions and just carry the fuckin thing."
They heaved it up into the back. Thud. Then footsteps coming back down the lane.
He angled the phone toward the van. Got the plates. Wrote them down anyway in case the footage came out too dark.
van reg - plates - moving product offsite
The new lad was the first one back. Stood there rubbing his hands together while the others filed in behind him. Then opened his mouth again.
"Who's big lad?"
"...you're havin' me on."
"I'm not havin' you on I literally started two-"
"Lads. Lads he doesn't know big lad."
"Ah Jaysus."
"Would you stop with the questions."
"I'm just askin-"
"You've been just askin all night."
He turned the page. Pen ready.
"Big muscly freak. Shows up sometimes. Above Diaz. Don't talk to him."
"His face is weird."
"Yeah his face is weird. Anyway he gave Pat one of them things for tonight just in case."
"In case what?"
"In case someone shows up. What do you think."
Something cold moved through his stomach.
"Does it work?"
"Pat says big lad says five minutes and that's more than enough. So."
"More than enough for what?"
"Oh my god. For whatever needs doing. Now stop askin questions and help me with the next one."
They disappeared back down the lane toward the shed. He stayed where he was.
big lad - above diaz - face wrong - gave pat something. 5 mins. contingency.
He stared at the last word. Underlined it. Reached over and stopped the recording. Pocketed the phone.
Contingency for what. Contingency for someone like him showing up. That's what that meant. He knew that's what that meant.
"We gotta get it there before dawn," one of them said coming back, low and urgent. "And be careful you eejit. Diaz wants that reactor cell intact. Big lad's been asking about it all week. Paying well."
Big lad. Twice now. Face wrong. Above Diaz. Gave them something that lasted five minutes and was more than enough for whatever needs doing.
He closed the notebook.
Call the Gardaí? They'd be gone before the guards get here. 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.
Young face. Sixteen, maybe. Didn't recognise him.
"Shit! Someone's over there!"
"Who the fuck is that?"
"Is that the - is that the mask fella?"
"What mask fella?"
"The mask fella! Doyler was talking about him, some lunatic running around -"
"Shut up and get the crate in the van!"
Frantic shuffling. Metal scraping stone.
"Where's the gun?"
"Jimmy had it!"
"Well Jimmy's fuckin asleep isn't he!"
"Give me the machete!"
"I don't need a pussy machete, you fuckin retard!"
Two of them broke from the van. One had a crowbar. The other had a hurley.
A hurley.
"Oh you have got to be joking."
The crowbar lad he half-recognised. Skinny, bad neck tattoo, one of those faces you see around and can never place.
"Come on then, hero."
The crowbar came in wide. Way too much shoulder. Darren was already inside the arc, close enough to smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. Short sharp shot to the liver. The crowbar clattered. Knees buckled, mouth open, nothing coming out. Knee to the jaw on the way down.
Out.
The hurley whistled in from his right. He dropped under it before his brain caught up with his ears, felt the ash cut the air where his skull had been, came up behind the swing.
This one he knew of. Stocky, ginger, used to drink in Grogan's before he got barred.
"Fuck off out of it!" Swinging again. High and panicked.
Darren leaned back. The hurley passed an inch from his chin. "That's a nice hurley. Shame about the technique."
Stepped in. Elbow up hard under the jaw. Head rocked back. Eyes went glassy. But he didn't go down. Grabbed at Darren's jacket with one hand, still holding the hurley with the other.
"Let go."
"Fuck you."
"Grand."
Knee to the crotch. The grip released. The hurley clattered and the lad folded.
"Sorry about that. Bit."
Movement at the van. The machete one stepping clear of the crate. Holding the blade out in front of him the way you hold something you've never used on a person.
The new lad. The one asking all the questions. Of course it was.
"Ah, c'mon. You don't wanna do this."
The kid looked at his three mates on the ground. Looked at the machete in his own hand like he'd forgotten he was holding it.
"What's your name?"
"What?"
"Your name."
"Why the fuck would I tell you my -"
"Because I'm giving you a chance to walk away and I'd like to know who I'm giving it to."
The machete lowered an inch.
"Drop it. Go home. Whatever Diaz is paying you isn't worth this."
The machete hit the cobblestones. "Fuck this," the kid said, voice cracking, and ran.
Darren watched him go.
Smart choice, kid.
Four down. One runner. Grand. Done. Call the guards. Go home.
He turned back to the van. Three unconscious. One crate. One missing.
Wait.
Four at the van. One behind him. Five.
Where's the fifth?
Behind the van, someone screamed.
Not shouted. Screamed. Starting low in the chest and tearing its way up and out through a throat that sounded like it was changing shape around the sound. It hit a pitch that didn't belong in a human voice and hung there, shaking, before it cut off into a choked wet gurgle.
Every hair on his body stood up.
A crack. Bone. That was bone.
Another. Then two quick together. Shoes scraping cobblestones. A body hitting the side of the van, the metal giving a dull rattle.
Then another scream. The voice shredding itself on the way out, breaking into something half howl and half sob. In between - fast uneven pops and crunches, fistfuls of dry twigs snapped beside your ear, mixed underneath with slower heavier cracks, old wood splitting down the middle.
Then a howl. Not a word. Not human. A long ragged animal sound ripping out of a throat that still technically belonged to a person.
Then silence.
Rain. His heartbeat.
He'd never heard anything like this. Closest thing was some body horror film he'd watched at fourteen that kept him up three nights running. Rubber and makeup and a director yelling cut.
Nobody was yelling cut.
Every part of him knew he should be more scared than he was. That was probably a problem for another day.
Footsteps. Heavy. Uneven at first, then finding their rhythm. Coming around the van.
Too fast for something that size.
He spun.
Too late.
The fist caught him square in the ribs and his boots left the ground. He hit the alley wall shoulder-first, brick dust and pain at the same time, bounced off it onto the cobblestones.
He rolled. Got his feet under him. Up.
The fifth man came around the van.
Darren's skin crawled.
What the fuck is that.
That thing had to be Pat. The one they said big lad gave something to.
One shoulder higher than the other. Whole frame at a crooked slant. Chest too broad for the alley. Arms thick in a way that read less like strength than strain. Dark veins standing out beneath the skin of his neck and hands. He didn't look finished. Like his body still hadn't decided where everything was meant to go.
His face was wet. Not rain. Tear tracks through the grime on his cheeks, snot on his upper lip.
"That is fucking disgusting. Eugh."
What the fuck did he just do to himself? Jesus fucking christ.
The man didn't speak. Just rolled his neck, cracking it once, and came forward.
A fist like a wrecking ball slammed into his ribs.
The world folded sideways. Boots skidding across the slick cobblestones, vision spiking white at the edges, breath driven completely out of him all at once.
What in the actual-
"Alright," Darren muttered, pressing a hand to his ribs. Still breathing. Probably not broken. "You're a big fella, 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.
It looked awful. The smile looked like he was in agony. Like the muscles in his face were violently pulled up and to the side. There was something grotesque to it. Something that made Darren's stomach flip flop.
Ugh I think I'm gonna be sick
He just came forward, lopsided and fast, faster than something built like that had any right to be, his gate uneven because his legs weren't quite the same length anymore, one hip sitting lower than the other, but it didn't slow him down. It just made him harder to read.
Darren sidestepped. Got the jab in. Clean connection to the jaw.
The man's head moved with it but the rest of him didn't. Like the hit hadn't fully registered yet. Like the message was travelling a longer route than it should.
Shit.
He came again. No wind-up, no tell. Just that lurching uneven charge. Darren slipped left and drove an elbow into his ribs.
Good contact. Solid.
Nothing.
The man didn't flinch. Didn't grunt. Just turned toward Darren the way something turns toward a sound, head tilting slightly at an angle that was almost curious if it wasn't so deeply unsettling. Like pain was information he was receiving but hadn't decided what to do with yet.
He didn't get his guard back up in time. A hand locked onto his jacket, the grip wrong, fingers too thick, not bending the way fingers should, and lifted him clean off the ground. Drove him backwards into a rusted dumpster. Metal screamed. Pain exploded across his spine.
Vision blurred for a second, his brain going blurghghgh fucker ow shit fuck.
He dropped, forced his eyes to focus, shook his head once. The dumpster had a new dent the rough shape of his back. The fist came down where his head had been a moment ago, crashing into the metal with a sound like a gunshot, leaving a crater that had no business coming from a human hand.
The man pulled his hand out with knuckles bleeding and broken in at least two places. He looked at them. Opened and closed his fist a couple times. Two of the fingers didn't close. He just kept going.
Darren rolled sideways. Up.
"You're slow, big lad."
Body shot to the midsection. Everything he had. In and out before the hands could grab.
The man looked down at where he'd been hit. Put his hand on the spot. Pressed it. Pressed it harder. Frowned. Like he was trying to find something that was supposed to hurt and couldn't.
Oh come on!
Then he swung again, the same wide lurching arc.
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."
The tracking was the worst part. The eyes were still there, still a person behind them somewhere... but it was deep and not comin' out any time soon.
Fine. Stop pussyfooting around him.
Behind him. Two quick jabs to the kidney on the way past. Moving before the man finished turning.
The man swung. Darren was already under it. Swung again. Already past it. The fist went through empty air and Darren hit him twice in the ribs from a place he wasn't looking.
How many minutes now?
He planted his back foot and went in. Heavy knee to the outside of the thigh. Pivoted off it and threw a left hook. Hip, shoulder, fist, all turning over in one clean line.
The man's head snapped sideways. Spit caught the light.
That grin faltered.
"Felt that one, didn't ya?"
The man straightened. Rolled his jaw slowly, testing it. The joint cracked, too loud, and he didn't react to that either. Spat blood onto the cobblestones.
"Gonna snap your neck, princess," he said.
The voice was wrong. It was gurgly like there was blood in his vocal cords and airy and whistley at the same time like some of his air wasn't going through the vocal chords correctly.
"You'll have to catch me first, mate."
Darren flexed his fingers, knuckles throbbing slightly, adrenaline surging hot through his veins.
"Last chance mate," Darren said, voice dropping. "Walk away."
The man lunged. Both arms. No technique. Just force.
Darren ducked the first. Stepped inside the second. Uppercut through the guard. Right cross to the jaw.
The man staggered. First time he'd moved backwards all fight.
Still didn't go down.
Mid-swing, the arm stuttered. Misfire. The muscles locking then releasing wrong. Follow-through a half-beat late.
The man looked at his own arm.
There it is.
Five minutes.
"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 next swing was slower. His left leg buckled. His breathing changed. Harder. Wetter.
Another swing. Caught the edge of Darren's shoulder and even at half-strength it spun him sideways.
He pivoted, let the momentum carry the man past, planted his foot, drove a front kick square into his back.
The man flew, hit the van hard enough to buckle the side panel, and slid to the ground in a heap of groaning metal and laboured breathing.
Darren exhaled sharply, shaking out his aching fists, his pulse still roaring.
The man hit the van hard enough to buckle the side panel and slid to the ground. Tried to push himself up. Arm gave out. Tried again. One knee. Whole frame shaking.
"Stay down, you stubborn prick. For both our sakes."
The man looked up at him. The grin was gone. Underneath it was just a face. Confused. Frightened. Eyes wet.
He tried to stand. His legs went and he hit the cobblestones face-first.
Didn't get up.
The man's back arched off the cobblestones and he screamed. Full-throated and ragged, every tendon in his neck standing out, hands clawing at the ground, nails scraping stone. His legs kicked out once, twice, heels cracking against the cobblestones.
The shoulder that had been sitting too high lurched downward. His arm snapped to his side and he screamed again, the sound breaking apart halfway into a wet choking howl.
"Oh that's rank," Darren muttered, but he didn't look away.
The man's chest caved inward. In jolts. The ribcage contracting in visible lurches, each one pulling another sound out of him. His spine curved and uncurved. His jaw clenched so tight the teeth grinding carried across the alley.
The dark veins faded in patches. One arm first. Then the other. Then his neck. The skin underneath pale and loose and slack. Stretched past what it was made for.
His legs shortened. You could see it happen. The frame pulling inward in real time. The man wasn't screaming anymore. The sound coming out of him was quiet and high and continuous, barely a sound at all, like air being let out of something that couldn't hold it.
His skin crawled. Not fear exactly. More like walking through a cobweb in the dark. Full-body heebie jeebies.
Degree by degree. Until what was left was just a man. Ordinarily big. Human big.
The sound stopped.
He lay on the cobblestones breathing in short wet gasps. Eyes open. Not seeing anything.
His breathing was shallow and fast and wet.
He was alive.
He pulled out his phone.
"Gardaí? Yeah, hi. There's been an incident near Camden Street. You'll want a van. A big one." A pause. "And maybe don't touch the glowing box."
He hung up before they could ask questions and started walking.
His ribs ached. His hands were buzzing. He kept hearing that first scream. The way it changed halfway through. The tear tracks on the man's face underneath that grin.
Five minutes and that's more than enough.
Whatever big lad gave him, it wasn't a one-off. Those scars said repeat customer. And the man was nobody. Muscle on a crew that worked for a fella that worked for a fella. If this stuff was making it that far down the chain then someone was making a lot of it and someone didn't care what it did to the people taking it.
Something was moving through Dublin.
He didn't know what yet.
Somewhere in Berlin, a screen flickered to life.
INCIDENT ALPHA-213 - DUBLIN, IRELAND. POTENTIAL ENHANCED.
An old man looked at the footage for a long moment.
"Eyes on Dublin," he said quietly. "Observation only."
Then he went back to work.