[DUBLIN – ROOFTOP, CITY CENTRE – 4:27 PM]
Darren was supposed to be patrolling.
Instead, he was lying flat on a rooftop like a lazy gargoyle, eating crisps straight from the bag, mask pulled down, feet kicking in the air like he was sixteen again and on summer holidays.
Phone in hand. Vine open. ADHD in full, chaotic bloom.
"WHAT ARE THOOOOSE!"
cackle
"My Watermalone!"
cackle
"Storytime!"
wheeze
Swipe. Scroll. Laugh. Repeat.
Hop to Twitter, back to Vine.
Are crisps a real dinner?
Would Áine like crisps?
Why am I thinking about Áine?
No, hang on, this cat video is genius
He almost dropped the phone laughing at a guy falling off a chair yelling "it's WEDNESDAY my dudes"
And then...
BOOM.
The rooftop shuddered. Darren yelped, involuntarily squeezing the crisp bag in his fist. Crisps exploded from the bag, fluttering everywhere.
He blinked. Sat up, fast.
BOOM.
Second one. Closer. Deep, heavy, wrong.
His phone skittered away across slate. He didn't even glance after it.
Mask up. Hood tight. Body already in motion, heart tripping into overdrive.
He moved before he could think.
He launched himself off the edge of the rooftop.
Boots slammed down onto slippery slate at a bad angle. Momentum surged. He skidded wildly, arms windmilling, grabbing blindly at air, his left hand smashed into a chimney stack, fingers clutching tight. Clay cracked beneath his grip, flakes tumbling down the roof.
"Okay, okay, bad roof. Noted."
He didn't stop.
He dropped onto a lower extension, landing heavy. Skidded again, balance tilted dangerously. His knee buckled, he pivoted clumsily, shoved off without pausing.
No pause. No plan. Just motion.
Fuck it. Just GO.
This wasn't New York. Not some perfect parkour playground. This was Dublin, chaotic, mismatched, roofs built by bored builders centuries ago who'd never considered idiots like him might someday run across them.
Peaked gables. Random drops. Slate rooftops slicked with grime and rain and pigeon shit. Nothing aligned. Nothing helped.
He vaulted a gap, six feet horizontal, two vertical, boot slipped on algae, ankle twisted, he rolled with it instinctively, tucked, shoulder slammed tiles, body rolling forward. Bounced upright.
He caught a gutter mid-swing, metal protesting loudly beneath his grip. His momentum whipped him around, boots landing on a fire escape with a clang. He swung like a wrecking ball and flung himself toward a fire escape, boots clanging as he bounded up it, three steps with every lunge.
Fast. Unthinking. Clockwork.
BOOM.
Closer. Sharper. Glass shattered somewhere below.
Screams now, real, terrified, too loud.
"Shitshitshitshitshit."
He sprang from the last step onto the next roof, barely a foot of ledge. Didn't slow. Just ran it like a tightrope, every muscle in his legs tensed like springs.
One rusty vent pipe. Kicked off. Cleared the drop. Hit corrugated metal hard. One boot punched straight through, metal tearing around his ankle.
"FUCK."
He snarled, ripped it out, stumbled, sprinted again.
He snarled, ripped himself free, ignored the stab of pain, stumbled forward into another desperate sprint.
Slate transitioned to brick. Brick gave way to a rusted-out ladder that snapped halfway up.
He leapt anyway.
Midair twist. Snatched a drainpipe. Swung. Released. Hit the next rooftop heavily, momentum never faltering.
Rain hammered him now. Soaked his hoodie. Dripped into his mask.
His breath rasped hard and hot through clenched teeth. Chest burned. Limbs pumping fast, not perfect, not polished, but sharp.
He was running faster than he ever had. Muscles firing in sync. Feet barely touching the ground before pushing off again.
What if it's a bomb? What if it's alien? What if I'm not enough?
Shut UP. MOVE.
The skyline cracked open like a wound.
Purple flashes lit plumes of smoke. Sirens wailed.
He scrambled up a half-crumbled brick wall, fingers scraping painfully against cement, hauled himself onto the final ledge.
Dropped into a crouch, panting.
Heart jackhammering. Arms trembling. Vision swimming.
And there it was:
Smoke.
Fire.
Screams.
Everything was on fire. Or at least it felt that way.
Darren's heart pounded like it wanted out of his ribcage, adrenaline sizzling hot in his veins. He skidded to a halt at the rooftop edge, staring down at the chaos below.
The tram was sprawled halfway into a shopfront, its back carriage flipped like a broken toy. Bits of twisted metal littered the pavement. Fires spat from overturned bins, thick smoke curling into the grey sky.
He'd done the drills—they'd all done the drills—but this was real. Dublin had never actually had a supervillain before. Panic fractured through the practiced responses. Civilians scattered in all directions, voices tangled into frightened static:
"Go, GO, move now!"
"Jesus Christ, where's the shelter?"
"The alley—go, run!"
A woman staggered clear of the wreck, blood streaming down her sleeve, face pale but determined. She pointed frantically toward an alley marked by a faded green sign reading: "SUPERHUMAN INCIDENT SHELTER →".
Under a bench, a small girl curled into herself, sobbing, eyes huge with terror, screaming for a mother who wasn't answering. Darren's gut twisted painfully.
And at the heart of it all stood… something. Darren's brain momentarily short-circuited.
"What the fuck am I looking at?"
The suit, if you could call it that, was a Frankenstein disaster. the thing looked half-built, like someone started making a war machine and rage-quit halfway through. A mess of scorched plating, exposed wires, and glowing purple veins that crackled with electricity. One shoulder was bulkier than the other, bronze-colored, dented to hell. The other looked newer, shinier, almost like it came from a different suit entirely. Some of it looked like scrap metal. Some looked military-grade. It was impossible to tell what was original and what was improvised.
The helmet was even worse: featureless steel, glaring red slits for eyes. No mouth, no expression. Just this heavy, glaring skull.
The figure jerked forward, heavy steps cracking the pavement. Despite the clunky bulk, he moved with unnatural speed—less controlled, more like the suit was dragging him along for the ride.
Then Darren noticed the gun clenched in the thing's huge mechanical fist. His stomach dropped..
Chitauri. Definitely Chitauri..
Had to be. He'd seen it a million times online, grainy videos from New York, footage of Iron Man and Cap throwing down against aliens. Only this one was butchered beyond recognition, chopped down and haphazardly welded onto a crude human grip. Wires spilled from its sides, sparks spitting wildly.
The figure roared, voice warped by a broken modulator, static-edged and furious:
"WHERE'S THAT MASKED LITTLE SHIT? THAT SHIPMENT WAS MINE! Because of YOU, the fuckin' Gardaí took my gear!"
Shipment?
Oh, shit. Shipment.
Memories flashed through Darren's head like a panicked slideshow: the lads in the alleyway days ago, the glowing crate, panicked voices…
"Diaz'll kill us if we lose this crate."
Diaz.
Oh.
OH FUCK.
He'd meant to follow up on that, do some digging, check forums, ask around. Instead, he'd gotten distracted by selfies and mythology classes and...
Another blast snapped Darren back to reality, energy sizzling from Diaz's butchered weapon, carving a fresh smoking hole through a parked car. The explosion threw debris everywhere, shattering shop windows and sending screams echoing through the square.
sending metal shrapnel scattering like bullets. More screaming. More running.
His pulse roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. Darren's legs felt locked in place, feet cemented to the rooftop, panic clawing at the back of his throat. He was in way over his head. This wasn't a bar fight or a mugging. This was serious.
But people needed help. That little girl needed help. He couldn't just stand there. No choice. None at all.
Darren sucked in a ragged breath, forcing the tremor from his limbs, clenched his fists, and adjusted his mask with shaking fingers.
"Fuck it," Darren muttered, vaulting the rooftop's edge, hurtling down toward the smoke, flames, and chaos, hoping desperately that this wouldn't be the last stupid decision he'd ever make.