He didn't ask where they were going. Chapman hadn't said.
Just:
"Come with me."
So he did. No limp. No hitch. No hesitation.
The pain was still there, ribs, knees, eye, but distant. Sectioned off. Background noise. He didn't flinch. Didn't wince. He walked.
Mask tight. Contacts in. The upgraded suit clung to him like a second skin.
Sentinel followed. Steel halls opened ahead, clinical and humming. White light overhead. Cameras tracked. Doors opened without being touched.
No one spoke to him. They glanced. Then looked away.
Chapman walked ahead, the only sound his boots, precise, heavy, the pace of a man who'd never rushed for anything. The kind of pace you matched or got left behind.
Sentinel matched it.
They passed armed agents, doors marked SECURE, glass walls hiding labs with tech Darren didn't have names for, but Sentinel didn't stop to gawk. He absorbed, filed away.
Observed.
A voice cut through the corridor. Nervous. Male. Clipped vowels.
"Sergeant Chapman, sir, he's still healing. This is highly irregular—"
The man wore a white coat. Nervously twitching as he gestured to a clipboard.
Chapman didn't stop walking. Didn't even look at him.
"Orders came through. Field viability test. I run it before I let him walk out of here. Sorry, doctor."
"But his vitals—"
"Not your call."
Chapman tapped the door panel. It hissed open.
Sentinel stepped through.
The room beyond was wide. Echoing. Cold.
Steel floors. Reinforced walls. Scuff marks where boots had dragged. Dried blood in one corner. A training space made to break people or prove they couldn't be broken.
The door hissed shut behind him.
The room was empty.
Except for Chapman.
He turned. Rolled his shoulders once. Pulled a pair of reinforced gloves tighter at the wrist. Cracked his neck. No drama. No show.
Just ready.
"Don't think. Move."
Sentinel didn't speak.
His hands came up.
The test had begun.
Chapman struck first.
No buildup. No warning. Just a snapkick to the inside of the knee, pivoting instantly into a throat jab. Smooth. Precise. Fast.
Sentinel moved before thinking. Already reacting. Deflecting. Countering. His ribs protested but didn't slow him. Every step landed light. Measured.
Chapman went for a joint lock, Sentinel twisted through it. A back elbow grazed his jaw. He flowed with it. Retaliated. Snap-kick to the shin. Elbow to the sternum. Controlled. Non-lethal.
It wasn't Darren fighting anymore.
Sentinel was clean. Focused. Cold. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. No thoughts, only noise tucked away, ignored, buzzing in some far back room of his head.
Chapman adjusted, fast. He was brutal. Efficient. No wind-ups, no wasted effort. Knife-heavy movements. Joint breaks. Throat shots. Every strike was the end of a sentence. No flair. Just finish.
Sentinel flowed around it. Took some hits. Landed others. Never broke rhythm.
Pain existed, but didn't matter.
He flipped past a shoulder grab, rolled off a wall, struck low. Chapman deflected, countered, aimed for the neck. Sentinel blocked... barely.
The older man pulled up short.
An inch from connection.
Breathing hard.
Focus razor-thin.
The noise was still there, buzzing in the back of his skull like static. Thoughts clawing to get out. But it was locked down now. Tucked in a box. Sealed.
He didn't need them.
Not right now.
Sentinel kept his guard up. Shoulders tight. Elbows tucked. Weight shifting light on the balls of his feet.
But no matter how hard he tried Chapman didn't break.
He was slower, sure, but never out of position. Never out of range.
Every opening Sentinel thought he saw closed before it was real.
Every faint tell in Chapman's movement was a trap.
And every time Sentinel struck, Chapman made him pay for it.
A clean jab to the ribs. A leg sweep that almost folded his healing knee. A grip on the wrist that turned into a shoulder twist that had him on the mat for half a second too long.
The difference in skill was clear.
Cold. Brutal. Everything designed to end a fight fast and leave no bruises on his conscience.
Sentinel was faster. Stronger. Technically superior, if you were grading physicals.
But Chapman had experience. Timing. Control. And no pain.
Sentinel had pain.
It was everywhere.
Ribs flaring. Knee trembling. Eye throbbing with every shift in light. But he kept going. Adjusted. Ducked low. Switched stance. Kicked at the hip, elbowed at the jaw, spun to keep momentum-
Chapman caught him mid-turn.
Not a punch. A shoulder check. Compact. Clinical. Right into the solar plexus.
Sentinel staggered. Mask rattled. Air gone.
He caught himself on instinct, dropping low into a roll, coming back up with a guard, but Chapman didn't press.
Didn't need to.
He'd made his point.
Sentinel exhaled. Shallow. Still no thoughts. Just the shape of a rhythm in his head. A beat to follow. A pressure to ignore.
Pain still there.
But quiet now.
So he reset. Lifted his hands. Chin down.
And waited.
Because this wasn't over.
Not until Chapman said it was.
Minutes. Maybe longer. No one had spoken.
A cracked mat. A broken floor tile. Blood dried on Chapman's glove.
Sentinel's chest rose once. Twice.
Chapman lowered his hands.
Looked him over.
A pause.
Then a nod.
Once.
Approval.
No words. No gesture. Just the barest dip of Chapman's chin. Sentinel didn't move. Didn't relax. He held position until the older man turned and walked toward the door.
Then...
A jolt.
Like surfacing from water too fast.
Darren gasped.
Everything hit him at once. Every ache, every nerve, every scream from bone and muscle that had been locked in the box too long.
His chest seized. His vision swam.
He dropped to his knees and vomited onto the mat.
Just bile. Acid. Strings of it catching in his mask. He tore it off, gagging, coughing. Breathing like someone who'd just escaped drowning.
He curled forward on instinct, one arm wrapped around his ribs. The other trembling, braced on the floor.
Pain. Real pain. No filter. No box.
It clawed through every joint, every bruise, every split seam inside him.
His mind buzzed. Not just the static, everything. Thoughts slamming in with no space between.
I lost. I couldn't keep up. He wasn't even trying. I fought like hell and it didn't matter. I'm not ready. I'm not...
A boot scraped the floor.
"Get up."
Darren's eyes flicked up.
Chapman. Same tone. Same face.
He didn't repeat himself.
Darren forced air into his lungs. Pulled himself up. Slow. One breath at a time.
The mask hung from one hand. His suit was soaked through.
Bandages already darkening under the seams.
But he stood.
And followed.
They moved again.
Different corridors now. Smaller. Colder. Darren didn't recognize them. Didn't ask. He just moved where Chapman moved.
Steel under his boots. Walls too clean. Hummed faintly with power. Lights flickered.
Were they always flickering? Whatever. Keep walking.
They passed a checkpoint. Two agents nodded. One glanced at Darren, then back at the terminal.
He wondered if they knew. If they looked at him and thought, That's the kid who—
No. Stop.
No thoughts. Just walk.
Ooh, that door says LEVEL 6 ACCESS REQUIRED, what the hell's behind that? Something alien? Or like... tax records?
Bet it's boring.
Wait. That guy has a prosthetic arm... cool.
The door ahead hissed open. White walls. Steel counters. A testing lab.
Clean. Sharp. Smelled like bleach and static and metal.
A technician inside barely looked up.
"Hello I am Dr. Elias Malhotra. Vitals first. Sit."
Darren sat.
The chair was cold. He felt it through the suit.
More prodding. More wires. Blood drawn.
Needle went in. Didn't flinch.
His arm twitched anyway.
Blood? They already took- wait.
Did they mess up the first batch?
What if they lost it? What if there's like, evil clones growing in a tank somewhere?
"You already took blood while I was unconscious," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Malholtra shrugged. "Protocols. Fresh samples. Take your pick. Don't move."
He didn't.
Machines beeped. Little green lights blinked in rhythm. Or maybe not in rhythm.
It bothered him.
His knee bounced.
Stop it.
Stop.
X-rays clicked.
Diaz's face flashed in the dark behind his eyes, no, not now. Not here.
A scanner passed over him. Cold gel slid down his back.
He twitched. Eye stung. That light was too sharp. Everything felt sharp.
Like a splinter in the skull.
Outside the glass wall, Chapman was already filling out a form.
He wondered if the pen was real.
Like, did he bring that pen? Or does SHIELD issue pens? Uniform pens. Military pens. Why am I thinking about pens?
Dr Malholtra glanced at his clipboard.
"Vitals first. Then rest," he said, not looking up. "Physical assessment starts once you're stable. Full metrics: strength, speed, stamina, reflexes, recovery rate, bone density, muscle response, cognitive resilience, resistance to blunt force, sharp force, heat, cold, hypoxia—everything. You'll run the gauntlet. Strength lifts. Sprint trials. Controlled impact. Simulated duels. We need baselines."
He paused, tapped the screen.
"Psych evaluation's scheduled too. Memory coherence, emotional regulation, threat response, hallucination screening. Gotta make sure you're not cracked under the pressure."
He looked up at Darren for the first time.
"We need to know your limits. All of them."
He attached another monitor, didn't look up.
"Psych eval's tomorrow. Standard protocol."
Darren didn't answer.
The machine beeped again.
Somewhere behind his ribs, something twisted.
He stared at a vent in the ceiling.
The way the air rippled out of it. It had a weird rattle. Like a trapped wasp.
His brain spun.
Diaz. The crunch. The eyes.
No.
Don't.
The cold gel hit his spine again.
Distract yourself. Say something.
"How bad's the damage?" he asked.
Malholtra looked at him.
"Nothing permanent. Couple of cracked ribs. Left knee's a mess. Shoulder's inflamed. You'll heal."
"Fast," Darren said.
"Yeah. Fast. But you're not invincible."
He nodded.
Was Diaz invincible? Did he know he was going to die? Did I?
Stop.
Eventually, they let him up.
A silent agent guided him down another hallway. Doors passed in a blur. One was bright orange. Why was it orange? Did orange mean "danger" or just "janitor stuff"?
He couldn't tell.
His body hurt. His brain was worse.
Then: a room.
Clean. Bare. A bed. A cabinet. Medical supplies stacked by the wall. Casts. Ice packs. Wraps.
The agent gestured. "You've got the room for the night. Rest. You'll need it."
Darren didn't say anything.
He stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He stood in the center of the room. The hum of the light overhead was loud. Too loud. His mask was still in his hand. Why was he still holding it?
He didn't remember.
Then, slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. Let the weight pull him down.
His arms hung loose at his sides.
His fingers wouldn't stop twitching. Couldn't stop tapping against his thigh.
Nothing to block it out.
Nothing to stop the replay.
The blood. The helmet. The silence.
He clenched his jaw.
Focus on something else. The wall's too white. Looks like toothpaste. What if this whole room is fake? Maybe it's one-way glass. What if Chapman's watching again? What if—
He stayed like this for a couple hours until at last his body said:
Shut up we are sleeping now