He woke up groggy.
Didn't remember falling asleep. Just blinked, and the white light overhead was already humming again. Buzzing in a way that scratched the inside of his skull. Not loud, just... relentless.
He'd been in SHIELD custody for two days.
Not a cell, technically. But it felt like one.
No windows. No clock. No toothbrush.
He hadn't said anything. Hadn't known how to. Every time he tried, the words got jammed behind his teeth and twisted into: "Yeah, I'm grand, thanks."
He wasn't grand. His skin felt coated in grime. His mouth was past dry—past sour.
Yesterday he'd tried to ask. Stepped out into the hallway, rehearsing the question under his breath like a script.
"Excuse me, sorry, where's—sorry, uh, is there—I'm just looking for—?"
Then a janitor passed.
He chickened out.
But this morning—or whatever passed for morning here—he finally asked someone. A young tech in the hallway. Darren had barely looked up, voice half-mumbled, heart in his throat.
"Sorry—uh—is there... a shower anywhere?"
The guy blinked, surprised. Nodded. "Yeah. Down the hall. Right side. First door after the yellow line. You'll see the sign."
"Cheers," Darren said, already half-speedwalking away.
That had been it. No sneer. No interrogation. Just help. Weird.
He found it. A private stall. Clean. Cold tile. A fresh toothbrush. Dozens, actually. A whole container.
Why? No clue. They were stacked on the shelf in sealed plastic. At least twenty of them.
Who the hell needs twenty toothbrushes? Are they for guests? Like, prisoner guests?
He brushed his teeth. Spit pink. Rinsed. Brushed again just to be sure.
The mirror fogged while he showered. Steam peeled from his skin. It felt... good. Too good. Like his nerves didn't know what to do with it.
He leaned his head against the cold tile and just stood there until the water turned cold.
Dried off with one of the folded towels stacked beside the sink.
Back in his room, SHIELD had left clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Lightweight, navy and grey, breathable fabric—tactical sweats. A compression shirt labeled across the tag with his new favorite nickname:
SUBJECT 4-1B.
Of course.
Because that's who he was now. A subject. Not Darren. Not Sentinel.
Just data in a file.
He twiddled his thumbs. Bounced his knee. Picked at the fabric.
A million thoughts spun through his skull.
What happens next? Are they going to ask me questions again? What if they sedate me this time? Do they sedate people who ask too many questions? Maybe I should've asked for a second towel. Do they track the towels?
He stared at the door.
It knocked once.
Then opened.
Chapman.
Expression unreadable. "Testing time."
Didn't say a word. Just followed.
The hall was colder than he remembered. His shoes echoed loud on the steel floor. Chapman walked ahead, silent. Darren trailed behind, eyes flicking from door labels to overhead lights to passing agents who never looked him in the eye.
He hated this place.
They passed doors with frosted glass. Symbols he didn't recognize. One had a retina scanner. Another hissed when they passed, like it was sighing at them.
Maybe it was.
Eventually, Chapman stopped.
Tapped a panel.
And then walked off without a word.
The door slid open with a hiss.
Darren stepped through.
And froze.
The room was… a warehouse? No — too polished. Not dusty enough. Big open floorspace, concrete beneath his boots, ceiling lights cold and bright. Cameras in the corners. A control booth above, glass wall tinted from the inside.
People moved in clipped, mechanical rhythm. Technicians in grey-blue jumpsuits circled stations, checking cables, adjusting consoles, murmuring into headsets. Everything buzzed. Every surface gleamed. Clean in that uncanny way that made it feel fake.
Darren hovered in the doorway. Shoulders hunched. His fingers twitched at his side, brushing his trouser seams.
One of the techs finally looked up.
"Subject 4-1B?" she asked, tapping a tablet.
He nodded, awkward. "Uh… yeah. Darren. That's—"
"4-1B. Right." She pointed to a black rubber mat in the center of the room. "Stand over there in front of the Bench press rig. Shoes off. Facing forward."
"Oh, sure, yeah. Just…" He slipped them off, feeling the chill of the floor immediately. "Cool mat. Very, uh. Industrial yoga."
Nobody laughed. He moved anyway.
He shuffled onto the rubber.
In front of him was a bench press rig.
At least they said it was a bench press rig...
Darren stared at it.
It looked back.
A big metal slab angled weird — maybe forty-five degrees? — with a padded bench built into the middle and some kind of sleek black sled at the top.
No bar.
No weights, at least not any he could recognize.
Just these thick, circular discs locked into smooth little slots on each side, like they'd grown out of the machine on their own.
The whole thing gleamed. Pneumatic things hissed quietly along the sides. The sled twitched once, just a little, and Darren's heart stuttered.
"What the fuck is this?" he whispered.
She raised a brow at his hesitation. "Something wrong?"
Darren rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh. Yeah. Kind of. Maybe. What is this?"
"Modified supine force press," she replied. "Top-loaded pneumatic resistance sled with onboard force sensors. Measures peak exertion, load distribution, asymmetry, and mechanical efficiency under strain. Sled is controlled via internal dampers and stabilized to isolate pectoral and triceps force chains. Pre-set to baseline load: fifty kilograms."
Darren's brain short-circuited.
"Uh. In English please? Or in Irish, if you want — I speak that too. Oh and a little fren—"
He was cut off by the bearded tech snorting from the console. "It's a safe bench press that tells us how strong you are and if you're doing it wrong."
"Oh." Darren blinked. "Ok. Cool."
"Uh. one more question What happens if I mess this up?" he asked. "Like... does this thing drop on me? Or do I just become pancake-shaped test data?"
The other tech, a bearded guy hunched over a nearby console, glanced over.
"It's controlled load," he said. "If your output drops too fast, the rig auto-locks and retracts the load. You're not going to get crushed."
"Uh sorry i zoned out for a moment what did you say?"
"It's safe," the man said. "If you drop it, it catches itself. You won't die. You'll just look stupid."
"Oh," Darren said, blinking. "Ok then"
He stepped forward, eyeing the setup again.
"We're starting it off with fifty kilos," The female tech said, nodding to the rig.
The digital display flicked: 50.00 kg in green numbers.
Darren stared at the benchpress.
He hovered there. Shuffled. Tilted his head.
"...How the hell do you even sit on this thing?"
He turned to the tech. "Do I—sorry, do I just—like, lie back or something? Or is there a lever or—?"
She didn't answer.
Tapped her comm.
"Chapman to Lift Bay 2."
Of course she did.
A few seconds later: boots. Measured, heavy.
Chapman entered.
Didn't speak. Just looked at the rig. Then at Darren. Then the tech.
She stepped aside. No words.
Chapman just said, "Watch."
Then dropped onto the bench.
Effortless. No second thoughts. No adjustments.
Back flat. Feet planted. Hands on the handles.
He shifted his shoulder blades, did something subtle, like he was screwing them into the bench. Chest up. Elbows set.
Then he pushed.
Smooth. Like buttered steel. The sled rose. Completely level. Not fast, not slow, just right.
Beep.
It hovered for half a second, then lowered again.
His feet didn't budge. His face didn't even twitch.
He stood up.
"Your turn."
Darren nodded. "Right. Okay. Yeah. Totally."
His stomach did a barrel roll.
He sat down. Kinda.
The bench felt too small. His hips didn't know where to go.
He shuffled. Wiggled.
Accidentally made the rig twitch.
The tech cleared her throat.
"Sorry, sorry," he muttered. "Just calibrating my ass."
No one laughed. Again.
He laid back. Head flat. Tried to copy what Chapman had done — the shoulder screw thing, pulling them together like a knot under his back.
Feet flat. Probably. One of them squeaked on the mat.
Chapman stepped in. Stopped beside the bench. Looked down at him.
"Feet locked."
Darren adjusted. Pressed them flat.
"Back tight. Pin it."
He squeezed his shoulder blades again. Not sure if it was right.
"Bar path's vertical. Elbows stay under. Don't drift."
"But there's no bar—"
Chapman just stared.
Right. Shut up.
"Drive from the ground. Push straight. Control the tempo."
He took a breath.
And pushed.
The sled moved... kinda. Not smoothly.
Not like Chapman's.
His right arm jerked. Left elbow wobbled. It tilted for a second.
He overcorrected. Made it worse.
His teeth clenched.
Beep. Top of rep.
The machine caught it. Lowered for him.
He let go, arms buzzing.
"Shaky," the bearded tech muttered, tapping keys.
Chapman didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
The look said it all.
You didn't listen.
Chapman stared at him for a second. Then:
"Sloppy."
That was it. Just one word. Flat. Final.
He turned slightly toward the rig, nodded once at Darren's feet.
"You're not planted. Hips shifted. Left elbow drifted out. That shoulder's gonna tear if you keep that up."
Beat.
"Do it again."
Chapman didn't move. Didn't blink.
Darren swallowed hard. His hands twitched against the sled's handles. His heart thudded in his ears. He refocused. Reset.
Okay. Feet locked. He pressed them into the mat like he was trying to snap the floorboards.
Back tight. He pulled his shoulders together again, tighter this time — a knot under his spine. Tried not to overthink it.
Don't let your elbows flare. Keep the line. Breathe.
He exhaled once. Sharp. Then pushed.
This time it moved clean. Smooth. Not perfect, but level. Elbows under. No tilt. No jerk.
The sled rose.
Beep.
Top of rep.
He held it for a beat. Breath caught.
Lowered slow. Controlled.
It clicked back into place.
The tech tapped her tablet. "Clean rep."
The bearded guy added, "Left side still lagging by three percent. Compensation pattern's minor. Within threshold."
Darren didn't know what that meant, but no one yelled, so he took it as a win.
Another number flicked onto the display.
75.00 KG.
He lifted. No issue.
100.00.
Still fine. Breathing steady.
150.00.
He could feel it now — not hard, just present. Like the rig was finally paying attention.
The routine settled in. Set after set. Incremental bumps in weight. Each one felt a little heavier, a little more solid in his chest and arms, but not overwhelming.
His body moved without thinking. Lock. Push. Hold. Lower. Reset.
The panic dulled. The static in his brain faded. The ADHD noise curled up somewhere in the corner and let him focus.
For once, it was just him and the machine.
250.00.
300.00.
Still going.
He actually started to enjoy it. That grounded feeling, like every muscle had a job and knew what it was. No chaos. Just math. Physics. Action and response.
The techs murmured around him.
"Clean force arc."
"Still symmetrical. Barely any bar path drift."
Chapman didn't say anything. Just stood with his arms crossed. Watching.
Always watching.
375.00.
Darren exhaled hard. This one made his wrists tingle a little. His forearms tightened. Not quite burn — but getting there.
425.00.
Okay.
Now it was real.
The sled felt heavier from the second it unlocked. His chest braced harder. His grip turned to stone.
Push.
Slower this time. Deliberate.
He could feel the resistance crawl up through his arms, shoulders, ribs — like pushing against a thick wall of air.
Beep.
Still made it.
Back down.
Click.
"Minimal form degradation," one tech muttered. "He's keeping tight under pressure. Not bad."
Chapman raised an eyebrow. Didn't speak.
Then:
450.00.
Yeah.
Yeah, that one was different.
Darren set his shoulders. Ground his feet harder than before.
Pushed.
The sled groaned. His elbows wobbled. His breath caught halfway up. It felt like every joint in his arms was whispering you sure about this?
But the weight moved.
Shaky, but steady.
Beep.
At the top, he couldn't help it — his lips curled into the tiniest grin. Then he lowered. Slower. Chest straining. But he made it.
Click.
He let go. Flexed his fingers. They tingled.
"Starting to stagger," the tech said. "Load deviation at seven percent. But still in range."
Darren wiped his forehead with the sleeve of the compression shirt.
"Alright," he muttered, under his breath. "Now I'm feeling it."
475.00.
Darren braced again. His chest rose with a deeper breath. This one was weight. Real weight.
Okay.
Okay.
Focus.
He flexed his fingers. Lined them up on the handles again.
His brain buzzed.
If you don't lift this, your mam's gonna find out you cried watching Tangled.
That got a twitch of a grin.
Hands locked. Wrists braced. Feet digging into the mat like roots.
Push.
It moved.
Slow. Slower than before. His elbows trembled halfway. His right shoulder dipped for a second — he fought it — readjusted mid-rep.
Beep.
The top.
Held for one heartbeat.
Lowered, shaky, elbows flaring, but he caught it. Just barely.
Click.
He exhaled sharp. Felt the burn now. The tightness in his triceps. The quiver sneaking into his fingers.
He didn't care. Not yet.
495.00.
Darren stared at the number. Jaw clenched.
This one felt personal. Like the rig was mocking him.
You're gonna fold. C'mon, kid.
He shook out his arms. Locked in.
Feet flat. Shoulders back. Elbows tight.
Push.
Nothing.
Then grind. Slow. Ugly.
His left elbow twitched. Right arm lagged. Feet slipped half an inch.
He snarled through his teeth.
Beep.
Top. Just barely.
Lowered it. Shaky. Controlled. Burning.
Click.
"Four-ninety-five complete," the tech called out.
"Still clean," the guy at the console said. "Slower tempo. Shoulder rotation's off. Minimal lag. He's close."
Chapman didn't say anything.
Just watched.
500.00.
Darren's jaw clenched. He didn't blink. This time the rig felt personal. Like it was testing him back.
He shook out his arms. Rolled his neck. Repositioned. Locked in.
Push. Push PUSH!
This time it barely moved.
His feet slipped an inch on the mat. His left elbow twitched, locked, nearly overextended. The sled hesitated, like it was thinking about stopping.
Darren growled under his breath and drove harder.
Beep.
Top. Barely.
He couldn't smile this time. Just breathed through his teeth. Lowered slow. Arms on fire. Felt like his bones were vibrating.
Click.
The techs glanced at each other.
"Starting to break down. Elbow drift at twelve percent."
"Bar path's slipping right. Minor core compensation, too."
"He's still going," said the bearded one. "That was five hundred, and he's still holding."
Chapman didn't respond.
525.00.
Darren didn't hesitate. Just went.
Everything screamed.
The sled felt glued. He gritted his teeth, locked his jaw. Elbows wanted to give, pecs burned, his feet were digging trenches in the mat.
It rose.
Barely.
Beep.
He almost dropped it on the way down. Chapman stepped half forward.
He caught it. Clicked it in.
Laid there for a second. Eyes on the lights above.
They were flickering. Or maybe that was his vision.
550.00.
"You don't have to do this," the female tech said, almost under her breath.
Darren didn't look at her.
He just set his grip.
Darren swallowed.
His arms were shaking a bit now. Not much, but enough that he could feel it deep, in the tendons, in the burn winding up through his shoulders. His breathing had gone shallower without him noticing.
Okay. One more. Maybe two. Chapman's watching. Don't fuck it up. Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Push.
He braced again.
Shoulders screwed back. Elbows tight. Hands locked.
His brain itched.
If you don't lift this, everyone'll know you still sleep with the blanket tucked around your feet like a six-year-old. Chapman finds out. Norah finds out. Áine finds out. The entire country finds out. You're done, lad.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up and PUSH.
He exhaled, clenched—
Push.
The sled moved. Grinding slow. Teeth bared. Elbows flared, then corrected.
Come on come on come ON you fucking gobshite you can do this!
Beep.
Top.
Held it. One breath. One full second.
Lowered.
Shaking like mad now. The stabilizers caught it at the last second. His arms dropped away, shaking.
600.00.
600.00
The number glared on the screen like it was daring him.
Darren didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He just tightened his grip.
His arms felt like raw wire. Shoulders twitching. His ribs throbbed in rhythm with his pulse. His brain was static and fire and noise.
He exhaled.
Swallowed.
Focused.
The world narrowed to the weight. The cold steel beneath his palms.
His brain spat the first thought it could throw:
If you don't lift this, they'll all know you're weak.
Every one of them. The techs. The guy with the clipboard. That smug fuck behind the glass. Chapman.
They'll write it down. Log it in some file: "Subject 4-1B failed at 600. Weak."
You gonna be that? You gonna be weak again?
Prove it, gobshite. Prove them wrong. Push or die. Fucking MOVE.
He bared his teeth.
Sucked in a breath through his nose.
Braced.
Shoulders pinned. Feet locked. Core screaming.
He let out a snarl.
PUSH.
The sled moved.
Slow. A crawl. A grind. His whole body arched.
"Elbows!" someone shouted — didn't matter. He fought to keep them in.
His jaw locked. Wrists trembled.
He roared.
"COME ON! COME ON YOU FUCKING PRICK—!"
Beep.
Top.
He held it for half a second. Long enough to taste the fire in his lungs.
Lowered.
Barely controlled. Elbows shaking like they'd snap clean off. The left side dropped a hair—stabilizers caught it—
Click.
Locked.
Darren let go. Hands fell limp.
He gasped. Loud. Ugly. Sucked in air like he'd been underwater for minutes.
Arms dead.
Eyes blurry.
Head back.
Sweat soaked into the bench pad. His whole body vibrated.
He was half-smiling. Half-dying.
"...Think I can go high—?"
"No," Chapman said flatly. "You barely put up six hundred."
"Fair."
He didn't move.
Just laid there.
Sweat dripping into his ear.
Burning.
He grinned
I lifted 600 fucking Kilos I'm a fucking legend