Post-Bench Test:
Everything after the 600kg lift blurred.
Like he'd lifted more than weight, like something in him had broken orbit and just... stayed gone. A buzz in his limbs. A float in his chest. Not euphoria exactly.
Just peace.
Rooms passed in flashes.
Shoes off. Mask on. Belt here. Patch there. Every room was colder than the last. Bright lights. White tiles. More blinking sensors.
More people who didn't look at him.
Test Two: Sprint Track / Biometric Gate + Jump Tests
He barely remembered being walked there—just the hum of air vents and the slap of bare feet on smooth floors. The next thing he knew, he was in the track room.
Big. Clinical. Too many lights.
Filtered air hit his skin like static. His breath fogged faintly in the cool. The track shimmered ahead like a sci-fi landing strip, veined with silver, glinting under camera rig rails and sensor towers.
"Remove shoes," someone said again. Had he put them back on?
Didn't matter. Off again.
The mask sealed to his face. Belts and suction pads on his ribs, legs, arms, throat.
"Stride rate. Heartbeat. Oxygen saturation. Core temperature—"
"Pupil dilation," someone else added.
Darren blinked. "My pupils?"
"Stress indicator."
"Neat," he said. Eyes catching the ceiling design. Was that a motion sensor in the light? Or a camera? He stepped to the start. Bounced a little more. Legs thrummed.
This feels right.
He hadn't run in weeks. Properly run. Not since the alley. Not since the screaming and the helmet and—
Nope. Not now.
They buzzed the start signal.
And then he was gone.
BOOM.
No thoughts. No doubts.
His legs were fucking flying. The strip blurred. His body felt like a jet engine wrapped in skin. Light flooded past. Camera rigs zipped to keep up. The strip became a blur underfoot—feet hitting like jackhammers, his own wind hammering his ears, blood singing in his face.
Alive.
He crashed into the padded wall at the end, laughing. Panting. Actual laughter, bubbling up.
Alive. Charged. He was practically vibrating.
Someone said "Ninety kilometers per hour."
He whooped. "I beat a greyhound yet?"
No answer. Typical.
Run two. Run three.
Another run. Then another. Commented on his gait. Every time the buzzer rang, he snapped forward like he'd been launched. Legs, breath, heart all in sync.
They changed his oxygen rig, tweaked his telemetry belt. Swapped a battery on his back, maybe?
He was too focused to notice.
At some point, he couldn't say when, they motioned him toward a vertical leap platform.
Big padded box. LED sensors up the wall. A tech pointed.
He grinned. "Let's go."
He crouched. Pushed.
Shot up like a fucking rocket. Apex hit. Then dropped like a stone in water.
"Two point five meters," someone said. He went again. And again.
Then came the long jump.
Track. Chalk. Another padded box.
He sprinted. Pushed. Flew.
Hit the ground rolling, adrenaline buzzing in his gums. Laughed again.
"Seven point two meters," a voice said.
"How close's Cap?"
No one spoke. Just handed him a tablet.
He scrolled.
Steve Rogers
Sprint: 100+ km/h (burst: 110)
Vertical: 3.4m
Horizontal: 10.2m
Darren stared.
He felt the numbers settle in his chest like a weight he hadn't expected to carry.
"…Right," he muttered, and handed it back. "Should've expected that"
Time Blurs
The next few tests smeared together. A montage he only half-saw.
They gave him a protein bar at one point. Water bottles shoved into his hands. He drank, chewed, ran, stretched, breathed.
Jokes stopped landing. Or maybe he stopped making them. His head felt fuzzy. His hands kept twitching.
They attached more wires.
Something buzzed against his spine.
They told him about a new test and he nodded. Already forgetting what they'd said.
Someone mentioned baseline stress. Someone else adjusted the belt on his chest.
The floor changed colors again.
The lights dimmed. Then brightened.
He kept going in this haze until the final test...
Final Test: Psych Eval
Just a chair. A table. A plain screen.
And a different kind of tech waiting. Older. Civilian clothes — white shirt, pressed slacks, glasses, clipboard.
"Sit," he said. Voice calm, not warm. Measured.
Darren sat.
The door hissed closed behind him.
The air in the room felt... different. Not hostile. Not safe either. Too still. Like the space itself was watching.
"Cognitive-resilience battery," the man said, glancing at his notes. "Psychological profiling. Stress indicators. Memory response. You've done well so far, Mr. Ward."
Mr. Ward.
Not Subject 4-1B.
That almost threw him more than if the guy had called him a threat.
Darren blinked. Nodded. "Thanks."
The man smiled faintly. Neutral. Like a therapist trying not to overstep.
"Let's begin."
Stage One: Baseline Response
It started easy.
Word association. Pattern matching. Memory sequence. Color-to-number pairing.
A game, almost.
He stayed focused.
Still wired from the physical tests. Still riding that rush.
The first few prompts came and went.
One mistake. Then clean.
Stage Two: Emotional Recognition
Faces flashed onscreen.
Smiling. Frowning. Screaming. Blank.
His job was simple: tag the inhuman ones. Distortions. Screams that weren't people. Faces that weren't quite right.
He got it. Did well. Quick responses.
Until—
Diaz.
Just a frame. Not labelled. Not intentional.
Mid-motion. Mid-fall.
Helmet gone. Blood at the edge of his lip.
Darren's thumb hovered over the response button.
He didn't hit it.
The frame was already gone, but his brain latched on like it had teeth.
Diaz's last breath. That sound. The crunch. The silence after.
Stage Three: Autonomic Drift
Sensors read his pulse.
It had spiked.
He clenched his jaw, flexed his fingers under the table. Pretended not to feel it.
Next image: a rooftop.
Then an alley.
Then a hospital bed.
Then the mask. His mask. Blood smeared on the edge.
Stage Four: Directed Recall
"Describe a moment you felt powerless," the voice prompted.
Darren blinked.
His mouth opened. Closed.
"Uh… school," he said eventually. "Didn't study for a maths exam once. Froze up."
The man didn't react. Just typed something.
Next slide: an alley. Dark. Familiar.
Another: a gun.
Another: blood on concrete.
Stage Five: Moral Reflection
The screen dimmed.
A new question loaded.
"Do you believe your actions were justified?"
Darren's throat tightened. Something in his chest clamped.
He didn't answer.
The screen didn't move.
It waited.
So did the man.
Darren licked his lips.
"I didn't want to kill him," he said finally. Quiet. "I just… wanted to stop him."
The man didn't comment. Just made a note.
Stage Six: Stress Load
Questions accelerated. Shorter. Sharper. Less time to process.
"Would you do it again?"
"Did you enjoy hurting him?"
"Did you feel fear?"
"Are you afraid now?"
Darren's fingers twitched on the pad. His knee bounced. Breath shorter.
Diaz's voice echoed in his head again.
"You think you're better than me?"
A flicker of static.
His hands clenched.
He wasn't breaking.
But he wasn't okay.
Not really.
End of Eval
The screen faded to black.
The man stood.
"We're done."
Post-Evaluation Scene: Medical Debrief
The door clicked shut behind him.
Darren blinked under the hallway lights. Too bright. Way too bright. His temples throbbed like someone had clamped a fist around the inside of his skull and was squeezing.
He rubbed his eyes. Tried to breathe through it.
Didn't help.
By the time he made it back to the small med-side waiting room, he could feel every pulse in his neck. The room was quiet. Clean. A few lockers, a bench, water cooler in the corner. There was a SHIELD field medic waiting, tapping through something on a tablet. Mid-forties, plain uniform. Sharp eyes.
She looked up as he sat.
"Headache?"
He nodded once. Jaw tight. "Yeah. Bit."
She didn't need to ask why.
The bearded guy was back he sat down in front of Darren
"You've undergone full review, neurological, cardiovascular, genetic, biomechanical and here are the results of those tests.
He turned the screen so Darren could see. It was split-screen: charts, graphs, numbers, anatomical overlays. His own body, lit up like a heat map.
He began reading off the metrics. No drama. No fanfare.
Just facts.
Strength
Max lift: ~600 kilograms (1,320 lbs)"You can deadlift debris, flip a compact car, break reinforced locks. With effort, you can damage structural steel. Stagger enhanced combatants with direct strikes.
Speed & Agility
Top sprint: 90.2 km/h (56 mph) — Average: 88.6Vertical jump: 2.5 metersHorizontal jump: 7.2 meters"You're fast enough to outrun civilian vehicles. Not quite Cap's explosive leap power, but not far behind either."
Reflexes
Reaction time: 102 milliseconds average"Close-range dodging, threat prioritization, and pattern recognition all ranked high percentile. Slightly slower than Rogers—likely due to trauma interference and cortical delay. But your adaptive recovery speed is exceptional."
Endurance
"Peak exertion time measured between 47 and 61 minutes. Cardiovascular stamina returns to baseline faster than expected. Burnout threshold is high—but you operate hot. You need consistent downtime or you'll crash."
Senses
"Enhanced auditory range. You responded to whispered commands up to 97 meters. Olfactory response is hyperacute, could track blood, oil, gunpowder over multiple city blocks. Night vision is functional. You show high motion detection under low light, but flashbangs affect you severely."
Mental Processing
"You can track 6–8 threats under high pressure. Tactical problem-solving during combat scored in the 94th percentile. That said, long-term planning and impulse control remain impacted by ADHD. Hyperfocus compensates, but not reliably."
Healing
"Bruises fade in under two hours. Sprains, lacerations: half a day. Fractures and muscle tears: 24 to 36 hours. You can't regrow tissue, but your clotting factors and cell scaffolding suggest trauma survivability well above human baseline."
Durability
"Five-to-six story falls produce minor injury. We tested shock thresholds simulating a ten-story impact, you survived. Your bones don't shatter. Your muscle tissue resists rupture. However, you're still vulnerable to high-velocity rounds and blades. Armor remains essential."
Longevity
"You age at approximately 15% of a normal rate. Your body will stay in peak condition until your 60s. You'll live long—likely outlive most of us—but you're not immortal."
The man set the tablet aside, folded his hands, and looked Darren in the eye.
"That's what you are now, Mr. Ward. You're not Steve Rogers. You are what we classify as a mutant."
The word hung there. Heavy. Defining.
"A person with an active X-Gene, a rare genetic mutation that, under the right conditions, unlocks enhanced biological traits. Sometimes it happens in puberty. Other times… through trauma. Extreme stress. Physical injury."
Darren said nothing.
The man continued, clinical but not cold. "In your case, we believe your gene activated two years ago. Age seventeen. Likely connected to that incident on record… the bike crash, and subsequent physical recovery. That's when the change began."
Darren's jaw tensed.
"You didn't notice it overnight because it's not a flashy mutation. No energy blasts. No wings. Just durability. Strength. Healing. Optimization. Your body… upgraded itself."
He paused, then said plainly:
"You are not an experiment. You're not a mistake. You're just… rare."
His throat was dry. He didn't know how long he'd been holding his breath.
"…Okay," he said softly. Not a question. Just the word. Like letting air out of a tire.
The man gave a faint, tired nod and then left.
A few minutes passed. Then another man entered. Older, early fifties maybe, grey around the temples. Suit jacket. Glasses. Clipboard again. The psych tech.
He sat opposite Darren, just outside his personal space. That neutral therapist posture. Careful but practiced.
"Mr. Ward," he said.
Darren didn't answer.
We are still working on the review of your Psychological Evaluation. But at this moment in time we're able to offer a preliminary observation based on the psychological battery."
Still no response.
"You're showing elevated hypervigilance, autonomic reactivity, recurring memory disruption, and avoidance behavior patterns related to a specific violent event."
Darren swallowed. Didn't move.
"The metrics line up with an acute stress response. Possibly borderline post-traumatic stress disorder."
That landed like a stone in his stomach. Not surprising. Still shit to hear out loud.
The man continued, voice low. Not unkind. Just... clinical.
"You have good compensatory function. You're not experiencing disassociation, delusions, or violent ideation. Your cognition is intact. You're stable under pressure. But you're carrying residual trauma. Your nervous system is primed. And it's going to interfere with field performance unless it's managed."
Darren finally looked up. Eyes bloodshot. Voice low.
"So what now?" Darren asked, voice dry.
The man paused.
Then: "Well, if it were up to me, I'd recommend structured observation. Daily psych check-ins. Keep you in-system. Let you process under controlled conditions."
He looked up. Met Darren's eyes.
"At least, that's how I feel. But the higher-ups disagree."
Beat.
"They think you'd be better served going back home."
Silence.
Darren blinked.
"What?"
The man clicked his pen shut. Tapped the file closed.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're going back home."