The Boys: I'm the New Hue, I Need More Power

Chapter 13: The Ghost of Vought

" Okay, so Translucent finally broke. And he's spilling his guts. Not literally, thankfully. Just, you know, corporate secrets. Which, honestly, is almost as messy. My life has officially become a very niche, very disturbing podcast. 'The Boiler Room Tapes: Featuring a Naked Supe and His Terrified Civilian Interrogator.' And that hum. It's still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a broken washing machine in my chest. It's vibrating with the influx of new information, reacting to every mention of Vought, every whisper of A-Train. It's like my internal 'conspiracy theory detector' is going off the charts. And I'm pretty sure it's going to explode. Probably before Translucent does. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to stand here and try not to accidentally reveal that I know the entire plot of 'The Boys' TV show. Because that would really complicate things. Especially the part where I, you know, don't have powers yet. "

The boiler room, "The Den," had transformed into a makeshift interrogation chamber. Translucent, still confined but now visibly shaken, was finally talking. His voice, once smug and defiant, was now hoarse and desperate, a torrent of information about Vought's inner workings, their dirty secrets, their carefully constructed lies. He spoke of Compound V distribution, black market deals, the true nature of hero endorsements, and, most importantly, A-Train's escalating Compound V addiction.

"He's a mess," Translucent whispered, his eyes darting nervously. "A-Train. He's hooked. Vought knows. They cover it up. They give him enough to keep him running, but not enough to get clean. He's a liability, but he's too valuable to lose. Especially with Starlight joining The Seven."

Hughie felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his stomach. The hum in his chest intensified, a sharp, almost painful throb, reacting to the mention of A-Train, to the raw injustice of it all. Robin. His mind flashed back to that horrific moment, the red mist, the severed hands. A-Train, high on Compound V, had killed her. And Vought had covered it up. The anger, which had been simmering beneath his grief, now boiled with a renewed, furious intensity.

" Hooked. A liability. Too valuable to lose. That's all Robin was to them. Collateral damage. A statistic. And A-Train gets to keep running, keep smiling, keep endorsing cereal. This is why I hate them. This is why I hate all of them. They take everything, they break everything, and then they slap a pretty bow on it and call it 'justice.' Well, screw their justice. I want… something else. Something messier. Something that actually hurts them. And that hum… it's vibrating with my anger now. A low, furious thrum. It's like my body is agreeing with me. 'Yes, Hughie. Messier. More pain for them.' "

Butcher listened intently, his face grim, occasionally interjecting with sharp, probing questions. Frenchie scribbled furiously in his notebook, meticulously recording every detail. M.M. looked increasingly disturbed, but the sheer volume of incriminating information seemed to override his moral objections.

"So, he's a junkie," Butcher growled, his eyes fixed on Translucent. "And Vought's enabling him. Good. That's what we need. Proof. Hard proof."

The intel from Translucent was a goldmine. It gave them leads, names, locations. The Boys immediately shifted their focus to external investigations, using the information to track A-Train's movements, to gather evidence of his addiction, to expose Vought's complicity. Hughie, with his unique "hum," became an invaluable asset in the field.

"You're our early warning system, mate," Butcher explained one morning, as they prepared for a stakeout near a known Compound V black market drop-off point. "You feel that hum spike? That means a Supe's near. You tell us where. You tell us who. And we'll be ready."

" My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Human Geiger Counter. Warning: May spontaneously panic and/or vomit from existential dread.' This is not what I signed up for. I wanted justice. Not… whatever this is. And I'm pretty sure my 'Geiger counter' is just detecting my own fear. Which, by the way, is currently off the charts. Like, maximum red. Flashing lights. Sirens. The whole nine yards. But hey, at least I'm contributing. To the chaos. And to my own impending doom. "

They spent hours on stakeouts, hidden in cramped vans, disguised as tourists, blending into the background. Hughie would sit, his senses heightened, constantly monitoring that internal hum. When it would spike, a sudden, sharp tremor in his chest, he'd whisper, "Supe. Close. Coming." And the Boys would react, melting into the shadows, preparing for whatever came next.

He felt the distinct "signature" of A-Train's speed whenever the speedster was near. It was a painful resonance, a high-pitched whine that seemed to echo the blur of blue that had ended Robin's life. It triggered his grief, his rage, his profound sense of injustice. But it also focused him. It gave him a target.

One evening, during a stakeout near a Vought-owned apartment complex known for housing lower-tier Supes, Hughie felt the hum spike violently. "A-Train," he whispered, his voice strained. "He's here. Close. And… he's agitated. Really agitated."

Butcher immediately went on high alert. "Right. Frenchie, M.M., get ready. Hughie, you stay here. Don't move. Don't make a sound."

They watched as A-Train, looking pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, stumbled out of the building, a furious expression on his face. He was arguing loudly on his phone, his words slurred, his movements jerky. He was clearly high.

" Look at him. The fastest man alive. Reduced to a twitching, paranoid junkie. It's almost… pathetic. Almost. But then I remember Robin. And the pity evaporates, replaced by a cold, burning rage. This is what Vought does. They create these monsters, they enable them, and then they let them run rampant, destroying lives. And that hum… it's vibrating with my rage now. A low, furious thrum. It's like my body is agreeing with me. 'Yes, Hughie. Messier. More pain for them.' "

Butcher snapped a series of photos, evidence of A-Train's addiction. They couldn't confront him, not yet. He was too fast, too dangerous. But they had the proof. And that was a start.

The danger, however, was constant. Vought was actively searching for Translucent, and by extension, for anyone who might have helped him disappear. The Boys were being hunted, even as they hunted. Hughie felt a constant sense of paranoia, every shadow a potential threat, every stranger a potential Vought operative. His "hum" was his only reliable warning system, a constant, low-level thrum that kept him on edge.

One afternoon, while Hughie was alone in the boiler room, reviewing some of the intel they'd gathered, the hum suddenly spiked. Not with the familiar signature of Translucent or A-Train, but with something else. Something new. Something… cold. He looked around frantically, his heart hammering against his ribs. Nothing. He was alone. But the hum screamed, Danger! Danger, Hughie Campbell! You are not alone!

" Oh, crap. Oh, crap, oh, crap. What was that? That wasn't A-Train. That wasn't Translucent. That was… something else. Something cold. Something… powerful. Is Vought sending someone after us? Someone new? Someone even worse? My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing game of 'Whack-a-Mole,' except the moles are superheroes and I'm the mole that keeps getting whacked. And that hum… it's vibrating with a frantic energy now. Like it's saying, 'You're screwed, Hughie. You're really, really screwed.' "

He immediately called Butcher, his voice trembling. "Butcher! Something's here! In the Den! I felt it! The hum! It's… it's different! It's cold! And powerful!"

Butcher's voice was grim. "Stay put, mate. Don't move. We're on our way. Sounds like Vought's getting serious. They're sending in the big guns."

Hughie hung up, his hand shaking. He was alone, trapped in the boiler room, with an unseen, powerful threat lurking in the shadows. His "hum" was screaming, a high-pitched, frantic whine that filled his entire being. He was a ghost haunting the corporation that stole his life. And now, Vought was sending its own ghosts to hunt him down. He was still powerless. But he was no longer invisible. He was a target. And the game had just gotten a whole lot deadlier.