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

Chapter 14: The Impending Storm

" Okay, so Vought is sending in the big guns. And by 'big guns,' I'm pretty sure they mean 'another terrifying superhero who will probably turn me into a fine red mist.' 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 still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a broken washing machine in my chest. It's vibrating with the residual energy of Translucent's fear, and my own dawning horror. And now Butcher's looking at me like I'm his new favorite toy. Which, given his track record, is not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. 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. And now I have to worry about a new, unseen threat. Great. "

The boiler room, "The Den," felt less like a hideout and more like a besieged fortress. The hum in Hughie's chest had been a constant, high-pitched whine since his encounter with the "cold" Supe. It was a new signature, distinct from A-Train's frantic buzz or Translucent's dense thrum. This one felt like a chilling void, a silent, powerful presence that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Vought was escalating. They weren't just looking for Translucent anymore; they were looking for them.

Butcher paced, his face grim. "They're getting serious. That 'cold' Supe Hughie felt… that's not some low-level grunt. That's a professional. Vought's sending in the cleanup crew. Which means they know we're here. Or at least, they know something is here."

"So, what do we do?" M.M. asked, meticulously cleaning his rifle, his brow furrowed with worry. "We can't stay here. It's compromised. And we can't just release Translucent. He'll go straight back to Vought."

" Oh, great. So, we're on the run again. My favorite. It's like a really depressing road trip, but instead of scenic views, we get constant paranoia and the lingering scent of despair. And Translucent. We still have Translucent. The naked, invisible, ticking time bomb. It's like we're trying to move a very fragile, very dangerous piece of furniture. And I'm the one who has to tell them if it's about to explode. My life is truly a gift. "

Butcher stopped pacing, his eyes fixed on Translucent's cage. "No. We don't release him. He's too valuable. He's our leverage. Our proof. But we can't keep him here. Not anymore. We need a new place. A secure place. A place where he can't escape. And where Vought can't find him."

"A new place?" Frenchie mused, looking up from his latest invention, a small, intricate device that hummed faintly. "A secure place. We need something… impenetrable. Something that can contain his unique… energetic signature. Something that can exploit his weakness."

Hughie felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his stomach. The discussion was shifting. From simply holding Translucent, to containing him in a way that would allow them to exploit his weakness. To eliminate him. He knew what that meant. He had figured out his weakness. Now, they were going to use it.

"A box," Butcher said, his voice low and deliberate. "We need a box. A proper box. One that he can't get out of. And one that we can… use." His gaze lingered on Hughie. "And you, mate. You're going to help us design it. You're our expert on Translucent's insides, aren't ya?"

" A box. Right. Because we're not just holding him hostage anymore. We're building his tomb. And I'm the architect. Me. Hughie Campbell. The guy who sells stereos. I'm designing a murder weapon. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to stand here and try not to accidentally reveal that I'm simultaneously terrified and morbidly fascinated by this whole process. And that hum… it's vibrating with a strange, dark purpose now. Like it knows this is inevitable. And it's okay with it. Which is not okay. Not okay at all. "

The idea of actively planning Translucent's demise, even after he had broken and given them intel, sent a fresh wave of nausea through Hughie. His lingering humanity screamed in protest. This was different from the accidental kill of Robin, or even the desperate self-defense of the previous encounter. This was cold, calculated. This was murder. But the cold, pragmatic part of him, the "New-Hue" that was slowly emerging, argued back. He was a liability. He was dangerous. And he was a Supe. And in this world, Supes were the enemy.

"What kind of box?" Hughie asked, his voice flat, hollow. He was already thinking, his mind racing, trying to apply his intuitive understanding of Translucent's power. "Something that can absorb kinetic energy? Or something that can… amplify it? To push him past his limit?"

Frenchie's eyes lit up. "Precisely, mon ami! We need something that can either prevent him from dissipating the energy, or something that can… concentrate the energy. Your 'hum,' Hughie. When you felt his limit… what did it feel like? What was the resonance?"

Hughie closed his eyes, recalling the overwhelming sensation. "It was like… like a full battery. It was vibrating. And it felt like… like if you added one more drop, it would just… burst." He focused on the hum in his chest, trying to translate the raw sensation into something tangible. "It's like… his carbon skin is a perfect insulator for outward force, but it's a perfect conductor for inward force. It just builds up inside him."

" A perfect insulator for outward force, but a perfect conductor for inward force. Did I just sound like a genius? Or a complete psychopath? Probably a bit of both. And that hum… it's buzzing with this revelation now. Like it's saying, 'Yes, Hughie. You're right. Now, go forth and design a very efficient murder weapon.' This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to stand here and try not to accidentally reveal that I'm simultaneously terrified and morbidly fascinated by this whole process. "

Butcher grinned, a chilling, predatory smile. "There you have it, mates. Our little Hughie's got the blueprints in his head. Right then, Frenchie, M.M., let's get to work. We're building a box. A very special box. For a very special Supe."

The next few days were a blur of frantic planning and grim construction. Frenchie, with Hughie's intuitive guidance, began to design a containment unit that would exploit Translucent's weakness. They discussed materials, energy fields, and methods of delivery. M.M. was deeply uncomfortable, his moral objections clashing with the pragmatic necessity of their mission. He'd argue, he'd protest, but ultimately, he'd follow Butcher's lead, his face a mask of weary resignation.

Hughie felt the weight of complicity settle heavily on his shoulders. He was actively participating in planning a murder. He was using his inexplicable "hum," his unique connection to Supe energy, to design a death trap. The "Old-Hue," the innocent, kind-hearted electronics clerk, was fading, replaced by something colder, more calculating. He was becoming a monster, a tool in Butcher's grim crusade.

"This is wrong, Hughie," M.M. whispered to him one evening, as they watched Frenchie weld together a section of reinforced steel. "This is a line we shouldn't cross. We're supposed to be better than them."

Hughie just stared at the flickering sparks from Frenchie's welder, his face grim. "Are we, M.M.? Are we really? They killed Robin. They cover it up. They run the world. And we're hiding in a boiler room, trying to fight back with crowbars and homemade gadgets. If this is what it takes… if this is the only way to make them pay… then maybe we have to cross that line. Maybe there is no 'better' in this world. Just… survival. And justice. However messy it gets."

" Survival. And justice. However messy it gets. That's my new mantra. My new, terrifying, morally ambiguous mantra. And that hum. It's vibrating with this conviction now. A cold, hard thrum that feels less like fear and more like… resolve. I'm becoming a monster. I know I am. But I'm doing it for Robin. And if that's the only way to get justice for her, then so be it. This is going to be a long, painful, and probably very humiliating journey. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to need a very, very large drink after this. Or a new soul. Whichever comes first. "

The construction of the "box" became a grim obsession. Every weld, every circuit, every reinforced panel was a step closer to Translucent's demise. Hughie contributed his insights, his "hum" guiding Frenchie's designs, ensuring that the "box" would be the perfect, inescapable trap. He was a part of it. A crucial, terrifying part of it.