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

Dear readers,Due to mixed reviews and constructive feedback, I've decided to remake my novel from the ground up.

Chapter 16: The Final Spark

" Okay, so this is it. The big moment. The grand finale of 'Translucent: The Boiler Room Years.' And I'm the guest of honor. Or, you know, the executioner. Me. Hughie Campbell. The guy who sells stereos. I'm about to make a naked, invisible, invulnerable Supe explode from the inside out. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Extreme Home Makeover: Boiler Room Edition,' and I'm the unwilling interior designer. And that hum. It's going absolutely wild now. It's like a frantic alarm bell, screaming, 'Danger! Danger, Hughie Campbell! You are about to commit murder! And then maybe get superpowers! And then probably need decades of therapy!' 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. I'm going to need a very, very large drink after this. Or a new soul. Whichever comes first. "

The boiler room hummed with a low, ominous thrum, a symphony of dread that seemed to emanate from the very walls. The newly constructed "box" stood in the center of the room, a grim, imposing structure of reinforced steel and specialized alloys. It was a testament to Frenchie's ingenuity and Hughie's terrifying intuition – a custom-built, Supe-sized coffin designed to exploit Translucent's fatal flaw. Translucent himself, still visible in his original cage, watched its construction with a dawning, soul-crushing horror, his carbon skin shimmering with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Almost done, mon ami," Frenchie announced, wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and exhaustion. He gestured to the complex array of sonic emitters and energy conduits built into the "box." "The internal dampeners are calibrated. The energy conduits are in place. It is… perfect. A perfect capacitor. For a perfect… discharge." He looked at Hughie, a strange, almost reverent look in his eyes. "Your 'hum,' Hughie. It guided me. It told me the precise frequencies. The precise points of resonance. Without you, this… this would not be possible."

" My hum. Right. My terrifying, inexplicable hum. It's like a really bad GPS system that only gives directions to murder. 'Turn left at the moral crossroads, then proceed straight into existential dread. Your destination is a Supe-sized coffin.' 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. I'm going to need a very, very large drink after this. Or a new soul. Whichever comes first. "

Hughie stared at the "box," a profound weariness settling over him. He had contributed to its design, his intuitive understanding of Translucent's power guiding Frenchie's engineering. He had helped create a death trap. For a human being, however monstrous. The "Old-Hue," the innocent, kind-hearted electronics clerk, was now a distant memory, replaced by something colder, more calculating. He was becoming a monster, a tool in Butcher's grim crusade.

M.M. stood apart, his arms crossed, his face a mask of weary resignation. He hadn't actively participated in the construction, his moral objections too strong, but he hadn't stopped them either. His silence was a heavy condemnation, a constant reminder of the line they were about to cross.

"It's ready," Butcher said, his voice low and deliberate, his eyes fixed on the "box." "The perfect containment. And the perfect way to make our invisible friend here… disappear. Permanently." He looked at Translucent, a chilling, predatory smile on his face. "Time to say goodbye, mate."

Translucent, seeing the finished "box," let out a guttural scream, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. He rattled the bars of his cage, his carbon skin shimmering violently, but it was useless. He was trapped. His eyes, wide with a desperate, animal fear, darted between the grim faces of the Boys and the gleaming, metallic coffin that awaited him.

"You can't!" Translucent shrieked, his voice hoarse, raw with desperation. "Vought will find you! Homelander will tear you apart! You'll never get away with this! I'll tell you anything! More! I'll give you more intel! Just don't… don't put me in there!"

"Too late, mate," Butcher retorted, his eyes gleaming with a cold satisfaction. "You had your chance. Now, it's our turn. And you, Hughie," he looked at Hughie, "you're going to be the one to do it. You figured out his weakness. You're going to be the one to exploit it. You're our fuse."

" Me? Oh, God. Me? I have to be the one to… to make him explode? I can barely handle microwaving popcorn without setting off the smoke alarm. Now I have to be the executioner? 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. I'm going to need a very, very large drink after this. Or a new soul. Whichever comes first. And a very, very good therapist. Assuming therapists exist in this hellscape. "

Hughie felt a wave of nausea. He hadn't gained a power. He was still powerless. But he was about to become the catalyst. The one who would push Translucent past his limit. The one who would make him explode. The weight of it was crushing, a physical burden that made it hard to breathe.

Butcher then outlined the grim details of the final plan. Translucent would be transferred to the "box." Once inside, Frenchie would activate a series of high-frequency sonic pulses, designed to rapidly build up kinetic energy within Translucent's carbon skin, pushing him past his critical point. Hughie's role would be crucial: he would monitor the "hum," his unique connection to Translucent's energy, to tell Frenchie precisely when to escalate the pulses, when Translucent was at his absolute limit, just before detonation.

"You're our fuse, mate," Butcher said, his eyes fixed on Hughie. "You'll tell us when he's ready to blow. You'll feel it. That hum of yours. It'll scream at you."

" A fuse. Right. My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Human Fuse. 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 'fuse' 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. And I'm still just Hughie. The guy who sells stereos. The guy who gets punched. The guy who needs to be rescued. And now, the guy who's about to kill someone. "

Hughie nodded, his face grim. He felt a profound weariness, the moral compromises piling up, but also a chilling sense of purpose. He felt the weight of the decision they were about to make, knowing it would irrevocably change him. His sarcasm was a dark shield, barely concealing the monster he was becoming. He was a part of this. A crucial, terrifying part of it.

The transfer of Translucent to the "box" was a tense, brutal affair. He fought, he screamed, he pleaded, but the Boys were relentless. Butcher held him, M.M. restrained his flailing limbs, and Frenchie forced him into the grim, metallic coffin. The heavy door swung shut with a final, echoing clang that reverberated through the boiler room, sealing Translucent's fate. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than his screams.

Hughie stood before the "box," his hand pressed against the cool metal, feeling the faint, internal thrum of Translucent's contained energy. The hum in his chest was a deafening roar, a frantic, overwhelming symphony of vibrations. He was still powerless. But he was about to become the catalyst. And the hunt for justice, for answers, was about to take a terrifying, irreversible turn.

"Right then, Frenchie," Butcher commanded, his voice low and steady. "Let's get this show on the road. Start the pulses. And Hughie, you tell him when."

Frenchie nodded, his face grim, and activated the sonic emitters. A low, vibrating hum filled the air, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within Hughie's bones. He felt the "box" thrumming, vibrating with the increasing energy. And the hum in his chest, his internal "fuse," began to spike, a frantic, agonizing crescendo.

He could feel it. The pressure building inside Translucent. The kinetic energy, absorbed and trapped, with nowhere to go. It was like a giant, invisible balloon inflating, inflating, stretching to its absolute limit. He could feel Translucent's terror, his desperate attempts to dissipate the energy, to shift, to escape. It was overwhelming, a torrent of sensory input that threatened to shatter his mind.

" Oh, God. It's happening. It's actually happening. I can feel it. He's filling up. Like a water balloon about to burst. And I'm the one holding the hose. This is the most horrifying thing I've ever experienced. And I once accidentally walked in on my dad doing karaoke in his underwear. This is worse. So much worse. And that hum… it's screaming now. It's telling me… it's almost there. The limit. The breaking point. My brain feels like it's going to explode. Or maybe that's just him. "

"More!" Hughie choked out, his voice strained, his eyes wide with a horrifying certainty. "More, Frenchie! He's almost there! The pressure! It's… it's critical!"

Frenchie, his face pale, adjusted the dial, increasing the frequency. The hum in the air intensified, becoming a piercing whine. The "box" vibrated violently. And the hum in Hughie's chest became a deafening roar, a torrent of pure, raw energy. He felt Translucent's internal structure straining, tearing, reaching its absolute, impossible limit.

Then, with a sickening pop, the "box" shuddered. A blinding flash of white light erupted from within, momentarily silhouetting Hughie against the metal. A wave of raw, unadulterated energy slammed into him, a violent, overwhelming rush that stole his breath. It wasn't just the explosion. It was something else. Something more.

He felt Translucent's power, his carbon skin, his very essence, flooding into him. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of new sensations, new instincts, new knowledge. He felt the cold, unyielding strength of carbon, the impenetrable density, the ability to absorb impact. It was like his own skin was hardening, becoming something else, something unbreakable. He felt the subtle shifts in light, the way Translucent could bend it around himself, becoming unseen. He felt the flow of his blood, the rhythm of his heart, the very molecular structure of his body. It was too much. Too fast. Too violent.

" Oh, my God, it's happening. It's actually happening. It's like every cell in my body is screaming, tearing itself apart and stitching itself back together with… with carbon. I can feel everything. The air pressure on my skin, the faint vibrations of the floor, the individual dust motes floating in the air. It's like someone just turned up the volume on the universe to eleven. And it hurts. It hurts so much. But it's also… powerful. Terrifyingly powerful. And I just… I just killed him. I killed him. Me. Hughie Campbell. I'm a murderer. And I'm becoming… one of them. The hum… it's not just a hum anymore. It's a roar. A roar of power. And it's mine. "

Translucent's body, now inside the "box," spasmed, his internal glow intensifying, becoming a blinding white. A high-pitched whine filled the room, growing louder and louder. Then, with a final, sickening pop, the "box" shuddered violently, a muffled explosion echoing within its confines. A faint, acrid smell filled the air.

Silence descended, broken only by Hughie's ragged breathing and the faint, lingering hum in his head. He looked down at his hands, then at his arms. They looked normal. But they didn't feel normal. They felt… solid. Dense. Like stone. He clenched his fist, and for a split second, he felt an incredible, unyielding strength, a resistance he'd never known. It was Carbon Skin. He had it. He had Translucent's power.

He looked up at the Boys. Butcher was staring at him, a mixture of awe and something akin to fear in his eyes. M.M. looked utterly horrified, his face pale, his mouth agape. Frenchie, ever the scientist, looked fascinated, a strange, almost reverent expression on his face.

"Well, I'll be damned," Butcher whispered, breaking the silence, his voice barely audible. "The kid really did it. You really are the New-Hue, aren't ya?"

Hughie just stared at the "box," then at his own hands, then back at the faces of the Boys. He was a murderer. And he was powerful. The two facts warred within him, a terrifying, nauseating realization. This was his new reality. And it was just beginning.