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 17: The Weight of Stone

" Okay, so I have Carbon Skin. Which, for the record, sounds less like a superpower and more like a really bad dermatological condition. But apparently, it means I can take a punch. Or, you know, a small explosion. Which is great, because my life has officially become a series of increasingly large explosions. The problem? It's not exactly a subtle power. And it's not exactly proactive. I can take a hit, but I can't dish one out. I'm basically a very expensive, very durable punching bag. And in this world, being a punching bag, no matter how durable, means you eventually get recycled. And the constant, alien presence of it… it's like wearing a suit of armor that I can't take off. A very heavy, very unsettling suit of armor. And the guilt? Oh, the guilt is a fun new accessory. It's like a designer handbag, but instead of carrying my wallet, it carries the crushing weight of a human life I just ended. Fun times. "

The boiler room, "The Den," felt different now. Quieter. Heavier. The lingering metallic scent of Translucent's demise hung in the air, a grim reminder of what had just transpired. Hughie stood, his body buzzing with the alien sensation of Carbon Skin. It wasn't always active, not consciously. But he could feel it, a constant, low thrum beneath his own skin, a subtle density that made him feel… solid. Like stone. It was unsettling, like having a second, unyielding layer to his being.

Butcher was the first to move, walking over to the "box," a grim satisfaction on his face. He rapped his knuckles against the reinforced steel. "Well, that's that then. One less Supe in the world. And one more problem solved." He looked at Hughie, a strange, almost predatory gleam in his eyes. "And you, mate. You got yourself a souvenir, didn't ya?"

M.M. looked utterly horrified. He stared at Hughie, his face pale, his mouth agape. "Hughie… you… you killed him. And you… you have his power." His voice was a strained whisper, filled with a profound sense of betrayal and disgust. "This is… this is wrong. This is what they do. We're not supposed to be like them."

Frenchie, however, was already approaching Hughie, his eyes alight with a mad scientist's glee. He held a small, glowing device, its sensors sweeping over Hughie's body. "The energy signature… it is unmistakable! It is the carbon skin! It has transferred! Magnifique! But… also dangerous. You must learn to control it, mon ami. Or you will be… very stiff."

" Very stiff. Right. Because that's my biggest concern right now. Not the fact that I just murdered someone. Not the fact that I have a dead man's power coursing through my veins. No, my biggest concern is being 'very stiff.' 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 tried to deny it, to push the feeling away, but it was undeniable. 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. And it felt like a curse. A constant, heavy reminder of the life he had just taken.

"I don't… I don't want it," Hughie whispered, his voice raw with a mixture of horror and disbelief. "I didn't… I didn't mean for this to happen. It just… it just flooded into me."

Butcher scoffed. "Didn't mean for it to happen? Mate, you were the bloody fuse! You told us when to push! You were the catalyst! You wanted this, didn't ya? A bit of power. A bit of protection. A bit of payback."

Hughie flinched. He had wanted justice. He had wanted answers. He had wanted to make them pay. And he had wanted to survive. But he hadn't wanted this. He hadn't wanted to become a killer. He hadn't wanted to become one of them. But now he was. He was a murderer. And he was powerful. The two facts warred within him, a terrifying, nauseating realization.

M.M. turned away, shaking his head. "I can't. I can't be a part of this. This is too far, Butcher. You've gone too far. And you, Hughie… you've lost yourself."

"Oh, for crying out loud, M.M.," Butcher snapped, his voice sharp. "He's got a power! A bloody useful power! This changes everything! We can actually fight back now! We can actually hurt them!"

Frenchie, meanwhile, was already pulling out a variety of blunt objects. "We must test it, mon ami! We must understand its limits! Its… reactivity!" He picked up a heavy wrench. "Perhaps a small… tap?"

" A small tap. Right. Because that's exactly what I need right now. To be experimented on by a mad Frenchman with a wrench. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Mythbusters: Supe Edition.' And I'm the unwilling test subject. 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. "

Butcher, seeing the potential, immediately agreed. He grabbed a sandbag. "Right then, Hughie. Let's see what that new skin of yours can do. Try to activate it. Try to make it hard."

Hughie tried. He focused, he strained, he thought about Translucent, about the feeling of density, of unyielding strength. He clenched his fists, he gritted his teeth, he even tried to make a "hard" face. Nothing. His skin remained stubbornly soft, squishy, and very, very vulnerable.

"Come on, mate!" Butcher urged, swinging the sandbag. "Think hard! Think invulnerable! Think… bloody angry!"

The sandbag connected with Hughie's shoulder with a dull thud. He winced, rubbing the sore spot. "It's not working! I don't know how to turn it on! It just… happened!"

Frenchie, however, noticed something. "It is reactive, mon ami! It is not a conscious activation! It is a… a reflex! It activates when you are… impacted! Or when you are… stressed!" He picked up a small, hard rubber ball and threw it at Hughie's chest.

The ball hit Hughie with a surprising force. And for a split second, he felt it. A sudden, heavy density settle over his skin, a momentary hardening that absorbed the impact. The ball bounced off him with a dull thud. Then, just as quickly, the sensation faded.

" Oh, crap. It's reactive. So, my superpower is 'getting hit really hard, and then maybe, possibly, turning into a rock for a split second.' Not exactly ideal for offensive maneuvers. And it means I have to get hit to activate it. Great. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Jackass: Supe Edition.' And I'm the unwilling star. 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. "

"Reactive!" Frenchie exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. "It is a defense mechanism! It activates in moments of… stress! Or impact! We must train this! We must make it conscious!"

The next few days were spent in grueling, humiliating "training" sessions. Butcher would throw things at him – old tires, sandbags, even a rusty filing cabinet – trying to get Hughie to instinctively activate his Carbon Skin. More often than not, Hughie would just flinch, or get hit, or accidentally turn his hand into a rock and break whatever he was trying to catch. It was humiliating. And painful.

"Come on, mate!" Butcher would shout, as Hughie stumbled, rubbing a bruised arm. "Think hard! Think invulnerable! Think… bloody angry! You got a power, use it!"

Hughie would try. He'd focus on the feeling of density, on the hum that now seemed to be inextricably linked to the Carbon Skin. He'd try to channel his anger, his fear, into activating the power. Sometimes, for a split second, it would work. His skin would harden, feeling like unyielding stone. But then it would fade, leaving him vulnerable and frustrated.

M.M. watched these sessions with a growing sense of despair. He'd shake his head, muttering about "freaks" and "more damn paperwork." He saw Hughie's descent, the slow erosion of his innocence, and he hated it. He hated what Butcher was doing to him. And he hated what Hughie was becoming.

"This is wrong, Hughie," M.M. would say, pulling him aside after a particularly brutal session. "You're becoming a weapon. Just like them. You're losing yourself."

Hughie would just shrug, his eyes fixed on the flickering outline of Translucent's remnants in the "box." "What choice do I have, M.M.? They killed Robin. They covered it up. And now I have this. This… thing. I have to learn to control it. I have to learn to use it. Or I'm just going to be a victim again. And I can't be a victim anymore. Not after Robin. And that hum… it's telling me this is important. This is the only way. It's like a compass, M.M. A really, really terrifying compass that points towards danger and moral compromise. And right now, it's pointing directly at me."

He felt the weight of the power, the constant, alien presence of Carbon Skin. It was a burden, a constant reminder of the life he had taken. But it was also a shield. A promise of protection. And in this terrifying new world, protection was everything. He was a killer. He was powerful. And he was just beginning to understand what that truly meant.