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

Chapter 18: The Invisible Aftershocks

" Okay, so I have Carbon Skin. And it's reactive. Which means I have to get hit to activate it. Great. My superpower is 'getting punched really hard, and then maybe, possibly, turning into a rock for a split second.' Not exactly ideal for offensive maneuvers. And now we have to dispose of Translucent's remains. Because, you know, can't leave a super-powered explosion site just lying around. Vought would definitely notice. 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 demise, 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'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. "

The grim task of disposing of Translucent's remains fell to Frenchie and M.M., with Hughie as a reluctant, nauseated observer. The "box" had contained the explosion, but inside, it was a gruesome mess of black, crystalline shards and a faint, acrid smell. Frenchie, ever pragmatic, meticulously collected every piece, muttering about molecular decomposition and energy signatures. M.M., his face pale with disgust, helped bag the remains, his movements stiff and deliberate.

"This is… barbaric," M.M. whispered, his voice strained, as he tied off a heavy-duty bag. "We're cleaning up a murder scene. A Supe murder scene. This is not what we do."

"We do what we have to do, M.M.," Butcher retorted, his voice grim. He stood guard, his eyes sweeping the boiler room, ensuring no one was watching. "Vought's already looking for him. We can't leave a trace. Not if we want to stay alive. And not if we want to keep using our new… asset." He glanced at Hughie, a calculating glint in his eyes.

" Asset. Right. My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Human Asset. 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 'asset' status 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 cleans up after himself. Literally. "

Hughie watched them, a profound sense of unreality washing over him. He had caused this. He had been the catalyst. And now, he was watching the grim aftermath. The hum in his chest was a dull thrum, a constant reminder of the alien power coursing through him. He could feel the faint, heavy density of his Carbon Skin, a constant, unsettling presence.

News reports confirmed Translucent's disappearance. Vought, predictably, spun a story: "Translucent on a top-secret mission for national security." Homelander appeared on TV, his perfect smile radiating concern, assuring the public that Translucent was a true hero, serving his country. Hughie wanted to scream at the screen, to expose the lies, but he knew it was futile. They were untouchable.

"They're good," Hughie mumbled, watching Homelander's performance. "They're really good at lying."

"That's their superpower, mate," Butcher scoffed. "Lies and propaganda. And we're going to expose every last one of 'em." He looked at Hughie. "And that new skin of yours? That's going to help us. You're going to be our shield. Our battering ram. Our bloody invisible man."

" Invisible man. Right. Except I'm not invisible. I just have the power of a dead invisible man. Which, by the way, is not the same thing. And I still can't control it. So, I'm a human battering ram that might accidentally turn into a rock at the wrong moment. Great. 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. "

The biggest challenge for Hughie was learning to hide his new power. Carbon Skin was reactive, activating in moments of stress or impact. This meant accidental hardening could expose him in public. He'd be walking down the street, startled by a sudden noise, and feel his skin momentarily turn to stone. He'd bump into someone, and they'd recoil, complaining about hitting something "hard as a rock." He had to learn to suppress it, to control his reactions, to appear normal.

He had close calls. Once, a bus swerved suddenly, and Hughie instinctively braced himself, his skin hardening just as a fellow passenger bumped into him. The woman yelped, rubbing her arm. "Goodness! You're solid as a brick wall, young man!" Hughie stammered out an apology, his face flushing, trying to act like it was just a muscle spasm.

"You need to control it, mate," Butcher warned, after Hughie recounted the incident. "One wrong move, and Vought's going to know. And then you're not an asset anymore. You're a problem. And Vought deals with problems permanently."

Frenchie, meanwhile, was fascinated by the reactive nature of Carbon Skin. He'd set up various tests, throwing soft objects at Hughie, trying to gauge the threshold of activation. He theorized that the "hum," Hughie's original Supe-detector, was now intricately linked to the Carbon Skin, acting as a trigger mechanism.

"It is a fascinating symbiotic relationship, mon ami!" Frenchie exclaimed, scribbling in his notebook. "The 'hum' detects the kinetic energy, and the Carbon Skin… reacts! We must learn to consciously control this trigger! To make the 'hum' your command!"

" My command. Right. Because I can barely command my own bladder right now. And now I have to command a subconscious internal hum to activate a dead man's superpower. 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, ever pragmatic, began to force Hughie on small, low-stakes missions outside the Den. These were not for intel gathering, but for Hughie to practice suppressing his power, to blend in, to act like a normal civilian. He'd send Hughie to buy groceries, to pick up supplies, to simply walk through crowded areas. Hughie would walk, his senses heightened, his "hum" a constant, low thrum, constantly monitoring for any hint of Supe presence, constantly battling the urge to react, to harden, to expose himself.

He felt the weight of the secret. He was a killer. He had a power. And he was living a lie. Every interaction with a normal person felt like a performance, a desperate attempt to appear unremarkable. He missed Robin. He missed his old, boring, predictable life. But that life was gone. Replaced by a grim, dangerous reality. And the Carbon Skin, the constant, heavy presence beneath his skin, was a permanent reminder of the line he had crossed.

"You're doing good, mate," Butcher said one evening, after a particularly successful, uneventful supply run. "You're learning to blend. To be invisible. That's a superpower in itself, in this world."

Hughie just nodded, his face grim. Invisible. Right. He was becoming a ghost. A ghost haunting the corporation that stole his life. And the aftershocks of Translucent's demise, the constant presence of his power, were a chilling reminder that the hunt had only just begun.