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

Chapter 19: The Burden of Knowledge

" Okay, so I have Carbon Skin. And it's reactive. And I'm slowly, awkwardly, learning to suppress it. But it's still there. A constant, heavy presence, like a really uncomfortable weighted blanket that I can't take off. And the guilt. Oh, the guilt is still here. It's like a clingy ex-girlfriend, always whispering in my ear, reminding me of all my terrible life choices. And now Butcher wants me to think about using this power offensively. Because, you know, being a human shield isn't enough. I need to be a human weapon. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Extreme Makeover: Boiler Room Edition,' and I'm the unwilling interior designer. And that hum. It's still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a broken washing machine in my chest. It's vibrating with the anticipation of what's to come, reacting to the grim purpose of this… this contraption. It's like my internal 'moral compass' is spinning wildly, pointing somewhere between 'righteous vengeance' and 'impending psychological trauma.' 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 more powers yet. "

The boiler room, "The Den," had become Hughie's grim reality. Days blurred into weeks, a cycle of training, planning, and the constant, unsettling presence of Carbon Skin. He was getting better at suppressing it in public, at controlling his reactions, but it was an exhausting, constant effort. The power felt less like a gift and more like a heavy burden, a constant reminder of the life he had taken.

Butcher, however, saw only potential. He began to push Hughie, not just to control Carbon Skin defensively, but to think about how it could be used offensively. "Right, mate," he'd say, during their grim training sessions. "You can take a hit. Good. But what about dishing one out? What if you hit someone with that hardened fist of yours? What then?"

"What then?" Hughie would retort, rubbing his aching knuckles after accidentally punching a reinforced sandbag. "Then I probably break my hand. Or their face. And then I feel really, really bad about it."

" Really, really bad. Right. Because that's my superpower. 'Feeling really, really bad about things.' Not exactly a headliner for The Seven. And now Butcher wants me to be a human battering ram. Because being a human shield isn't enough. I need to be a human 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. 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 would push him to imagine scenarios, to visualize using his hardened skin as a weapon, to combine it with his reflexes. "Think of it, mate. You're invulnerable. You can walk through anything. You can hit anything. You're a bloody tank. We just need to learn how to drive you."

Hughie's meta-knowledge of "The Boys" TV show, once a comforting source of trivia, now became a heavier burden. He knew what was coming. He knew the threats. He knew the powers. And he knew that Carbon Skin, while useful, was just the beginning. He needed more. He needed offensive capabilities. He needed speed. He needed… everything. The knowledge was a curse, a constant reminder of the terrifying path ahead.

Frenchie, meanwhile, was delving deeper into understanding Hughie's power. He theorized that the "hum," Hughie's original Supe-detector, was the key to not just sensing powers, but to absorbing them. He spent hours poring over scientific texts, muttering about energy transfer and molecular resonance.

"It is a fascinating phenomenon, mon ami!" Frenchie would exclaim, holding a small, glowing device near Hughie's chest. "The 'hum' is the conduit! The bridge! It allows the… essence of the Supe to transfer! We must understand this! We must replicate this!"

" Replicate this. Right. Because that's exactly what I need. More accidental superpowers. And more dead people. 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. "

M.M.'s moral stand became a constant source of friction. He continued to express his disgust and concern, leading to heated arguments with Butcher and Hughie. He feared Hughie was becoming what they fought, a monster in civilian clothes.

"Hughie, you're changing," M.M. would say, his voice filled with a weary sadness. "You're getting colder. More ruthless. This power… it's corrupting you. Just like Compound V corrupts them."

Hughie would just shrug, his eyes fixed on the flickering outline of A-Train on a news report. "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. And at him." He gestured vaguely at the TV.

The hunt for A-Train continued. The intel from Translucent (and the bug they had finally managed to plant in Vought Tower, thanks to Frenchie's modifications) provided new leads on A-Train's escalating Compound V addiction. They spent hours on surveillance, tracking his erratic movements, gathering more damning evidence. Hughie's "hum" was still active for detection, a constant, low thrum that intensified whenever A-Train was near, a painful reminder of his ultimate target.

"He's getting worse," Hughie would whisper, watching A-Train stumble out of a shady clinic, his face pale and gaunt. "The hum… it's almost frantic around him. Like he's vibrating with pure instability."

Butcher would just nod, his face grim. "Good. The sicker he gets, the sloppier he gets. And the sloppier he gets, the easier he'll be to take down."

Hughie felt a chilling realization. They weren't just gathering intel anymore. They were waiting. Waiting for A-Train to hit rock bottom. Waiting for their chance. And he, Hughie Campbell, with his reactive Carbon Skin and his Supe-sensing hum, was going to be a part of it. The burden of knowledge was heavy, a constant reminder of the grim path ahead. He knew too much. And in this world, knowing too much was just as dangerous as having powers.