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

Chapter 24: The Reckoning and the Revelation

" Okay, so we actually subdued A-Train. The fastest man alive. And I punched him. With my rock fist. 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 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 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. And now I have to worry about a new, unseen threat. Great. "

The aftermath of the subway tunnel confrontation was a chaotic blur, executed with the grim efficiency of seasoned professionals. A-Train, unconscious and sedated, was a dead weight, his once-vibrant blue suit now grimy and torn, lying sprawled on the damp, grimy tracks like a discarded toy. The Boys worked quickly, their movements honed by years of clandestine operations and desperate improvisation, each knowing their role without a word needing to be spoken. Butcher immediately began gathering evidence: snapping dozens of high-resolution photos of A-Train's disheveled state, his bloodshot, half-open eyes, the unmistakable needle marks on his arm, and a small, clear vial of what Frenchie quickly identified as a potent, illicit form of Compound V, still clutched in A-Train's unconscious hand.

"This is it," Butcher grunted, his voice low and satisfied, a grim triumph in his tone, as he carefully secured the vial in a sterile, airtight bag. "Proof. Hard proof. Vought's golden boy, mainlining the very stuff they claim to control and keep secret from the public. This is going to blow up in their faces. Spectacularly. It'll be a bloody fireworks display."

M.M., despite his earlier reservations and obvious discomfort with the brutality of their methods, worked with grim efficiency. He helped Frenchie rig a miniature, high-definition camera on a makeshift tripod, aimed directly at A-Train's slack, unconscious face. "We need a confession," M.M. stated, his voice firm, his eyes fixed on the speedster's pathetic features. "Or at least, enough to make him look bad. Really bad. Enough to destroy his image, and Vought's carefully crafted lie. We need to make sure there's no way they can spin this."

" A confession. Right. Because nothing says 'credible witness' like a junkie superhero tied up in a grimy subway tunnel, being filmed by a bunch of vigilantes who just assaulted him. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Cops: Supe Victims Unit,' and I'm the unwilling cameraman, and also the guy who just punched the suspect. 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. And now I have to worry about a new, unseen threat. Great. "

They propped A-Train against a grimy, graffiti-covered wall, the dampness seeping through his torn suit. Frenchie, ever the pragmatist and master of chemical manipulation, administered a mild stimulant, just enough to bring him partially around, to make him groggy and terrified, but not fully aware or capable of resistance. Butcher began his interrogation, his voice a low, menacing growl that echoed in the confined space, pressing A-Train for details about Vought's Compound V distribution network, their elaborate cover-ups, and their explicit knowledge of his crippling addiction. He leaned in close, his face inches from A-Train's, his eyes burning with cold fury.

A-Train, his eyes fluttering open, looked around with dazed confusion, then a dawning horror. He mumbled incoherently at first, his words slurred, his head lolling against the wall. Then, as the stimulant took hold, he began to babble, his eyes darting wildly between the grim faces of The Boys and the cold, unfeeling lens of the camera. He admitted to his addiction, to Vought supplying him with Compound V, to the immense pressure to maintain his perfect, wholesome image, to the constant fear of being exposed. He even let slip fragmented details about other Supes' hidden dependencies, about Vought's clandestine experimental programs, and, most chillingly, about a secret facility where new Supes were being "developed" and "refined" – a place he referred to as "The Nursery," a chilling name that sent a shiver down Hughie's spine.

Hughie stood by, his Carbon Skin still tingling faintly, a phantom echo of the impact, the hum in his chest a low, constant thrum that vibrated with A-Train's raw fear, his desperation, his unhinged paranoia. It was overwhelming, a torrent of chaotic energy that made his head ache, a constant reminder of the darkness that permeated this world. He felt a grim satisfaction, a sense of justice being served, however brutally. But he also felt a profound sadness, a hollow ache in his chest. This was A-Train. The man who killed Robin. Reduced to this pathetic, broken state, a shadow of his former glory. It was a hollow victory, a bitter pill to swallow, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth.

"Enough," Butcher finally said, his voice cutting through A-Train's rambling confession, a note of finality in his tone. He looked at Frenchie, a silent question in his eyes. "Got enough, mate?"

Frenchie nodded, his face grim, his fingers flying across the camera's controls, securing the footage. "More than enough. This will be… devastating. It will tear down his carefully constructed facade. And Vought's. It will be a scandal of epic proportions."

They quickly secured the footage and the vial of Compound V, carefully wiping down any surfaces they might have touched, leaving no fingerprints, no trace of their presence. A-Train, still groggy and barely conscious, was left tied up in the tunnel, a crude note pinned to his chest, a stark message for Vought: Your secrets are out. And this is just the beginning. They couldn't kill him. Not yet. The public exposure would be far more damaging, a slow, agonizing death for his career and Vought's carefully cultivated reputation.

Back in "The Den," the atmosphere was tense, a strange mix of exhaustion and grim triumph. They had achieved a significant victory, but it felt heavy, tainted by the brutality of it all. News reports were already buzzing with rumors of A-Train's erratic behavior, fueled by anonymous leaks from The Boys' carefully planted sources. Vought was in full damage control, issuing vague statements about "hero exhaustion" and "personal struggles," trying desperately to spin the narrative, to control the damage. But the cracks were showing, widening with every passing hour, threatening to shatter their carefully constructed illusion.

"They're spinning it," M.M. said, watching a news anchor try to downplay A-Train's public breakdown, his voice laced with disgust. "But it's not working. People are starting to ask questions. Good questions. Questions Vought can't answer with a smile and a press release. The public isn't buying it this time."

"Good," Butcher grunted, reviewing the raw, unedited footage from the subway, a grim satisfaction on his face. "Let 'em ask. Let 'em see the truth. This is just the beginning. The first domino. And we've got a whole bloody line of 'em. We're going to knock them all down." He looked at Hughie, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes, almost a grudging respect. "You did good, mate. You were crucial. Your skin. Your… hum. You're a proper asset now. A bloody useful asset. Couldn't have done it without you."

Hughie felt physically battered, his muscles aching, his mind reeling from the adrenaline crash, the lingering scent of ozone and stale fear clinging to him. The Carbon Skin, though no longer actively hardened, still felt heavy, a constant reminder of the fight, of the violence he had embraced. He was alive. He had survived. And he had helped expose A-Train. But at what cost? He felt the cumulative weight of his actions – Translucent's death, his own power, the constant violence, the slow erosion of his innocence. M.M.'s warnings about becoming like them resonated more deeply, even as Hughie felt increasingly desensitized, the lines between right and wrong blurring into a murky gray. He was a killer. He was powerful. And he was becoming more and more like the very people he hated, a terrifying reflection in the cracked mirror of his soul.

"The secret facility," Frenchie suddenly said, looking up from his laptop, his eyes wide with a new, chilling discovery. He had been cross-referencing A-Train's fragmented confessions with the Vought Tower data, piecing together the puzzle with a furious intensity. "A-Train mentioned it. Where they 'develop' new Supes. 'The Nursery,' he called it. He said… he said it was old. Abandoned. But still active. And the coordinates… I think I found them. The energy signatures match the vague descriptions."

Butcher's eyes narrowed, a dangerous gleam replacing his satisfaction. "Where?"

Frenchie pulled up a grainy satellite image, zooming in on a remote, heavily forested area, miles from any known Vought property, a dark, almost indistinguishable smudge amidst the green. "It is a former Vought research facility. Supposedly decommissioned years ago, written off the books. But the energy signatures… they are faint. But they are there. And your 'hum,' Hughie. It reacted when he spoke of it. Did you feel it? The resonance?"

Hughie closed his eyes, focusing. The hum, which had been a dull thrum, now pulsed faintly, a distant echo of the "cold" Supe's signature, mixed with something else. Something… artificial. Something powerful. Something growing. Something deeply, fundamentally wrong. "Yeah," Hughie whispered, his voice strained, a cold dread seeping into his bones, chilling him to the core. "I felt it. It's… it's like a cold spot. But it's also… buzzing. Like a hive. A very, very bad hive. Full of… something new. Something terrible."

" A hive. Great. Because that's exactly what I need. More super-powered bees, probably with laser eyes and a penchant for mass destruction. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Bee Movie: Supe Edition,' and I'm the unwilling star, about to get stung. 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 grinned, a dangerous, predatory glint in his eyes that promised more violence, more destruction, more chaos. "Right then. Looks like we've got a new objective, mates. A new target. A new way to hit Vought where it truly hurts. The source. The bloody root of it all. The factory that makes the monsters. The bloody nursery of nightmares." He looked at Hughie, his gaze intense, a silent challenge. "And you, mate. You're coming with us. Your hum. Your skin. You're going to be our guide. Our shield. Our bloody secret weapon. We're going to burn that hive to the ground. And we're going to make sure everyone knows Vought built it."

Hughie felt a profound weariness, the moral compromises piling up, a heavy weight on his soul that threatened to crush him. But he also felt a chilling sense of purpose, a grim determination that hardened his resolve, turning his fear into a cold, sharp edge. He was alive. He had survived. He had a power. And he was about to delve deeper into the heart of Vought's darkness, into the very crucible where their monsters were forged, where innocence was twisted into power. The reckoning was far from over. It was only just beginning.

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