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

Chapter 3: The Boiler Room Briefing

" Okay, so I'm meeting Billy Butcher. Again. In a cafe that smells like stale coffee and desperation. This is my life now. My social calendar consists of clandestine meetings with angry Englishmen who want to take down superheroes. It's like a really dark, gritty version of a superhero fan club, except instead of collecting action figures, we're collecting evidence of corporate malfeasance. And my internal hum? It's still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a faulty fluorescent light in the back of my brain. It's not doing anything useful, mind you. No sudden flashes of insight into A-Train's weaknesses, no ability to, say, make Butcher's tea levitate. Just… hum. Which, frankly, is less a superpower and more a mild annoyance. Like a persistent itch you can't scratch. But it's there, a constant reminder that my life is officially off the rails. "

Hughie arrived at the cafe, his nerves frayed, his stomach doing acrobatics. He spotted Butcher in a secluded booth, nursing a cup of what looked suspiciously like motor oil. Butcher looked up, his eyes meeting Hughie's, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. Not exactly welcoming, but not outright hostile either. Progress, he supposed.

"Took you long enough, mate," Butcher grunted, gesturing to the seat opposite him. "Thought you'd gone soft. Took the Vought money and bought yourself a nice little bungalow in the suburbs."

"I don't want their money," Hughie said, sliding into the booth, the worn vinyl groaning beneath him. "It's… it's blood money."

Butcher gave a curt nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Good. Means you've still got a bit of backbone. Most people roll over for Vought. They like their lives too much. Their comfortable, little lives." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Right. So, you're in. Good. Now, we got work to do. Real work. Not just sitting around whining about it."

" Work. Right. Because my previous work involved selling stereos and trying to convince people that they really, really needed a five-disc CD changer. This work, I'm guessing, involves significantly more danger and significantly less commission. And probably no benefits. Do we get dental? Because I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot of dental work after this. And that hum… it's vibrating with a strange anticipation now. Like it knows something I don't. Which, given my current level of cluelessness, is highly probable. "

Butcher pulled out a crumpled map, spreading it across the table. It was a crude drawing of Vought Tower, with various sections highlighted and annotated. "First order of business: Vought Tower. We need to get eyes and ears inside. Real eyes. Real ears. Not their bloody PR spin."

"You want me to… break into Vought Tower?" Hughie asked, his voice barely a whisper. "The most secure building on the planet? Where they keep, like, actual superheroes? Are you insane?"

Butcher just grinned, a flash of predatory amusement. "Just a little bit. And you, mate, are the perfect man for the job. Nobody expects the meek, grieving electronics clerk. You're practically invisible. You blend right in. You're the last person anyone would suspect of trying to stick a bug in their pristine corporate headquarters."

" Invisible. Great. My superpower is being forgettable. Just like my life before Robin. And now, my life after Robin. Except now, instead of being forgettable, I'm going to be forgettably dead. Because breaking into Vought Tower? That's not 'invisible,' that's 'suicidal.' I've seen enough spy movies to know how this ends. Usually with me, the civilian, getting caught, interrogated, and probably turned into a human stress ball for some Supe with anger management issues. But then again, what do I have to lose? My dignity? My sanity? My life? Already halfway there on all counts. And that hum… it's buzzing with a nervous energy now. Like it's saying, 'This is a terrible idea, Hughie. A truly, spectacularly terrible idea. But also, kind of exciting, isn't it?' No, it's not exciting. It's terrifying. "

Butcher explained the plan. A small, discreet listening device. A specific office, a key Vought communications hub. Hughie, posing as a cable repairman, would gain access. It sounded simple. Too simple. His mind, ever the overthinker, immediately started cataloging all the ways it could go horribly wrong. Laser grids. Super-powered security guards. Invisible tripwires. He'd seen enough spy movies to know the drill.

"You'll need to look the part," Butcher said, pushing a bag across the table. Hughie peered inside. A Vought-branded uniform, complete with a tool belt and a fake ID badge. It looked disturbingly authentic.

"This is… comprehensive," Hughie mumbled, holding up the ID. His own face stared back at him, looking far too innocent for the dangerous mission he was about to undertake.

"We don't mess around, mate," Butcher said, his eyes hard. "This isn't a game. This is real. And if you get caught… Vought won't be sending you another check. They'll make you disappear. Permanently."

The words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the stakes. Hughie felt a cold knot of fear tighten in his stomach. He was in over his head. Way over his head. But the image of Robin, the memory of that red mist, flashed in his mind. And the hum in his chest, a low, persistent thrum, seemed to vibrate with a quiet resolve. He couldn't back down. Not now.

" Permanently disappear. Right. So, my options are 'take the blood money and live a miserable, guilt-ridden life,' or 'get vaporized by a corporate superhero.' Great choices. It's like a choose-your-own-adventure book written by a sadist. But I guess… I guess this is better than doing nothing. At least this way, if I go down, I go down fighting. Or, you know, awkwardly fumbling with a bug while trying not to wet myself. Probably the latter. But still. It's something. "

Butcher then introduced him to the rest of the team. Frenchie, a scruffy, intense man with a surprising knack for engineering and a penchant for philosophical musings. M.M., a meticulous, morally grounded individual who seemed to be constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They met in a dingy, abandoned boiler room beneath an old laundromat, which Butcher proudly declared their "undisclosed bunker." It smelled faintly of bleach and despair.

"This is Frenchie," Butcher said, gesturing to the man hunched over a workbench, surrounded by wires and circuit boards. "He's our tech guy. Built the bug. And M.M. here," he nodded towards the larger man, who was meticulously cleaning a variety of firearms, "he's our… well, he's our everything. Our moral compass, our logistics guy, our resident worrier."

" A moral compass. Great. Because mine is currently spinning wildly, pointing somewhere between 'righteous vengeance' and 'impending doom.' And a logistics guy? Do we get a catering budget? Because I'm going to need a lot of coffee for this. And Frenchie… he looks like he's either a mad scientist or a very dedicated barista. I'm leaning towards mad scientist. This is fine. This is my life now. Surrounded by eccentric, dangerous people in a boiler room. Just like I always dreamed. "

M.M. looked up, his eyes wary. "So, this is the civilian? The one who's going to get us all killed?"

"Relax, M.M.," Butcher said, a hint of steel in his voice. "He's got a fire in his belly. And he's got a knack for being overlooked. Perfect for the job."

Hughie tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it probably came out as a terrified grimace. "Hi. Hughie. I, uh… I sell stereos."

Frenchie, without looking up from his work, grunted. "Stereos. Magnifique. Perhaps you can fix my broken record player, yes?"

" Oh, God. He's going to ask me to fix his record player. This is exactly why I hate meeting new people. Always with the tech questions. But hey, at least he's not trying to dissect me. Yet. This is going to be a long, awkward few days. Filled with planning, and paranoia, and the constant, unsettling hum beneath my skin. I wonder if they can hear it? Probably not. That would be too convenient. And nothing in my life is convenient anymore. "

The rest of the day was spent in a tense, detailed briefing. Butcher outlined the layout of Vought Tower, the security checkpoints, the patrol routes. Frenchie explained the bug, a tiny, almost invisible device that would transmit audio and video. M.M. meticulously went over the escape routes, the contingency plans, the myriad ways everything could go wrong. Hughie absorbed it all, his mind racing, the hum in his chest a constant, low thrum of nervous energy. He felt utterly out of his depth. A fish out of water. A very small, very terrified fish.

As the sun set, casting long shadows across the grimy boiler room, Hughie felt a profound sense of isolation. He was alone in this. Alone with his grief, alone with that unsettling hum, and alone with the terrifying knowledge that he was about to step into a world far more dangerous than he could ever imagine. But he also felt a flicker of something else. A grim determination. He wasn't going to let them get away with it. Not A-Train. Not Vought. He was going to fight. Even if he had no idea how.

" This is it. Tomorrow. Vought Tower. The belly of the beast. And I'm the sacrificial lamb. Or, you know, the very nervous, slightly sweaty lamb. I just hope I don't accidentally trip over my own feet and trigger a silent alarm. Or, worse, accidentally break something expensive. Because I'm pretty sure Vought doesn't have a 'customer satisfaction' policy for accidental acts of espionage. Wish me luck. I'm going to need it. All of it. And maybe a very large, very strong cup of coffee. "