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

Chapter 8: The Captive and the Conundrum

" Okay, so we actually did it. We captured an invisible, invulnerable Supe. Translucent. The guy who punched me in the face. And now he's in a cage in our boiler room. This is officially the most surreal thing that has ever happened to me. And I once saw a squirrel wearing a tiny hat. This beats the squirrel. By a lot. And that hum. It's still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a broken washing machine in my chest. It's louder now, a constant reminder that I'm sharing a confined space with a very angry, very naked Supe. And I'm pretty sure he hates me. Which, you know, fair. I did help lure him into a trap. But still. It's awkward. Very, very awkward. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to stand here and try not to make eye contact with the invisible man. Or, you know, the visible naked man. Whatever he is right now. "

The undisclosed bunker, or "The Den" as Butcher insisted on calling it, felt even more claustrophobic with Translucent confined within its makeshift cage. Frenchie had outdone himself, rigging a series of pulsating emitters around the reinforced steel bars, bathing the cage in a faint, shimmering light that kept Translucent's carbon skin visible. It was like watching a particularly disturbing art installation. Translucent himself sat slumped in the corner of the cage, his face a mask of sullen fury, occasionally glaring at the Boys, his eyes burning with an impotent rage.

" He's still naked. Seriously, dude? We captured you. The least you could do is ask for a towel. Or a pair of those Vought-brand boxers. It's just… unprofessional. And a little distracting. Like, I'm trying to be terrified of you, but also, I'm trying not to look directly at your… well, you know. This is not what I signed up for. I signed up for justice. Not for involuntary nudity observation. "

The logistical nightmare of holding a Supe hostage quickly became apparent. Translucent refused to eat anything they offered, convinced it was poisoned. He tried to phase through the bars, only to be met with the painful resistance of Frenchie's frequency jammer. He hurled insults and threats, his voice echoing menacingly in the confined space.

"You think you can hold me?" Translucent snarled one afternoon, his eyes fixed on Butcher. "Vought will find you. Homelander will tear you apart. Piece by piece. And you, little worm," he pointed a finger at Hughie, "you'll be the first. I'll make sure of it."

Hughie flinched, a cold dread washing over him. The hum in his chest intensified, a frantic, desperate thrumming that seemed to vibrate in sympathy with Translucent's threat. It was like his internal alarm system was screaming, He means it, Hughie! He really means it!

"Oh, I'm sure you will, mate," Butcher drawled, unperturbed, polishing his crowbar with a rag. "But first, you're going to tell us everything. Everything about Vought. Everything about Compound V. Everything about Homelander. And then, maybe, just maybe, we'll let you go. After we've had our fun, of course."

M.M. sighed, rubbing his temples. "Butcher, this is not how we do things. We don't torture people. We get intel. We expose them. We don't become them."

"Relax, M.M.," Butcher said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We're not torturing him. We're just… having a chat. A very, very long chat. And Hughie here," he gestured to Hughie, "he's going to help us. He's our little Supe mood ring. He tells us when our invisible friend is getting agitated. Or when he's lying."

" A Supe mood ring. Great. My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Mood Ring. Warning: May spontaneously panic.' This is not what I signed up for. I wanted justice. Not… whatever this is. And I'm pretty sure my 'mood ring' 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. "

Hughie was forced to sit near the cage, his "hum" a constant, low thrum, reacting to Translucent's every shift in mood, every attempt to escape. He felt like a human lie detector, or a very sensitive barometer of Supe emotions. When Translucent was angry, the hum would be a frantic buzz. When he was defiant, it would be a steady, resonant thrum. When he was terrified, it would be a high-pitched, almost painful whine.

He hated it. He hated being so close to the man who had punched him, the man who was now a prisoner. He hated being complicit in Butcher's increasingly brutal methods. His lingering humanity screamed in protest, but the desire for answers, for justice for Robin, was a powerful, overriding force.

"You're a monster, Butcher," Translucent spat one evening, his voice hoarse from shouting. "You're no better than Homelander."

"Maybe not, mate," Butcher retorted, a cold smile on his face. "But at least I don't pretend to be a hero. And at least I don't turn innocent people into bloody confetti."

The argument raged for hours, a grim, repetitive dance between captor and captive. Hughie sat through it all, his "hum" a constant, overwhelming presence, absorbing every nuance of the confrontation. He felt exhausted, drained by the sheer emotional intensity of the situation.

Frenchie, meanwhile, was fascinated by Hughie's "hum." He'd constantly try to measure it, to analyze it, to find its source. He'd hold strange devices near Hughie's chest, muttering about frequencies and wavelengths.

"It is a unique resonance, mon ami," Frenchie explained one day, holding a small, glowing orb near Hughie's chest. "It is not a power, no. But it is… a sensitivity. A connection to the energetic signature of the Supe. It is like a… a psychic antenna, yes?"

" A psychic antenna. Great. So now I'm a human radio receiver for Supe energy. My life is officially a bad sci-fi movie. Starring me. And an invisible naked guy. And a very angry Englishman. And a mad Frenchman who thinks I'm a psychic antenna. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm just going to sit here and try not to accidentally pick up Homelander's thoughts. Because I'm pretty sure that would break my brain. "

M.M., ever the moral compass, pulled Hughie aside one afternoon. "Hughie, you don't have to do this. You don't have to be a part of this. This isn't right. Holding him here, like this… it's not what we're about."

Hughie looked at M.M., his eyes filled with a weary sadness. "What else am I supposed to do, M.M.? Take the Vought money? Pretend Robin never existed? Let them get away with it? I can't. I just… I can't. And that hum… it's telling me this is important. This is the only way."

"The only way to become like them?" M.M. asked, his voice soft but firm. "To descend to their level?"

"I don't know," Hughie admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I just… I need answers. I need justice. And if this is the only way to get it… then I have to do it."

The days bled into each other, a relentless cycle of interrogation, defiance, and the constant, unsettling presence of Translucent. Hughie felt himself changing, hardening. The initial horror of his situation was slowly being replaced by a grim pragmatism. He was still terrified, still riddled with guilt, but a colder, more determined part of him was emerging. He was learning to separate the man from the mission, the victim from the target. He was learning to survive. And he was learning to listen to that hum. It was his guide now. His terrifying, inexplicable guide.

" This is my new normal. Living in a boiler room. With a captured Supe. And a persistent internal hum that may or may not be a sign of impending madness. And I'm becoming… colder. More pragmatic. Less Hughie. More… something else. I wonder if Robin would recognize me now? Probably not. She'd probably tell me to get a haircut. And maybe a hobby that doesn't involve torturing superheroes. But hey, at least I'm still alive. And I'm still fighting. Even if I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. Or who I'm becoming. "