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

Chapter 2: The Unsolicited Business Card

" Okay, so I'm officially a conspiracy theorist now. Not the fun kind, with aliens and Bigfoot, but the depressing kind, with corrupt corporations and superheroes who are actually terrible people. My internet search history is probably on some Vought watchlist. 'Hughie Campbell: Searches for 'A-Train lawsuits,' 'Vought cover-ups,' and 'how to fight a speedster with a stapler.' Not exactly subtle. And that hum. It's still there. Like a really annoying background noise that I can't turn off. It's definitely not just stress. It feels… alive. Like a tiny, angry electric eel decided to take up residence in my nervous system. And it's getting stronger, especially when I think about… them. The Supes. The ones who get away with everything. "

The electronics store, once his sanctuary of predictable circuits and comforting hums, now felt like a cage. Every customer seemed to be judging him, every fluorescent light seemed to mock his despair. He'd catch himself staring blankly at a wall of televisions, the endless loop of Vought news reports and hero commercials a constant torment. A-Train, smiling, triumphant, running across the screen, oblivious to the human confetti he'd left in his wake. The injustice was a physical ache.

He was dusting a display of headphones, trying to appear busy, when the bell above the door chimed. A man walked in, all sharp angles and rough edges, with a smile that promised trouble and eyes that had seen too much of it. Billy Butcher. Hughie knew him. From the news, from the rumors, from the dark corners of the internet where people whispered about the real truth behind the capes. Butcher looked even more menacing in person, like a walking, talking thundercloud. He smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and something else, something vaguely metallic and dangerous.

" Oh, great. Just what I needed. A charming, well-adjusted individual to help me process my trauma. Said no one ever. This guy looks like he eats nails for breakfast and washes them down with battery acid. And he's here. For me. Because, of course, the universe decided my life wasn't chaotic enough. It needed a morally ambiguous, possibly homicidal Englishman to complete the picture. I bet he smells like stale cigarettes and existential dread. And is that… is that a faint whiff of desperation? Or is that just me? Probably me. And he's looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen. Or a particularly easy mark. Probably both. "

Butcher's eyes, keen and assessing, swept over him. He walked straight to Hughie, bypassing the rows of gleaming electronics. "Hughie Campbell, right? Heard about your… unfortunate incident. Vought's already got their story out. Tragic, isn't it? Almost as tragic as the fact they don't give a toss."

Hughie just stared, clutching a remote control that felt suddenly very inadequate. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was the moment. The man from the internet, the one who talked about the real truth. He was here. For him.

"What do you want?" Hughie managed, his voice barely a whisper.

Butcher leaned against a display of flat-screen TVs, his presence radiating an almost palpable intensity. "Justice, mate. The real kind. Not the Vought kind, with their fancy press conferences and their 'thoughts and prayers' bollocks." His gaze was unwavering, piercing. "You felt it, didn't you? When A-Train hit her. Something… else. A jolt. A hum. Like a tuning fork vibrating in your very bones."

Hughie's breath hitched. That jolt. That hum. He hadn't told anyone. He'd dismissed it as shock, a phantom sensation, a sign of his impending mental collapse. But Butcher knew. How could he know? The hum beneath his skin intensified, a low, resonant thrumming that seemed to vibrate in sympathy with Butcher's words. It was unsettling, like a secret part of him was being exposed.

"What are you talking about?" Hughie asked, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to deny the terrifying possibility that this man, this stranger, knew something deeply, intimately unsettling about him.

"Don't play coy, son. I know things. Things Vought doesn't want anyone to know. Things about how these 'heroes' get their powers. And what happens when they… interact with certain people." Butcher's gaze was unwavering, piercing. "You got a spark, didn't you? A little bit of A-Train's… residue. It happens. Rare. But it happens. A resonance. A connection. A faint echo of their power, left behind in the wake of their… impact."

" A spark? Residue? Resonance? Is this guy trying to sell me some kind of spiritual cleanse? Or is he implying I'm now part-speedster? Because if I'm part-speedster, I'm the slowest damn speedster in history. I can barely make it to the fridge without getting winded. And if I have A-Train's 'residue,' does that mean I'm going to start vaporizing people by accident? Because that would really put a damper on my already non-existent dating life. Also, what kind of 'things' does he know? Is he like, a conspiracy theorist who actually has proof? Because usually, those guys just have a lot of tin foil and a strong opinion about alien abductions. But he's looking at me like he sees something. Something I don't. And that's terrifying. "

Hughie felt a cold dread creep up his spine. This wasn't just a crazy man. This was a crazy man who seemed to know something he shouldn't. Something that resonated with the terrifying, inexplicable feeling he'd had. "What… what do you mean, 'residue'?"

Butcher pushed off the display. He pulled a crumpled, slightly greasy business card from his pocket and slapped it onto the counter. It had a generic, almost comical logo of a lightning bolt and a phone number. No name. No company. Just a number. "Come with me. I'll show you. Show you what Vought really is. Show you what these 'heroes' really are. And then, you can decide if you want to just take their bloody check, or if you want to do something about it. Something real. Something that actually matters."

He paused, his eyes drilling into Hughie's. "Think about it, mate. They offered you money. To shut you up. To make you go away. To make you forget. Do you want to forget? Do you want to let them get away with it? Or do you want to make them pay?"

The funeral was a farce. A-Train, looking suitably contrite and solemn, stood beside a beaming Homelander, both offering platitudes about Robin's "bright spirit" and the "unbreakable bond" between Supes and the public. Hughie stood in the back, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, the phantom sensation of Robin's hands still tingling. He wanted to scream, to expose them, but what good would it do? They were untouchable. Gods. And he was just… Hughie.

" This is officially the most offensive display of PR I've ever witnessed. It's like they're trying to win an Oscar for 'Best Performance in a Faux-Grief Scenario.' A-Train looks like he's about to start crying, but I bet he's just thinking about his next endorsement deal. And Homelander? He's practically glowing. Probably thinking about how good he looks on camera, radiating 'heroic empathy.' This is why I hate them. This is why I hate all of them. They take everything, they break everything, and then they slap a pretty bow on it and call it 'justice.' Well, screw their justice. I want… something else. Something messier. Something that actually hurts them. And that hum… it's vibrating with my anger now. A low, furious thrum. It's like my body is agreeing with me. 'Yes, Hughie. Messier. More pain for them.' "

He clutched the business card in his pocket, the cheap cardstock feeling like a lifeline in the suffocating absurdity of the funeral. He knew he shouldn't call it. He knew it was probably a terrible idea. It was probably a scam. Or a trap. Or a direct line to a cult that believed in fighting Supes with interpretive dance. But what else was there? The Vought check felt like blood money. His father's well-meaning but utterly useless platitudes felt hollow. The world felt broken beyond repair. And this man, this terrifying, intense man, offered a different path. A dangerous path. A path that might lead to more pain, more loss. But also, perhaps, to something that felt like justice.

He left the funeral early, slipping away from his father's worried gaze. He walked for hours, aimlessly, through the familiar streets of New York, the city a blur of indifferent faces and towering buildings. He passed a Vought billboard, A-Train's smiling face mocking him from above. The hum in his chest intensified, a sharp, almost painful throb. He stopped, staring up at the billboard, his fists clenched.

" Look at him. Smiling. Like he didn't just vaporize my girlfriend. Like he's not a walking, talking, corporate-sponsored weapon of mass destruction. He's a celebrity. A god. And I'm… nothing. But that hum. It's still there. It's not going away. It's like a promise. A terrifying, whispered promise of something more. Something beyond my comprehension. Something that might just be able to touch them. To hurt them. To make them feel even a fraction of what I'm feeling. "

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the numbers on the business card. Every rational part of his brain screamed at him to stop. To go home. To take the Vought money. To try and forget. But the irrational part, the part fueled by grief and rage and that persistent, unsettling hum, urged him forward. He was tired of being helpless. He was tired of being a victim. He was tired of the world being run by smiling, murderous narcissists.

He dialed. The phone rang twice, then a gruff voice answered. "Yeah?"

"Uh… hi," Hughie stammered, his voice suddenly sounding tiny and pathetic. "This is… Hughie Campbell. You, uh… you gave me your card."

A beat of silence. Then, Butcher's voice, a low rumble. "Took you long enough, mate. Thought you were going to let them buy you off. Good. Meet me. Tomorrow. Same place. And don't be late." The line clicked dead.

Hughie stared at his phone, a mixture of fear and a strange, desperate exhilaration coursing through him. He had done it. He had taken the first step. He was officially in. In what, he wasn't entirely sure. But it felt like the only choice he had left. The hum in his chest, for the first time, felt less like a symptom of madness and more like a quiet, powerful affirmation. He was on a path now. A very, very dangerous path. And there was no turning back.

" Well, that's it. I'm officially in the 'secret vigilante group' business. Or, you know, the 'getting myself killed by a Supe' business. Whichever comes first. My dad's going to be so disappointed. He always wanted me to have a stable career. Like, you know, selling stereos. Not… whatever this is. But hey, at least I'm doing something. Something that feels like it matters. Even if it gets me vaporized. At least this time, I'll be vaporized with purpose. And a really bad haircut. This is going to be a long, strange trip. And I'm pretty sure I forgot my snacks. "