MTLNOVEL Chapter 20: Chapter 20: The First Spark of Control
Chapter 20: The First Spark of Control
" Okay, so I'm starting to get a handle on this Carbon Skin thing. It's still reactive, but now I can feel the 'hum' responding to my focus. It's like I'm learning to play a very niche, very dangerous musical instrument, and the song it plays is 'The Sound of Me Not Getting Completely Pulverized.' Which, honestly, is a pretty good tune. But control means responsibility. And responsibility means more dark choices. More chances to become the monster I'm fighting. My life is officially a 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 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. And now I have to worry about a new, unseen threat. And a very large, very dangerous box. Great. "
The boiler room, "The Den," had become Hughie's grim reality. Days blurred into weeks, a relentless 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. The faint, heavy density of his skin was a persistent internal sensation, like wearing a second, unyielding layer to his being that he couldn't quite shed. It was always there, a subtle hum beneath his skin, a ghost of Translucent's essence.
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. Their training sessions, already brutal, became even more intense. Butcher, with Frenchie's scientific input, devised new drills, pushing Hughie to consciously activate his power, rather than relying on a reactive flinch.
"Right, mate," Butcher would bark, his voice sharp, as Hughie stood opposite him, trying to focus. "Think about it. Think about the feeling. That hum. That density. Make it happen. Now!" He'd then launch a heavy punch, or swing a padded bat, forcing Hughie to react. The air would whistle with the force of the blow, and Hughie's heart would pound a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Hughie would strain, focusing on the internal hum, trying to will the Carbon Skin into existence before impact. More often than not, he'd still flinch, the power activating a split second too late, resulting in a bruised rib or a jarring impact that left him gasping. He'd stumble, curse under his breath, and rub the sore spot, the dull ache a testament to his continued vulnerability. But slowly, painstakingly, he began to feel a connection. The hum, his Supe-detector, was also his trigger. It was like learning to conduct an orchestra with a single, vibrating tuning fork in his chest.
" Okay, so my superpower is 'getting hit really hard, and then maybe, possibly, turning into a rock for a split second.' Not exactly ideal for offensive maneuvers. And it means I have to get hit to activate it. Great. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing episode of 'Jackass: Supe Edition.' And I'm the unwilling star. 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. "
One afternoon, during a particularly grueling session, Butcher swung a heavy, padded club at Hughie's chest. Hughie saw it coming, felt the familiar surge of fear, and instinctively focused on the hum. He pushed it, willed it, concentrated all his mental energy on that internal vibration. He felt a desperate, almost painful surge of focus, a raw, unchanneled energy building within him. And for the first time, it responded.
Before the club connected, Hughie felt a sudden, profound shift. His skin, from his chest to his shoulders, hardened instantly, becoming dense and unyielding, a seamless layer of black, crystalline carbon. It wasn't just a momentary flicker; it was a sustained, conscious activation. The club hit him with a dull thud, and Hughie barely felt it. The impact was completely absorbed, a mere ripple against an unyielding surface. He stood firm, unmoving, the heavy density of the Carbon Skin a profound, alien presence.
Butcher stared, his jaw slack, the club still in his hand. Frenchie gasped, dropping his clipboard with a clatter that echoed in the sudden silence. M.M., who had been watching with his usual weary disapproval, actually looked surprised, a flicker of something akin to awe in his eyes.
"Bloody hell," Butcher whispered, breaking the silence, a mixture of awe and grim satisfaction on his face. "You did it, mate. You actually did it. You turned it on. Consciously." His voice was low, almost reverent, a rare display of genuine surprise from the usually unflappable Englishman.
Hughie looked down at his chest, then at his hands. The Carbon Skin was visible, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer that made his skin look unnaturally smooth and dark, like polished obsidian. But he could feel its unyielding presence, a heavy, solid weight that was both terrifying and exhilarating. It was still there. And he had willed it. A surge of exhilaration, terrifying and intoxicating, coursed through him. He had control. A sliver of it, anyway. He had taken a piece of Translucent's power, and now, he could command it.
" I did it. I actually did it. I'm not just a reactive punching bag anymore. I'm a conscious punching bag! Progress! And it feels… weird. Like my skin is made of really expensive, very uncomfortable armor. But also… powerful. Terrifyingly powerful. And that hum… it's not screaming anymore. It's purring. A low, satisfied hum. Like it's saying, 'See, Hughie? I told you so. Now go forth and be a very durable, very conflicted superhero.' No. Not a superhero. Never a superhero. Just… a guy who can take a hit. And maybe, eventually, dish one out. "
Frenchie immediately rushed forward, his eyes alight with scientific zeal. He held a small, glowing device, its sensors sweeping over Hughie's body, beeping softly. "Remarkable! The neural connection! The conscious activation! It is a breakthrough, mon ami! Your 'hum' is not merely a detector, it is a… a control mechanism! A mental switch! It is a direct conduit to the power! We must measure this! We must understand its full potential!" He began taking readings, muttering excitedly about Hughie's unique physiology, his fingers flying across the controls of his various gadgets.
Butcher, ever pragmatic, immediately began to push Hughie further. "Right then, if you can turn it on, can you turn it off? And can you do it faster? Can you do it on command, without getting hit first? Try to make it disappear, mate. Make it go away."
The training became even more focused. Hughie spent hours concentrating on the hum, trying to consciously activate and deactivate his Carbon Skin. It was like learning to flex a muscle he didn't know he had, a muscle that was tied directly to his nervous system and his deepest fears. He'd stand for minutes, straining, willing his skin to harden, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing spectacularly, his body trembling with the effort. He'd feel the subtle shift, the heavy density settling, and then the slow, agonizing release as he tried to turn it off.
He learned that stress and adrenaline still made it easier to activate. Fear was a potent trigger, almost an involuntary reflex. But now, he could also will it, a slow, deliberate process of focusing his mind on the hum, feeling the subtle shift as his skin became dense. He could make his fists harden, his forearms, his chest. He was learning to target the activation, to make it localized, a small, controlled patch of invulnerable skin. He could even make it disappear almost as quickly as it appeared, a fleeting shimmer that vanished with a conscious effort.
" Localized hardening. Great. So now I can turn my elbow into a rock. Perfect for… elbowing people really hard, I guess. Or, you know, protecting my vital organs from unexpected blunt force trauma. Which, in this line of work, is a daily occurrence. 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 watched Hughie's progress with a mixture of awe and profound sadness. He saw the power taking root, the subtle changes in Hughie's demeanor, the hardening of his resolve, mirroring the hardening of his skin. He saw the grim determination in Hughie's eyes, a reflection of Butcher's own ruthless pragmatism.
"Hughie, you're changing," M.M. would say, his voice filled with a weary sadness, pulling him aside after a particularly successful training session. "You're getting colder. More ruthless. This power… it's corrupting you. Just like Compound V corrupts them. You're becoming a weapon, Hughie. Just like them. You're losing yourself. The Hughie I knew… he wouldn't have done this. He wouldn't have killed Translucent. He wouldn't be learning to use his power to hurt people."
Hughie would just shrug, his eyes fixed on the flickering outline of A-Train on a news report, his jaw set. "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, where A-Train's smiling, arrogant face was plastered across a Vought commercial.
He felt the weight of the power, the constant, alien presence of Carbon Skin. It was a burden, a constant reminder of the life he had taken. But it was also a shield. A promise of protection. And in this terrifying new world, protection was everything. He was a killer. He was powerful. And he was just beginning to understand what that truly meant. The guilt was a constant companion, a dull ache beneath the surface, but it was slowly being overshadowed by a grim, determined resolve.
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 could feel the speedster's frantic energy, the instability beneath his carefully curated public persona.
"He's getting worse," Hughie would whisper, watching A-Train stumble out of a shady clinic, his face pale and gaunt, his movements jerky. "The hum… it's almost frantic around him. Like he's vibrating with pure instability. He's a walking train wreck. Literally. And the public eats it up. 'Oh, A-Train's just tired from saving the world!' No, he's tired from mainlining Compound V."
Butcher would just nod, his face grim, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Good. The sicker he gets, the sloppier he gets. And the sloppier he gets, the easier he'll be to take down. And now, Hughie, you've got a way to get close. To hit him where it hurts. To make him pay. You're not just a liability anymore, mate. You're a weapon. And we're going to use you."
Hughie felt a chilling realization. They weren't just gathering intel anymore. They were actively preparing for a confrontation. And he, Hughie Campbell, with his newfound control over 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. But now, he also had a way to fight back. A terrifying, alien way. And the hum, now a controlled, responsive presence, was guiding him towards the inevitable. The scent of blood was in the air, and it smelled suspiciously like ozone and desperation.