MTLNOVEL Chapter 21: Chapter 21: The Scent of Blood
Chapter 21: The Scent of Blood
" Okay, so I can consciously activate Carbon Skin now. Which is great. It means I can turn my fist into a rock without having to get punched first. Progress! But it also means Butcher is looking at me like I'm a new, very exciting hammer. And I'm pretty sure the only thing he wants to hit with that hammer is A-Train. 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 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. Great. "
The boiler room, "The Den," had taken on a new, almost industrial feel. The "box" that had contained Translucent's demise now stood as a grim trophy, a silent monument to their first, brutal victory. But for Hughie, it was a constant, heavy reminder of the line he had crossed, and the alien power that now resided within him. He could feel the Carbon Skin, a subtle, unyielding density beneath his own flesh, a constant thrum that was inextricably linked to the hum in his chest. It was a part of him now, a terrifying, silent partner, a secret that weighed on his soul with every waking moment. The faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of it, like polished obsidian beneath his skin, was a constant internal sensation, a phantom limb of invincibility.
Butcher, however, saw only potential. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now held a glint of predatory excitement whenever he looked at Hughie. He saw a tool, a weapon, a means to an end. "Right then, mate," he'd declare, clapping Hughie on the shoulder with a force that would have sent the old Hughie sprawling, but now merely registered as a firm pressure against the nascent strength in his bones. "Time to put that new skin to good use. We're not just playing defense anymore. We're going on the offense. And you, Hughie, you're our new battering ram. Our bloody human wrecking ball."
" Battering ram. Right. My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Human Battering Ram. Warning: May spontaneously panic and/or vomit from existential dread.' This is not what I signed up for. I wanted justice. Not… whatever this is. And I'm pretty sure my 'battering ram' status 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. But hey, at least I'm contributing. To the chaos. And to my own impending doom. And I'm still just Hughie. The guy who sells stereos. The guy who gets punched. The guy who needs to be rescued. And now, the guy who gets to punch back. Which, honestly, is a little bit exhilarating. And that's the truly terrifying part. The part where I might actually be starting to enjoy this, even a little. That's the real danger. "
Butcher's "training" sessions intensified, evolving from reactive defense to proactive offense. No longer were they just about Hughie reacting to impacts, bracing himself for the inevitable blow. Now, they were about delivering them, about channeling the raw, kinetic energy of his Carbon Skin outwards. Frenchie, ever the ingenious tinkerer, rigged up a series of reinforced dummies, heavy bags filled with concrete and steel, and even a decommissioned car door salvaged from a junkyard, bolted to a sturdy frame. Hughie's task was simple, yet brutally demanding: punch through them, kick them, use his Carbon Skin as a weapon, a blunt instrument of destruction.
He'd stand before the targets, focusing on the hum, willing the Carbon Skin to harden. He'd feel the familiar shift, the sudden, profound density, like pouring liquid concrete into his limbs, and then he'd strike. The first few attempts were awkward, painful, his body unaccustomed to the raw power he was trying to channel. His timing was off, his aim imprecise. He'd hit with a normal fist and recoil, cursing under his breath, the shock of impact jarring his bones. But slowly, painstakingly, agonizingly, he improved. Each failed attempt was a lesson, each successful blow a terrifying step forward.
The sound of his hardened fist connecting with the concrete dummy was a sickening thwack, a sound of immense, destructive force that reverberated through the boiler room. He felt the impact, a deep, resonant vibration, but no pain. The Carbon Skin absorbed it, transferring the kinetic energy into the target, a perfect conduit of destruction. He saw cracks spiderweb across the concrete, felt the steel groan and buckle under his blows, the car door crumpling like tin foil. It was exhilarating, a surge of primal power coursing through him. And terrifying, because he knew what that power meant, what it was for.
"Good! Again!" Butcher would shout, his eyes gleaming with a grim satisfaction, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Put some bloody power into it, mate! Think of A-Train! Think of Robin! Make him pay! Make him feel every bloody ounce of what you're feeling!"
Hughie would channel his rage, his grief, his overwhelming sense of injustice. He'd think of Robin, of that red mist, of A-Train's arrogant, unrepentant smile on the news, plastered across billboards and TV screens. He'd think of the casual cruelty, the dismissive indifference. And with each blow, the Carbon Skin would activate more readily, more powerfully, becoming an extension of his will. He was learning to weaponize his trauma, to forge his pain into a physical force. It was a dark alchemy, and he was the unwilling alchemist.
Frenchie, meanwhile, meticulously analyzed every strike, every impact. He used motion sensors, force plates embedded in the floor, and his glowing energy readers, trying to quantify Hughie's new offensive capabilities. His scientific curiosity was boundless, even in the face of such grim applications. "The kinetic transfer is… formidable!" he'd exclaim, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and intellectual hunger. "He is like a… a living hammer! A force multiplier! We can use this, mon ami! We can break them! We can shatter their illusions of invincibility!"
" A living hammer. Right. My new job title. 'Hughie Campbell: Official Supe-Sensing Civilian and Human Hammer. Warning: May spontaneously panic and/or vomit from existential dread.' This is not what I signed up for. I wanted justice. Not… whatever this is. And I'm pretty sure my 'hammer' status 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. But hey, at least I'm contributing. To the chaos. And to my own impending doom. And I'm still just Hughie. The guy who sells stereos. The guy who gets punched. The guy who needs to be rescued. And now, the guy who gets to punch back. Which, honestly, is a little bit exhilarating. And that's the truly terrifying part. The part where I might actually be starting to enjoy this, even a little. That's the real danger. The slow, insidious creep of the darkness. "
M.M. watched these sessions with a growing sense of despair, his face a mask of profound disapproval and weary resignation. He'd stand in the corner, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Hughie, seeing not a weapon, but a soul slowly being eroded. He saw the grim satisfaction on Butcher's face, the scientific zeal in Frenchie's eyes, and the terrifying efficiency with which Hughie was learning to wield his new power. He saw a reflection of the very monsters they hunted.
"This is wrong, Hughie," M.M. would say, his voice low and strained, after a session that left the concrete dummy in pieces, its rebar twisted and exposed. "You're becoming what we fight. You're becoming a weapon. Just like them. This isn't justice, Hughie. This is just… violence. And it's going to consume you. It's going to eat you alive, just like it eats them."
Hughie would just shrug, his hands still buzzing with the residual energy of the Carbon Skin, a phantom vibration. "What choice do I have, M.M.? They killed Robin. They covered it up. They're still out there, doing whatever they want, crushing lives without a second thought. 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. Not after Translucent. 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 latest Vought commercial, a saccharine display of heroism, was playing on a loop.
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, the line he had crossed. 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, a cold certainty that this was his path now.
The hunt for A-Train intensified. The intel from Translucent, combined with the bug they had managed to plant in Vought Tower, provided a constant stream of information on A-Train's escalating Compound V addiction. Frenchie's screens were a mosaic of intercepted communications, financial transactions, and shadowy photographs. They tracked his erratic movements, his clandestine meetings with dealers in grimy back alleys, his increasingly desperate attempts to hide his deteriorating condition from Vought, from the public, from himself.
Hughie's "hum" was a constant, low thrum, intensifying whenever A-Train was near. It was a painful reminder of Robin, of the injustice, but it was also a vital tool, an involuntary radar. He could feel the speedster's frantic energy, the instability beneath his carefully curated public persona. He could sense the desperate need, the paranoia, the raw, unhinged power that was slowly consuming A-Train, turning him into a ticking time bomb.
They witnessed A-Train in increasingly desperate states. Missing public appearances, showing up late and disoriented to photo shoots, his eyes bloodshot, his movements jerky and uncontrolled. Once, they saw him stumble out of a back alley clinic, his face pale and gaunt, arguing furiously with a shadowy figure, his once-pristine Vought uniform stained and wrinkled. He looked less like a superhero and more like a desperate junkie, a caricature of his former self.
"He's getting worse," Hughie would whisper, watching A-Train through binoculars, the hum in his chest almost frantic, a high-pitched whine. "The hum… it's almost a scream 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. And he's going to crash. Hard. And when he does, we'll be there. We'll be waiting."
Butcher would just nod, his face grim, a predatory glint in his eyes that promised retribution. "Good. The sicker he gets, the sloppier he gets. And the sloppier he gets, the easier he'll be to take down. He's a liability to Vought now, a loose end. And now, Hughie, you've got a way to get close. To hit him where it bloody hurts. To make him pay. You're not just a liability anymore, mate. You're a weapon. And we're going to use you. We're going to make him suffer. For Robin. For all of them. The scent of blood is in the air, mate. And it smells like victory. Our victory."
Hughie felt a chilling realization. They weren't just gathering intel anymore. They were actively preparing for a confrontation. The scent of blood was in the air, a metallic tang of anticipation and ozone. 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 hunt for A-Train was no longer just about justice. It was about reckoning. And Hughie was ready to deliver it, even if it meant losing a piece of himself in the process.