MTLNOVEL Chapter 22: Chapter 22: The Web Tightens
Chapter 22: The Web Tightens
" Okay, so A-Train is a mess, I can punch through concrete, and Vought is probably sending more terrifying Supes after us. My life is officially a very niche, very disturbing game of 'Whack-a-Mole,' except the moles are superheroes and I'm the mole that keeps getting whacked. And that hum. It's still there. A low, persistent thrumming, like a broken washing machine in my chest. It's vibrating with the residual energy of Translucent's demise, and my own dawning horror. And now Butcher's looking at me like I'm his new favorite toy. Which, given his track record, is not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. 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 pressure from Vought was palpable, a tightening noose around "The Den." News reports, seemingly innocuous, spoke of increased security measures around Vought properties, "routine drills" by specialized Supe teams, and a renewed focus on "unauthorized activity." The subtle shifts in the media narrative, the sudden increase in drone surveillance over key city sectors, the heightened alertness of Vought security personnel – all pointed to a coordinated effort to locate the perpetrators behind Translucent's disappearance. Hughie's "hum" had been a constant, low thrum of generalized anxiety, a background static of danger, but lately, it had spiked with a new, unsettling signature
"They're closing in," Butcher stated grimly one morning, pointing to a digital map of the city displayed on Frenchie's main screen, riddled with red markers indicating increased Vought patrols and surveillance zones. "Vought's got feelers out. They're looking for Translucent, and anyone who might have helped him disappear. And they're getting good at it. Too good. They're using their own assets, their own… specialists. The kind that leave no trace." He looked at Hughie, his eyes narrowed, a silent question in his gaze. "That 'cold' one you felt. You still getting anything?"
Hughie closed his eyes, focusing on the hum. It was faint now, a distant echo, like a whisper across a frozen tundra, but it was undeniably there. A chilling void, a silent, powerful presence that made the hairs on his arms stand on end and sent shivers down his spine. "Yeah. It's… it's like a cold spot. A void. It's not as strong as A-Train, not as chaotic, but it's… it's heavy. And it feels like it's moving. Systematically. Like it's searching. Like it's a hunter, methodical and relentless. And we're the prey. It's getting closer to our general area."
" A cold spot. A void. Great. My superpower is 'feeling bad vibes from invisible super-assassins.' Not exactly a party trick, unless the party involves existential dread and impending doom. And now they're searching. For us. Which means my life is about to get even more exciting. By 'exciting,' I mean 'terrifying and probably involving a lot of running and screaming, possibly while encased in carbon.' 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. "
Their surveillance operations became riskier, more tense, imbued with a heightened sense of paranoia. They were constantly looking over their shoulders, every shadow a potential threat, every sudden noise a possible ambush. Hughie's "hum" was their only reliable early warning system, a constant, low thrum that kept him on edge, his senses heightened to an almost painful degree. He felt like a raw nerve, constantly exposed, every fiber of his being attuned to the subtle shifts in the ambient energy of the city.
One evening, while staking out a Vought-owned data center – a suspected hub for A-Train's Compound V transactions and a place where they hoped to find more intel – Hughie felt the hum spike violently. Not A-Train's frantic, chaotic buzz, but the cold, heavy void that signified the other Supe. It was closer now, much closer, almost directly outside their hidden vantage point. "He's here!" Hughie hissed, his voice tight with panic, clutching his chest where the hum was now a violent tremor. "The cold one! He's close! Right outside! Get ready!"
Butcher immediately barked orders, his voice low and urgent. "Frenchie! M.M.! Get ready! Hughie, stay low! Don't move! Everyone quiet! Not a sound!"
A sudden, chilling gust of wind swept through the alley, even though there was no natural breeze. The air grew perceptibly colder, the temperature dropping several degrees in an instant, and a faint shimmer, almost imperceptible, moved through the shadows, a ripple in the very fabric of the air, like heat haze off asphalt, but cold. The "cold" Supe was there, unseen, unheard, a silent predator, their presence marked only by the sudden chill and Hughie's screaming hum. Hughie felt the hum screaming in his chest, a frantic, desperate warning, vibrating through every cell of his body, a primal alarm.
A heavy dumpster, filled with refuse and industrial waste, seemingly of its own accord, suddenly lifted into the air with a groan of tortured metal and hurled itself towards their position with terrifying speed. Butcher, reacting instantly, shoved M.M. and Frenchie out of the way, sending them sprawling. But Hughie, reacting instinctively, his training kicking in, activated his Carbon Skin, his body hardening into a dense, unyielding shield of black, crystalline carbon. The dumpster slammed into him with a deafening CRUNCH, the metal crumpling and tearing around his hardened form like tissue paper. He felt the impact, a jarring vibration that reverberated through his bones and blurred his vision for a split second, but no pain. The Carbon Skin absorbed the kinetic energy, holding firm, a perfect, unyielding defense, a living wall.
" Oh, crap. Oh, crap, oh, crap. I just got hit by a dumpster. A really, really heavy dumpster. And I'm still standing. My superpower is 'being a human dumpster magnet.' Great. And it actually worked. The Carbon Skin. It actually worked. Which is both terrifying and incredibly relieving. And that hum… it's vibrating with a frantic energy now. 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. 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. "
The "cold" Supe, momentarily surprised by Hughie's unexpected durability – an ordinary human absorbing a direct, high-impact attack – paused. That split second, that flicker of hesitation, was all the Boys needed. Frenchie, quick as a whip, his hands moving with practiced precision, deployed a flash-bang grenade. A blinding flash, followed by a deafening BOOM that echoed through the alley, momentarily disoriented the unseen attacker, disrupting their concentration. Butcher, seizing the opportunity, fired a specialized tranquilizer dart, coated with a potent, fast-acting sedative, into the shimmering air where the Supe had been. They heard a faint thud, a soft groan, and the cold hum receded, fading into the night, its presence replaced by the lingering scent of ozone and burnt chemicals.
"Did we get him?" M.M. panted, reloading his rifle, his eyes wide with adrenaline.
Butcher peered into the shadows, his face grim. "Don't know, mate. But he's gone. For now. That was too close. They know we're here. They know we're a threat. We need to move. And we need to hit A-Train. Hard. Before they hit us harder. Much harder. They'll be sending more of their bloody specialists." He looked at Hughie, a newfound respect, almost a grim admiration, in his eyes. "Good work, Hughie. That skin of yours. Bloody useful. You saved our asses. Again."
Hughie just nodded, still reeling from the impact, the Carbon Skin slowly receding, leaving him feeling vulnerable and exposed, the phantom weight of it a stark reminder of his new reality. He was alive. He had survived a direct attack from a powerful Supe, a Vought assassin. His power had saved him. But it had also made him a target, a marked man in a war he never asked for. The web was tightening. And the game was getting deadlier, the stakes higher with every passing hour.
Back in "The Den," the urgency was palpable, a frantic energy that permeated the air. The close call with the "cold" Supe had galvanized them, sharpening their focus. They needed to strike A-Train now. The intel they had gathered on his addiction was overwhelming, irrefutable. They had photos, videos, intercepted communications – a mountain of evidence that would bring down a lesser man, a lesser corporation. They knew his habits, his weaknesses, his most vulnerable moments. It was all laid out on Frenchie's digital maps and flowcharts, a grim tapestry of a Supe's downfall.
"He's got a drop-off tonight," Frenchie announced, pointing to a digital map of the city, a red marker pulsating in a desolate area, an abandoned section of the old subway system. "A discreet meeting with his dealer. In the old subway tunnels. He goes there when he needs a big hit. When he's at his most desperate. His most… unstable. He's a powder keg, mon ami. Ready to blow. And we will light the fuse."
Hughie felt the hum in his chest, a frantic, almost painful buzz, reflecting A-Train's impending instability, his chaotic energy drawing them in like a grim siren song. This was it. Their chance. The culmination of weeks of surveillance, of moral compromise, of terrifying self-discovery. The plan was set.
"The subway tunnels," Butcher mused, a dangerous glint in his eyes, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "Narrow. Confined. Perfect for a speedster. And perfect for us. Hughie," he looked at Hughie, his gaze intense, "your skin. It's going to be crucial. You're going to be our immovable object. Our wall. Our bloody human roadblock. You'll be the one to stop him dead in his tracks."
Frenchie began to outline a detailed plan, incorporating Hughie's Carbon Skin and a new gadget he'd been working on – a portable sonic disruptor, designed to create localized pockets of intense vibration, specifically calibrated to disorient and slow down speedsters, to scramble their super-fast brains.
"The disruptor will create a… temporal distortion in his perception," Frenchie explained, gesturing wildly with his hands, his eyes alight with the thrill of invention. "It will make him… stumble. His speed will betray him, turn against him. He will lose control. And then, Hughie, you hit him. Hard. With the Carbon Skin. We don't kill him. Not yet. We expose him. We break him publicly. We make Vought look like the bloody fools they are. We ruin his career. We make him a pariah. A broken, pathetic shell of a hero."
M.M. sighed, rubbing his temples, his face etched with worry and a deep weariness. "Butcher, this is insane. A direct confrontation with A-Train? In a subway tunnel? He's still one of The Seven! This could go sideways in a million ways! We could all end up dead! Or worse, captured! This is a suicide mission!"
"It's our best shot, M.M.," Butcher retorted, his voice firm, overriding any objections with the sheer force of his will. "He's vulnerable. We're ready. And we've got Hughie. Our secret weapon. Our bloody Supe-puncher. You scared, mate?" he asked Hughie, a challenging glint in his eyes, testing his resolve, pushing him to the edge.
Hughie looked at the map, then at the grim, determined faces of his teammates. He was terrified. His stomach was a knot of pure dread, a cold ball of fear that sat heavy in his gut. But he also felt a cold, hard resolve, a grim certainty that this had to be done. Robin. This was for Robin. For every innocent life crushed under the heel of Vought's arrogance. For every lie, every cover-up.
"No," Hughie said, his voice surprisingly steady, despite the tremor in his hands, despite the cold sweat prickling his skin. "I'm not scared. I'm ready. Let's do it. Let's make him pay. Let's make them all pay."
The scent of blood was in the air, a metallic tang of anticipation and ozone, sharp and acrid. The web was tightening. And Hughie, with his Carbon Skin and his Supe-sensing hum, was about to step into the heart of the storm, into a confrontation that would irrevocably change him, and perhaps, the world.