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

Chapter 23: The Chase and the Collision

" Okay, so we're going into the subway tunnels to confront A-Train. The fastest man alive. And I'm the guy with the reactive rock skin. 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 air in the abandoned subway tunnels was thick with the smell of damp earth, stagnant water, and a faint, metallic tang that Hughie's enhanced senses immediately identified as the lingering residue of A-Train's speed – ozone, burnt rubber, and something acrid, almost chemical. The hum in his chest was a frantic, deafening roar, a chaotic symphony of his own fear and the approaching, unpredictable energy of the speedster. He could feel A-Train before he saw him, a frantic, unstable vibration in the very air, a painful echo of Robin's last moments, a premonition of violence. The darkness of the tunnel seemed to amplify the dread, pressing in on them, making every shadow a potential threat, every distant drip of water sound like a thunderclap.

"He's coming," Hughie whispered, his voice tight, barely a breath, his hand instinctively going to his chest, where the hum was now a violent tremor, a jackhammer against his ribs. "Fast. And… he's really agitated. The hum's screaming. He's a mess. He's out of control."

Butcher nodded, his face grim, etched with a dangerous anticipation, his hand on the handle of his trusty crowbar. M.M. checked the chamber of his rifle one last time, the metallic click loud in the oppressive silence, his jaw set in a grim line, his eyes scanning the narrow confines of the tunnel. Frenchie clutched his sonic disruptor, its indicator lights glowing faintly in the gloom, his eyes wide with a mixture of scientific excitement and profound apprehension, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, reflecting the tension in the air. They were positioned in a narrow section of the tunnel, a strategic choke point where A-Train's speed, usually his greatest asset, would be a hindrance rather than an advantage, forcing him to slow down or risk a catastrophic collision.

"Remember the plan, Hughie," Butcher muttered, his voice low and urgent, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, where the faint blue glow was beginning to appear. "You're the wall. You take the hit. Frenchie hits him with the disruptor. M.M. covers. We get the proof. We expose him. No killing. Not yet. We make him a pariah. We ruin Vought's golden boy. We make him suffer publicly."

" No killing. Not yet. Right. Because that's my biggest concern right now. Not the fact that I'm about to get hit by the fastest man alive, who is currently high out of his mind and probably won't even see me until it's too late. No, my biggest concern is the moral implications of what comes after the inevitable pulverization. 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. "

A faint blue blur appeared in the distance, growing rapidly, accompanied by a high-pitched whine that grated on Hughie's ears, like a jet engine screaming through a confined space, escalating into a deafening roar. A-Train. He was a frantic, desperate figure, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his movements jerky and uncontrolled, a terrifying manifestation of unchecked power and addiction. He was clearly high, his addiction pushing him past his limits, his speed a chaotic, uncontrolled force, a runaway train. He wasn't running; he was careening, a human missile barely under control, a blur of blue and white against the dark, grimy tunnel walls.

"There he is!" M.M. hissed, raising his rifle, his finger hovering over the trigger.

A-Train burst into their section of the tunnel, a whirlwind of blue and white, his face contorted in a snarl of desperation and rage, his features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated mania. He didn't see them as individuals; he saw them as obstacles, impediments to his desperate need for another fix, another escape. He slammed into the first obstacle – a strategically placed concrete barrier – and rebounded with a guttural grunt, momentarily disoriented, a cloud of dust and concrete chips rising around him.

"Now, Frenchie!" Butcher roared, his voice cutting through the whine of A-Train's speed.

Frenchie, his face pale but determined, activated the sonic disruptor. A high-pitched, oscillating whine, even more piercing than A-Train's speed, filled the tunnel, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Hughie's very bones, rattling his teeth and making his vision swim. A-Train screamed, clutching his head, his movements becoming even more erratic, his super-speed reflexes betraying him, turning his greatest asset into a liability. He stumbled, his legs tangling, his perception warped by the disorienting frequencies, like a broken record skipping, unable to find purchase, unable to control his own momentum.

"Hughie! Now!" Butcher yelled, his voice a raw, urgent command, cutting through the sensory overload.

Hughie, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of pure terror and grim resolve, focused on the hum, willing his Carbon Skin to activate. He felt the familiar, heavy density spread across his body, turning him into a living, unyielding wall of black, crystalline carbon. He braced himself, his fists clenched, his jaw set, and stepped directly into A-Train's path, a human roadblock, an immovable object against an unstoppable force.

A-Train, still disoriented, his eyes wide with confusion and pain, slammed into Hughie with the force of a freight train. The impact was deafening, a sickening CRUNCH that echoed through the tunnel, shaking the very foundations of the old subway system. Hughie felt a jarring vibration, a profound shockwave that rattled his teeth and blurred his vision for a split second, sending a jolt through his entire body, but the Carbon Skin held. He stood firm, unmoving, a perfect, unyielding defense. A-Train, caught completely off guard by the unexpected resistance, by the fact that this ordinary-looking human didn't shatter on impact, bounced off Hughie, sprawling onto the grimy subway tracks with a yelp of pain and a frustrated groan, a broken doll tossed aside.

" Holy crap. I just got hit by A-Train. The fastest man alive. And I'm still standing. My superpower is 'being a human speed bump who can also punch really hard.' 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. "

Butcher was on him in an instant, crowbar raised, a grim, satisfied smile on his face. M.M. moved in, aiming his rifle, his finger hovering over the trigger, ready to fire if A-Train made any sudden moves. Frenchie, his face pale but determined, kept the sonic disruptor trained on the dazed speedster, maintaining the disorienting frequencies, ensuring A-Train remained vulnerable.

A-Train scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with panic and confusion, his body trembling, the sedative and the sonic frequencies working in tandem to incapacitate him. He looked at Hughie, then at the Boys, a flicker of recognition, then pure terror, crossing his face as the reality of his situation dawned on him. "You… you're with him! The guy from the alley! You… you killed Translucent!" He tried to speed away, a desperate blur of motion, but Frenchie's disruptor kept him disoriented, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a puppet with tangled strings, unable to escape his invisible bonds.

"That's right, mate!" Butcher snarled, swinging his crowbar, not connecting but forcing A-Train to dodge erratically. "And now it's your turn! You're going to tell us everything! Everything about Compound V! Everything about Vought's dirty little secrets! Or you're going to join your invisible mate! We know about the drops! We know about the V! Spill it! Every bloody detail!"

A-Train, desperate, tried to fight back, to lash out, but his speed was compromised, his coordination off, his body betraying him. He swung a punch at Butcher, a desperate, wild blow, but Butcher easily sidestepped, and A-Train's fist connected with the grimy tunnel wall, leaving a deep, spiderwebbing dent and a spray of concrete dust. M.M. fired a tranquilizer dart, hitting A-Train squarely in the leg, the dart sinking deep into his muscle. The speedster roared in frustration, a guttural, animalistic sound, as the sedative began to take effect, his movements slowing, his eyes glazing over, his once-sharp mind clouding.

Hughie, seeing his chance, focused on the hum, willing his Carbon Skin to harden his fist, concentrating all his rage and grief, all his pent-up frustration and pain, into that single point of impact. He stepped forward, his face grim, a cold, determined resolve in his eyes, and delivered a solid, hardened punch to A-Train's jaw. The impact was sickening, a dull thud that resonated through Hughie's arm, a feeling of bone against rock, a satisfying crunch. A-Train's head snapped back violently, his eyes rolling up into his head, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious, a heap of blue and white, his super-speed body now utterly still.

" I did it. I actually hit him. I punched A-Train. The fastest man alive. And he's unconscious. My superpower is 'being a human speed bump who can also punch really hard.' 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. "

Silence descended once more, broken only by Hughie's ragged breathing, the distant drip of water, and the faint, lingering hum in his head. A-Train lay unconscious on the grimy subway tracks, a pathetic, vulnerable figure, stripped of his speed and his arrogance, reduced to a mere human. They had done it. They had subdued one of The Seven. And Hughie, the powerless civilian, had delivered the final, decisive blow. The scent of blood was in the air, but it was A-Train's now. And it smelled like victory. A very, very messy, morally questionable victory, but a victory nonetheless. The first real step in their long, bloody war.

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