Chapter 2: [Butcher's Charm School for the Morally Flexible]
[System Message: Billy Butcher's approach imminent. Brace for impact. And colorful language. Lots of colorful language.]
The sirens shrieked to a halt, and a black van, looking suspiciously like it moonlighted as an unmarked police vehicle, screeched to a stop nearby. The door slid open, revealing a man who could scare the chrome off a bumper. Billy Butcher. All grim determination, subtle menace, and a perfectly tailored suit that screamed "I will ruin your life and make you thank me for it."
He stepped out, his eyes, dark and piercing, sweeping over the scene. They lingered for a fraction of a second on the… remains… of Robin, then landed on me. Or rather, on Hughie. The me who was still openly weeping, snot and tears making rivulets through the blood and grime on his face.
"Alright, mate," Butcher's voice was a low growl, like a perpetually annoyed bear. "What's all this then?"
My brain, the New-Hue part, kicked into overdrive. This is it. The meet-cute from hell. I had to play the part. The traumatized, overwhelmed civilian. Not the meta-aware fanboy who was mentally cataloging every line of dialogue he was about to deliver.
"She… she was just… walking there," I stammered, my voice cracking convincingly. "And then… he just… ran right through her! Like she was nothing!" The tears, a mix of genuine grief from Hughie-Prime and a healthy dose of method acting from me, flowed freely.
Butcher knelt, his gaze intense, assessing. He pulled out a handkerchief, strangely pristine against the chaos, and dabbed at my face, a gesture that was both surprisingly gentle and utterly terrifying. "Right, right. A-Train, was it?"
"Yeah! A-Train! He's a supe! He's supposed to be a hero!" I wailed, leaning into the indignation. This was the moment. The hook. The point of no return.
[System Message: Observation: Your performance as "Traumatized Victim" is surprisingly convincing. Perhaps you have a hidden talent for dramatics. Or, you're genuinely terrified. It's a fine line.]
"Oh, thanks for the ringing endorsement, System. You're really a ray of sunshine, aren't you?" I thought, while outwardly I continued my tear-soaked performance.
Butcher's eyes narrowed, a calculating glint in them. "And you saw all of this, did you, son? Saw him plain as day?"
"Every… every damn second," I choked out, forcing myself to shiver. "He just… he didn't even stop! He just kept going!"
This was the part where Butcher would tell me Vought would bury it. That they'd sweep it under the rug. And then, he'd offer the real solution.
"They'll try to shut you up, you know," Butcher said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Vought. They'll offer you money. Try to make it go away. But it won't, will it? Not for you."
"No!" I blurted, a genuine flash of the original Hughie's desperate need for justice coloring my voice. "It won't! They have to pay for this! He has to pay!"
A small, predatory smile touched Butcher's lips. "That's where I come in, mate. I'm Billy Butcher. And I help people like you get what they're owed." He extended a hand, surprisingly clean for a man who seemed to embody chaos.
I took it. His grip was firm, calloused. And just like that, the die was cast. I was in. On the team. The Boys. And my life just officially went from 0 to 'holy hell, is that a laser?' in about five seconds flat.
Butcher's idea of a debriefing involved a grimy pub, lukewarm beer, and a lot of vague promises that tasted suspiciously like lies. He laid out the Vought party line, how they'd spin Robin's death as a "tragic accident," how A-Train was "deeply distraught," how I, Hughie Campbell, would probably get a fat check and a non-disclosure agreement shoved down my throat.
"And you'll sign it, won't you, Hughie?" he said, his eyes drilling into mine. "Just like everyone else. Take the money, try to forget. But you won't. Not truly."
"No," I said, a little too quickly. "I won't. I want… I want justice. For Robin." The words felt hollow, even to me. Justice was a nice thought, but survival was a primal scream. And the System was a constant, buzzing reminder of the power I needed.
[System Message: Analysis: Your current objectives are diverging from the initial narrative. "Justice" is a noble pursuit. "Power acquisition" is a pragmatic one. Choose wisely, or perhaps, don't choose at all. Let the chaos guide you.]
"Oh, you're just full of wisdom, aren't you, System? 'Let the chaos guide you.' Sounds like a motto for a particularly reckless frat boy."
Butcher leaned back, a small, knowing smirk on his face. "Good. Because Vought ain't just gonna let you walk away. They'll keep an eye on you. Might even send a friendly face to 'check in.' You gotta be smart. You gotta be ready."
He then transitioned into the "bug-planting" plan. Getting into Vought Tower. Finding Translucent. It was all a blur of Butcher's gruff instructions and my internal monologue of "Oh god, I remember this episode! He gets stuck in the ventilation shaft! This is going to be embarrassing!"
The next few days were a blur of nervous energy. Butcher had me going through some ridiculously elaborate "training" that mostly involved him yelling at me to be less visible and more paranoid. It was like a crash course in "How Not to Be a Civilian in a Supe-Filled Hellscape."
"You gotta learn to look," Butcher barked at me during one of our "sessions" – which usually involved us sitting in his van, staking out some Vought exec's house. "Really look. See the cracks. See the tells. Supes, they ain't gods, mate. They're just wankers with a gene mutation and a massive PR budget."
I nodded, pretending to absorb his wisdom, while my mind was screaming: Yes, I know! They're created by Compound V! They're not born! They're products! You literally explain this to me later, you magnificent bastard!
The internal conflict was getting intense. Hughie-Prime was a jittery mess, constantly on the verge of a panic attack. My sarcastic, Stiles-like persona was doing its best to deflect the terror with humor, but even that was starting to wear thin. And the "fan" part of me was just screaming: Get to the powers! Get to the powers!
My biggest concern was concealing the System. It was a purely mental interface, thankfully, but what if someone like Mesmer or even, God forbid, Homelander, could detect it? The thought sent a chill down my spine. The last thing I needed was to become Vought's next lab rat, especially if they found out I was a walking, talking cheat code.
The night of the bug planting was a masterclass in controlled chaos. Butcher's plan, as always, was brilliantly reckless. Getting into Vought Tower was surprisingly easy, a testament to how confident (and arrogant) Vought was. Navigating the labyrinthine corridors, however, was another matter entirely.
"Alright, Hughie, you're up," Butcher's voice crackled in my ear through a tiny earpiece. "Maintenance closet on the 37th floor. Translucent's office is two doors down. Plant the bug. Get out. Don't make a fuss."
"Don't make a fuss? Butcher, I'm currently wearing a stolen Vought janitor's uniform that's three sizes too big, carrying a bug that looks like it came from a spy movie from the 80s, and I'm pretty sure I just saw Homelander's reflection in a polished floor. 'Don't make a fuss' is quickly becoming my life's impossible motto!"
I navigated the deserted hallways, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Every shadow seemed to morph into a lurking supe, every creak of the building sounded like my imminent discovery. The paranoia was real. And it was exhausting.
"Just get it done, Hughie!" Butcher's voice snapped. "Less chattering, more bug-planting!"
I finally found the maintenance closet. It smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and stale coffee. Standard. I pushed open the door to Translucent's office. Empty. Good.
I crept in, my hands shaking as I pulled out the bug. It was smaller than I remembered from the show, thankfully. I knelt by his desk, fumbling with the tiny adhesive strip.
Suddenly, the lights flickered. A low hum filled the room. And then, a voice, smooth as polished obsidian, cut through the silence.
"Looking for something, little man?"
My blood ran cold. Translucent. He was here. And I was caught.
I slowly stood up, turning to face the invisible menace. "Uh… just… just admiring your… feng shui? Very… transparent." Nailed it, New-Hue. Absolutely nailed that smooth, suave delivery.
A shimmer in the air coalesced, and Translucent appeared, his face a picture of smug amusement. He was wearing his usual black, form-fitting suit, and he looked… well, he looked exactly like he did on TV. Which, considering my current predicament, was not comforting.
"Funny," he drawled, taking a step closer. "Most people don't break into my office at 3 AM to appreciate the decor. What's that in your hand?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment I was caught. The moment I was probably going to get turned into a greasy spot on the carpet. And then, the System flashed.
[System Message: Threat detected: Translucent. Probability of immediate harm: High. Recommended action: Engage in evasive maneuvers. Do not reveal System capabilities. Your existence is currently unknown to the world at large. Maintain deniability.]
"Engage in evasive maneuvers? Are you serious? I'm not Jason Bourne! I'm Hughie Campbell, proud owner of a crippling anxiety disorder and zero combat training!"
"It's… it's a… a paperclip!" I blurted, holding up the bug like it was some kind of modern art sculpture. "A really, really fancy paperclip! I'm an enthusiast!"
Translucent just stared at me, his expression flat. Then he let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "A paperclip enthusiast, huh? And the wire sticking out of your ear? Is that part of your… enthusiast gear?"
My hand flew to my ear, realizing too late that Butcher's earpiece was still firmly in place. Smooth, Hughie. Real smooth.
"Damn it, Hughie! Run!" Butcher's voice boomed in my ear, instantly giving away his presence.
Translucent's smile vanished. "Billy Butcher. Of course. You pathetic little worm." He took another step, and then another, until he was right in front of me. "Tell me, Hughie. Where is he?"
I was frozen. My mind raced, trying to come up with a plan, any plan, that didn't involve me becoming a victim of a very expensive invisibility suit. But my Hughie-Prime instincts were screaming for me to curl into a ball and cry.
"I… I don't know who you're talking about!" I squeaked, my voice betraying my terror.
Translucent scoffed. "Don't play dumb. That act is getting old. Now, where is Butcher?"
He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. And just like that, the fight (or rather, the flailing) was on. I was shoved, pulled, and generally manhandled by an invisible man. It was as disorienting and humiliating as it sounded. I stumbled, fell, and scrambled to get away, but he was everywhere, a phantom presence that kept me off balance.
My mind was a blur of fear and frustration. This was exactly how it went in the show. I was helpless. I was useless. But then, a thought, cold and clear, cut through the panic. The System. It had powers. But I didn't have any yet. I needed V. I needed a supe.
Not yet, Hughie, the more pragmatic part of my brain whispered. Not yet. Survive this one. Then we can talk about becoming a supe-killing, power-absorbing maniac.
I was cornered, backed against the wall. Translucent appeared, a smug look on his face. "Looks like you're all out of options, Hughie." He reached out, his hand closing around my throat. "Now, where's Butcher?"
My vision started to blur at the edges. This was it. This was how it ended. Not with a bang, but with a supe strangling me in a lavish office. How utterly anticlimactic.
But then, a diversion. A loud, clanging sound from the hallway. Butcher. He was coming for me.
Translucent's head snapped towards the door. His grip on my throat loosened for a split second. And that was all I needed. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, I kicked him, not with any particular skill, but with the raw, unadulterated terror of someone about to die. It caught him off guard, and he stumbled back, dissolving into invisibility.
"Run, Hughie! Get out!" Butcher's voice roared, closer now.
I didn't need to be told twice. I scrambled to my feet and bolted, not even looking back. The bug, I realized, was probably still on the floor. Oh well. Butcher would just have to plant it later. My immediate goal was survival. And a change of pants.