Chapter 4: [The Supe Fight Club: My First Brawl (and First Bruises)]
[System Message: Blood Meter status: 0/100. Power Acquisition required for growth. Warning: Prolonged power stagnation may lead to increased anxiety and existential dread. Just kidding. Mostly.]
"Oh, thanks, System. Just what I needed. More anxiety. Because I'm not already running on a steady diet of caffeine and sheer terror."
After the Translucent debacle (which, to my endless mortification, was now known among the Boys as "The Groin Gambit"), things settled into a strange rhythm. We had Translucent in the box, and Butcher was, in his own charming way, "persuading" him to give up Vought secrets. This mostly involved leaving him in a dark, confined space with Frenchie's increasingly elaborate (and disgusting) chemical concoctions. MM was perpetually stressed, Frenchie was morbidly fascinated, and I was just trying to avoid being in the same room as the increasingly unhinged invisible man.
My new Carbon Skin power was subtle at Lvl 1. It felt like a mild hardening of my skin, maybe enough to deflect a really enthusiastic punch from a particularly enraged squirrel, but definitely not a bullet from a full-grown man. It was more of a "suggestion" of invulnerability than actual invulnerability. Still, it was a start. And it fueled the hunger. The System's little progress bar, sitting stubbornly at 0/100, was a constant, nagging reminder. I needed V.
"Alright, Hughie," Butcher announced one morning, bursting into my dilapidated apartment (which, coincidentally, was still Hughie's apartment, complete with Robin's toothbrush still in the holder, a constant stab of melancholic guilt). "Frenchie got a lead. Underground supe fight club."
My ears perked up. "A supe fight club? Like, for entertainment? Are they taking bets?"
Butcher raised an eyebrow. "You keen to put a fiver on some bloke ripping off another bloke's arm, are you?"
"No, no, of course not," I said quickly, trying to sound morally outraged while my internal System screen was practically vibrating with excitement. V! V! Potential supe kills! "It's just… morbid curiosity. And, you know, intel. For the team. Obviously."
[System Message: Opportunity detected: Compound V acquisition. High risk, high reward. Remember: your true motivations are for your own empowerment. Don't let your lingering "Old-Hue" morality hold you back. It's just a gene therapy, not a sacred artifact.]
"Oh, shut up, System. You're starting to sound like my inner demon with a spreadsheet. And it's not 'just gene therapy' when it turns people into psychotic demigods."
Butcher, ever the master manipulator, could practically smell my thinly veiled ambition. "Right. Intel. And maybe, just maybe, some of those supes are dealing a bit of V on the side. Could be useful, eh?" He gave me a knowing look. He didn't know about the System, but he knew I wanted to get stronger. He just thought it was for vengeance. He wouldn't like the truth.
Frenchie's "lead" led us to a grimy, forgotten corner of the city, down a series of dark alleys that smelled faintly of stale beer and desperation. The fight club itself was in a vast, echoing basement, lit by flickering bare bulbs. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor. And, faintly, Compound V. I could almost taste it.
"This is… atmospheric," I murmured, trying to sound casual as I discreetly sniffed the air.
"Keep your head on a swivel, Hughie," MM warned, ever vigilant. "These places are a magnet for trouble."
"Yeah, well, so are we, MM," I retorted, scanning the crowd. It was a motley collection of shadowy figures, desperate-looking gamblers, and a few minor supes, their powers barely contained by their ill-fitting clothes and desperate expressions. These weren't the Seven. These were the rejects. The ones Vought had no use for. My kind of people. In a very, very terrifying way.
Butcher was already working the room, his charmingly menacing persona fully engaged, squeezing information out of anyone who looked at him funny. Frenchie, ever the observer, was taking notes, probably cataloging every exotic injury and questionable substance. MM was just looking stressed, as usual.
I, meanwhile, was on a different mission. My eyes darted around, searching. V vials. Where would they be? In a backroom? With the bookies? My Blood Meter, though invisible to anyone but me, was a phantom weight in my mind, urging me on.
I spotted a burly man in the corner, surrounded by a small entourage, counting thick wads of cash. He had the distinct swagger of a black market dealer. And next to him, on a makeshift table, a small, insulated cooler. My target.
"I'm going to… check out the refreshments," I told MM, trying to sound nonchalant.
MM raised an eyebrow. "Hughie, I wouldn't trust the water in this place, let alone any 'refreshments.'"
"Just… being sociable!" I insisted, already moving.
I sidled up to the dealer, pretending to be utterly captivated by the ongoing fight in the makeshift ring. Two C-list supes, one with minor electrokinesis, the other with super strength, were whaling on each other. It was brutal, unrefined, and exactly what I needed. Distraction.
"Rough night, eh?" I said, trying to sound like a seasoned fight-goer.
The dealer, a hulking man with a shaved head and a neck tattoo that looked suspiciously like a poorly drawn unicorn, grunted without looking at me. "Every night's rough when you're betting on idiots."
"Right. Idiots," I agreed, inching closer to the cooler. "Say, what's in the cooler? Looks… exclusive."
He finally looked at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "That, mate, ain't for the likes of you."
"Oh, I'm 'likes of you' adjacent!" I chirped, trying to sound disarmingly charming, like Stiles. "Just curious about the… premium beverages."
Suddenly, a massive hand clamped down on my shoulder. "You got a problem, little man?"
I turned to see a mountain of a man, his face a roadmap of scars, glaring down at me. He had a faint, pulsing aura around him, a low-level power signature. Probably some kind of minor durability supe. Another one of the dealer's bodyguards.
[System Message: Confrontation initiated. Threat Level: Moderate. Recommend evasive action or de-escalation. Violence is not always the answer, but sometimes it's the only one. Just kidding. Mostly.]
"Oh, you're just a fountain of helpful advice, aren't you, System? 'Violence is not always the answer!' From the guy who just told me to go murder someone for their powers!"
"No problem, no problem at all!" I stammered, raising my hands in a placating gesture. "Just… admiring your… biceps? Very… symmetrical."
My attempt at flattery fell flatter than a pancake in a vacuum. He just sneered. "Get lost, punk. Before I make you part of the decor."
This was it. The moment I had to decide. Back down, or push for the V. The Blood Meter glared in my mind. The hunger. It was a dull ache, but it was growing.
"Look, pal, I just want a look in the cooler. Just a peek. I'm a connoisseur of… premium liquids." I tried to sidle past him, my hand reaching for the latch.
His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. His grip was like a vice. "You ain't getting nowhere near that, civilian. Now, are we going to do this the easy way, or the hospital way?"
My Carbon Skin, Lvl 1, felt utterly useless. This guy could probably snap me in half like a twig. But the V. It was right there.
"Look, I really don't want to fight you," I said, trying to inject some genuine fear into my voice, which wasn't hard. "But I really, really want to see what's in that cooler. It's a compulsion. A very intense, personal compulsion."
He snarled, and then, without warning, he shoved me. Hard. I stumbled backwards, crashing into a stack of empty crates. The impact rattled my teeth, and a searing pain shot through my shoulder. The Carbon Skin did practically nothing. I was still just Hughie. A Hughie with a very mild case of tougher skin.
The dealer laughed. "Looks like someone's got a death wish."
"Yeah, well, I'm getting used to it!" I spat, scrambling to my feet. My shoulder screamed in protest. This was going to hurt. A lot.
He came at me, swinging a haymaker that would have rearranged my face into a modern art masterpiece. I ducked, clumsily, the punch whistling over my head. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum solo. This wasn't a game. This was real. And I was about to get my ass handed to me by a supe with a poorly drawn unicorn tattoo.
"Hughie! What the hell are you doing?!" MM's voice roared from across the room. He was trying to get through the crowd, but it was too thick.
"Just… having a spirited debate about beverage choices!" I yelled back, narrowly avoiding another punch.
The supe chuckled, a dark, menacing sound. "You're going to regret that, kid."
He lunged again, this time aiming for my gut. I braced myself, a surge of desperation coursing through me. This was it. I was going to get pulverized.
But then, an idea, born of pure, unadulterated panic, flashed through my mind. It was stupid. It was reckless. It was exactly what Stiles would do.
As he closed in, I dropped to my knees, then slid forward, a clumsy, desperate tackle. He stumbled, caught off guard, and I managed to wrap my arms around his legs, pulling him off balance. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, a cloud of dust rising around him.
"What the—?!" he bellowed, struggling to get up.
I scrambled on top of him, vaguely remembering some terrible wrestling move from a B-movie. I landed a few clumsy, ineffectual punches to his chest, which felt like hitting a brick wall. He just laughed.
"You really think that's going to work, punk?" he sneered, and then, with a surge of strength, he bucked, throwing me off him like a rag doll. I landed hard, my head hitting the concrete floor with a sickening thud. Stars exploded behind my eyes.
[System Message: Critical damage sustained. Immediate medical attention advised. Or, you know, just get up and keep fighting. What's a little traumatic brain injury among friends?]
"Oh, just shut up, System! You're not helping!" My head was ringing, and I tasted blood. This was definitely not going well.
He was getting to his feet, a triumphant, menacing grin on his face. "Time to finish this."
He raised his foot, preparing to stomp. I knew, with absolute certainty, that if that foot connected, my skull would become a very unappetizing puddle.
But then, a blur of motion. A flash of a fist. And the supe suddenly reeled back, clutching his face.
Butcher. He'd somehow broken through the crowd. He stood over the supe, his knuckles still clenched. "Back off, you wanker!" he snarled. "He's with me!"
The supe, surprisingly, hesitated. Butcher had a reputation, even among these low-level thugs.
"Now, Hughie!" Butcher yelled, pointing at the cooler. "Get the bloody V!"
I didn't need to be told twice. My head still spinning, I scrambled over to the cooler. My hands, surprisingly steady despite the ringing in my ears, fumbled with the latch. It clicked open.
And there they were. Nestled in ice. Several small, glowing vials of Compound V. A glorious, life-affirming (and potentially life-ending) sight.
I grabbed two. Just two. Enough to make a difference. Enough to fill the meter. Enough to level up.
"Got 'em!" I yelled, clutching the vials like they were the Holy Grail.
Butcher, meanwhile, was laying into the supe, a whirlwind of fists and profanity. MM and Frenchie were right behind him, adding to the general chaos. The fight club had devolved into a full-blown brawl.
I stumbled back, clutching my vials, the hunger in my gut warring with the lingering fear. I had done it. I had my V. Now to get out of this alive.