Chapter 12: The Ghost in the Machine: Vought's Counter-Offensive and Hughie's Stealthy Hunt
System Message: Blood Meter at 400/800. Stagnation is detrimental to progression. Opportunities for power acquisition outside of direct team operations are optimal for maintaining tactical secrecy. Remember, every kill is a step towards ultimate power.
"Tactical secrecy, you say? You mean, 'don't let the guys who already think you're a psycho know you're becoming an even bigger psycho.' Got it. My social calendar is really filling up with 'murder isolated supes' events."
Vought's counter-offensive was swift and brutal. The Specter incident had clearly hit a nerve. New supes were deployed, more ruthless, more technologically advanced. The pressure on the Boys intensified. Our safe houses felt less safe, our movements more restricted. Butcher became even more paranoid, trusting no one, least of all me.
"They're coming for us, mate," Butcher grunted, pointing at a new wanted poster plastered across the dark web – our faces, blurry but recognizable. "Every piss-ant supe with a bone to pick, every Vought lackey with something to prove. We're targets."
MM was fraying at the edges, his meticulous nature barely holding him together. Frenchie was restless, constantly tinkering with new gadgets, his eyes darting to me with an almost mournful expression. Kimiko remained her silent, deadly self, but I could feel a growing distance, a subtle shift in her emotional signature towards me through my Empathic Resonance (Lvl 1). It was a cold, alien fear, not of a comrade, but of a force of nature.
The pressure of the 400/800 Blood Meter was a constant, internal thrum. Specter's powers were incredible. Enhanced Stealth (Lvl 1) made me virtually invisible when I wanted to be. I could move through a room, a cold spot, an empty space, unheard, unseen. . Coupled with my Limited Phasing (Lvl 1), I was becoming a true ghost. A phantom. A perfect hunter.
The System's whispers grew louder, more insidious. Opportunity. Alone. Unseen.
I began my secret hunts. Under the guise of "scouting" or "gathering intel," I would slip away from the team. My targets were low-level supe criminals, forgotten Vought experiments living off the grid, or desperate addicts looking for a fix. They were often vulnerable, isolated, easy prey.
My first solo kill was in a dingy Tunis back alley, a speedster who'd gotten too cocky trying to rob a convenience store. He was fast, but my Metabolic Acceleration (Lvl 4) was faster. I blurred behind him, a dark streak. Before he could react, my Caustic Secretion (Lvl 1) activated, a single, precise drop of acid on his carotid artery. Silent. Swift. Deadly. He dropped without a sound.
[System Message: Kill Confirmed. Target: Minor Speedster. Initiating "Supe Power Absorption" protocol. Choose wisely.]
MINOR SPEEDSTER'S POWERS:
Localized Speed Burst (Lvl 1)
I absorbed Localized Speed Burst (Lvl 1). A brief, exhilarating jolt of pure speed. Redundant with Metabolic Acceleration, but a separate, distinct power. My Blood Meter ticked up.
Each kill was a cold, clinical act. I wasn't just Hughie anymore, stumbling through life. I was a predator. My Enhanced Stealth (Lvl 1) made me undetectable. I could stalk my prey, unseen, unheard. My Limited Phasing (Lvl 1) allowed me to bypass any lock, any barrier. My Caustic Secretion (Lvl 1) was my preferred method of dispatch – silent, leaving little trace, and terrifyingly efficient.
The Empathic Resonance (Lvl 1) was a double-edged sword. It allowed me to sense the fear, the desperation, the occasional burst of rage from my victims. It was a constant reminder of their humanity, a searing brand on my conscience. But it also honed my hunting instincts, allowing me to predict their moves, to find their weaknesses, to exploit their emotions. It was making me a better killer, even as it tore at my soul.
One night, I found a minor telekinetic, a sad, broken man who used his power to cheat at card games in a shady Gabès bar. He was pathetic. My Empathic Resonance picked up his overwhelming loneliness, his self-loathing. It should have stopped me. It didn't.
I stalked him to his dilapidated apartment. Phased through his locked door. His eyes, bleary from cheap alcohol, widened in terror when he saw me, a dark silhouette emerging from the shadows.
"Who… who are you?" he stammered, raising a trembling hand. A few coins on his table jittered nervously.
I didn't answer. I simply raised my hand. A small, focused burst of Minor Energy Manipulation (Lvl 1) sent a wave of force through his chest, knocking him against the wall, winded. He gasped, falling to his knees.
My Caustic Secretion (Lvl 1) seeped from my palm. I placed my hand over his mouth, smothering his cries as the acid began its work. The feeling of his fear, his desperate struggle, his agonizing death, flooded my mind through Empathic Resonance. It was overwhelming. It was sickening. And when it was over, I felt utterly, completely empty.
[System Message: Kill Confirmed. Target: Minor Telekinetic. Initiating "Supe Power Absorption" protocol. Choose wisely.]
MINOR TELEKINETIC'S POWERS:
Minor Telekinesis (Lvl 1)
I chose Minor Telekinesis (Lvl 1). A subtle mental pressure, a feeling of pushing and pulling without touch. This was a valuable offensive power.
Each kill filled the meter, slowly, inexorably. The vials from Sage Grove were still in my duffel bag, but I was saving them. Each kill was a testament to my own growing power, a sign of my complete and utter moral collapse.
BLOOD METER PROGRESS: 600/800
I was a ghost. A whisper. A dark shadow that consumed the weak. The Boys suspected something. The disappearances of minor supes in our vicinity were noted. Butcher shot me increasingly wary glances. MM's sighs grew heavier. Frenchie began watching me with a mixture of horror and grim fascination.
"Hughie, you've been… busy," Butcher said one morning, his voice low, his eyes narrowed. "Heard about that speedster, that telekinetic. Disappeared without a trace. You know anything about that, mate?"
I met his gaze, my face a mask of careful neutrality. "Vought's getting sloppy, Butcher. Or maybe these low-level goons are just getting what's coming to them. Survival of the fittest, right?"
Butcher didn't blink. He just stared at me, then slowly nodded. "Right, Hughie. Survival of the fittest." There was a new edge to his voice, a new understanding that chilled me to the bone. He knew. Or at least, he suspected enough. And he was letting me. Using me. The realization was sickening. I was his bloody blade, but I was also my own. And the blade was getting sharper.