One vial of Compound V had bumped the fusion progress up by about twenty percent.
At this rate, Ivan figured he'd need another three or four vials to fully fuse the Carbon Super Talent.
Thanks to his perfect control gift, he could feel exactly how far his cells could go. The second the regeneration couldn't keep up with the mutations, he'd stop cold. No point turning himself into a tumor factory.
He popped the second vial. The panel jumped to 53%.
"Already hitting the wall?" he muttered.
Halfway through the third vial his cells started screaming. Repair speed was barely holding against the damage. He cut it off early.
Ivan stashed the rest of the vials in the SUV's trunk. The panel now read 65%.
"Better than I expected. Shame the body can't chug it all at once."
He slowly raised his right hand. Under his stare, the arm started vanishing from the fingertips upward. Seconds later the whole limb disappeared from sight. Unless someone was standing two inches away, they'd never notice.
---
The next day.
Butcher left Jersey City behind and set off to find his old colleague Marvin. Though everyone who mattered called him Mother's Milk.
"I still say the three of us are enough," Hughie boasted, riding high after helping fuck over Homelander. "No need to drag anyone else in."
"Tracking A-Train and the rest of those bastards with just the three of us won't cut it. We need more muscle. He used to be my partner. Strong as hell and trustworthy." Butcher drove toward Mother's Milk's workplace.
MM currently worked at a youth detention center, keeping troubled kids in line.
The reunion started rocky. MM said his life was good now and he had zero interest in jumping back into Butcher's crazy war. But the second he heard Translucent was dead, curiosity got the better of him.
Even knowing Butcher's real target was Homelander—the god like supe who'd raped his wife—MM still agreed to run one more job.
"Who the hell killed Translucent?" MM asked, genuinely intrigued.
Butcher shrugged. "No clue. But whoever it was, they're on our side."
They set up Pop Claw outside Shockwave's rundown apartment building.
"She used to be a C-list actress. Clearly washed up now," Butcher said as they watched her walk inside.
"Obviously, or she wouldn't be living in this shithole. But how do we see what's going on inside?"
Hughie asked the question they were all thinking.
Butcher frowned, chewing on the problem. Best way to know what A-Train was up to was planting eyes and ears inside the apartment.
In the end, Hughie came up with the plan.
Since he used to sell audio and electronics, he knew cameras inside out. They could hijack the built-in webcams on her computer or smart TV.
Only catch? They needed her IP address and network access first.
"I can pose as a tech support guy from the internet company," Hughie said. "Tell her we're upgrading her speed for free. That'll get me full access to her router and network."
He had plenty of door-to-door experience. He was the perfect guy for it.
"Good call," Butcher nodded. "You and MM handle this one."
They moved fast.
Hughie and MM changed into fake technician uniforms and knocked on Pop Claw's door. Hughie spun a smooth story about upgrading her router for free and slipped in to grab her IP and full network access.
Everything went perfectly smooth.
Until they ran into A-Train in the hallway on the way out.
A-Train didn't recognize Hughie. He was too busy fuming about his lost savings.
Years of grinding at Vought, finally stacking some decent cash, and that French bastard had ripped away seventy percent of it.
"Fuck that guy. Greedy piece of shit. He's worse than Homelander," A-Train bitched, slumping on the couch next to Pop Claw.
Pop Claw, on the other hand, was in a great mood. Last night A-Train had promised to take her to the race tomorrow. He'd introduce her in front of a hundred thousand fans and the whole country's cameras as his official girlfriend.
"Let me help you relax," she said, dropping to her knees between his legs.
"Not now. I'm not in the mood. That asshole and Shockwave both got me stressed as fuck."
"You're not gonna lose. You're the fastest man in the world."
The three men watching the hidden feed looked bored as hell.
"Thought we were about to get a live sex show," Frenchie muttered. "Disappointing."
"Who the hell is the guy A-Train keeps talking about?" Hughie asked, eyes glued to the screen. "Sounds like they really hate each other."
"I guarantee A-Train got fucked over hard," Frenchie said confidently.
"How do you know?"
Butcher looked at him. Frenchie just shrugged. "Simple. When you fuck me over, I sound exactly like that when I curse your name."
"Shit. Shut the fuck up," Butcher grumbled, turning back to the monitor with a sour face.
They kept listening, and suddenly all four men perked up. A-Train had just mentioned Compound V.
Before they could hear more, A-Train's phone rang. On the feed, his whole posture changed. He turned respectful. Almost scared.
"Yes, sir. Got it." A-Train hung up, then glanced around the apartment like a paranoid rat. He leaned in and whispered something in Pop Claw's ear. "We might be bugged. Grab the Compound V. We're leaving this apartment right now."
Hughie and the others watched the couple snatch a bag and hurry out the door.
"What the fuck?" Hughie blurted. "They were fine a second ago."
...
At the same time, Ivan Greevs stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows inside Vought Tower. "Heh~"
He calmly slid his phone back into his pocket.
He'd made that call for one reason only. He didn't want Butcher's crew digging too deep into Compound V and somehow connecting it back to him. If A-Train started thinking Butcher worked for Ivan, shit would hit the fan hard. A-Train would run straight to Vought and spill everything.
Then all of Ivan's careful moves would be worthless. Getting close to other supes and cracking their powers would turn into a nightmare.
As for screwing up Butcher's investigation? Ivan couldn't care less. Those Boys were like fucking chewing gum. Once they latched onto something, you could never shake them off.
___
[]~(￣▽￣)~*
Read 12 Advance Chapters—P@t- Captain69