The car pulled up behind an abandoned packaging plant on the outskirts of Brooklyn.
Most of the exterior paint had peeled away, exposing the red bricks beneath, and the windows were boarded up with planks.
The lock on the door had been added later by Frenchie.
Butcher cut the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror at the back seat.
“Get out.
Move the goods.”
Hughie climbed out from the passenger side, his legs still trembling.
Ian sat in the back, his knee pressed against Translucent’s ribs, one hand holding the Supe’s neck.
Translucent was still unconscious.
The back seat was cramped, forcing Translucent’s long legs to curl up, his head tilted against the window, lightly tapping the glass with each sway of the vehicle.
Hearing the commotion, Frenchie rushed out of the factory, still clutching a welding torch.
He watched as Butcher dragged the semi-visible figure out of the back seat, nearly dropping the torch in shock.
“Are you fucking insane?” he blurted in English tinged with a French accent.
“That’s Translucent!
The Seven!
Vought’s watchdog!
You kidnapped him?”
“Enough talk,” Butcher grunted, hoisting Translucent over his shoulder like a sack of cement.
“Find a place to lock him up.
It needs to block signals, be electrified, and keep him from escaping.”
Frenchie threw the welding torch to the ground, grabbed his own hair, and spun around in place.
“Block signals?
Electrified?
You think this is a movie?
This isn’t a fucking prison!”
“Then turn it into one,” Butcher said, dumping Translucent onto a workbench.
The bench shuddered, tools clattering.
“Hurry.
Vought could find this place any minute.”
Frenchie cursed in a stream of French before turning and running deeper into the factory.
Butcher followed, Hughie trailing behind while leaning against the wall for support.
Ian brought up the rear, closing the factory door behind him.
Frenchie pushed open the door to an inner room.
The walls were covered in silver foil, sealed at the seams with copper tape.
Even the ventilation duct on the ceiling was blocked with foil, making the room resemble a giant microwave.
“This room can block most signals,” Frenchie said, pointing at the walls.
“But it won’t last long.
Translucent has a tracking chip implanted by Vought.
The foil can block the signal from transmitting, but if he doesn’t check in for two or three days, Vought will definitely send people to search the area where the signal vanished.”
“Then we deal with him within two or three days,” Butcher replied.
Frenchie cursed again.
He dragged an iron cage from the corner, about the height of a person, and began wrapping it with exposed copper wires, connecting one end to a car battery.
“No need for the cage,” Ian interrupted. New chapters come out on g.com first.
He walked over to the workbench and looked down at Translucent.
“Let me stay here with him.
If he wakes up, I’ll knock him out again.”
Frenchie froze.
He glanced at Butcher, then at Hughie, before finally fixing his gaze on Ian’s face.
“Who the hell is this guy?” Frenchie asked Butcher.
“You brought him?
What’s his deal?”
Butcher leaned against the doorframe, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and sticking it between his lips.
“I don’t know where Hughie found this Supe bodyguard.
But it doesn’t matter now—we’re all in the same boat.
He can pin Translucent to the ground and beat the shit out of him, and that’s enough.”
Frenchie sized Ian up and down.
Ian ignored him, pressing his thumb against Translucent’s carotid artery to check his pulse.
“What makes you think you can keep him under control?” Frenchie asked.
“He’s invisible.
If he wakes up, he could be at the door in three seconds, and you wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of him.”
“Not possible.”
“I can get him,” Ian said.
His hand slid from Translucent’s neck to his chest, palm pressed against the Carbon Skin.
“Get me a wire and a chair.
You two go handle other things.”
Frenchie still wanted to say something, but Butcher waved him off.
“Let him try,” Butcher said.
“We don’t have much time.”
Frenchie sighed, dragged a folding chair from the corner, and tossed Ian a length of wire with a plug attached.
Ian sat down, the chair creaking under his weight.
He placed the wire across his lap, his right hand still pressed against Translucent’s chest, fingers slightly spread like a spider crouched over its prey.
Butcher turned and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold to glance back at Ian’s silhouette.
“Letting him go is out of the question,” Butcher said, his voice echoing in the foil-lined room.
“He’s seen our faces.
Supe scum like this—I kill every one I come across.”
He paused, adding toward Ian’s back, “Sorry, not referring to you for now.”
Ian didn’t turn around.
His right thumb rubbed lightly over Translucent’s chest, tracing the texture of the Carbon Skin.
At the edge of his vision, crimson numbers flickered.
Click.
Duplication Progress: 12%.
“You two go prepare the weapons,” Ian said.
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Frenchie was rummaging through boxes outside.
Ian could hear him cursing, followed by the clatter of metal, the whirring of a power drill, and the occasional sound of shattering glass.
Ian sat in the chair, his right hand on Translucent’s chest, his left gripping the wire.
The plug was inserted into a wall socket beside him, the exposed copper strands wrapped around his fingers, ready to strike at any moment.
Time passed slowly.
The foil-lined room had no windows; the only light came from a dim yellow bulb overhead, casting everything in a warm, muted glow.
Duplication Progress: 23%.
Butcher’s voice called from outside: “Frenchie, where’s that flamethrower of yours?”
“Broke ages ago!
I’m looking for acid!”
“Acid’s useless!
His skin is carbon-based—strong acid will just polish it!”
“What about the chainsaw?
I’ve got an industrial-grade one—”
“Tried it!
The blade’s chipped!”
Ian ignored the commotion outside.
His fingers pressed slightly harder against Translucent’s chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath the skin.
The Duplication Progress crept upward, silent and steady.
Translucent’s finger twitched suddenly.
Ian’s left hand moved instantly.
The wire jabbed forward, copper strands touching Translucent’s neck.
Zap.
Sparks erupted against the Carbon Skin.
Translucent’s body arched violently, letting out a muffled groan before collapsing back into limpness.
The smell of burnt material filled the foil-lined room.
Duplication Progress: 31%.
Ian withdrew the wire, shaking his wrist.
This was how he spent the rest of the day.
Every few hours, Frenchie rushed in to check, carrying different weapons each time.
The first was a high-voltage power drill.
He pressed the bit against Translucent’s arm, cranked the speed to maximum, and sparks flew everywhere.
The drill tip flattened, leaving only a scratch on the Carbon Skin.
“Fuck,” Frenchie said, throwing the drill to the floor.
“What the hell is this made of?”
The second time, he brought a bucket of industrial-strength acid.
Frenchie used a brush to smear the acid over Translucent’s chest.
White fumes rose with a hissing sound, but the Carbon Skin remained as if…
The acid slid off him like water off a lotus leaf, dripping onto the ground and corroding the concrete.
The third attempt was with a Barrett.
Frenchie loaded his homemade large-caliber bullet, but it simply struck Translucent and ricocheted wildly.
Butcher leaned against the doorframe, watching it all with an increasingly grim expression.
Ian observed their frantic efforts as if rewatching a TV show.
“We can’t kill him,” Frenchie finally gave up, throwing his tools to the ground, his hands stained with grease and acid.
“Not from the outside.
His skin is a perfect shell.”