Ian looked down at Translucent.
Duplication Progress: 89%.
Almost there.
He adjusted his sitting position, and the chair creaked again.
His right palm pressed against Translucent’s chest, feeling the heart beating beneath the skin.
The texture of the Carbon Skin felt like countless fine scales under his fingertips, presenting a regular sensation.
The progress bar crawled slowly at the edge of his vision.
90%.
91%.
Ian’s left hand tightened around the wire.
Translucent’s eyelids fluttered, as if dreaming or trying to wake up.
Ian brought the wire close to Translucent’s neck, like an uncocked gun.
93%, 95%, 97%.
Outside, Frenchie and Hughie’s voices could be heard, along with the clatter of metal.
But in Ian’s world, there was only that number.
99%
100%
LV5 Carbon Skin Duplication complete.
A cold sensation spread across his skin, like liquid nitrogen injected into his veins.
Ian closed his eyes, feeling the new ability solidify within him.
The structure of the Carbon Skin, the method to activate and deactivate it—it was as if a manual had been forcibly crammed into his brain.
He opened his eyes and looked down at his hand.
His skin was still its normal color, but he knew that if he wanted, he could instantly alter the molecular structure of this layer of skin, making it hard, making it impenetrable.
Ian stood up, and the chair fell to the ground.
He stretched his shoulders, and his joints cracked.
After a day and night without moving, his muscles were stiff.
He pushed the door open and walked out.
Frenchie was squatting on the floor, a pile of parts spread out in front of him.
He looked up when he saw Ian emerge.
“Is he awake?”
“No,” Ian said.
“I shocked him unconscious again.
Have you figured out a way?”
No one spoke.
Butcher leaned against the doorframe, his face as dark as the bottom of a pot.
Hughie sat in the corner, hugging his knees.
The wound on his forehead had scabbed over, but his face was still pale.
The only sounds in the room were the hum of the lightbulb’s current and the voice from a nature documentary playing on the TV.
In the corner stood an old-fashioned television, fourteen inches, with a crack on the screen.
It was Frenchie’s background noise while he worked, constantly playing a nature documentary.
The eggshells slid out of its cloaca and fell into the sand pit.
The narrator’s steady, broadcast-style voice explained: “Although the turtle’s shell is incredibly hard, capable of resisting attacks from most predators, its cloaca remains a soft entry point.
Certain parasites enter the body through this passage…”
Frenchie suddenly straightened up.
He stared at the TV screen, his eyes wide as if he’d been struck on the back of the head.
“Holy shit!” he cursed, jumping to his feet and pointing at the turtle.
“From the outside won’t work… then from the inside.”
Butcher walked over and followed Frenchie’s finger to the TV.
The turtle was still slowly burying its eggs.
“What do you mean?” Butcher asked.
“The shell!” Frenchie turned around.
“Don’t you think he’s like a turtle?
The Carbon Skin is his shell!
We can’t break through from the outside, but what about the inside?
There’s no Carbon Skin inside!
His organs are soft!
As long as we can bypass that shell—”
“Bypass?” Hughie looked up from the corner.
“How do we bypass it?”
Frenchie dug out an iron box from the bottom of the toolbox and opened it.
Inside lay a black object the size of a thumb.
C4, directional explosive, detonator already connected.
“The human body has holes,” Frenchie said bluntly, tossing the bomb in his palm.
“The holes don’t have carbon skin.
We just need to stuff this thing inside and detonate it from within.
When the shockwave explodes in the abdominal cavity, his organs will turn to pulp.
No matter how hard the carbon skin is, it won’t save him.”
Hughie’s face grew even paler.
“Stuff…
stuff it where?”
“The anus.” Frenchie grinned, a slightly twisted smile.
“The inner wall of the rectum is soft tissue.
Stick the bomb inside, detonate, done.”
Hughie gagged, covering his mouth, his eyes wide.
Butcher took the bomb from Frenchie’s hand, weighed it, then tossed it back to him.
“You stuff it.
I’ll press the remote.”
Frenchie took the bomb, stood up, and walked toward the foil-lined room.
He reached the door and glanced at Ian.
“You sure he’s out?”
“Sure,” Ian said.
Ian stood at the doorway, watching Frenchie’s back disappear behind the door.
From inside came a wet, unsettling sound.
Ian didn’t go in.
He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at his right hand.
He tried to focus, sensing the molecular structure of the carbon skin.
A cold sensation gathered beneath his skin, like an invisible armor weaving itself beneath the surface.
He could feel his epidermal cells rearranging, becoming denser, harder, but the color didn’t change, nor did it turn transparent.
Carbon skin was purely defensive.
He released the thought, and his skin returned to normal.
He didn’t want anyone to know yet.
Frenchie walked out of the inner room, his hands smeared with lubricant, his expression odd.
“It’s in.
Deep enough, stuck to the inner wall.”
Butcher raised the remote, a simple push-button detonator.
“Now?”
“Wait,” Frenchie said.
“We evacuate first.
This place is sturdy, but the sound of a C4 directional blast will still be heard.
We leave him here, detonate from outside, check the situation, then come back for the body.”
Butcher nodded, stuffing the remote into his pocket.
He looked at Hughie and Ian.
“Pack up.
Let’s go.”
The four of them headed out.
Ian walked last, casually closing the foil-lined room’s door.
Through the crack, he took one last look at Translucent on the workbench.
That once-arrogant member of The Seven now lay like a fish waiting to be slaughtered, a bomb stuffed inside him.
Ian stood at the doorway, looking up at the sky.
The night sky was gray and hazy.
Far away, beneath the clouds, an extremely fast, almost invisible shadow was moving.
No sound, but the oppressive feeling surged like a tide from the horizon.
Homelander.
Butcher pulled the remote from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the button.
His thumb pressed down.
A muffled sound came from the foil-lined room, like someone had let out a muffled fart inside.
Then came the sound of liquid splashing, something thick spattering against the foil walls with a rustling noise.
Butcher turned and strode toward the car.
“Go!”
Ian took one last look at the sky.
The shadow seemed closer now, the outline of a red cape almost visible.
He opened the rear door and climbed into the car.
Butcher started the engine, and the car’s tires crunched over the gravel road, speeding off into the night.