Like that, Butcher was driving.
Mark was sitting in the back, still pretty pissed off, the memory of his guts spilled on the floor and the feeling of them crawling back into his body sticking with him. Healing didn’t make it better—it just meant he had to feel all of it.
That was a fucking horrible experience.
And it wasn’t like he stopped attacking because Butcher asked him to. Because he knew Translucent’s skin was as hard as diamond. Blasting him nonstop wouldn’t do anything. The guy could just stay like that forever.
So yeah.
Fucking useless.
That’s why he stopped.
He caught Hughie staring at him through the rearview mirror.
"What the shit are you looking at?"
Hughie immediately avoided his gaze, turning his head away, but the silence didn’t last. A dull thud came from the back of the car, something shifting in the trunk.
Mark glanced toward it, then forward again.
"That fucker again," he muttered. "Pull over somewhere. I’ll try frying him like Kentucky fried chicken and we’ll be done with it."
Butcher didn’t even slow down.
"Useless," he said, eyes still on the road. "You been givin’ him the full beam for minutes and he’s still kickin’, ain’t he?"
Another bang from the back.
Butcher’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel.
"I’m takin’ him to someone who knows how to crack a hard bastard like this," he added. "Not wastin’ time playin’ guesswork."
Hughie shifted in his seat, glancing between them, clearly not following.
"...Wait," he said. "You’re talking about—what, killing him?"
Butcher let out a short breath through his nose.
"What’d you think this was, mate? A citizen’s arrest?"
Hughie frowned, uneasy. "I thought—we were supposed to get evidence. Show what they’re really like. Put them in prison."
Butcher laughed, sharp and humorless.
"Prison?" he said. "You hear yourself?"
He glanced at Hughie, then back to the road.
"What kind o’ prison you reckon holds a bloke who can turn invisible, eh? Or one who runs faster than a bloody missile?"
Another thud came from the trunk.
"Cunts like this don’t get locked up," Butcher said, voice dropping. "They get dealt with."
"But isn’t this illegal?" Hughie said, voice tight. "You said you were FBI. I’m starting to think you’re not—and why are we working with a criminal?"
Mark let out a short breath from the back.
"You’re really that dumb?" he said. "You actually thought he was FBI? You’re already fucked."
Butcher didn’t look offended, just kept his eyes on the road, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth.
"Never said I was a good liar," he muttered. "And I ain’t FBI, sunshine."
Hughie stared at him.
"Then what are you?" he asked.
Butcher tapped the wheel once, casual.
"Let’s just say I know people," he said. "Some o’ them sit in places you don’t get to walk into. Keeps things... flexible."
The trunk thudded again.
"And right now," Butcher added, "that’s what’s keepin’ you alive."
***
Next morning,
The car rolled into a rough part of the city and stopped outside a place that didn’t look like it welcomed visitors. Butcher got out, walked up, and knocked.
A moment later, the door opened.
Inside, the noise hit first—loud music, bass thudding through the floor. Hughie followed them down into a basement packed with gear, tables covered in guns and parts.
"Frenchie. Oi, Frenchie!"
The music cut.
Frenchie stepped into view, scratching his head. "Monsieur Charcuter. This is a surprise. Good to see you."
"Good to see you too, mate."
Frenchie looked him over, eyes landing on the blood. "Means you brought the forty thousand you owe me? I mean, why else would you show your face around here?"
Butcher smirked. "Because I’ve got something even better for ya. How would you like to double your money?"
They both laughed.
Cherie handed Frenchie a cigarette.
"The double of zero is zero," Frenchie said, lighting it. "Who are those two?"
Butcher gestured casually. "This one’s Hughie. The other—big lad I recruited. He’s the muscle."
Frenchie looked Mark up and down, unimpressed. "Him? Muscle? He looks like a skinny mime. And he’s still alive after working with you?"
Butcher laughed. "You and I worked together, and you’re still in one piece."
Frenchie gave him a look. "Am I?"
Butcher’s tone shifted. "Look, do you want to know what the fucking job is or not?"
They moved outside, around the car.
"Open it," Butcher said.
Frenchie frowned. "Who is in there?"
Butcher pulled out the cattle prod, letting it crackle. "Where’s your sense of adventure, Frenchie?"
Frenchie hesitated, then opened the trunk.
"You dumb fucks are fucking dead! Have you any—"
Butcher slammed the prod down.
The current hit, and Translucent dropped back, twitching.
Frenchie stepped back, staring. "That’s Translucent. You got Translucent in your trunk, huh?"
"Nothing gets past you, mate," Butcher said.
Frenchie’s expression snapped.
He raised a gun and pressed it under Butcher’s chin.
"Woah, woah, woah—!" Hughie stammered.
"Go away," Frenchie snapped. "Get him out of here."
"All right, all right, easy," Butcher said, hands slightly up but not worried.
"He’s chipped," Frenchie said. "Homelander could be on his way right now."
Hughie blinked. "Wait, he’s chipped?"
"You bring this to my doorstep?" Frenchie snapped. "This is not my problem, huh?"
Butcher didn’t move.
"Well, it is now," he said. "He knows what you look like. Look, Frenchie, I need your help, mate. And I ain’t leaving until I get it—or until the Seven show up."
A pause.
Then slowly—
Frenchie lowered the gun.
*****
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