Brooklyn, outside a juvenile detention center.
Butcher leaned against the door of a black Chevrolet, half a cigarette between his lips, watching the gate.
Hughie stood beside him, rubbing his hands nervously. "Are we really recruiting him? He looks... like a respectable guy."
"A respectable guy?" Butcher scoffed and blew a smoke ring. "There's no such thing, Hughie. Just people who haven't been pushed far enough yet."
The gate opened.
A burly Black man in a detention center uniform walked out. He carried an insulated mug and walked with steady strides.
Mother's Milk.
When Mother's Milk spotted Butcher leaning against the car, he stopped dead. The exhaustion on his face instantly turned to utter disgust.
He turned and walked away.
"Hey! M.M.!" Butcher called loudly, hurrying after him.
"Don't fucking call me that." Mother's Milk didn't turn around. His voice was low, carrying a warning. "I warned you, Butcher. Don't show your face in front of me again."
"Just a quick chat. Two minutes." Butcher stepped in front of him, raising both hands in surrender.
"We have nothing to talk about." Mother's Milk stared into Butcher's eyes. "I have a real job now. I have a wife and a daughter. I get home on time for dinner every day. I don't want anything to do with your fucked-up, insane plans ever again!"
"Translucent's dead. Me and this kid did it," Butcher suddenly said in a low voice.
Mother's Milk's gaze froze. He glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention to them.
"Are you out of your mind?" Mother's Milk grabbed Butcher by the collar and shoved him against the wall. "You killed a member of The Seven? Vought will turn New York upside down looking for you!"
Mother's Milk looked at Hughie, then at Butcher, as though looking at two dead men.
"That's got nothing to do with me." Mother's Milk let go and straightened his uniform. "I'm out. Out for good. If you want to get yourselves killed, leave me out of it."
"I need you, Marvin." Butcher dropped his flippant grin, his eyes turning intensely serious. "We need someone with a clear head to plan our tactics. We need you."
Mother's Milk looked at the insulated mug in his hand. His daughter had given it to him for his birthday.
"No." Mother's Milk forced the word through clenched teeth, stepped around Butcher, and strode away.
Butcher didn't follow. He leaned against the wall and watched Mother's Milk walk away, a cold, certain smile curling his lips.
"He said no." Hughie came over, looking a little disappointed.
"He'll be back." Butcher tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "Deep down, he's not a prison guard who can just keep his head down and follow the rules. He needs this, just like I do."
Eleven that night. Godolkin University, second basement level of the Crimefighting College.
Lucian swiped his access card and opened the records room door.
The corridor was silent except for the hum of the servers.
Brink had given him surprisingly high clearance. The old bastard was clearly eager to teach him how Vought operated so he could turn him into a cash cow as soon as possible.
Lucian sat at a terminal, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
He didn't look at the star students' files. They attracted too much attention, and going after them could easily cause trouble. He searched for records of marginal students marked "withdrawn," "missing," or "loss of control over powers."
They were the best prey.
Dozens of files appeared on the screen.
Lucian browsed them one by one. Suddenly, his fingers stopped.
An encrypted file titled "Codename: Woods" caught his attention.
Insufficient clearance. Details unavailable.
But the file summary contained one key phrase: behavioral correction.
Lucian narrowed his eyes. This was the research facility from the original story. If he could get inside these "Woods," there were large numbers of Supes imprisoned there who couldn't fight back. It was practically a free buffet tailor-made for him.
Looks like I'll have to give the old man something more impressive.
During class the next day.
Bang!
The dull thud of bodies colliding echoed through the tactical training room, making even the soundproofing panels on the ceiling tremble.
Lucian turned sideways, dodging an electrified fist swinging straight at him. His left hand slipped precisely into a gap in his opponent's defense and seized the collar of the boy with the mohawk.
The kid's power was high-voltage discharge. Combined with his enhanced muscles, it made him something of a troublemaker. But in front of Lucian, the electricity coursing over him was as laughable as static.
Lucian drove through his waist, muscle fibers tightening beneath his skin like steel cables. A shoulder throw.
The mohawked boy's body traced a brutal arc through the air before slamming into the specially made mat.
With a boom, the mat caved in to an exaggerated depth. Electricity skittered across it a few times before dying out completely. The mohawked boy's eyes rolled back, and he passed out before he could even scream.
"Twelve seconds." Andre sat on the metal railing at the edge of the training area, tossing an iron water flask in his hand. It spun two inches above his palm, controlled by magnetism like an obedient toy. "Lucian, have you been taking something lately? That's Electroshock Kid, a junior, and you're throwing him around like a punching bag?"
Lucian grabbed a towel hanging on the railing and casually wiped the sweat from his neck.
"He was too slow. His shoulder always dipped before he punched. That opening was big enough to drive a truck through." Lucian walked over to the bench and picked up his water bottle.
During the past few days of combat classes, he had deliberately loosened his restraints a little, such as secretly using carbon skin to withstand some attacks. An old fox like Brink needed to see a return on his investment.
As a result, his campus ranking had shot up like a rocket, straight to thirteenth.
Top 13.
It was an extremely delicate position. The top ten were the domain of Golden Boy Luke and the others, stars the university and company focused on promoting, with countless eyes watching them. Thirteenth was enough to interest the higher-ups and secure better resources without immediately being thrust into the spotlight as a target.
"You're too modest, man." Luke walked over and handed Lucian a sports drink, his smile still curved into that perfect shape from the posters. "Professor Brink was praising you just yesterday. He said your progress broke the college's record for the past five years. At this rate, you'll make the top ten next month."
"I'm only interested in credits." Lucian accepted the drink without opening it and casually set it aside.
People like Luke looked sunny and bright on the surface, but Vought's star-making machine had long since steeped them to the bone. He had approached Lucian for no other reason than to size up this suddenly emerging dark horse at close range and see whether he threatened his position.
Lucian had no interest in playing fake social games with these sheltered flowers destined to fall apart. His gaze passed over Luke's shoulder and landed directly on the farthest corner of the training room.
Cate Dunlap.
She still dressed as though warning strangers to stay away. An oversized gray hoodie, enormous noise-canceling headphones, and the black leather gloves she never took off. Her head was lowered over a thick psychology textbook, and she showed no interest in the fighting in the middle of the room.
At this university overflowing with hormones, where everyone wanted to engrave their superpowers on their foreheads, she was as solitary as a ghost.
Lucian narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on those leather gloves.
Over the past few days, he had encountered her in almost every class. She was always alone, and the students around her avoided her, consciously or otherwise, as if she carried some kind of plague.
The more Lucian observed her, the trickier he found it.
This woman was far too guarded. She rejected not only physical contact but even eye contact. Anyone who tried to approach her was driven back by her cold, intensely resistant manner.
Walk straight over and strike up a conversation? Too deliberate.
Stage an accident and bump into her? She's wearing gloves. I wouldn't touch her skin at all. And once I put her on guard, getting close again would be harder than reaching the heavens.
Judging by the mind control she displayed in the show, the system would definitely rate it LV5. That meant fully copying and permanently retaining her power would require a full twenty-four hours of continuous skin contact.
Twenty-four hours. This wasn't something he could accomplish by getting a girl drunk at a bar and taking her to a hotel room. A mind controller's subconscious was extremely sensitive. Pin her down by force? If he slipped up for even a tenth of a second and let her touch his skin, he would instantly become her lapdog, willingly jumping off a building.
I need her to do it willingly. Am I really going to have to sell my body? Whatever. I'll find a chance to test her.
Before you continue