"...So you stuck a remote-controlled bomb inside me."
"Pretty much. Yeah," Ivan replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair like they were discussing the weather.
He sure as hell wasn't going to tell the guy the little parasite would only stay alive for about thirty minutes. Once the cells lost activity, it became no different from a random pebble lodged in his gut.
Doppelganger stared at him, breathing hard through his nose, face still shiny with sweat. His hands kept twitching like he wanted to reach inside his own stomach and rip the thing out.
"I'll get you what you want. Soon," he muttered through clenched teeth. The sleazy confidence from earlier was gone, replaced by pure, venomous hate. Nobody likes getting fucked over, especially not by someone they just met.
Ivan just shrugged, calm as ever. "Good. Looking forward to it."
Doppelganger stormed out of the private room, slamming the door so hard the wine glasses rattled. The sound of his heavy footsteps faded down the hallway.
Ivan sat there for a second, then picked up his knife and fork again. "Shame. The food here really is excellent."
He sliced into the perfectly cooked Australian lobster, the shell cracking loudly under his knife. Golden butter sauce pooled on the plate as he took a slow, savoring bite.
For a man who'd just implanted a living weapon in another human being, he looked completely at peace.
...
Meanwhile, across town in a shitty apartment that smelled of stale smoke and regret, Butcher lay on his unmade bed scrolling through his phone.
The blue glow lit up his tired face in the dark room. He opened an eight-year-old security video—the same one he always went back to.
His wife, Becca, sitting alone on a park bench for three straight hours. She looked so small in the footage. Patient. Waiting.
Every time the emptiness in his chest got too loud, he watched it. Not just to remember her gentle smile or the way she used to laugh at his stupid jokes. He watched it to remind himself exactly who the real enemy was. Vought. The supes. The bastards who took her.
He was about to close the file and try to sleep when a news alert popped up.
"Translucent is back."
"What the fucking fuck?" Butcher sat up fast, swinging his legs off the bed.
The last few days the internet had been exploding with rumors that Translucent was dead and Vought was covering it up. Butcher had even thrown a few logs on that fire himself—anonymous posts, fake accounts, the usual. He clicked the article, his frown deepening the second he saw the headline.
"Translucent goes live, interacts with fans."
Butcher rubbed his face hard. "Did Vought invent some necromancy bullshit now?" He'd personally helped carve up the bastard's body with the lads. The idea was ridiculous. If Vought could bring people back from the dead, they wouldn't be crawling to Congress begging for military contracts. They'd be printing money hand over fist.
"Something's off."
He walked to the sink, splashed cold water on his face until it stung, then pulled up the recorded livestream and started watching it on repeat. Over and over. Pausing. Rewinding. Zooming in.
Butcher spent the next half hour comparing the livestream to old footage of Translucent, hunting for any slip-up. A wrong head tilt. A strange pause. Anything.
"No fucking way. There has to be something." He couldn't find a single flaw. The stream was live interaction, so heavy editing was off the table.
Even identical twins had tiny differences in mannerisms, but this guy moved, talked, and tilted his head exactly like the dead supe. Down to the sleazy little chuckle.
"Only one possibility left…" Butcher dropped his phone on the bed, exhausted. "Vought's got a shapeshifter with god-tier acting skills on payroll."
He knew if he tried posting that theory online, nobody would believe him. They'd call him another conspiracy nut. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
"Fuck. Should've kept the body."
...
Early the next morning, Butcher was flat broke after burning through his last cash chasing supes. He decided to hit up an old contact for funding: Susan Raynor, now Deputy Director of the FBI's Criminal Investigation Division.
Susan opened her office door and groaned at the sight of him stuck to her doorstep like mold that wouldn't die.
"You're like the fucking mildew in my bathroom. I scrape you off and you just grow right back."
Butcher ignored the jab and dropped a thick folder on her desk. "Sounds like a moisture problem to me."
Susan didn't even look at him. She picked up her phone with a sweet smile. "Security, please."
Butcher reached over and pressed the call button down with two fingers. "I can stop them from putting supes in the military."
"Why the hell would I care?" Susan stared him dead in the eyes. "Personally, I'd love to see them shipped off to Syria. Might actually end a war for once."
"No, they'll just make wars longer. War means bigger budgets." Butcher shrugged like it was obvious.
He pulled a thick envelope from inside his jacket and started laying out photos across her desk. Grainy but clear enough.
"Last week, right before the big race, A-Train injected himself with something. His girlfriend Pop Claw did the same. They call it Compound V."
He held up a clear screenshot of Pop Claw shooting the glowing blue liquid into her arm, her face twisted in that euphoric rush.
"I suspect it's some kind of super-steroid or enhancer for supes. Instant power boost. If the rumor spreads that these so-called heroes are just a bunch of junkies shooting up, nobody's gonna want them anywhere near the Department of Defense."
Susan, from a government standpoint, obviously didn't like handing life-and-death power to a private corporation like Vought. She picked up one of the photos, studying it.
"These photos prove nothing," she said, tossing them back across the desk. "Unless you've got an actual sample of that blue shit. Do you?"
"Not yet," Butcher admitted, looking a little embarrassed for once.
"Exactly. Without it, that blue liquid could be anything. Blood pressure medicine, vitamins, whatever."
Susan leaned back in her chair, watching him carefully.
"You don't believe me?" Butcher's voice rose with frustration. "You think supes are bad now? Wait till they're wearing camo. How many people do you think Sergeant Homelander will slaughter? Hell, just give Vought the fucking missile codes while you're at it."
In the end, Susan gave in with a long, tired sigh. The FBI would secretly fund Butcher's investigation into Compound V.
"If you fuck this up," she warned, pointing a finger at him, "you're rotting in a cell for the rest of your life. And when you die, try not to bleed on me, you bastard."
...
"Compound V really lasts a long time. Took a whole week for the effects to mostly wear off." After work, Ivan climbed into his sleek black SUV, opened the trunk, and pulled out the black box.
The panel now read 78%.
One more vial and the fusion should be complete.
"Problem is, the more I take, the weaker each dose gets. Cells start building tolerance. I'll need stronger doses later, which means I need a tougher body and better regeneration first."
Ivan took out one vial, snapped off the glass tip, and poured the glowing blue liquid into his palm.
As it absorbed through his skin, the progress bar crept upward.
It finally stopped at 99%.
[Carbon Super Talent Fusion in progress. Current progress: 99%]
___
[]~(￣▽￣)~*
Read 12 Advance Chapters—P@t- Captain69