"Is he… is he dead?" Hughie asked, staring at the bloody shape on the floor.
Butcher stood up, his joints popping, and delivered a heavy, dull kick into the invisible man's ribs. "Well, he ain't moving."
"Oh shit... oh shit." Hughie spun around, his hands hovering near his head like he was trying to keep his brain from leaking out. He looked at me, betrayal warring with pure terror. "And you... you're a Supe? This whole time?"
"I guess you could say that."
"You two know each other?" Butcher's eyes darted between us, mouth twisting into a jagged grin. "Surprising. Didn't think you had friends in high places, Hughie. Even if this one's a bit... budget."
Butcher stepped toward me, looming. He wasn't looking at a child; he was looking at a weapon. "What's the matter, kiddo? Vought lose a stray?"
I looked up at him. Surprisingly, I couldn't feel a single drop of pity coming off him. Most humans leak it just by walking near me, but this man was a desert.
"I'm just homeless," I said, using the words that usually acted as a universal key to their hearts. It didn't even make him blink.
"He's just a kid," Hughie said, voice shaking. "He's homeless. I've been feeding him for a month. Kid owes me seventy-five dollars and thirteen sandwiches."
"Well cry me a fucking river, How'd you know the electricity would do the job?" Butcher asked turning to look at Hughie with genuine surprise.
"His skin is carbon... highly inductive. Saw it on Jimmy Fallon," Hughie panted.
"Taken me forever to put this one out otherwise," Butcher muttered. He kicked Translucent again. "Well, 'Homeless,' grab a limb. You're helping us move the trash. Let's put him in the boot."
Butcher crouched and latched onto the Supe's shoulder. I didn't entirely understand the slang, but I mimicked him, grabbing the legs.
"Wait... wait, what?" Hughie scrambled up.
"The trunk, Hughie. Help us."
"No, no, I mean, what are we doing with him? Why are we moving him?"
Butcher looked up, his face splattered with red. "Well, Hughie, you just offed one of the Seven, mate. Big day for you."
"M-me?! You're the one who hit him with the bloody car!" Hughie pointed a shaking finger at me. "And you! You punched him! You shoved him into the cables!"
"Potato, fucking potato," Butcher snapped, heaving the weight. "Point is, we're all in a shitload of trouble."
"No, we're not!" Hughie grabbed my shoulder, his grip desperate. "He attacked us! This was self-defense. He's our witness. And you... you're a federal officer! Just call the fucking FBI!"
Butcher stopped. He looked at me, then back at Hughie. "Yeah, okay. First of all, the kid can't be a witness. I doubt he's even here legally."
They both stared at me.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I'm an alien."
"See, Hughie?" Butcher grinned. "If the Bill catch him now, heaven knows what they'll do. Probably toss him in a cage and lose the key. And second of all... I'm not technically a Fed."
Hughie's face went pale, then a frantic shade of red. "WHAT? THEN WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"
Butcher didn't answer. Instead, he jerked his thumb toward the street, where the distant, rhythmic wail of sirens was beginning to scream through the city.
"You hear that? That's the old bill," Butcher said. "So, unless you want to explain why you've got America's favorite invisible wanker dead on the floor, give us a fucking hand, will ya?"
"Oh shit," Hughie choked out
The three of us moved. Butcher and Hughie did the heavy lifting, and I just mimicked them, pretending to help as we carried the body toward the car. The trunk slammed shut, hiding the mess.
The trunk slammed shut, hiding the mess.
"In," Butcher barked, already heading for the driver's side.
As an intelligent alien and after years of watching and learning, I had learned the mechanics of getting into the human vehicle.
Even though I had never actually ridden in one, I knew exactly how to operate the handle and pull the door open to get inside.
Butcher slammed the car into gear and tore out of the shop. More glass showered the pavement, the sound making Hughie wince in pain as we drove off into the night.
After a while of uncomfortable silence, Butcher, surprisingly unable to take Hughie's desperate and soulless look anymore, started talking. Which is strange, if he felt pity for him, why not feel pity for me?
"Alright, listen," Butcher said, eyes on the road. "I've worked for the Feds. I've worked for loads of people. I'm what you call an independent contractor. You've got a problem, you call me, and I solve the problem."
He glanced back at me. "And you, pup? What's your gig?"
"My gig?" I asked, confused.
"Your powers. What do you do? Because it certainly isn't speaking English."
I disliked this human more and more.
"I can fly," I said.
Butcher snorted, a sharp, ugly sound. "Right. Peter fucking Pan. Just what the world needs, another flying cunt."
"Hey," Hughie snapped, his voice cracking with a sudden spark of anger with the fake fed. "He's just a kid."
"Ah, ah, ah, Hughie," Butcher wagged a finger without looking away from the road. "He's a Supe kid. Big difference. When he grows up, he'll run through girls like they're ants. Just like Robin."
Hughie went silent, the air in the car turning cold and heavy at the mention of her name. Robin. This was the second time I had heard it. I wondered what this Butcher had to do with her if she were Hughie's companion, but the human web of grief was always tangled.
THUD.
Butcher and Hughie both snapped their heads back at the same time, their eyes locking onto the rear of the car as the metal groaned.