Running from Himself 5 (Patreon)

The lobby doors of Vought Tower spat him out, thick New York summer heat slapping him right in the face. The tracksuit he wore fit him almost as well as the costume he’d been wearing the last day or so, a high-end designer piece in A-Train's signature blue and white that might as well have been another costume. Popclaw's address sat heavy in his backup phone, something Nathan had shoved at him before leaving. His brain screamed the sensible thing: take a cab, blend in, be normal. But the rest of him, the A-Train part screamed at him to do the opposite. To actually use his body. You’re a speedster, man. Sure, A-Train was no Flash, but the guy was still fast enough to run Compound V across the ocean for Homelander. Just a quick test. Reggie nodded to himself, already hyping himself up for it. Down the block. No one will even notice.

He picked a spot, an intersection maybe two blocks away, and took that steadying breath before pushing off.

WHOMP.

The world didn't blur the way it should have. Everything compressed.All of it became a sharp, violent whoosh that hit his ears wrong. Air turned solid, a physical wall of force pushing back against his face and chest, pressure building until his eyes watered. For half a heartbeat the city froze; pedestrians caught mid-step, pigeons hanging in space, car exhaust suspended in ribbons.

Then his body betrayed him.

It wasn’t anything at all like the smooth glide he'd seen on TV, not that frictionless perfection A-Train was supposed to have. 

This was sloppy. Violent. 

His left foot hit pavement at completely the wrong angle and his ankle twisted with a spike of pain that shot up his leg. Fu- Momentum carried him forward, grace abandoned for this terrifying stumble that felt more like falling than running.

Arms windmilled, a desperate grab for balance that did nothing. The crash came hard and graceless, all-too-human heap of limbs hitting unforgiving asphalt. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfu- He skidded ten feet easy, tracksuit fabric hissing against concrete, friction burns blooming hot across his palms and forearms, before he finally came to a stop.

Fuck.

Cheek pressed to hot pavement, heart hammering against his ribs, it was all Reggie could do to catch his breath. Dizziness washed over him in waves while the world rushed back in full surround sound; car horns, footsteps, voices getting closer. People were staring. 

Of course people were staring.

Get up. Get UP.  He hissed at himself. You're A-Train, you idiot, you can't just eat pavement like some drunk college kid.

He scrambled upright, ignoring the sting in his palms and the throb in his ankle, trying to push away the new thought in his head. Two seconds. Two blocks. The math clicked in his head with that sinking feeling of watching your bank account hit zero.

He was fast, sure.

Faster than any regular human could dream of. But nowhere near godlike. Nowhere near what A-Train used to be. Moving through the world felt sluggish now from what he remembered of the speedster’s near effortless movements, pushing through deep water when it should have been cutting through air.

This is it? This is all that's left? He shook his head, almost trying not to believe it. 200 miles an hour, maybe? I'm... I'm slower.

The thought sat heavy and cold in his chest. The way he was used to, Reggie swallowed that feeling down like cold leftover ramen and forced himself to focus on moving forward. 

A half-second later, his sneakered feet started moving again, one step in front of the other. Seconds passed as he picked up speed, arms pumping out in front of him. The world slowed and slowed and slowed as he picked up the pace and soon enough, he was outright running again, body settling into a controlled superhuman jog that felt like something he could actually maintain. 

Okay, okay… A slight smile opened up on his face as he started weaving through traffic that moved slow enough for him to actually see, react to, navigate around instead of just hoping he didn't turn someone into pink mist. Okay!

Wind still tore past his ears as he took off, colors still bleeding at the edges of his vision, but it was… manageable. Controlled, even. His feet found better purchase on concrete, body adjusting to the rhythm even if his brain lagged behind.

Yeah... definitely slower.

Hell's Kitchen was a different experience from Vought Tower, Popclaw’s place new but old to his eyes in a different way than the sterile wealth of the billion-dollar skyscraper. Reggie’s nose wrinkled as he stepped into the apartment building, frowning slightly at the smell. Stale weed, really?

Even refurbished, the building looked like it had still seen better decades, refurbished in that cheap way that made it clear the focus was on the apartments themselves and not the spaces in between. 

His tracksuit stuck to his back worse now, sweat mixing with that humidity that New York summers did to you whether you wanted it or not. Sweat… huh, he frowned, breathing coming even heavier. A-Train ran to Cuba and back in a couple hours and wasn’t even tired. Even if that was just television shorthand, Reggie couldn’t help but accept the fact that he wasn’t anywhere close to A-Train. Disappointing, sure, but he wasn’t too beat up about it. Least there’s no chance of running through anybody else any time soon. The joke fell flat, Reggie unable to help the frown on his face as he came to a stop in front of the door he’d been looking for.7B. 

Reggie stood there quietly, trying to figure out what he wanted to say before he knocked.

He didn’t even get a full five seconds.

The door swung open and there she was. Popclaw. 

Charlotte. 

Thin silk robe that had seen better days, hair in that tangled mess that could have been sex or sleep or a week of stress. Dark circles were thick under her eyes, smudged makeup trying to hide what couldn't be hidden.

But the moment she saw him, her whole face lit up. A fragile, relieved smile that made his chest tighten for reasons he didn't want to think about.

"Reggie... baby, I was so worried.” Her voice came out exactly how he'd imagined, a velvety, breathy whisper laced with relief and something else. Something desperate.” They wouldn't let me see you, they said..."

She moved to hug him, to press herself against him, but his body went rigid as he held a hand up. The movement stopped her cold, smile faltering, hurt flashing in her eyes fast as a camera shutter.

He stepped past her into the apartment; the place small and suffocatingly warm, at least compared to A-Train’s. Clothes were strewn over the couch, a half-empty liquor bottle on the coffee table next to a small hand mirror with white residue near the edge that he forced himself not to stare at.

"We need to talk."

Her posture shifted, arms crossing defensively over her chest. That breathy voice tightened, West Coast vowels sharpening as she narrowed her eyes his way. "Talk about what? About you retiring on national fucking television without so much as a call? I had to find out from TMZ, Reg."

Control this. "I... don't remember much. From before.” He couldn't meet her eyes, focused on a crack in the plaster on the far wall. “The doctors said... the heart attack... brain injury. There's gaps?" It was the only play he had and the only one he could make.

"Oh, bullshit.” A sharp puff of air escaped the woman in front of him, no humor in her laugh at all. “That's your out? After everything? 'I forgot about you?'"

He finally forced himself to look at her, not needing to fake the disorientation and half-panic he felt every moment since he woke up in that hospital. "They got me out of that hospital so fast they never even asked me any important questions.  I don't know what my favorite food is. I don't know the last movie I saw." He took in a shaky breath. "I don't even remember my bank pin, Charlotte."

Popclaw froze, defensive anger collapsing inward. Her whole body seemed to shrink, silk robe suddenly too big for her body.

"...you never call me Charlotte."

The lie scraped as it left him, all jagged edges and broken glass in his throat, but he didn’t look away.  He owed her that much even as he felt the pain looking at her as she suddenly looked much younger and much sadder. "...I don't remember what else I would call you."

That did it. 

He could see the moment it broke her clean in half. Tears that had been building finally spilled over, cutting clean paths through all that already-smudged makeup. The confident, sexy supe vanished, replaced by this terrified woman clutching silk around herself like armor that wasn't working anymore.

"Don't do this. Please,” she almost begged. “Don't leave me. Not now. I need you."

He took a step back as Popclaw took a step forward, already putting distance between them before his brain caught up. "I… It wouldn't be fair to you. For you to be with a man who doesn't even know who you are." 

The words tasted like ash, bitter and dry on his tongue. "The man you loved died running V, Charlotte. He's gone."

His legs were already moving, carrying him toward the door.

"Wait, please!"

He turned back. He shouldn't have, he didn’t want to, but did anyway.

"Charlotte..."

"Just..." She stood up, hands already moving to the ties of her robe, desperation making her movements both quick and shaky. "Please... just one more time... please!"

The silk hit the floor but his eyes stayed locked on hers. He wouldn’t let himself look down, wouldn't let himself see what she was offering because that would make it real in a way that would stick with him. She stood there crying, topless, trying to trade her body for whatever piece of A-Train she thought might still be in there.

"I can't... it's... it's not right."

He turned and walked out, closing the door soft behind him. Heard that choked sob start up before he'd taken two steps. His hearing followed it, that enhanced audio picking up every awful, wrenching sound she made. 

It didn’t fade until the outside doors opened, street air hitting his lungs thin and sharp when he stepped outside. 

Barely a moment later, the phone buzzed against his leg and by the time he pulled it out of his pocket, the caller ID read stark and simple: Vought Legal 25.

"...Yeah, this is he... I understand... I have to... okay? I'm fine with that... really. Yes, really... The apology is scheduled? Fine... I understand... no problem... Yes, I mean it."

The black screen stared back at him when he hung up. Reggie Franklin shook his head, a single bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it.

"...Jesus Christ."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Okay. Just... just walk. One foot, other foot. The young man did exactly that as he kept his head down, doing his absolute best not to glance at the giant bronze statue of Homelander that looked like it wanted to laser him just for existing in its general vicinity. Which was stupid because it was a statue, statues don't laser people, but then again three months ago he had thought supes didn't turn girlfriends into pink mist. So what the hell do I know about anything anymore?

He didn't even want to be here but Butcher needed him here, needed him to help bring down the supes that were killing and hurting people and just... getting away with it. Getting away with all of it.

Also, Vought was offering him two-and-a-half million to sign an NDA. 

He wasn't even sure he wanted the money (blood money, Robin would've called it blood money), but after talking with Robin's parents and learning they were settling for even more, he took the deal. Just get the check, get the fake apology, and get out. Don't make a scene. Don't throw up. Definitely don't throw up on the marble. Hughie swallowed what he hoped wasn’t vomit creeping up his throat, the taste of it bitter and hot no matter what it was. God, this place smells expensive. Like money and moral bankruptcy had a baby and named it eau de corruption. Is that a smell? It is now. 

The Seven's meeting room was exactly as intimidating as he'd imagined. All glass and chrome and so much corporate wealth it practically screamed "we own senators." And standing there, in the full blue-and-white costume, minus the sunglasses, was him. A-Train.

Hughie's lungs just... stopped. 

Air vanished from the room, from the world, from his stupid anxious body that couldn't handle seeing the guy who... who...

Robin. The feel of her hands. 

The taste of her lips.

The sound of her laugh as he babbled about Billie Joel. Then red mist and the sound of a Coke can fizzing on hot pavement and she was gone and it was just her hands and blood and bone and...

Breathe. Air left hism in a sharp, shuddering, gasp. Breathe, you idiot. Don't pass out in front of the murderer.

Some severe-looking woman with red hair and a clipboard was speaking, voice like a legal dial tone. "...hereby absolves Vought International and its affiliates of any and all liability..." Words blended into meaningless lawyer hum, the kind of white noise that meant you were getting screwed but in very professional language.

Then A-Train just stepped forward, the man moving away from the lawyers, as his eyes met Hughie's. There was no smirk on his face, no arrogance anywhere in his eyes like Hughie saw in his ads and poster. None of that.As both men looked at each other, Hughie was faced with just this deep, hollowed-out exhaustion on A-Train’s face that seemed to pull his whole face down, making him look older than his highlight reel.

"Mr. Campbell. I..." A-Train's voice came out low, rough around the edges. "There's nothing I can say. The words they wrote for me are garbage." He gestured vaguely at the lawyers. "I just... I am sorry. For Robin. For what I took from you. It was my fault, and I will live with that forever."

Wait, what? The sincerity hit him wrong, felt like getting punched when you were expecting a handshake. This wasn't the script. 

Butcher said he'd be a smug prick, said he'd probably give some forced middle-school level apology or make some joke about cleaning Robin off his shoes. Is this a trick? It's gotta be a trick. A Vought-approved, focus-grouped, market-tested trick.

Before his brain could catch up, before he could even remember how breathing worked, A-Train closed the distance and pulled him into this brief, firm hug. 

It felt wrong on every level, a violation of every nerve ending screaming at him to run, to get away from the thing that killed Robin. But the guy's arms were solid around him, real, and his voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Hughie's ear. "Supes aren't heroes. Not most of us. Never ever forget that. I'm sorry."

A-Train started to pull away, those iron arms finally letting go of him, only for that grip to tighten to steel as the supe whispered in his ear again, voice even quieter, more urgent. "Also, keep the money, man. Don’t do something dumb like rip it up."

And then he let go. 

The super-fast supe gave Hughie this slow, meaningful nod, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.

Just like that... 

He just left, the two members of Vought’s legal team staring after him with their mouths hanging open like someone had just set their contracts on fire.

What the hell was that? Was that... real? A-Train had looked sad. Actually sad, not TV-movie sad. No. No, they're all bad. Butcher said so. He's just a good actor. A really, really good actor who tells you to keep the hush money and warns you about supes not being heroes. My brain hurts. I need to sit down. Or throw up. Maybe both. Definitely both.

Hughie shook his head, turning to the utterly bewildered redhead who looked like someone had just explained quantum physics using interpretive dance.

"Uh... can I... can I use your bathroom?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“J-jesus…”

The Seven’s bathroom was so large and opulent it could've been its own apartment. Seriously, this is almost bigger than dad’s. Which isn't saying much but still. Marble sinks were everywhere, each one with gold-plated taps that probably cost more than his entire closet. Shaking his head, Hughie walked over to one and turned it on, staring at himself in the mirror for a second. Confusion and shock stared right back at him, plus that permanent deer-in-headlights expression he'd been wearing since Robin... 

Since everything went to hell.Still, though, the look felt more intense right now and for one specific reason.

Did that... that just happen?

It had, yeah, but he wasn't sure what it meant. A-Train being... human? Apologetic? Telling him to keep the money and warning him about supes? Maybe he hit his head harder than I thought when he... when he...

Hughie splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it doing nothing to clear his spinning thoughts. If anything, it made them worse. The cold reminded him of the morgue, of putting away Robin’s hands, signing papers with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. A-Train… Hughie felt his teeth clench. What’s he… what’s his game?

As he turned from the sink, Hughie blinked as he bumped into someone, wincing as they barely moved while he bounced off them. "Oh, shit, sorry, I—"

He looked down, ignoring the pain in his arm as he stared at a pretty blonde girl in a gold and white superhero outfit that glittered under the recessed lighting. A very, very familiar pretty blonde girl.

Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me. Hughie Campbell felt his eye twitch. Of course. Of course this is where she works. Why wouldn't she be here? Because my life is a cosmic joke and the universe has a really twisted sense of humor.

"A-Annie?"

Her eyes went wide, those soft Iowa vowels coming out measured and practiced. "Hughie? What are you doing here?" A polite, surprised smile spread wide across her face, but there was something underneath it. Like she was nervous too, which was... weird. 

Why would Starlight of the Seven be nervous?

The conversation that followed was a cascade of awkward, stumbling words. He vaguely explained he was "meeting with legal," which felt both true and like a colossal lie because technically he was meeting with legal but also technically he was here to plant a bug for a psychotic British guy who was some kind of super-secret fed with plans to take down Vought and the Seven. 

Including, presumably, the girl standing in front of him.

Great. Just great. He felt his jaw tighten as he talked, a half-flinch he tried to keep steady. I'm flirting with the enemy. Is she the enemy? She seems nice. They all seem nice until they kill someone, right?

Starlight kept talking, the small woman mentioning it was her "first week on the job," and he could almost hear the forced brightness in her tone, that slight upward lilt of someone trying to sound cheerful when they're actually kind of freaking out. 

Which made two of them.

They joked about the absurdity of the gold-plated toilet paper dispensers, because apparently that was a thing that existed in the world now.

"Is that, like, standard?” Hughie pulled a face. “Do you guys just have, y'know, gold everything? Is your stapler gold?"

She actually laughed at that. A real, genuine laugh that broke through her polite facade, voice warming up and losing some of its rehearsed quality. "I haven't been issued a stapler yet, but I'll let you know."

He made some dumb comment about her costume looking "itchy," and the laugh it earned him was the first genuinely good thing he'd felt in weeks. Not since Robin. Not since before everything went to hell and he found out superheroes were basically just really strong sociopaths with good PR teams. Ask for her number. Ask for her number, you coward. What's the worst that could happen? She could incinerate you with her eyes? Wait, that's Homelander. What does she do again? Light powers? That still sounds pretty fatal.

"So, um, I mean, if you wanted to, like... maybe get coffee sometime?” Hughie felt the words claw their way out of his throat. “I could, y'know, give you my number? Or you could give me yours? Or we could just exchange them? Like normal people do? If you want. No pressure."

Smooth, Hughie. Really smooth. I'm sure she's never heard a more articulate request in her life.

Someway, somehow, she actually said yes. 

And actually gave him her number, her smile a little less practiced this time, a little more real. 

Hughie walked away feeling... light. Which was insane because he was literally in the belly of the beast, in Vought Tower surrounded by people who could kill him without breaking a sweat, but Annie made him feel light.

He ducked into an empty stall, heart hammering for a completely different reason now, as he pulled the small electronic bug Butcher gave him from his pocket. His hand was shaking, but he was smiling. A real, goofy, stupid smile that felt foreign on his face.

Wow.

In his giddy state, he fumbled the bug. 

It dropped to the pristine floor with a tiny clatter that sounded loud as a gunshot in the marble echo chamber. He snatched it up, peeled the adhesive backing, and hid it in his palm.

Don't think about what this means. Just plant the bug and get out and figure out the moral implications later when you're not surrounded by people who could accidentally sneeze you to death.

Hughie walked out of the bathroom, still with a too big smile on his face, Annie's number in his phone feeling heavier and more important than the settlement check ever could, even as he headed back to sign it.

The heavy bathroom door swung shut behind him and the bathroom was left behind, empty.

"...What the hell?"

Or not.