Running From Himself 8 (Patreon)

“So… what’s down so far?”The laptop screen showed Nathan looking rough around the edges, dress shirt sharp but wrinkled, A-Train’s half-empty public office behind the man in all sterile corporate glass and chrome. Looks like he hadn't slept in days.

Which was probably true. 

Meanwhile, Reggie sat easy at the man’s kitchen island in a blue hoodie and jeans, no shoes, surrounded by the warm chaos of family life. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge, juice boxes on the counter, and the sound of Nathan's boys tearing through the house somewhere behind him.

The last few weeks hiding out here had been... good, actually. 

Better than good. 

Real life instead of that corporate showcase he'd been pretending to live in. News kept covering A-Train's retirement nonstop, which was annoying as hell and made him avoid the TV, but he guessed he shouldn't be surprised. Basically one of the most famous people in the world quitting his job after admitting to killing someone.

Of course it was all people were talking about.

More than that, though, he had bigger shit to focus on. Money shit. The kind of problems normal people would kill to have but felt heavy anyway.

"Well... The condo in Miami, the loft in LA, and the penthouse in Chicago are listed. We got offers on all three, but they're not exactly giving us the values we're looking for. They smell blood in the water."

Nathan's voice came through tired, gravelly and Reggie understood. The man was stressed about numbers that meant something to him but they didn't mean anything real to the man on the other end of the video call. They were properties he'd never seen, never lived in, bought with money he'd never earned.

Reggie took a sip of coffee, keeping his tone casual. "Aaaye, so let 'em. Take the offers. Don't care. Just get it done."

Nathan leaned into his camera, frustration bleeding through the pixels. "Reg, we're talking about leaving millions on the table. Millions. You could get a lot more out of this if you just let me work it for a month."

"Nah, we're talking about getting liquid. It's not my money, Nate. It's Monopoly money. Liabilities at this point. Just... cash it out."

Because it's not mine. That was the part he couldn't say. None of it belonged to him. A-Train had bought all that shit with his money and endorsement deals and whatever else. Reggie was just the guy cleaning up the estate.

Eight-year-old Khamari ran past, followed by his older brother Desean, both of them moving at that kid speed that made everything else feel slow.

"Uncle Reggie, Desean cheated!"

"Nuh-uh!!"

"Yuh-uh!! You tripped me!"

"No tripping your brother, Desean. You know the rules. Run it back, fair and square." Reggie didn't look away from the screen, but the grin touched his lips anyway. Uncle Reggie. That felt more real than any superhero name ever had.

Nathan rubbed his temples, a flicker of a smile crossing his face before business took over again. "The cars are a mess. We sent thirty-nine to auction, but the paperwork on the other ten are a nightmare. One of the Bugattis is apparently a 'long-term loan' to some DJ in Ibiza. He's not answering our calls."

Forty-nine cars. The number bounced around his head without landing anywhere that made sense. Who needed forty-nine cars? What was A-Train even thinking?

Reggie laughed, genuine and easy. "Let him have it for now. Merry Christmas from the A-Train."

Nathan’s eyes went wide. "Reggie, that's a three-million-dollar car."

"You mean a three-million-dollar headache I don't need right now,” Reggie shot back. “We'll deal with it later. The other shit giving you that much trouble?"

His big brother let out a sigh, tired eyes reflecting his screen. "Other shit is right, man. Still can’t believe you bought half this weird bullshit. The auction house is calling every hour. They got a buyer lined up for one of the extra 'Thriller' jackets. The Ali gloves are already bought up. Main problem is the master tapes for that Prince album are a fuckin’ minefield, and nobody wants to touch the diamond skull without at least a dozen authentications on that shit."

Thriller jacket? Diamond skull? Reggie’s eyes narrowed. What kind of cartoon villain bullshit… No. Reggie just shook his head, not even planning on questioning anything A-Train could have gotten up to. How could anyone be that stupid, though? Just… just tell 'em to bundle it all, I don’t care, what. The damn DeLorean too. Sell it as the 'Dead Rich Guy Starter Pack.' Just turn it all into cash."

Nathan stared at him through the screen, jaw tight and one eyebrow raised. "Are you okay, man? For real. This isn't just the amnesia. You're burning it all down."

Reggie could only sigh, the huff of air leaving him like a punch to the chest. "Just cleaning out the garage, bro. It's all just... stuff." Stuff that doesn't belong to me. Stuff bought with money that’s not mine and endorsement deals I probably never would have done.

"A Triceratops skull is not 'stuff,' Reggie!” Nathan half-snapped at his little brother. “A decommissioned MiG-29 is not 'stuff'! You think I can just list a Russian fighter jet on eBay? The fuck am I supposed to find a buyer for that shit?"

Reggie sighed, no real answer to that he could think of. "A museum, big bro, I dunno?"

Nathan's voice dropped, getting serious in that way that meant he was about to hit him with something real. "Listen to me, Reg. What is the point of all this? You got thirty mil liquid just sitting there. You don't need to sell everything overnight like you're on the run. Talk to me, man. What's the plan here?"

Plan? Separate his new life from his old one and find some way to stay liquid without tens of millions coming in every year. "Get rid of the baggage,” he answered his brother, without getting into all the details. “Start fresh."

His new iPhone buzzed on the counter, screen lighting up with Incoming Call: Tiffany G. A half-second later, Reggie silenced the call without looking

"Baggage? Reg, that 'baggage' is your entire portfolio,” Nathan was half-pleading now, still trying to be the responsible big brother, only in the other direction. “Your net worth. The thing you’ve been building since you were fifteen."

"And look where it got me,” Reggie scoffed. “Dead in an alley."

On the other end of the video call, Nathan visibly flinched. A half-second later, he looked Reggie in the eye again. "...you're not dead, man."

"Close enough." 

The phone buzzed again. Text from 'Uncle Darell': Nephew, i ain't get my check yet this mo…

Reggie felt his eye twitch. Of course. Of course there's an Uncle Darell getting checks.

Nathan muttered to himself, "I'm gonna have an aneurysm..." Deep breath, trying to center himself. "Fine. You wanna burn it, we'll burn it. Now... we need to talk about the 'A-Train Foundation.' And the island."

Wait. The what now? Nah. No way. This dude did not have a whole-ass island. That's some Bond villain shit. This is getting dumber by the second.

"The island? What island? What are you talking about?"

"Your private island in the Grenadines. You bought it two years ago after you saw it in a movie. Never even set foot on it. It's valued at fifty-five million."

Reggie just stared at the screen, mind blanking for a second. Sheer, idiotic excess of it staggering. Fifty-five million. For an island he never visited.

"I need… I need you to get rid of it, Nate," Reggie answered back, barely able to keep the disgust out of his voice. “Anything you would have called stupid. Get it gone. I trust you.”"Reg—!"

Reggie ended the call, leaned back in the kitchen chair, sounds of the house washing over him — kids still running around somewhere, dishwasher humming, normal family life. His phone sat on the counter, buzzing. 

Buzzing again. 

And again. And again.

A relentless, angry beehive of broke people bothering him cause he rejected their tickets to the gravy train. …heh.

Finally, Reggie let out a long, low sigh as he picked it up, a wall of notifications staring back at him.

Missed Call: Tiffany G 

Missed Call: Tiffany G 

Missed Call: Tiffany G

Jesus.

Reggie shook his head and tapped the voicemail notification, deciding to see what this girl had to say.

"Geee, baby, it's Tiff!!!” The first thing he heard was a whiny voice that made him want to throw the phone across the room. “So, I guess that trip to Mykonos is off? My plastic surgeon doesn't take IOUs, you know. This is really unprofessional."

Unprofessional. Because cutting off someone's vacation fund was a breach of contract or something. 

Ping!

He didn’t even get a minute to sit with that when another text came through.

Text from 'Cousin D-Money': Yo Reg u serious? My Amex got declined at Nobu! U can't just cut me off like that bro! 

Reggie rolled his eyes. Get declined at McDonald's like a normal person.

Incoming Call: Ant

Reggie stared at the screen, then answered, putting it on speaker. 

"Yo, Reg! Heard you retired, man. That's lame. Listen, I need you to talk to your boy at Nike, the new AT-11s are supposed to drop and my connect is dry."

"Can't help you, man,” Reggie answered back, too tired of having these same conversations with strange friends and forgotten family. “I'm out."

"C'mon, bro, A-Train! Don't be like that! You owe me! Remember that thing in Vegas? You gotta b—"

Reggie hung up mid-sentence, the silence in the kitchen suddenly deafening, only broken by the dishwasher's cycle and Khamari's laugh from somewhere upstairs. Good riddance. Family shouldn’t be on your ass for a down payment on their Maserati.

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps as Nathan's wife, Arana, walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, the woman wiping her hands on a dish towel. Hazel eyes looked his way, giving him a knowing, sympathetic look as she glanced at the still-buzzing phone. "The 'friends and family' plan hitting a snag?"

"Something like that." The speedster forced a small smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes but kept conversations moving.

She laughed, the sound warm and patient the way only a mother could sound. "Let 'em whine, Reg. They’ll survive, honey. You cut off your assistant too?"

"Nah,” he shook his head slowly. “Tisha's good. Gave her a solid severance package. It's just everybody else... too many favors people say I owe, but I'm pretty sure they're just trying to get money 'cause of..." 

His finger went up high as he tapped it right on his forehead, that single thin scar cutting through a perfect hairline.

"Well, you got real family still. Don't worry."

Yeah. That much was true. Real family, real food, real kids running around being kids instead of... whatever the hell A-Train's life had been.

Later that evening, the house was quiet. The kids were finishing homework upstairs, Nathan and Arana doing whatever married people did when they thought nobody was watching. Reggie sat alone in the living room, flipping through channels on their beat-up couch that actually felt lived-in instead of looking expensive.

A few seconds later, he landed on a news broadcast, the Vought News Network logo in the corner. Homelander at a podium, Believe Expo banner behind him, that perfect American smile plastered across his face.

Oh, great. The national narcissism tour. Can't escape this dude.

"This fucking guy, man..."

"Reggie!" Arana's voice drifted from the kitchen, sharp with that universal mom tone.

"Hey!" Nathan added from somewhere.

Reggie raised his voice, grin spreading across his face despite himself. "Sorry, Arana! Sorry, Nathan! He just... he got a real punchable face, you know?" Man looks like he was assembled in a factory for maximum smugness.

He was about to change the channel, thumb hovering over the button, when Homelander's words cut through his apathy.

"...a stark reminder of the dangers we face. The brave passengers and crew of Transoceanic Flight 37, who fought back against the terrorists who hijacked their plane just two weeks ago, are true American heroes..."

Reggie felt his thumb freeze, eyes going wide as his arm went numb. A second later, the remote clattered to the floor, batteries spilling out and going in two separate directions.

Two weeks ago. The date hit him, a punch to the chest with the force of Homelander’s flick. The day after I left Vought Tower. The day I came here. While I was hiding out, playing house, selling off Prince's albums and a goddamn dinosaur skull... it happened. 

He swallowed a mouthful of nothing. It already happened.

His mind raced, frantic, a panicked sprint through the timeline of the show he’d been watching for the last year. I could have leaked it. Anonymously. If he had remembered, he could have found some way to let the authorities know terrorists were gonna take it hostage.

But he was too busy to remember. 

Too busy untangling a life he didn't want. Too busy trying to keep his own head above water to remember an entire plane full of people was about to crash.

All those lives... 

He stared at the screen, at Homelander's heroic, lying face. 

Sound faded away. 

The room disappeared. 

"...no."