Running From Himself 11 (Patreon)

Two days in, the throbbing had shifted from a bassline to background noise to something else entirely. Something that felt wrong in the exact opposite way you expected a leg broken like glass to feel. Reggie stood at Nathan's granite counter, full weight on the leg that was supposed to be broken, pouring coffee that smelled better than anything had a right to when you were supposed to be laid up.

The ceramic mug felt solid between his palms, heat seeping through to his skin while he took that first sip. Good coffee, he let out a hum, thankful that Nate wasn’t in charge of grocery shopping. Bro’s a cheapskate but Arana…. He took another delicious sip. Arana knows how to buy the expensive stuff.

A set of footsteps sounded off behind him, those familiar heavy steps coming to a stop after they plodded their way down the stairs.“Morning, Nate.”

"What are you doin', Reg?" The voice came careful and low, that tone Nathan used when he thought someone might bolt.

"Gettin' coffee." Reggie didn't turn around, too comfortable on the counter right now. "You want some?"

"On the leg. You're putting weight on the leg." Nathan's voice got that edge to it, the one that meant he was clocking details and adding them up wrong. "The one that was snapped in half two days ago."

"Feels alright."

"Be real with me, Reg." Nathan's voice dropped as Reggie heard his brother's bare feet on the kitchen tile, the supe feeling him getting closer. "You back on that shit?"

Finally, Reggie turned to look at the other man, eyebrows pulling together because what the hell? "No, man. What are you talkin' about?"

"The V. The blue shit." Nathan's disappointment came sharp and pointed, aimed right at him. "A little pick-me-up to help you heal? Don't lie to me, man. I know the signs. You think I don't remember that time you 'recovered' from a torn hamstring in an hour? This ain't normal, bro. Not even for you."

A-Train's hamstring. The inherited memories sat there, unwelcome as always. "I'm not lying, Nate. I'm clean. I swear to God. It just... it healed."

Nathan's eyes stayed narrow, mouth set in that line that meant he wanted to believe but couldn't make himself. “A’ight.”

Hours later, alone in the guest room that smelled like Arana's lavender detergent, Reggie sat on the edge of the bed staring at the cast. The itching had gotten unbearable, deeper than skin, deeper than bone. He rapped his knuckles against the plaster, only hearing a solid thunk and feeling no pain from it..

Okay. He tilted his head to the side. Let's test a theory.

Reggie tapped it harder, still not feeling any hurt. …fuckit.

Then, with a grunt that came from his chest, he made a fist and punched the thing. Not full force, but a focused blow from someone that could lift a car over their head didn’t need to be anywhere close to full. The plaster didn't crack; it exploded, chunks hitting the hardwood floor while gauze unraveled around his leg.

The skin underneath looked brand new. No bruising, no swelling, no scar. Smooth brown skin that belonged to him but felt impossible.

Reggie stood up, wiggling both sets of toes. Finally, he walked across the room. Huh. 

A half second later, he did a deep knee bend that should have sent him screaming.

Nothing. Rapid cellular regeneration. Makes sense, I guess. Speedsters burn calories, metabolize fast... course they'd heal fast too.

Another day of being a ghost in Nathan's house followed, prowling around while everyone else lived their normal lives. The boys' video game sounds leaked under doors. Arana's coffee maker gurgled at six AM sharp. Nathan's disappointed glances whenever he caught Reggie standing too long on the leg that wasn't supposed to work.

The burner laptop sat warm against his thighs while he bounced between encrypted browsers, piecing together the timeline as best he could. Death of Robin Ward. Flight 37. The Deep getting tossed. Starlight's promotion. Not only was the timeline shorter than he expected, Vought was also moving pieces around the board, cleaning house, tightening screws.

My first plan was shit. Too direct. Too loud. The coffee had gone cold hours ago. I went in thinking I could reason with a guy whose girlfriend I... His breath hissed out between his teeth. Stupid. You don't treat a trauma patient by walking up and poking the wound. You need a different approach. Someone on the inside. Someone compromised. Someone... desperate.

Reggie’s brand-new phone was an iPhone, his hands still feeling weird around it. A-Train had never used Apple for some reason and he wasn’t alone in that. None of the Seven did. He was half-sure Vought had an issue with Apple because he hadn’t seen a single iPhone in the entire tower once. Weird.

Reggie scrolled through the contacts until he found it, simple as breathing: 'Clawz.' His thumb hovered over the call button while his pulse did that thing it did when the body knew you were about to step in some shit.

He pressed it.

It rang five times before she picked up.

"What do you want?" Charlotte's voice came out hostile and scratchy, the sound of someone who'd been smoking too much and sleeping too little.

"Charlotte. We need to talk."

"No, we don't. You made that clear. You don't remember me, remember? So whatever this is, lose my number."

The dismissal hit him sideways, but not the way it should have. A-Train's memories stirred somewhere behind his temples, flashes of skin and motel rooms and the particular weight of secrets shared in bed. He pushed past it all. "How's your landlord, Charlotte?"

Silence stretched across the connection, filled with her sharp intake of breath. Knew it. The show had been right about that much, at least. Poor bastard probably never saw it coming.

"H-how did y—"

"Doesn't matter how I know. What matters is that Vought knows too. They got files on everything, you know that. Every dirty little secret."

"You're threatening me?"

He shifted his weight on the bed, feeling the give of Nathan's expensive mattress beneath him. "Nah. I'm warning you. There's a difference. Vought is cleaning house, Charlotte. They're tying off loose ends. How long you think they're gonna let a C-lister who knows I was running V for Homelander stick around? You're not an asset anymore. You're a liability. A loose end they need to snip."

Her voice came out small and terrified. "What... what do you want from me?"

"I need intel. You're still plugged in, you hear things. I need to know about the guys who went after Translucent. The ones Vought grabbed. Where are they holding them?"

The pause stretched long enough for him to count his own heartbeat. Downstairs, Nathan's voice got that edge it took on when the boys weren't listening the first time.

"I... I was at the club, you know..." Charlotte's words came in a rushed whisper. "And I heard Blue Hawk and Big Game talking the way they do when they're drunk and stupid. Said something about Stillwell going ballistic. She was yelling about some guys the ops teams brought in. Something about a blacksite... a 'medical facility' in Hunts Point. That's all I know, I swear."

Hunts Point. The name sat heavy in his chest, all concrete and bad intentions. "Good. Now listen to me. Pack a bag. Get in your car and drive west. Don't stop until you hit Vegas. I'll wire you half a mil from one of the offshore accounts. It's a head start. Use it."

"You'd... you'd do that? Why?"

"The man you knew is gone, Charlotte. That's still true. But that doesn't mean you have to be."

He hung up before she could reply, before the conversation could turn into something that required more honesty than he was ready to give. The phone felt heavier now, loaded with the weight of what came next.

Two hours later, the suburban quiet outside Nathan's house pressed against his ears while he pulled on the dark grey sweats and black hoodie that felt closest to invisible. The streetlights threw orange pools across the asphalt, making shadows that stretched long and familiar.

Nathan was waiting by the driveway when Reggie stepped outside, arms crossed in that way that meant he'd been thinking too hard about all the wrong things. "Don't do this, Reg."

"Get out of the way, Nate." Reggie didn't slow down, not wanting to give his brother time to build up steam.

"Where are you even going, man? Back to that kid's house?” Nathan scrubbed a hand down his face. “To get your other leg broken? What is the plan, man?"

The questions hit him between the shoulder blades, but he turned to face Nathan anyway. The weary frustration was gone from his brother's face, replaced by something harder. "Nah. I'm going to clean up a mess I made a month ago."

Nathan stepped forward, voice dropping to that pleading register he used when the boys were about to do something stupid and dangerous. "Listen to me. For once in your life, just actually listen. This isn't your problem anymore! You're out! You're free! We liquidated everything, you got more money than God. You could go to that mansion in New Jersey, and just... disappear for a while! Why are you picking a fight you can't win?"

"Who says I can't win?"

"Vought says! Homelander says!" Nathan's voice cracked, all that Brooklyn control finally giving way. "You told me about them, you fuckin’ idiot! They will kill you, Reggie! There is no press conference that saves you from a laser beam to the back of your head. This is suicide. Why are you doing this?"

Reggie looked at his brother, at the genuine fear and love mixing together in his eyes. The truth sat simple and clean in his chest, probably the only honest thing he'd felt since waking up in this body.

"Because I'm the only one who can."

Without another word, he stepped around Nathan, not even bothering to look back when his brother called his name. He stared out towards the street, the end of the driveway somehow miles and feet away all at once. Cool night air filled his lungs as he dropped into a crouch, feeling that familiar buzz start to build in his body.

Blue lightning flickered around his feet, almost invisible in the streetlight glow.

Then he was gone.