Running From Himself 12 (Patreon)

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

Everything was here.“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”The whole world was just a single slice of nothing behind the overturned steel table, and Jesus Christ the noise, the CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of rifle fire wasn't just sound anymore.

Gunfire was loud, he knew that enough because he’d heard it enough this last month.

But automatic fire, this much of it, it was basically this physical thing hammering through the concrete floor and up into his bones, making his teeth ache and his brain feel like a heavy helping of scrambled eggs. Sparks kept spraying off the edge of their cover, brilliant white-hot things that probably would have been pretty if they weren't announcing that hey, Hughie, you're about to die in this fluorescent-lit shithole that smells like burnt electronics and piss.

Mother's Milk was yelling something next to him, his face all twisted up, but the words just dissolved into the chaos. Frenchie had his hands on top of his head, screaming back in what might have been actual French or might have been just panic sounds, and honestly, Hughie couldn't blame him because this was so much worse than getting black-bagged, so much worse than the van ride here with those faceless combat-armor guys who probably practiced looking intimidating in the mirror.

This is it. This is how it ends. 

The thought arrived with this weird calm clarity, which was probably shock or something. Pinned down in some Vought torture dungeon that looks like Best Buy's back room had a baby with a war zone. Any second now someone's gonna throw a grenade and we're all gonna be... The mental image hit him sideways, Robin's blood on his hands, on his shirt, everywhere, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from making some sound that would definitely not help anything.

SCREEECH!A high-pitched squeal cut through everything, a sound that tore over the gunfire; metal being twisted in ways metal was never supposed to.

The reinforced steel door at the far end just... exploded. 

Not blown up, not shot apart, just gone, the twisted pieces tumbling through the air and crashing into the back wall with this sound that made his ears ring worse than the gunfire.

Everything stopped. 

The shooting, the yelling, even his own panicked breathing seemed to pause while every single helmet and laser sight swiveled toward the dark doorway. A silhouette stood there, backlit by what had to be a streetlight.

Then it moved.

“Wha-!?!”

It was a black blur, a distortion that made his eyes water when he tried to track it. The whoosh of displaced air hit him from fifty feet away, rattling his teeth and making his hoodie flap around his chest.

The first two commandos at the back just... flew. 

Both of them just suddenly launched backward like invisible hands had grabbed them and thrown them at the walls. One hit a server rack and there were sparks and this wet crunch that made Hughie's stomach try to climb out through his throat. The other one skidded across the concrete, all loose and wrong, and oh God his arm was bent at an angle that it definitely weren't supposed to bend at.

The blur jagged left, and a third guy's rifle just disintegrated in his hands, pieces flying everywhere while he got launched into the far wall. A fourth soldier tried to turn, tried to aim, and then he was folding up on himself, collapsing in a boneless heap from a punch that had to be inhumanly strong.

All of this happened in the time it took him to suck in one terrified breath.

Then it stopped. 

The blur ducked back into a solid shape behind a concrete support pillar, and the remaining commandos opened up with everything they had. The pillar disappeared behind this wall of lead and concrete dust, ricochets screaming through the air, and in the strobing muzzle flashes Hughie saw him.

Not a monster. 

Not some new Vought nightmare. Just a guy in a dark tracksuit and black goggles, breathing hard behind cover.

And Hughie felt this cold, familiar dread wash over him, tasting like convenience store Sprite and blood and the worst day of his life.

No. No no no no no. It can't be.

It was A-Train.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Okay. Work the problem. The problem was simple and staring him right in the fucking face as usual. Twelve-No, he grit his teeth tighter, doing a quick count. Eigh Vought-sponsored commando motherfuckers with automatic weapons trying to turn him into the world's blackest chunk of Swiss cheese. And my only cover is this concrete pillar already starting to feel like sand.

TH-THUNK. TH-THUNK. TH-THUNK.

Each heavy rifle bullet that hit him was a deep, punishing slap, hornet stings driving straight through to the bone. His skin held, yeah, but Jesus Christ it hurt, each impact stinging like what he remembered a paintball felt right to bare skin. 

Gotta move. Can't kill 'em. Can't be him. Can't be the guy who runs through people.

A bullet pinged off the wall — too close! — inches from his face, concrete dust puffing into his eyes throught the crack in his goggles. Motherf-! He pressed his back tighter against the pillar, feeling the rough stone through his hoodie.

So what's the play, doc? His breath came short and sharp. Triage. Stabilize the scene. Control the bleeding.

The bleeding being the metric fuck-ton of bullets currently shredding the air around him.

He risked a glance around the edge. Four laying down suppressive fire, four moving up in tactical pairs. Professional, coordinated, all black gear and green laser sights that painted dots across his cover.

Then he saw it. The grenade, arcing through the air in that lazy, perfect toss. In the slowed-down world his enhanced reflexes created, he had just under a full second before detonation. 

Just enough time to outrun the blast radius.

More than enough time to act.

"COME GET SOME!" The words tore out of his throat as he pushed off the pillar, legs coiling and releasing in a controlled burst.

The world blurred at the edges, faces becoming smears of pale flesh under black helmets. Sounds stretched and warped, the crack-crack-crack of gunfire becoming this low, extended craaaaaack that felt more like vibration than noise. His feet barely touched the concrete, each step a controlled explosion that sent him forward faster than anything had a right to move.

He didn't hit the two advancing commandos. He hit their rifles.

Twin punches, precise and brutal, his fists connecting with composite stocks that disintegrated under the impact. The force jarred up through their arms, and for the split second his enhanced perception allowed, he watched their faces cycle through confusion, pain, and disbelief.

Before they could process what happened, his hands found their tactical vests. Four hundred pounds of muscle and body armor between them, and he spun, using their combined weight as shield and wrecking ball. The other commandos tried to adjust their fire, but rounds thudded harmlessly into their teammates' armored backs.

He swung the two disoriented soldiers directly into the next pair, creating this tangled, groaning pile of four stunned commandos who probably wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

"Move, motherfuckers!" Mother's Milk's voice cut through the chaos from behind the overturned table.

The last four operators were torn, two swinging their rifles toward the escaping Boys while two stayed locked on him. Bad choice.

His eyes found the heavy coolant cart against the far wall, wheels and metal and about four hundred pounds of opportunity. He put his shoulder into it, legs driving forward, and the cart shot across the polished floor, careening into the two commandos aiming at his... what, allies? Friends? Definitely not.But they were the people he was trying not to let die today.

The cart slammed them against the wall with enough force to pin their legs and fold them up, taking them out of the fight without turning them into red mist.

The last two turned back to him, rifles coming up, but he was already there. Another lunging burst of speed, the world stretching and warping around him. Twin palms, open-handed, slammed into their chests. They went flying backward, their weapons clattering uselessly across the concrete in the opposite direction.

Sudden silence hit him harder than the gunfire had, this ringing absence of noise that made his ears feel stuffed with cotton. He leaned against the pillar, breathing heavy, every inch of his body singing with deep, bruising pain that would probably hurt worse once the adrenaline fully left him.

Okay. Feel like I just got stomped by a half dozen niggas. He ignored the groaning and fractured breathing of broken commandos on purpose, focused on the fact that chests were still rising and falling. But nobody's dead.

We'll call that a win.

He turned around, chest heaving, every breath still tasting like concrete dust and that particular metal aftertaste in the air that came with getting shot at by a hundred fucking bullets.

Hugh Campbell Jr stared back at him, the lanky leg-breaking bastard’s mouth hanging open in that fish-out-of-water way that would've been funny if Reggie's ribs weren't singing opera right now. 

"A-Train?" Hughie's voice came out strangled.

Reggie looked down for a second, pulling the black goggles off his face. Sweat stung his eyes, and when he looked back up, Hughie was still staring at him with that deer-in-headlights expression.

"Hey, Hughie." His voice came out rougher than he wanted, but whatever. "Thanks for breaking my leg."

"I... I... we thought… I-uh…" The words tumbled out of Hughie's mouth, all guilt and shock mixed together.

"I-I-I-I... whatever." Reggie shook his head, wincing as a fresh wave of pain rolled through his shoulders. Every spot where bullets had hit him felt bruised down to the bone. "Really hurt, by the way."

Movement to his left caught his eye. Frenchie appeared next to Hughie, eyes wide as dinner plates, still gripping a pistol that looked too big for his hands.

"A-Train is here? Merde." Frenchie immediately spun around, heading back toward the far end of the room. "Kimiko! We must get Kimiko!"

"I go by Reggie now," he called after the Frenchman, voice strained. "Reg, if you're lazy."

Mother's Milk stepped closer, rifle still trained dead center on Reggie's chest. The man's face looked carved from stone, all cold suspicion and zero trust. Smart. Reggie would probably be doing the same thing in his position.

"Wh-why'd you save us?" Hughie's voice came out as a whisper.

Reggie managed a dry smirk, despite the fact that his left side felt like it was on fire. "Because I found out one of your team members is black."

Mother's Milk's eyes narrowed, voice dropping to that low rumble that probably made smart people back up. "Really."

"Really?" Hughie echoed.

The smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine irritation that cut through the pain. "No, you idiots. I was trying to help you in the first place, when you broke my fucking leg!"

"I... I'm sorry."

"It's okay. D-don't w—"

Brilliant white light erupted from the doorway, bright enough to make his eyes water. His body was already moving, but too slow, too battered, still running on fumes. The blast caught him sideways, not solid but this wave of pure kinetic force that sent him spinning through the air. He hit the concrete hard, left side screaming with fresh pain that made the bullet impacts feel like gentle pats.

"MOTHERFUCK!"

Starlight stood in the doorway, hands still glowing, face cycling through confusion as she took in the scene. The Boys, alive. Vought commandos, down. A-Train on the floor, again.

"A-Train?" Her voice came out soft with shock.

"R-Reggie." He corrected her through gritted teeth, struggling to his feet while every muscle in his body filed formal complaints. The concrete felt gritty under his palms.

He looked past her at Hughie, then back to her. Time to go. This was already way messier than it needed to be, and staying longer meant more chances for everything to go sideways.

"Hey. Just keep doing good, light-bright."

"It's Starlight." The polite training kicked in automatically.

He ignored her, focusing on Hughie despite the way focusing made his head pound. "And give White Urkel another chance."

He didn’t bother to wait for a reply. Reggie turned, limping toward the door he'd blown off its hinges, forcing himself into something that might generously be called a jog. Every step sent jolts through his battered frame, but he kept moving anyway.

The empty streets of the Bronx stretched out in front of him, dark and quiet under flickering streetlights. He leaned against the cool brick wall of the building, letting the adrenaline finally fade and leave him shaky and raw.

He'd done it. Faced down the people who'd tried to cripple him, saved their lives anyway, and walked away with nobody dead. Not bad for another night in this fucked-up world.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. First real smile he'd felt since waking up in this body.

"I did good."

He took off, blue lightning flickering around his feet as he vanished into the night.