Running From Himself 13 (Patreon)

A stream of yellow had just hit the brick wall when the world exploded behind him. Metal screamed against asphalt, something heavy slammed into stone, and the force of it vibrated through the bottom of his sneakers. 

His bladder clenched as his eyes went wide and before he could stop it, piss splattered his Jordans.

Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

The seventeen-year-old zipped up with shaking hands, and flattened himself against the grimy alley wall. The smell hit him next: rain-soaked garbage, that nasty hot dog cart from the corner, and something else. Something sharp and electric that made his nose burn.

Rico's heartbeat hammered in his ears as he crept toward the dumpster. A dozen feet away, a body lay crumpled against the brick like someone had thrown a mannequin from a rooftop. But this wasn't a mannequin. The blue and white costume, even torn and bloodied, wasn’t something any kid in America would ever forget.

That's A-Train. His eyes went even wider. The real A-Train. Dead. Right fucking there.

Blue chemicals drenched his body, dripping from the speedster's costume and pooling with the blood that leaked from his skull. Rico felt something bitter crawl up the back of his throat, his stomach lurching as he tried not to look. F-fuck me, man.

A-Train's left leg bent wrong, twisted back at an angle that made Rico's own knee ache even when he kept his eyes off it. A red duffel bag lay split open beside the body, dozens of small glass vials scattered across the wet asphalt like fallen stars.

Cop cars screamed off somewhere in the distance, growing louder and closer with every second.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Cops. His breath came fast, knowing that he couldn’t be caught either. A couple months of running with the Kings and he’d already been in trouble once. Gotta go. Gotta get the fuck outta here.

Rico's feet wanted to run. 

Every instinct screamed at him to bolt, to disappear into the maze of fire escapes and rooftops he knew better than his own apartment. But three vials had rolled away from the main wreckage, coming to rest against a pile of soggy newspapers. They pulsed with soft blue light, hypnotic and wrong.

Holy shit. What is that? That's... that's not normal.

His hand moved before his brain caught up. Rico darted forward, snatched the three vials, shoved them deep into his jeans pocket. The glass felt warm against his palm, like they had their own heartbeat. He melted back into the shadows just as red and blue lights strobed across the alley mouth.

The first police car screeched to a halt. Car doors slammed. Heavy boots splashed through puddles. Rico pressed himself deeper into the darkness between two dumpsters, barely breathing.

"Jesus, what happened to this guy?" A paramedic's voice echoed off the brick walls. "Looks like he hit that wall at two hundred miles per hour!"

Rico watched through the gap as a cop crouched beside A-Train's body, shaking his head. The man's badge caught the flashing lights.

"That's A-Train, man. The speedster from The Seven." The cop stood, wiping his hands on his uniform. "What the hell was he doing in this shithole?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The basement beneath the Queens bodega stunk with the smell of cheap weed that clung to the walls from years of lighting up, and tonight especially, it was paired with the burnt microwave smell from Javier's third taquito of the night. Rico stood under the bare bulb, shadows cutting sharp across his face while he held up the blue vial. His crew looked at him with the kind of attention he'd been craving since he started running with the Kings.

"Told you, bro! Straight off the man himself. A-Train's secret sauce!"

Javi’s green eyes went as wide as they could, a hungry look on his face as he stared at the blue in Rico’s grip. "No fuckin' way. You jacked A-Train?"

Rico puffed out his chest, feeling taller than all his five-six. "Nah, he jacked himself. Into a wall. I just... secured the merch. An opportunity, you know? Right place, right time."

Manny squinted at the vial through a thick cloud of weed, eyes tracking the bubbles as Rico turned it upside down over and over. "Sure that ain’t just them energy shots from the gas station? You gon’ piss blue for a week, pendejo."

"This ain't no Five-Hour Energy, fool. Look at it. Really look at it." Rico held the vial up to the light, liquid almost lit under it’s own glow. The glass felt warm against his palm, almost alive.

Javier reached for it. "Lemme see that—"

"Nah, man. Look but don't touch." Rico pulled it back, protective instincts kicking in. "This shit is valuable. I can feel i-”

The three younger men went still as the beaded curtain parted with a soft rattle, their easy laughter dying in their throats as an older man in an unbuttoned red shirt stepped into the basement room. Tito. The local crew boss of the Kings looked their way and Rico felt himself flinch as the man’s eyes found the glowing vial in Rico's hand immediately.

Rico felt his confidence shrink back down to normal size, no more shit-talk on his lips as the vial suddenly felt heavier in his grip.

"What you got there, flaco?" Tito's voice came out deceptively calm, the kind of calm that meant you better have the right answer ready.

Rico's voice cracked slightly, seventeen years old again instead of the street entrepreneur he'd been feeling like two seconds ago. "The good shit, boss. A-Train was carrying it when he crashed. Gotta be worth something, right? I mean, it's glowing and shit."

Tito's thick fingers closed around the vial, surprisingly gentle for hands that had broken more bones than he cared to count. The glass felt warm against his palm, the blue liquid swirling with its own current when he held it up to the bare bulb's harsh light.

He'd heard whispers about this shit. Girls who worked the high-end parties, the ones who serviced supes when they needed to blow off steam after press conferences and photo ops. They'd mentioned seeing heroes shoot up, snort lines, pop pills; all kinds of chemical assistance to keep them flying high. Blue vials especially, always the blue ones. He'd dismissed it as party talk, urban legends mixed with wishful thinking.

Until now.

A slow smile spread across his face, gold fang catching the light. Twenty-plus years on these streets had taught him to recognize opportunity when it literally glowed in his hands. He pulled out the thick wad of cash from his jacket pocket, peeling off several dozen crisp hundreds and slapping them against Rico's bony chest.

"A thousand. For each one."

The kid’s eyes went wide as dinner plates, both hands shaking as he caught the bills. "Shit, boss. Hell yeah... damn."

Manny shifted in the corner. "Three thousand?” He muttered, one eyebrow raised high. “That's it? For supe juice?"

The temperature in the basement dropped ten degrees as Tito's eyes flicked over to Manny. Kid had always been too mouthy for his own good.

"You got something to say, Manny?" 

Manny's gaze dropped to the concrete floor. "Nah, boss. All good. Just... just thinking out loud."

Tito stepped closer, close enough for Manny to smell the expensive cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. "Don't think so loud next time. Your thoughts get expensive real quick."

Rico, sweating now despite the basement chill, jumped in to break the tension. "Thanks, T. This is... this is gonna change everything for me, you know?"

"Now get the hell out of here. All of you. And keep your mouth shut about this. You understand me?"

Hours later, Tito sat at his kitchen table under the flickering fluorescent light, the three vials arranged in front of him in perfect alignment. He'd been staring at them for over an hour, watching the liquid pulse with that unnatural glow.

His phone buzzed against the scratched formica. Text from Miguel: Yo, heard you came into some money. We still on for drinks tomorrow?

Tito picked up one vial, and the liquid seemed to glow brighter in response to his touch. A-Train was fast as lightning. Strong enough to punch through steel. And this shit was his secret? His edge? What if...

He unscrewed the cap and the smell hit him immediately; ozone and copper mixed with something organic that made his nose wrinkle. His hand trembled as he brought it to his lips, and that surprised him. 

His hands never shook.

Just a sip. Just to see. 

Some deeper survival instinct, honed by decades of staying alive in a business where mistakes got you buried, made him stop. He screwed the cap back on and walked to the safe behind his bedroom dresser.

"Not yet. Do this right. Find out what we're dealing with first."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

El Rincón was the kind of bar that reeked of spilled tequila and cigar smoke, the sort of smell that soaked into your clothes and followed you home. The local boss of the Kings in this neighborhood held court at his usual corner table, three blue vials sitting in front of him. The liquid inside pulsed with its own rhythm, matching the bass thumping from the jukebox.

Belly warm with whiskey, flush with cash, and holding something that could change everything, the big man felt more than good. He felt damn great. 

"So what's the plan, T?" Mauricio nursed his beer with a smirk on his lips, eyes tracing the vials in front of Tito. "Gonna sell it to some C-lister? See if it makes 'em glow in the dark?"

Tito's laugh came out loud and loose. "Nah, hermano. I’m thinking bigger, better. We find a supe who's fuckin’ low, star is dyin’, someone who needs a little extra kick. They'll pay a fortune for this shit. This is the fuckin’ A-Train’s own private stash, you hear me? Without it, he had to retire. That’s the only reason he ain’t on the Seven no more. None of this touchy-feely bullshit he sold the cameras.” 

Tito shook the vials. “He needs this shit, the good stuff."

Miguel nudged him from the side, his cousin's elbow sharp against his ribs. The kid had been drinking hard tonight, harder than usual. "You sure it works? Looks like mouthwash. Bet you a hundred bucks it does nothing. Probably just colored water and some glow-stick shit."

The bartender wiped down glasses behind the scarred wood bar. "Miguel, don't be stupid, man. Leave Tito alone."

But Miguel was on a roll now, voice getting louder, cutting through the music and conversation. "Nah, I'm serious! A hundred bucks says that shit is fake. Come on, primo. You always talking about being a player, but you won't even test your own product?"

The words hit Tito sideways, alcohol making the insult sting harder than it should have. The bar went quiet around their table, other conversations dying as people sensed tension building.

His pride flared hot in his chest, mixing with the whiskey and wounded ego. "You're on. A hundred bucks says this shit is the real deal."

Miguel's face shifted, bravado cracking. "T, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, you said it. Now we see." Tito's fingers closed around one vial, the glass warm against his palm. Before anyone could stop him, before his own survival instincts could kick in, he twisted the cap off and took a small sip.

The liquid tasted like copper pennies and lightning, coating his tongue with electricity. "See? Noth—"

Pain exploded through his chest, white-hot and absolute. His eyes went wide, vision blurring as his pupils dilated until they swallowed his irises whole. The veins in his neck bulged, turning dark purple against his skin, and he could feel his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He clutched his chest, gasping for air that wouldn't come, and screamed as something fundamental shifted inside him. Every cell in his body felt like it was being rewritten, rebuilt, set on fire and forged into something new.

He stumbled backward, knocking over the table. Beer bottles crashed to the sticky floor while patrons scrambled away from him.

"Tito! TITO!" His cousin’s voice was muffled, half-quiet in his ears as pain burned through his veins and roared through his chest.

Something flickered in his throat, orange and hot. Tito coughed, and thick black smoke poured from his mouth in a choking cloud. Then he took a deep breath.

Flames roared from his lips in a brilliant torrent, engulfing the wooden bar. Liquor bottles exploded in chain reactions of blue and yellow fire that licked across the ceiling.

"EVERYONE OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!" The bartender dove behind his bar while chaos erupted around them.

Sprinklers kicked in, shot glasses flooding and spilling out over the table, but the water turned to steam the moment it hit his body, eyes glowing with bright orange light and flames the same color pouring off his body. Tito stood in the center of the inferno, feeling the heat wash over him without burning. 

He clenched his fist, and small flames danced between his fingers, perfectly controlled. The terrifying awe that replaced his confusion felt better than any drug he'd ever tried.

"Miguel..." His voice came out deeper, rougher; a sound like raw meat dragged over raw coals hat made his cousin flinch. "You ain't getting that hundred bucks."

Twenty minutes later, Miguel's old Honda reeked of fear-sweat and smoke. Tito stared out the passenger window while his cousin gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

"T, we gotta get you to a hospital, man. That shit... that ain't normal. What if you're dying inside? What if—"

"I feel fine, primo. Better than fine. I feel... powerful." The calm that settled over him felt natural, like he'd been holding his breath his whole life and could finally exhale.

"You burned down El Rincón! The whole fucking bar!"

"And now I can burn down whatever I want." He held up his hand, concentrating, and a small flame appeared in his palm. Perfect control, perfect heat. "You know what this means, right?"

"That you're fucked in the head?"

"That we're gonna be rich. Stupid fucking rich."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“You’re joking,” the three syllables slipped from his lips, nothing else to say once the situation had been explained to all of them. The warehouse loft smelled like industrial cleaner and nervous sweat, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while everyone pretended they weren't looking at the most dangerous payday of their lives.“No one is joking here, Black,” Valeria Reyes answered back to him, the woman half-scowling as she kept her eyes on the vials in front of her. “It may be too much for you to understand but this is something more serious than you could man.”“I understand it perfectly,” Brandon nearly hissed back as he stood at the edge of the conference table, watching these so-called experts poke at three vials that represented more money than he'd seen in fifteen years of moving product through Chicago. “What I don’t understand is what you think you’re going to be able to do.”

Dr. Reyes had that sharp, clinical focus he recognized from his own pharmaceutical days, before the DEA decided the other man’s research methods were too creative for legitimate science. Dr. Poole kept wiping his hands on his pants, old academic nerves showing through years of black market work. At the far end of the room, the man who’d contracted all their services, El Martillo; the fat gang lord, lounged in his chair with those gold fangs catching the light, waiting for someone to tell him how rich this was going to make him.

And there was Jaeshawn, his protege, trying not to look as out of place as they both felt in this room full of advanced degrees and cartel connections.“Please, again,” El Martillo spoke up, hands over his heavy stomach. “Explain to me. I like to be sure of my investment and I’m old, my ears… they no good.”

"The base is a retroviral vector," Dr. Reyes said, her voice carrying too much arrogance for someone who was barely a couple years free from cartel slavery. "It's designed to rewrite the host's DNA on a fundamental level. It's not a drug. It's... it's weaponized evolution."

Dr. Poole's hands shook as he gestured at the temperature-controlled case. "And the stabilizing agent is something I've never encountered. The potential for mutation is... astronomical. The subject, Tito, was incredibly lucky. Something performing mutagenic changes of this degree… to grant superpowers… that’s what? A five percent chance of surviving such a transformation intact."

Five percent. Even after years of living in Chicago teaching high-school chemistry, he never lost his head for numbers and he knew well enough to know those numbers and simply put… 

Brandon shook his head, clicking his tongue.Those were not the kind of numbers you built a goddamn business on. "The synthesis is in and of itself the problem," he said, letting his pharmaceutical training show. "This wasn't just cooked in a lab. We’re looking at retroviral genetic engineering." 

The distinction mattered; growing meant biological processes, equipment they didn't have access to, overhead that would bankrupt them before they sold a single dose. "Replicating it would require equipment, resources... we're talking hundreds of millions, if not billions, of dollars. It's beyond us."

Jaeshawn shifted next to him, that restless energy he got when his protege actually put his slacker head to work. "Yo, but... what if we don't, like, replicate it? What if we just... cut it? Like, stretch it out? Use some of the active stuff, mix it with, like, a stimulant base? Or... take some, I dunno, stem cell shit from that Tito guy... Make it go further. Like cutting coke with baking soda, but... scientific."

Brandon watched Dr. Reyes's face twist with professional disgust, the kind of expression academics got when street logic intruded on their theories. But Jaeshawn's thinking made sense from a manufacturing perspective; they didn't need to recreate Vought's billion-dollar process, just find a way to stretch what they had.

"That's... that's... ridiculous," Dr. Reyes scoffed. "You can't just 'cut' a retroviral vector like it's a recreational drug."

"Nah, listen." Jaeshawn was warming up now, hands moving as he talked. "We don't need to make it perfect, right? We just need to make it work. Like, if the real shit gives you, I dunno, fire powers, maybe the knockoff gives you, like, really hot hands. Still useful, you know? Still sellable."

Brandon found himself nodding as the concept clicked into place. Bio-extraction from successful subjects like Tito, using their altered cells as a base culture for diluted versions. It was crude, dangerous, probably illegal in ways that hadn't been invented yet. But it was doable with equipment they could actually acquire.

"Bio-extraction from successful subjects. Use their altered cells as a base culture," he said, thinking out loud. "It's crude, but... It could work. Probably kill a third of the test subjects, but it could work."

The room went quiet except for the fluorescent buzz overhead. El Martillo picked up one of the vials, the blue liquid glowing between his thick fingers. When he looked up at them, his gold fangs caught the light again, and Brandon saw the kind of burning ambition that built empires or burned them down.

"Vought spend billions putting gods in the sky," El Martillo said, his voice carrying that low, confident purr that meant decisions had been made. "We… we make monsters for the streets."