Running from Himself 2-4 (Patreon)

“Loss… loss is never easy.”The theater Vought rented out was one of those brand new buildings where you could smell the money in the marble and watch the ego drip off the architecture. Whoever designed this place wanted their name carved into something that would outlast their great-great-grandkids, all glass and steel reaching up like it was trying to touch God's wallet. 

Reginald Jesse Franklin sat wedged into plush velvet that felt soft enough to sleep on, fabric worn smooth by however many other asses had occupied this exact spot. He wasn’t here to complain, though. Whatever kept his ass soft was whatever kept his ass soft.

Still, cushy as he was, he was way more uncomfortable with the simple fact of keeping a straight face. I don’t know how actors pull it off, man. Really, trying to arrange his face into something that looked appropriately somber, was like…

Like trying to hold in a fart during church.

I’m the kinda guy who laughs at a funeral, the lyric played back in his head, one of the songs he listened to while practicing long-distance runs already crawling into his thoughts. Don’t understand what I mean, well, you soon will.

“Especially… especially when it’s one of our best and b-brightest.” That well-coiffed head of blond hair turned aside as he looked away from the audience for a moment, a fist held up to his mouth.

Oh my God. The fart wanted out.

Up on stage, under lights bright enough to film a music video, sat a glass coffin. Gotta be the most expensive paperweight in history.

Six feet of dramatically-lit emptiness where Translucent was supposed to be lying, except nobody could see him anyway so the whole thing was just... chef's kiss. Homelander stood next to it like he was delivering the Gettysburg Address, voice catching and hesitating at almost the exact right moments. 

Honestly, it was the kind of rehearsed emotion that 9th graders at their first school play wished they could pull off.

"For today," Homelander began, letting his voice crack just enough to sound human without sounding weak, the man blinking just a little bit faster to make his eyes glisten, "we mourn a fallen member of The Seven. A hero. Translucent." The name hung in the air like incense, all reverent and shit. "Murdered in cold blood by the cartel super-terrorist, El Diablo."

El Diablo. Reggie's lips twitched, the smile punching its way past his teeth like a demon. Course they went with El Diablo. If he knew Homelander, they probably focus-grouped that name with a bunch of high schoolers who'd binged Narcos over summer break. 

Homelander was hitting his stride now, voice swelling with that patriotic fervor that made suburban moms clutch their pearls and vote Republican. "Before he left on that fateful mission, Translucent said to me..." Pause for dramatic effect, letting out this wet-sounding scoff that belonged in acting class. "...it was almost as if he knew something was going to happen. He put a hand on my shoulder, and he said, 'Hey, Homelander. Tell my son Maverick that I love him.'"

Maverick. That did it. 

A bubble of laughter shot up his throat like champagne under pressure, and Reggie had to choke it down, turning it into a cough that sounded like a dying seal trying to clear its sinuses. 

Course the invisible asshole named his kid Maverick. It would be just like that dickhead to have posters of Top Gun all over his man cave, dreaming about being Tom Cruise instead of just being a creepy invisible dude who used his powers nonstop for the pervert’s dream.

WHAP.

A sharp jab hit his ribs, Nathan's elbow connecting with all the force his non-supe brother could manage. 

…so basically nothing.

Nothing against his brother of course, but Reggie could barely feel a 9mm. Human force against skin that could stop bullets was worth almost as much a laugh as Homelander’s acting, but the intent was clear enough. Reggie glanced over to catch Nathan's face locked in stone-cold disapproval, that look he'd been perfecting since they were kids and Reggie would crack jokes during Sunday service.

Next to Nathan, Arana wasn't even looking his way, but waves of 'get your shit together' were radiating off her like heat from summer blacktop. Between Nathan the Professional Buzzkill and whatever angry energy was boring into the back of his skull from a few rows behind (probably that lightning lady who'd already decided he was trash), this funeral was turning out way less fun than he'd hoped.

The iron taste of blood hit his tongue where he'd bit his cheek, trying to keep the laugh locked down. Meanwhile Homelander kept performing grief like it was an Olympic sport and he was going for gold.

With a tight sigh, he glanced around, looking for anything else to distract him only to freeze up as his eyes went to the right. Goddamnit. He caught her in his peripheral, those eyes staring right back at him like he pissed in her soup

Lightning lady. Nubia. The whole funeral, she’d been hitting him with a stare hot enough to melt the fancy-ass velvet he was sitting on.

What’s her problem anyway? Like, really? Was he supposed to have memorized every B-list supe from coast to coast? Especially somebody whose whole career was based in California doing... what, exactly? It wasn't like he was asking her to name the starting five for the '98 Wizards.

Up front, Homelander was hitting his big moment, placing that gloved hand on the empty glass box with pure dramatic flair. "So I say to you, Maverick, and to all the sons and daughters of this great nation, I will stop them. I will save you. I'll do it for you. For America. For a true… true hero."

Maverick. Jesus.

“G-goodbye, old friend.” Homelander's voice cracked on cue, a perfect single tear worthy of any Indian in any movie or ad ever rolling down his cheek. "Goodbye, brother." 

The theatre exploded in applause. For a funeral.

Reggie just shook his head. Jesus. He didn’t know holding back a laugh this hard could make everything hurt.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It was nothing but networking opportunities once the funeral let out, the lobby nothing but chaos as people in both suits and super-suits shook hands and traded fake tears. Reggie was already trying to slip out quiet from the over-designed lobby, Nathan and Arana flanking him like bodyguards, when his brother's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"You need to be careful, man," Nathan hissed as he pulled himself up to Reggie’s ear, voice dropping to that urgent whisper he'd been using since they were kids. "You were almost laughing. During a eulogy. People notice that shit. Homelander mighta noticed that shit."

"C'mon, bro, you heard that speech." Reggie shrugged out of his grip, muscle memory from years of dodging Nathan's lectures. "Pure, uncut bullshit. 'El Diablo'? Sounded like a bad action movie pitch somebody wrote on a napkin."

"Ain’t matter if the man in the flag said the last words were 'wubba lubba dub dub', lil bro. If the big man says it, you roll with it and you know that. You been told me this," Nathan shot back, stress lines creasing around his eyes as he kept his voice quiet. "About rolling with it…”Reggie’s eyebrow went high. “Huh?”Nate leaned in closer. “Look, I got some calls my way this morning. Good Morning America, The View, even that late-night guy, the British one. They all want 'A-Train' to talk about the street supes."

He rolled his eyes so hard Reggie swore he saw the back of his skull. "Vought's gonna have my ass and sue me into the ground if I suit up as A-Train again. You know that."

"Who said anything about A-Train?" Nathan's whole expression shifted, manager mode taking over like flipping a switch. "Pick a new name, any name. Got a bunch testing great with focus groups I hired. Gridlock. Blur. Momentum. Velocity. We'll get you a new costume too. Something tactical like you’re always complaining about."

Reggie let out a sigh, eyes rolling back. “I’m not complaining about it. I’m just saying, like… older supe costumes were just better. Like those were super soldiers, those costumes were designed to be used, these ones are like…” 

His eyes flicked over to the right of the lobby, landing on Light Speed to his right, the G-Man speedster to his right looking like a knockoff classic Quicksilver for no fucking reason. “Like that.”

Arana touched his arm, gentle and sweet and making him think of settling down in the way the original Reggie never planned on "The boys… they miss seeing you out there, Reggie. All suited up and everything. You should have seen their faces when they saw you on the news saving that little girl."

Khamari. Desean. That hero-worship look they got whenever they saw him do anything remotely cool, like he was actually worth looking up to instead of just some dude wearing a dead man's—

Something felt like it hurt in his chest, a pain sharp and immediate as his lips started flapping on their own. "I d- I dunno, Nate… bro, I mean, I'll th—"

"Mr. A-Train!"

A voice high and clear as a bell somebody was ringing just for him sounded off as he turned around, head a blur as he spotted it. 

Something weaved its way between all these fancy-dressed legs, and then wham – eight-year-old arms wrapped themselves tight around his leg with enough force to knock over somebody who wasn't built to bench press a sedan.

Reggie's eyes went wide, looking down at the top of her head, staring down at thick curls and a bright yellow bow. "Uh... hey there, little—"

"My name's not little girl," she said, voice all muffled against his pants leg but still carrying that attitude. Little girls always started with attitude around age four. "It's—"

"MAYA!"

Oh hell.

A thundercloud in white-and-gold clicked over across marble floors, heels hitting stone with the kind of dangerous rhythm that meant somebody was about to catch hands. Reggie let out a groan that started somewhere around his toes. "Oh, not you again."

Nubia pulled up short right in front of him, whole posture screaming try me. "What's that supposed to mean?" The voice dropped low, until her eyes flicked down to Maya, expression softening to the point she somehow looked even prettier. "What did I tell you about running off, baby?"

"Not to run off and talk to strangers," Maya recited, sounding like she'd practiced this speech about fifty times this week. She craned her neck up at him, grin bright enough to outshine Starlight. "But I wasn't talking to a stranger. I was talking to Mr. A-Train."

Mr. A-Train. Something twisted in his chest. "Li... Maya, you can call me Reggie."

The little girl’s botom lip stuck out so far a bird could've perched on it. "That's so boring. I like Mr. A-Train better."

Nathan's smirk was the kind that meant Reggie was about to get roasted for the next three business days. "You heard the little lady, Mr. A-Train."

Shot his brother a look that could've stopped traffic on the Beltway. "Forget it."

Maya tilted her head back up, eyes all wide and earnest the way kids got when they were about to say something that'd stick with you for weeks. "I just wanted to thank you again for saving me."

Warmth spread through his chest, pushing back all that funeral-home coldness and borrowed-fame weariness. Real warmth, not the artificial shit. "No need to thank me, kid."

"My mom said to always say thank you," Maya said, glancing up at Nubia with that look kids got when they were about to snitch on somebody. "Even to people who are rude on TV."

Reggie couldn’t stop the grin if somebody paid him as he looked up at Nubia. "Such a good mom."

"I'll fry your hair off," she threatened, but the words didn’t have any heat in it.

"I could use a fresh shape-up," he shot back.

Nubia just shook her head, the smile going up to reach her eyes for a single moment before she stabbed it in the heart. Grabbing Maya's hand like a real mom, annoyed as ever and trying not to show it, she stepped off and back through the crowd. "C'mon, baby, we're leaving."

"Bye, Mr. A-Train!" Maya called, waving over her shoulder with enough enthusiasm to power a small windmill.

Reggie smiled back, real smile this time, the kind that actually reached his eyes, and waved like he meant it, because come on, she was too cute.

Arana's voice was warm beside him. "Mr. A-Train, huh? Got a ring to it."

A long, tired sigh spilled out before he could stop it. "Trust me, apart from that little girl, nobody's ever gonna call me A—"

Dam break.

The lobby erupted like somebody had just announced free money, a wall of reporters and camera crews materializing out of thin air because apparently they'd been lurking behind potted plants this whole time. Microphones shoved up in his face like he was the guest of honor, camera flashes strobing against his vision until the world turned into a series of bleached-out snapshots that made his eyes water.

"A-Train! What's your thoughts on replacements for the Seven?"

"A-Train! Any comment on the street supes in Atlanta?"

"A-Train! Is it true you're being considered for a solo movie deal now that you're back in action?"

The former member of the Seven stood there blinking, his old name ringing in his ears like somebody was playing the worst song ever recorded on repeat. So much for retirement.