Running from Himself 2-5 (Patreon)

"Whoa." Desean's voice went low and hushed, the little boy staring up at his uncle as Reggie thumbed his nose. Tongue poking out, the supe coughed out a smug laugh worthy of Steve Harvey. "Uncle Reggie, you look ba-" Those big eyes flicked up and right, quickly landing on his mom before shifting back to Reggie. "...  cool."

Real cool. Reggie caught the laugh in his throat as he turned his head to look at the sunlight cutting through Nate’s big bay window. Smart boy.

More than anything, being back here, especially with the kids, all of it was the kind of lived-in quiet that made Reggie want to come by at least once a week, just to check in or whatever. 

Family was always happy to see him too, so even more reason, right?

Khamari shook his head, expression all earnest the way nine-year-olds got when they were about to drop some truth. "Uh-uh! Black kinda makes you look like one of those sad heroes though."

"Your uncle is not 'sad,' Khamari.” Their momma’s voice cut through their debate without even bothering to look up from the magazine she was still pretending to read. “He's dark and brooding. It's part of his brand now."

Reggie flexed in front of the full-length mirror Nate had dragged all the way from the basement, the supe smirking as his muscles shifted and tightened under the fabric. Ten months of guilt-fueled three-a.m. training sessions had packed on a solid twenty pounds that hadn't been there before. He wasn't just wearing A-Train's body anymore; he was rebuilding it, tearing it down and putting it back together into something that felt like his.

This body was his now. Earned.

"I ain't broodin', I'm a thinkin' supe, Arana," he said, easy grin sliding into place. "There's a difference.” With a spin that blurred his body, Reggie struck a dramatic pose, twisting to see how the suit fit across his shoulders. "Ooooooh, I'm lookin' good, Nate. Like, real good. This suit is fye."

The complete opposite of that blue-and-white thing Vought used to make him wear as A-Train, this was a sleeveless black bodysuit, textured fabric clinging tight like a second skin. None of that shit overdone costume bullshit, Reggie almost made a face remembering some of the stuff Vought designed, especially the stuff that made no sense like that weird plastic chestplate. 

Nathan leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, tablet clutched in one hand and that familiar mask of unimpressed exhaustion painted across his face. 

"Aight, let's run through these again," Nathan said, voice coming out flat as day-old soda. "You gotta have a name if you gonna be out there. Can't be running around as 'The Ghost of the Bronx' forever. Vought's lawyers will find a way to sue a ghost."

On the floor, the PS3 sat paused on the massive flat screen where the boys had been playing before Uncle Reggie became more interesting than Burnout Paradise. Nephew One and Nephew Two had their attention locked on him with the kind of wide-eyed awe that made something tighten up in his chest.

Heroes. They thought he was a hero.

Funny how that word felt heavier in his body than it ever did watching the show from his couch back in... before. Back when this was all just television and he was just some dude working nights at Georgetown trying to save up enough money to move out of his shitty apartment.

Arana's magazine rustled as she flipped a page she probably wasn't reading. "We could just call you 'Franklin.' Simple, clean, professional."

"That's my government name," Reggie said, still taking in how big the suit made his shoulders look. "Sounds like somebody's accountant."“Fast Franklin!” Khamari piped up with an option.Reggie shot him a look. “...little man, no.”

"You got a better idea?" Nathan's eyebrow went up, that manager look he got when he was about to start talking business.

"I dunno, man.” Reggie turned sideways, checking the profile view. Electric blue piping traced the contours of his muscles, thin as razor edges, forming aerodynamic shapes that just made him look fast. “Something that don't sound like I'm about to help you with your taxes or a turtle from a kid’s book, maybe."

"Aight then." His brother’s thumb swiped across that tablet in his hands. "B-Train."

Reggie's whole face twisted up, expression sour enough to curdle milk. "And run around like a knockoff? Next." He turned back to the mirror, adjusting how the suit sat across his shoulders and tried to wipe the frown off it. 

B-Train. Ughhh. Like he was some kinda off-brand cereal or some shit.

Nathan sighed, that long-suffering sound their mama used to make when they were kids acting up in church. "Apex."

"Generic, big bro, don't do me like that." The words came out clipped, irritated as Reggie flexed again, watching muscle definition shift under the black fabric. "I'm a namebrand supe, not some low-grade protein powder. What else you got?"

"Blue Line."

He did a full turn from the mirror now, eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "C'mon, man. 'Thin blue line'? You really want me running with that on my back right now?" He couldn’t help it, the way his voice picked up an edge to it. "Blue line? Like thin blue line? Hard pass, bro."

Khamari's controller clicked against the hardwood as he shifted position, still watching Uncle Reggie like he was the best show on television.

"Bluebolt."

"Sounds lame." Reggie scoffed, hand running over his head. “Too obvious too.”

"Bluevolt?"

"Ooooh, how long it take you for that one, big bro? After Bluebolt?" Sarcasm dripped off every single syllable, voice going up in that sing-song way it did when he was about to roast somebody. "Either way, that's still too obvious, bro. It's like calling a guy with fire powers 'Captain Hot'."

"Captain Hot sounds cool!" Khamari piped up from his spot on the floor, face bright with nine-year-old enthusiasm.

Nathan's index slid slow across the tablet, shoulders dropping like he was carrying the weight of every bad superhero name ever created. "Fine. Last one. Some physics guy in my focus group came up with it. Said it was a long shot, but..." The older man tilted his head to the side, jaw a little tight like he was bracing for another rejection. "Blushift."

Reggie froze.

Laughter died in his throat, hand halfway to adjusting the suit collar as his lips mouthed the name. Blushift… 

Finally, he said the word out loud, testing how it felt in his mouth. "Blushift."

Something about the way it sounded, the way the syllables fit together... like putting on shoes that actually fit instead of wearing somebody else's hand-me-downs.

He clapped his hands together once as a grin spread wide and bright across his face, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet. "That's it. That's the one. Blushift." He could almost feel the energy crackling under his skin as he said it again. Like pre-workout…

"I like that. It's smart."

Nathan looked up from the tablet, Reggie catching his bro as something that might've been a smile touched his lips. "Bet. Now I just gotta trademark the hell out of it before some energy drink company steals it."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Running back to the mansion was pure physics made personal, the new suit moving with him instead of fighting every step. Jersey air, thick with that humidity that meant thunderstorms were coming, sliced past his ears with the kind of roar that felt right in his bones. God, I fuckin’ love this shit. 

Clean speed dissolved the world into streaks of color and motion, everything else just background noise until his sneakered feet came  sliding to a stop on manicured grass.

Welcome to Villa de Reggie. He stared up at his white-painted mansion, the place so cookie-cutter for almost any other in this part of Jersey. Hell, the only thing that made it stand out was how much more space to his land he had than most others.

“Home sweet home,” the words slipped out in a mutter as he walked up to the door. The quiet out here was so different when he compared it to the chaos he'd just left at Nate's house. Kids yelling, Arana pretending to read her magazine, Nathan managing his life...

Course, inside was rarely as quiet as he liked either.

The foyer echoed when he closed the front door behind him, all those high ceilings making his footsteps sound bigger than they were. His eyes turned sideways, the sound of the TV already hitting his ears from outside.Just as he expected, he saw a head of straight black hair from the exact person he knew he’d find in the smaller living room, the one with the couch that didn't cost more than most people's cars. The woman in question was sitting cross-legged on the floor, bag of chips open beside her, dark eyes fixed on the big-screen staring back at her.

Speaking of quiet...

"Hey, Lil Kim, what's good?" His voice bounced off the walls a little, space too big for just two people.

She glanced up, those dark eyes acknowledging him with a nod that barely qualified as movement before going right back to the screen. Progress, though. Few months ago, she wouldn't have even looked.

Gestured down at the black suit, grin pulling at his lips. "You like the new look?"

The face she made his way was somewhere between a sniff and a scoff, nose wrinkling just enough to let him know exactly what she thought about his fashion choices. 

"Well, I like it." His grin got wider as he rolled his eyes and dropped onto the couch right next to her, close enough their shoulders were touching. "You got no taste, Kim."

The speedster held his fist out and Lil Kimmy Kim bumped it without taking her eyes off the TV, screen light reflecting in an expression that gave away absolutely nothing.

She’s locked the fuck in. Raising one eyebrow, Reggie’s eyes flicked over to see what had her focus.

Huh…  A VNN press conference stared at him, the kind of sterile corporate event that made his skin crawl every damn time he saw it on the small screen. An older black man with graying hair in a perfectly tailored dark suit stood at a podium on the steps of Vought Tower, face carrying a level of perfect calm he’d expect from a surgeon. 

"CEO OF VOUGHT: STAN EDGAR ANNOUNCES NEW MEMBERS OF THE SEVEN."

Oh shit.

"...a new era of heroism," Edgar was saying, voice smooth enough to sell snake oil to actual snakes. "One that reflects the values and diversity of our great nation. It is with great pride that I introduce the three newest members of The Seven."

Three figures stepped forward to flank the CEO. 

Shockwave looking smug as hell in his upgraded suit, red and black gleaming under camera lights like he'd been practicing poses in the mirror. A woman next to him in black and silver with a lightning bolt across her chest, smile bright enough for a toothpaste commercial. And on the other side, another woman, a Black woman, in white and gold, large gold hoop earrings catching the light.

Reggie blinked at the screen, a slow grin spreading across his face as recognition hit. "...oh, oh so she's there now." The words were more for himself than Kimiko, but Kim wasn't exactly the chatty type anyway. "No wonder she was so pissed I didn't know who she was. Must be a big deal."

"...the powerful Nubia," Edgar continued, gesturing to the woman in white and gold with the kind of practiced showmanship that probably cost Vought millions to perfect, "the unstoppable Shockwave, and the heroic Stormfront."

Well, he definitely wasn't surprised to see Shockwave taking his old spot. That had been in the works for years, ever since... well, ever since A-Train had started acting like A-Train. Only five years on the Seven and they were already thinking of replacing him by year three. But it was the third name that made him lean forward, the bag of chips forgotten as his brain tried to process what he'd just heard.

"Stormfront?" A frown creased his brow, something cold settling in his stomach. "Isn't that a Nazi website?"

Course it is. He knew it had to be. He remembered as a little kid, browsing the internet back when he was still in middle school worried about spelling tests and algebra. Stormfront dot org, the white supremacist message board that everybody knew about but nobody talked about in polite company.

Kim's eyes flicked over to him, the first time she'd looked away from the screen since he sat down, clearly confused.

…is that site not a thing here?

BOOM!

Before Reggie could dwell on that, the side door to his house exploded open, slamming against the wall with a crack that damn near shook the whole damn house and had both him and Kimiko up in a blur.

Muscles coiling tight, their bodies were already geared up for a fight before either of their brains managed to catch up to what was happening.“H-holy shit!” Hughie stumbled through the doorway, Marvin and Serge scrambling right behind the lanky guy. All of them moved in a chaotic mess, panic and fear written all over their… blood-covered faces.

And clothes.

And bodies.

Not theirs, Reggie realized, his eyes going wide as he took in the gore splattered and smeared across all three of the Boys, dark and wet and filling the air with that copper smell that made his stomach twist.

Oh hell no.

"What the fuck did y'all do?" 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

A good thirty minutes later, the air in the living room felt tense enough to break off a butter knife. 

Frenchie was pacing back and forth, muttering in that frantic mix of French and French-accented English, both hands gesturing wildly as he wore a track in the expensive carpet. Mother’s Milk leaned against the fireplace, massive arms crossed over his chest, face looking like… how you’d expect someone to look after being splattered with blood and gore, honestly. Hughie perched on the edge of the couch, trembling as he tried to wipe nonexistent blood off his arms with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

All three of them were in fresh clothes after they cleaned up, a bunch of fresh black shirts and jeans that Reggie had pulled out of his closet. This place had seen plenty of people crashing in it so he had all sorts of sizes laying around.

But that wasn’t important.

Not in the slightest.

“Let me make sure I didn’t just lose my muthafuckin’ mind real quick,” Reggie shook his head, voice dropping to a tight half-whisper that somehow felt louder than all the frantic energy bouncing around the room. "You got the Deputy Director of the CIA killed?"

"No! No!" Hughie's voice cracked, shooting up into that high-pitched panic register. "I-I-I mean; we didn't! It wasn't us!"

"Nah," MM confirmed again, the man shaking his head for a second before his voice firmed up tight, as if trying to convince himself as much as he was Reggie. "Wasn't us."

"The fuck you mean? How you know it wasn't you?" Reggie shot back, voice climbing higher than he’d heard it since eight grade. "You think Vought ain't got satellites? Bugs? Trackers? They probably followed your asses right to her, you idiots!"

"Monsieur Colibri, you must understand!" Frenchie pleaded, accent thick with stress as words tumbled out in that chaotic rhythm. "We were careful! We swept ze car, we used ze jammers, location spoofers, tout ça! Zis was not us!"

"Understand what?" His voice was straight up a roar now, frustration and disbelief boiling over as Reggie threw his hands up. "Y'all went to the DEPUTY FUCKING DIRECTOR OF THE CIA AND NOW SHE'S DEAD! What part of that am I not understanding, Serge?!"

"Big Gee, it ain't us!" MM's voice stayed low, a rumble that wasn’t quite as steady as the big man wanted to sound. "We ain't dead, so 'course it wasn't us. 'Cause if we was the target instead of her, we'd be pink mist right now too. Someone was watching her. And the minute she said something she wasn't supposed to..." 

A sharp, wet splat sound escaped his mouth, the gesture more terrifying than any words.

Pieces clicked into place, implication hitting Reggie's chest with a chill that made his breath hitch. "Somebody from Vought?"

MM shrugged, a heavy gesture that seemed to carry the weight of everything falling apart. "Looks like it. Head blown clean off from who knows how far away."

The full weight of it hit him, a physical blow that made him lean back against the wall. Blood rushed in his ears, that buzzing anxiety under his skin kicking into overdrive. "So, you telling me right now… that…”

"Yeah..." Hughie whispered, face pale and slick with sweat. "Vought may have just assassinated the Deputy Director of the CIA."

They all nodded slow.

"And y'all brought that shit back to my fucking house." His voice came out flat again, sounding half dead, all the exhaustion of living somebody else's life while trying to keep his own people safe hitting him all of a sudden.

They odded again. All of them.

Great.

Before he could say anything else, the front door creaked open.

Everyone froze at once, muscles tensing as fresh terror washed over the room. Heavy boots on hardwood echoed through the foyer, each heavy footstep landing with deliberate weight that made Reggie's skin crawl.

Who the hell...

His body was already coiling to move, speed buzzing under his skin, as a tall, bearded figure in a trenchcoat stepped into his fuckin’ house. 

All of a sudden, Reggie found himself staring at a very familiar face. A scruffy bearded bastard with a face that belonged on wanted posters, cruel-looking smile spreading across his features like oil on water.

Reggie's stomach dropped. 

"Hello, boys. Daddy's home."