Running from Himself 2-6 (Patreon)

Thankfully, it wasn’t hard as iron anymore, but the tension in the living room was still thick enough that it’d be hard to get down your throat.

Speaking of things in the back of his throat, the copper scent of hastily cleaned blood still hung there, too much like a bad taste that wouldn't go away. Reggie’s eyes glanced to the side, noticing a fleck of blood on the stairs. Damn. His eyes trailed down to see a whole bloody footstep going that same way. Double damn. 

He knew who that was from.

Lil Kim had vanished down into her basement safe space the second a certain someone showed his face. Gonna have to put a mop in her hands.All the while, Frenchie hovered near the kitchen archway, pistol loose in his hand, eyes wide and uncertain as hell. Mother’s Milk stood by the fireplace like a statue, arms crossed, face locked and staring straight forward. Hughie was a trembling mess on the couch, the youngest of all of them looking like he wanted to crawl inside the cushions and disappear.

And in the center of it all, stood a certain someone; the scruffy bastard in a trench coat who looked like he'd been sleeping in ditches for the past ten months.

So this is Billy Butcher.

Reggie leaned against the doorframe, deliberately casual, Gatorade bottle in his hand because he'd been thirsty and fuck if he was gonna let some British psycho distract him from his necessary electrolytes. Not… as impressive as I thought. He took a slow sip of the beautiful blue drink, eyes scanning the newcomer from head to toe. Dude looked exactly like he did on the show, just... more tired. 

More unhinged.

"So, you're the mysterious Butcher?" Reggie finally broke the silence, keeping his tone like cotton candy aka light and sweet. "Heard a lot about you, man. Mostly bad things, not gonna lie. But, y'know, legendary."

Butcher's head turned slow, bloodshot eyes locking onto him with the kind of flat hatred that sucked all the warmth out of the room. 

Just from those eyes, he could tell the man wasn't looking at Reggie the person. No, Billy “the Bastard” Butcher was looking at the supe. The thing.

Oh, we're doing this.

"And you're A-Train." The voice came out gravelly, rough, carrying contempt somehow thicker than the tension… which was impressive, on its own.

"Actually, Monsieur Charcuterie, I go by Reggie now." The grin-through-it energy was already hard enough but it was getting harder to keep up when staring at someone that would be fine stringing him up from a tree. Even if it wasn’t a matter of birth or skin color, it was still… irritating.. "The whole A-Train thing is... retired. Bad for the brand."

Butcher took a step into the room, gaze flicking over to Hughie, who flinched like he'd been slapped. "Is that right? Well, 'Reggie,' you've made yourself right at home, haven't you?"

"Well, it is my home,” he corrected, one eyebrow raised. "That I don’t remember giving you an open invitation to, actually."

Butcher's cruel smirk spread across his face, the man not even bothering to pretend he heard a word Reggie said. "Got my lad here living in thap of luxury, arse seated comfortably the house of the cunt who turned his girl into spaghetti fuckin' bolognese. Real cozy."

Jesus. Something twisted in Reggie's chest, mixture of guilt that wasn't even his and irritation that definitely was. A-Train's memories tried to surface; wind drag, pressure, the sick sound of impact. With a single wince, Reggie shoved them back down deep where they belonged.

"Butcher, it's not—" The four syllables came out shakier than usual, Hughie stumbling over his words as he tried to make himself heard.

"And what's this I hear?" Butcher cut him off with that same intensity, eyes flicking between Hughie and Reggie like he couldn’t decide who he wanted out of his sight more. "You're playin' house with Starlight now, too? That it? Got a thing for the ones who stand by and watch?” His dark eyes landed on Hughie again. “Or is it just that you're fine with letting all of America think your new bird's sleeping with the bastard who killed your old one? That's a new level of cuckoldry, even for you, son."

Oh hell no.

Four fingers tightened around the bottle as Reggie’s head tilted sideways. Did he just call him a cuck? 

"Non." Frenchie stepped forward, voice sharp and protective. "Butcher. Stop zis. Zis is not ze time."

"Not the time?" Butcher turned to Frenchie with that same cruel smirk, ugly thing that belonged in horror movies. "I think it's the perfect time. I leave for a bit, come back, and my team's been taken in by a fuckin' stray supe. You forget the rules, Frenchie? Rule number one: never, ever trust a supe."

"Non." Frenchie jumped in, one finger pointed Butcher’s way, the man speaking faster but also with more certainty as he wagged it. "I mean, Petit Hughie and Starlight... do not say zat."

Reggie's eyebrows went up, Hughie’s doing the same as the young man actually leaned forward. Frenchie was... defending them?

"What?" Butcher's voice dropped, dangerous.

"I make… I make ze joke, but it is a joke. You say it..." Frenchie’s head tilted to the left, clearly annoyed by something. "You say it to hurt. Zere… zere is the difference. He is one of us.”

Damn, Frenchie.

Butcher scoffed, the sound harsh enough that Reggie would argue that belonged more in back alleys and interrogation rooms than anywhere else. "Saved you? Or cleaned up his own fuckin' mess? You think Vought comin' down on you the day he's back in the papers is a coincidence? He's a plant, you idiots. Sent to keep an eye on all you."

The snort that burst out of Reggie’s lips was a loud one, harsh and sputtering at first until it turned into a full outright laugh. 

Butcher's bloodshot eyes narrowed, the man whirling on him, at least one vein visible in his forehead. "Having a laugh, are you?"

"Yeah, I laughed." Reggie shrugged, willing to admit it. The Gatorade bottle was cool against his palm, condensation dripping onto the expensive hardwood. "Can't help it, bro."

"What's so funny then?"

Reggie snorted again, this one purposeful, the sound more controlled this time. "Because you don't even believe the shit you're saying, man. A load of bollocks, as your people say. You wouldn't be here if you thought for a second I was working for Vought, like you’d risk that. You're just throwing shit at the wall."

"You should be put against a wall and shot,” the British man shot back.

“Bulletproof, mate,” Reggie kept his face straight, well aware that enough automatic fire still stung like a fucking bitch. Mostly.

Butcher's cruel smirk twisted deeper, the man pushing a laugh out.  "I'll need somethin’ a mite bigger than a bullet, then?"

“Butcher.” MM's voice made everyone turn his way, the sound filling the room without the muscular man moving an inch. "Enough already."

The previously absent leader of the Boys let out a loud scoff. “Your lips wrapped around his bollocks too, then?”

"That ain't it. And you know it." Marvin Milk’s words came out clipped and nearly as harsh as Butcher’s, carrying the weight and heat of ten months of frustration compressed into controlled syllables. "The supe's done good by us. Picked us up when we were scrambling and locked us down tight. Kept us fed and watered."

Reggie blinked, honestly surprised. Marvin, bro…

"For ten months, while you were off God knows where, he's been in the thick of it. No training. No backup. Just us. And Hughie…. Hughie, of all people, with no experience or skills in the shit we do…" Marvin’s gaze flicked to the couch where Hughie was still trembling, but something hard had set in both his jaw and Hughie’s. "White Urkel he may be, but he's the only one to ever off a member of The Seven and turn two more of 'em to our side."

Reggie took another swig of the blue, tilting his head to the side. I mean, he didn’t really turn me. I kinda turned myself… but… yeah… sure

"Asked the supe you're shitting on for help, even after breaking his fucking leg,” Mother’s Milk smacked his lips, the man shaking his head as he did so. “I don't know what you call that, Butcher, but that's real balls."

Butcher's smirk faltered for a split second, eyes narrowing. "Turned 'em, you sure? Or got turned by 'em? There's a difference, MM."

"The difference is we're still alive, you British bastard." MM shifted his weight, massive frame somehow taking up more space without moving. "We got a pot to piss in, and it ain't 'cause of you. It's 'cause of him." He nodded over at Reggie. "And especially 'cause of him." Another one over to Hughie. "So you can walk out of this big-ass mansion with your bullshit same way you walked in, or you can get with the damn program."

Oh shit. Reggie watched Butcher cycle through expressions, seven different types of anger clear all over his face; four Reggie didn’t even realize were a thing.

A laugh barked out of Butcher's throat, a forced hollow sound that had nothing to do with anything happy. "The program? And what's that, then? Takin' handouts from a corporate cunt in a tracksuit?"

Tracksuit? Reggie glanced down at his new black suit, offended despite everything.

"Lettin' him pay the bills while you all play happy families? Who else are you all goin' to fuckin' follow, eh? To handle business? You?" A grimy finger jabbed toward MM. "Or him?" He pointed over at Frenchie, who flinched.

"You all follow me because I'm the one who gets it done."

Hughie stood up, hands clenched tight into fists.  "No, they don't.” He might have been shaking but his voice was steady somehow. “Not anymore."

"What did you say to me, you little bastard?"

"I said, they don't." Words started spilling out of his mouth, ten months of frustration pouring through the cracks. "We've been here, Butcher. Every day. Trying to figure this out. Trying to do it right. And where were you? You just... you just left. No call, no word, nothing. You just fucked off."

Butcher stepped closer, menace rolling off him in waves. "I was handlin' business."

"Were you? What business? Or were you just chasing a ghost?" Hughie's voice cracked but held all the same. "We needed a leader, man. And you weren't here. So, no. I don't think we're gonna just... fall in line anymore."

"And who else they goin' to fuckin' follow?"

The threat hung in the air, the final assertion of indispensability that felt desperate around the edges.

"Probably someone who didn't fuck off for ten months."

Reggie had just taken a long pull from his Gatorade bottle and blue liquid sprayed out of his mouth in a fine mist, coating the air between them as he doubled over coughing. Butcher's head whipped around, eyes promising murder, violence, and creative dismemberment.

Reggie held up his hands, a grin spreading across his face despite the death glare boring into his skull, voice wheezing through the laughter trying to escape his chest.

"He said it, not me."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Another fucking take.

The lights in this studio were already giving Nubia a headache, somehow brighter than her own lightning which made no damn sense. It was the worst kind of headache too, just a step below a migraine; the type to start behind her eyes and spread until her whole skull felt tight. The Maiden of the Midwest (or whatever name they called Starlight before they started dressing her like Nicki Minaj) stood in front of the green screen with that tight smile plastered on her face, the one that looked like Vought techs had put it on with industrial adhesive.

"Who's revving up the girl power in The Seven? Keep watching WDCS, Cleveland's first and best source for local news."

Girl power. It was enough to make a woman scream, honestly.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Nubia shifted her weight and crossed her arms tighter, electricity threatening to crackle between her fingers the more annoyed she got. Maya's birthday was in three weeks and she hadn't even started planning. Should be upstairs right now helping my baby decorate her new room, One hand tapped against an arm, her teeth grinding against each other the longer all these shoots took, not standing here watching Little Miss Iowa read the same corporate bullshit for the tenth time.

The bell rang again as Starlight's smile flickered for half a second. "Are you ready to meet the newest members of The Seven? See it here first, WFAK, Fresno's home for heroes!"

Fresno's home for heroes…

The hell… the hell was that supposed to even mean? Nubia's jaw clenched as she watched Starlight's face reset back to standard, that bright earnestness snapping back into place so quick you had to wonder if it was ever real in the first place.

"They're the newest members of The Seven, and they're taking America by storm. From Portland to Seattle, watch what comes next, KMFT."

Taking America by storm. Of course they had to work that into every script. Storm this, storm fucking that. She knew for a fact the marketing department probably thought they struck gold with that line.  

"Amazing. Do you need to take a break, or can we power through the rest?" Some production assistant's voice drifted from behind the cameras.

"Let's just power through." Blondie’s voice stayed as bright as she could manage but Nubia could see it, that Midwest politeness was starting to crack the longer she was at this.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

They powered through, all right.

From one studio to another on the next stop of this media junket.

Where the other studio smelled like sweat, this one gave off the distinct stench of hairspray and  desperation, air thick with the electric hum of studio lights. A wall of photographers were busy shouting instructions over each other before the four supes had even taken positions, cameras flashing bright enough to send an entire room of seizure patients straight to Satan before lunchtime.

"Turn this way! Look here! Chin up, Maeve!"

"Over here, ladies! Give us a shot! Gorgeous!"

Queen Maeve looked like she'd rather be literally anywhere else, Starlight was maintaining that mechanical smile, and Nubia was calculating how many volts it would take to short out those cameras without making it obvious technically violating her contract.

Stormfront was… Stormfront.

A massive "GIRLS GET IT DONE" banner hung behind them, letters so aggressively big and bold you’d have to be blind to miss them. Girls get it done. What was she, twelve? Last time someone called her a girl, she was still on the G-Men.

Hell, she’d still been old enough to vote.

Nubia was pulled out of her thoughts as a Vought handler ushered her and Stormfront together now, the woman’s hands on their shoulders like they were action figures she was positioning for maximum marketing impact.

"Closer, ladies, closer! We want power! We want unity!"

Unity. Nubia's skin started heating up as Stormfront slid closer until they were shoulder to shoulder. Something about this bitch just… She gave the shorter woman a once-over, from the undercut to the cape… rubs me the wrong way. That fake-sweet smile, all teeth and calculated condescension, made her just wanna blast something.

Though if you asked Gerald, her ex-husband would have argued that was her default.

Nubia held back a growl as a black-gloved arm draped itself over her shoulder, voice dropping to that sandpaper whisper only she could hear. "Just think of the diversity numbers, sweetie. It's a win-win."

Sweetie.

Heat flashed through Nubia's entire body even as her expression stayed just as smiley. Oh, you condescending little midget.

"Stormfront, show us what you got!"

The bitch made electricity crackle between her palms, all theatrical flash and Instagram-ready sparkles. Party trick bullshit.

"Nubia, give us something good!"

Good?

The former G-Man raised one arm, feeling the familiar tingle as power gathered under and atop her skin. A single bolt of lightning surged up and down her forearm, brilliant energy that stood out bright against the studio lights. Silent, controlled, carrying enough power to turn a car into slag, it made Stormfront's little light show look like a damn novelty keychain.

"How's this for good?"

Cameras immediately went crazy, flashes exploding like fireworks as every photographer tried to capture lightning in a bottle. 

Take that, sweetie.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The raised platform felt like a firing squad setup, all of them lined up for execution by corporate media while some smarmy Vought News Network host with teeth too white and a tan too orange sat across from them. 

Girls may get it done, but they were already one girl short, the oldest girl among all of them having bailed for her convenient family emergency. It wasn’t like any of them could stop her, let alone that bobblehead bitch Ashley. Maeve… The woman marketed as the Irish Amazon was pretty much the female Homelander, able to do anything short of fly and shoot lasers out of her vag. 

As strong as she was, Nubia was pretty sure going up against her was pretty much asking to be punched into the dirt.

It didn’t really matter exactly how strong Maeve was, considering she had left the rest of them to deal with whatever bullshit questions this walking Ken doll was about to lob their way.

Starlight sat to her left, looking like she'd rather be getting root canal surgery, while Stormfront lounged in her chair with that calculated casual energy that screamed I'm about to say something designed to go viral.

Nubia rolled her eyes. Portland e-girl bitch…

"So, the question all of America is asking: do female heroes make better heroes than men? Stormfront, you're the newcomer, what's your take?"

Of course they were starting with that tired bullshit. Nubia's jaw clenched as electricity sparked inside her clenched fist, tiny bolts that the cameras probably couldn't catch.

Stormfront leaned into the mic, all that edgy charm on display already as she brushed back her undercut. "Honestly? I think that's kind of a lame, sexist question. Chicks or dicks, it doesn't matter if they're a gender-fluid pyrokinetic. It's about who can get it done, you know?"

Chicks or dicks. Nubia almost snorted at that. Kinda shit I wanted to say before. Before she was a mom, before she was someone little Black girls looked up to, before…

A lot of things, really.

"A very progressive take. Nubia?"

She glanced up, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of her name. “What?”The host’s smile went a bit tighter. “I said, Stormfront’s take was very progressive.”

Progressive. She held back a snort, sitting up straighter. Right. 

As much as Stormfront rubbed her the wrong way, Nubia could admit the woman had a way with words, but that way was basic edgy internet bullshit stolen from people who said it better and with more substance before her. It wasn’t anything progressive just because it got the most soundbites and upvotes online.

But I can’t say that…

"I think…” She began slowly, voice calm, “that for a while now, the definition of 'the best person for the job' has been written by men just because men were out in front. Having more women in The Seven isn't just about representation. It's about adding women to that definition."

There. Professional, thoughtful, no crude bullshit designed to get Twitter engagement.

"Excellent. And Starlight, you've been a trailblazer in that regard. And speaking of strength, you've also shown that a hero can be strong and still find love. We were all so happy to hear about you and Reggie Franklin."

Oh, here we go. Nubia felt her shoulders tense as the host's smile got that particular predatory gleam that meant somebody was about to get their personal life dissected on national television.

"Oh, uh, yeah. He's... he's a great guy." Starlight's voice was strained and polite, smile brittle enough to shatter.

"But there are rumors of trouble in paradise. Sources say you two are 'taking some time apart.' Especially after you seemed so happy on the news last week. Any truth to that?"

Sources. Code for we made this shit up but want you to confirm it on camera. Nubia watched Starlight's face tighten, voice climbing toward that register that meant panic was setting in.

"We're just... we're both really busy,” Starlight hedged. “With our careers so... We're... figuring things out."

"Does that 'figuring things out' have anything to do with the sparks flying between Reggie and your new teammate, Nubia?"

What the actual fuck? Camera one swung toward Nubia as her brain tried to process what this orange motherfucker had just suggested. "What flying where?"

Really? They were really going there?

"Well, you were both seen at the same incident, weren’t you?,” the interviewer continued. “He saved your daughter—a truly heroic moment—and the blogs are already saying there's a new power couple on the scene. Any truth to that?"

Power couple. Nubia's vision went red around the edges, as she realized they were turning her daughter's near-death experience into fucking tabloid gossip. "He showed up after I handled the situation,” she answered slowly, doing her best not to grit her teeth on camera. “That's all that happened."

Stormfront leaned forward, that fake-sweet concern dripping off every word. "But he… did save your daughter, right? I mean, I saw the footage. It happened. It just looked like you were a little... overwhelmed. It's okay to admit you needed help. America's Supe Mom should be appreciative of someone who saved her kid. It's a good look."

Overwhelmed.

A spark flared to life inside Nubia's chest, electricity building as her hands clenched into tight fists. America's Supe Mom. Like she was some kind of brand, some fucking marketing demographic instead of a person whose child had almost died.

Instead of decking the bitch in black, Nubia simply let out a breath and turned to her teammate with a perfect, poised smile. "Whatever Reggie does, I have nothing to do with it. Last I heard, he's out of the hero game, anyway."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

I didn’t mean to…The heat was thick and heavy, pressing in on her from all around nowhere else to go but in this room. I was just hungry.

The fire raging outside in the hallway, already having spread from the kitchen; it made her skin feel tight and hot, her fingers still red from the stove. Little Nina tried not to cry, the fire from outside the door drying them out anyway. Mommy’s arms squeezed tight around her and Leo, her shirt smelling just like the fire outside, thick smoke from under the door pouring in. The orange light outside the door wiggled and danced, eating the shadows.

Then she blinked.

The heat was gone. Cold air rushed onto her cheeks, smelling like rain on the street and hot dogs from the cart on the corner. The banging was gone too, replaced by the wee-woo-wee-woo of the fire trucks that were right there. 

They were on the sidewalk. How did they get on the sidewalk?

A man stood in front of them, tapping his feet as he looked down at all of them. His suit was black like the nighttime sky, with blue lines that zigzagged all over the sides like electricity, a big blue Z right in the middle of his chest.

“Y’all okay?” 

Mommy’s voice was all shaky when she answered, pulling Nina and Leo even closer to her chest. “A-A-Train?”

The man’s mouth made a little smile, just enough that she could see his teeth. “Call me Blushift.”

He was there, and then he wasn’t, just a little blue zip of light that disappeared down the street before all the people with cameras could see him go.