Running From Himself 2-10 (Patreon)

They were speaking, Edgar was at least; the old man rattling on and on to everyone else behind him. 

Homelander simply kept his back to the whole pathetic scene, staring down through bulletproof glass at his city. So many fragile little toy cars crawling through the figurative mud of packed streets of smoke and garbage.

Ants tracking sugar trails, that’s what they were; chasing the worthless motivations that made their adrenaline smell and taste so sweet as their hearts raced; a million tiny frantic drums beating out rhythms of fear and lust and mortgage payments. Little specks of dust walking on sidewalks below, staring up at their golden god in the sky and begging for his attention.

So fragile. So insignificant. So... breakable.

Stan Edgar kept on talking, the man at the head of that V-shaped conference table, the very picture of smug corporate authority. Old bastard. Next to him, that squirming little cunt of a replacement Ashley looked like she was about to vibrate apart from sheer nervous energy. 

Useless. 

All of them, really.

Just fucking useless.

His mind really wasn’t on them, not in the slightest, attention at least a hundred miles away over in the Catskills, behind a wall Vought had built to keep them in and hopefully keep him out. 

I hate you. The words sounded off over and over, three syllables refusing to die out, a constant echo of a sour note from his own goddamn legacy bouncing around his skull. I hate you. 

And all he'd done was try to teach the kid, show him what he really was. 

What they both were.

A little push. That's all it was. 

Hell, the kid wasn't hurt.

He knew it.

The kid knew it.

Ryan’s heartbeat hadn't even skipped, just that pathetic little gasp of surprise when he went airborne for half a second. 

And for that, for that gift, the boy had pushed him away. Him. 

It made no goddamn sense and he could only blame the woman for it, pussifying him and making him into some quivering little queer. Fathers and sons were supposed to... what? Play catch in the backyard like some Norman Rockwell fever dream? He'd given Ryan the sky and the little brat spat in his face.

The silence in the room stretched like taffy, everyone sweating while he chose not to take a seat. Eyes bored into his back, their gazes fixed on his flag as the little lesser gods behind him took shallow breaths, each one of them arranged around the table waiting for Zeus to speak his piece so they could all eagerly agree. 

"...ou know, Vought News Network has successfully framed the narrative regarding the proliferation of Compound V." That irritating fucking monotone, steel-smooth and deliberate, hammered into his skull, the sound of it pushing out Ryan’s words and forcing him to deal with something even less worth his while. "It is now public knowledge that our product can be stolen and synthesized by rogue elements to create what we are branding 'super-villains'."

"So we're the cure for a disease you created," he spoke to the glass, not even bothering to turn and face the man. He could see just as fine from the barely-there reflections in the polished glass, the old man’s face reacting just as much as his heart rate.

That is, not in the slightest.

He narrowed his eyes. "Great marketing, Stan. Really. Top-notch."

The old bastard's gaze just swept over the seated heroes, eyes showing off all the emotional depth of a filing cabinet. Bastard probably took meeting notes at his own mother’s funeral. "The immediate priority is the super-villain who downed a Coast Guard helicopter off the Jersey coast. He has been identified. He is a threat. Vought requires a decisive, public victory. You will hunt him, and you will bring him in."

“Or what?”The old man’s heart may not have twitched, but Stan’s face did finally move at that. Those grayed eyebrows ventured upwards at the sound of Homelander’s interjection, the Chief Executive Officer of Vought International suddenly focused on the only person in the room that actually mattered. “Pardon?”An award-winning smile slid into place on his face, Homelander barely feeling the expression as his mask fixed itself as firmly and tightly as the Deep’s cock in a grouper’s gills. Slowly, gracefully, America’s greatest hero allowed everyone gathered to take him in as he turned to face the room. “What if I don’t want to?” 

His eyes met Stan Edgar’s, neither one of the men blinking. “What if I’d rather watch this whole damn company burn to the ground? It might be fun. A little… cleansing.”

The room froze. 

Perfect. 

The sudden spike in their collective heart rates sounded off like Big Ben, almost all in unison as they took in what he had to say. His gaze trailed across them, blue eyes flickering from each one and making it clear he saw them. Starlight immediately looked away, Little Miss Sunshine and Dairy staring down at her hands as a flush crept its way up her neck. 

Maeve did her best to keep that little look of unbothered boredom tight in place, but he knew her too well for her to hide that much from him. The little flicker of fear in her eyes was there, the same way it was every time he felt like making himself heard. 

She really wasn’t as good at hiding it as she used to be, not since that flight that went down last year. On the other hand, Nubia was much better at it; that G-Men constant media whoring giving the woman top-notch acting skills. Granted, he wasn’t as familiar with the woman’s tells yet, but she kept her face an unreadable mask of stone. Amusing. 

Even Shockwave, the eager little puppy, looked like he’d swallowed his own tongue. 

Only Stormfront seemed to enjoy it, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Interesting.

“Now, Homelander,” Edgar tilted his head, the man pulling back on the condescenscion for just a second as he realized how serious his moneymaker was being. “Let’s not be hasty.”

“Hasty?”

The smile widened, mask sliding away just a fraction “No, no. I’ve given it a lot of thought.” He let his gaze drift over them all. “But I won’t do that. You know why? Because Vought…” 

Vought is mine.

“Vought is just a building. It’s a brand. Buildings break. And brands can die.” He placed his hands on the backs of Starlight’s and Stormfront’s chairs, feeling the former flinch under his touch. 

“But this…” he let his voice drop, infusing it with a sincerity he knew would land. “This is different. The Seven…” He looked at each of them in turn. 

At Maeve, his queen in the eyes of the media. At Noir, the good soldier. At Stormfront, the new toy. At Starlight, the naive little hick. At Nubia, the insubordinate bitch. And at Shockwave, the goddamn replacement. “You all are my real family. And family… family has to stick together. No matter what.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The air was thick with afternoon stank, the industrial park this side of Jersey making a firm point why people fucking hated Jersey.

In all fairness, though, it wasn’t really the city’s fault this chunk of space smelled this bad, all the smoke and ozone and burnt rubber was the fault of some bad actors. 

Some bad actors who definitely won’t be getting an Emmy… Reggie stood over the aftermath of his handiwork, hands on his hips, as he took in a low deep breath that probably wasn't good for his lungs. “...Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that was terrible. Nate’s right, I gotta work on my one-liners before I talk to the media again.”

One of the street supes, a lanky kid with more V than sense, was stuck to the side of an armored truck with what looked like a Jackson Pollock made of melted tires. Another was waking up from a short nap in a dumpster just a few feet away, the sounds of his super-loud groans echoing off the inside of the metal and more than likely making the guy’s headache worse.. 

The third one though, and this was his personal favorite, was hanging upside down from a lamppost by his own belt tied tight around his feet, the guy swinging gentle in the breeze like some kind of Christmas ornament.

He'd already called it in, told the local boys in blue to bring the SWAT team and maybe a very large spatula. Made it too easy, honestly.

These guys… Reggie shook his head as he took them all in again, especially Mr. Melty hands who tried to roast his face off before he got a tire slammed over him. Been getting sloppy.

Some of the street supes, super villains, whatever…

The older sets at least, the ones he’d been fighting about two weeks ago, those had been more trained. More focused, too. Almost all of them had powers that worked well together, complimented each other, like someone had hand-picked them to cover each other’s slack or something. 

Reggie rubbed his chest slowly as his brown eyes narrowed at the guy hanging from his ankles, the one who could jump like a frog — and kick about as hard as a human sized one, too.

Sure, a guy who could hit about a five-story vertical was impressive, but putting him with somebody who could melt stuff with his hands and another that could knock people back with a shout?

It just didn’t add up. Like, what was the plan here?

Before Reggie could put his rudimentary detective ability to work — a youth spent with the Hardy Boys and Scooby-Doo coming in handy — his earpiece chimed off in his ear, the customary tone of the Bluetooth device. 

His finger went up, tapping the thing nested around his ear as he clicked his tongue in a greeting. “Talk to me, bro-bro.”

“We… we agreed you wouldn’t call me that,” his brother’s voice sounded off in his ear, half-tinny and a little distant, the man clearly not right up to the mic. “Like, we had a whole discussion on this, man.”“You agreed. I just shrugged.”The sound Nate made was about as pained as a grown man could make without actually being shot or tortured, the noise ending in a stretched-out sigh. “...anyway, just calling for a heads-up, you’re looking at a bunch of supervillains headed your way in a getaway car, down Governor in maybe thirty seconds… from what I’m seeing off the feeds.”

Reggie craned his head down the street, one eyebrow raised. The street had cleared out after the supervillains tried to wreck shit to keep him off their trail, and it was still pretty empty. 

Apart from a bunch of rundown beatup cars, yeah, pretty empty.

“...iunno, Nate, nothing coming my wa-”

A car zoomed past, all squealing tires and rumbling engine, stealing the rest of the words right out of his mouth. He clicked his tongue again, the sound sliding right into a grunt. “Take that back, thanks for the tip, bro-bro.”

“Don’t call me th-”He clicked the earpiece off, shoulders rolling as he bounced on his feet once-twice, the half-bullet-beaten sedan already swerving around the corner. “Wait for me, guys.”

A laugh spilling out of his throat, Reggie took off after them as the world compressed into that familiar blur he was still getting used to. Asphalt and broken glass streaked under his feet, muscles firing in ways that felt just right, like slipping into a pair of jeans worn by a twin or something. Distance ate up to nothing and he waved at the car from behind, the black car twisting from side to side as if that was gonna do anything.

Focusing as he prepared to take the car down, already ready to rip the tires free, Reggie’s eyes suddenly went wide as he felt something shift. A split-second later, the ground beneath his feet suddenly started to rumble.

What the...

He skidded to a stop, head whipping side to side. Earthquake? In Jersey? That ain't right.

Before his brain could work out if this was one of those supervillains he'd been chasing, the ground in front of him just... gave up. A deafening roar ripped through the air as a massive sinkhole opened up, swallowing a city bus and about a dozen cars in some kind of concrete and twisted metal cascade that looked like God decided to play Jenga with city infrastructure.

What the hell?

Someone shot out of the newly formed crater like a cannon, landing neat on the street as they whipped their head back and forth. Reggie blinked at the sight of this young Asian kid in just a windbreaker and jeans and a baseball cap, wild eyes like he'd seen some shit as the kid tried to get his bearings. Before he could even process that, a second figure launched herself out after him, a feral wordless scream tearing from her throat that made his spine crawl.

Kimiko.

Without even turning his way, they both scrambled into the same busted apartment building.

Lil Kim? What's she doing here? And who's the kid?

The questions weren’t gonna get answered if he just stood around talking to himself, so Reggie blurred off after them. A full second later, he burst straight through the shattered front doors in a spray of rotten wood and glass, feet skidding to a stop as he pulled back his speed. "Kim! What the hell is going on?"

The kid with her whipped around, hands raised up like he was surrenderin-

A wall of pure nothing slammed into Reggie. 

All force and no excuses, launching him clean off his feet like he was made of paper. The world spun as he went airborne, flashes of his-my-A-Train's death flickering behind his eyes for just a second. Oh shi--

Then he hit ground.

His back tore across asphalt, teeth slamming together hard enough to crack diamonds, as he tried to drag in a raw breath.

Then he was flying again; a skipping stone made of two-hundred-something pounds of supe muscle, completely out of control and hating every second of it. Skin scraped and tore as he spun and twisted, dragged across the ground with no way to stop. 

Finally, finally, Reggie skidded to a stop halfway under a car missing both sets of tires, the supe a good hundred feet from where he'd started.

...smoke? Reggie blinked up at the undercarriage of this old clunker, wondering if he was actually on fire for a hot second, only to realize... oh, my suit's just smokin'...

A grunt tore from his throat, air knocked clean out of his lungs. Son of a bitch, Kimmy.

He blinked, shaking his head to clear the ringing. What the h-hell was that? 

"Hey guys!" The voice sounded out, way too cheerful for the situation, and an instant later this sound like lightning roared through the air.

Okay, what the hell...

Reggie pushed himself up off the asphalt, winded but not really hurt, muscles already coiling to take off and figure out what the hell was happening in that building. His suit was still smoking a little, that weird chemical smell mixing with Jersey air in a way that made his nose wrinkle.

He didn't get the chance.

A series of explosions ripped through the upper floors of the building, each one punctuated by the sight of bright crackling white energy that lit up the windows from the inside. What the fuck is happening? That's not the same power that hit me. The kid had some kind of telekinetic thing going on, but this was different. This was electric.

Mind racing, he rushed back into the building, pushing through the busted front doors he'd already destroyed. The lobby was… a war zone, dust and smoke thick enough to choke and definitely dense enough to taste, the smell of burnt wiring mixing with… blood?Reggie whirled around, only to freeze again as he saw them.

All the bodies scattered around the lobby. 

All of them dead.

All of them… black. 

"Wh… what the hell is this?" Reggie shook his head, trying to push it out of his head. No, focus, find who did this.

The stairs were a blur under his feet, concrete and steel flashing past as he took them three at a time. The air in the stairwell was thick with the smell of piss and burnt ozone, fear-sweat and something electrical that made the hair on his arms stand up. He saw the marks on the walls as he ran, not just burns from explosions or gas lines. Weird, branching patterns that looked like lightning had been trapped in the plaster and left its fingerprints behind.

He burst through the busted doorway onto the rooftop, wind and sudden open space hitting him like a slap to the face. Jersey spread out below, all concrete and rust and the kind of industrial decay that made you think about better places to be.

Her. Stormfront, the bitch with the Nazi name from the Seven. She had the kid that blasted him lifted off the ground by his throat, feet just dangling there desperate and frantic; eyes wide with the terror that came with imminent death.

A sound cut through the air, wet and sharp and wrong. The kid's hands just... flopped. Both of thome cracked open, bent the wrong way, bones snapped with the casual ease of breaking a pencil. Fucking wrong. She raised her hands up toward his head, electricity already starting to dance between her fingers.

The way her lips curled back from her teeth, that perfect Vought media smile twisted into something rotten and poisonous. A sound hissed out of her mouth, low and full of venom that made Reggie's skin crawl.

"...fucking yellow bastard."

The world just... stopped.

Wind gone, distant sirens cut off mid-wail, even the hum of the city dropping to nothing. Reggie didn’t let himself think, body moving on instinct as his heartbeat roared in his ears. Frantic, boiling energy clawed its way through his pores, demanding he do something.

He did.

The rooftop exploded away from his feet, blue light erupting all around him, so bright it burned his eyes even through his half-shut lids.

Stormfront's head didn’t even turn, her eyes still glittering with glee and that same manic smile plastered all over her face.

His fist connected with her jaw.

BOOM!

Pressure slammed through his bones, air and force and sound rattling his teeth in his skull until he thought they might shake loose. The windows on the floor below exploded, shattering into a glittering cloud of dust that sparkled in the air like somebody had blown up a jewelry store.

Stormfront flew.

A screaming dot rocketing across the sky, moving so fast she left a vapor trail in the humid Jersey air. A cannonball in a cape, she smashed into the brick facade of the next building over, silent puff of red dust blooming where she hit, then burst out the other side and slammed into the one behind that with this faint, muffled thump that sounded like someone dropping a phone book.

The roaring in his ears faded down to this high-pitched whine that made him want to shake his head like water was stuck in there. His whole body hummed with this deep, thrumming vibration like he'd just grabbed a live power line and somehow not died from it. He looked down at his own hand, fingers spread wide and shaking just a little.

His knuckles were bruised and raw, little blue sparks still flickering and dying out between his fingers like faulty wiring that couldn't quite give up the ghost. …the fuck?

His gaze found Kimiko crouched next to the other kid, both of them staring at him wide-eyed and terrified. "What the fuck, Lil Kim?"