Running from Himself 2-11 (Patreon)

His right hand was still twitching, each finger a half-spasmy mess, and each nail crackling with a burst of blue every other minute or so. It wasn’t the biggest deal in the world, but it was definitely something he couldn’t let go just yet. A whole night before it had been his whole arm, and that had been a bitch and a half to sleep with, as it shuddered and sparked.

Still he managed.

But it was still his hand.

A hand he’d been staring at all morning ever since he realized why the electricity around him looked so familiar. He’d been so caught up in The Boys, his favorite show, that he’d missed the obvious.

Watching and rewatching… He shook his head, scoffing slowly. Living life as A-Train…

All of it was enough to make him forget another show he saw six years ago, a show about another far more heroic speedster. Fucking… hell, man.

He took another bite from the over-sweet breakfast pastry in his other hand and kept his annoyed grumbles firmly on the inside. Not like anybody would get it anyway.

His eyes flicked up, pulling him right out of his thoughts, as all five-feet two inches of a Japanese murderblender walked right past him without even looking up.

Rolling his eyes, Reggie scooted his way out of the kitchen proper, fridge door closing behind him.

Kimiko moved around the five-star kitchen he’d never used with this silent, focused grace that reminded him of his mom when she was pissed but still making dinner anyway, the girl arranging a tray of perfectly crafted food their French operator was cooking up with glee. 

They were a self-contained world of two, her and Frenchie, who stood beside her chopping vegetables with more skill than he’d ever known the man to have with a knife. Being all domestic with Lil Kim is a real motivator, huh?

In the main living room, Hughie was wearing a groove in the expensive Persian rug with his pacing, hands jammed deep in his pockets like the tall bastard was worried he’d throw another punch if someone gave him a reason. The big ol’ bruiser he knew as Marvin Milk stood over by the window, staring out at his professionally manicured lawn with his arms crossed atop his oversized chest.

And in the center of it all, leaning against the kitchen island, was him. 

He looked half a mess and he knew it, still wearing his sweaty bloody super-suit underneath a grey sweatpants and a black hoodie with the Vought logo peeling off the front.

The half-eaten strawberry Pop-Tart held between two fingers like a cigarette he wasn't gonna smoke didn’t help how ridiculous he looked either but he didn’t really care much about any of that. He was the calm, sugary eye of this whole hurricane, and he knew his casualness was landing exactly as intended; a deliberate, calculated insult. 

Look at me, just chillin' while y'all lose your minds. Aren't I just the worst?

His right hand gave another twitch, blue little fireflies dancing between his knuckles for half a second before dying out.

The intended recipient of said insult stood in the archway between the two rooms, a trench-coated specter of pure, undiluted rage. Say what you will about William Butcher (and Reggie felt like he could say plenty in the two weeks that he’d known him) but the man managed to pull off the impressive feat of looking like he hadn't slept since the invention of the mattress. Really, eyes shouldn’t be that bloodshot and hollow without a good medical reason. 

Even if the other man had one, Reggie certainly didn’t want them fixed right on him, not with a level of hatred that was doing an excellent job of actively sucking the warmth out of the air."Alrigh’, you've had your fun, ya supe bastard." Butcher's voice scraped out low and gravelly, each word a piece of jagged rock getting spit across the room. "Eatin' your breakfast. Playin' house. Time's up. We're handin' the little bastard over."

Playing house? Reggie almost pulled a face at that. We live here. It’s my house.

"Mornin' to you too, guvnor.” As much as he tried to not be annoyed by the British psychopath trying to run his house, Reggie knew he was only human.…well, superhuman. Holding back a snort, Reggie gestured in the man’s direction with the confectionary in his hands. "Wanna Pop-Tart? I think there's a brown sugar cinnamon one left. Not my favorite, but, y'know, you look like you could use the sugar."

Look at this dude. Walking in here like he owns the place when he can't even own his own damn temper.

"Don't be a smart cunt. It don’t fit ya." Butcher took a step into the room, the man doing his best to swagger even when his face was still bruised from a certain Campbell’s fists. "You know what I'm talkin' about. The deal was we get the supe-terrorist, we give him to the CIA, Mallory gets us off the hook. That's the play. The only play."

"See, that's where we got a communication problem," Reggie said, finally finishing the Pop-Tart and dusting the crumbs off his hands with this real deliberate care. Like each crumb mattered more than whatever bullshit Butcher was trying to sell. "'Cause I never agreed to that play. Didn't even know about you guys' little plan that involved putting your faces back on national fucking TV. I just happened to save the kid from getting murdered by the bitch with the undercut shouting racial shit at him."

His right hand gave a little twitch, blue spark flickering between his knuckles for half a second. Still doing that. Still reminded him of exactly why he wasn't about to back down on this one.

"I didn't almost break every bone in my hand punching that Nazi bitch across the county just to turn around and hand the kid over to the Feds. That's a nah from me, dog."

"It ain't your call, you ponce!" The brit whirled on him, not even bothering to hold back the heat in his eyes or voice. "He's the asset! He's the ticket!"

"He is la famille!" Frenchie spun around from his cutting board, chef's knife still in his hand and waving around in a way that would've made anybody else nervous. "We do not hand over ze family to ze wolves, Butcher! We do not do zis!"

"Butcher, how... how about we should just, y'know, think about it for a second?" Hughie's voice was still floating somewhere between earth and space, that whole whale-guts trauma leaving him sounding like he was talking through cotton. "I mean, he's Kimiko's brother, we can't just—"

"Shut it, both of you!" Butcher waved a hand their way, treating them the way he would’ve done flies, before pointing that same grimy finger right at Reggie. "You. You don't get a vote. You're the landlord. The money. You ain't the one gettin' his hands dirty."

A short, sharp laugh burst out of his mouth before he could stop it, Butcher’s eyes going darker if that was even possible.

"My knuckles are still bruised from yesterday, my guy. They're plenty dirty. Might not be whale guts dirty, okay, but plenty fuckin’ dirty." He gestured around at the expensive everything, the fancy kitchen island, the living room where Hughie just flinched as he said ‘whale guts’. "So, yeah. I get a vote. And my vote is hell no."

MM finally turned from the window, voice cutting through all the tension with that low, steady rumble that made everybody else sound like they were shouting. "It's a bad play, Butcher. Short-term solution for a long-term problem. I've been talkin' with Gee about this shit all year... numbers don't add up. Vought's been tied to big government since Hitler was kickin', man. They had Soldier Boy on the front lines in World War II. Someone, somewhere, had to know."

MM doing that thing where he actually thinks before he talks. Revolutionary concept.

"CIA, NSA, DoD, fuck it, Butcher,” Marvin threw his hands as high as his over-jacked shoulders would allow, a giant sigh leaving the man at the same time. “Odds are good the goddamn president is in on this shit... makes no fuckin' sense otherwise. Hell, we know that they’ve known this shit for ten goddamn months cus’ we brought it to them? And they're still letting Vought get away with this Rojo play. So, if they're already in bed with Vought, what about any of this shit is supposed to let us trust these fuckers, man?"

"Iz true.” Frenchie’s knife stabbed deep into the cutting board, the smaller French man passing off the vegetables to his silent little helper. “If no one knew, Vought would be underground already, seized by ze state. But iz still business as usual, endorsements and parties. Trusting them... not a good idea, no?"

"Oh, listen to Sun Tzu over here!" Butcher scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "'They knew, they know, they're all havin' tea with Vought'—bollocks. If the Yanks really had the stones to pull the strings, they'd have reeled Vought in years ago. They didn't, 'cause they can't. Too bloody big, too bloody slippery. The only shot we got to stick it to Edgar is playin' their game, tradin' the kid for a clean slate. It's the only card we got left to play! Unless you lot have a better idea?"

"Yeah," Reggie said, pushing off from the kitchen island. His muscles coiled with that familiar buzz, speed wanting to kick in just from the tension in the room. He walked past Butcher real deliberate, not even looking at the man as his shoulder brushed against the Brit's ratty trench coat until he leaned up against his couch. "The play is we don't blow our load like it's prom night. Let's try and talk to the kid first."

"He's a murderer, you pillock, not just some bloody kid." Butcher's voice dropped, just enough that Reggie could make out how… tired the man seemed. "He brought down a helicopter full of coppers. He's not some innocent little lamb."

"After he was trafficked into the states, kidnapped by you and the merry men, while being hunted by at least two different racist psychopaths in capes." Reggie stared back at Butcher, the hypocrisy of the man using that line of argument staring him right in the face. "And now you wanna hand him over to a bunch of government lab coats who are gonna cut him up to see what makes him tick? That's the move?"

"Non. He is right." Frenchie's voice shifted slightly, a soft little reverence to it that usually only popped in when the man talked about or to Kimiko. "Ze boy, Kenji... he is terrified. He has been a prisoner since he was a little child."

Butcher didn't even look at the French man, all that intensity pointed Reggie’s way as his voice came out a half-roar, half-growl; all manic. "He's a supe! That's all he is. A loaded gun with a faulty trigger. And you don't leave a loaded gun lyin' around."

"Butcher..." MM's voice rumbled from across the room, warning in it.

"Don't fuckin' Butcher me, MM!" The Brit whirled around, almost foaming at the mouth as a fleck of spit went flying onto his countertop. Ew."Listen to you all. You, Hughie, grown a right pair, haven't you, son? Had enough to knock me back one, eh?" Butcher’s eyes flicked back to Reggie, pure venom and nothing but staring his way. "Been buying all his supe solidarity bullshit?"

What supe solidarity? Now, this was just getting ridiculous. When have I ever even once brought up any shit like…

"Just listen, man." Reggie’s voice came out more a sigh than anything else, the man trying to keep his voice level as Butcher seemed determined to try his last nerve. “Just listen.”

"To what? You defending him? After what he did? All you supes are the fuckin' same. Always stickin' together."

Reggie finished the last bite of his Pop-Tart, licking the frosting off his thumb real slow and deliberate, before finally giving Butcher his full attention. "How many people have you killed in the last ten months, Butcher? While you were off 'handlin' business.' Tell me."

Butcher's jaw went tight as a vise, the man clearly knowing well-enough not to say shit.

"C'mon, Billy, don't be shy. We’re all… well, definitely not friends, but you’re crashing at my house so you can give me a number, just a little tidbit of the truth. If someone like you even knows what that is." Reggie leaned forward just a little, voice dropping into something that felt familiar; a bit more detached, more clinical, more serious than his new life usually expected of him. 

"J… just try and tell me it's less than five. Try and spin that shit to me and watch me call you a fucking liar to your face." He could see them, the little micro-expressions on Butcher’s face telling him all he needed to know. "You're a sociopath, Butcher. I can tell. I've been around enough of 'em. Hell, I used to be one. But you're worse than most of them, and you ain't even got powers.” 

Reggie clicked his tongue. “Ain't that a bitch?"

"I'll fuckin' kill you." 

There it is. Mask's off.

Reggie grinned, wide and challenging, all teeth and zero fear. "I'd look around, bro. Your army's not exactly lining up behind you right now."

His whole power trip, that authority thing his entire personality was built on, just evaporated right there in Reggie's living room. Man was isolated and he knew it.

Butcher turned back to him, face shifting into this mask of pure, concentrated hatred that would've made a normal person take a step back. A half-second later, it was gone.

Just wiped like a dry-erase board.

In it’s place was a smile even a blind man wouldn’t trust. "...You got a family, don't you, A-Train? A brother. Little nephews runnin' around."

Oh.

The air in the room went from tense to absolutely dead. Temperature dropped twenty degrees just from those words hanging there. MM took a half-step forward, muscles bunching under his shirt. Hughie's eyes went wide with that 'oh shit' look. Reggie's easy posture didn't change, but something inside him went completely still. The casual warmth in his eyes just... switched off, replaced by something flat and dangerous that felt foreign in his own head.

"Butcher, don't." Hughie's voice cracked.

"Merde. Zis is not ze way." Frenchie's knife was still in his hand, knuckles going white around the handle.

"You worry about them? Keep you up at night? Like I worry about my Becca?"

There it is. The real William Butcher. Classic sociopath. Mother’s Milk had told him plenty about the man, Serge had too; a lot more than Reggie would have pieced together from what he remembered of the single season of TV that he streamed. 

Sure, he had known Butcher was a lot of things, but actual off-the-rails was something Reggie wouldn’t have guessed. Grief-stricken, sure.

Traumatized? Of course.

But then again… this was the man willing to kill a baby.

"You threatening me, man?" All the bounce was gone from his voice, Reggie unable to help the coldness that slid into his tone; all threat and nothing but meeting Butcher’s own words. 

Felt weird hearing himself sound like that.

"I'm just saying. A man loves his family. Does anything to protect 'em. It's a dangerous world. Especially for people who get in my fuckin' way."

Reggie nodded slow, barely moving his head. "And I'm just saying that threatening my family is a real good way to get yourself dragged on the highway at five hundred miles an hour until you're nothing but a piece of jerky cooked by friction."

He worked his jaw for a moment, forcing a smile onto his face that felt like wearing a stranger's clothes. "We clear?"

Butcher just stared back, all that loud heat in his eyes going cold and quiet.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Rain hammered the alley around him, cold and nearly as heavy as his waterlogged duster.He pressed up against the wall, staring at nothing but the slick black mirror of the opposite wall with his face down in a tight scowl. It was dark enough, and he’d gone just far enough into downtown Jersey that he was sure he hadn’t been followed, the downpour making any tail even harder if there was any. 

Butcher pressed the satellite phone tighter against his ear, tasting the metallic bite of failure on his tongue. "We hit a snag."

Understatement of the fuckin' century.

"A snag, Billy?" Grace's voice crackled through the static, tired and sharp as broken glass. "You had him. You were on a boat in the middle of the ocean. How do you hit a 'snag'?"

The way she said it, all flat and disappointed, made his jaw clench tight enough to wreck his dentistry, a waste of the good insurance he hadn’t paid for in a good decade. "The team got soft. And we picked up a stray. A-Train."

Like that was the whole of it.

"A-Train? I heard he's independent now. Under a new name even. What the hell is he doing with you?"

"Playin' the hero. He's 'a new man' after losing his memory and leaving the Seven." The words tasted like piss in his mouth. "He's got the little terrorist bastard under his protection. Won't let us hand him over."

Mallory’s voice came out as a long, weary sigh on the other end. "So you failed. Again. The deal is off, Billy."

Her words were a shiv between the ribs; sharp, cold and uncaringly brutal. "Grace, Grace, just hold on—"

"No, you hold on. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of your messes, your bullshit, your obsession. It's over."

Over. Right. After everything we been through. All because some cunt in a tracksuit decided to grow a goddamned conscience.

"We've got something on the feminist little progressive bint working for Vought, that Stormfront cunt."

Pause. Hook, line, and...

"...what about her?"

"I've got it on good knowledge she's a rabid racist mass murderin' cunt. All those black people what died in that building. Wasn't the supe terrorist that did 'em in."

Come on, Grace. You know what this means.

"...you're saying...?"

"I am. We've got a little Klu Klux Karen sitting pretty in the Seven."

Silence stretched between them, filled with nothing but rain and static. Butcher looked up at the black sky, water running down his face, a man hanging by his fingernails over a very deep pit.

"Please, Grace. Just... tell me where she is."

Please. When's the last time I said that word?

The silence went on forever. Long enough for him to count his heartbeats, count the drops hitting the puddles around his boots.

"There's a Vought facility. That’s the last place she was spotted before she vanished. It’s called Red River. That’s all I can give you." The sigh that left Mallory was one more disappointed than his mum had ever given him, not that the woman knew what a fuckin’ spine was. "Now don’t call me. Not unless you have something worth my time.”

He was about to hang up, walk away, but something stopped him. With a shaky breath, the Brit lifted the phone back to his ear.

"Grace? You there?" He didn't know if she was listening, but he knew well enough that the woman, for whatever reason, hadn’t cut the damn line yet. 

So, he had to try…

"Hypothetically. If you was in the mood for it... how would you kill a fast-movin' supe?"