Running From Himself 3-11 (Patreon)

“K-Kimikoooooo!”

Frenchie’s voice hit his ear from behind, as loud as Hughie’s but wetter as Kimiko’s name rattled in his throat.

Neither scream did a single thing to drown out the shotgun-crack of Noir’s palm meeting her chest. It was like watching hydraulic equipment at work, Hughie’s jaw falling open and staying there at the sight of it.

Kimiko left the ground completely, flying backward dozens of feet with each one of her limbs trailing wrong behind her. By the time she touched the ground again, it was barely for a second as her body skipped against broken pavement. 

One shoe went loose, the other scattering apart to nowhere.

Her jacket tore loose in pieces, dragging against the ground in a mess of blood and flesh and by the time she stopped—

Hughie flinched at the final crash, a full-body wince passing through him as Kimiko’s broken body tore straight through rotting plywood boards over a derelict storefront, disappearing into the darkness with a cloud of splintered wood and drywall dust.  

"Nonononon—" Hughie unbuckled his belt with shaking fingers, making his way out of the missing door on hands and feet. He tumbled out onto the ground with a hiss through his teeth, palms scraping hard against the unforgiving asphalt.

“K-kimi-!” He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, Frenchie still screaming Kimiko’s name past what his lungs would allow him. “K-ki!” “N-not the time, Frenchie!” Legs feeling like wet newspaper didn’t stop him as he grabbed Frenchie by the collar, using strength he didn’t believe he had to drag the smaller man out of the wheezing vehicle.

Mother’s Milk was already moving — thank fuck — the man hauling his own bulk out of the passenger side, groaning with one arm held with the other. “J-jesus…”  Blood ran down the side of his face from a deep gash over his eyebrow, another groan spilling out of him as Frenchie hacked out a lung on the weed-choked asphalt even as Hughie pulled him free of the smoking engine block, 

"Butcher! Come on!" Hughie’s voice cracked as he looked into the driver’s seat where Butcher seemed to be taking all the time in the world, the man’s trench coat half-snagged on the steering column as he held the thing open. "G-get out! We gotta go now!"

Butcher didn’t say a word back, the man uncharacteristically slow as he adjusted his coat again and began to pull himself free of the driver’s seat.

Hughie whipped his head around, heart pounding loud in his ears as his eyes locked on to the dead-silent and slow approaching figure that was Black fucking Noir.

His hand reached out, grabbing for the oversized black rifle Frenchie had slapped into his hands before; the thing still waiting for him on the floor of the car. Hands tight around the grip, Hughie hauled the heavy weapon up and bit down another hiss through gritted teeth as the stock slammed into a shoulder already bruised a deep purple by now.

He squeezed the trigger.

Recoil punched into his collarbone, muzzle flashing bright yellow as pain sparked white behind his eyes. The noise was deafening as Hughie screamed against the bucking roar of the automatic weapon, brass casings clattering against the concrete in an arc.

The bullets hit, round after round hitting Noir square in the chest and throat.

Dark armor tore, calibers punching dark holes into the supe as small splashes of red misted into the air, staining the concrete behind the silent assassin.

It didn’t seem to do a thing.

At least, nothing he seemed to feel because the supe just didn’t stop.

Hughie wasn’t even sure Noir flinched. As far as he could tell, the killer’s stride didn’t so much as slow. Even still, he held the trigger down, aim as tight as he could make it after months of training from all the other Boys. The barrel was no longer cold, his palm stinging with raw heat through the plastic handguard.

And it still did nothing.

Each of the heavy rounds sank into his flesh, and the flesh simply swallowed them up, not even vanishing out the other side; the supe tough enough that his skin refused to allow that. Noir just kept walking, his pace a steady and slow march toward Hughie.

Click.

The sound was tiny but Hughie heard it as loud as every single one of the gunshots through his ringing ears. Empty?

Of course it was empty.

Another mechanical click was felt more than heard as the bottom of his stomach vanished so hard and fast it almost took him down to his knees. Blood ran down the side of his face, vision in one eye so blurred Black Noir was just a solid black smear standing in the center of the empty parking lot. With a smile on his face that didn’t make sense, Hughie finally lowered the smoking barrel. …least my aim got better.The smile turned into a bark, Hughie’s eyes wet with something that wasn’t blood as he held his battered chest against the pain of laughter. Silver linings, right?

Yeah, that was at least something to feel good about.

"Oi, gimp cunt!"

Butcher’s voice tore loud and rough across the parking lot, a blood-soaked thing dragged over gravel. Hughie whipped his head around to see Butcher free from the wreck, the big man leaning heavily against the crumpled hood of the Mustang.A wad of red left his mouth as Butcher spat it onto the asphalt, a dark stain visible under his blue Hawaiian shirt.

Not too far from Butcher, Mother’s Milk held himself upright against the other side of the wrecked Mustang, good hand gripping a pistol that fit right in his big hands. Frenchie just coughed again, still on the ground but already pulling himself up too; armed and waiting like his bigger friend.

Even still, Black Noir kept advancing, boots crunching deliberately against scattered and shattered safety glass.

"Over ‘ere, gimp cunt! You got ‘omelander’s cock in your ears or what?" Butcher slammed a fist loud and hard against the hood of the car, other hand waving over at Noir. "I'm the one you want. Come 'ere!"

"S-stay the fuck back!" Hughie stepped forward, still half-laughing as he hefted the empty rifle like a club. The useless gesture was only made worse that he was still shaking, barely able to hold back a laugh that was far more manic than humorous. 

He just…

He just couldn’t let someone else die in front of him again.

Butcher spat another thick glob of blood, distance and the wind behind it this time as it splashed right in front of Noir.  "You kill Lenny," He laughed in time with Hughie, voice rough and wet around the edges as he drawled the edges of each syllable, "and you can kiss your fuckin' career goodbye."

Lenny? Hughie’s finger twitched against the empty trigger again. Butcher… Finding out about Butcher’s little brother a couple hours ago had been a mindfuck on its own, something he still wasn’t sure about. But now… How concussed are you, man?

Noir paused in his advance, standing perfectly still in the empty strip mall lot. That featureless black mask slowly turned until the man behind it faced the ruined Challenger and the man standing against its hood.

The Brit smiled over at the supe, the look ugly and filled with bloody teeth that promised a threat Hughie couldn’t make sense of.

"Yeah, that’s right, cunt. I got snaps. Candid on candid." Butcher took another limping half-step forward, hand still on the car. "Of Vought’s dirty little secret."

Noir’s head tilted again, just another fraction to the right.

"Homelander’s little bastard."

The kid. Hughie felt his heart kick into overdrive again, hammering against his ribs as he realized what was going on. Invoking Homelander’s name to the corporate assassin was basically lighting a match in a room full of gasoline but…What’s there to lose, right? Another laugh fought its way up his throat, Hughie’s hand going over his mouth as he tried to catch it before it spilled free. We’re dead anyway.

"Now, you lay one fuckin' finger on any of us," Butcher’s grin only widened as he stood up straighter, "and those photos go out of the cloud and straight into the inbox of John Oliver, Ronan Farrow and that fat cunt James Corden. The whole world will know how Vought’s Golden Boy has been stickin' his prick in the wrong fuckin' places, and forcin' laser-eyed little monsters onto the wrong fuckin' people."

Behind Hughie, Frenchie made a small, choked sound. 

"Vought went to a lot of trouble to keep that a secret." A fresh dribble of blood fell from Butcher’s split lip, the man wiping it away with the back of one grimy hand before it could trail down his chin. The whole time, those eyes of his burned bright like a fresh set of Homelander’s lasers found a new home. "I reckon the cunt up top might want to keep it that way."

The silence in the parking lot was almost absolute for all of a second.

The next, a bright melody cut clean through the quiet with the sound of a tinny choir.

~Hallelujah.

Hughie almost missed it at first, convinced his brain was finally giving up on him after one too many hits to the skull in too short a time. But then Noir reached a black-gloved hand into one of the many hidden pouches in his suit, a sleek phone held in his palm as the ringtone continued to play.  

Without wasting a second, the supe tapped the screen, bright display angled to face Butcher directly.

"William…” Hughie blinked as Stan Edgar’s upper body filled the screen, the CEO of Vought International immaculate where they were a mess. With a nod, the man stared through the video call like he was just having any other meeting. “I’d call it a pleasure but I think you’d disagree."

"So would you." Butcher’s face twitched, a single muscle under his eye spasming as he seemed to be fighting between the instinct to laugh or shout. "’ello, cunt."

Edgar didn't blink at the insult, the office behind him as sterile as his expression. "How can I be sure you actually have the proof of which you speak?"

“That’s the thing.” Butcher flashed those bloody teeth one more time. "You can't."

Noir stood still as both men spoke back and forth, phone held perfectly steady by a near-human tripod silent as the grave.

"On you to roll the dice, you old cunt." Butcher’s grin was bait as much as it was just the way the man looked, Hughie knew that much after this long. "Reckon he’d be more popular than Meghan and Harry’s little ones."

For one second, Hughie thought it worked. 

The desperate half of his brain — the part that just wanted to grip tight onto his boring life at an electronics store in Queens — needed it to work. 

"No."

The word landed flat, a simple one-syllable denial from Edgar as the air around them went dead.

Butcher’s smile didn’t waver but the fire in his eyes began to dim. “I don’t think you understa-” 

"No, William. I don’t think you understand. All of you are injured," Edgar’s lips thinned into something that might have been a smile. "Cornered. And currently have no hope against Noir here.”The man blinked slowly behind his glasses. “In simple terms, you are quite desperate. And you have been since the moment all this began. For quite some time, I’ve let you live because you were useful. Deniable chaos, a justification for our extension of power, a way to remove a little dirt, as well as a disruptive force to keep… certain figures occupied and in check. But now what little leverage you hold is already teetering past the edge into an irritant. Whatever you have — and I seriously doubt it is anything worth your breath — is not the kind of evidence that survives legal scrutiny, media containment, or Vought’s countermeasures."

Butcher’s eyes narrowed, slits staring at the phone.

"In other words, you have smoke, Mr. Butcher. Not fire. And at this point, I’d rather see you snuffed out since I really have no need for you." Edgar’s tone was polite, clinical, and absolutely final; the man not bothering to raise his voice as he placed the final signature on their execution notices with two words. "Black Noir."

Noir’s head angled slightly toward the phone.

And then a third.

"Continue."

The call ended, the screen going dark before Noir slid the phone back into his tactical pouch.

Butcher huffed out a harsh sound that might have been a laugh, the man ripping his jacket wide open with oddly steady hands. "Well, can't win 'em all."

At first, Hughie couldn’t place what he was looking at, his scrambled brain and blood-blinded eyes trying to piece together what the bulky shapes strapped on Butcher’s blue floral shirt could be. Maybe a harness or a plate carrier or some ugly stolen CIA gear he had laying around. 

Then he saw the gray blocks of putty under the tangle of red and blue wiring, the vest clearly related to the small black detonator clutched tight in Butcher’s right hand. 

Thumb already resting over the red switch, the Brit grinned even wider at Noir. "If it ain't broke..."

Hughie opened his mouth, eyes wide and one hand out. He didn’t even know what he was going to scream.

He didn't get the chance.

Something hit the empty space between them, a localized gust front tearing through dead air like a physical wall. Hughie’s scruffy hair whipped across his forehead, as dust and broken safety glass jumped three feet into the air, plywood storefronts rattling on their rusted nails from the sudden vacuum pressure.

And then the wind died.

Butcher was still standing by the hood of the car, coat open empty as his thumb rested on open air, Black Noir nowhere to be seen in the empty and abandoned lot.

Hughie blinked, his mouth still hanging open with a forgotten scream.

Butcher slowly turned his head, bloodshot eyes aimed onto Hughie.

"Bloody fuckin' 'ell was that?"

“That…” Hughie let the empty rifle drop, heavy barrel clattering against the asphalt. Behind him, Frenchie let out a high little giggle, a sound like he’d just witnessed a miracle as Hughie swallowed a mouthful of copper.

"That was backup."