Running From Himself 2-15

He opened his eyes, one lens of his bright blue glasses shattered to all hell, as the percussive boom slapped hard against his chest. 

The speedster grunted, mouth full of smoke and dirt as he fought to keep from stumbling, the world nothing but explosions in the hellscape he found himself in. Son of a- 

His left leg—the one that had been in as many pieces as a jigsaw puzzle a year ago—slammed hard into the ground as he kicked back, darting away from another relentless wall of smoke and fire. His face was covered in dirt, grime, and a smear of red, everything from head to toe sticky and uncomfortable under the early fall sun. 

No time to bitch. A-Train sucked in a breath as he pushed off again, the supe forcing a limp he didn’t have, as he used his speed to dodge another blast of fire that tore into the sky.

He barely made it two dozen feet when the world tore itself apart beneath him. Everything went white, glasses flying free to who knows where, and A-Train barely had a second to suck in a breath full of smoke. The explosion — bigger, closer, and far more blinding — sent him spinning through the air in an ungraceful arc that would probably look amazing in slow motion. 

Fu-He hit the ground in a mess as ungainly as his flight had been, rolling through the dust until he came down to a final peaceful landing on his back, staring up at the painfully blue, cloudless sky.

Half-lidded eyes stared up as the sounds of explosions thundered in his ears, the ground still shuddering, with tremors unfamiliar to the East Coast. One hand rose over his face, blocking his eyes from the sun and smoke.

At the same moment, though, a shadow fell over him. The American flag in all its glory; bright, bold and immaculate, blocked out the sun as a hand, strong and steady, reached down towards him.

“You okay, A-Train?” Chad, square-jawed and with a face that looked like he’d been abusing the juice, spoke the words with concern that was clearly rehearsed.

No idea why. Reggie kept the frown off his face, pulling his best tired but heroic expression as he made sure to keep his face on camera. The Homelander stand-in was putting in a lot of work, unnecessary as it was, the stunt double clearly hoping to be a real actor one day. They’re just gonna dub you over, man.

Reggie took the hand and rose to his feet, faking a limp on a foot that could kick through an armored door with no problem. Let’s sell it and get this over with. A gloved hand rested on Chad-lander’s shoulder as he leaned on the guy, playing up the exhaustion, the pain, and whatever else this fucking scene was supposed to be about. “Yeah… yeah, I’m ‘aight, Homelander.” 

He looked up at Chad-lander, the double holding up a hand as heroically and expertly blocked a hail of imaginary bullets that the SFX team would add in later. “I gotta thank y’all for this. For… for letting me still be a part of this.” He let his voice crack, just a little, doing his best to sell it for the camera. Can’t do another take today, man. “To come back… for one… one more race… but with my leg the way it is, and the kid…” 

Reggie turned his head to the side, fist up to his mouth as he held back a cough, “I just know, it’s time for me to run home.”

“CUT!”

The sound effects from all the imaginary bullets stopped, squibs no longer popping off across the set. With a sigh that nearly transformed into an out-and-out groan, Reggie immediately dropped the act, the speedster rolling his shoulders so hard he heard something pop off as loud as some of the pyrotechnics that had been battering his body for the last half hour.

“That was great, man. Fuckin’ killed it.” Chad’s words came with a pat on the shoulder, Reggie blinking back at the man. “Really felt the connection, dawg.” Without another word, the double turned right on his heels and walked off in full costume toward his trailer, probably to go practice a smoldering stare in the mirror.

Another sigh slipped from Reggie’s lips, the man slumping a little before he started making his own way through the set. Two weeks of this…

Almost, at least.

More like eleven days since his not-so-little chat with CEO Stanford “Literally Lucifer” Edgar, and now here he was, on the set of Dawn of the Seven.

About fucking time they get to making this movie. Really, it was just lazy work. Apart from the G-Men, there had been no real team films, which was weird considering the Seven literally started this whole franchise. Makes no sense. 

Even weirder considering the Seven had been around since 2004. Like, hurry the fuck up.

Reggie shook his head, a frown crossing his face at the sight of a familiar red onesie walking past him. Nah… ain’t him. The sight of Mr. Marathon’s costume wrapped around an entirely different actor was almost enough to make him doubletake, but he knew damn well Vought wouldn’t dare touch the old man and his Cosby shit with a ten-foot pole. Definitely not after the Deep’s shitshow.

Reggie rolled his shoulders again, fighting a third sigh as he forced himself to get used to the fit of his old A-Train costume. Even after the adjustments, it still felt tighter against his new muscles and definitely a lot more plasticky than he remembered. 

Especially compared to his Blushift fit.

Two weeks of this choreographed, focus-grouped bullshit. And the most irritating part? Edgar had actually taken some of his advice.

His eyes went up, traveling past everyone else on the set to land on the advice in question. A wide smile on his face, a black kid — barely old enough for his balls to drop — waved back over at him, eager and happy in a way that let Reggie know this life (and life in general) hadn’t beaten him down yet. The kid stood there in a badly kiddified version of his old costume, the blues and whites brighter, more hopeful even. 

Montrell. His on-screen protégé. His replacement. Kid A-Train.

Reggie’s lips spread as the adult speedster forced a grin and waved back, not wanting the kid to think he was an asshole. Even down to another little nigga to uphold the A-Train brand… Edgar, you fucking dickhead. I better get writer credits for this shit.

Montrell was a good kid, though, and he made sure the kid didn’t feel any bad blood Reggie had for the company in general. On top of that, the little guy was pretty fast, too; considering he broke the under-fifteen record in the Vought Kid’s Sport’s Games. Almost as fast as he was now, and getting faster every day. A perfect legacy to maybe make something good out of a name he was trying so hard to leave behind. Leave behind, huh… 

Reggie knew he was sighing a lot today but he really couldn’t help his mood. It definitely didn’t help to find out that he might have a time limit on his second run at life already. Overdose…

He remembered very well how much Compound V he had been running for Homelander. More than that, he remembered exactly how it had splattered all over him, some of the last thoughts he had before everything went black.

Knowing all that shit had gotten in him and Vought was just sitting on the fact that they expected him to drop dead literally any day… it suddenly made a lot of sense why they hadn’t been picking a fight to keep him from heading out as soon as possible.

He fought the urge to rub his face, both hands twisting over each other in a move that only made it obvious how much he wanted to be anywhere but here. Seven billion dollars… He didn’t exactly know how Vought got to that number but it was just another example of how this supe shit was commodified to hell and back. Vought’s medical team was something he was hoping to make use of before all this filming shit was done, just something to confirm that he wasn’t going to run too fast one day and ‘self-immolate’ like Edgar had claimed. Why can’t this shit just be s-

“Reggie! That was just—wow! The emotional resonance, the vulnerability—it’s testing through the roof!” Ashley appeared at his side, a blur of blue pantsuit and frantic energy. “The dailies are incredible. We’re already talking about a re-brand for the A-Train IP. We know you’re all independent now, but your input would be extremely valuable if you sign on as an executive producer, we’ll even let you go wild.”

“Go wild, huh?” He snorted at the blatant lie, as if Vought would ever let a finger off something they had a grip on. “How you figure?”

“We’re thinking a solo streaming series. A-Train: The Prodigal Son. We’re thinking of having Kid A-Train be your son you had from when you were younger and you never knew about him. Or maybe something grittier.”

Grittier. Reggie frowned. Like, what? I ditched my kid? 

“Or Training the Legacy, a documentary with you and Kid A-Trai-”

“Montrell.”

“Huh?” Ashley blinked at the interruption.

“His name’s not Kid A-Train.” Reggie corrected, voice slow and soft as he looked back over at the kid in question. You don’t know what you’re getting into, lil man. “That’s his title. His name is Montrell. Montrell White.” 

“Uh-huh, yeah, yeah, y-yeah, of course.” Ashley nodded, her head picking up speed with each syllable. “Montrell, Kid A-Train, his synergy with you is off the charts. We could do a whole new toy line, a video game tie-in, maybe even a YA novel series exploring both of your journeys of self-discovery. Mr. Edgar is just so thrilled with your commitment to your original brand, even with your new path in life. We’re all seeing this as a real turning point for you, for your arc even, a real narrative change. Do you know how rare it is to get a chance to pivot back into a Tier One asset category, especially on your own private imprint? The multi-quadrant appeal is so high the numbers are making me sick,” she laughed out loud with the word, smile on her face that had him wondering if the white girl was hitting the white girl.

Rolling his eyes, he just let her talk, the young woman going on and on, voice a high-pitched, anxious chirp, as he scanned the controlled chaos of the set. Grips pushing equipment, PAs shouting into headsets, a bored-looking not-so-regal Queen Maeve scrolling through her phone in a canvas director’s chair. The whole place smelled like burnt sugar, smoke, and sweat. He had no idea if he was actually tired or just annoyed but  with his mortality staring him in the face, Reggie really wasn’t sure he could deal with another minute of it without running through another woman just to deal with the fallout.

He let out a long, weary sigh. “Ashley…”

Although in this case, it’d definitely be more deserving.

The Vice-President of Superhuman Relations stopped mid-syllable, her already buggy eyes even wider. “…yes?”

“Human. Being. Please.”

He left the redhead there, Ashley still sputtering in the middle of the set as the woman probably tried to figure out what that meant. Shoulders slumped, Reggie made his way over to the craft services table, and wasted no time in grabbing himself some grilled chicken off a warming tray and a good-sized bottle of apple juice from an ice bucket. 

Food and drink in hand, the speedster collapsed into an empty cast chair, the canvas groaning only a little under his weight.

Least Vought always got a good spread. The company had a few redeeming qualities and the amenities made up somewhere like 99% of them. Free food, expensive coffee, and bathrooms built for Donald Trump; what more could you ask for, right? 

He was halfway through his chicken, juice bottle sweating condensation into his costume, when a shadow fell over him. Dark hair in an undercut smirked his way as Stormfront dropped into the chair across from him, looking at him like he hadn’t knocked her off her high horse just two weeks back. Her bruises had faded some, but the ugly discoloration around her jaw spoke volumes.

No matter how much the makeup people tried to hide it with expert concealer, it didn’t work all that great. Not up close.

Before she could open her mouth and ruin his meal with her bullshit, somebody else made their way over; a certain someone hovering at the edge of the craft table like a kid no one picked for dodgeball. 

Standing there, in a ridiculous, high-collared turtleneck with dark blue fabric bunched around his throat, the undersea supe looked like he was about to give somebody some tips on their 401k or something.

"Reggie! Bro! Hey!" The Deep's voice came out loud; too loud, coming at him with the energy of a game show host who wandered into the wrong building. "Great to see you, man. You're looking... you're looking really centered. I can feel the positive vibes, just great energy coming off you. It's amazing."

Centered? Reggie took another bite of chicken, and chewed slow. I'm about three seconds from using my speed to go take a nap in my trailer. "What do you want, Kevin?"

"Whoa, okay, straight to it. Respect, Reggie.” Kevin nodded, voice slow and calm with none of the boisterousness and general ego he had been expecting. “Directness is a sign of a healthy emotional state. It shows that you value my input and respect my ability to handle strong truths, I appreciate that.” Reggie blinked at him, unsure why those words sounded more like Kevin was echoing somebody else verbatim. 

His aquatic ex-teammate pulled up his own chair without being invited, the other supe leaning in close as his voice dropped just a bit. "So, look… real talk, man to man, I hear you're, like, super tight with Mr. Edgar now.”

Reggie raised an eyebrow. “I’m what with who?”

Kevin shook his head. “No, no, no, your secret’s safe with me, my man. Now, I think that’s great, I’m all in support of black solidarity. I did the black square thing on Instagram too. Amazing... really.”

…what? The chicken was almost forgotten in his grip now as Reggie just stared, the supe unsure what to say in the face of all… all that.

Unfortunately, the Deep was not close to being done. “I just... I mean, I'm on this journey, you know? Of self-improvement. The Church of the Collective has been so helpful. I've been meditating, journaling, finding my center; all of it just to really lock in on examining my past behavior. I know it’s only been a month or so, really, but I just feel like... like I'm ready. For a second chance."

A… a second chance? Reggie just stared at the guy for a long moment. From me? Why me?

“... okay?” Even with his sparse memory of a life as A-Train, Reggie didn’t think he had much of a history with Kevin, not personally. A-Train's memories of him were just a blur of cocaine, dumb conversations, and a vague background feeling of being annoyed. Hell, Translucent was in middle school when A-Train was born and he had been way closer to the invisible pervert. "And you want me to talk to Edgar for you? To get you back in the Seven?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, that was kind of the idea, yeah. I mean, if you can." White teeth strained themselves open as the Deep gave Reggie a smile that barely managed to stay on this side of confident. "You could just, like, put in a good word to the big guy upstairs. Downstairs. Whatever, you know, tell him I've changed. How I’m a new man, Reggie. I’m on my path."

Can’t blame a guy for finding his path but… Reggie took a slow sip of his apple juice, cold-pressed sweetness sitting on his tongue for a second before swallowing. Brown eyes turned fully to face the walking punchline of a man in front of him, well aware that he couldn’t really judge him for what he did.

Not when A-Train had done much worse.

Still, though… forgiveness was not for him to grant.

"Kevin,” and more than that, he had his own issues against granting what he could when it came to the Deep, “I gotta be real with you, bro, when was the last time you talked to me?"

The Deep blinked, eyes suddenly wide. "What? I mean,” he blew air out of his mouth, the little confidence he had seeming to go with it, “I…I don't know, it's been a while, we've all been kinda bus-"

"A year." Reggie cut him off, chicken forgotten in his hand. "A year, bro. Since I retired. Since I almost died. Since I busted my head open and forgot most of my goddamn life. It wasn’t a secret or nothing. It was news, man. Like, literally, on the news. Whole time, I ain’t heard shit from you. Not a text, not a call, not a goddamn get-well card. You didn't check up on me once."

"Bro... I mean... I was going through my own stuff, you know? And I didn't even have your new number, though..."

"So... we weren't tight like that, yeah?” Reggie asked, the speedster pausing to finish the last of his juice. “Not even as coworkers? Not enough for you to ask someone for my number and say, 'Hey man, hope you ain’t still fucked up in the head'?"

"I... I've been on a path, Reggie. It's... it's been transformative."

"Then maybe you should've asked your path for a favor then, Kevin. Not me."

"I..."

"Get the fuck on, man." Reggie nearly spat the last syllable, apple juice bottle crinkling in his grip. "You wanna change? Then go change. But don't come to me looking for a shortcut."

Kevin just sat there for a few seconds, mouth opening and closing like one of his fish friends as he clearly tried to think of something to say. Nothing came, though.

Reggie kept one eye on the other man until the Deep finally pushed himself up and just walked away, Stormfront giggling her ass off as he left.

Reggie raised an eyebrow high at the Nazi woman who didn't realize he knew her secret. Hell, judging from the look on her face, she didn’t even know he was the one who had glassed her on that rooftop. “Something funny?”

“No, no, just…” she waved one hand his way, smirk widening. “Look at you, all that bass in your voice. Laying down the law. It’s cute.”

Reggie’s eyebrow went even higher. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m just saying,” she leaned forward, her voice dropping a little to that fake-conspiratorial tone. “It’s impressive. How you’ve managed to… pivot. From the urban, hip-hop-centric branding of A-Train to this more… thoughtful persona. No more hanging around with rappers or anything. It's just… It’s a very savvy move. Much… much more approachable now. For a broader audience, you know?”

Uh-huh… “Yeah, well, almost dying will give you a new perspective,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Makes you read a book or two.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she said, smile not reaching her eyes. “It’s just… you seem to have a real talent for it. The code-switching. It’s a valuable skill. Especially for… guys like you. It helps you get ahead.”

Like you. “Guys like who, Stormfront?” It was a small challenge to keep himself sounding friendly, voice all light and shit, but being a supe meant you had to be an actor too. 

And being on the Seven made you pretty good at that.

“Oh, you know,” she said, waving her hand again. “Athletes. Entertainers. People from… disadvantaged backgrounds. It’s just so inspiring to see one of you really make it, and do it with such… class.”

Disadvantaged backgrounds. He almost laughed. He barely remembered A-Train’s background but he remembered his. Nothing disadvantaged about his. But that didn’t matter.

She just saw the skin.

He let the grin slide back onto his face. “Well, thanks. I appreciate you noticing. It’s tough out there, you know? Gotta be smarter than the average bear.”

“Exactly!” she said, relieved that he was playing along. “You get it. Not all of them do. Some of them… they just can’t seem to get out of their own way.”

He leaned forward, his grin turning sharp, predatory. His voice dropped to a whisper of his own. “How has nobody figured out you’re a racist fucking bitch yet?”

Her face froze. 

He grinned at her, a wide, toothy, merciless grin, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink before he stood up and walked away.

He couldn’t wipe that same smile off his face, no matter how tired he felt.

In fact, it was still on his face when he ran into Nubia not too far from his trailer, the woman on her phone with that low angry hum in her voice that meant somebody was about to get shocked or punched or both. "...no, I told you, I'm not doing the meet-and-greet with the governor. He's got creepy hands. Yes, I'm serious. Handle it." Without another word, the Queen of Storms hung up, a scowl already carved deep into her face.

Somebody's having a day.

"Damn, momma, who pissed in your cornflakes?" Reggie leaned against the side of his trailer, the metal still warm from sitting out in the sun all day. 

The look she gave him could have curdled milk by the gallon, eyes narrowed to slits. “My ex-husband, my agent, my publicist, every-damn-body with a dick in a half-mile radius, functional or not.” Her eyes went up and down, staring his way.

“...that include me?”

“I dunno, does it?”

“Hope not.”

She rolled her eyes, a bit of the heat in her stare slipping free. "And look at you. Playing dress-up for the man. I thought you were done with all this."

Yeah, me too.

"Yeah, well, the man has a very convincing way of making you see things his way." He shrugged, watching Nubia's face shift into understanding. They both knew exactly who that man was, and confusingly enough, he was wearing a face with their skin. "Besides, it's just a movie. Not real."

"Uh-huh." Nubia's tone said she wasn't buying it for a second. "Why don't you tell that to all the little eight-year-olds who are gonna be buying your action figure."

Right on cue, said eight-year-old came running up, a blur of pink and yellow that resolved into Maya Nubian bouncing on her light-up sneakers.

"Mr. A-Train!" The kid beamed up at him, all missing teeth and excitement. "Are you fighting the bad guys today?"

Something in his chest loosened up, a genuine smile replacing the fake one he'd been wearing all day as he stared at the little girl he’d saved not too long ago. Reggie crouched down to her level, knees popping just a little. "You know it, little bit. Punching them right into next week."

"Stormfront a bad guy?" Maya's voice dropped to this loud whisper, the kind kids did when they thought they were being sneaky. "Cus my mommy says she's a bitch."

Nubia's eyes went wide, hand almost lashing out to cover her daughter’s mouth "Maya! We do not use that word!" She looked back up at Reggie with a bit of a nervous expression where the previous stormy one vanished. “She doesn’t use that word.”

"But you do.” Maya’s response came back quick and confident, no hesitation the way only a little kid could.

Reggie threw his head back and laughed, real and genuine and echoing across the set loud enough that some crew members looked over. "Yeah… Mommy's right. She's a super-bitch."

Facts.

The laugh cut off mid-sound as all three of them followed this sudden streak in the sky. Her. 

The super-bitch herself, flying off set in a hurry like somebody lit a fire under her ass. "Huh, wonder what that's about?"

Probably got a Klan meeting to attend or some shit.

Reggie waved bye to Maya, and gave Nubia a wink that earned him a scoff before she dragged her daughter away, the kid still asking questions about bad guys and punching. With a yawn, Reggie made his way  into his trailer, the manufactured cold of the AC hitting him like a wall of relief after the sticky heat of the day outside. 

The speedster didn’t waste another minute, collapsing onto the small bed built into the wall, exhaustion of the day hitting him all at once.

Just five minutes. Just need five minutes.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

By the time Reggie blinked awake, the  trailer was dark as hell, set outside quiet in that eerie way that meant everybody had gone home. The phone was ringing on the small table next to the bed, a shrill and insistent buzz that made his teeth ache after who knows how many hours passed the fuck out. 

Groaning, he fumbled for it, eyes still blurry with sleep and confusion. 

The screen said Hughie.

"Yo, Hugh, what's g—"

Reggie blinked again, body almost a blur as he bolted straight up. The last bits of sleep vanished as the words left his mouth in a hiss that nearly shifted into a yell. "You're bringing who to my place?"