Running From Himself 2-14

The eighty-second floor of Vought Tower was thick with the scent of money.

Well, that and the expensive air freshener pumped in through the vents.

Abstract art, soulless as the people that bought it to prove they had whatever passed as taste for the rich, littered the hallway Reggie found himself walking down.

Ashley scurried beside him as best she could, the hyperactive VP’s heels clic-clic-clicking on the polished marble in a frantic rhythm. He didn’t bother to look over at her as he kept walking forward, gaze locked straight ahead to avoid all the other curious eyes aimed his way.

There was a reason he’d kept it especially casual today; just jeans, a clean hoodie, a hat, and fresh high-tops. Nothing too expensive, too flashy or too supe-like for a specific reason. The less people’s minds connected Vought and Blushift the better, it was bad enough people still knew him as A-Train.

Bad enough his face was still on a million lunchboxes.

Bad enough Ashley won’t shut the fuck up.

“-nd my God, you would not believe how people in Marketing are just gushing over the numbers, I mean… i-i-t’s just out of this world, the numbers for the Blushift hashtag are just, wow, I mean, they’re insane.” Between Butcher’s bitching while bunking in his bachelor pad and Ashley’s nonstop chirping in his ear, Reggie was beginning to think that he must have committed some sin against God to be punished this much in his last run on Earth.

All I wanted to do was help people, Lord, it was only an iron will that kept him from turning his eyes skyward. Is the American medical system really so evil that I deserve this?

“The engagement, Reggie!”

Oh, this bitch. Reggie wondered if everyone around him shared the same idea that she’d been less of a pain in the ass without any real position worth the title. Maybe getting an office just comes with being annoying.

“The sentiment analysis, too, I mean it’s all just green. And we are looking at some real green for you too because it’s a huge opportunity for brand synergy, Reggie.” A fake little laugh spilled its way past her lips as Reggie still kept his eyes straight forward, long strides getting even longer down this near-endless hallway. “A r-real chance to re-engage… really hit the heart of your core demographic in an authentic, grassroots way. Mr. Edgar is just so eager to talk to you about it.”

Brand synergy. The laugh fighting his way in his chest was more real than anything he’d heard from Ashley since she met him in the lobby. He just punched a K-K-Karen through three buildings, and this dizzy bitch was trying to get him in on some Vought-branded TikToks or some shit.

“I mean, obviously, without a doubt, the initial media narrative around your new path was more than a little… chaotic,” the redhead worked her hands in a little gesture that probably made sense to her but only looked like she was having a slow-motion seizure to Reggie. “But that’s what happens without proper brand management and a little targeted influence, you know, on our end of course.” Ashley clicked her tongue, another little fake laugh spillng out as she clasped her hands in front of her red pantsuit. “So we’ve been running the analytics, and the public perception is positive. For some reason, they don’t even see Blushift as an extension of the Vought brand, or even of A-Train… which is… which is craaazy, right?”

Reggie didn’t blink, eyes still straight ahead even as his peripheral caught Ashley break for a moment, the only thing stopping tears being another little burst of fake laughing. “I mean, it's, y’know, good for plausible deniability, but as this… this… this organic, street-level down-to-earth hero. It’s a whole new vertical, Reggie. We just need to get in front of it a little, do a limited-edition merch line, something gritty, urban, playing to your strenghts. We could even do a pop-up in Brooklyn. The focus groups are loving the name, by the way. Blushift. It’s mysterious, it’s modern, it’s techy. It’s so Gen Z.”

Pop-up in Brooklyn. Reggie just let the word salad wash right over him, the Yankees cap on his head like a see-through umbrella. Jesus Christ.

“And the non-lethal angle is just,” she kissed her fingers, all five digits splaying out as she really tried to sell the chef’s kiss, “it’s playing so well with the eighteen-to-twenty-six female demographic, they’re really big into the anti-police brutality, of course. They see you as this… this reformed bad boy, and with the new darker look, you’re really giving that off so well, amazing branding. The optics of you taking down these supervillains without… y’know, turning them into street pesto… it’s an absolute goldmine against the more… well... to the more aggressive assets in our portfolio.”

Street pesto. That was the term Translucent had used too. Guess it wasn’t just him saying that, then. He just kept walking, his face sliding from blank to polite disinterest. “Uh-huh.”

“Love it, love the enthusiasm. So, what we’re thinking is sort of a phased integration. Some curated social media, get some groundswell on our side, maybe some ‘leaked’ photos of you training, looking all intense and brooding. The fans love brooding. You with me? Of course, of course, then we move into phase two; primetime, an interview. Maybe Seth Meyers? His whole thing would totally mesh with the Blushift brand, John Oliver could also get more Millenial eyes on you, you know? You talk about your journey, your new mission, all about finding purpose outside of the corporate structure of The Seven, to really hit that every-man vibe. Perfect hero’s journey narrative, Reggie. It’s authentic. It’s powerful. It’s…”

“That’s great, Ashley.” Reggie clicked his tongue to cut the woman off, voice easy and calm as he tried not to sound too much like a dick. Unfortunately, Billy Butcher — being a giant human British stain — was known to rub off on people. “Real great. But I really want to know about my last check for the Starlight thing? ‘Cause my bank account is looking a little less ‘synergized’ than I’m happy with right now.”

That much was true as anything could be. Most of his funds were tied up in savings, investments and just anything else he could do to keep off the giant wall of taxes he knew he had coming up to deal with. Meaning at the end of the day, while he was still pretty liquid, his personal funds were a little lighter than he’d like.

Talk of money, at least from his direction, seemed to freeze Ashley in place. For whatever reason, the Vice Preseident was actually caught off guard as animal panic flashed in her eyes before the smile snapped right back into place like it never left. “Right, right, the, uh, the compensation package for that visibility initiative we had you run. No problem there, it’s just that Mr. Edgar actually wanted to discuss the final deliverables on that with you… personally.”

Yeah… He knew that much, considering the phone call that got his ass up here. He was just hoping Ashley didn’t. Barely a few seconds later, a suddenly quiet Ashley stood aside as they reached the massive double doors of Edgar’s office, Reggie staring right at two towering slabs of dark, imposing wood that probably cost more than his first car. 

Let’s get this shit over with. But before that…

“Ashley,” Reggie glanced over at his side, all that easy bounce dropping low, “You ever tried being a fucking human being? For like, five minutes?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, just pushed the door open and walked in.

Only to stop as it swung shut behind him. Damn.

The office was… massive.

Reggie had seen Madelyn Stillwell’s office before… back when she wasn’t blown up into a million pieces, at least. Hers was nice, yeah, and really big for any office, but this shit… this was crazy.

The view, floor-to-celing, wasn't as good as the top floor of Vought Tower, but everything else about the room made it clear one was built for show, and this was built to impress. 

Stan Edgar sat behind a desk the size of a Honda Accord, not looking up from a piece of paper in his hands. The man was exactly what Reggie remembered from the news and all the way back to his single appearance on the show he hadn’t seen in a year and a lifetime. Slim, black, and with salt-and-pepper hair trimmed short and neat, the old man looked like he should be some grandpa rather than a cold-blooded CEO.

Unfortunately for gramps, Reggie wasn’t here to be nice.

The speedster walked across the vast expanse of Persian rug and dropped into one of the two chairs facing the desk, the expensive leather groaning under his weight. He was already shaking his head before the man in front of him could even say a word, wanting to get his point across first, setting the tone firmly and clearly. 

“No.”

The CEO lifted his head like he’d just noticed Reggie sitting there for the first time, eyes unbothered and amused as he let the paper in his hand fall to his desk. “I don’t think I’ve said a word yet,” the man’s voice was a baritone; low, patient and unhurried. “And I notice you certainly haven’t bothered to knock.”

“... my bad,” Reggie raised his hands, palms up, as he leaned back against the leather. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“And yet you overachieve,” the older man nodded as he spoke, as if it was expected. “A hard worker you are, Mr. Franklin.”

It took Reggie the effort of three saints to avoid outright rolling his eyes, a sigh bit back behind his teeth. “Okay, look. I’ve never met you before, and I don’t really work for you anymore, so don’t expect me trying to play nice here.” He leaned forward, hands landing on the massive piece of wood Stan Edgar called a desk. “I’m just trynna get paid from that thing I did with Starlight for y’all. No more than that. Definitely no less, too.”

Edgar tilted his head slow, almost looking like a bird for a few seconds as the old man looked at him like he was studying every inch of Reggie’s face. “Interesting that you would mention Starlight, seeing as this actually involves her, rather closely, I might add. Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said with a slow smile, gesturing to the chair Reggie was already sitting in.

Oh, so we’re playing that game? The condescending power-move game? Reggie raised an eyebrow. Aight, bet.

“As CEO of a major international corporation, you find that a great many of your problems are largely just delegation and troubleshooting,” Edgar didn’t even look back up before he continued, focus shifting to a tablet in front of him as if the person he called in for a meeting wasn’t even worth looking in the eye. “Delegation for the times in which your staff can handle the issues they are hired for, and troubleshooting… well, when they can’t. My current task is one of troubleshooting matters; a certain logistics problem with a three-hundred and ninety-million-dollar product launch, designated ‘Dawn of the Seven.’”

Oh, not this bullshit. Reggie let his eyes roll at the name of the upcoming new movie in the Vought Cinematic Universe, that over-complicated piece of media bullshit that could barely keep itself straight.

“You might be interested to know that market research made us here at Vought aware that a key demographic—women, eighteen to thirty-four—show a significant engagement spike when the Starlight asset is publicly associated with your narrative. ‘Reformed bad boy with good girl’, so to speak. Granted, we do lose some white men in that age range, but they were going to see the film regardless, so it’s not even worth considering. Various racial implications aside, it did excellent work for our projections.” 

Asset. Narrative. Reggie’s bored eyes narrowed at that, this shitty old man talking about him and Annie like they were characters in some shitty video game.

"Yeah, listen," Reggie cut him off, one hand already waving in the air. "I'm not one of you guys' little dancing monkeys anymore. This..." His finger spun up in a lazy circle, encompassing all of Vought Tower, the office, Edgar's whole operation. "...is not my circus. I gave all that up when I gave up A-Train. Y'all can keep the name. Put another fast lil nigga in the suit for all I care. Pull another Mr. Marathon, none of my business. It's your brand. Just leave me the fuck out of it."

"You certainly have a lot to say, don't you?" Edgar's tone was so neutral it was sickening, the man colder than ice in  more ways than one.

Reggie clicked his tongue. "...it's a gift."

"A gift you seem intent on squandering." Edgar's voice remained infuriatingly calm, a clear measured cadence that most likely made Vought board members make a mess of their pleated trousers during meetings. "You seem to be under the impression that your retirement was a unilateral decision. Allow me the pleasure of disabusing you of that ridiculous notion. No, Reginald,” the man raised an eyebrow as he spoke Reggie’s full government like a disappointed school counselor, “you see, it was a calculated, albeit costly, maneuver to mitigate the damage from your... public lapse in judgment. Granted, we have many of those on record from you, but this was especially idiotic. Now, what was the language Homelander used again?”

Mr. Edgar’s thumb rose to trail his chin as the man nodded for a second, a hum leaving his lips as he seemed to venture into his thoughts. “Ah, I remember now. ‘Particularly retarded.’ A particularly retarded liability of a supe publicly killed a young woman while in full costume in the middle of the day while transporting our most valuable asset, a proprietary product worth untold billions as a secret. Over twenty-one million dollars of Class Five Compound V, scattered all over an alley wall in the Lower East Side, enough of it in your system to liquify your insides several times over, if not have you outright immolate.”

Reggie found himself silent, unable to do much more than blink for a second. …what?

“Now, we allowed you to walk away because the narrative of a repentant hero was, at the time, more valuable than the narrative of a disgraced one. We also expected you to drop dead any second, and having it happen while you weren’t in the Seven was simply better for us, than the alternative. Luckily, you didn’t and you proved your worth yet again in elevating the portfolio of one of our already highly popular talents. Again, a better value.” Edgar sat up straight, the eyes behind the glasses going colder than before as they fixed Reggie with a firmer glare. “But value is a fluid concept, Mr. Franklin. It changes with the market."

Fuck you and fuck the damn market too. Reggie shook his head, pushing his confusion and surprise to the back of his mind as something to deal with later. “Look, I don’t give a shit about the market, man,” Reggie shot back, doing his best to inject the bass and swagger into his voice. “I’m out. I did your little fake boyfriend thing, all the smiles, cute lil’ dates, helped sell your little ‘girl power’ bullshit, all that and dim sum. The contract is done. My six months are up. Just pay me.”

“The contract is never done,” Steel entered the CEO’s voice, Stan Edgar speaking like an air conditioner stuck on freezing. “You are, and always will be, a Vought product. Your DNA is seven billion dollars worth of debt your parents sold you into, Mr Franklin.” The old man raised a hand, one palm facing him before it closed into a fist. “And before you say a thing, I very much understand the implications of my words. That is why I chose them specifically. Your face, your name, your sad family history; all of it intellectual property that we own in perpetuity with your previous brand. Your ‘retirement’ was simply a rebranding. And now, we have a new product launch that requires your participation.”

“But t-”

“But nothing, your story is currently one of redemption,” Edgar interjected, voice losing a bit of the cold but still staying too frigid to be anything close to warm as he kept his eyes on the screen. “A clean, profitable narrative, one that has performed well. It has insulated the Starlight asset from negative sentiment following the Deep’s contract termination and produced a measurable uptick in her approval rating. It is, for now, a stable commodity.”

The tablet got placed face-down on the desk, movement precise and final as a judge's gavel as Edgar finally gave Reggie full attention. 

Calculating eyes running numbers with cold precision stared the speedster down. “However, narratives are not fixed assets. As I said before, they are fluid. They can be revised.”

I… don’t like where this is going. Unlike the chill running down his spine, the thought was a complete lie. He already hadn’t been a fan of where any of this had gone, on at least ten different levels.

“The story of a sinner finding sainthood is highly profitable; the public loves a redemption story, something to change up an image, unlike the staid concept of a classic hero doing what he’s always done,” Edgar’s lips quirked upward. “But a story about a reckless supe, high on God knows what, whose negligence resulted in a young woman’s death, who then latched onto America’s new sweetheart in a desperate, calculated attempt to salvage his public image… that story has its own kind of value. A more chaotic kind. The kind of story that creates splash-back, that tarnishes everything it touches.”

…fuck. The thought might as well have been screamed in his head, as loud as it sounded for a single syllable. Reggie could see it all happen too, crystal clear in his head; all the VNN segments, the headlines, the fucking social media thinkpieces from those bitches with a septum piercing and a bone to pick. They'd twist everything, make him more the villain he already had been, make Annie look like some dumb little brat just being used. Edgar didn’t give a shit; he knew the old man wouldn’t mind burning down her reputation to the ground just to get at him, collateral damage in their corporate war games.

This motherfucker.

"You wouldn't." The words came out tighter than he wanted, his own response a lie. His hands gripped the armrests of the expensive leather chair, super-strong digits threatening to tear right through it. "...th-the brand, though?"

Reggie watched as Edgar’s lips moved into a specific expression, something that would be a smile on any other face, in any other place. “Oh? You mean a temporary dip in asset value to discipline a rogue element and demonstrate the consequences of non-compliance?” The CEO asked, as if genuinely considering the question. “That is not a loss, Mr. Franklin. That’s already been factored into the market. Nothing more than an investment in future stability. More than that, the public’s memory is remarkably short, especially when presented with a new, more compelling storyline.”

It all hit him at once like cold water, seeping through every crack in his defenses until it soaked into his bones. Completely and utterly fucked, and Edgar hadn't even raised his voice. 

Not even a single real threat said, just laid out the facts on the table. And the facts were, he had a gun to Annie's head with his finger resting easy on the trigger.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. "What do you want?" The words tasted like bad medicine going down, but he got them out anyway.

"The current cut of the film is adequate." Edgar steepled his fingers, looking for all the world like a younger Blacker Mr. Burns. "But the inclusion of your character's return; a brief, heroic, and self-sacrificing appearance, would be the cinematic culmination of the redemption narrative. It would maximize the ROI on both of your brands and permanently stabilize the storyline to our satisfaction."

It was amazing how he could just state the business case, like Reggie's entire life was a line item on some Excel sheet.

"You want me to be in the movie." The absurdity of it almost pulled a laugh out of him, but it died somewhere in his chest before it could reach his throat. "After everything. You want me to put on the suit and play the hero for you."

Unbelievable. This whole damn thing is unbelievable.

"I want nothing more than to protect your investment, Mr. Franklin. As well as ours. This has nothing to do with feelings. It has nothing to do with trust. It is simply about doing good business, stability over volatility is always the prudent investment." Edgar paused with a smile, what he had to say sinking in. "Of course, not everyone seeks prudence as a virtue. You would know that, wouldn't you... Reggie?"

His name had never felt more like a slap to the face.

Edgar stood up, movement smooth and controlled. Clear signal the meeting was over, that he'd already won and they both knew it. "The costume department has your old measurements on file, but they will want to schedule a new fitting. My assistant will be in touch to coordinate."

Just like that. Done. Decided. Reggie just sat there in that expensive leather chair, staring at this man, this calm, quiet, unassuming old dude who held the entire world on a leash. Signed and sealed.

No screaming, no threats, no posturing. Homelander was a rabid dog on a chain, sure, but this guy forged the chain, built the kennel, owned the company that sold the dog food and probably had stock in the vet clinic that put the dog down when it stopped being profitable.

Terrifying didn't even cover it.

"...you're worse than Homelander, you know that?" The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

For the first time since he walked into this office, a small, genuine smile touched Stan Edgar's lips. 

"I'll take that as a compliment."