Running From Himself 3-8
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Like they’re up there doing some renovation. Reginald Jesse Franklin rolled his eyes, head dropping back against the white leather of his couch as he listened to the resident beanpole of the Boys pound his way to the other side of a certain pair of walls.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
The speedster bit back a snort, eyes going wide at the sudden speed, a rhythmic pace that did a hell of a job at vibrating right through the half-million-dollar ceiling that was supposed to be double-layer insulated.
Supposed to, at least.
But that didn’t account for supe hearing, now did it?
Goddamn, Hughie. He shook his head. I mean, damn…
It was the only way to put it at this point. Months of practice had made one thing pretty clear to Reggie — not that he needed or wanted the info — and that was that Hughie ‘Soup Can’ Campbell had some strokes on him. Pause.
Reggie fought to hold back another snort, the sheer absurdity of the lanky motherfukcer putting numbers up on America’s Sweetheart was still one of the funniest things to ever happen in this mansion. Not bad, White Urkel. Not bad at all.
It only took a moment for that smile to fade just a little bit, nose wrinkling as another thought slapped him in the face. I really hope Lamplighter ain't beating his shit to this. The washed-up firebug was parked somewhere down in the basement guest wing, and considering the man’s degenerate browsing history over the last couple weeks, Reggie didn’t even bother putting limits on what he could be up to.
Hughie did tell me he was talking about some cuck shit. His mouth sunk deeper into a frown as he remembered that fact. He better not. This ain’t the place for no more of that degen shit. Not anymore.
The recessed lighting overhead flickered for a quick half-second as Reggie stared up at his white ceiling, a lazy dip in the voltage that was definitely less about the Jersey grid and a whole lot more about Starlight seeing God for the third time in fifteen minutes.
“O-ho, Petit Hughie is at it again, I see.”
Speaking of degen shit…
“Pick another topic, Frenchie.” Reggie’s words came with a sigh, not wanting to get into this outside his head. “Anything else.”
“What about the news then?” Frenchie giggled to himself, the man wearing a smile as he hovered by the fireplace, a dish towel clutched in one hand as his mouth ran a cool ninety miles an hour because silence apparently made the guy look for a vein. "The news, Monsieur Colibri! Or should I say Zoom, as they are so obsessed with the name!" Frenchie waved the towel over his head, taking his sweet time in wiping down the mantle. "Everywhere on the Twitter, the hashtag Zoom is trending higher than the new Vought-a-Burger downtown! The mall save, c'est magnifique! They are calling you the savior of the boroughs!"
"Blushift, Frenchie. Blu. Shift." Reggie grunted out both syllables as he repeated it for the drug-addicted Frenchman. "My big bro’s already got it trademarked, man. More importantly, going by Zoom gonna get my ass in court, bro."
"Nah, bro, Zoom is clean," MM rumbled from his left, Marvin taking up a solid two cushions all by himself. The big man’s oversized arms were crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the flipping channels of the jumbo screen. "Try and get a deal with them for it. Cash out."
Across the rug and room, Kimiko’s eyes did a slow liquid slide over from her corner, fingers still sticky with frosting from whatever sugar-glazed monstrosity she'd stolen out of the Sub-Zero five minutes ago. Her eyes met his, both of them still hearing the thump-thump-thumping coming from the second floor.
Kenji couldn’t hear a damn thing, her little brother limp and slumped over against her; mouth opened in a quiet snore. Both his hands — still wrapped tight in thick white gauze — twitched in his sleep; fractured and still-healing bones probably being used in whatever telekinetic dream he was having.
"I didn’t ask for a focus group from the peanut gallery." Reggie shifted his weight, teeth grit as he pulled tight against a bruised rib. That kid… That fuckin’ kid was another Rojo — one of several that had been fighting with that El Diablo dickhead this morning up in Bushwick — who’d sent a car flying hard into Reggie, forcing him to catch the shit before it hit some civvies, just to give them time to run. Dickheads. "And the mall was just…”
Reggie winced again with another stretch. “...just four dudes juiced on Red V doing some early Christmas shopping."
"Ah, Le Bleu Rapide, but the showmanship, the heroism and, of course, your new lady of lightning.” Frenchie clicked his tongue, eyebrows waggling as he pulled on deeper levels of Frenchness Reggie hadn’t seen since Pepe LePew. “Have you… how do you say… tasted that ripe fruit yet? The blogs, they say you are the new ‘King of the West Coast’, if you know what I mean."
Jesus Christ, Serge. "I don’t kiss and tell, Frenchie." Reggie leaned deeper into the couch, arms crossed and voice flat with forced boredom. "We’re just friends. Friends who hang out.” His correction came as quickly as Frenchie opened his mouth. “That’s it. Stop reading the comments on the Shaderoom, man, they rot your brain."
MM’s eyebrow went up so high it almost hit his hairline, face as flat as Reggie’s voice.
Reggie just tilted his head, giving the big man the same look.
Palms hit soft and fast, a dap passing unseen between them the same second Frenchie turned around to wipe down another smudge on the fireplace.
“Y’all heard from Butcher?”
Reggie didn’t even bother looking at Marvin as he snorted at the question. “Don’t ask me. Mr Trenchcoat can fuck off and die for all I care.”
“Yooo, Gee.” A palm went up from Marvin, the man looking offended even as Reggie rolled his eyes back over at the man.
“Nigga threatened my family a couple weeks back.” He clicked his tongue loud enough to echo in the half-empty living room. “Imma say what I feel. That limey nigga is evil.”
“Monsieur Charcuterie has his, uhhh, how you say… uniquities…” Frenchie turned around again, waving that cloth. “Not too far from normal in his line of work.”
“Evil-ass uniquities is all I’m saying.” Reggie shook his head.
“I mean…” MM tilted his head, the big man just grunting. “Can’t deny that. That ain’t answer my question, though. Frenchie?”
“Petit Hughie told me Butcher was headed on a trip, I think to the… uhh, Catskills?”
“Fuck he’s doing up there?” Grunign again, Marvin picked up the remote, channels flashing across the massive screen with strobing blue and then red light, some cooking show where the chef looked red enough to cry over a spilled risotto, a rerun of Reacher, then—
"—esse Franklin."
"Yo, go back.” Reggie hit the cushion hard with his elbow. “MM, go back."
The screen settled on the pale face of one Cameron Coleman, the anchor's teeth shining a porcelain-white under the harsh studio lights. SEVEN ON SEVEN WITH CAMERON COLEMAN flashed across the screen in branding-approved Vought News Network colors, before shifting smoothly into a split-screen that showed Robert Vernon, the Tek-Knight himself.
The man looked as comfortable as being worth billions made you, lounging back in an all-black suit tailored down to the perfect dimensions of his nutsack, complete with a silver tie and a neat little diamond clip.
"Tek Knight, your new true-crime series — The Whole Truth — is already shattering streaming records," Coleman beamed out loud, smile as loud as his voice and both just warm enough to sound reasonable while laundering pure propaganda. "But tonight, you’re bringing us a staggering piece of investigative work.”
“That’s right, Cameron.”
Reggie blinked. What’s this gotta do with me, though?
“If I have this correct, Tek-Knight, you’ve been following a trail that has led you on a straight path to former Seven speedster, Reginald Franklin. Now, we know Reggie Franklin as A-Train, but he’s been making waves as independent hero Blushift over the last few months for those of you at home unaware of his recent career change, but what America wants to know is… what is that you’ve uncovered that has you here?"
Tek-Knight let out a dry chuckle, the sound smooth and over-enunciated in a way that came standard with prep school and old money over nine figures. "You have to understand exactly what it is I do, Cameron." Vernon shook his head slowly, fingertipss touching each other to form a small triangle. "I’m well aware that Mr. Franklin remains a deeply valued part of the Vought extended family. His current independent endeavors are... outstanding. Respectful, even. But a man like me… of my stature, of my standards…”
The billionaire supe smiled. “Well, I believe in the truth."
The hell? Reggie leaned forward like that would help him hear any better, the bruised rib almost forgotten. …what truth?
"I’ve been following a deep lead that took me down a path to Mr. Franklin himself." Tek-Knight leaned in too, just an inch closer to the camera as he let out a pressurized breath. "All this stemming directly from the arrest of former hero Popclaw out in Las Vegas, following an almost industrial-sized purchase of liquid heroin."
Popclaw.
Reggie’s whole chest went as tight as the scar over his ribs as that name hit him, an ugly reminder of A-Train’s needle-tracked memory, and the cold reality of knowing exactly how her story was supposed to end. Told her to go west. Told Charlotte to keep her nose clean. He hung his head, annoyance mixing with a deeper exasperation as two lifetimes worth of dealing with addicts slapped him with how stupid of an idea that was. Jesus Christ, woman. You had the biggest out I could give. He'd even wired her the cool half-mil he promised to get her out of the crosshairs, and she still got herself knocked over by the Feds. Fucking supes, man.
"During this entire investigation into the depths some supes can sink to, I uncovered some rather fascinating... little tidbits regarding that famous speedster’s old habits.” If Tek-Knight’s smile could look more like a sneer, Reggie wasn’t really sure how he could pull it off. If anything, the man had an expression that made it seem like he was expecting a laugh any second without going through the trouble of earning one. “Naturally, as a responsible investigator, I attempted to reach out to Stan Edgar directly to probe some of these particular anomalies in-depth."
“And the CEO of Vought International…” Coleman raised a quick eyebrow, the man really doing his media-trained best to push all that performative concern. "How did he respond to these rather dark inquiries?"
“Mr. Edgar… Well, of course, he had plenty to say.” Tek-Knight smiled just a little bit wider, expression losing some of that hunger for something less eager and far more controlled. "And it was all nothing but... glowing things to say about our retired A-Train. ‘A beacon of recovery’, he called him, a magnificent example of a second chance. An admirable character witness, but you’ll notice that he’s talking about the present, not the past.”
Cameron nodded at those words, like Tek-Knight had said something worth the air. “I do. I do see it.”
“And of course,” that hungry sneer slid back on the investigator’s face, “I’ve always been about digging a bit... deeper to find the hole."
I see how it is. Reggie clicked his tongue. I see how you do, Stan.
And he did.
Reggie really fucking did, because it was obvious. Throwing dirt on him by getting Tek-Knight to call him a junkie in the past on national television, just to take the PR credit for him being clean and wholesome now. Smooth.
Fuck you, old man. Reggie allowed himself a small laugh he didn’t feel, leaning back on the couch again. And your whole bloodline.
"We here at VNN and those at home will certainly be keeping our eyes peeled as your investigation penetrates further." Coleman’s voice sounded out loud as the graphics began to shift for a commercial break. "Up next, a look at the suspected gang-related early adolescence of the Jersey-born speedster, and claims relating to his affiliation with the Grape Street Crips before his recruitment into Godolkin University."
"Gee, you a Crip?"
Reggie’s eye twitched at MM’s question, the big man raising an eyebrow as he spoke. "No, no, n-" The words came out too fast in a way that had nothing to do with his powers, the supe rubbing hard at his temple. "I was never a C—"
Before he had a chance to fully explain himself, his iPhone buzzed loud against his thigh, cutting him off before he could do it to himself again. against his thigh, the vibration loud enough to cut straight through his sentence. Unknown Number?
Reggie slid his thumb across the glass, jamming the speaker to his ear before Frenchie could jump in and start asking questions about a life he barely had any concrete memories of. "Yeah?"
"Ayo, Reggie cuh!"
The phone almost fell from his ear, the voice on the other end that loud; Jersey bounce distorted through a good few layers of speaker static. "My nigga Gee, where you been at? Big Nate blessed my phone with them digits, my nigga. D-Roll told me you been wildin’ with that Nubian Queen, deadass! They talking about you on the news, Crip-ass ni—"
Reggie let the phone drop, a long sigh enough to deflate his chest. His other hand rose high, thumb and forefinger already tight on the bridge of his nose — squeezing hard enough to actually hurt.
Goddamnit.