Running From Himself 3-9

“-ot out here out here. Man, Reggie was — listen, I’m not sayin’ he was in nothin’. Not sayin’ he shot nobody. Don’t put that on me. I ain’t saying that.” The man on the stoop leaned back as the mic was pressed forward, one of his Timbs planted on the second step. “Like, he wasn’t no church boy. He wasn’t in the house playing GameCube all day. He was outside with them n****s.”

A woman offscreen laughed. “He wasn’t no gangster.”

“I ain’t say gangster, woman!” The man’s face twisted, two fingers pointed off to the right at the unseen speaker. “I said he was outside.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“People lying. Half these n****s ain’t even know him like that.” A woman held a baby on her hip, refusing to take a step off her porch. “They seen him run fast one time and now they callin’ him a real killa.”

“So he wasn’t gang-affiliated?” The interviewer’s question made the woman’s frown deepen.

“I ain’t say that either. I said people lying. Two things can be true.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“I mean the n***a’s all in blue right now. Blue on white, blue on black. Like, be real.” The woman outside the mini-mart clicked her tongue, lips smacking at the same time. “Reggie wore blue all the time. Everybody know that. Blue hoodie, blue fitted, blue bandana sometimes. But it’s Trenton. Half these dusty little boys was color-coordinating like they had sponsors.”

“So, was it fashion or affiliation?”

The woman pulled a face at the camera.

“Baby, why is you asking me police questions?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“I ain’t gonna say he was put on. Everybody from Trenton got a cousin that swear they know Reggie. Ask them anything real, and they quiet. Ask them what block, suddenly it’s ‘I heard.’

“What did you hear?”

“That he was with them blue boys too much. That’s it. That’s all I heard. And that’s enough for TV, right?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“They say he jumped in front of his mans during a drive-by. I don’t know about all that.”

“And wearing blue?” The interviewer pushed a little further.

The man took a pull off his cigarette. “Usually.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Why y’all always back here asking about gang s**t? He made it out. Ask about that.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“So, you're not a Crip?”

Reggie’s fingers curled inward as he stared at the paused image on the flatscreen, 4k pixels frozen on some guy outside a corner store in Jersey; gold teeth grinned in his open mouth as he spun his own little fairytale for the local news about A-Train ‘running corners’ and ‘repping sets’ back in ‘08.

The gray-and-gold marble was cold under his fingertips, pressure building as he struggled to keep from gripping until the absurdly expensive stone gave way.

Motherfuckin’ Stan Edgar.

“No, Bia… ” With a sigh, the man’s forehead hit the cool countertop as he slumped forward, vintage Globetrotters hoodie pooling around and over his head. The thick fleece did its job of hiding the black-and-blue branding of Blushift underneath, and for good reason. Vought was not touching the new suit. He’d give himself an acid enema before he let their media department get a single frame of footage with him in it, at least not while he was in their tower. “No, I’m not a Crip.”

He was only even here for a reason, and it hadn’t even been to meet Nubia. No, Reggie had made it all the way up to the eighty-second floor today just to kick the big man’s door off the hinges. Unluckily for him, Edgar was a ghost, an executive phantom, and he was about to blur off with his questions unanswered as to what the hell this media blitz was all about.

Ashley Barret had chosen that moment to jump in his way, nearly risking her life just to ambush him with her own statements; hands raised and eyes wide. ‘It’s just part of the new image, Reggie. Barely gang-related at all.’ Frantic voice drilling into his head with all that high-pitched corporate panic, Reggie stood there as she stacked up defenses to whatever he had to say about his image. A redemption-focused image, obviously. Making you a tiny bit less clean to deepen the plotline for the rewrites. Makes Kid A-Train shine brighter, too. Some more contrast so you can step out of the Seven’s light and he can one day squeeze right in, you know? Brand synergy!

Synergy.

I gotta be a fictional gangbanger to sell movie tickets and boost Montrell’s Q-rating. 

“Not a Crip. Never been a Crip.” He groaned each and every one of the words into the marble as Nubia just laughed, both sounds echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

“You in blue, though?”

Reggie let out another groan again, suddenly glad Maya wasn’t here to hit him from the other end with her mom. With her at school for the day, the apartment was missing its nine-year old tornado, leaving the Vought-issued hyper-expensive Seven suite almost sterile. 

His eyes flicked down to the hoodie, blue jeans and color-matched foamposites staring back at him too. Damn… maybe I do wear too much blue.

He shook his head. “Not the same, though.”

The woman shook her head as she let the humor fade out, leaning back against the stainless steel of a refrigerator. One arm crossed over a white silk robe, the other held a half-empty mug full of something that smelled far too strong to be coffee. “If you say so, Reggie.”

“You know I don’t do that banging shit.” Reggie pushed off the island with a sigh. “I don’t know those people. Hell, I barely remember any of it. I know for a fact A-T…” He shook his head as Nubia raised an eyebrow his way, the sudden use of third-person a bit too much. “I know for a fact that I didn’t run with anyone or anything like that.”

He bit back another sigh. At least not till Mr. Red White & Blue had me… m… had him run his drugs.

"No judgment, no judgement. I mean…" Nubia flicked a wrist around the entire room, the tower, and the skyline staring back at them from behind thick windows. "Look where we are. Running the streets is literally the least criminal thing you could have done compared to like, ninety percent of the people in this place."

I mean… Reggie tilted his chin up to survey the oversized open-concept living room, well aware this used to be Translucent’s spot. Guy was just a pervert. Not exactly the same as doing drive-bys.

“Look, I’d rather have to deal with Homelander again compared to people thinking I’m a whole new kind of criminal, Bia.” A hand dragged itself over a fresh haircut, a crisp fade doing nothing to loosen the tension in his jaw as he glared off at nothing in particular. Matter of fact, where the hell is Homelander lately?

“C’mon, Snoop’s a Crip.” Nubia set the mug down on the counter, the sound almost heavy enough to echo as wine sloshed around in it. “You better than Snoop now?”

“What Snoop is or does is up to Snoop.” Reggie threw his hands up as he stared back at the only other supe in the room. “All I’m saying is that I’m an upstanding citizen, Bia.”

Storm-gray eyes stared back at him, one perfectly-trimmed brow scaling her forehead. “...you ran through a girl, Reggie.”

The speedster hissed out loud, almost reeling back from Bia’s words. “I’m an upstanding citizen now.” He corrected, hands chopping the air to cover the backpedal. Reggie knew he couldn’t wipe the past that cleanly but it still hurt to remember what he had to live with. “I’m not about using violence for no reason. Like you said, we use our words. Growth.”

Nubia stared harder, the silence loud as she somehow managed to telepathically transmit the memory of him uppercutting an asphalt monster off the ground like he was in Street Fighter or something.

“...you know what I mean?” All he had was a weak grin to answer her this time.

Before Nubia could stare even harder, Reggie felt something shudder in his pocket.

Blinking, the man in blue pulled the phone out of his pocket just to stare at the lack of caller ID on the screen. No caller…

His eyes slid shut for a second. Oh.

If he had a guess, he was hoping that it was the wrong one.

A single index finger went up as his eyes opened up, the universal hold on a second sign aimed Nubia’s way; a ‘shush’ in physical form.

Nubia’s chin dropped as his went up, eyes narrowing as ozone filled the kitchen. “I know you did not just shush me.”

Finger still up, Reggie swiped the green call button and brought the glass to his ear, eyes still on Nubia as the woman worked on her anger management breathing techniques. “Talk to me.”

"R-Reggie — Okay, fuck, f-fuck, man, we nee—” The voice was pitched high and all over the place, raw unfiltered panic turning what should be a simple sentence into a backtracking clusterfuck of a stutter. More than anything, it was familiar as any other; Hughie Campbell’s particular cadence completely unmistakable if you were around it for more than five solid minutes. “I mean, he’s here, fucking here right now, okay, he's actually here!"

"Whoawhoawhoa… Imma need you to slow down." Reggie blinked as he tried to parse the words bunched together, everything sounding more like a pileup than a solid message. "Who's coming?"

“He’s trying to kill us right now, Reggie!

“Fucking who, man?”

"Noir!” Reggie almost pulled the phone away as his eyes went wide, Hughie’s voice nearly blowing out the simple phone mic. “It’s fucking Noir!”

Black Noir. The name was enough to force a hitch in Reggie’s chest. 

The silent motherfucker himself; Master of all things Martial. Fuck meeeee. The only supe who was actually trained to be more than a walking show pony and unfortunately all that training was on how to slit people like deli meat and vanish back into the shadows.

“We went looking f-for… okay, that doesn't matter, he's just outside and we have no idea what else to do!"

Reggie pulled in a breath. “...Where are you, man?”

"L-L-Long Island. A suburb in Long Island. Butcher’s aunt’s place."

"Well, I’ll be sure to be right over as long as I get a fucking address!" Reggie leaned into the phone as he screamed a simple command. "A zipcode, a street name, man! Give me something!"

Hughie rattled off a string of numbers and the street name Reggie asked for, everything all in one breath. "Just hurry, please! I think Frenchie’s about to set off some kind of chemical… chemical something!"

“-oys, guess who found us a way out o’ this fockin’ death trap!”

The line went dead with Butcher’s voice, Reggie staring at the black mirror of his phone for all of a second. Fuck.

He bit back a hiss as he pocketed his phone, already regretting what he was about to do. Can these guys ever go one fucking week without something like this? Reggie’s head shook almost immediately, answering his own question already. Why the fuck am I even asking? 

Besides, it wasn’t like they could call Starlight.

As the phone slid back into his pocket, the fabric of his super-suit underneath already begant to tighten against his skin, blue sparks shedding off his sneakers as he picked up his feet.

“Ahem!”

Reggie looked up to see Nubia still there, across the kitchen island with her arms crossed tight over her chest and a literal storm brewing in her eyes.

“What?” He bit his tongue almost as soon as he said it, not ready in the slightest to introduce Nubia to the fugitives he was helping. “Something on my face?”

“...you shushed me.”

Oh thank God. Reggie tilted his head to the side, biting back a snort at the stormy woman’s usual attitude. “Yell at me later.”

A finger came up, aimed right at him. "I’ll yell at you r—"

A stack of Vought memos tore off the island as Reggie drove his weight forward, the raw mass of his body a concussive shockwave tearing through the room.

The balcony railing was cleared in a fraction of a heartbeat, Reggie plunging off Floor 99 of Vought Tower free as a bird. It took another fraction before his soles found the vertical glass of the skyscraper’s exterior.

Blue lightning arced a jagged streak down the side of the tower, Reginald Jesse Franklin pushing past three — four — five hundred miles an hour as sheer velocity carried him towards ground level. 

He was already halfway down before Nubia even finished her sentence.