Chapter 5
We not… we not doing this. Reginald Franklin was a patient man.
Maybe not in this life, but definitely in the last. After all, you didn't become a doctor without the ability to keep your head down, on straight, and focused forward through all the bullshit in your way.
While he kept the powers and body of this life (for the most part), he had brought the mindset and experiences of his last one forward with him. That was what kept him calm. That was what kept him strategic. That was what kept him under control.
The rug in his living room was an expensive gift from one of the many random entertainers A-Train had been cool with in his tenure on the Seven. No cheaper than a low-end car, it was made from some sort of material by hand with enough skill to pull that kind of price tag.
Unfortunately for the rug, Reggie didn't care about the details of any of that as he wore a track into the damn thing. We not doing this.
That mindset got him past the stress of harboring America's Most Wanted.
Past the headache of Edgar and Vought.
Past the ticking clock of his body being on a time limit, apparently.
But this… this was a step fucking too far.
What the fuck is happening in my house right now.
It wasn't a question. He already had the answers he needed, most of them at least, and everything else he needed to know was shoved to the back as he decided to deal with what was actually most important.
Back and forth, sneakers dragging on imported material, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic from the first-aid kit MM was messing around with. Mix that with whatever greasy takeout Frenchie had ordered last night still sitting on his counter, and it was another headache for him to deal with.
The speedster's eyes trailed across his living room again as Hughie slumped over in one of his chairs, the beanpole looking like he'd gone for twelve-rounds of tumble dry inside a cement mixer. Blood crusted on his forehead and fresh gauze on his bare chest, Marvin Milk stood over him like a mother hen; a six foot buffed-up mother hen who could take you apart twice as easy as he could put you together. Butcher was off in the corner, trench coat on and smugness radiating as he stood with his arms crossed at the chaos Reggie was dealing with.
If it was just that, he could deal.
Hell, it wouldn't be the weirdest shit that had happened in his mansion in the last year.
But no, sitting on his couch, on his furniture, were three people who had absolutely zero business being here.
One Middle Eastern woman, all olive skin and pressed pantsuit like she was auditioning for the lead role in a Netlfix-produced Hilary Clinton biopic. Next to her was a woman who could actually play the part on the big screen — as blonde, white and old as Hilldog herself — in a longcoat the color of Butcher's usual wardrobe.
And then, because God wasn't done giving him more shit to deal with, there was fuckin' Lamplighter.
Of all people, Lamplighter.
Ashton Connors, the firebug himself; sitting right there in scrubs and looking like he was coasting on fumes and bad decisions.
I need coffee for this. Ten cups, maybe. Reggie frowned as he remembered exactly how little effect caffeine had on him, given his metabolism. Or whiskey. A gallon of whiskey.
"Big M," Reggie jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the assembled collection of People Who Shouldn't Be Here. "Why is there a fucking US Senator and…" The thumb went directly to the old white lady, Reggie's brain stalling out completely as he tried to find her name. A year ago, he'd have known this.
Thing was, though, a year ago, this had all been a show he binged between shifts at the hospital. Now it was his life, and the details were slipping through his fingers like sand as A-Train's life took up more and more of the unimportant space in his head "…who the fuck are you again?"
MM didn't even look up from Hughie's forehead, another piece of fresh white gauze in his hands. "That's Grace Mallory."
Reggie just kept staring at him.
Waiting.
"Former Deputy Director of the CIA," MM finally finished for him, voice flat. "And our old boss."
See, that much he knew. "Oh, wowww."
The sarcasm was laying it on a bit thick, thick enough to tear up a slice of white bread, but Reggie didn't really have it in him to care right now. "The former fucking Deputy Director of the CIA is in my house. Like I sent an invitation."
"Gee…"
"Nah, Em Em, see, if I knew I was opening my place up to old white ladies with government clearance and a license to kill, I'd have put out some tea and had bingo ready, maybe some grandma cookies too." He looked over at Mallory, tight smile on his face he didn't feel at all. "No offense, of course."
"Some taken," Mallory replied, voice dry enough to start a forest fire.
A grunt left his throat before he could stop it, Reggie rolling his eyes. "And the pantsuit? What, we taking in senators now?"
"Congresswoman," the other woman corrected, her voice bright and firm, the kind of voice that was used to microphones and podiums and cameras and people listening whether they wanted to or not. "Congresswoman Victoria Neuman. And I'm working with them against Vought."
"…fucking great." A hand ran down his face, muffling the muttered words even further. "Why not, right? The more the merrier. We gonna invite Stan Edgar over next to make my day fucking worse or what?"
For some reason, the congresswoman cracked a smile at that, bigger and wider than he expected for such a nothing joke. For a second, he almost wanted to ask her what was so funny but another voice, tired and raspy, took his attention first.
"Hey, Reg… long time no see."
Reggie turned slow, real slow, because he already knew who it was gonna be before he looked. Lamplighter was just sitting there, shoulders hunched in like he was trying to disappear into the cushions. Pathetic didn't even cover it. The man looked like an apology that got left out in the rain.
His eyes narrowed. "I'll talk to you later."
Lamplighter shrugged, gesture so defeated it was almost impressive. "Fair enough."
Reggie turned back around, eyes on the still-quiet Hughie and the busy medic that was Big M, the ones who were supposed to be on his side. Like, maybe tell me before you're gonna turn my place into a halfway house for feds and washed-up heroes. The irony in the fact that it kinda already was that and had been for the last year didn't exactly miss him, but Reggie wasn't here to confront his hypocrisy.
After all, it was his place.
He could be as hypocritical as he wanted. "So y'all were just gonna bring the entire federal government and a retired firebug into my living room without so much as a 'hey, you cool with this' first?" Asking forgiveness instead of permission was a principle he understood well, but it didn't mean he had to like it when he was on the other side.
"Time-sensitive situation, Mr Blue," MM said, voice that low steady rumble he used when he was being patient with someone who was about to stop being patient. "Shit went bad at Sage Grove yesterday and had to move."
"Sage Grove?" Reggie threw out his hands, slapping the chest of his tracksuit as he was faced with another question he didn't have an answer to. "What the hell is a Sage Grove? And don't call me that shit, man, I'm not even wearing the suit."
"A Vought black site, mon ami," Reggie turned to see Serge poke his head up from the basement, the mysterious frenchman holding a bunch of empty bowls in his hand. "A hospital for ze… for ze supes who are not right in ze head. Very bad place."
"And you went without me?" The question came out sharper than he intended, a flicker of something that felt dangerously close to being hurt. "After all the shit we've been through? First was the fucking Kenji shit and now it's this? You guys go on all these secret side missions and don't even bother to tell me?"
Hughie flinched, looking up from under MM's gentle doctoring. "Reggie, we… we didn't want to bother you. You were on the movie set, doing the… the Vought thing. We figured you were busy."
"Busy?" The short, sharp laugh that left Reggie's lips had almost no humor to it. "I was pretending to get blown up and talking to Little Lord Fish Fucker about his feelings. I had time. You just didn't ask."
Neuman chose then to rise from the couch, her posture all business. "Hate to interrupt, as fascinating as this little found family drama is, but we have a more pressing issue relating to Sage Grove Center. Lamplighter here was the chief orderly. He's agreed to testify about what was happening there."
"And what exactly was happening there?" Reggie asked, crossing his arms.
"Vought was experimenting," Mallory answered with a sniff that seemed disgustedat the idea, more than anything. "Trying to stabilize Compound V in non-infant subjects, from what I've been told. The results were… unpredictable."
"Unpredictable how?" he pressed, suddenly needing to know this, more than anything else right now. Can they actually… actually stabilize the shit? He wasn't sure if stabilizing V would do anything for his potential health issues, but he wasn't going to turn down any leads.
"Well, I mean…" said lead orderly clicked his tongue, suddenly looking a bit less calm than before, "dosing babies with V is already a risk even with all the DNA testing Vought does, you know… pre-checks right to see what class of V they can take, if they can take any?" Lamplighter rubbed his face. "Shit's basically the liquid version of a nuke.. I mean, not literally… well, you know what I mean, Reg?"
The old blonde raised an eyebrow high even as Neuman snapped her attention onto the firestarter. "Classes? V comes in classes? This is the first I'm hearing of this."
Ashton rubbed the dense stubble on his face, the tired-looking supe letting out a sigh. "...well, yeah, the shit does come in fucking classes. Vought's had the shit since before you were even born. You think they've been milking the same variant since Soldier Boy?" The man in the orderly uniform clicked his tongue again. "Nah, there's a whole bunch of them."
"Well," Mallory's eyes narrowed on the firestarter, "what are they, then? Don't leave us waiting."
Reggie let out a grunt of his own, deciding to throw his two cents into the pile. "Look, I know there's Class 1 through 5 V. Also a Class 0 but that one's… that…"
Lamplighter snorted, the sound short as he got serious real quick. "That shits basically water, man, barely lasts an hour. Doesn't do much more than toughen you up and give you a little high on top of it." His eyes went to Neuman and Mallory, shaking his head. "Vought uses it to give supes someone to train with they won't easily tear in half. Occasionally, some of the rougher supes use it to dose some call girls so they also won't… well…"
The old lady rolled her eyes. "Tear in half, got it."
"Jesus," Hughie sat up again, the beanpole voicing his shock at that mental image.
Mothers Milk clicked his tongue, clearly unsurprised by supe bullshit and Vought antics. "Jesus is right"
"Everything from Class One to Class Four is a tossup, you know?" Ashton continued with a shrug, the pyrokinetic tapping out a stuttering rhythm on his thigh. "V is still V, no matter how much you water it down. Even the Zero shit can go bad, even if that's only like a one in four chance or whatever. Class Five… well, most don't really have to worry. That's just not given out unless in one and ones like… well, like us, mostly…"
The orderly tilted his head at the only other former Seven member in the room. "Class Five, they call it Neon…"
Neon, Cobalt, Sky, Aqua, Baby, Tap. The six classes of Blue, from Five to Zero. He might not remember much, but a year of running V for Homelander and putting the shit into his system left a good bit of knowledge behind. That doesn't go away.
"Neon… Neon makes the B-listers, usually," Ashton continued, the man pulling a face for a split second. "Polarity, the Deep, Black Noir, Ironcast, all those… and sometimes it works too well, and makes the freaks like me and Reg here. The big guns."
Yeah… Reggie clenched his fists. Big guns.
"Big guns, huh?" Mother's Milk sounded off, Reggie turning to face the big man. "You ain't seem all that strong to me… for a supe, at least."
Lamplighter smirked his way, the man shaking his head. "Yeah, I bet. How many supes you know can vaporize four inches of steel in a split second? You know how much energy that even is? Can you do the math, big guy?"
"You're like…" Hughie spoke up, a look of familiar shock on his face. "That's like… thermobaric.
Lamplighter's smirk warmed a little, less mocking and more real as he clicked his tongue. "Yeah, like I said, big guns. Hell, less than like four hundred newborns a year could even handle the shit. Been some deaths in hospitals, too, but nothing too messy. Easy to cover up."
"Cause they're fucking babies?" For a man who looked beat to shit, Hughie could find some bass in his voice.
"Yeah," Lamplighter answered without flinching. "Adults… it's a lot harder. Sometimes they just explode, like a mess everywhere. Other times…they blow up, burn up, just straight melt into a puddle of blood and skin."
Reggie's fists clenched tighter at his sides, eyes shut. Blow up, burn up, straight melt…
"Vought didn't really care, though," He couldn't close his ears, though, Lamplighter's voice still coming in strong. "They were trying to finalize the stuff. Make it work on adults more often than not. Make the formula… all of them… make them all better."
"So Vought has a secret hospital full of unstable, traumatized supes that they've been torturing for years," Reggie summarized, the pieces clicking together with a sickening thud. "And you guys went there, poked the bear, and now you're back here. What was the endgame supposed to be exactly?"
"We needed a witness," Neuman said, her gaze sharp.
Reggie frowned back. "Were you going there to get a witness?"
Marvin frowned at the question, finally and properly looking up his way as Hughie forced himself into a sitting position. "Well… not exactly, Gee…"
"So, once again," Reggie scoffed, the speedster throwing his hands up again, "y'all fucked up your mission plan, didn't even accomplish what you needed to in the first place, and needed a fuckin' supe to get you even close to the endzone? Am I right or am I right?"
He could tell that hit a nerve, just from the way Butcher flinched more than anything. Mother's Milk may have hung his head a bit but Butcher looked ready to open fire right the fuck now, if he even had a gun on him.
"Look, everything else aside," Netflix Hillary started again, "Lamplighter is a good start, but he's compromised. His testimony as a member of the Seven in Sage Grove will be enough to take a real shot at the king. We'd ask you, but… traumatic brain injury on public record and your lack of concrete recollection makes that a poor choice."
"Okay, you've got your canary," Reggie scoffed. "What now?"
"Now, we keep Lamplighter where Vought can't reach him," Mallory answered, her eyes locking onto his. "I'd put him up in a CIA safehouse, but with Vought working with the Department of Defense and the current administration, we'd be risking too much. No, it's for the best he stay here."
"My house?" His voice went up, way up, frustration that had been sitting in his chest all morning finally breaking loose as the pacing started up again, feet hitting that expensive imported rug harder than before. The frantic energy was there, that buzzing under his skin and in his heart like he was about to hit a residential street at five hundred full-tilt. "I let y'all crash at my house 'cause I wanted to do good, be helpful and shit, and you're using it like a goddamn AirBNB for your spy game bullshit? What the hell, man?"
"Bro, Gee, man, you gotta calm down,"
"Nah, see, Em Em, I'm not gonna calm down!" Words came out a hiss, jaw clenched tight enough his jaw was half-way to hurting. "This is my life we're talkin' bout here! I'm the one whose face is on the goddamn news every other week! I'm the one who had to go sit in an office with Stan Edgar and let him hold my entire life in his hands like I was some puppe-" His hisses dissolved into an annoyed grunt, Reggie's fists still clenched so tight his nails felt a second away from drawing blood. "I might be fucking dying right now and you guys are over here playing fuckup James Bond and not even telling me what the plan is!"
Hughie blinked up from the chair, gauze half-covering one eye. "You're what?"
"The plan," Butcher cut right over him, not even bothering to acknowledge what the beanpole just asked, "is to do what needs doin'. Somethin' you might not understand, what with your movie deals and the lot."
Oh, hell no.
"Fuck yooouuu, you tea drinking terrorist fuck," Reggie whirled right on him, one shaky finger pointing his way as the supe tried to do his best to force down his feelings. "You think this is a game to me? You think I like having to play nice with those corporate fucking dickheads? I do it to protect you, all of you fuckups! To protect fucking Annie, who has to stay right under Homelanders psycho ass! To keep the whole goddamn roof from caving in on us! And you think this is some easy shit? Like I'm playing around? You're off doing God knows what, and I'm the one here, holding shit together!"
"Wait, what do you mean dying?" Hughie again, voice going higher.
"Yeah, Gee," MM straightened up, first-aid supplies forgotten. "What you... what you mean by that?"
Should've kept my mouth shut. It was a little too late to worry about that, though.
"Holdin' it together?" Butcher let out this laugh, cruel and sharp and aimed right at him. "Looks to me like you're just the rich cunt payin' the bills. Don't get confused and think that makes you the one in charge, yeah?"
The living room got real small, real fast. Muscles in his legs were already coiling, ready to blur across the space and see how fast Butcher could talk with a fist going right through the space where his head used to be, when a voice cut through everything.
"Enough." Mallory, standing up now, voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "All of you. This is not productive."
Not pro- Reggie spun on her, ready to tell this old white lady exactly where she could shove her productivity in his house, but she was already turning to Neuman before he could get a single word out.
"We'll get you what you need, Congresswoman," Mallory said, all business, tactical and cold. "Give us forty-eight hours."
Neuman nodded back.. "You'll have it." Then she looked Reggie's way, something flickering his way that might have been sympathy. "And for what it's worth, Mr. Franklin... thank you for your hospitality."
A grunt was all he had left in him. Turning his back on all of them felt good, felt right, even as Hughie's voice and MM's started calling after him with questions he didn't want to answer. Fuck off.
He needed a drink. Or a nap.
Both.
Chapter 1
Shit! The wheel shook under his palms, Rastro's fingers halfway to fucking numb as the heavy leather fought him. Shit! The suspension was bottoming out every half-minute and he knew it was a miracle they weren't already trailing sparks out the ass already. Shitshitshit! The New Jersey Turnpike at midnight was a black smear under the tires as they did an eighty that was anything but easy, late night air rushing through the car and mixing with the sharp stink of plasma and wet bone.
"¡Pisa a fondo, cabrón!" Mazo's stupid ass screamed from the backseat, bellowing over the wind roar like Rastro wasn't in the same car. "¡Pisa a fondo!" He didn't wait for an answer, one heavy fist going right through the remaining shards of the rear window.
The air outside warped as the idiot punched out again, pressure walls thrown up dead-center in the lanes behind the speeding Caddy near-invisible this time of night. The cop car closest on their tail slammed head-on into the pocket of hard air, front axle grinding into asphalt in a shower of sparks as it fishtailed into another cruiser.
"I'm flooring it, I'm flooring it, just… shut up!" Rastro bit back, vision swimming as harmless blue static sparked from his eye sockets, his own power doing nothing but giving him faster eyes and a better body. It wasn't much but it gave him a great getaway driver. So, when it came to a job like a jewelry store heist, these fools knew who to call. "Just shut the fuck up and keep throwing!"
"Haahahahahahahahahahaaaaa!" To his right, Abrojo was already halfway out the passenger window, heavy wind peeling his lips back and forcing tears from his eyes as he kept cackling like a madman. "I'm throoooowing!" Bone tore through the skin of his forearms with a sound that made Rastro shudder, the man's bone quills rocketing out into the road behind them.
They hit the highway one-by-one, each of the white knives chewing up the pursuit tires.
"¡Toma, putos!" Centella shouted, the small woman still hanging out of the sunroof, her hands strobing pink as she turned the dark highway into a stuttering nightmare worthy of one of those big-ass seizures. Baseball-sized bursts of hot-pink plasma formed in her palms, unstable and hissing as she sent them flying, each one detonating in mid-air. They weren't hot-enough to melt the engine blocks of the cruisers on their ass, but the neon burst flash-baked ugly scorch marks on the chasing cars and did their part to blind the cops.
"Grasa, the slick, man!" Rastro yelled again, wondering when he became the brains instead of just the wheels. "Drop the slick!"
"I'm dropping it, coño, watch the road!" The greasy bastard hung both arms out the rear passenger window, thick orange liquid that looked too much like throw-up pouring from his hands and coating the asphalt behind their rear tires. The front-wheel-drive gripped the road fine, but the cruisers behind them hit the low-friction oil and spun out, sirens wailing as two million dollars of police budget smashed into dividers.
Rastro eyed the rearview mirror, blue static fizzing back at him.
Flashing red and blue lights shrank away, half of them spinning out as they faded into the dark curve of the turnpike. Sirens died away, swallowed entirely by the wind and the roaring V8.
"¡Ya coronamos, mi gente!" Rastro slammed a hand against the steering wheel, a laugh as manic as Abrojo's tearing free from his chest. "We ghost! They ain't got shit! We fucking ghost!"
The car erupted, joining him in laughs and whoops. Mazo slapped the roof, as Abrojo pulled himself back inside while laughing hard enough to choke, and heavy canvas bags of jewelry rattled against the floor.
"We fucking gh-!"
Tap. Tap.
A sound cut through the wind, right next to Rastro's ear.
He flinched, the Cadillac drifting into the next lane before he wrestled the wheel straight at seventy miles an hour on a near-empty highway. Dragging his sparking eyes away from the high beams, Rastro looked out his driver's side window to see a black man jogging right outside the glass.
A black and blue costume stared back at him, the supe's shades reflecting the dashboard lights as his sneakers ate up asphalt like he was taking a casual stroll.
He lifted two fingers in a slow, lazy salute.
"Hey."
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
"All the jewely recovered, officers."
Red and blue strobed cracked concrete, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air as the Cadillac SUV sat crumpled against a toll booth. Hood pleated like an accordion, radiator fluid and oil trailed down and mixed in a pool around the front tires.
All five bangers lay face-down on the asphalt, hands zip-tied behind their backs as each one of them groaned in various states of concussion and general tenderizing.
Reggie stood a few yards away, hands crossed over the bright blue 'Z' on his chest.
"Hell of a catch." The female state trooper nearest him nodded, Jersey accent as thick as one of the barriers by the road. "Wish half the supes in Jersey did work like you. They've been slacking with these Latin Kings psychos."
The other state trooper in front of him nodded, the man sweeping a flashlight beam over the beat-up supervillain crew before settling back somewhere near Reggie's sneakers. "Yeah, you ain't that bad, A-Train."
"Ay!" Before Reggie could say anything, the female partner standing next to him reached out, back of her hand slapping the male cop's bicep. "Don't be fucking dumb, Mike. Name's Blushift now."
"Right. Blushift." The male cop clicked his tongue as he looked up, raising the flashlight as a sneer touched the corner of his mouth. "My bad. Yeah, I know how much you supes care about your branding."
Reggie nodded back at him, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, you said it." He tapped his amber night-shades against his chest for a moment before sliding them back on his face. "That all, officers?"
They didn't even bother to answer him, both of them turning back as they were already walking to their cars.
With a sigh, Reggie turned his shoulder to the flashing lights. "Yeah. Imma call it a night."
Blue lightning crackled around his sneakers, and the turnpike immediately vanished into a high-speed blur.
The sirens behind him, fire and EMT along with police reinforcements, vanished into the wind roaring in Reggie's ears as he banked west, leaving the highway behind for the darker, tree-lined routes heading back. Latin Kings, huh?
It kept coming back to these guys.
Whether it was today, last week or the last month he'd been at it — crossing zip codes, putting out fires, and fighting whatever crime he could find — almost every single time there was a supe juiced up wih Rojo, they were Hispanic.
Hell, most of those times, they were related to the Kings somehow.
And it just didn't make a single bit of sense, because why? Vought didn't do sloppy, and this was everything but neat. This kind of thing was a mess, bleeding out into the boroughs past gang borders, and the absolute worst part was that the Kings had pretty much declared Blushift a personal enemy for rounding up so many of their guys on his patrols.
Just add it to the tab, I guess. He couldn't bother to care too much, not with his own bullshit already piled high. Like the A-Train memories still fragmenting through his head at the worst of times; useless static bursts of old PR meetings, cheating with whatever IG baddie that wasn't gonna blast him on her story, and binges with V-lined lean from Deneeka — all of it buzzed under his skin. Reggie did like usual and ignored them, pushing the throttle a little bit higher — that little bit growing day by day — until the dense and manicured tree lines of the New Jersey estate rose up in the dark.
The spot was heavy and silent, the kind of absolute, suffocating quiet that only came with a ridiculous amount of money and a half-mile private driveway. A few minutes past three in the morning, it would have been insane if it was anything but quiet anyway. Reggie slowed, sparks dying out around his feet as he hit the front steps of his house, boots silent against the imported stone.
The door was silent as it swung shut, the automatic sensors doing their part to lock it for him, as Reggie walked through the massive foyer. The house was dark — which made sense — except for a thick line of cold kitchen light bleeding out from the archway.
A vent of cool fromthe central AC hit the sweat on his forehead as Reggie made his way down the hall, glasses pulled from his face to pocket them. He rounded the corner, bare feet silent against the cold ceramic tile, and came to a stop just inside the doorway.
Click.
Fzzt.
Look who left his room. The newest guest to Casa de Reggie sat himself on a stool at the marble island, elbows planted on the stone as he hunched over with rounded shoulders.
Click. A worn Zippo lighter snapped open, the flint wheel grinding against the striker. Fzzt.
Sparks showered into the dark air, tiny orange pinpricks dying before they could catch the wick.
Over and over and over
Reggie stood there, a fresh bottle of room-temp water heavy in his hand as he watched the man work the lighter he always carried around like a security blanket. Kinda sad, man. He didn't really remember much — if anything — of Lamplighter from the fragmented A-Train files knocking around upstairs. Most of anything in his head involving the Seven was stuff best left uncovered, drug-fueled bender after drug-fueled bender blurring together with the sound of heavy bass but with absolutely nothing useful for understanding the actual people behind the capes.
"Ash, be real." He took a step forward, the tile smooth under his bare feet. "Make like Elsa and let it go. Thing's busted."
Ashton Aarons didn't look up, the man swimming in a worn-out flannel that looked three sizes too big on his thin body. "Figures…" The word was harsh, almost scraping its way out of Lamplighter's throat; something between a hangover and an apology. "The one thing I'm supposed to be good at."
Click. Fzzt.
"Even my lighter's forgotten how to make a goddamn light."
Reggie walked around the island leaned against the marble opposite the broken man, tracking the twitch in Ash's jaw. This man's too depressed.
Ashton had been living in Reggie's house for a solid week, because apparently Reggie needed a ghost haunting the guest wing. On Neuman's and Mallory's request thie man here to hide out and Reggie was doing the patriotic thing by not throwing the ex-Seven member out on his flame-flinging ass.
Not doing that meant that Lamplighter couldn continue his daily tasks of clearing out Reggie's pantry, staring at walls and watching an insane amount of porn.
All sorts of porn.
Porn of his own old coworkers even.
But Reggie wasn't going to bring that up. "You know…" He already had other things to talk about. "For a guy they kept locked in a basement lab of mentally ill capes, you look less scared and a whole lot more… bored."
Ash let out a laugh that made Reggie almost pass him the water, the pyro shaking his head as his eyes rose from the metal casing of the Zippo to meet Reggie's eyes. "What's to be scared of, Reg?" The man shook his head again, a laugh dead on arrival leaving in. "I was Edgar's janitor in there. Just another Vought employee clocking in."
Little bit more than that. Reggie raised an eyebrow. Weren't you burning cape patients alive or something?
"Look, man…" A heavy sigh rattled out of Reggie's lips. "They owned me. Still do. No way they just let me walk."
Reggie unscrewed the water bottle, taking a slow pull of lukewarm freshness before capping it again. "That's why you gotta testify, man. Blow the whistle, Ash. Get it all on the record."
"And then what?" Ash scoffed his way with a look that said everything he hadn't yet. "Witness protection in fucking Idaho? No…" He looked down and clicked the Zippo again.. "You don't get a new life after what I did."
"Yeah," Reggie offered, the reality pullsing as he remembered some of what this body had already done. "I heard. But I made plenty of messes of my own. There ain't no getting around that."
"You don't get it, man." Ash pointed the silver lighter at him, the tremor in his hand as clear as the vodka on the man's breath. "You're like my brother. You can be something outside of Vought. All I do is burn shit."
Reggie studied the hollowed-out face of the man across the marble, a half-dozen different things to say rolling around in his head. The easy move would have been something like pity, but that was…
That just wouldn't work for a whole bunch of reasons. Not if he was right about exactly where Lamplighter's head was. "You know, the others talk about you."
Ash clicked his tongue. "That supposed to surprise me?"
"Nah, man, just… just listen, aight..." Reggie tapped the bottom of the water bottle against the marble. "Frenchie, M.M. They talk about you like you're the absolute devil. Like you got horns hiding under that hair. But, let's be real, you're not."
"Oh yeah?" Ash sneered, sarcasm as thick as it could be. "Thanks for the pep talk, Reg. We a real team again."
"Nah, man, you're not listening," Reggie pushed back, letting the water bottle sit. "The real monsters… real evil motherfuckers walking around out there, like Homelander… they don't feel a damn thing. They do what they do, they leave a body count, and they sleep like a baby on thousand-thread-count sheets. But you?"
Reggie picked up the bottle again, plastic cap aimed right at Ash's chest. "You sitting here three in the morning, bruh, feeling sorry about your life in a hand-me-down flannel. Like, I don't even know where you got that shit from, 'cus it's definitely not mine." He shook his head, scoffing at that. "But you're down here like a depressed lesbian anyway, hating yourself for what you did, man. Homelander wouldn't give a shit. Maeve would probably care, and Noir is… Noir."
Reggie shook his head as he leaned further over on the counter, Ash's eyes still on his. "That's all it is, bro. You know the difference between right and wrong, and I get it, man. Believe me, I got my own shit to carry." He looked down at the broken Zippo, flashes of a street curb and an explosive impact buzzing behind his teeth. "There's a girl named Robin I can't bring back. No matter how far I run, it's not gonna change that. Just like you can't change what happened to those kids. It's a scar you're gonna wear forever, yeah. There's no such thing as a clean slate for guys like us."
"...this a pep talk, Reg?" Ashton blinked at him.
"Nah, dumbass. This ain't no pep talk. I'm tellin' you the past is the past but you still got a way ahead of you, man." Reggie clicked his tongue. "Not no forgiveness, no wipin' the slate clean or nothing. That's kid shit. You do it because it's the absolute only other fucking option besides beating your shit to granny porn or whatever you got loaded up right now."
Ash looked away, eyes on the metal casing of the Zippo in his palm. His thumb brushed over the flint wheel as he pushed the metal cap down.
The click echoed sharp and loud in the suddenly-silent kitchen as Ash took a long stuttering breath. "They'll kill me, man."
Reggie watched Ash's face, sunken cheeks and dark circles telling him enough. "...Tell me I'm wrong," he tilted his head "but I'm thinkin' you only feel some type of way about that 'cus you want to do it first?"
Ashton went still as he stared at the lighter, the silence in the kitchen stretching out thin and brittle as the clock on the microwave ticked over to 3:14 AM.
"...Okay."
Chapter 2
Click.
"Cameron, this is unbelievable." The woman on the panel was as severe in the face as she was with her haircut, almost staring daggers at the camera. "The fallout here on Capitol Hill would be something we haven't seen since Watergate. We are looking at a potential subpoena for the highest levels of Vought International following last week's bombshell. Former Seven member The Lamplighter — who many assumed retired to a life of luxury — has officially agreed to testify before the congressional oversight committee."
The woman shook her head, barreling over the other man on the panel before he could even open his mouth. "Sources close to the prosecution say he is prepared to detail the origins of the highly volatile street narcotic currently terrorizing our cities: 'Rojo.' And leaked documents go as far as to suggest that Lamplighter himself will be testifying under oath regarding the fact that this Rojo is actually a black-market derivative of a corporate-manufactured super-steroid known as 'Compound Vought.' Vought International has fiercely denied these allegations, calling them the 'ramblings of a disgruntled former employee,' but Wall Street isn't buying the spin. Vought stock has already plummeted t—"
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
"—el enforcer known only as 'El Diablo' in the Washington Heights and Queens areas. While reports are conflicting and the supervillain is still supposed to be somewhere in Guadalaraja, he has reportedly found his way to New York according to certain claims from sources close to the Latin Kings gang. The fugitive, notorious for his gruesome fire-based executions and cartel affiliations, is the prime suspect in last year's brutal murder of beloved Seven member Translucent. The mayor's office is already facing heavy bipartisan criticism for not requesting immediate Vought intervention. If you see this man, do not approach. Do not engage. The suspect is considered armed, highly volatile, a—"
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
"—nd welcome back to Supe-Scoop. I'm Courtney DeLaVega, your Host with the latest news on the Earth's Most Mighty." The blonde young Latina stood on a bright soundstage as a camera rotated around her, catching her bright pink outfit as she clapped her hands together and smiled. "Speaking of the Seven, filming for Vought Studios' highly anticipated Dawn of the Seven is currently underway, but our onset spies have been hinting at major tension between the cast. Specifically, former member of the Seven Blushift aka A-Train and America's favorite Supe Mom Nubia have been spotted spending a lot of time whispering in the shadows between takes. We all know A-Train's dramatic and sudden exit from the team and his recent relationship with the Defender of Des Moines, Starlight, ruffled more than a few capes, and with Nubia's own recent PR controversies with her anger issues, you have to wonder: Can the Seven's perfect image handle this rowdy new couple? Hashtag Blue-Bolt, anyone? Our sources say Homelander is distinctly unamused by the distraction on his set. We reached out to Vought PR for comment, b—"
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
"—reaking News right now from Chopper Five, we have eyes on… Jim, Jim, are you seeing this? Live over the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway where a high-speed pursuit is currently underway. But this is not the NYPD."
The sound of chopper blades thumping the sky were almost loud enough to fight his words, but the newscaster continued on anyway. "-epeat, this is not a police chase. Chopper Five is tracking a rogue supervillain — one of the new street supes we've been seeing the past few months—tearing through afternoon traffic. But look at the right side of your screen. Newly independent hero, Blushift — formerly A-Train of the Seven — is the one engaging the suspect in a high-speed urban chase the likes we've never seen. Look at the sheer velocity these two have in them, Jim, both weaving through civilian vehicles at speeds we estimate are nearing two hundred miles an hour. It is absolute chaos down there, we are seeing minor collisions as drivers panic and swerve, but Blushift appears to be — wait, the suspect just tore a door off a moving delivery truck! He's throwing it!"
"Oh my god, an incredible dodge and recovery from Blushift! Catching the door and keeping it from hitting civilians! Unbelievable footage here, folks, Blushift is weaving through the debris shield like it isn't even ther—"
Click.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The world stretched out, a blue tinted freeze-frame juddering for a fraction of a second as the exhaust from a rusted-out box truck hung in the air like spun sugar. An instant later, a body in a black bodysuit coasted right through the middle of it, sneakers eating the asphalt at a pace that would be worth entry in the Indy 500.
An easy pace, but just enough to make this look convincing.
The guy Reggie was chasing after was pulling almost the same pace; decent but nothing impressive.
Definitely nothing Vought would ever waste much money on. Maybe a good spot on a Vought+ show, but nothing like a toy line.
Reggie knew that much, considering the banger was definitely clipping the exact same numbers he had hit around the same time he woke up in this body last year. A solid respectable speed, the kind that could turn New York traffic into a parking lot of near-stationary metal and glass.
Solid C tier. Reggie clicked his tongue as he darted past a frozen bicycle courier. Kinda strong too.
Not exactly outmuscling Lil Kim, but the dude had still managed to rip an entire ATM out of a bodega wall a ways back in Bushwick. Just bear-hugged the thing and tore it free with a rain of plaster, before sprinting three blocks with it over his shoulder.
Not the smartest, though, considering it slowed him down enough for the NYPD to start popping shots at his back.
By the time he dropped the box to dodge the shots, Reggie was already on his tail and now, he was jut pacing him a solid fifty yards back, watching the form.
It was noisy.
The guy ran like somebody was animating him and was trying to waste the budget, arms pumping way too wide for no reason. Shoulders were tight as he traced the cars, heavy boots tearing up little chunks of the road with each step; a dull gray streak behind him like kinetic exhaust. The A-Train ghosts buzzing under Reggie's thoughts threw up some static, a phantom-memory critique of the terrible stride, but Reggie just pushed the noise down.
It'd be real hypocritical of him considering he ran the exact same way the first few months, back before the blue sparks on his feet started showing up more often; back when he was trying to move like A-Train instead of like himself.
The guy ahead of him was wiry, long dark hair whipping behind him as his black and gold track jacket flapped behind him like a parachute. It was almost distracting enough for Reggie to miss the jagged crown tattooed high on the back of his neck.
Long hair and baggy clothes on top of that. Reggie just clicked his tongue. Bad choices for a runner, man. Honestly, the guy would probably have another thirty extra miles per hour on him if he fixed those already.
The chase pulled off the BQE, both of them diving down the off-ramp and into the industrial guts of Malspeth; rusty chain-links, cracked concrete, and old warehouses blurring past. Tattoo-guy cut a hard right, boots skidding messy enough that the guy chewed a trench through a patch of sidewalk and just threw himself into the corrugated metal of a warehouse door.
Jesu-! Reggie's eyes went wide as the guy didn't bother slowing down, handle forgotten as he burst right through the metal. Heavy steel folded inward around his body as the hinges came free in a spray of sheared bolts.
"Boss!" A panicked shout echoed out from the warehouse as Reggie followed the gray slipstream right through the jagged hole. "Big D!? He's right on me!"
Air pressure equalized as Reggie closed forty yards in under a heartbeat, wind rushing around as the yelling guy spun around to look at the entrance.
He slipped the space between them, loose in the shoulders as he brought his weight forward and the messy left hook to the guy's jaw did the rest for him.
Bone cracked as the other speedster's head snapped to the side, force carrying him directly into the ground as concrete dusted on impact. The guy skipped like a stone across the empty-looking warehouse parking lot, tearing right through a rusted metal roll-up. Without even a scream, he vanished further into the dark interior with a crash of snapping wood
Reggie blinked, shaking out the blue sparks dying off his knuckles, as he walked through the hole the guy just made. …huh. He stopped and blinked. So, not empty then.
The inside of the warehouse reeked of acetone, burnt plastic, and bleach, and not too far from where the speedster lay in a groaning heap against a forklift, a dozen Hispanic faces in aprons and respirators froze around long folding tables piled high with bunsen burners, centrifuges, and glass beakers bubbling with a familiar red fluid.
Very familiar.
"Oh shiiiiit..." Reggie breathed out the word as he took in the whole cook operation staring back at him, pieces coming together. "I been looking for one of these. Okay, people…" Reggie took a few steps forward into the warehouse, both hands up in the air as he offered the scared faces an easy smile and an easy way out. "Here's how this is gonna work. Y'all just put the beakers down, keep the hands where I can see 'em, and we can all walk out o-"
The air in front of him warped.
Reggie barely had a chance to throw his hands up before heat and light flared into his face and raw force took him before he could run. The gout of flame hit him with the solid weight of a dump truck and the ground vanished from under his feet.
Concrete exploded into gray shrapnel, rebar screaming and snapping as the exterior warehouse wall gave out behind his back. Godd-! He crashed spine-first into the asphalt outside, momentum plowing a trench through weeds and cracked pavement, chewing up the earth before he finally ground to a halt.
Really… really hope nobody got that on camera. The sound of propellers beating hard as it got closer and closer told him his hopes were probably going nowhere. Fuck meeeee. A breath hissed past Reggie's lips as he rolled over, one hand planted on the hot tarmac to push himself up. The blue and black suit was smoking, material hot to the touch, but the reinforced fabric held all the same.
A nine-millimeter was a poke.
A rifle was a bee sting.
This felt like taking a gut-punch from Mayweather.
With another groan, Reggie pushed himself up, only raising his head as he heard the sound of crunching footsteps on broken cinderblock. What… what now?
Through the jagged hole in the warehouse wall, a Hispanic man in his mid-forties stepped out into the muggy Queens afternoon.
Reggie blinked at the sight of feverish skin, forearms and neck bulging with thick veins glossy with sweat and almost pulsing red. The mouth was a furnace, orange light guttering as embers flicked past the man's teeth with every breath. "Y-you fuckin' think…"
Jesus Christ, man. Reggie winced as he stood up, the man's voice a raw and damaged. You chain-smoking charcoal?
"You think that you can fuck with my shit?" Hands came up, thumbs jabbing at his bare chest. "This my operation! This all Diablo right here!"
"Diablo?" A chunk of pulverized concrete dusted off his shoulder as Reggie tilted his head. "El Diablo? Like the dude the news said killed Translucent?"
Glowing orange eyes narrowed, a smirk pulling at half-blackened lips. "You got it, hermano."
"Ohhhhh." A laugh bubbled up in Reggie's chest as the speedster shook his head. Even if he didn't remember what he saw on screen in his first life, having the gang at his place for ten months let him know for a fact beyond a fact that Translucent wasn't killed by anybody but White Urkel himself. "Ohhh, so we lying now? Man, that's crazy, 'cause we both know you ain't that guy."
The smirk vanished, veins flaring a brighter red. "Sangre! Fuelle! Escombro! El Asfalto!" The man barked out four names, rapid footsteps crunching behind him on gravel.
A thick-built man, taller than he had any right to be, jumped from the hole and onto the parking lot; wearing just a sleeveless vest and heavy gold chains. Basketball-sized palms slammed onto the asphalt as he landed with a crouch, the ground suddenly groaning as it shifted. Tar, gravel and dirty rock crawled up his arms and into his flesh as his skin turned nearly the same texture and color as fresh-laid asphal, gravel fusing to his face and jawline as he swelled bigger, broader and heavier.
"Fuerte, cabrón." A voice like a cement roller boomed out, three other supes flanking the road man as Diablo stood back.
Reggie didn't exactly know who was who, but he knew enough Spanish to put together two and two. "I'm guessing you're El Asfalto."
The names weren't the big thing, though.
The important part of all this right now was the number.
Five.
Five. The Kings always moved these Rojo-juiced hitters in cells of five or six. Annoying as hell, it was a scattered nightmare that kept him bouncing all across the city and the outskirts.
"¡Capos!" Diablo's smoker voice roared out. "¡Mátalo!"
A woman was the first to make a move, a fine little thing with black hair in a ponytail. She didn't stay all that fine for long, though; her chest swelling like a barrel as the air around her whistled like a kettle on the stove. A fine mist poured off her skin as she charged his way and threw a punch at empty air. The hell is sh-
Reggie threw his hands up as she burst forward, steam venting from her elbows and ankles in a high-pressure burst of compressed air. His head jerked back, barely slipping the punch as air steamed the air and scored his bare skin. Bitch!
Reggie grabbed the heavy canvas of her jacket and spun as quick as he could, momentum sending her hurling back-first into a stack of shipping pallets that shattered on impact. Before the speedster could catch his breath or confirm the takedown, his eyes went wide and Reggie scrambled back again; hands tight at his side.
His head snapped to the side as a jet of red shot through the air, something thick and liquidy ripping across the parking lot and slicing through the driver's side door of a rusted-out minivan like an industrial water-cutter. Reggie snapped his head back, eyes tracing where the scarlet sludge had carved a neat line through the asphalt where he'd just been standing. The source stood at the far end, a lanky redhead with twitchy eyes, his hands held out as something mud-thick red liquid dripped from open holes in his palm.
I'm guessing that's Sangre. Reggie's head snapped back to the last of them. And that makes you… Escombro rolled his shoulders, the chubby man's skin darkening to gray and dusting the air in edged flakes that made him almost sparkle like glitter. Yeah, I don't know what does but I don't like it already.
El Diablo stepped forward, eyes and mouth glowing as he rasped. "Take this pendejo apart!"
Chapter 3
The fight immediately spilled out into the street.
Reggie had all of a heartbeat before he had to dodge a burnt-out sedan from El Asfalte, the tar-man with the shitty name already having decided the best way to start a fight was by throwing shit. "Bruh, could you chill!?"
The answer to that was a big fat no, and it came in the form of another high-pressure jet from Sangre; a burst of what Reggie was beginning to think was something too close to blood. The thick sludgy weapon sheared through a chain-link on the other side of the street and cut into the wall of some derelict building.
The sound of screams filled the air behind the speedster, people running for their lives as cars swerved to avoid the fight, and others slammed on their brakes. The sounds of squealing tires and blaring horns added to the panic of afternoon traffic as commuters realized they were driving into a superpowered warzone.
The news chopper overhead definitely didn't help, either. If I'm gonna be on the six o'clock news, can't get my ass ki-!
Another jet of red sludge shot his way, aimed low and right at Reggie's knees. He jumped back in a blur of motion, the blood-cutter carving a deep groove into the street.
Heat washed over the back of Reggie's neck and he snapped his head up to see El Diablo in the air, the bald fire-breathing bastard with cones of bright fire a constant jet-like burn from his bare feet. The villain roared, mouth open wide, and flame roared out even louder — swallowing any sound Diablo made as the fire seared the air.
Give me a second, man! Reggie didn't get even half of one as he already jumped back, fire cooking the asphalt where he just stood and forcing the ground to bubble.
His feet met the side of a parked truck and Blushift kept moving, running up the side and leaping off the top in a single breath. His powerful legs launched him high into the air, Reggie's arms windmilling as he arced up and up.
Right at the hovering El Diablo, several stories above the street.
The street boss's eyes widened, but Reggie was already too close, right fist blurring as it swung out. Diablo's head rocked back, steaming blood spraying from his mouth as dark hands wrapped around his neck. The guy choked on his own fire, thrashing wildly as blood mixed with orange sparks hissed at his costume.
Reggie's teeth grit as he threw punch after punch, the heat off the man's skin burning at his knuckles. Diablo spat in his face in too-fast Spanish, the other man eating hits as he traded them back and forth. They neared the ground, wind rushing past them both even as Diablo tried to keep in the air. Flames burst to life in the villain's mouth again, Reggie moving on instinct to stop a burst of fire to the face.
Something cracked the instant his head snapped forward, more hot blood spraying. With a scream, fire exploded out from Diablo's arms and legs, Reggie screaming back as he was thrown off with another wave of heat and force.
Concrete cracked under his feet as he landed hard, Reggie's head snapping back up as Diablo rocketed higher into the sky, one hand clutching his ruined nose. "Kill this cabrón! Kill him!"
The fiery banger bellowed again with the order, furnace mouth open as a massive wave of fire rolled out.
Fool me twice, bitch! Reggie made to dodge — only for his momentum to stall, muscles locking up at the sound of a too-close scream.
Right behind him, a minivan was stalled in the street; a panicked mother with tears in her eyes struggling with one car seat in her hand as she tried to get her other child free.
"No!"
The gout slowed to a crawl, individual licks of orange and yellow suspended in the afternoon air as Reggie rushed forward. The woman didn't have a chance to breathe or blink, frozen like a statue as he scooped her up with both her kids in hand; all three of them safe across the street in a blur of motion. Back to the car before anyone had time to form a thought, Reggie put all ten tons of his force to work as he shoved the minivan out of the way, body-frame flexing and axle protesting as the tires screamed across the intersection.
A heartbeat later, the world juttered back to life, Blushift catching his breath as flames washed over empty pavement. His head snapped up, only one split-second of breath allowed as El Diablo backfired flames from his arms with a yell. The propulsion threw him forward, the man moving like a missile as he threw out a punch with momentum, speed, and strength beyond human.
The punch burned past him, Diablo's glowing eyes meeting Reggie's for all of a second before a hand lashed out and caught the too-tough pyro by the ankle. With a yell of his own, the speedster spun in place and Diablo went flying again — this time entirely out of his control and far faster than before.
The impact was a bomb all its own, as explosive as the man's own breath, Diablo's body caving in a metal dumpster with a sound that could set off a car alarm. The dumpster didn't last as fire exploded off the leader of this cell, the metal of the dumpster dripping into slag as the supervillain rose to his feet.
Glowing eyes on Blushift, the man spat a glob of burning saliva onto the street, teeth pulled back into a grimace. Diablo's glare didn't stay on him, though, the man looking up at the distant news chopper before dropping back down a half-second later. "Tómalo."
The rasp came out again, the man's eyes aimed at his crew. "Take care of him!"
A frown on his face, Reggie scoffed at the man barking orders. "Not gonna do it yourself? You scared, bruh?"
He didn't get an answer from Diablo, and the villain didn't wait to see if his people followed the order. Fire burst from his feet and forearms, bright orange cones launching him up over the low rooftops of Queens as he trailed black smoke behind him.
"Bro really just dipped." Reggie let out a breath through gritted teeth. "A'ight."
He turned back to the street, four street supes still waiting for a beatdown in front of him.
It was crazy how little supes used their powers; in a fight, at least.
The show ponies posed for the camera and danced on the strings for corporate, in media junkets and ad spots and car dealership grand openings.
The Rojos, though?
They might have been random cells of powered thugs, but these street-level bangers had actual stick time with their powers. They had the muscle memory of murders, and they showed that off as often as they could.
They didn't care about collateral.
They didn't care about cameras.
They were just down to fuck shit up.
Okay. Alright now. Reggie dropped his hips, shoulders rolling loose; those same strange blue sparks coming to life on his feet as he danced into his pocket. You got this. You got this!
Time stretched out, everything inching to a crawl as his heart hammered in his ribs. The steam venting from Fuelle hung motionless in the air, weird blood-stuff in Sangre's palms frozen, and the dull grayed skin flaking from Escombro's fat forearms hanging in the air like glitter.
Steam-girl vented air from her ankles, eating up ground in a blink as she threw a hissing gatling-gauntlet of punches. Reggie bobbed under the first two, pressurized air whistling past his ears, but the third punch grazed his shoulder even as he ducked back.
Son of a-! The scalding punch hit hard enough for him to feel, sheer force of it sending Reggie skidding backward with smoke trailing from his heels, the grip of his cleats digging twin trenches into the asphalt.
Before he could catch his breath, the redhead with the bloody palms rushed in with a crescent of sludge arcing out; a fist of high-pressure fluid aimed right at his neck.
Reggie ducked, the swing passing over him as he scrambled back. "Motherf-!" His eyes went wide as the red sludge hit a rusted light pole behind them, the sound of shrieking metal loud as it cut right through the steel.
The chubby villain stepped in, fist out in a wild haymaker.
Reggie caught the wrist, a grunt leaving him at the unexpected strength in the fat man's fist. It didn't stop him from throwing back a punch of his own into the villain's face.
That was a mistake.
Escombro's skin detonated.
A cloud of those gray flakes exploded off the street-supe, Reggie screaming as something tore across his exposed face and arms; a hundred tiny burning cuts that ate at his skin like a swarm of tiny piranhas. "F-fu… what the h-hell?" Half-blind and blinking through the gray dust, Blushift scrambled back as quickly as he could.
The same second he shook his head to clear the dust, Escombro charged at him through the smoke, shedding flakes with every step.
Wrong day to forget my sunglasses. Eyes watering, the speedster ducked under the heavy man's wild swing, and his hands lashed out. Reggie grabbed Escombro by his heavy leather belt and the back of the neck, and drove him down.
The crack of concrete drowned out the crack of a broken nose as the ground shook, the fat man bouncing off the concrete completely out. Reggie let out a shaky breath, standing up straight again. One down.
His head snapped up, the high-pitched hiss of escaping air shrieking too loud and too close.
And directly behind him.
Fuelle. Fully charged.
The small woman's chest was three times larger than it should have been, but it didn't seem to slow her a bit as she vented air from her body and spun out at Reggie with a flying kick.
Reggie tried to pivot, too run; the micro-cuts all over his body didn't help with that, pain and the raw exhaustion of fighting five solid C-listers made it even harder.
So, when Fuelle's kick hit him square in the ribs, there was nothing he could do to keep it from hurting like a bitch. The girl spun, the valves on her palm and elbow blowing open wide at the same time as she threw a punch.
Ribs flexed painfully as Reggie's feet left the ground, launched horizontally through the air like a ragdoll as he tried to catch himself.
He didn't see the lariat coming until it was already in front of him, an arm half as thick as a tree trunk and dark as the street below. Reggie's neck snapped back and his body went with it, pain exploding in his chest as something cracked and the world spun into a chaotic blur of blue sky and dark concrete.
His body crashed across the asphalt, chewing up the yellow dividing lines, suit tearing more and more as he skipped end over end. Finally, he ground to a halt against the curb, thirty feet of pavement torn up and his suit torn at the sides.
A rattling groan pushed past Reggie's lips, pain flaring hot along his chest all the way down to his screaming ribs. He groaned again, peeling himself out of the dent as he spat a mouthful of blood onto the street. He planted a scraped-up hand on the cracked curb, and pushed himself up; chest heaving and vision swimming as he tried to catch his breath.
Boots hit the ground as Reggie forced himself up to his feet with a grunt, hands raised as he dropped back into his stance. The stabbing pain in his side could wait. I ain't hear no bell. Blue lightning flared around his sneakers again, the sparks travelling up to fight the black spots at the edge of his vision.
Across the street, the blood-guy stepped out from behind a wrecked sedan, both hands raised as red sludge began pooling in his palms and building up for another high-power blast.
The speedster tightened his jaw. You got this, Re-
A flash of yellow tore from the sky, electricity dropping like a heavy hammer; enough to light up the afternoon.
The lance of raw voltage struck Sangre dead in the chest, his mouth wide open as he screamed his lungs out. A few seconds later, the lightning eased up and the villain's eyes rolled back, red sludge splattering onto the pavement, body smoking as he kissed the floor.
Unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The asphalt giant froze, steam-girl no longer venting as the hiss died from her elbow.
Reggie froze, slowly straightening as his eyes tracked up to the sky.
Floating down from above the intersection, afternoon sun behind her, was a dark-skinned woman in a perfect white-and-gold bodysuit. She hung in the air, a Vought-branded angel, short dark hair blowing slightly in the wind as both hands crackled with leftover arcs of bright yellow power.
Nubia.
Gold boots hovered just above the wrecked street, staring at the smoking craters and torn-up concrete, as her eyes trailed over to the bleeding speedster unsteady on his feet. The Super-Mom of the West Coast tilted her head, a slow smirk spreading across her lips.
"Looks like you're getting your ass kicked, Blu Boy."
Reggie wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood. He tilted his head with a side-eye, a lopsided grin on his face that actually felt real.
"No idea what you're talking about."