Hey ya'll! Ok, so this is my first x-men fic, so please be kind. I'm all for constructive criticism, but please keep the constructive part in mind. Oh, and parts of this might might seem kinda weird, but Pietro's pretty messed up right now, so keep that in mind, too.

DISCLAIMER!! I do not own X-Men: Evolution or any of the characters! ...That makes me sad...

I walk, stagger more like it, along the side of the road. Swaying from side to side to a rhythm only I can hear. If anyone was watching, they would find my pace rather odd. I, Pietro the incredible Quicksilver, walking? Not running leaving a trail of dust and destruction in my wake? Strange…

I have many unusual, quirks, you could call them. I always sleep on my side, facing the door of my room. When I sit for too long, I tap my left foot and right hand back and forth, tap thump, much to my classmates annoyance. I chew on my fingers when I'm nervous, careful to never chew my actual nails. But, of all these quirks, the least obvious one is also my most important one.

I never run without a reason.

That's a pretty vague quirk, I know, but it's true. I run to catch things, I run away from things. I run to clear my mind, to distract myself, to remind myself that I'm still here.

Thinking about it, it's probably not really a quirk, as anything could count as a 'reason', but I guess 'cause my reasons require running so much, I just call it a quirk.

Heh, Lance would probably laugh at all this. I wouldn't blame him. My brain goes so fast, it can't keep up with itself. Another thing that makes no sense.

But now I'm getting distracted again. The point of all this is, I am currently not running because I currently have no reason.

But I will soon.

I wonder if the others have noticed that I'm gone yet. More importantly, I wonder if they care. With friends like mine, brothers like our name suggests, you can never really be sure. After all, I do seem to have a knack for annoying people to the point of homicide. Perhaps that explains my father. Any self-respecting therapist would say I shouldn't blame myself for all the things he did/ is doing/ will do. But I'm clearly far from being a therapist.

Or self-respecting for that matter. I could probably thank father for that one as well.

Father. Such a meaningless title given away to any bastard who decides to reproduce. 'Father' means nothing anymore because of people like him. People who…

Oh dear, I seem to have gotten off track again. I'm still on that same road, but now I'm standing still, watching the cars rush past at a speed that would impress/ terrify anyone else. I stand in the shadows watching. Watching. The colors of the cars seems to bleed together. Mesh. But just as quickly as the whirlpool of colors had come, did they melt away, leaving a black and white memory in its wake.

It does seem eerily similar to back then… You see, father dearest had very high expectations of his children. Wanda couldn't meet them, so she was sent away. I don't mean to sound insensitive. It's just the way things were. So now father, or Magneto as he preferred/ demanded to be called, focused all his attention on me. And the more he paid attention, the more flaws he saw, and the more harsh he became.

'Abuse' is such a cold word. He was training me. I had to be stronger, smarter, faster, faster, faster. I distinctly remember the large metal room, so very similar to a certain room found in the Xavier mansion. It was even dangerous. Will the irony never end? I remember having metal boxes and poles and anything else he could think of thrown at me. Having to dodge it all. Having to be fast enough to meet his standards. To survive.

That is, of course, assuming that I wanted to.

But the problem with all this is, Magneto had no limits. But I did. He would have happily stayed in that room endangering my life for days and had no problem whatsoever. But I could only go so long before my calves would burn, my lungs not get enough air, my heart burst.

You can only expect so much from an eight-year-old.

So I had a few options. I could ask him to stop. He would either laugh or scowl or both and make everything go faster. Or, I could do nothing, wait for my body to shut down on its own, and be… 'punished' later for my incompetence. Or, the option I chose most often, I could stop. Intentionally get plowed over by some airborne piece of metal. Usually, he would look at me all disappointed and just…leave. Simple as that. No checking to see if I was seriously injured, see if I was ok, show an ounce of sympathy or, God forbid, caring. No. If I couldn't handle whatever I got hit with, then clearly I wasn't strong enough.

Not good enough. Not worth his time. I had to pick myself up, clean and bandage my own wounds, and try not to make too much noise as I sobbed myself to sleep.

And now I'm back in the present. Still standing. Still watching. I take a step forward into the sun. Watching. Waiting. I think I'm thinking too much. Does that make sense? Probably not. I think I hear Lance laughing.

I take a breath. Take a moment. Take a step. And suddenly I'm in the street. Cars racing past me. Or perhaps I'm racing past them? I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm not even there to them. Just an invisible wind, spinning and twirling around them. I smile.

There's really nothing to smile about.

By now, I'm dancing. There's no other word for it, my fluid movements, my graceful leaps and bounds around the black and white, Technicolor whirlpool surrounding me. That didn't make sense. Besides, by now I think I'm surrounding it.

The sun is falling lower and lowing into the sky. Time is beginning to elude me. The cars are slower, the sun is faster, and I'm dancing within it all.

I start to feel the familiar pains of fatigue. My lungs, heart, legs, all betray me with the pain they emit. I slow, slightly. I'm now not quite as invisible. I'm still a blur and nothing more. Those who notice me disregard the sight within a moment, passing it off as lack of sleep, or a trick of the light.

I slow more, smiling wider though there is just as little to smile about as before.

Time starts to return to normal. The cars and the sun synchronizing perfectly. Although by now I know that there is no such thing as perfect.

I slow more, almost giddy in anticipation of what I know it to come, only sightly aware of how sick my enjoyment of this really is. I briefly recall a particularly bad day filled with 'training' and 'punishments' when I had sat in my room, sobbing oh, so silently, wondering whether it was better to die now and get it over with, or live just to spite my father. I never did think of an answer.

Maybe that's why I'm smiling now. I don't have to think of an answer. I'm leaving the decision up to whoever's behind the wheel today. If I live, whoop-de-do, I get to go back home and lie every time someone asks me if I'm ok and hope that someday I can join the rest of the world in the land of the truly living. And if I don't, well, I'd be like a student let out of detention five minutes earlier than everyone else. Happy to be free, but left with that pang of guilt brought on by the friends left behind who you know have just as much a reason to want to leave as you do.

I think I'll just let the car decide.

I continue moving for a moment longer, soaking in the golden-orange glow of sunset before just……


Due to my speed allowing me to see things slower, I am able to more deeply appreciate the damage done to my body. My ribs are broken first, slammed by the bumper of the car, the license plate cutting into my skin. My legs are next. Surprisingly, I don't hear or feel either of them break, but I do feel the skin tear and the muscles bruise. I feel my head fly forward. Notice the detail of the spider web like pattern the windshield has now become. I am morbidly fascinated by the way my blood runs down the cracks from my forehead.

But before I can get a better chance to observe my own, sick version of art, My body if flung to the side, tumbling off the road and into the grass, hearing my shoulder pop in the process. I roll a few times before settling on my back.

I stare up at the still golden sky. And I laugh. But my laughter soon becomes sobbing, which reverts back to laughter until the two simply melt together. I have my eyes clenched shut. My hysterical laughter so out of place with my broken body, and my broken mind and my tears mixing so beautifully with my own blood.

The sun sinks lower, probably not wanting to look at me anymore. Can't say I blame it. I guess I'm pretty messed up. But whose to say I'm not completely sane and the rest of the world is too insane to notice?

Not very likely. But then again, I don't think I'm insane. Not yet. I'm messed up, sure, but not insane. Others may disagree, but they just don't understand my thought process.

Oh well. It doesn't really matter now, does it? Because messed up, insane, or whatever you want to call it, the fact remains that I'm still on the ground bleeding, laughing, sobbing and utterly broken.

I've been lying here for all of fifteen seconds. I guess I think to much and too fast. But right now, I'm tired of thinking. I'm perfectly content to just lay here.

Bleeding and broken.

Laughing and sobbing.

And wait.

For now, it's just a one-shot, but I may continue depending on reviews.

Love it? Hate it? Please tell me!