Pietro set his foot firmly in front of himself, bending forward.

He glanced around, making sure no one was near the track field.

He took off, concentrating only on his breathing and the chill air on his face.

The wind seemed like a roaring train.

Remembering what had happened the day Magneto had died, Pietro shook his head roughly.

“You need to slow down,” Wanda commented one day, “You don’t think things through.”

The problem was, Pietro didn’t want to slow down. He didn’t want to think. Thinking was too…draining.

How many laps had it been? Too many to count; it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he kept running.

He could never stop pretending, could he? ‘But what am I trying to be?’

Pietro remembered that one time he’d gotten sick. Really sick.

Pneumonia. Boy, had that been a laugh. He’d had to stay in bed for weeks.

That was six months ago, and he was still weak at times. He couldn’t have gone to a doctor, even if he’d wanted to.

Mystique hadn’t done anything about it. It was the Brotherhood who’d taken care of him, even though he’d betrayed them.

It didn’t matter. She was gone now.

Magneto had never really been a father to him. Maybe that’s where his independence came from. And his attitude.

Freddy had made soup, Lance had gotten meds from the store, Todd had brought in basic needs and wants, and Wanda had kept him company.

Pietro stopped, clutching his side.

Six minutes. That was longer than he’d ever run before.

He collapsed onto the ground. Too fast for too long.

Pietro climbed slowly to his feet. Much as he hated to admit it, he had some serious thinking to do.

Maybe. Maybe he could try to be kinder. Maybe. If he left this all behind. He doubted it. He highly doubted it.

‘It’s probably just the weather,’ he thought, heading back to the boarding house.