Had this sitting around for a while and finally finished it. Pretty much I wanted to write an articulate look at how Lance views himself through the prism of a day in the life, basically, that never really resolves. This takes place maybe somewhere in Season 2, probably before Joyride... but it could just as well be AU (the timeframe is definitely assuming the fic takes place in 2009/2010). Your decision.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, some lyrics are used here... if memory serves, those are the property of Morrissey (the Smiths), Uncle Tupelo, the Who, Notorious B.I.G., and Miley Cyrus. Yeah, seriously.

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I step outside the hot, crowded hallway and into the hot, open air, jamming my hand into my pocket and grabbing another stick of my gum. I've become addicted to the stuff. I saw on TV that the guy from Friends used it to get over his nicotine addiction and ever since I've been chewing it nonstop. Because there are moments when I just feel so angry, or so bored, or so damn meaningless – moments when I want to just scream out and let the Earth do the talking for me.

But I need to stop. I'm a ticking time-bomb, I'm a danger to everyone around me, I'm a menace to society. And I'm a menace to myself. After the last quake the migraine was so bad that I couldn't sleep for two days.

So I chew gum and hope it stops the addiction to disaster. Hope there's not just something wrong with me. Hope the residual pain is just a fluke.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder, push a freshman to the side, and hop the steps two at a time. I slow down when I see her sitting on a bench, so innocent in that blue blouse, bag beside her and book in her lap.

Something claws inside my chest, tries to grab for my heart but squeezes the lung instead and suddenly I'm short for breath.

The urge to shake, to growl, to destroy. Chew, chew, chew chew chew.

Pop a bubble. Walk on over like it's nothing in the world, all Jimmy Dean style.

"Shoulda known I'd catch you with your nose in a book."

I'm trying to smile and smirk at the same time but when she looks at me she only catches the last one and frowns. "I can read. You should try it."

"Ouch. You mind?" Without waiting for an answer – "No." – I place her bag on the ground and sit down next to her, throwing my backpack on top of hers. "Whatcha reading?"

"SAT prep."

"You're a sophomore."

"Never too early. I need the help," she mutters.

She is stuck in her book again and I lean to read over her shoulder.

"You missed 21 and 24," I say after a minute or two.

"What, did you steal the answers for this too?" she snorts.

"No, I'm just saying. You put C and D. They're both B."

She looks back at them. "No they're not."

"Check the key, Pryde."

"I don't need to."

"Five bucks and I won't talk to you for a week."

She flips a few pages and checks the key.

"I don't have five bucks," she finally says morosely.

"It's all right," I reply, grinning. "Neither did I. It's worth it just to see the look of shock on your pretty face."

"I'm not shocked. You're smart. You just don't…"

"Try?"

"Yeah." She looks away. She's thinking. God I wish I was a telepath. "What'd you get, anyway? On the SAT?"

"1500, I think. Including writing."

"That's… that's not too bad."

"Nah."

One of those long silences. One where you just want to go back later and fill in all the space with meaningful talk about whatever.

"Thanks," she says.

"No problem," I reply, and stand, because she's saying goodbye. I grab my bag and grin at her. "Stop freaking out 'bout this stuff, Pryde. You got a whole damn year."

"I'm not freaking out." She's so cute when she's lying. She pouts and looks at me and my lung squeezes again. "Unless you have any hints on how to write the essay?"

"No idea. I didn't feel like writing it when I took the test."

And I walk away, grinning.

Change scene: off-stage, our hero hops in his car, squeals out of the parking lot, and burns rubber onto Elm Street, all systems-a-go. We resume the action five minutes later.

I throw the wheel left, honk at the oncoming traffic that I'm cutting off with my stupid maneuver, and smirk as the Jeep pulls into the parking lot of a gas station and convenience store. Park next to a beat-up Mustang – saddest sight I've ever seen; you can tell it was a beauty, but some dummy owner just let it all go to waste – and slowly step out onto the asphalt, some areas stained blacker than others (by what, I don't want to know). I enter the store, nod to the chick at the register, but she's all caught up in her magazine and chewing her pierced lips and her overall desperation to hate the world, so I just move on to the frozen drink machine.

Damn Coke spout is blinking red. I've sorta got a routine going – I usually get Coke, cherry, and another flavor, one of the rotating ones, but sometimes the Coke or cherry flavors are blinking red and I can't do that. But it's okay, since they have blue raspberry today – the most delicious of all flavors in the history of frozen drinks – and that fake pina colada stuff, so I keep my cool.

I stuff a 40 oz to the rims with four different flavors. Some of it ends up on top of the lid, but I lick it off, stick a straw inside, take another big gulp, and then fill it up a little more.

The emo chick is still caught up in her magazine. I drink some more and fill up a little more.

I walk slowly around the aisles, looking at all the candy that makes me want to puke my guts out, and then approach Emo Girl.

"One fifty," she says.

"It's gone up twenty cents," I grumble, but I scrounge around in my pocket for my wallet. I've got all of two bucks and a couple torn movie tickets. "Here."

The wrist-slitter takes my money, hands me my change, and I leave the store with 40 ounces of four-flavored slush and two quarters in my hand.

Then I see it. Some big bouncer-type blond dude, looks just like Duncan at 29, is pushing this short hobbled kid with bright green eyes. Not the actual coloring of the eyes, I mean – where the white is supposed to be it's all green.

"You touching my car, mutie?" says Future Duncan, all tough like. People tend to act tough when they're twenty inches taller than the person they're facing. "Getting filth on it?"

The green-eyed mutant doesn't reply and the blond throws him against the grey brick wall.

"Leave him alone," I say, stepping forward.

Jerkoff looks at me, spits: "Stay out of this. The mutie got crap on my car."

"You mean that hunk of trash?" His car, as luck would have it, is that junky Mustang. "I think you got crap on your car, man. Don't go blaming this midget because you can't take care of a classic vehicle."

Duncan's hero is distracted by a guy his own size so Greeny tries to make his escape, but the blond notices and throws him back, elbows him in the gut.

"Get off him!" I growl, shoving Future Duncan to the side. He rears back to punch me, but I sock him with my free hand right in the kisser. The mutant breaks free, and I'm distracted by his movements just long enough for Jerkoff to knock me to the ground.

He's about to make a hard stomp somewhere – I don't even wanna know where – when a figure stands between us.

"I think it's time you left," says the figure.

I groan. Damn.

"Who're you?" demands the bully.

"Just someone that doesn't want to have to call the cops," says my so-called savior. "Go on. You don't need to be here anymore."

And he says it so confidently that the ass listens, gets in his crap Mustang, and pulls on out of there in a matter of minutes. I lay still against the ground, fuming that I've just been saved by Scott freaking Summers. At least I didn't spill any of my drink.

"Need a hand?"

I get up on my own, pausing on my knees to pick up the two quarters that fell when I knocked Jerkoff in the face. Slowly looking up, I stand, stare him in the eye.

"I guess I should thank you for preventing me from being curb stomped."

"I'm pretty sure you could've taken that guy if you'd ever felt like putting down your drink," Summers states. His tone is just as cold as mine. "Just stepped in to stop a scene."

"Right. Thanks for that, Goggles."

"We don't have to do this every time, Alvers."

"We're not doing anything," I mutter. We're never doing anything. Ever.

He stands, arms crossed. I stick my free hand in my pocket.

"Professor Xavier is always saying we don't like each other because we're too similar," he tells me.

"What a load of B.S."

He shrugs, doesn't elaborate.

"Cool. I'll see you around, Summers."

I walk past him and am at my door when his voice calls out, as an aside:

"I think I get what Kitty sees in you, Alvers."

I stare at him before getting in and closing the car door.

I wait four, five, six seconds for Summers to go inside the store, to make my clean getaway. Turn up the radio loud and clear, but nothing good's on so I turn it to a CD I burned for myself. Uncle Tupelo. God, it's good to have some Chicago music in this car. Something from home.

"Nothing here to stand on!" I shout along. The guitar assault stops, changes to a country progression, and the dude starts talking about his postcard from hell. I laugh to myself. That's what Summers is. A postcard from Xavier U, a postcard from that snobbish preppy hell.

Xavier. What a prick.

I've got some eggs in the backseat – eggs that Fred forgot to get out of the car and now have got to be rotten – and the Institute isn't that far.

Step on the gas and drive like you mean it, baby!

I honk at an idiot who swerves in front of me. He flips me the bird, and I scream something at him before breaking out in laughter. I'm punch-drunk with power, man, with the freedom that this busted-up Jeep allows me. I've got a frozen drink and bad eggs and the knowledge that Captain Glasses ain't at home.

The road to the Institute is long and wooded, much nicer than the rundown part of town we live in. I know the place has cameras out the ass, so I park a ways back, off to the side to where I can't even see the front gate. I grab the carton and hop out of the car, peering through the trees. It's not too bad of a toss.

I throw one egg, overshoot by fifteen feet.

Grab another one. Undershoot this time.

A third. Hit a tree. I'm not much of a quarterback, by the way.

Fourth egg. And… bullseye! Right on the gate.

I throw another one and hit the wall. I laugh to myself, but as I throw the sixth egg it's not funny anymore. I'm standing out here, hiding behind a tree, throwing eggs at this damn place from the outside. And I'll always be on the outside. They'll just come out here and clean it up and our house will still be crap. It's all of a sudden so meaningless. So childish.

And realizing this makes me feel so angry. Everything is so useless. I could have let that kid get beat up and nothing would change. He's just going to get beat up later, just like these eggs are going to be picked up. It's just a gesture. I knew that from the beginning, but it's an anonymous gesture that won't matter in fifteen minutes, and I'm so pathetic.

I carry the carton deeper into the woods off to the left of the road. When I'm in a ways, I stop, open the carton, and hurl an egg at a large tree. Strike one. I pick up another one, sneer, and hit the tree again for strike two.

Thinking of Summers – of our crap house – of my useless schoolwork – of that nine-to-five I'll never want and never be lucky enough to have – I growl and throw an egg as hard as I can at the tree.

It explodes against the bark. Strike three.

I smile for a second, then yell and throw the whole damn carton at the tree. The earth shakes, just a little. But I feel better. I've gotten some of my anger out, and that's a good thing for everyone that lives with me.

My head feels light. I grab a stick of gum, unwrap it, and pop it into my mouth. Chew, chew. Calm down, Alvers.

It's time for a run.

I make my way back to the car. None of the droids or whatever are out yet, so I figure Xavier hasn't gone all DEFCON over my eggy violation of his precious school. Kind of wish he had. There's a park not far where I like to hang out. It's a great place to smoke a cigarette, but I've been done with those since I found out about my powers way back in Northbrook. The addiction pales in comparison to the rush I get when I unleash all hell on the ground beneath my feet.

Which is why I've got my Matthew Perry-approved gum: to prevent second-hand smoke and second-hand earthquakes. According to the ads on TV, both kill.

Wish I could say I have a plan for when I get to the park, but I don't. Instead, I just sit in the car for a while after I pull in. Roll down the window and listen to one of the little kids' baseball games down the hill.

I wish I had a burrito.

Fred makes the best burritos around, way better than all the chains everyone's in love with – Chipotle and all that – but once I go home I won't go out again. That house is a disease. Sometimes I want to tear down that old place, just level it straight-out. But then I wouldn't have a place to sleep, which would be a problem.

This park, though. This is what home is supposed to feel like. I don't even know these people, the joggers and the parents and the kids playing baseball and the little brothers not paying attention in the stands, but I still feel like I could, you know? I feel like this is what life is supposed to be. Enjoying stuff with friends and kind-of friends and playing games and not worrying about jobs or homework or the fact that your husband is having an affair, which, by the way lady-doing-Pilates-near-the-monkey-bars, he totally is.

If I could just stay here, I wouldn't need the gum. The headache goes away here. It's peaceful. Nice. I could stay here forever, I want to think.

But I know I can't. Because as much as I want peace and quiet, as much as I want to make the pain away, I need chaos and noise. It's part of me. No one listens to Hendrix at low volume. There's always some part of me that just wants to explode, do a crazy guitar solo that pans left to right and then back to the middle for some searing vibrato.

I need to let loose. I need to turn this city upside down.

I grab a stick of gum.

Change scene: off-stage, our hero, after his stay in the valley of paradise, takes a detour to a shoe store and spends an hour making prank calls on the store phone before getting kicked out. He then contemplates life and the universe as he eats chicken and noodles he stole from a football jock in a mall food court whilst the jock was up getting napkins. We resume the action after a brief nap in the back of the Jeep.

Around ten the burger joint, Gordo's, always fills up on Friday nights (for whatever reason – football games, party pregaming, I don't know) so I head there. Private school kids are sitting at some of the tables outside when I pull in, and my Jeep isn't a Lexus or Mercedes so they pay me no mind. They're not wearing the clothes, the prissy preppy pretentious prudish clothes, but I can tell it's them, their big smirky grins and narrowed judging eyes perfectly intact from a hard day of spending Daddy's money.

Not that I'm jealous or anything. In fact, some of them aren't that bad, for private schoolers at least. But still. I like my little dream world where anyone above me is evil and anyone below me is scum.

I get out of the car and check inside to see if there's anyone I know, but the place is as good as empty to me. Hands stuffed in pockets, I lean against a brick column and close my eyes.

"There's a party at Jess's later."

"Jess had one last month and it was a super letdown. We ran out of Keystone before anyone had even got there."

"Well, that's not a bad thing..."

Everyone laughs, ha ha ha.

One of them, with one of those trendy polos and jeans that tighten at the ankle, starts talking about some concert tomorrow, God knows who – one of those cool indie bands, Of Montreal or Grizzly Bear or My Bloody Valentine on their reunion tour. Who knows. Who cares? Grinning, I dart to the Jeep, grab out my guitar from the backseat, and sit on the roof.

Every time they begin to say something I strum as loudly as I can. After a couple times one of the chicks glares at me, but I act like I haven't seen her. I let them talk for a bit, and then when the chick talks, I jam out an A major and croon, "Won't get fooled again!" as loud as I can.

This charade continues for a while, them talking and me singing out classics that are too popular to have street cred. Finally the guy in the polo smiles and says, "If you're going to play something, would you at least play something good?"

I smile back and say, "Oh, of course."

If we're going for indie cool there's one anthem that every poser and their mama knows so I bust it out. They stop talking and stare at me, defiling this timeless composition, and when it's time for the chorus, I sneer out, "And if a double decker bus... crashes into us... to die by your side... is such a heavenly way to die..."

The chick rolls her eyes and they get up to leave. As they all file into a Lexus – I knew it! - I sing out, right on time, "Well the pleasure, the privilege was mine!"

I stop when they drive away and stare at the lonely table. Now that they're gone and the song isn't just the latest trend I play it again, slower and more for myself, not bothering to keep my voice down.

"Take me out tonight... take me anywhere, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care..."

Who cares in the end? Who cares about a rebellious kid with a haircut dangerously similar to a mullet? Just don't care about anything and it doesn't matter, right? Don't care about how they look at you and think "freak," or "hood," or "waste of time, space, and the check from the government."

God I am screwed up.

"I was a terror since the public school era!" It's a little difficult to get the beat right for this one; rap songs are always a trick. I switch it up, try a mashup. "I was a terror since the public school era..."

One of the kids across the outside seating area gives me a weird look, so when I get to the chorus I scream out, just for him, "I know it's gonna be okay – yeah-ah-ahhhhh, it's a party in the U.S.A.!"

I've gone off the deep end and it feels great.

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