The Snail Apocalypse

Tommy was lounging on the couch at the Kaplanses' house, keeping a plastic ping-pong ball aloft above his face by blowing on it.

"Ttttttttoooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy."

He glanced over to see Billy standing there, mouth moving slowly as he shaped the words.

The ball fell, and Tommy snapped up a hand, catching it before it hit his face, wondering what his twin brother wanted now.

"Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii nnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedddddddd yyyyyyyyyoooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu ttttttttttoooooooooooooooooooooooooo—"

Tommy didn't have time for this. He was too busy being bored.

Guessing that his brother was going to ask him to do the dishes, the speedster got up, dashing into the kitchen and quickly getting that chore done with, and taking the initiative to dry the dishes and put them away, as well. Then he ran back to the living room and sat down on the sofa to wait out the rest of Billy's sentence.

"tttttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll—"

Oh, so he wasn't going to ask him to do the dishes? Oh well, it had given Tommy something to do for a few seconds, and he'd been able to do it without breaking any of the china this time.

"Cccccccccccccccccccccccaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppppppppp tttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttt—"

Tommy didn't have time for this. He wasn't everybody's fucking errand boy.

Dashing off to grab a post-it note and a pen, he scribbled down the message: Whatever it is, tell Captain America yourself. Then he stuck the note on Billy's forehead and ran off.

Where to? he mused as he ran, absentmindedly changing direction whenever he felt like it, till he found himself in front of Avengers Mansion.

Maybe Wolverine was around, and Tommy could annoy him.

He dashed inside, the mansion's defense system managing to recognize it was him even at that speed—although he almost wished it wouldn't, just so he could tussle with the security system, because it was kind of fun.

But whatever. Turned out Wolverine was at the mansion. He was opening the fridge, hand reaching out for a bottle of beer. Of course. That man loved his beer, although Tommy couldn't fathom why, because what with his healing factor the hirsute mutant couldn't get drunk, and beer tasted fucking disgusting—Tommy knew this because he'd stolen one out of Logan's hands once, and downed it in a few quick gulps, only to make a revolted face at the bitter taste and go get some coffee to wash it down with. After drinking the liquor, the world had gone fuzzy for a moment, but it cleared up soon enough. Of course, coffee was also bitter when drunk black, but it tasted great with a healthy helping of cream and sugar. The buzz from the sugar and caffeine lasted longer than the tipsiness had, but it never actually lasted as long as he led everyone else to believe.

Tommy considered Wolverine for a moment as he was leaning over and reaching into the fridge. He couldn't steal and drink the man's liquor, 'cause he'd already done that, so what to do to annoy him?

He lingered there as Logan pulled out the beer and closed the refrigerator door, and as it was closing Tommy saw a bottle of sparkling apple cider in there, and swiftly swiped it out before the door could shut, and then waited for Wolverine to uncap his beer while he meanwhile opened the cider.

Once the bottle of beer was open, Tommy snatched it out of the feral mutant's hands, running outside to pour its contents into a bush, before dashing back inside and filling the beer bottle with apple cider and sticking it back in Logan's hand.

There was still a little bit of cider in the cider bottle, so Tommy finished that off before washing the bottle out and sticking it in the glass recycling bin. Then he stood there watching Wolverine take a sip of his beer-that-was-actually-apple-cider and waited for him to taste it and realize what had happened.

Wolverine's face slowly twisted into a fierce scowl, and his eyes started moving over to where the speedster was standing.

"SSSSSSPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDD!" he roared, taking a step forward. "DDDDDDDDDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNN'TTTTTTT YYYYYYOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU EEEEEEEEEVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRR—"

Tommy didn't have the patience for this. Wolverine may be one of the most efficient killers and most committed superhero in the universe (how many teams was he on again? Like, every single one that existed, right?), but he was still a snail.

So Tommy ran off again before Wolverine could get properly furious and start snarling threats that he would never actually fulfill, because everybody knew that the seemingly ferocious mutant actually had quite the soft spot for kids. Come on, Logan was principle of a fucking school! He wasn't actually going to 'fillet Tommy like a fish' no matter how many times the speedster messed with the man's favorite beverage.

Where to, now? Tommy thought as he ran. Maybe he should visit David?

But no, Prodigy may be a genius, but he was still a snail.

Of course, everybody was always a snail (except for Quicksilver, of course), and Tommy was used to living with that, but for some reason, that particular day, the slowness of the world was driving Tommy way crazier than usual. The entire world was crawling, oozing along. The entire world was infected with it. It was like a fucking snail apocalypse.

He felt almost like it was trying to pollute him, as well; draw him into the glutinous reality that belonged to everybody else till he stuck moving at that molasses pace forced to feel the depleting tug of every second zipping by. And if that every happened, Tommy would be normal. And then he'd have to kill himself.

Therefore, he couldn't let this slowness contaminate him.

Ugh. He didn't want to live at their pace. He just wanted to talk to someone at his pace for once. But everybody (except for Quicksilver, of course) was a fucking slug.

Oh, wait. Quicksilver. Of course.

On the surface of the Atlantic Ocean Tommy made a hair-pin turn, running back towards the East Coast, then loping along streets until he came to the house that he knew to belong to his uncle.

He knocked rapidly. "Uncle Pete! Open up!"

"What is it?" Pietro asked, jerking the door open to look down at the younger speedster, and oh thank whatever's worth thanking that he wasn't speaking normally, and Tommy didn't have to wait forever for his words to finish.

"I need to hang out with you! The world is too fucking slow and it's driving me absolutely bananas!"

Pietro stepped out onto the blackened welcome mat and closed the door behind him. "Very well. Where should we go?"

"It doesn't matter. Let's just run somewhere—anywhere—and exchange stupid insults at superspeed or something. You think you're up for that, geriatric?"

Pietro smirked. "Race you, you footling child."

They left a vacuum of air where they'd been standing.

AN: Footling—adjective: trivial and irritating.