{Author's Note: Sorry that this chapter—and probably the next one too—is shorter than normal. It just worked better for pacing.}

PETER POV

Peter dashed back the way he came, hoping he wouldn't come to regret saving bird boy. But the main thing was that Peter knew he would definitely regret letting him die.

On his way, he ran past a girl with a killer mohawk peeking out from behind a brick wall to look at the man (dude? Blueberry?) screaming 'Charles!' in such a way that Peter had half a mind to just take a chance and stay behind the wall with her.

It was true that Chuck had been a little bit snobbish to Peter upon their first meeting, but he had warmed up to Peter a bit after he rescued them from the Pentagon fiasco. Besides, even if Chuck were a complete asshole (which Peter didn't think he was), Peter couldn't just stand around and not try to stop the dude, especially when he might be the only one that could get a jump on the guy.

And, oh yea, it wasn't just Chuck's life at stake. The whole world was at risk, which meant eventually his family would be in danger too—his aunt, the little munchkin (aka Mila), and—and Wanda . . . wherever she was these days.

Suddenly, sharp stab of pain rolled through Peter's head, and he cringed in response, rubbing one hand against the side of his temple. However, a second later the pain was gone.

Peter shook his head, unsure what that had been about, but he had bigger things to worry about than a gone-in-a-flash headache.

Peter took a deep breathe, jumped over the wall, and—too fast for the naked eye to follow—came to stand in front of the 'man' intent on destroying the planet.

Up close, he didn't seem so scary. Up close, he was less like a supervillain and more like some old dude in a bad makeup job.

Peter smirked, suddenly a little more confident.

And then he threw a punch.

And another.

Next a kick.

Again and again, Peter tossed the man around without him ever hitting the ground.

It was weird. Peter had never hurt anyone with his powers before, at least not seriously. He'd pulled some pranks a time or two on bullies and the occasional cop, and he'd certainly banged up the guards at the Pentagon a bit, but he'd never full-on just knocked someone around for the hell of it. If he had tried what he was doing to this dude on anyone else, Peter was almost positive it would have killed them. And Peter was a lot of things, but a murderer wasn't one of them.

But this guy? He'd be on the FBI's most wanted list for sure.

Unfortunately, Peter felt like he was hurting his hands—which were already throbbing and bleeding from saving bird boy—more than the doomsday dude, but eventually, he'd wear him down, right? Knock him out at least? Then someone more qualified than him (like an adult maybe?) could come and do whatever they needed to do to contain the guy, whether that meant imprisonment (hello underground pentagon prison again?) or . . . whatever needed to be done, and Peter could go back home, apologize to his aunt for somehow ending up half-way around the world, eat a giant meal, and then dive face first onto his bed for an epic power-nap.

Peter threw another punch, before backing up again. He was really going to get a running start this time, put a little more oomph behind his punch. Peter circled the man, one foot after the other, as natural as breathing, he ran, until all too suddenly the ground was creeping up around his foot like it had a mind of its own.

Peter tried to change direction at the last second (millisecond? nanosecond? picosecond?), but it was too late. To be honest, Peter barely had enough time to slow down so that he didn't tear his leg off. Somehow, at a rate on par with the speedster, the ground had—terrifyingly—caught Peter like a fly in a spider's web, or maybe more like a fly in a Venus flytrap.

Even though he managed to slow down some, the sudden stop still pulled on Peter's leg something fierce, and he let out a grunt of pain. He looked down at where his foot was encased in mud, suddenly terrified that the ground would keep coming and swallow him whole like something out of a horror film. Thankfully it didn't, but it also didn't give an inch, no matter how much Peter struggled (and he was struggling a hell of a lot).

This was Peter's nightmare, brought upon by years and years of running from other kids (and—and one particular adult) who intended and too often succeeded in making his life miserable. Back in the days before he had powers. Back when he was just a skinny kid with a weird name, weirder hair, and a funny accent. Back when he couldn't run away from those who wanted to hurt him. But at least back then, even if she couldn't always get there in time or even if she did get there in time but was just as helpless as him (though a lot braver), some way or another Wanda would always come. So at least—at least he wouldn't be alone. But she wasn't here now.

Now he was alone . . . .

Alone with the man he had just knocked around like a piñata (not that it seemed to have made any difference), who—as he approached Peter—looked a whole lot scarier again.

Peter felt his breathing pick up in his increased panic, and along with it, the accursed headache returned.

But even as the man approached him, he tried to be brave—tried to be like Wanda.

As soon as Apocalypse was close enough, Peter attempted to punch him one last time, but the desperate flailing of a boy trapped and terrified was nothing compared to the power of a centuries-old mutant, and the man caught the punch with ease. There was a pop and instant pain. Peter barely managed to suppress a scream, still trying to be brave or maybe just dissociate from what was happening, telling himself that this was the part where he was supposed to wake up in his bed, heart-racing but unharmed.

But of course, that didn't happen.

Instead, a kick, swift and powerful connected with his leg—the one that wasn't trapped in the dirt. There was a sickening crunch sound, and this time, Peter didn't hold back his scream. He couldn't have even if he had tried.

The pain was white-hot and terrible.

And it didn't stop, and, for quite a while, neither did his blood-curdling screams.

Eventually, though the pain remained, his screams puttered out on their own-accord, leaving Peter practically breathless and with tears running down his face, but he was still in too much pain too care.

"Shhhh." Said a voice from above him, in a tone that almost sounded like it was an attempt to be comforting, but it was anything but.

Peter looked up to see the mad blue man frowning down at him. The difference between their height increased significantly because Peter hadn't realized it until then, but at some point he had fallen into an awkward kneeling position. It must have happened when the psycho had karate-chopped his leg.

Oh God, his leg! The pain made it hard to think, but he had enough sense left to realize that even if he somehow made it out of this, he wouldn't be running again for the foreseeable future.

Maybe never again.

And if he couldn't run, what use was he?

"Foolish child." Said the man, shaking his head at Peter, as he grabbed the boy's hair. Peter tried to yank himself free, despite the pain, but his grip was steadfast and he forced Peter to look up at him.

"I do this for you, my son, and yet, you defy me? Why?" He stared down at Peter, his gaze cold-and unempathetic, yet legitimately curious.

"N-not your son." Was all Peter could manage as he let out another gasp of pain.

Surprisingly, the mutant gave a horrible laugh. "You are all my children. All my sons and daughters. Every mutant on this earth is my flesh and blood. And yet you waste my gifts. You let the humans control you. You go as far to resist me directly? It is . . . disappointing. But, you are truly a child yet. I suppose you are not to blame. You are young. You look to your elders to guide you, and it is they who have led you on the wrong path. They—not I—who have failed you."

Peter blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the tears from his eyes, too much unadulterated agony coursing through his body to really follow the man on his crazy-train rant even if he had wanted to.

Apocalypse—seemingly oblivious to this, however—studied Peter some more, but after the boy failed to give a response, in a surprisingly gentle manner, the man put his other hand to the side of Peter's head.

The touch was anything but soothing, and it made Peter shudder for more reasons than one.

"Hmm." Said Apocalypse, and he closed his eyes for a moment pondering. but he did not remove either hand, and Peter trembled again in pain and fear and helplessness. He wanted his aunt. He wanted his mama. He wanted Wanda.

"It seems someone has been messing with your head, my child."

Peter wanted to say 'you're wrong. The only one with a messed-up head here is you!' But even if he could have managed the words, something in the pit of Peter's stomach told him—or maybe in the twinge in his head—that of all the things the man had spoken, this particular statement rang true.

"I shall help you see. Help you remember." Said ancient mutant bringing the hand that was on top of Peter's head to rest on the other side of his face, and Peter shivered again.

"D-don't." Peter tried. Begged. But the man ignored him.

"Remember what they have done to you, my son. Remember what the humans you so desperately fight to protect have taken from you. And then, then we shall see where you stand."