Disclaimer: I do not own Jimmy Neutron, Eddie Neutron, or anyone else associated with the cool last name Neutron! I also do not own anything affiliated with any of the above-mentioned persons (I Do, However, Like Using The Word "Persons")!

Author Announcement(s): So, here is the FOURTH OneShot, in this series!

Important Information: This one focuses on ONE, of MANY, of Eddie Neutron's HELL-LIKE adventures, in the Cretaceous Period. He will be VERY afraid, in THIS one. Then, he will gradually get TIRED of being afraid, and thus he'll just stop feeling emotions all-together, thus he will become JUST LIKE The Proxians that he will soon become ALLIES with. Now, remember, this, along with ALL other OneShots, in THIS series, is and/or, will be going, in chronological, and/or, time-order! That means that, even though Eddie is a MILLION+-YEARS, IN THE PAST, from where Future Jimmy, and the gang are, the ACTUAL AGE OF EDDIE is what I'm considering the factor for what is "CHRONOLOGICAL," and/or, "In-Time-Order." That means, that because Eddie was ONE-YEAR-OLD, when Jimmy was ELEVEN-YEARS-OLD, and because, in the LAST OneShot, Jimmy was 21-YEARS-OLD, Eddie is TEN-YEARS-OLD Here! So, just keep-in-mind that Eddie will be "going through the process of 'AGING'" DIFFERENTLY than EVERYONE ELSE! Also, the "Former Allies," of Eddie, that are mentioned in here, is The "League Of Villains," as you ALL remember them, from the show. Remember, the last time we saw them, they were trapped in the Cretaceous Period. Anyways, this one is a tad bit grizzly, gritty, emotionally depressing, and a little sad. Don't say that I didn't warn you! Here it comes! Look Out: The Fourth OneShot Is Comin' At 'Ya'!

*NEW NOTICE*: I have started a NEW Jimmy Neutron FanFic, "Fight to the Finish," and I would GREATLY appreciate it, if you guys checked-it-out.

Bottom of the Food Chain

The boy ran as fast as his young legs could carry him. He did not dare stop running. He ran beyond his breaking point. He ran, regardless of the fact that his body told him to stop. He was beyond what his body could do, beyond what he could handle mentally—and that was something to be truly worried about, especially for a genius of his caliber.

He had become much more physically fit than he had ever expected to, but that was necessary because, even for someone with his intellect, he found that it was impossible to survive in the environment that he was currently in without an element of extreme physical prowess. The situation he was currently involved in only served to prove the fact that he had already gathered—the fact that no matter how smart, no matter how intelligent one was, they were sure to die here, unless they had savagery, a deep dense of savagery.

He had become physically superior to any human of his age, but he had failed to gain his sense of savagery. The boy had thought he was an evil genius, and being the hateful, vengeful, violent little boy that he had been, that savagery would come naturally to him. He thought this, but he was wrong. He was not meant to be a savage—not naturally at least. This led him to one astonishing conclusion: he was never an evil genius. He was never evil; he was simply vying for the attention of others.

He had deluded himself into believing that he could actually be a being of pure evil. He would, however, discover just how evil, just how twisted, just how savage, he could become, how savage anybeing could become, over the next few years. He had racked his brains for years and years after his abandonment—both by his genius cousin, and by his former "allies."

His allies had taken him for a fool, and he had, for the first time in his life, felt like the small vermin that everyone else saw him as—a useless little brat. The deception was clever, though. He had to admit that. His former "allies"—all of whom devised a plan to return home, using Calamitous's intellect, The Junkman's equipment, and the Grandma's abilities—were ready to return home, but due to the limited "space" on the return vessel, one of the member of the former "League of Villains," had to be left behind. They had al chosen Eddie to "stay behind" for "the betterment of the group."

They did not consult him in the making of this decision. They truly saw the infant as useless, and after being deceived as he was, Eddie began to see himself in the same way. Eddie had failed to realize this in time, and he had forever blamed himself for not being able to see that terrible dishonesty coming. In the grueling and hellish years that followed, the young boy had retained his genius intellect, but he refused to consider himself a "genius," after allowing himself to be outsmarted by a spoiled rich kid, and a senile old man.

All of these old feelings came rushing to the surface once again, as they had often done over the past nine years, and his mind was now processing all these thoughts as fast it possibly could. His mind was racing far faster than any human's mind could possibly fathom. His new-found mental capacity was ever-so-necessary for his survival in this terrible and unforgiving wasteland. It was almost as necessary as his savagery, which he had failed to acquire just yet.

Indeed, being stranded in a desolate, hellish, cruel land for nine years did not turn him into a savage; instead, it sharpened his intellect even more. He became aware of senses that he was never aware he could possess. He began to hear things coming from a mile away. He began to be able to see a predator from across an entire forest. He began to smell blood before it was even spilt. Indeed, Eddie may not have become a savage, but he was well on his way to becoming one. He may not have seen himself as a genius anymore, but he certainly was. He was far smarter, far more intelligent, than any human before him, and even at the age of ten, there was only one other being he knew of that could challenge his intellect.

It was the same being that he ultimately blamed for his nine-year-long extended nightmare. It was his cousin, James Isaac Neutron. He saw little worth in himself—that was a fact—but he saw even less worth in his twisted cousin. Nine years. He had been chased, hunted, and been on the verge of death for nine years, but through all of that, he kept his dear cousin in the back of his mind. If there was one thing his worthless self would accomplish, it would be the slaying of his sick, demented cousin. He swore it.

Eddie continued to run, to run as fast as his feet would allow, and even through his acquired physical excellence, he could tell that his body was failing him. If he did not find a place to hide, he would need to stop. And, if he stopped, he would die. He heard the large and quick-paced footsteps behind him gain in momentum, and he heard an ear-splitting shriek being emitted from the mouth of the predator that was after him, after his flesh, and after his blood. Eddie closed his eyes, and hoped—not prayed, never prayed.

He did not pray, not because he didn't believe that there wasn't a creator watching everything, but because he thought—no, he knew—that if there was a creator, that he would have little, if any concern for a worthless pile of flesh like himself. Eddie did believe in some higher power though, but he did not assume this out of some dumb confounded faith, but out of pure science.

Scientifically speaking, the chances that universe, the way it was—so perfectly balanced and in-tact—was not engineered by a greater mind was and is so infinitesimal, that it was more likely that someone engineered, or sculpted it, rather it "just coming into existence." Still, though, Eddie had little concern for whatever being was up there, watching everything, just as he was sure that he had no concern for him.

Eddie continued to run, to run at full speed—although his "full speed" was quickly decreasing—toward anywhere but here. Wherever the hell the hell that was. He looked up, and in that instance, he saw his chance at safety, his chance at refuge: a tree. Raptors wouldn't be able to climb a tree like that, and Eddie knew that. He found, somewhere deep, deep down inside of him, a second wind, and he used this new burst of energy—of adrenaline—for all that it was worth.

His swift movement increased, if only for a second, and he reached the base of the tree, and without a second's hesitation, he began to climb. He climbed for his life. He went up the tree, and he would not stop, not until he had reached the top. The raptors began to climb as well. They would be able to make it some distance up the tree, but not much. Eddie continued climbing. He went in a sequential pattern—left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot, repeat—and he dared not think about what might happen to him if he misjudged a foothold, or if he forgot the pattern, or for that matter, if he fell. He did not think of anything but the pattern. He did this so he would not fall. He did though. He thought of what the vicious predators below him might do if they could sink their sharp incisors into his fresh flesh. He thought about it, and he forgot the pattern. His foot slipped, and he missed an important foothold. He fell.

He hit the ground some feet below him with a dull 'thud,' and although the pain was severe and he landed on his right foot—tucked awkwardly and painfully behind his back—he got to his feet as quickly as he could. He stepped, one foot in front of the other, trying to escape the hungry predators that were once again coming towards him, but the moment he put his right foot down, he knew it was broken.

The pain was severe—severe enough to cause the boy to well up in tears—but he could not stop. Although this was the case, he knew that, had he not acquired his physical prowess, he would have sustained far more injuries than he did. The pain was severe, and it prompted him to stop moving altogether. But he couldn't stop moving. Not if he wanted to live. Did he? He wasn't sure anymore. Perhaps he should just stand there, stand there and wait for the end—the gruesome, slow, painful end.

What else did he have to live for? Just as he conjured this self-damning thought, another image flashed into his brain, the image of his dear, happy, cousin. Happy. Did that emotion even exist anymore? No. Not for Eddie. Jimmy Neutron was probably as happy as could be, sucking face with that damn bitchy blonde, not even thinking once about his small cousin, whose life he had done more than endanger—while Eddie wasconstantly thinking of Jimmy, always trying to avoid death, and to what end? Jimmy probably thought Eddie was worthless too.

Perhaps he was worthless, but he knew one thing for sure: he was worth more than the other Neutron. No, he would not die here. He would live, and if took every breath in his body, he would find Jimmy Neutron, and he would kill him. He had no idea how he would do it, but he knew he would do it. He had to survive. He had to kill Jimmy Neutron.

He continued to walk, one foot in front of the other, walking through the pain, as the tears began to fall freely now. Eddie spotted another safe haven: the dark underside of a large boulder. He continued to move as quickly as he could toward his new destination. He heard the predators gaining on him—gaining a lot, and gaining it quickly—and he picked up his own pace, now trying his best run at full speed, and now—running as fast as his physically-and-mentally-drained body would allow—the moment he put his right foot down—using all of his force and strength—he screamed out loud, but after a quick peek back he knew he could not stop.

He could not even slow down. He heard a sickening "snap," and he knew that if his foot wasn't broken before, then it was broken now. The boy was blinded by tears—and by pain, by white hot pain—as he ran towards his safe place—a dark, dank hole, under a rock. That was what his "safe place," or his "haven" had been reduced to: a rock. He finally reached his objective and he dove, using whatever muscles he was left with control over, to launch himself into the crevice that he had been aiming for.

He slid—gathering a face full of damp, disgusting dirt as he did so—into the hole, and just as he reached his destination, one of the hungry raptors slashed at him, using one of its razor-sharp claws to lunge at the boy—at its meal. The sharp appendage made contact with the boy's young flesh, and a fountain of blood erupted from the fresh wound. The boy was now safe inside his "safe place," but he had a badly damaged right foot—his dominant foot—no energy or adrenaline remaining, and he was now losing blood.

The three vicious predators that had been chasing him for most of the day stood at the ready outside of his "safe place," waiting for the boy to emerge. He would not though, not for a while. He would stay here—stay here until his foot was completely healed. He could not afford to have any injuries out there. If he went out there with any injuries, he would die. End of story. He now knew that he did not want to die, but he also knew that he did not want to be here. Due to his current condition, he would not be able to hunt, exercise, or stretch for some time, and as a result, he would not be able to eat or work his muscles for a long time.

He would emerge from his "safe place," weaker than when he had been when he entered it. He would be an easy target—but that that was a given. He was always an easy target; he was the bottom of the food chain. He was tired of being the easy target, tired of being chased, tired of being hunted. He wanted to target something for a change, to chase something, to hunt something. He would emerge weak, but he would make himself stronger. Much stronger. He had too. He was tired of being afraid.

He tried to move his limp and lifeless body, and he realized just how futile that effort was, and after he felt the intense bursts of pain—both from his broken foot, and from his open wound—he began to shed new tears. The pain would not leave him this time. He would just have to deal with it, just as he had to deal with it so many times in that past, and just as he would have to deal with it many times in the future. He began to cry even more violently, but these were not tears of pain. These were tears of hate. He hated himself. The young preteen boy sat there, in the damp, dark, dank, hole under the rock, crying, and not able to move, all the while three beasts awaited him for a meal. He was the bottom of the food chain.

A/N: …Yeah. I told you… Anyways, the NEXT OneShot will be a happy one, so don't worry, because these little Eddie-Quips won't be SO frequent, but there WILL BE MORE-THAN-ONE, so just be aware of that! ...I THINK that the next one will probably be our famous genius's (And His Fiery Bride's) wedding day. …So, expect some fluff, and some laughs (As Usual). Stay tuned for the next update, and, PLEASE R&R!