Running Gets Old, Even if the Runaway Doesn't
"Martinez! You got the tranny replaced on the Impala?" The garage's owner, a balding but fit Mexican man in his late thirties called to his assistant.

"Probably another half hour, boss. You can head home, I'll wrap up. Nothing going up on the lift so no worries." A voice calls back from under the Impala.

"Thanks Victor." The man raps his knuckles on the hood of the car gently. "You're a good kid. I'm supposed to say you should be in school, but I'd miss my best mechanic." He chuckles. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Once the footsteps fade, the door shuts, and he gives it a thirty count, there's a crackling of electricity from underneath the car. Bolts tighten, points secure, everything seems to snap into place faster than two hands could manage.

Victor Mancha slides himself back out, wiping his forehead and hands. It wasn't a great living, but it was a living. The one he could make best since... well, since life happened. Molly had gone to Xavier's, Gert and Chase were somewhere, same with Carolina and Xavin, and Nico... well, he didn't really blame her. Not easy keeping up a relationship when you're rolling into your twenties and your boyfriend still looks like he's in his teens.

Back then, beating Ultron's programming had seemed like the best thing possible. Too bad breaking free of his control also turned all the preprogrammed growth routines into a trainwreck. No more nanite conversion into organics. No more growth.

It wasn't like he was helpless. He could sweet-talk machines, electromagnetic powers, the generic enhanced physicality package. 'Papa' knew how to build 'em. He'd toyed with the idea a couple times of reaching out to 'Grandpa' Pym, but he knew bringing Ultron tech near another source of it wasn't safe. So, he made the best living he could. Shuffling around the West Coast, working with his hands, not staying in one place long enough for anyone to notice the lack of aging. He'd get a year at least, maybe two if a neighborhood was less dense. It was a living.

He wanders over to a utility sink, washing his face as he thinks to himself. He should call Nico. He knows he probably won't though. He mumbles as he stands up again. "Look, Gepetto, I'm a real live boy. Yeah, right."