Tobias stared at his hands, bound in handcuffs before himself. A thoughtful smile floated on his lips under glistening eyes. Despite the pounding of his head and the confusion of his intangible visions, he was unaware of discomfort at that moment. He was unaware of his surroundings and of the unbuckling of his seatbelt.

His hands did not shake, utterly still. He had not seen them still for so long that he had almost forgotten what it was like. It was refreshing. It was certainty. It was reassurance that perhaps he could return to working one day, unhindered, in his lab or his hero career. It proved that he was in control, and perhaps that his anger was conquered.

Ha... Perhaps hero work is too far out of reach...

Hands gripped under his arms and forced him to stand. His feet stumbled.

His gaze wandered blearily. He pressed his spectacles further up his nose, then cringed and withdrew his chin into his neck at the summon of blinding whiteness. Poppy Tris was opening the door of the plane, letting the bright early afternoon light invade and conquer the dark little cabin.

The door of the pilot's cabin opened, too, and Tobias caught a hazy glimpse of Teddy MacGuire before he was shoved forward.

Tobias staggered into the wall beside the exit, wincing. His prosthetic felt sharp and sore against the stub of his healing knee, unaided by his cane. It was hard to remember how it worked again in the fogginess. The ringing in his ears, the migraine looming, the echoes of voices in his head. Static, blurry images bounced in his skull, offering unknown warnings. All of it felt reminiscent of an average morning weeks ago, when a cup of coffee was solace. All of it made him feel quite alone, despite the rough, square hands on his shoulders and the soft protests of a voice that used to put him at ease.

"Benjamin, don't take the tunic," Spectre pleaded. "You know that he is sensitive about—"

Tobias was thrown out of the plane before the end of her sentence. His tunic caught under his chin, his belt jumped up from his waist to constrict his bruising gut. The toe of his boot touched ground, though the heel swiveled desperately. Tobias choked, gripping his tunic in fear as he dangled.

The belt snapped and Tobias fell away from the tunic instantly. Gravel seared his knees and forearms, catching on the thin silver sleeves of his undershirt. Gasping, his eyes rapidly read the ground, inches from his bright red nose.

Sound was everywhere, so loud and overwhelming that it blended into one undistinguishable murmur against the pounding of blood in his ears.

The stink of sweat and bodies joined forces with the pungent reek of engine fumes and sulfur, catching in his throat. How could he breathe this? His lungs felt shriveled, though his mouth and nose sucked at their highest capacity.

A hand fell on his shoulder.

"Put your arm around me, Tobias."

Tobias closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He lifted his elbow to drive her back, raising from the sharp pavement to sit back on his heels. "I do not need your help," he growled slowly.

A small pink shape curiously sat on the black ground before him.

"Tobias, please," Spectre whispered. "You can barely stand. Let me help."

Tobias picked up his glasses, carefully perching them on the bridge of his nose. His cheeks lifted half-consciously. The pink origami dinosaur shuffled its way into his palms and he held it for a moment over his heart.

"Get him up," Mr. Might hissed from behind through his gleaming smile. He was waving to the crowds.

Tobias threw Spectre off a second time. He pressed the balls of his hands against the gravel and laboriously dragged his good foot beneath him. He rose with only a single step staggered. Catching himself on his peg, he slowly raised his gaze to the road ahead. On either side of the walkway, chain-link fences restrained hundreds of loud citizens, waving things and calling out.

His fingers tightened around the dinosaur. Jaw set, he began the limp down the aisle of scrutiny, slipping the origami back into his sleeve. Handmade signs bobbed in his peripheral, voices heckled, items were thrown. The grand cement entrance to his new home, devoid of anything kind or welcoming, towered ahead like one gargantuan tombstone with his name on it.

He hung his head. Eyes were everywhere, searing though his thin silver shirt like x-rays. He wanted to curl into a ball.

Déjà vu.

Cheering and hoots and howls and hollers bellowed from behind the steel fences on his sides, becoming louder as the internal static receded. Tobias squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, then opened them again, pushing his glasses right up his nose. He gasped, head pounding. Sounds came to him as if he were underwater; muted, distorted, incomprehensible.

A crowd became clearer and clearer out of the dizzy haze. Blurred faces differentiated and gained identities; strangers. Expressions of repulsion, disgust, fear, anger. Bouncing signs in vibrant colors gradually became legible. He could hear his name being chanted between those of Team Defiance, but it was not the name that he preferred. It was not a name he was comfortable with. It was not a name he had ever endorsed.

Wide-eyed and ashen-faced, he tried to stagger backwards, back to safety, but Mr. Might slammed a fist to his shoulder and sent him straight to the ground.

Tobias shook his head over and over and gaped up at the torment surrounding, aghast. His gut turned in turmoil as volatile and unyielding as the volcano.

PAJAMA BOY; NOW A NIGHTMARE!

MURDERER!

WE DON'T STAND FOR POMS!

There he knelt, pinned in place on the harsh gravel, shaking from head to toe. He slowly tried to stand again. Something heavy hit him in the side and he dropped to one knee. He stared down at item, listening to the crowing of his humiliating name which seemed to drown out all else. Pajama Boy on the newspaper pages, Pajama Boy during interviews, Pajama Boy on talk shows.

They were chanting the cruel title all around. Some of the signs in the crowd read along the lines of "We love Mr. Might!", while others read "Power to Pajama Boy!" and the rare few peeked shyly upwards with a respectful, "We support Chance!"

Lips quivering, Tobias looked up to where the thick red robe had come from, and saw one sign between three girls.

YOU'RE STILL OUR HERO.

He smiled slightly, fighting the urge to weep.

Behind the girls, I obliviously stood among a crowd of other strangers who offered no malice to him. Supporters. There were many of us among the dismal and disheartening chaos. There were signs that read,

STEP DOWN, MR. MIGHT!

And signs that read,

ONLY THE BEST HEROES WEAR SCARS!

There was even a sign that read,

THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY DAUGHTER.

Tobias thought quietly to himself for a moment, gazing numbly into the expanse, registering little. Tentatively, he reached for the robe and felt the warmth of its fabric fold around his fingers. Draped around his shoulders, it felt like a hug. Tobias rose once more, straighter and more surely.

He stepped forward with purpose, tilting his nose towards the penitentiary entrance archway.

Pajama Boy was a loathsome name that conjured imagery of hiding under the covers, of being afraid of the dark, of needing protection. Now, all covers were gone, the darkness was upon him, and he needed no protection. Let them call him whatever they liked.

He stepped into the archway, into the strong hands of prison guards, and as they led him away from the world that he knew, he did not look back.

It is often not advantageous to know what will be, he mused.

The unknown beckoned, and for once, Tobias gladly went.