"My hero!" Mr. Might cheered in his warm and booming voice, which was perceived akin to Santa Claus' by the usual public. It was the voice of someone trustworthy and powerful in ways that the people couldn't understand; the voice of someone that children could root for and adults could respect. It was supposed to sound dependable and approachable, strong and protective, and to anyone else, it would have. "You, sir, did a brave thing. It is everyday heroes like you that make the world a better place. The more citizens fighting injustice, the less injustice there will be. I commend you. Truly, I commend you."

Tobias's jaw hung open. Mr. Might's words echoed mutedly in his head, as if whispered to him from one end of a long, twisting tunnel.

"It was your fault, you hairbrained twit!" he wanted to scream, his fists clenching. "You are reckless and irresponsible, and you don't deserve to be a hero until you learn that there are consequences for your actions."

Mr. Might stared at him expectantly, but his perfect grin began to falter in the tense silence. "Thank you for your service, hero. Thank you."

"You called me Pajama Boy at my funeral. Was I a joke to you?" His lips remained motionless, though his body quivered like a rabbit's. Angry words and sentences and feelings swam in his head as volatile as the volcano from which they were born, but nothing came out. He pictured it coming out, but in any future that his jaw unlocked, the reaction he envisioned was not worth the exposure of his self.

"Sir?" Mr. Might stooped to search his eyes. "Are you all right?"

The man was oblivious, Tobias thought, his lips twitching upwards with a hysteric breath of a laugh to himself. It felt unreal to be so close and yet so distant. It was baffling to see Benjamin Jones inches away, and yet, not punching his shoulder or tussling his hair or laughing at him. He yearned to lash out and reveal himself, to rub Mr. Might's nose in it, to see the look in his face when he saw that Tobias had made it of the island despite Mr. Might, but that not all of him had, and that was his fault. Tobias wanted to slap him and punch him and hurt him. He could see his chances. He could see the dangerously high possibility of himself pulling off the mask, and he could see the fear and hurt it would spark, but ultimately, it wasn't enough. In a jail room with two supers, he would only hold power over Mr. Might for a second before becoming powerless and unfulfilled again, and it was not enough. Chances were against him, favoring the superheroes. One day, Tobias vowed, sparking the beginning of a wicked plan, I'll take his chances away from him, just as he took mine.

Mr. Might pursed his lips. "Are you all right?"

Tobias snapped into the present. "Of course." He smiled lucidly and his quivering diminished. "It's just such an honor."

He took hold of Mr. Might's hand in both of his and shook it heartily as they beamed falsely at one another. Each man was blissfully unaware of the misplaced thoughts of the other, but both wore figurative masks that day.

Spectre cleared her throat. "Mr. McGuire's taxi is waiting outside. As is the press."

"Well," Mr. Might clapped Tobias on the back. "Let's get our hero back into the world."

Tobias staggered at an explosion of pain but held his breath and tried not to let on. He smiled tightly at Mr. Might, then Spectre, and gestured to the door. Pressure clenched his lungs as he choked himself back from releasing any sound that would indicate his agony to the superhero as he limped resolutely with them. The scars from the shrapnel removal had not fully formed yet.

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"Mr. Might, wait." Spectre covertly came to his rescue. Mr. Might's hand left his bandaged back as he awaited his former team member to continue. She gently patted Tobias on the arm, where she knew there was no damage. "His payment."

He peered back into the room where the thin envelope sat, enclosing his cheque, and frowned as Spectre went to get it. It felt foul in his gloved hands, despite the crisp, smooth paper. It felt wrong and immoral and stirred nausea in his belly.

Mr. Might spoke to him in his amenable way as they walked to the exit of the police station but Tobias paid him no attention, sliding the paper out of the envelope. Fifty-thousand dollars, unaddressed.

Mr. Might held the door for him. Tobias stopped by the reception desk, frowning at the cheque. After thought, he drifted uncertainly towards the holding cell, where the smug teenager awaited eagerly with her arms loosely hugging the bars. Their noses almost touched.

"Typical eyes can't be red," Tobias said quietly. Only a few powers gave rise to red eyes, and he had his suspicions.

"Maybe the chances are that you're not the only one wearing colored lenses," the girl crowed.

Tobias shook his head. "Do you want something from me, is that it?" He held up the cheque. "This, maybe?"

"I don't want money." The teenager clenched her fingers around the bars. "I want justice. I can tell you want it, too."

"That's cute," Tobias muttered, rolling his eyes. Stepping back, he slid the cheque back into the envelope and pointed it at the kid. "Look, just keep your mouth shut, or I'll turn you in to Headquarters. They'll put you into service."

He ambled towards the exit.

"Mister, wait!"

Something small smacked against the back of his head and he cringed, then glared back, and looked downwards. With a sigh, he bent to pick up the crumpled ball of paper and unfurled it. He glanced from the phone number to the girl, to the number, to the girl, and crumpled the paper back up. Beneath the number was written in a rough scrawl; THEY ARE ONTO YOU.

Shoving it into a pocket, with no understanding of why he was doing so, he ducked out the doorway, dodging a strong pat from Mr. Might.

"What was that about?" the hero asked.

"We met earlier," Tobias answered vaguely, folding the envelope into his jeans' pocket with the unsuspected note. He looked around, past the flashing cameras and shouting journalists and pushy reporters—the rude kind, unlike myself. "Where is this taxi?"

Spectre took him by the arm and pointed. "This one over here."

"Sir! Mr. McGuire!" a reporter shouted, shoving a microphone at his face. "Is it true that you cleared the streets of the square by claiming that you had a bomb, yourself? Did you have a bomb?"

"No comment," Tobias answered, following Spectre's lead.

"Mr. Might!" another reported cried. "Can we get a picture of you with the savior of our street?"

"Of course!" Mr. Might cheered enthusiastically, stepping closer.

"No!" Tobias bowed away from Mr. Might and the camera and held his arm in front of his face.

"Mr. McGuire!" More reporters. They chased him with their cameras and their mics, all desperate for attention.

"Mr. McGuire!" Like ducks! All following his trail of curiosities like breadcrumbs.

"Mr. McGuire, is that a mask?"

"Mr. McGuire, Benediction wants to meet you!"

"Mr. McGuire, was it your first time in jail?"

"They're driving me mad," Tobias hissed to Spectre, clawing at her arm. "The whole of Benediction is driving me mad. Headquarters is driving me mad, Benjamin is driving me mad, this face is driving me mad."

"I know, bud," she whispered, barely moving her lips. "Almost home."

He stiffened and jolted from her grip to leap off the curb. In the nick of time, he snatched a cameraman off the road and a car sped past. Tobias choked on its dust and, coughing, tossed the man aside. "Stay out of the road!"

"He saved that man!"

"Did you get that? He saved that man!"

If it were possible, the crowd of demanding and pushy people became louder, more demanding, and even pushier. The cameraman turned the camera on himself and started to blubber about how his life had just been saved and reporters dove in with their mics to try and take comments from the savior. Poor Tobias hid his face.

He grabbed at his temples and cursed and escaped into the taxi, where he pulled down the shades on both windows of the backseat cabin and curled his knees up to his chest. The engine hummed to life and the car began to roll.

Powers that be, Tobias thought, slipping his fingers into his fake blond hair, I could use a drink.