It had taken more than two years for most of Steve's hair to grow back, though nowhere near as wild and thick as it had been before. He had found it startling and strange how incredibly disturbed he had become when it was gone, how much of an identifier it had become. Now with it back, it seemed to dull the impact of his captive years; he was one pill bottle rattle shy of being able to put it utterly out of his mind for a day.

He wasn't going to get far from the effects of that time, certainly, and his dependency on certain elements of that hateful government had ensured a number of poor decisions made – made and in dire need of atonement. Hence why things seldom went off a hundred percent when certain persons were present at that stadium or its adjacent offices.

Not that Steve the janitor and all-around fix-it man had anything to do about it or anything. He just had the keys to every room and facility – no big deal.

Besides, when he wasn't cleaning toilets or replacing lightbulbs, Steve was often home at a dingy apartment complex, reading manuals or scrawling out another recalled memory of his life in the Wilherser System. It'd make a great book, he thinks, if only doing so wouldn't draw too much unwanted attention to himself. He'd had quite enough of that.

Perhaps, though, if he were to spy a familiar name in the news or on the agendas he spied in executive offices, he'd have one more chance to atone for those awful, selfish mistakes he'd made.