[center][h2][color=#20B2AA]Zach Kozel:[/color]
[color=0054a6]The PRT Building[/color][/h2][/center]
As the glass doors slammed shut in front of Zach, a breath escaped his lips. He glanced down to his feet, and slowly the busy sounds around him came into focus. A few seconds passed before Zach walked out, his head not quite as high. It was dark outside, and the cold air whipped against the 'not enough' layers he was wearing. Uncle Sam wasn't in the best of moods, but he'd gotten Zach out of the bind. That came at the cost of everything Zach knew, except the small detail about Arsenals name. He also kinda flubbed the weapons he was using, partially for not knowing, and partially not to give away too much about his associate.

Zach slowly pulled his wallet out, not bothering to count the crisp cash within. It was enough to get him through a month, Sam had assured him of that, but still. . . His power couldn't make him money, so the hell what was he gonna do? Work in a cauldron of boiling lava? Zach could take punches, but he just couldn't give them out. The PRT was too much paper work, the bureaucracy, not to mention. . . The last thing Zach wanted was to be another cog in a big government machine. However if things did get worse, which they probably would, he would have to at least try and join the Protectorate.

Die on the streets, or watch others die because you weren't given the right orders. Neither option sounded appealing.

A long sigh filled the air with a hazy tinge. He noticed the bulge at the bottom of his right pant leg, and knew others would too. An ankle bracelet, so he couldn't leave the city if any more evidence was released. At least he got off easy, and, better yet, alive. No jail time, just parole. Zach shook his head, as if to physically shake away the pessimistic thoughts that had been consuming him ever since he'd been picked up. He took a hesitant step forward, headed home.