Hunter is thinking of the comfort of clean clothes and a hot meal and he's wondering if he'll have it again before they manage to kill him with their careless blows.

The thick, sour laughter of his attackers spouts from mouths twisted in ugly anger. It escapes into the dark air, heard only by the trees and by ears purposefully averted.

Radiant, white light shows him the way to escape. His hand reaches out desperately to touch it. Before he can bathe his fingers in the warm glow, sharp agony attacks. They're using their feet now. There is no escape because his beacon is only a street lamp.

There is no refuge because the witnesses look away.

Earlier, the cold had bitten at his skin and made him curl in upon himself. Only the quick movement of his feet had kept the blood from freezing in his veins.

Now, he feels warm. Nothing can touch him. Not the well-aimed boots and sneakers. Not the pummeling fists. Not the hunger. Not the loneliness. Not the fear.

Nothing can touch him.

White stars explode behind his eyes and he knows that the tiny mob has lost its fear. No part of him is safe because no one will stop it. God knows it won't stop itself.

But it doesn't matter because all hurting stops, one way or another.

When the warmth almost makes him fall asleep, his protests weaken and die. He's drifting away and it's nice. It's the only escape he's had in a long while. He can rest here forever, if they let him.

And then he's ripped back into the present when the mob loses its legs and its arms. They're scurrying like rats away from some the new threat. He's not sure what could have scared them, but he can hear it. He's not sure that he cares. As long as he can sleep, right here, where it's warm, with his head in the blanketing snow, why should he?

He opens his eyes and sees him there. A bigger rat? Another trick? Both? Neither?

His eyes focus and he tastes the blood in his mouth. He looks up and a new pair of eyes is looking at him, waiting. He can't find the words to show gratitude because he's not sure he's grateful. Was this better? Being wide awake and feeling every ache and twinge? Feeling every fist mark and every boot print? Knowing that as soon as they can, the new eyes will look at him in pity, then look away, and then stop looking.

The snow melts into his back and cools him. He remembers that he was helpless to fight them off. He was driven to the ground and spit on like something less human. And now he feels like the lowest thing in front of this unexpected hero.

He wants to say thank you, but that part of him that remembers how is buried so deep, he can't remember how to find it. He hasn't had anyone to thank in ages. He hasn't had anything to be thankful for as long as he can remember.

He wants to say it, now, but instead he says, "Who died and made you Superman?"