Our populace retreated, their questions hung to dry, no ears to turn into answers, and malpractice as usual continues. The monsters came out of the woodwork, terrors we once thought dead, had gone on the rise. Choking, starving, thirsting, and neglected. The obstacles became obfuscated and multi-faceted, and the tools too broken to mend with. The sweltering grip had consumed this dusty soil.
He called himself Nitro Nova, at least until he was finally put to rest. And nobody felt that he changed anything out there. Not even slowed down. Just a nuisance, a reminder of the status quo, a commotion that went quiet. They didn't think he was even going to help them. They saw what they said; he was a radical, didn't know what he wanted, didn't understand what he was doing, needed to be separated from the society he could damage. He was thoroughly debunked, removed, and forgotten.
Then more came, and united, and the story became about them.