His eyes began to open. Acknowledging the dark gray theme to the halls that he was being guided down with stray fingers barely pressing against his skin. He held his head low with his gaze on the floor feeling his face aching. Those punches had done their fair share of damage leaving behind what was almost likely a bruise and a black eye that would heal over time. They came to a stop then the door was opened and he was shoved into the room. His back met the cold, rough surface then slid down to the long wide counter that protruded from the wall cupping his hands together in a defeated manner.

The camera moved toward the doorway. The door closed on Smith turning to pitch black screen then the door was opened again but to reveal a more aged Smith in his cell with his gaze fixated on the floor. He had silver hair, bags under his eyes, shades of dark gray from his youth was tucked around his ears, he had a dark gray mustache, and his hair bangs seemed fluffier. He looked over toward the person who had opened the door for him. His room lacked posters or lavish curtains but on the counter across from him were a collection of books that had yellowed pages. He turned his attention onto the female security officer then stood up using the cot as his support in some difficulty. The young woman came to his side and reached her hand out for him. Smith took her hand then allowed himself to be propped up to his feet.

"Thank you, dear. . ." Smith said, staring at her as though going through his memory. His eyes squinted at her name tag. The blue eyes visibly light up before her eyes that was momentary. "Ah, you're new here," he took his hand back linking it into his left hand in his lap. "Lieutenant Waltercoth." Waltercoth appeared to be heartbroken. "What is the matter?"

"For someone so old, why haven't you appealed your conviction?" Waltercoth asked. "Your case was very circumstantial."

"At my age, my dear," Smith said. "Everyone I have known is either dead or wants no part in being associated with me," he shook his head. "Even if my appeal was overturned, I wouldn't have any loved ones to help me to adapt to what it is like. . ." he motioned his eyes toward the window. "Out there."

"Or . . . Or a senior prison home for the convicted?" Waltercoth asked.

Smith turned his attention toward the woman.

"For a recent transferee, you seem to be very caring," Smith said.

"My greatest weakness," Waltercoth said. "It's your laundry shift."

"Laundry," Smith said. "Never can do enough of it." She wore a strange look.

Smith was escorted to the laundry room occupied with people. There were prisoners humming along to a very old song. Smith came to his familiar station that had multi purposed washer-dryer. Smith opened the lid to the machine then slid out the first black shirt from the mass. He hummed to himself a different tune that contrasted against the one being performed in the room. His new companion came beside him with a atmosphere that seemed to be unsettling making the hair on his skin stick up. Like he was standing beside a dangerous threat rather than a harmless being. Smith paused, looking over toward the man by his side and dropped the shirt to the table. The alarm bells rang in the had seen him only his eyebrows were much thicker and there was a small birth mark on the center of his forehead that reminded Smith of a tree. It seemed not a day had passed for the pilot. Not-Don turned his attention onto Smith.

Smith felt young with those familiar eyes set on him.

"What 'chya looking at, mister?" Not-Don wore the same irritated expression. His voice was different but it was enough to jerk him back into the present.

"You remind me of Major West," Smith said. "For a moment there, I thought he was really there."

Not-Don rolled his eyes.

"Everywhere I go, I get mistaken for him. I thought it was going to be different here. I get mistaken for that pilot, historic pilot, best pilot, well he's not the best pilot when I keep getting compared to him," Not-Don's words were laced with bitterness, resentment, and anger. "he is the worst," Not-Don turned his attention on to Smith. "Joshua West," he took Smith's outreached hand and shook it a bit briefly then reached his hand back giving a friendly smile back. Joshua even had his father's smile. Smith's hand was trembling remaining outstretched. "Friends call me Franklin. Personally, I like to change my last name but it's the only thing I have left that my mother gave me."

"Hey, kid," Eyepatch said, drawing Franklin's attention. Eyepatch had two artificial eyes that were bright green, his once brown mustache had turned to gray that had turned into a well trimmed beard, and around his neck line were scars from previous fights that had occurred long ago. "Nice sob story."

"That isn't a sob story," Franklin said. "What is a sob story is how I got tossed into this hellshack."

"You're new here," Eyepatch said. "so let me warn you: Do not insult the crew of the Jupiter 2 around him."

Franklin looked toward the older man who returned to his task.

"I can insult them much as a I like," Franklin said. "Major West is more like Major Worse."

Smith dropped the shirt to the counter.

"You take that back, " Smith shifted toward Franklin leaning against the counter.

"I can't do that," Franklin said.

"You don't know him well enough to say that," Smith said. "You never spent the best half of a decade with him. You never seen him struggle keeping the family safe. He is not Major Worse, he is Major I-am-sucessful-and-I-want-you-TO-DO-BETTER."

"No," Franklin said. "I know he is my father. That is all I need to know. A big class idiot."

"Take. . that . . . back," Smith repeated for emphasis, coming closer to Franklin.

"Ah, another fan," Franklin said. "One of those people," Franklin picked up the shirt then folded it. "I rather not."

Thrown away and forgotten, just what the military wanted had succeeded. Just what everyone had wanted: never to have known the traitor Zachary Smith by first hand. He was a forbidden, suppressed figure from the public eye. Never to have been publicly wide known except for the Robinsons. And it didn't hurt him at all as it would have over twenty-one years ago. He wasn't forgotten by the aging inmates around him. They knew who he was. The ones who had been here the longest and were very aware of his crime. He had started to believe the story told by the prosecution himself over the last few years but the unexpected insults flared the memory of his passing into his mind. The reality of it hurt.

"Do you know who you are talking to," Smith raised his brows, calmly. "sir?"

"Yes," Franklin said, turning his head toward Smith. "One of those old people who followed the adventures of the Jupiter 2 very closely from Alpha Control." Smith didn't seem to be bothered. "Honestly, I still don't understand how and why he got all that assurance that he could pilot them out of danger-" There was a loud unexpected smack that ended the humming in the room and people turned from their stations to see what was the commotion. "Who are you?"

"Zachary Smith," Smith said, watching the realization dawn on Franklin's face morph into silent rage. "and I will not stand that slander against his name."

Smith stepped aside.

"You bastard!" Franklin said.

Smith stepped back.

"There are better words in the dictionary to call a man," Smith said.

Rage was brewing off the younger man.

"You killed my father in cold blood," Franklin said, his right hand rolling into a fist then swung it at Smith.

"That. . . " Smith said, grabbing on to the man's hand. "I. did. not!"

Smith gained a grip on the side of the man's face and smacked his head against the table with a unchanged facial expression. Frank's head bounced up with a pained cry stumbling back. Smith delivered a punch to the man's face that whipped him around then fall to the floor. Smith stepped aside from the fallen man laid on the floor with his hands clasped together shaking his head. Franklin's eyes closed feeling blood trickling down from the side of his nose. When he opened his eyes, he was in the recovery wing with a bag of ice propped against his head. There were dirty looks being sent toward him with eyes being rolled. He was cuffed to the bed. Franklin hmphed turning his head away to face Eyepatch who had his eyes folded.

"Why the hell are you not cuffed?" Franklin asked.

"Smith is not worth your time," Eyepatch said. "and they trust me."

"Like they trust that sick old bastard with laundry?" Franklin asked, disgusted.

"They trust you with laundry," Eyepatch said.

"Because I have a history of good behavior," Franklin said. "Not my first rodeo."

"This is a different rodeo," Eyepatch said, then turned the chair toward him and sat down into it with his arms placed on the back rest. "Not everything is what you think it is."

"That is just wrong," Franklin said.

"Kid," Eyepatch said. "Smith is in isolation."

"What he deserves," Franklin said.

"He will be out in a few days," Eyepatch said. "In your best interest, keep your negative opinions about Major West and the Robinsons to yourself around Smith."

"You don't know how it feels," Franklin said. "It's hard not to be angry around the man who murdered my father."

"I have a very good idea," Eyepatch said.

"What's your story?" Franklin asked.

"Robbed a bank, plead guilty, found guilty," Eyepatch said. "Found the bastard who killed my father and attacked him."

"Must have made you feel satisfied," Franklin said.

"It only lasted for a few minutes," Eyepatch said. "Then I felt horrible about it. Lost my first eye after being beat up. And it wasn't because of a fork jabbed into my eye contrary to what everyone says. That was the second eye." He had his hands cupped together. "It is hard to be happy about handing justice to a murderer when you're busy licking your wounds," he sighed. "That was different. He was about your age. Not in his eighties." The last part came out with a glare that said, really? attacking a old man? What's wrong with you?

"He is eighty something and he looks seventy," Franklin said, "You want me to believe he is in his eighties."

"This is one man who wants nothing more to suffer," Eyepatch said. "and no decency."

"I can give him that," Franklin said, earning a dark look from Eyepatch.

"Don't give him that," Eyepatch said. "Forget about him."

"That man isn't the kind to forget easily," Franklin said.

"Everyone outside has," Eyepatch said. "Why can't you?"

"You're asking me to forgive a man who murdered my father," Franklin said, earning a head shake from Eyepatch.

"I am not saying to forgive him," Eyepatch said. "We have all done nasty things out there. What I am saying is to ignore him. He is really fragile. A bad fall can just about kill him," he looked off toward the bed across from the young man imagining a scene from long ago occurring before his eyes. "I lost my second eye when I went too far insulting Professor Robinson's intelligence," Eyepatch turned his attention back on to Franklin. "It wasn't worth it ten years ago and it isn't worth it now."

"It's worth it to me," Franklin said. "I want to make his life hell. Just like he made it to me and my mother."

Eyepatch relaxed.

"Living hell doesn't require violence," Eyepatch said. "Ridicule him."

"How?" Franklin said.

Eyepatch picked up a padd.

"Professor Robinson's journal was digitized in 2012," Eyepatch said. "You will find it most helpful."