The first thing Mason Clay noticed was the ceiling.
It was off-white, peppered with tiny brown dots and dead insect remains. The kind of ceiling tiles only hospitals and prisons have in common.
The second thing he noticed was that he had grown a beard. A full-on, lumberjack-flavored facial jungle.
The third?
"Oh cool. I didn't die. That means I still owe rent."
His voice came out hoarse, raspy. His lips cracked. His tongue felt like it had been used to clean a cat's litter box.
The heart monitor went berserk the moment he moved.
A nurse screamed from the hallway:
"He's awake!"
And just like that, a wave of white coats, clipboards, and wide-eyed scientists burst into the room like he was a one-man episode of Stranger Things.
Flashback,
Mason had been working in Pit 7 like every other loser trying to mine his way out of poverty. Blue-collar. Hardhat. Lots of sweat. Little glory. Minimal dental.
He had one real connection: Grandma Jean, who constantly reminded him that he was:
Over thirty,
Still living in her basement, and
Single, unemployed, and suspiciously greasy-looking.
Before the accident, he always said, "I'm just waiting for something big to happen."
He hadn't meant alien green firebombs from space.
But hey. Be careful what you wish for.
Back to Now (aka 730 Days Later)
Doctors poked him like a slab of meat.
"Neurological response normal."
"Cellular regeneration stable."
"Subject is… remarkably intact."
"Subject is right here, thank you," Mason croaked. "And very sensitive about his new coma beard."
"Mr. Clay," a lab-coated woman said carefully, "you've been unconscious for nearly two years."
Mason blinked.
Then: "Did we ever finish Stranger Things Season 4?"
A younger nurse choked on her laughter. The room didn't.
The scientists left eventually, replaced by Agent Lorne—a walking black-suit cliché with zero social skills and the emotional depth of a stapler.
He entered like a man who had spent years perfecting his sinister hallway walk.
Mason tilted his head. "Hey! Suit Guy! I knew they'd send someone out of a Marvel script."
Lorne didn't blink. "I have a name."
"Yeah, well, Suit Guy fits you better. I bet your handshake is just cold static and regret."
Lorne took out a black folder and dropped it on Mason's bed like it owed him money.
"We have questions," he said. "You were the only survivor at Pit 7. Witnesses reported an explosion. Satellite data shows a meteor. What we found was… not from Earth."
"You're welcome," Mason said, rubbing his eyes. "I took the full cosmic blast. Pretty sure I'm radioactive now. Do I glow in the dark?"
"We ran tests," Lorne replied. "Your body healed itself within days. But your brain activity… changed."
"Changed how?"
"Enhanced. Your neurons restructured. Your blood can generate energy. You survived something that should've killed you ten times over."
"So you're saying I'm basically space Deadpool without the ugly?"
Lorne tilted his head.
"I'm saying you're no longer fully human. You're… something else."
They gave him a mirror. Big mistake.
Under the beard, he looked the same… but sharper. Like someone had run his DNA through an Instagram filter called "Alien Upgrade."
His skin had a greenish hue in dim light. His eyes glowed faintly when he got mad—or sarcastic. Which was always.
"Oh great," he muttered. "Now I look like someone who roleplays as a radioactive avocado."
He flexed his fingers. They hummed with unfamiliar energy.
He sneezed once and ignited the sheets in green fire.
"Oh crap! Oh crap!" He grabbed a pillow to smother it—and burned through the fabric.
Nurse: "CODE GREEN! CODE GREEN!"
Mason: "Oh come on. I was unconscious for two years. Let me have one normal nap."
----
Lorne returned that night, this time without backup. He stared at Mason like he was a science project that refused to die.
"You're going to have choices soon, Clay," he said.
"I hate choices. I couldn't even pick a major."
"There are people who'll want to use you. Others who'll want to destroy you."
"Cool. Can I choose 'none of the above' and go back to being a broke miner with bad hair?"
Lorne turned to leave. "You're not a miner anymore. You're a weapon."
Mason stared at the flicker of green fire dancing along his fingertips.
He didn't feel like a hero.
He felt like a guy who woke up in the wrong movie.
***
Meanwhile, Back at Grandma's House…
It was quiet. Too quiet for Jean Clay's liking.
Her small kitchen smelled like peppermint tea and old newspaper. A ticking clock above the fridge counted every second like a passive-aggressive roommate. The radio played soft jazz no one actually liked, but it kept the silence away.
Jean sat at her round kitchen table, wearing her favorite knitted cardigan—the one Mason bought her from a gas station Christmas bin five years ago. She still wore it. She missed him that much.
In front of her sat an old flip phone. She wasn't good with smartphones. Too many buttons and not enough sense.
She was on a call with someone from the government—again.
"I told y'all before," she said sharply, tapping the table with her finger. "He ain't dead. Mason's too damn stubborn to die. Just like his grandpa."
The person on the other end said something, but she didn't care. She hung up.
"Bureaucrats," she muttered. "Wouldn't know a miracle if it slapped their coffee out their hand."
She leaned back in her chair with a tired sigh. A rerun of Wheel of Fortune played on the TV in the other room.
She'd memorized this one already. The answer was Back to Square One.
Then... the power flickered.
The fridge light blinked once, twice... then glowed green.
Jean froze. Slowly, she stood up and walked toward it.
"Mason?" she whispered.
There was no answer, but she could feel something—something she hadn't felt in two years.
Her boy was alive.
She didn't know how. Or where. But she knew.
"Mason Clay," she said to the empty kitchen, "you better not be messin' with aliens again."
***
Mason, Alone in the Hospital Room
The door closed behind Agent Lorne with a soft click. Silence returned.
Mason lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling again. Same ugly tiles. Same buzzing light. But now… everything felt different.
He was different.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking—not from fear, but from something inside him. Energy. Power. Something wild that didn't belong in a human body.
He touched his chest. His heart was beating normally, but he could feel something else just under his skin. Like he was carrying a storm inside him.
Out of habit, he tried making a joke.
"Well, this is new. I sleep for two years and wake up with superpowers. Still no girlfriend though. Figures."
But the smile didn't last.
No friends. No job. No home.
Just a body full of green fire and a government agent who looked like he ironed his soul every morning.
He sat up slowly, grimacing as his joints cracked. "Note to self," he mumbled. "Comas suck."
He reached for the cup of water on the table. His hand trembled—then flickered green. The water boiled instantly. The cup cracked down the middle.
Mason pulled back fast.
"…Cool."
He leaned his head back against the pillow and looked at the ceiling again.
"Alright, space rock. You win. I'm officially weird."
A long pause.
Then, he chuckled.
"I wonder if Grandma still has my old hoodie. 'Cause I'm about to be the galaxy's weirdest houseguest."