Hospitals were supposed to be quiet.
Soft beeping. Whispered footsteps. Occasional coughing from a distant room. That's what Mason Clay expected.
Instead, his ears rang with the high-pitched whine of fluorescent lights and the annoying squeak of his hospital gown every time he took a step.
Also, it was freezing.
"Why is it always Antarctic in here?" he muttered, hugging himself as he peeked into the hallway. "You'd think someone would invent hospital blankets that don't feel like napkins."
His legs wobbled slightly, still unused to standing. Muscles felt new. Stretched. Rewired. As if they remembered a different life but weren't ready to tell him yet.
He glanced down. Bare feet. Pale. Scarred. And... wait—smoking?
Tiny wisps of greenish smoke rose from his soles with each step.
"Cool," he whispered. "Or hot, technically."
His gown was definitely hospital-issue: thin enough to question modesty, thick enough to insult dignity. His hair was overgrown and messy, and a beard had made itself quite at home on his jawline.
"I look like a guy who lost a fight with a leaf blower."
As he crept through the hallway like an underfed ninja, a nurse wheeled a cart of medication around the corner. She stopped. Looked up.
Eyes locked.
Blink. Squint. Full-body double take.
"Wait... aren't you—?"
"Extremely late for breakfast!" Mason shouted, spinning and sprinting away.
Her scream echoed down the corridor as he left behind scorch marks shaped like footprints. The rubber from his bare feet hissed on the tile like a stovetop burner.
Downstairs: One Very Flammable Parking Lot
He slammed through the emergency exit with zero grace, flailing slightly as he took in a deep breath of fresh air—and promptly coughed.
Smoke.
Three matte black SUVs sat parked with their engines still running. Men in dark suits and earpieces stood in a semi-circle, all with the posture of people who had tactical training... and no sense of humor.
At the center of it all stood a man who could've been carved out of stone. Mid-forties. Buzzcut. A face like a locked vault.
Agent Lorne.
He looked up from a tablet, saw Mason, and sighed.
"Mason Clay," he said like a man reading the world's most disappointing pizza order.
Mason blinked. "Wait, weren't you just—? Oh no. Is this a time loop? Clone thing? Secret twin? I watched enough shows to know how this works."
"I took the elevator," Lorne replied flatly.
"...Seriously? That's it? Lame. No teleportation? No dramatic 'I've been expecting you'?"
Lorne nodded slightly, and the agents began to step forward, forming a loose circle.
Mason instinctively raised his hands.
"Whoa whoa whoa. Let's take a breath here. Look at me—clearly just woke up from a long nap. Bit crispy, maybe. But I'm talking, I'm walking, I'm making solid jokes."
Lorne's eyes narrowed. "You've been unconscious for seven hundred and forty-two days. The world moved on. You didn't."
"Right... long nap. Cool. Can I go now?"
One of the agents moved in, gripping Mason's shoulder.
Bad move.
The moment they touched him, it was like striking a match on a bonfire soaked in jet fuel. Emerald flames erupted across Mason's back, crawling up his arms like living lightning.
The agent screamed, stumbling backward, jacket on fire. Mason stared at his own hands, eyes wide.
"Okay, WHAT. IS. HAPPENING."
A second agent lunged.
Reflex kicked in.
Flames surged. Mason twisted—and his entire body shifted.
For a split second, his flesh became smoky, liquid-like. His face distorted into something monstrous and unrecognizable. His fingers stretched and snapped back.
He didn't understand how.
He just knew it worked.
Boom.
A pulse of energy detonated from his chest like a cannon. Agents flew backward. The closest SUV flipped. A parked car nearby exploded in a ball of fire. Mason landed in a heap, coughing, a smoldering hubcap rolling past him like a wheel of regret.
A single tire lodged itself in the branches of a tree overhead.
Silence followed. The air was thick with heat and the sharp stink of melted rubber.
Mason coughed again and sat up, clothes singed and hair slightly smoking.
"Okay," he wheezed, "maybe I don't need coffee after all."
He looked around. Agents groaned and struggled to rise. Lorne dusted soot off his jacket, seemingly unbothered.
"You're unstable," he said.
"Tell me something my ex didn't already know."
"We can help you."
"Yeah, well... no offense, but your idea of help feels a lot like tasing me and dragging me into a van."
"I'd rather take my chances with therapy, thanks." mason added .
Lorne took a step forward.
Then Mason did what any recently awakened, slightly insane super-powered miner would do:
He teleported.
For a split second, his body twisted into something smoky, dark, and inhuman. He melted into the shadows and disappeared.
Gone!!.
Lorne just stared at the smoking crater where he'd been.
A crack of unnatural wind followed, leaving behind only scorch marks and flickering flames.
Lorne stared at the empty space for a long moment.
Then calmly, he spoke into his wrist mic. "Get me everything we have on meteor anomalies. And alert Project Ashfall."
Pause.
"He's active."
Later That Night: Grandma's Porch
The house looked the same.
Peeling paint. Plastic flamingos in the yard. A wind chime that had seen better decades. Porch light flickering like a broken firefly.
Mason stood across the street, tucked in the shadows.
His fingers itched with heat, green sparks dancing at the edges of his palms.
He was afraid to go closer.
What if she didn't know him anymore? What if she thought he was a ghost?
What if... he really wasn't Mason Clay anymore?
He exhaled, hand raised—and hesitated.
Then the door creaked open.
Jean Clay stepped outside, wearing a thick robe and bunny slippers.
She looked directly at him.
"Mason," she said gently, no fear in her voice. Just recognition. And something stronger.
Relief.
He took one slow step forward.
"You look like a raccoon that got hit by a toaster," she said.
He laughed. Actually laughed. His throat cracked and his chest tightened, but he laughed.
"I missed you, Grandma."
She walked across the porch and wrapped him in a hug. A warm, unshakable hug. Like nothing else mattered.
"You smell like gasoline," she muttered.
"Yeah," he whispered, voice cracking, "That's new."