"Ten bucks says he dies before he reaches the door."
"Twenty says he makes it inside, no bets for what happens after. This fucker does this sort of crap all the time, just got back on full duty a week ago. Just cover him if you can."
The two soldiers were staying behind the rolled-over armored vehicle, using its smoking mass as cover from the various bullets, gouts of flame, and energy bolts spattering against its armored steel frame, watching with a blend of amusement and horror as their 'Friend' Jason Bennet sprinted for the building door, grenade in one hand, rifle in the other. For one, he'd seen the same man do this sort of thing a dozen times, even when ordered not to; and could no longer be surprised by anything stupid he did.
True to form, the two men started firing; aiming at the windows they could see and hear the attacks emerging from; dozens of broken panes of glass and dust-streaming ruins to choose from in the building the enemy were staying inside, and probably every one of them holding some nutjob with either powers or bullets to spare. Fortunately, whoever had blown the APC seemed to have spent his load; either it was a single-use munition, or someone with a power that took a long time to recharge.
Either the covering fire or dumb luck carried the seemingly insane soldier all the way to the door; and right through it, as he tossed a grenade in a window over his head like some action-star wannabe, rolled to a stop; and came face-first to one of the worst things a soldier can see in a modern war-zone.
A metahuman. Supervillain? Mutant? Whatever he was, he was a monster; seven feet tall if he was an inch, skin that looked like wrought iron, fingers that ended in claws, and glowing red eyes that seemed to speak of a furnace building up inside. On the plus side, he seemed to be anatomically correct for a human; and when Jason fired six shots into his crotch from his position there on his knees, only a few feet away, the monster let out one of the worst screams that would be heard in this world or the next, like a tortured soul blended with nails on a chalkboard, and fell to the broken tile, hands clutching himself as he twitched in pain.
A second grenade; this time a Burster; slapped on the pained meta's chest, the glue-like coating firmly wedging it in place as Jason ran up the stairs; moments after the first one he'd tossed in the window went off, sending fragments of superheated death scattering in all directions, through walls, metas, and normals alike.
This seemed to be his moment. He was going out like a hero! He was going to clear the whole damn building on his own like a real-life Rambo, and they would make movies about him, and...
The second grenade detonated as he was checking the second floor. Firing a few times at hostiles that still seemed to be moving. Putting an end to that quickly enough with carefully aimed, precise shots through exposed flesh. One right through a dark-skinned man's adam's apple. One into the blinking, hazy eye of a meta with purple skin; perhaps the one who hit the APC? No way to know.
When he looked back down the stairs at the iron-skinned giant, he was taken aback for a moment. The creature was nowhere to be seen. Did the grenade just disintegrate the man? Its supposed to just be a direct AP charge, make a really high-powered, small, hole in whatever you stick it to. Something to stick on a... No.
Before he could resolve what had happened; before he could realize that reinforcements were coming down the stairs behind him, that his one-man expedition to personally rid that building of every terrorist, metahuman or otherwise, was doomed to failure... a hot metal fist wrapped around his throat and lifted him off the ground.
"Do you know how many of those damned grenades I've been hit by, you American idiot? They hurt. It takes time to heal. But nothing.." The creature slammed Jason into the wall. His abortive attempt to grab another grenade, try to jam it down the monster's throat, ended when he almost lost consciousness, stunned, and the second Burster grenade fell to the ground beneath the monster's feet. "Can kill me! I am immortal! I am the hand of god, gifted with his strength... and his fire."
Jason couldn't really focus much on his words. He could see the monster growing ever brighter; the glowing orange red of his mouth turning into a white-hot pinpoint. Was he about to incinerate him? Would it be quick? What was that out the window?
Out in the street, a few meters away from a fallen APC, a tank had rolled to a stop, its barrel centered on a humanoid mass of steel and fire; and with an explosion that seemed to end the world, the monster was cut in half, the building was shattered... and Jason was lying, bleeding from god knew how many injuries, much further from the tank than should be possible.
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When one of his fellow soldiers... was it that damned Henrickson again? Arrived over his body, looking at the broken shell of a man before him; a nasty gouge in his forehead, every limb obviously broken, possibly the spine as well... he slowly shook his head. The last things Jason heard before the darkness claimed him were Henrickson's words, somehow sounding over the high-pitched squeal of the explosion burned forever into his eardrums.
"They told you armor was on the way, stick to cover. You're a goddamned idiot, Bennet. I always knew you were gonna die in the sand."
*****
Surprisingly enough, Jason Bennet didn't die in the sand. The most startled person to discover that would be Jason himself; when he awoke weeks later, lying on a hospital bed; all four limbs in casts, legs suspended in the air, a bandage wrapped around his forehead. And... everything seemed... wrong. He could see the floor under his bed, despite still lying on it. The nurse outside the window... but his eyes were closed. And his head....
He grimaced, placing a hand on his forehead... but that only seemed to make it worse. The intense throbbing grew to agony that drew an unwanted scream from the young man as he lay on the bed... and a nurse came sprinting into the room, grabbing his arm.
His eyes were closed, but... he knew what she looked like. Mid-20s. Brunette. Fit. Not the best face. Nametag reading... He can't make out the nametag. But whoever she was, she held him down... and after a moment, the pain subsided.
"Mister Bennet. Jason. A fragment penetrated your skull and embedded in your brain. Its already been removed, you're in stable condition. You've still got one more surgery coming up. We're regrowing enough skin to pull it over the metal plate after we attach it to... well. The hole in your skull."
A hole in his skull. He had a hole in his skull. He opened his eyes. And grimaced, shutting them again; the pain in his forehead had grown even more intense as soon as he opened them. "I... ma'am, I... something's wrong. I'm seeing things with my eyes closed. But... it hurts when I open them."
Halfway to the IV to adjust the dose of sedatives... this poor sap wasn't meant to be awake for days yet to come... her hand stopped in midair. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"I.. can see you reaching for the IV bag there. Or I could, when you were. But I can't open my eyes. Well, I can. It just... hurts like hell."
She looks down at his eyes; tightly shut. A visible grimace of pain on a face that, if not for the horrifying bandaged mass that was his forehead, might have been at least average looking... but at the moment could inspire little other than perhaps pity... or disgust.
"What do you.. Oh. How many fingers, private?" She covers his eyes with one hand, just to be sure... and holds up three on the other.
"Why... Three, ma'am."
"..Well. Good news, soldier. You just got moved up in the world. You get back to sleep, and I think we'll probably be doing something a little better than a metal plate."
Metahuman or not, he didn't seem to be healing that fast.. and even if they brought in a specialist, the poor boy would undoubtedly go through a truly unimaginable amount of pain before he'd be up and moving again.
*****
"Currently unclassified metahuman, soldier, private first class Jason Bennet. Some form of sensory ability... undefined, but verified, can at the very least see things with his eyes closed... and in directions other than where his face is pointed. Definite ESP of some sort." The technician in his clean white coat made a perfect image of the standard 'geek scientist'. Tall, slim, short curly hair, glasses; practically the stereotype brought to life. He seemed excited, practically bouncing on his feet.
"Then classify him and assign it. Let me know how the tests turn out." The suited man makes a gesture. The irritation is written plain an an ancient, scarred face. "Why are you even bringing this to me? There's a protocol."
"Well, sir. He's currently heavily injured. Took a projectile fragment to the skull, suffered minor brain damage, has an abnormal growth in his frontal lobe. We're talking weeks or months before he can recover, might never develop abilities properly, unless..."
"...Unless we assign a specialist. And thats substantially over your testing budget. Fine. I'm issuing you a waiver. If he's useful, I'm sure he'll pay us back enough to make it worthwhile. And if he isn't... well. He's a soldier. Doesn't hurt to be seen taking good care of our own."
By the time the technician left the room, Director Thomes had already pushed it to the back of his mind; metas who could heal were a rare commodity. Their time precious. Every moment they were willing to work allocated, often weeks in advance. ESP? Just as rare, but not nearly as useful, in a world of drones, satellites, and cell phones. Who cared about another guy who could see through walls? Maybe he'd be worth the time. Maybe not.
He had no idea the sort of chain reaction that momentary decision would bring into the world. If he had, he might have ordered the soldier arrested; executed; or perhaps simply sent him right back out to fight terrorists with a metal plate in his head.