The next time Jason awoke, things felt... different. He was still immobilized, but no longer in casts; and he felt... strange. Healthier, stronger, than he ever had before. His arms and legs hurt, but he was more focused, more aware of his surroundings. And when he opened his eyes... he could see... far too clearly.

The imperfections in the glass window. In the ceiling, the wall. The ants crawling beside his bed. The tiny details of them, their antenna, legs. His arms... the fractures almost healed, the bruises, burns, and cuts all gone, still held immobile. Everything... He'd healed back from a bad injury before. Multiple times. For reasons generally somewhere between 'should've had a dishonorable discharge' and 'good god why won't you look before you step?'. He was intimately familiar with military hospitals. This wasn't a military hospital. The metal frames holding his arms weren't casts.

He could remember a brief moment of intense pain... and then a steady fading. Thinking that perhaps this was death. But no. He was still here. Alive, intact, surprisingly hale despite the still-healing fractures. And... everything looked wrong.

He glanced up at the door just before it opened; he'd been staring at the wall for likely far too long like a drooling idiot before the suited man... classic FBI look. Ear-piece, tall, dark hair, everything about him screamed combat Fed; including a grim expression and an intimidating level of height and bulk. He'd entered the room pushing a small cart, with, of all things, several decks of cards, and stacks of clips.

"Hello there, private Bennet. Or should I say, Mister Bennet; I'm afraid you've been discharged from the army. It would've been a dishonorable discharge if you'd gotten anyone else hurt, and should have been regardless, but they decided to hold off at my boss's request, just in case you should prove useful."

Jason gave a slow nod. "Heard that sort of talk before. Done quite a few stupid things. They kept me in despite that. I was good at leading a team, and I was good at shooting. Just.... reckless." He started thinking back to some of his more ridiculous moments in the army. Somehow, looking back now, they all seemed worse. He'd never felt this bad about them the last time he was in the hospital with a broken leg from an IED.

"Be that as it may. I'm Agent Hiller, with the Department of Metahuman Affairs. I'm a verification agent, and I'm here to give you some basic tests, since you apparently have some form of ESP." He started placing cards on the table in the clips, letting them be held upright, facing away from the bed. "I'm a busy man, and I have places to be. So I hope you can cooperate and get this done quickly, without any foolishness. Understood?"

A slow blink. "Verification agent. So.... lie detectors? Am I.. under suspicion of something, sir?"

Hiller let out a low sigh. "Not of anything other than being an idiot who runs into buildings under artillery fire. We're always involved in powers testing. People try to hide things all the time, make themselves seem like they can't do something they can just to keep an edge. Or avoid getting reported to the casinos."

For the next few minutes, Hiller arranged the cards facing in different directions, on the cart, on a chair, on a small side-table next to his bed, and in different parts of the room. "There we go. This will do for our initial test. If you get all of these we'll start trying cards outside the room. So." He slid a small tablet from his pocket, lifted a stylus up. "Tell me. Which cards can you read? Just list them off."

Jason slowly looked around the room, at the cards, all facing away from him. The ones right there beside him, as he stared at, he could see a sort of after-image; of the card knocked off the table, its suit and color revealed to him. "Okay. So here on the table, we've got a ten of clubs, an ace of spades, and a five of hearts."

Hiller tapped the check-marks on his phone. "Perfect accuracy at three feet, not too surprising. Does closing your eyes make a difference?"

He closed them tightly, turning his head around the room. As he kept turning his head, he could see various after-images of things moving. Mostly just Hiller himself. "No... I can still see those just fine. But..." He focused on the card table beside Hiller. "I... can't see the other side of those cards. I can see the fronts, eyes closed or not. But... I can't see the backs."

Hiller gave a nod, and tapped something else on his phone. "Very short range. Unfortunate. Lets see just how short. Tell me when you can read this card.

*He picked up a card from the top of the deck, facing himself, and started to walk closer, step by step. At just a few feet away; perhaps four, just close enough that he could have forced his restrained legs to move, he could start seeing blurring images of Hiller moving in different ways... as if he'd kicked him. "Wait. Right there. Its...."

A few moments of focus. A falling card. Facing him just a moment... "Its a seven of clubs." He gave a nod, as Hiller slid a tape-measure from his pocket, made a few careful adjustments, and then measured a spot on the floor. "There we go. Looks good. Well, not good. You can see anything with your eyes closed, which might be handy. I'm assuming its all directions?"

For a moment Jason looked around the room. Somehow looked without even opening his eyes. "I can see the wall behind me... all of the walls. And the floor under the bed. And the stuff in the drawer beside me. In... much better detail than I could before. I can make out the pores of your skin." All of it seemed a bit creepy; as if he were looking at himself from a third person perspective, watching a character from a game.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

"Okay. So... Class D ESP. Possibly useful in a security checkpoint role, but nothing that was worth all the time and money we wasted on this."

He started picking up and putting away the cards and clips, setting them all into a box on the cart. "You'll have a case officer by before you recover to explain your new status, what it means, the usual nonsense. I have a tribunal to attend. Enjoy civilian life." Without looking back or responding to Jason's questions, the man marched right out the door, pushing the cart... and abandoning it outside as he took the case with him.

For Jason, this would represent a moment of concern; about just what he would do, outside the military. Was this new power of his useful for anything? He'd mentioned the casinos... were they worried he'd cheat at cards? He tried to relax; an impossible proposition when his arms were stretched out to make sure the bones set properly. Instead he spent the next hour just lying there, thinking back on his life; and the long chain of stupid decisions that brought him here.

*****

That evening, Jason received another visitor in a suit; only this one far more casual; wearing ordinary khakis and a collared shirt, a pale young blond-haired man with a seemingly over-exagerated smile glued to his face and a duffel bag beside him. He set the duffel bag down and moved forward; starting to unsnap the metal brackets holding his arms and legs immobile.

"Uh... Excuse me? Are those supposed to come off yet? Is the nurse supposed to get.. Ahh!" A sharp pain; as his legs were suddenly freed, he could feel the tiny pinpricks of pain as feeling started to come back. "Thats.. not nearly as bad as I expected."

The man smiled. "No worries! Doc said you were good. I'm Mike, I'll be your caseworker!"

After freeing Jason's hands, he extended one to shake. Jason, expecting to be, at best, limp and pained after his last broken arm experience, gently lifted his arm... only to find both strange after-images appearing of where his arm was, as well as that his arm worked.,.. perfectly fine. Its as if he'd never been injured. No... better. Aside from shaking a bit of sleep out, it was the best he'd ever felt; he may even have used a bit too much force when he shook Mike's hand, judging by the grimace on his face and the abrupt pull-back.

Well, aside from wearing a paper hospital gown he was great.

"Okay, Mike... why do I need a caseworker?"

"Only temporarily, Mister Bennet! I need to get your new ID, and of course give you a few basics about your new legal status, that sort of thing."

"....New legal status?" Jason was quite concerned about this aspect. He'd never heard of such a thing, but then, the metas in the US military had their own dedicated teams. He'd had a moment of hope he could join one, during his recovery, before recalling his discharge. Barely-honorable discharge.

"Apologies for the length here, this will be a bit." Mike held up his cell phone, and, staring at the screen, began to read off; with, clearly, a few minor edits for taste.

"Any meta whose abilities are Class D or above are registered by the department of Justice. Any crime commited using the powers of a class D or above meta will be considered a federal felony in addition to any other charges, with up to twenty years added to the sentence depending on circumstances. Mutants of the ESP or telekinetic category are also warned that this will apply even to misdemeanor-level acts of cheating at gambling, and that casinos have been given a database of faces and powers, but not names or other information, of known mutants of this category."

Jason gave a slow nod. Seemed perfectly reasonable. "Any other bad news? I hadn't planned on running the casinos, but if I do, I guess I'll stick to dice and slots."

"Not really! The rest is all good news. Even all the way down to Class E metas with ESP are in demand at places like the TSA, so even with your checkered military history I suspect you'll get a job fairly fast. Aside from that... You were touched by the Shadow Master, which is frankly like a lottery ticket."

Jason nodded along. TSA... boring work, but it would pay well enough, and he could live anywhere there was an airport. Not a bad idea. Not like he had anything to go home to; he'd let Sheila keep everything but the car and his clothes when she decided to split. Until he reached the 'Dark Master' bit. "Who the hell is the Shadow Master?"

"Ahh... he's a healer, sort-of? Basically, he takes life from one thing, and gives it to another. Like... he'll take a pig, or a bush, or something, drain it dry, then touch someone else, and, poof! Suddenly like new. Its why you're so spry for a guy who should've lost both legs and everything below the spine. He charges a million a pop turning rich old guys into healthy young men during his working hours, and then spends his time off at cancer wards, mostly healing kids. There's a bunch of healers like that, his are just a bit... creepy. So... yeah. Oh, and you're one of the lucky 10% of metas that are fertile, so hey. If you have any kids from here on out, uncle sam pays the child support."

In the span of a few moments, Jason had ever-escalating numbers of questions pop into his head. "I... what? So I got... the life energy of a pig and...no... You know what. Just give me the paperwork. I'll read over it myself." Mike nodded, setting the duffel bag down. "Your personal effects, a change of clothing, and the paperwork. I can get you an apartment to live until you get work, get your car hauled over here; you might not have a power the DMA wants, but we're not gonna kick you to the curb. Go ahead and change, I'll meet you in the lobby and we can get you... well. Wherever you want to go."

"Don't I need to catch the next airlift back home? Why would you get my car all the way over here?" The very idea of hauling a car all the way to the middle east.. what sort of lunatic would do such a thing? "Oh, no. Agent Hiller's been running interviews for the past six hours. He's got a private jet to take him home, and we get to tag along so long as we pick up dinner on the way. Old man loves some of the local food. Just get ready quick and we'll get you to Washington. Not by sunset, but, well. Tomorrow."

With a moment of privacy, Jason discarded the mostly ruined paper hospital gown... wishing he had time for a shower and not particularly happy about his current smell, but glad enough to get dressed; simple boxers, jeans, one of his various t-shirts with a Patriots emblem on the front.. his tablet, his medals, his boots... everything in one duffel bag, packed up and ready to go.

As he headed for the lobby, he was torn between speculating what else he was going to find in that paperwork, and just who a living lie-detector would be here to interrogate in the war-torn middle east. Probably classified. And, now, none of his business.