The promised fifteen minutes ticked away, and as the cell door unlocked itself and swung open with a series of metallic clinks, James Falcon rose to his feet, an empty plastic food tray in his hand. Power surged back into his body like a comfortable warmth in his stomach. The ability was a part of him, and it felt so right to have it replaced after being torn away. The first wrong to be righted.

The tray in his hand began to grow, doubling and then tripling in length, width and, most importantly, thickness. What had been flimsy now had enough strength in it to act as a makeshift shield, or so he hoped. Next he turned his attention to the bolt on his cell door, and it shrunk to half of its original dimensions, allowing the man to work it free of the locking mechanism. Once free he grew the small steel rod as he had the tray until it reached the size of a hefty metal bar. If he was going to be treated like a violent criminal by both governments and rogues, he might as well meet their expectations. His improvised tools weren't much, but he felt it prudent to be armed for his dash to the exit.

He peered out through the doorway, scanning the hall. Other prisoners were already out and exalting in their freedom. One had even felled a robotic guard. Looking beyond them to the end of the hallway, he focussed on a spot just near to the shaft and activated his second ability: visual range teleportation. In the blink of an eye, he was standing there, looking into the raging current of wind in front of him. He took a deep breath and stepped forward over the precipice.