Buy the stuff and get building!
You purchase the necessary scrap and, with the materials you possess, get to work in an appropriate location. You start thinking about the design of the machine you're about to build, the one that ensures a 20, once, in a specific circumstance, and realize there's some details missing. To be specific, the room in question. You're not sure why, but that seems to be critically important.
Kyle sat in the hospital bed in the kind of daze one does when they can't tell the time and like the reason to try. It makes one feel like a forgotten toy. One that no one will ever try to find on purpose, they may find it while cleaning their room, and then sit on the bed remembering better times. And then they would crawl under the covers and cry themsleves asleep as they lose the will to continue working... this metaphor isn't going anywhere.
"Hm..."
With that Kyle pulls out his computer and googles his name to see if there's any further news on what happened to get him shot.
You are insulted when you discover that you have not made national news despite being inexplicably shot. Or even local news. You bet this would not be the case if you were a girl from the suburbs. Your friend did mention you on their Myspace page, you find out. Though even there nobody seems to care much. Hm.
Your belief that nobody really cares if you exist is affirmed further. It does not make you feel any better. You've been here, what, four days already? Or was it five? Did you maybe miss a day? What's the date? When did you even go out? You're not sure you checked the calendar that day. Was it a Tuesday? Monday?
Perhaps your life is more depressing than even you have begun to suspect, you begin to suspect. That's two whole steps of suspicion right there. Maybe you should take your depressing nature to the next level and just call a nurse so you'll have someone to talk to, given that nobody at all, not even hospital staff, appear to have visited you much in the past day. Why do these gunshot wounds take so damn long so heal?
Another sideways shake
"Oh," she says. "I... guess that's good? Yeah. Well, okay."
An ambulance arrives shortly, scooping you up and taking you off to the hospital, which is where you realize that you have no real ID or any other possessions on you. This may prove problematic in the future, although they still seem to be treating you without many reservations.
You
are fairly sure they caught on pretty quick that you're a parahuman of some kind. You wonder if they'll inform the PRT.
Selina barely moves for several seconds, staring through half open eyes at the strange substance. She attempts to curl her fingers and try to feel what the heck the stuff is and maybe where it came from? She wasn't even sure if she was just dreaming.
You curl up your fingers to feel the film that's formed around your body. It feels like slime, or snot. But without the part where it becomes crusty. It's some kind of mucus, and there's a layer of about two millimeters of it. And what's strange is that it seems to start pooling in your hand as you try to examine it, giving you a slight tingling sensation as it begins to migrate, slipping under the restraints you find yourself in to move to your palm. Surprised, you are distracted a moment, and the tingling feeling ceases after a moment, the nearly centimeter thick patch of slime over your palm evening out once you stop concentrating on it. This, you believe, is slightly unusual.
Grabbing an old bandanna and some sunglassess to cover his face Steven pushes them into one of his pockets then puts on a hat.
Now ready to conceal his identity he waits until evening falls and sets out from his house towards the shadier parts of town with the intention of fixing their crime problem with gratuitus violence.
As evening falls, you wander out into the shadier post-industrial parts of town, crappy disguise prepared and ready. The streets are semi-quiet - there's a few bars around here, a couple people wandering around. As you walk down the streets, nary a mugging or violent crime is seen, and you'd think there's really not much of a crime problem at work, and you suppose you'd be right. It takes some time to actually notice anything at all that's suspicious, and you eventually locate a bunch of skinheads, loitering around a streetcorner. It's only when you come closer that you notice that they seem to be watching something.
That something appears to be a bunch of the Project Ed kids, about twelve or so in total, grouped around a van, examining an old, godforsaken tenement and making a bit of a ruckus with their banter. Some are taking pictures with cameras. You light up a tad. They're probably up to no good, you think!
Thats still pretty good, she steps outside for her next trick, how exactly did she break those handcuffs?
She jumps out of her body and attempts to settle in like she did before, raising her arm just before she is snaped back to reality.
As you return to your body, you do the same thing as you did when you broke the handcuffs, just fail to push yourself into your body. You notice that the world still appears to be at a standstill, but your body nevertheless feels... well, fleshy. You raise your arm, and notice two versions of yourself as you do so - one is your ghostly form, the other is your body. The ghostly form moves first, and you wonder for a moment if you're supposed to do anything else, and then things kick in, your flesh arm rapidly rising to take its place.
Jake sleeps, trying to recover at least mentally for now. There was still one other thing he could think of to try with his power, but he would make sure to be near the hospital this time.
When he woke up, he would head to the area of town near the hospital and try to find an alley or somewhere secluded. He would activate his power and slam his uninjured hand into the wall, then let go of his power before he got that bad feeling, bracing himself for the pain of breaking another few fingers.
The next morning, you opt to punch a wall after activating your power. It doesn't hurt, fortunately for you. And then, without thinking about it too much, you immediately let go, feeling exhausted as you do so, as if some second type of breath just left your body. You wait for some time there nervously, hoping your fingers don't break, and, much to your satisfaction, they do not. Phew. You're not sure what you'd do with two broken hands.