Chapter 112: Chapter 112 - Cyborg
A voice cut through the lawn, sharp and practiced, loud enough to carry without turning into a shout. "Put your weapons down. Now."
Iyisha felt Malcolm’s body tense beneath her, the shift subtle but unmistakable, his attention snapping outward as his eyes moved, tracking positions, doors, distance. He looked around once more, jaw tightening as calculations ran their course, then his gaze dropped to her.
He nodded.
Her chest clenched as she met his eyes. She nodded back, fear and frustration burning together as she loosened her grip on him just enough to let him move.
Malcolm lowered the shotgun slowly, deliberately, placing it on the floor where it could be seen, his movements calm despite the tension humming under his skin.
Others followed so did Iyisha.
Weapons were set down one by one, metal hitting the floor in dull controlled sounds. Men moved in immediately, guns trained as they stepped forward to collect them. Their boots nudged weapons farther away, hands quick and efficient as they stripped them of firepower.
"Get down," the voice ordered.
Iyisha lowered herself with Malcolm, knees hitting the floor first, then her hands, the cold of the ground seeping through her skin as her breath stuttered.
Her heart pounded hard, the reality of it slamming back into place now that motion had stopped.
So close.
Her mouth twisted as a bitter sound slipped out of her, half curse, half breath, frustration sharp enough to hurt as she pressed her forehead briefly toward the floor.
They had almost made it. Almost broken free. The nearness of that escape made the loss of it sting worse.
Beside her, Malcolm went down smoothly, controlled even now.
Iyisha’s eyes widened when she saw the logo on the side of the incoming car.
The Route.
It rolled into the front lawn slow and deliberate, tires crunching over gravel and grass like it owned the place, the symbol stamped clean and unmistakable against the door. Her breath caught so sharply it burned.
She turned her head without thinking, just enough to look at Malcolm, and found his eyes glued to it as well, jaw locked tight, the same understanding settling between them in silence.
"Heads down," someone shouted.
A hand forced Waldo’s head toward the grass hard enough to make him grunt, palm pressing between his shoulders until his face was pushed flat to the ground. Iyisha followed immediately, lowering her head. Her cheek brushing dirt and crushed grass as she fixed her gaze on the ground.
She stayed still.
She heard the car door open.
Footsteps crossed the lawn, measured and unhurried, stopping close enough that she could see boots enter her peripheral vision. A voice spoke above them, calm and cold.
"What happened here?"
No one answered.
The silence stretched, heavy and intentional, broken only by the distant sounds of the property waking around them. Then someone nearby was yanked upright, movement sharp enough to pull Iyisha’s attention despite herself.
At the edge of her vision, she saw Marybeth’s legs as she was hauled to her feet.
"Tell me what happened," the man said.
Marybeth giggled.
The sound was light, careless, completely wrong against the tension hanging over the lawn. Iyisha’s fingers curled into the grass, dread crawling up her spine as the giggle turned into a laugh.
"Are you fucking dumb?" Marybeth said. "We tried to escape, ofcourse."
She laughed again, louder this time, and Iyisha kept her eyes down, breath shallow.
Marybeth isn’t afraid of death. Crazy woman.
The man clicked his tongue.
A small sound. Displeased.
From behind him, voices rose as the remaining men stepped forward, talking over each other now, shaken enough to forget discipline.
"He overpowered us," one said quickly. "Released them all."
Iyisha felt it before she heard it properly. Footsteps moving closer. Slow and heavy. It felt like something inevitable advancing across the lawn, something she could not look at and could not escape.
Her hand twitched toward Malcolm.
The urge was overwhelming, to grab him, to anchor herself to something solid, to make sure he was still there and still breathing. Her fingers curled uselessly against the grass instead.
She did not dare touch him. Not now. Not with guns trained on them. She was terrified that even comfort could be mistaken for defiance.
The footsteps stopped near them.
"This man, eh," the voice said.
It was thick with an accent she could not place, the words slow and weighted, spoken with interest rather than anger. Iyisha’s heart hammered as she stared at the ground, her vision fixed on blades of grass crushed beneath boots.
"Is this the one for Frankenstein?" the man asked.
No one answered.
Another voice spoke then, deeper, coming from the direction of the cars, carrying easily across the lawn.
"Albert’s dead?"
Iyisha’s breath hitched, dread pooling cold and heavy in her chest as another name echoed in her head, the weight of it settling in with sickening clarity.
If these men decided to take revenge, Malcolm is in real danger.
A man with a deeper voice spoke then, sharp and unquestioned, the kind of voice that did not need to repeat itself.
"Stand them up."
Hands grabbed at Iyisha and Malcolm immediately, hauling them upright as men closed in from every side, bodies forming a tight ring that cut off the lawn and the house and everything beyond it. Iyisha stumbled once as she was pulled to her feet, heart racing, the sense of being surrounded crashing down on her all at once.
Then came a low chuckle.
Iyisha lifted her head despite herself.
A man sat casually on the hood of one of the cars, posture loose, one foot planted on the ground while the other caught the light, metal glinting where flesh should have been. He was shaved clean, broad and muscular, handsome in a way that only sharpened the danger in his smile.
"God be damned," he laughed, eyes fixed on Malcolm. "If it isn’t Chief himself."
He slid off the hood and stood, the prosthetic settling solidly beneath him before he started walking closer, unhurried, confident, clearly enjoying this far too much.
Iyisha blinked, confusion cutting through her fear.
Chief?
Was he talking to Malcolm?
She looked at Malcolm instinctively, searching his face, but he did not react, his expression still deadpan, controlled, giving nothing away.
One of the men from the earlier group stepped forward, voice thick with anger and something like desperation as he pointed straight at Malcolm. "Give us this man, Cyborg. He killed Albert."
The word revenge hung heavy in the air.
Iyisha’s chest tightened painfully as she watched Cyborg’s reaction, dread crawling up her spine.
Cyborg stopped a few feet away and snickered, head tilting as his gaze slid back to the man accusing Malcolm. "I would have called you incompetent," he said lightly, "but it looks like you captured the wrong person."
He laughed again, low and amused, before turning his attention fully back to Malcolm. "How are you, Chief?"
Iyisha looked at Malcolm again, the confusion deepening, the tension between the two men thick and unmistakable. They stood nearly eye level, both imposing, both radiating a kind of contained violence that made everyone else around them feel suddenly smaller.
Malcolm finally spoke, his voice quiet but unmistakable.
"Scott."
The name settled into the morning air like a challenge.
And nothing moved after that.
