Chapter 113: Chapter 113 - A Friend
The man stepped in close but stopped just short of crowding him.
He reached out and clasped Malcolm’s hand, the grip firm and confident, holding on a second longer than politeness required, like he was grounding himself in the reality of it. His face broke into an unmistakable grin, genuine and almost boyish in its surprise, as if he couldn’t quite believe who he was standing in front of.
"Haven’t seen you since you went to Langley," he said, shaking their joined hands once. "Just disappeared on everyone."
He released him at last and flicked two fingers downward, casual and assured. "Lower them."
The reaction rippled outward immediately. Men hesitated, glancing between the two, then rifles dipped, hands easing off triggers as tension drained into confusion. The circle loosened without anyone needing to say more.
Iyisha watched it happen, heart still racing, trying to understand how a single word and a single gesture had shifted the ground beneath all of them.
She looked at Malcolm.
He had barely moved. His posture stayed tall and contained, expression locked down into the same unreadable calm, but he gave a small nod in acknowledgment, nothing more, nothing less, the kind of response that neither invited closeness nor rejected it.
The man laughed softly, clearly amused. "You’re still the same," he said, shaking his head. "Still quiet and impossible to read."
Malcolm didn’t answer.
He held the man’s gaze, steady and impassive, letting the moment pass without adding to it, and Iyisha felt it then, the weight of history pressing into the space between them.
This wasn’t warmth.
It was recognition.
The man’s gaze slid past Malcolm and landed on her.
It lingered for half a second longer than Iyisha liked, sharp and assessing, then shifted back to Malcolm as a corner of his mouth lifted.
"Maybe you’ve changed a bit," he said, amused.
One of the men from earlier stepped forward again, frustration cutting through his voice. "Cyborg. He killed—"
The man turned his head.
Just that.
The word died in the other man’s throat instantly, his mouth closing as if it had never opened, eyes dropping away under the weight of the look he received.
Cyborg faced the group again and lifted his voice, calm and carrying. "This is my good friend Malcolm," he said easily. "From the navy."
The shift was immediate.
Shoulders relaxed and their postures loosened. The men who had been braced moments ago nodded, some exchanging glances, others already turning away as if a decision had been made for them.
One by one they drifted back toward the house and the perimeter, resuming patrols, conversation low and muted, leaving the lawn quieter than it had been since the car arrived.
6 of them remained where they were.
Iyisha stood frozen, the space suddenly too open, too exposed, the absence of raised guns doing little to calm the tight coil of fear in her chest. Even without weapons trained on them, being surrounded made her skin prickle, every instinct still screaming that safety was provisional.
Cyborg grinned.
He reached out and caught Malcolm lightly by the arm, guiding him a few steps aside, their heads angling closer as he spoke in a lower tone meant for Malcolm alone. Iyisha could not hear the words, only see Malcolm’s jaw tighten again, his posture staying controlled, guarded.
She felt safer.
Not safe.
Waldo edged closer to her, voice barely above a whisper. "Who is that? Are we safe?"
Iyisha swallowed and shook her head slowly.
"I don’t know," she said, and meant every word.
Lauren stepped up beside them, eyes fixed on the two men talking a short distance away, her expression cautious but observant. "It seems," she said quietly, "that he knows Malcolm."
Iyisha watched the exchange, the way Cyborg laughed softly at something Malcolm did not respond to, the way Malcolm stayed still and unreadable.
Yet...
Malcolm’s shoulders eased a fraction, the rigid line of his stance softening just enough to be felt rather than seen. His eyes stayed on Scott now, not scanning the perimeter, not tracking exits, but fixed on the man in front of him with a focus that was steady instead of defensive.
The realization hit Iyisha harder than a smile from Malcolm.
She stared at Malcolm, trying to reconcile the man who had torn through a fortified base for her with this quiet acceptance, this unspoken understanding that did not need explanation. She had never seen him like this, never seen anyone reach him without force or necessity, and the idea that he had history deep enough to look like this left her breathless.
He had a friend.
Or something close enough to it that it changed the way he held himself.
The guns were still lowered.
Men still stood around them.
But the tension in Malcolm’s body had shifted from survival to something else, something grounded in recognition rather than threat, and Iyisha felt the danger transform instead of vanish, reshaping into something more complicated, less immediate but no less powerful.
She swallowed, heart pounding with a mix of relief and disbelief, the truth settling slowly and unevenly in her chest.
Iyisha saw Malcolm move with him.
Her body reacted before thought, a small instinctive step forward, panic flaring sharp in her chest at the idea of him being pulled away again, but Malcolm glanced back over his shoulder and met her eyes. He did not speak. He did not need to. The look was clear enough.
Stay.
She stopped immediately, fingers curling against her palm as she forced herself to hold her ground, watching him walk toward the house beside Scott, their silhouettes briefly overlapping before the doorway swallowed them both.
Movement pulled her attention back to the lawn.
Men were already lifting bodies, working with grim efficiency, hauling the dead toward a pickup truck parked nearby. Limbs were dragged. Weight shifted. Metal clinked softly as bodies were stacked without ceremony. One of the men glanced toward her and gave a short nod before turning away, like she no longer registered as a concern.
With him gone, the space around them thinned in a way that felt unreal. Only three people remained close enough to matter now. No guns trained. No orders barked. Just distance and aftermath.
The woman’s body lay a few steps away from them, motionless on the grass, limbs twisted at an unnatural angle.
Behind her, Marybeth tugged at her own hair and laughed under her breath, eyes fixed on the bodies being loaded into the pickup.
"Lucky, lucky, lucky," she muttered.
Iyisha swallowed.
Yes. Lucky, she thought bitterly. Lucky in the way survival sometimes was, hinging on coincidence and history instead of fairness or strength. Lucky because the man who had come for her had run into someone he trusted in a place that should never have held anything human at all.
Who would have thought.
She looked toward the house again as footsteps emerged from inside, heavier now, more deliberate. Figures moved back into view, imposing even without weapons raised.
Her heart kicked hard.
What was his name again.
Scott.
And Cyborg.
Cyborg fit him better.
She watched Malcolm come back toward them, trying to read his posture, his expression, knowing with a quiet certainty that whatever came next would be shaped by that name.
Malcolm came back to her side and spoke quietly.
"The tires are blown," he said. "Supplies are gone. Food too."
Iyisha’s chest tightened.
Cyborg shrugged like it was obvious. "Then come to the Route. I’ll give you supplies. I’ll get you a new car."
Iyisha looked at Malcolm immediately.
The Route. That word again. Every warning she had ever heard pressed in at once. She didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to owe anyone there. She didn’t want to step into something worse just because everything else had failed.
But there wasn’t another option.
Staying meant starving. Moving without food meant freezing. Turning Scott down meant walking away from the only person offering anything at all.
Malcolm held her eyes.
He didn’t try to convince her. He didn’t soften it. He just looked at her, steady, certain, like he already understood what this cost and was ready to carry it anyway.
Iyisha swallowed.
She didn’t want to go.
But she nodded.
Because wanting didn’t change the situation.
And sometimes survival wasn’t a choice at all.
