******
The one known as Malcolm crouched in the shadows, watching as the soldiers carried off the unmoving forms of the men he had encountered. His eyes once more glittered in the perpetual night. Turmoil and confusion coursed through his mind as the integration process continued. He flexed his hands and arms easily, powerfully. He moved aside his various wrappings and clothing, and rummaging around for several moments with a sharp piece of glass. One by one, he extracted the flattened slugs from his body. He found them all relatively close to the surface, although he didn't consider possibilities as to how or why. Holding the bloody ammunition in his hand, he stared at what the fledgling rational portion of his mind repeatedly informed him should have been lethal.
Malcolm tilted his gloved hand, letting the bullets fall to the ground. He caught sight of his reflection in a dirty window. He walked towards it, wiping off some of the grime. The same glowing eyes flanked by a wide-brimmed hat and covering of scarves stared back at him. Tenderly touching the face covering, he gave a small grunt at the still-formidable pain.
He slowly unwrapped the covering, breathing hard and heart racing as the ache throbbed. At last the wrappings came off, and he winced again at what he knew he would see.
His face was human in relative shape. His features were sharp and angular. The top portion of his skull bulged somewhat with his ocular abilities and other senses. Beneath his hat was a tangled shock of white hair, matching his eyes save for the glow.
Malcolm's nose was drawn upwards and lay close to his skin, as though the outer half had gotten cut off and the rest pushed backward. Exposed to open air, the stench of decay and filth once again flooded his olfactory senses. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He sifted through those scents, identifying each of the departed wounded and remaining dead through their sweat, what aftershave they used, and the rations they had eaten recently. There was also something else he detected in the air, a scent similar in nature to the men, though very different. Unlike the others, in which it merely clung to their clothing, this other scent was wrapped and suffused with the filth, decay, and odors of this environment. He knew at once it was the woman's scent. Kaylee.
Opening his eyes once more, he saw his skin, which held a bluish-gray tint. There was a dark green line passing through the center of his face, vertical until it reached his upper lip, then it skewed beneath.
This was due to the fact that Malcolm's lower jaw hung open, twisted, as though held in a perpetual death scream. Still severely broken, though much better than it had been when he first woke, it lay slack, his tongue dangling out.
He attempted to vocalize. "Hkkhhaaylleee. Nmaallhkkolm." Phlegm and spittle issued forth from his throat, and the slight motions sent shards of lancing pain through his jaw.
Pulling the broken jaw up with one hand, he ignored the pain and rewrapped the scarves around his face. Satisfied it was secure, Malcolm wandered off, back towards the Escape.
Uprising Page 10
