November 2, 2058 –
Abandoned church basement, South Side Chicago
Two weeks of hiding, healing, and uneasy quiet.
Kenji's arm is splinted, skin knitting slow under Maya's careful warmth. Maya's ribs still ache with every laugh, but she laughs anyway when the kids beg for more golden animal shapes in the air.
Aisha's new prosthetic—scavenged parts, Jonah's wiring, Malik's gravity holding pieces steady while they set—is clunky but functional. She tests it with short bursts, faster each day.
Malik stays.
He sleeps on a cot near the others, eats what they eat, helps carry water barrels with gentle gravity lifts. The serum is gone from his blood; his power is steady now, strong enough to float crates or cushion falls.
Tonight the lantern burns brighter. Someone found canned peaches. Real sugar feels like luxury.
They sit in a loose circle: six adults, forty kids cross-legged on blankets, Malik in the gap between Jonah and Amara.
Amara offers him half her peach slice on a plastic spoon. "You're tall now," she says solemnly. "You get big pieces."
Malik takes it, surprised. "Thanks, shorty."
The kids giggle. Even Aisha smirks.
Jonah passes around a bag of off-brand chips. "Malik fixed the radio. We've got music tonight."
Soft R&B fills the basement—old stuff, pre-Pulse, when songs still sounded like people instead of products.
Maya leans against Elijah's shoulder, careful of bruises. "He fits," she murmurs.
Elijah watches Malik teach a younger boy how to make a pebble orbit his finger like a planet.
He does.
Kenji sits opposite, watching his cousin instead of Malik. Kayden has been quieter since the rooftop, illusions used only for small things—hiding supplies, making shadow puppets for the kids.
Elijah catches Kayden's eye. Nods once.
Kayden nods back—small, uncertain, but there.
Outside, November wind rattles the boarded windows.
Inside, for one evening, the basement feels almost like a home.
Malik looks around the circle, spoon still in hand.
"I never had this," he says quietly. "Not even before they took me."
Aisha tosses him a chip. "Get used to it, gravity boy. You're stuck with us now."
Malik smiles—real, unguarded.
The lantern burns steady.
For tonight, the war waits outside.