The creature called Malcolm crouched in the alleyway outside of the spa, bits of glass shaking around on the folds of his clothing from his rapid entrance and exit. He had his coat open and layers of clothing lifted, revealing his bluish-gray skin. He used a long, thin chunk of sharp glass to form a wide-slit. Peeling the skin back, he plunged the glass into the bullet hole and twisted it around.
Pain shot through the wound as he pulled the glass out in a swift motion; a flattened slug came with it, falling to the ground and tumbling away. He tucked the flap of skin back into place, blood flow from the wound already slowing. Repeating the process several more times on various places of his body, he removed numerous bullets.
Satisfied that his body had been emptied of foreign objects, he pulled his clothing back into their proper places. By the time he stood up, most of his wounds had ceased bleeding. He hoisted himself up through one of the broken windows and tumbled into the spa once more. The body of Griff still lay where it had dropped.
Malcolm felt a tiny pang of regret. He didn't relish the thought of hurting people, but he didn't like people hurting each other any more. Standing over the corpse, he crouched. For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was doing. Then, as if by instinct, he reached out and slid the poor man's glazed eyes to a close.
He walked through the locker room and lobby, out the front door in the direction he sensed was correct, spotting the recent treads of shoes in the dirt. As he moved, he kept his greater attention focused upon spotting other individuals and moving unseen. It probably wouldn't be a problem; he had hidden himself enough times to know his vision and physical capability far surpassed anyone else's.
With the few encounters he had experienced, he was becoming aware of how much stronger, faster, and more resilient he was. The pain from the wounds had ceased entirely. He looked down at his coat, which was riddled with small holes and dark blood stains, still fresh and wet. However, as he ran his gloved hand across where the wounds should have been, all he found was smooth, unscarred skin. He adjusted his clothing again, securing it in place.
Save for one piece. He loosened the cloth surrounding his face, exposing it to the open air. Inhaling deeply, Malcolm flooded his olfactory sense with the decay of Old Haven. He picked out the light scent imprinted on his mind as Kaylee's. Following and waiting for her for days, he still hadn't quite figured out why he felt the attachment.
Securing his facial wrappings once more, he took off at a rapid pace, cutting back and forth across the streets. Even with the random detritus scattered about, he made little sound and continued moving in the same general direction. Suddenly, he stopped and crouched in the shadows.
Two men, chatting as they walked, came by the place where he hid. They sauntered carelessly, speaking to each other regarding something Malcolm thought he recognized, but only in a vague fashion, as though he had heard about it years ago.
His memory, still chaotic and unreliable, filled his mind with images of fantastic places that he was almost convinced that he'd never been to. Towering crystalline structures of translucent pastel, swirling colors that mingled with the red-orange sunlight. Glassy streets refracting and illuminating a city of beauty. His face scrunched up as the image mingled with crumbling brick and bright, white-colored buildings.
Malcolm was still not entirely sure why he continued to follow Kaylee, but he knew that she was still in trouble, and he was determined to help her. The men passed down the street, and he sprang from his hiding place.