The military encampment was an island of organized chaos in a sea of smoldering jungle. Soldiers in soot-stained fatigues moved with grim purpose, setting up temporary medical stations and coordinating with the crews of the water-dumping helicopters that thrummed overhead. Charlie, having left Mihai with Colonel Alves, navigated the bustling scene, his Predator Eyes scanning for a familiar heat signature. He found Bobby huddled near a supply truck, a thermal blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his face a pale mask of shock and exhaustion.
He walked over, his footsteps silent on the packed earth. Bobby looked up, his eyes widening with a mixture of awe, relief, and a new, unsettling fear.
"Charlie," Bobby whispered, his voice hoarse. "You… you fought that thing."
"Yeah," Charlie said, his tone flat. "Listen, Bobby. It's over. The army is here. I need you to go home."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Bobby's face crumpled, the hero worship in his eyes replaced by a look of profound hurt. "No," he said, shaking his head, his voice gaining a sliver of its old stubbornness. "No way, bro. I'm not leaving you. I'm staying. I can help. I can fight."
Charlie looked at his friend—at his dirt-stained face, his trembling hands, the genuine, heartfelt loyalty shining in his eyes—and felt a pang of something akin to sadness. That part of their lives, the 'Jungle Bros' adventure, was over. He was no longer a participant in a survival game; he was a soldier in a war Bobby couldn't possibly comprehend.
"You can't," Charlie said, his voice gentle but firm. He knelt down, bringing their eyes to the same level, making sure no one else could see or hear them. "Bobby, your fight isn't here anymore. Not with your fists. You want to help me? You really want to help?"
Bobby nodded eagerly, desperate to be of use.
"Then go home," Charlie said, his gaze intense. "Go back, get cleaned up, and then you get to work. Your dad has an empire. Learn from him. Make it grow. Make so much money that it becomes a weapon. Money buys drones, it buys technology, it buys information. That's how you help me now. Be my quartermaster. Be my treasury. That's a fight I need you in."
He could see the doubt, the disappointment, still clouding Bobby's face. He knew he needed to show him, to make him understand the chasm that had opened up between them. He glanced around, ensuring they were unobserved, then held up his hand.
"Look," he whispered. He focused his will, and Bobby watched, his eyes going wide with disbelief, as the skin on Charlie's index finger rippled, shifting, the flesh and bone transmuting into a solid, gleaming, dark iron. Charlie tapped it against a metal strut on the truck. The resulting clang was sharp, definitive, and utterly impossible.
"I can do that with my whole body now," Charlie explained, his voice a low murmur. He let his finger return to normal. "The things I'm fighting… you can't hurt them with a knife, Bobby. You help me by getting powerful in your world, so I can fight the monsters in mine." Bobby looked at his friend. "By the way," he said, changing the subject, his eyes flicking to the faded, hand-shaped mark on his forearm from where the Demon had grabbed him during the fight in the air. "I see Mihai healed you up a bit too. That burn on your arm is gone."
Charlie looked down at his arm, confused. "Healed me? I thought… I don't know, I just figured it wasn't as bad as I thought. He was the vampire guy, right? What happened with him?"
Charlie thought. So, he can heal. He must have done something when he showed himself on that press conference. He made a mental note to find and watch that broadcast. There was too much he didn't know. "But first," he said, his gaze returning to the burning jungle, "I've got eighteen more days here. I have to help them."
Bobby finally nodded, the last of his resistance crumbling in the face of the undeniable, metallic truth he had just witnessed. He understood. He couldn't fight monsters, but he could build an empire. A sad, resigned acceptance settled over him.
"Okay," he said, his voice heavy. "Okay, bro. I'll do it. I'm gonna… I'm gonna call my parents. Let them know I'm safe. Talk to them about… about getting to work." He pulled out the satellite phone, then hesitated, holding it out to Charlie. "You should call your parents, too. They're going to be worried sick."
A strange, conflicted expression crossed Charlie's face. He looked at the phone, then at his own hands, hands that had killed, hands that could turn to iron. What could he possibly say to his mother? How could he explain the man he had become?
Bobby saw the hesitation, his expression puzzled. "Bro, call them yourself. They need to hear your voice."
"I will," Charlie said, his voice distant. "Later. I'll call them later."
He stood up, turning his back to his friend, his gaze fixed on the smoke and the chaos of the jungle. He had a war to fight, and he knew, with a certainty that was a cold, hard stone in his gut, that the boy Marge and Harold Finch had raised was never coming home again.