Page 11 of Beast in the Badlands

RENN

T he med bay feels emptier without Emry. I sit on the edge of the makeshift cot, legs stretched out but useless, a gnawing tension clawing at my gut. She’s out there, and I’m stuck here—damaged, sidelined. The quiet settles around me like a heavy blanket, suffocating.

I push off the cot, forcing my body to move despite the protests from my legs. A dull throb radiates through my muscles, but I can’t sit still. Not now. I need to feel in control again, even if it’s just an illusion.

I scan the dimly lit room, eyes landing on the broken drones piled in a corner.

They’re relics from before—their metal casings dented and charred, like remnants of a forgotten war.

Probably the same pile she scrapped that silly dead drone from.

With each step toward them, I shake off thoughts of Emry's determined face as she walked away from me.

I start tearing into one of the drones with a pair of old pliers. The casing gives way easily enough, revealing tangled wires and circuits inside—a mess of potential. If I can cobble together something functional, maybe I can reach out to Kairon or someone else in orbit.

“Nothing like a good challenge,” I mutter to myself as I work. My fingers fumble with the wires at first; they slip and slide against one another like eels refusing to be caught. “Odds are against you, Renn,” I say under my breath while ripping more parts free from their housing.

Halfway through dissecting another drone, I spot an old transmitter hidden beneath layers of dust and grime along the wall paneling. It looks worse for wear—cracked casing and faded labels—but it might be salvageable. Hope flares inside me; it’s a long shot, but so is everything else right now.

I set down my tools and approach the panel slowly, gingerly peeling back its edges until it snaps free with a brittle crackle. “Don’t let this be a waste,” I whisper to no one as I unearth the transmitter.

Sitting back on my haunches beside it, I assess what remains of its wiring—burnt connections and loose ends jutting out like crooked teeth from an open mouth. Damn thing is barely held together by wishful thinking and desperation.

With deliberate focus, I begin rewiring it piece by piece. Each connection requires concentration; any misstep could mean more than just wasted effort—it could mean getting nothing out there when Emry returns. “You’ve faced worse odds,” I remind myself between breaths as sweat beads on my brow.

As I work through connecting the wires—one positive lead here, another negative there—I find myself talking again. “Just think of it as fixing your legs,” I joke dryly under my breath. “It’ll take time… patience.” The act of creating something fills the void her absence has carved in me.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as frustration threatens to bubble over each time a connection sparks rather than stabilizes properly. My mind drifts back to Emry—the way she stood her ground when we clashed earlier; fierce and unwavering despite her size compared to mine.

“Damn stubborn human,” I grumble as sparks dance dangerously close to my fingers during yet another failed attempt at stabilizing the signal output.

The echo of her voice—assertive yet somehow softens my heartache—lingers in the corners of my mind as her laughter floats past me like whispers on wind: “I want to protect everyone. Including you.”

My heart races again at the memory—an ember igniting fury within me not just for her safety but for what she represents: resilience amid chaos.

Determination settles heavily in my chest; suddenly that empty feeling shifts into something more purposeful—a need for clarity amidst uncertainty—and pushes me forward once more into action.

Each wire I touch sends a jolt through me, a reminder of my own frayed edges.

Kairon’s voice echoes in my mind, heavy with authority.

Loyalty means waiting, not fighting. At the time, I scoffed at that notion.

I believed action defined loyalty—charging into the fray for those you cared about, teeth bared and claws ready.

But now, as I sit here piecing together a transmitter that might save both of us, the weight of his words settles around me like armor. Waiting feels more treacherous than any battle. It breeds uncertainty; it gnaws at my insides like acid.

I pause mid-task and glance toward the empty chair where Emry usually sleeps. The fabric is rumpled and worn—remnants of her presence linger in the air. A growl slips from my throat, low and primal, as frustration boils beneath the surface.

I miss her. And I fucking hate it.

Her fierce spirit should fill this room, reminding me that life continues even amid ruin.

But without her here, shadows stretch long and suffocating around me.

I can almost picture her leaning back in that chair with her arms crossed, a smirk dancing on her lips as she’d call me out for wasting time moving around instead of resting.

“Stop staring at it like it’s going to bite you,” she’d say with that sharp wit of hers.

With a deep breath, I return to the task at hand. Fingers fumble but move with renewed purpose; each connection a promise to myself and to Emry—that I won’t give up.

The silence wraps around me again, heavier than before. I close my eyes for a moment and remember Kairon during one of our many raids—the chaos swirling around us as we tore through enemy lines under blaring alarms and smoke-filled skies.

Kairon stood tall amid the storm, commanding presence slicing through confusion like a knife through flesh. He caught my gaze then—his eyes unwavering—and reminded me again that sometimes we must endure pain instead of charging forward into blind aggression.

A memory sparks; him turning back to face me just before diving headlong into battle: “Patience is strength.” I thought he was wrong then—too cautious for a Reaper's heart—but now? Now those words sink deep within me.

I’m learning to wait—to fight when it counts—but every second spent here without Emry twists something inside me tighter than any battlefield ever could.