Page 17 of Beast in the Badlands
RENN
I sit on the edge of the med bed, legs stiff and aching. The pain shoots through me like a bad memory—one I can’t shake off. I’ve learned to walk in short bursts, using the crutch I rigged from leftover metal scraps, but every step feels like a gamble.
Emry moves across the room with purpose, her hands deftly organizing supplies and straightening up the cluttered space. The way she reclaims it all—like this is her territory—is mesmerizing. Each motion carries an energy that makes me want to reach out and anchor myself to her.
Instead, I grip a knife, its blade glinting in the afternoon light filtering through broken windows. The edge needs sharpening; I can’t help but feel it’s the only thing I have control over right now. My hands work mechanically, sliding the blade against the stone until it catches just right.
“Can’t believe you’re back already,” I mutter without looking up, focusing on my task instead of the urge to watch her.
“Had to check in,” she replies, glancing over her shoulder. Her tone is light but holds an undertone of tension—a tension that reflects my own.
“You shouldn’t be doing this alone,” I say, finally meeting her gaze. “You should’ve waited for backup.”
“Backup?” She scoffs lightly as if it’s laughable. “There is no backup for us anymore.”
Her eyes narrow as she speaks, but there’s something softer beneath it all—a flicker of vulnerability that pulls at me.
“I’m not your problem,” she adds sharply before turning back to her supplies.
I keep sharpening the knife, trying to mask how much her words hit me. It’s true; Emry isn’t my responsibility. But somehow, she’s become more than just another survivor in this hellhole—we both know it.
I glance at her again. The way she moves has a rhythm; it draws me in even as anger simmers beneath my skin at how unfair this all is.
“Damn it,” I grit out through my clenched jaw. My grip tightens around the knife handle as frustration builds inside me like a storm cloud threatening to burst.
Emry pauses, sensing my shift in energy without turning back around.
“What?” she asks cautiously.
“Nothing.” I bite back my frustration. “Just… don’t push yourself so hard.”
She meets my gaze again, those bright eyes fierce yet tired—two warriors locked in this unending battle together against fate itself. And for a moment, all I want is to close that distance between us—to reach out and ground myself against whatever madness swirls outside these walls.
But instead? I keep sharpening the knife.
I set the knife down, the edge sharp enough to slice through doubt. Emry’s gaze doesn’t waver as she pulls a few more supplies from her pack.
“Why haven’t you tried contacting your people?” she asks, tilting her head slightly, a lock of hair falling over her face.
I swallow hard, the weight of silence pressing against my chest. “Repaired an old transmitter,” I admit, hating how casual it sounds. “The signal went through for half a second. Could’ve been Kairon. Could’ve been nothing.”
Her brow furrows with concern, and I see the worry creep into her eyes. “Is he looking for you? Kairon? Where’s he at now?”
“I don’t know.” The words hang in the air like smoke from a long-dead fire. “No way to tell where they are.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “But Kairon wouldn’t leave one of his crew behind.”
Emry studies me, and I catch a glimpse of something in her expression—a flicker of hope that quickly dims as I turn away.
Almost say something about Ava, but stop myself short.
No point in scaring her further with thoughts of bonds or mates or anything that might twist this fragile alliance we’ve built.
She steps closer, her voice softening. “You’re family,” she says.
I let out a scoff that morphs into a bitter laugh, the sound leaving a sour taste on my tongue. "Family? Sure—whatever twisted, fucked-up version of that we are." The words come out harsher than I intended, but the truth has a way of cutting deep when you least expect it.
She takes a step back, creating a subtle chasm between us, her body language shifting as she returns to rummaging through her pack.
It’s as if she believes that putting space between us will somehow lighten the weight of our conversation—make all of this less complicated than it truly is.
I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her brow furrows slightly as she focuses intently on her task, as if the supplies within her bag hold the answers to the questions we dare not voice.
I watch her work, intrigued by the dexterity of her hands, which move with an expert precision despite their evident weariness.
Each motion seems deliberate, almost urgent, as she throws herself into the task with an intensity that suggests she sees it as a lifeline, a fragile buoy tossed into turbulent, choppy waters.
There’s a kind of strength in her determination that I can’t help but admire, yet it also serves as a reminder of how far we’ve both fallen in this unforgiving world.
After what feels like an eternity of silence stretching between us, she finally speaks, her voice quiet and cautious. “Do you really think they’d come for you?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with uncertainty, gnawing at me like hunger pangs that refuse to fade no matter how hard I try to ignore them. It’s an uncomfortable truth, one I’d rather not confront.
“Of course,” I reply at last, the words escaping my lips like a reflex. Yet even as I speak, I can feel the weight of my own doubt pressing down on me, making the words feel flimsy and insubstantial under the scrutiny of our reality.
They seem more like a shield against the encroaching darkness than a genuine expression of certainty.
The flicker of hope that ignites within me is tenuous, a fragile flame battling the overwhelming backdrop of our bleak existence.
I can’t shake the nagging fear that this could all be nothing more than wishful thinking—that we might remain here, trapped in this forgotten corner of the universe, with no rescue and no reprieve ever coming our way.
“What happens when they do?” Emry probes again, her voice cutting through the thick air after another heavy pause. Her words are laced with concern, a reminder that even amidst our shared silence, we are both acutely aware of the stakes involved.
And just like that, I’m drawn back into my own mind—the relentless cycle of survival and loyalty clashing against despair—and all those thoughts tumble into one single certainty:
“I’ll take you with me.”
It feels like both promise and challenge wrapped into one truth spoken out loud between two souls fighting against their own demons while standing side by side in this ruined world together—but still holding on tight to whatever remains unbroken inside them both.
Her silence stretches longer than before—a pregnant pause hanging heavy over us as our eyes lock again—but no words come from either side as night begins to settle around our small sanctuary amid uncertainty and hope tangled together like threads of fate we can’t quite untangle yet.