Page 18 of Beast in the Badlands
EMRY
I sit on the edge of the cot, the dim light from the solar lantern casting flickering shadows across Renn's sleeping form. His shirt lies discarded on the floor, revealing deep scars that crisscross his chest and ribs—evidence of battles fought and survived. One hand rests under his head, while the other hovers near a weapon like a guardian ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
In the dim light, he looks almost peaceful.
I used to think aliens were hideous—those tales of monstrous aliens and twisted faces, bloodthirsty eyes glinting with malice.
Soldiers spun stories of grotesque figures looming in shadows, ready to slaughter without remorse.
But as I watch Renn breathe in and out, my heart stutters in my chest.
His features are striking: sharp cheekbones give way to a strong jawline, framed by dark hair that falls just above those stormy gray eyes.
The contours of his body speak of strength and power—muscles taut under scarred skin.
He doesn’t look like a monster at all; instead, he possesses an undeniable allure that draws me in closer.
I shake my head, chastising myself for such thoughts. This is a Reaper—the very embodiment of war—and yet I can’t help but admire him in this vulnerable state. Maybe it’s the way his lips curve slightly even while he sleeps or how his brow smooths when nightmares fade into dreams.
I push myself up from the cot, unable to linger any longer in this strange reverie. The weight of silence fills the room as I tiptoe out into the cool night air outside our makeshift med bay.
The faint hum of insects surrounds me as I settle onto an old crate beneath the flickering lantern. My breath steadies as I look up at the sky—a tapestry of stars peeking through a shroud of clouds. Here, under this failing solar lantern's glow, I can breathe freely again.
Cleaning equipment inside feels suffocating after witnessing him like that—alive but still so broken beneath that tough exterior. It feels like an admission I can’t afford to make: caring for him is becoming more than duty; it’s something deeper and far more dangerous than survival alone.
I glance back at the med bay door—my heart lurching again when I think about how he’d react if he knew what I felt stirring inside me. But for now, it’s just me here, with shadows dancing around as if they hold secrets waiting to unfold.
I gaze up at the stars, each one a distant reminder of the chaos unraveling in the void beyond this shattered world.
The shimmering points of light seem to twinkle with a different kind of energy, as if they hold stories of battles fought and lives lost. I think of those still fighting—fleeing, dying.
My heart sinks under the weight of their plight, but I can’t let it consume me. Not here.
“Why do you look so lost?”
Renn’s voice cuts through the night like a blade, rough yet smooth enough to stir something deep inside me. I didn’t hear him approach. I turn my head slowly, surprised to find him sitting next to me, his form silhouetted against the fading glow of the med bay.
“I thought you were asleep,” I reply, forcing a small smile that feels foreign on my lips.
He leans back on his hands, his long limbs stretching out beside me. “I was resting,” he says simply, “but not sleeping.”
Silence envelops us for a moment. He seems to be studying me—those red eyes absorbing every detail like a predator assessing its prey.
“What was it like?” he finally asks. “Being a medic for the Coalition?”
I hesitate, memories bubbling to the surface like old wounds reopening. “Long hours,” I say softly. “Exhausting work… and it felt pointless at times.”
His brow furrows slightly as he listens intently.
“Most days I wondered if I’d make any difference at all.” My voice grows stronger as I speak about my passion for healing others. “But there were moments—when someone would wake up after surgery or when you could help ease someone's pain—that made it worthwhile.”
He nods slowly. “You had hope then.”
“Hope is a luxury we can’t afford now,” I reply, looking back at the stars that glimmer above us—a bittersweet reminder of everything lost.
Renn shifts closer; our knees almost touch as he asks about my time before all this chaos—the life that seems so far away now.
“I remember late nights studying anatomy books,” I share with a hint of nostalgia creeping into my voice. “And mornings filled with coffee and laughter with classmates who thought we could change the world.”
“And then it all fell apart,” he says quietly, his tone reflective.
“Yeah.” A lump forms in my throat as memories of shouts and screams invade my mind—the chaos surrounding our evacuation and losing friends along the way. "And my brother… I can't even think his name anymore."
His gaze locks onto mine, and something shifts in the space between us—an unspoken understanding threading through our silence.
“What about you?” I ask suddenly to break the tension hanging heavily around us.
He leans back slightly, folding his arms over his knees as if searching for words buried deep within him.
“We fought hard in those early campaigns—like feral dogs unleashed on worlds we barely understood.” His voice drops lower, darker than before.
“Too many died... too many innocent lives caught in our crossfire.”
His confession lingers in the air—a raw wound exposed under dim light—and I feel an ache for him too.
“You did what you had to do,” I whisper, searching for comfort in my own words even as doubt seeps through them.
“I didn’t have to enjoy it,” he murmurs back softly, and there’s weight behind those words—a lifetime spent battling inner demons and ghosts that haunt him still.
Renn sits there for a moment before reaching for something on his opposite side. He brushes his fingers against mine as he hands me a drink—a makeshift concoction from scavenged supplies. The warmth radiates from his skin where our hands meet; it sends an unexpected thrill coursing through me.
I don’t pull away. Instead, I draw toward him and I swear he leans toward me, too.
Our foreheads brush together tentatively—a soft connection shared between us without pressure or expectation—and neither pulls away despite the proximity that should feel wrong but doesn’t at all.
The moment stretches on—hot and fragile—as if we’re teetering on the edge of something we both know is dangerous but somehow inevitable.
I pull back first, breathing unevenly as reality settles back into place around us.
“I need to sleep,” I murmur, turning toward the med bay door without looking back.
Renn doesn’t stop me; but his gaze lingers on me until I slip inside—a warmth pooling in my chest as if part of me knows that nothing will ever be quite the same again.