Page 5 of Beast in the Badlands

RENN

P ain lances through my legs, waking me from a black abyss. I jerk, but my body betrays me—frozen, every muscle screaming in protest.

The room is dim and oppressive. Shadows cling to the half-ruined walls, burn scars tracing patterns like a map of despair. Broken lights flicker overhead, illuminating the remnants of scavenged tech strewn about. I blink against the dull glow, trying to orient myself.

Bandages wrap around my thighs—tight, clean. Someone patched me up. The thought ignites a primal fury; who had the audacity to help a Reaper?

A soft buzz catches my attention. A drone drifts by, ancient and barely functional, held together by what looks like spit and luck. It hovers near me before shifting away with a slight wobble.

I test my limbs again—still locked in place. My heart races as I mentally prepare for the worst: another faction out for blood or some twisted trap designed to lure me into a false sense of security.

I focus on the figure slumped in the chair across the room.

Human. Dirt-smeared skin. Freckles dot her cheeks like stars against a night sky. A med bag clings to her chest, a makeshift armor in this wreckage of a world.

My pulse quickens, a wild rhythm echoing in my ears. Why is she here? Why am I alive? I should be dead—crushed under metal or lost in the void.

But instead, I’m staring at her, and that scent wraps around me like a memory just out of reach—something I've been chasing across countless stars, through battles and despair.

She stirs slightly, and my heart skips. Not from fear but from an ache deep in my chest, a sensation foreign yet undeniable. I don’t understand this pull toward her.

I’ve faced enemies that wanted to tear me apart, yet none have ever left me feeling this way—vulnerable, exposed.

Her eyes remain closed, lashes dark against her freckled skin. Something about her fragility tugs at me—this fierce desire to protect her ignites like kindling catching flame. What the fuck?

“Damn it,” I mutter bitterly.

The weight of silence presses down as I study her features—the gentle curve of her lips and the way her hair spills over one shoulder like strands of gold caught in a net of despair.

Something shifts inside me—a flicker of warmth against all that coldness etched into my soul from years of violence and loss.

She’s mine.

The thought invades my mind with an intensity that both frightens and exhilarates me. I shouldn’t feel this way about a human—about anyone at all—but here we are.

My breath hitches as the realization sinks deeper: no matter how hard I try to dismiss it, she’s more than just an unfamiliar face in this broken world; she’s tethered to me somehow, and already I can’t bear the thought of losing her.

I swallow hard, fighting against the ache tightening in my chest as darkness gathers at the edges of my vision again.

An old drone buzzes into view, its metal frame battered and flickering. It beeps frantically, alarms shrieking like a banshee in distress.

I swat it aside, sending it crashing into the wall. But I’m too late; the human jolts awake, instincts kicking in. Her eyes dart around before locking onto me.

She lunges for her weapon, steadying it on me with practiced precision. A spark of amusement flickers within me despite the pain.

“Fry!” she exclaims, panic slicing through her voice as she takes in the shattered drone on the floor.

“It was attacking me,” I say, and her grip falters, surprise flashing across her face.

“It's an assistant! It's not programmed to attack,” she snaps, her voice sharp as steel.

I shrug, letting indifference drape over me like a cloak. The pain in my legs flares as I shift slightly, but I don’t let it show.

“Doesn’t matter to me.” My gaze holds hers; she’s fierce—determined. It’s intriguing how quickly she assesses danger.

She reaims her weapon at me, eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you should keep your hands to yourself next time.”

I can’t help but smirk at that; she has fire.

“I’m Emry,” she finally says, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.

Emry. The name rings in my gut like a bell tolling in a forgotten temple.

It holds weight, reverberating through the hollows of me that have long been filled only with pain and violence.

Possessiveness surges—a primal instinct clawing its way to the surface like a beast needing to claim its territory.

“Renn,” I reply, forcing my body to remain still under the threat of her gun. “Where am I?”

She lowers the weapon slightly but keeps it trained on me. “An abandoned med outpost. You crashed a few miles from here.”

“Crashed?” I grimace as memory floods back—chaos, explosions, pain—and suddenly I remember everything about that ill-fated mission.

“You went down hard.” Her tone shifts from cautious to matter-of-fact as if we’re discussing the weather rather than my life hanging by a thread.

My legs burn where shrapnel is buried deep beneath torn muscle and mangled skin. Panic threatens to bubble up again, but I force it down—can’t show weakness here.

“Can I walk?” The words tumble out before I can catch them.

She hesitates for just a heartbeat too long. “You might be able to eventually,” she says slowly, “but right now? You’re in bad shape.”

“Bad shape how?”

Her eyes darken as she shifts closer, examining the bandages wrapped around my thighs like they’re an ancient relic rather than mere fabric soaked in blood and sweat.

“They’re infected,” she states bluntly, as if stating an undeniable truth carved into stone. “I don’t know if you’ll ever walk properly again.”

The words hit harder than any blow I’ve ever taken in battle. They cut deep into something raw inside me—a chasm of uncertainty that opens wide and unfathomable beneath my feet.

I swallow hard against rising frustration but push it down; anger won’t help me now.

“So… this is it then?” I attempt humor even as despair creeps in like fog over a battlefield. “My life ends here?”

Her expression softens for just a moment—a fleeting crack in her steely facade—and something within me shifts further toward this strange human who’s taking care of me when others would leave me for dead.

“I don’t know what kind of life you’re hoping for,” Emry replies with an edge of challenge in her voice, “but if you want to survive this place? You’ll need more than just luck.”

“I can manage.” My bravado feels shaky but necessary; it’s all I have left.

“Yeah? Because from what I've seen so far...” She rolls her eyes playfully but doesn’t lower her weapon entirely yet. “You could use some help.”

A growl rises within me—a response both instinctual and foreign—possessive instincts surfacing anew like old scars being reopened without warning. Who is this woman? This Emry who looks at me not with fear or disgust but with something else entirely?

And why do I feel so protective over her already?

“We’ll see about that,” I say, holding her gaze steady despite the chaos swirling within and outside these walls—the last remnants of an existence barely clinging on to life itself.