Page 19 of Beast in the Badlands
A crackle of static slices through the silence. My heart races; it’s not much, but it’s something. I lean closer, fingers dancing over the controls, willing it to stay alive.
“Come on,” I mutter, a low growl escaping my lips. “Don’t fail me now.”
I twist a dial and hear a faint echo—a voice? A whisper? No, just static. Frustration bubbles beneath my skin. This is all I have left—a threadbare hope clinging to life like a scrap of fabric in the wind.
My pacing quickens as I fumble with the wiring again, desperate for that connection to the outside world. Each turn of a screw feels monumental. Every flicker of potential sends adrenaline coursing through me.
The signal crackles once more, clearer this time. Just as I think I've made progress, it sputters and dies, plunging me back into darkness.
“Shit!” My fist slams down onto the table, rattling the scattered tools around me.
I breathe deeply through clenched teeth, forcing calm into my veins. There’s a thin line between frustration and despair; I can’t afford to cross it. Emry’s out there—risking herself for others while I’m stuck in this dilapidated shell like some broken toy.
What good am I here? A Reaper without purpose or direction.
Yet as soon as that thought lingers too long, another surges forth: I'm not completely lost. This tiny flicker means we still have a chance—if only for an instant longer.
I grab hold of that thought and pull myself upright again. Determination courses through me as I try again to tune in—the transmitter crackles more persistently now, begging for attention.
“Focus,” I tell myself sharply, every word slicing through uncertainty like a blade.
Fingers deftly adjust knobs and dials with renewed fervor while glancing at the door—Emry could return any moment now.
Each second stretches into eternity as anticipation thrums in my chest. The weight of failure threatens to crush me beneath its enormity—failure to protect her when she needs it most—but this... this could be different.
With each click and adjustment, I only get more frustrated. Why isn't this shit working? If Nyra was here, she'd get this shit sorted in seconds. But I'm not the tech type. I'm the muscle. I'm the dumbass who takes the tasks the others are too scared to take.
And look where that got me.
I throw my hands up in defeat, the transmitter falling silent, a dead weight in the air. Frustration surges through me, and I fight the urge to smash it against the wall. Instead, I push it aside and shove my fingers through my hair. Useless junk.
A sense of restlessness gnaws at me. I need to move, to do something—anything. The med bay feels like a tomb without her presence echoing through it.
I scan the room. There’s debris scattered everywhere: old bandages, broken equipment, scraps from previous salvage runs. It all feels heavy and stagnant, like a weight pressing down on my chest. With a grunt, I start picking up pieces of Emry's gear, shoving them into a corner to make some semblance of order.
Each item I touch reminds me of her—the worn tools that fit perfectly in her hands, the medical supplies that she organized with precision I’ve never had. I hate how domestic this feels.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself as I gather a tangle of cables.
I pull them taut before winding them neatly—an exercise in focus. My mind drifts as I work, wondering what she’s facing out there while I'm stuck here playing housekeeper.
“You better come back, Emry.” The words slip from my lips unbidden. “Because I don’t fucking like myself when you’re not here.”
The room echoes with my voice—a hollow sound in the ruins surrounding me. I catch sight of her satchel lying askew near the bed and pick it up gently as if it holds her essence within its frayed edges.
Her scent lingers—a mix of antiseptic and something earthy that makes my chest tighten just thinking about it.
I toss the satchel onto the table and glance around again, hyper-aware of every creak and groan from this crumbling structure. Outside could be chaos; inside is too quiet for comfort.
I find myself tidying up even more now—wiping surfaces where grime has settled for too long, lining up supplies along one edge of the table as if preparing for her arrival.
Every movement fills me with anticipation mixed with dread; she’ll return soon enough—won’t she?
I push through the door, stepping into the night. The air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat inside the med bay. Stars flicker overhead, distant and indifferent, but they draw me in. I settle onto the ground, leaning back against the crumbling wall of the outpost.
Something aches deep in my chest—a hollow sensation that’s both foreign and unsettling. It gnaws at me, a reminder of how far I’ve fallen from who I was supposed to be. I’m not lonely; no, I’m waiting.
The stars twinkle above like forgotten promises, and as I gaze into their depths, thoughts of Emry swirl around my mind—her stubbornness, her strength, her ability to endure when everything else crumbles.
