Page 22 of Rainse
His body was heavier than I expected—all that dense muscle, that alien physiology. I hooked my arm under his chest and kicked hard, pulling us both toward shore. My ribs shrieked. My stung leg barely responded.
A jellyfish brushed my shoulder. Another burst of fire, spreading down my back.
Ignore it. Move.
The current fought me, trying to drag us back out. My vision blurred at the edges—pain or exhaustion or both. I couldn't tell anymore.
"Not today," I hissed through clenched teeth. "You don't get to die on me, seaweed man."
My feet found sand. Solid ground. I hauled him the last few meters, half-dragging, half-carrying, until we were clear of the waterline. Then my legs gave out and we both collapsed onto the beach.
For a moment, I just lay there, gasping, my whole body on fire.
Then training kicked in.
Airway. Breathing. Circulation.
I rolled him onto his back. His chest was rising and falling—shallow, too shallow, but breathing. His greenskin was covered in angry welts, the fronds hanging limp and discoloured where the venom had done its work.
Stingers. I needed to get the stingers off.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely control them. I grabbed a shell from the sand—smooth, flat—and began scraping along his skin, careful not to press too hard. The nearly-invisible filaments came away in sticky strands.
"Sorry," I muttered, even though he couldn't hear me. "Sorry, sorry, I know this hurts."
His greenskin twitched under my touch, still trying to respond even in this state.
There—the worst cluster, across his ribs where the greenskin was thickest. I worked methodically, scraping, checking, scraping again. My vision kept trying to blur. My own stings burned like brands.
Focus. He needs you to focus.
When I'd cleared all the visible stingers, I sat back on my heels and looked at my limited resources. No vinegar. No ice. No medical kit.
But there was coconut water.
I crawled to where the fallen coconut still lay, cracked it open with a rock—took three tries, my hands were shaking so badly—and poured the liquid over the worst of his welts.
It hissed faintly where it touched, steam rising for just an instant. Not vinegar, but it was acidic enough to help neutralise the venom. I hoped.
Using another shell, I scooped out the coconut meat and pressed it against the angry red marks on his chest, his arms, his neck. Cool. Soothing. Something.
Please work. Please let this work.
His heartbeat was rapid under my palm when I checked—too rapid, or maybe that was normal for finfolk, I had no way to know. His skin was too warm. Or too cold. I couldn't tell through my own fever-haze of pain.
I needed to monitor him. Keep watch. Make sure he kept breathing.
But my own body was starting to rebel. The stings on my legs and arms throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My vision kept swimming. The adrenaline that had carried me this far was draining away, leaving only exhaustion and pain.
Just for a minute. I'll just rest for one minute.
I lay down beside him, keeping one hand on his chest so I could feel if his breathing changed. The sand was warm. The sun was warm. Everything was warm except the cold knot of fear in my stomach.
"You're not dying," I told him firmly. "I didn't drag your heavy alien ass out of the ocean just to watch you die on this beach. So you're going to keep breathing, and you're going to wake up, and you're going to owe me. Again."
His greenskin pulsed once under my hand—so faint I almost missed it.
"That's right," I whispered. "You keep fighting."
