A few notes from missCanary

Thanks for checking out my story! I have had this in my mind for a while. It's been distracting me as I try to write Timshel (go check it out!) so I figure I'll juggle the two for a while.

My OC is a character that I'm trying to develop for an original story I'm writing, completely unrelated to TWD. I want to try to get her personality down, so give me some feedback!

This starts in episode one, season 3.

Disclaimer: I own none of the TWD characters, only my OC.

Mila Devroe

Voices. She thought she heard voices.

She couldn't truly tell; they were low and mumbled, the only type of voice anyone heard these days. And just as all voices were quiet, they were also dangerous.

A strand of dark hair fell in front of her eyes; she pushed it away, resting an elbow on her knee. Squatting was the only position that provided the slightest amount of comfort. Her stomach twisted tightly on itself, shooting pain straight to her back.

She'd been resting on the train tracks, studying the expansive, infested prison below. Really, she was just daydreaming. It would be heavenly to live safe behind those walls, especially after the hell she'd escaped from, but putting down all those walkers by herself just wasn't an option. She'd considered settling for the small space between the fences; at least the walkers couldn't get to her in there. However, she'd be living among them. They would surely smell her. Sleeping while surrounded by putrid, rotting corpses wasn't much better than running from them.

Besides, she really wasn't feeling well. This brought her attention back to the voices, which seemed to be approaching. It'd been weeks since she heard a human speak other than herself; so long that she wondered if she was hallucinating. Her stomach seized again, making her inhale sharply.

With a small groan, she stood. She had to move. There was no denying it now; the voices were real, and she didn't care to be seen. She slid down the ditch quickly, bringing with her a trail of tumbling gravel. The right person would notice that instantly. She hoped that these were normal, weary survivors who would pass by without a thought.

She noticed as she settled behind the thick brush that it was becoming uncomfortably hot. Waves of heat began rippling up into her cheeks, but she ignored them. She had to be quiet, and she wanted to see these people.

There.

It was two men. They appeared from the forest, climbing onto the train tracks. She stilled her small form as best she could, trying to blend in to the background. Men were scary and animalistic in this world. No one could be trusted immediately. Another wave of heat hit her cheeks, bringing with it a stiff shot of nausea. Fuck, Mila. Keep it together. She gritted her teeth.

They were both scruffy, as all living people were these days, but they had a certain kind of civility in their eyes that she hadn't seen in months. One had dark, curling hair and a fitted leather jacket. The other was more blonde, with sleepy eyes and a crossbow. His leather vest had two white wings sewn into the back. Seeing the crossbow made her stomach drop. If he knew how to use it, he probably knew how to track. The skid marks in the gravel led straight to her.

Suddenly they stopped, having noticed the prison. No, keep moving! More nausea. She could feel the saliva collecting in her mouth, but she was too afraid to spit it out. The men continued talking quietly, but with more animation. They were interested in the prison, as she had been.

"It's perfect" she heard the dark-haired man say. A knee-jerk feeling of possession came over her. She'd seen the damn thing first! But what could she do about it? She was cowering in the bushes from two men, angry over a prison she could never take anyway. Her light brown eyes watered as she squeezed them shut, trying to will away the growing pain and queasiness in her stomach.

In an attempt to distract herself, she tried to memorize the details of her two mystery men, in case she ran into them later. They appeared to have been travelling, but neither was exceptionally gaunt. Sure, they were skinny, but it was clear that someone knew how to hunt in their group. She just assumed they had a group. Most people did these days.

The strangers turned, about to leave. Finally. The blonde one revealed a filleted squirrel hanging on a string over his shoulder. Its skin was missing, muscles still glistening in the afternoon sun. He'd just caught it. Then, she zeroed in on its body cavity, at the remnants of whatever guts the animal had.

The sight of the animal wasn't new to her by any means. She'd been hunting to survive for months now. However, her body wasn't listening to her anymore. Fuck. She felt it rising, the fullness in her throat. They were almost off the tracks, when…

She couldn't help it. She vomited, loudly.

Daryl Dixon

"The fuck was that?" Daryl skipped back onto the train tracks, positioning his crossbow as he peered around carefully.

Rick Grimes joined him. "Sounded human," he muttered.

The surrounding forest was hushed and calm, muted by the new green leaves of spring. Whoever made the sound was keeping a low profile. "Sounded like someone puking their damn guts up."

As if on cue, the harsh retching rang out again, drawing both men toward the ditch on the other side. Daryl snapped his fingers at Rick, pointing to a disturbance in the gravel. The trail led to an area of thick brush below; it rustled. Daryl could hear shallow, raspy breathing as the hidden person caught their breath. Whoever it was didn't know much about keeping hidden.

"May as well come out," Rick said, sounding both bored and obligated to address the noise. They both positioned their weapons as a young woman stumbled into view, tripping over her own shoe and collapsing into a clumsy heap on the dirt. Daryl glanced at Rick, unsure of how to react. They heard her swear quietly and then put her in their sights as she staggered to her feet.

She was impossibly thin, a fact that hardly surprised Daryl anymore. Everybody was thin, especially after the dry, cold winter they'd all just survived. Her face probably had a pretty olive skin tone like her arms and chest, but it was currently a sickly gray color. She locked eyes with him warily, swallowing thickly.

"Mind movin' that hand?" He gestured with his crossbow, pointing out her small hand which had drifted discreetly to a gun on her hip. She rolled her eyes in annoyance, raising skinny arms in surrender.

"I'm not gonna try anything." The girl's voice was hoarse, probably from the stomach acid she'd just puked up. "…Unless you do." She looked up at them with a challenging gaze that didn't match her current physical state. Daryl smirked. Yeah right.

Rick spoke up. "No offense, but I don't think you'd win."

To prove his point, the girl grimaced again, leaning over with her hands on her knees. "Ah, fucking Christ." Daryl looked around, starting to wonder if this was a ploy.

"Ya got people with you, girl?" The girl chuckled, still bent over.

"Nope, no people. If it's alright with y'all, I'd like to get going." She stood. Her lips were pressed into a hard line as she attempted to look normal.

That surprised Daryl. He'd fully expected this chick to beg for some help, to try to join their group. He had hoped that she wouldn't, just because Rick had become such a hardass. He didn't much care for new company, but this girl looked downright pitiful, no matter what front she put on. Rick would turn her away anyway, Daryl was almost certain.

He studied her as she waited for permission to leave. Her eyes were almost golden, and damn intimidating. He judged her to be in her late twenties, but age didn't really reflect well these days. She could have been younger. Her dark brown hair lay tangled in a mess on her head, pulled up hastily into a ponytail. For how thin she was, Daryl could tell the girl was strong. If she'd been in a better state, she could probably put up a good fight.

Rick cleared his throat, shifting his feet. "How do I know you aren't faking this; that you aren't going to attack us later on?" It was a necessary question, no matter how unlikely the chances. This chick wasn't faking it.

Her eyes fluttered, presumably in a wave of pain. "Guess you're gonna have to trust me."

"Think we'll watch ya leave, if's all the same," Daryl muttered. The girl shrugged indifferently, briefly locking her eyes with him once again. Somewhere deep down, Daryl probably thought she was pretty. Frivolous thoughts like that were so thickly buried by the priority of survival, however, that he didn't even recognize it.

Rick holstered his gun, considering her intently as she turned and made her way down the ditch. Daryl could tell that he was wrestling with himself over how sick she seemed. "C'mon, let's go feed the others." Daryl turned toward the forest.

He was giving Rick an out, reminding him of all the mouths they felt responsible to feed. They couldn't take on another one, even if Rick wanted to. And besides, he knew that Rick didn't really want to, he just felt obligated.

As for Daryl, he turned and gave the mystery girl one last look before heading into the dark woods.

Well, there ya have it.

Daryl's POV is hard to write! He's so complicated and stoic, I don't really know what he'd be thinking. Suggestions are always nice.

Let me know what you think!

xoxo