A pre-apocalypse memory;
Daryl stepped outside his trailer. The humid air cloaked him in a suffocating layer of sweat. A far-off shout echoed from within the woods surrounding the trailer park; probably just Merle and his father hunting. At least that got them out of his way for a while so he could clean up the empty bottles from last night. Funny, how the number of bottles his father drank directly coincided with the number of bruises forming on Daryl's back. Yeah, funny, Daryl thought sarcastically as he carried the full trash bag outside to the park's communal bin. His father didn't seem to care that Daryl was in his twenties, or trying desperately to move on from this place, he still got mad when Daryl mentioned leaving. The damp, mossy ground absorbed the noise from his heavy work boots and the only sound was the musical clink of bottles rubbing together. A solitary drop of rain fell from the turbulent grey sky and fell on his nose. He hoped they weren't in for a storm, since their trailers were even more the worse for wear, and probably wouldn't come through a rough patch of weather. He approached the bin, silent thanks to his hunter instincts, and saw a small figure struggling to lift a huge bag into the skip.
"Hey Daisy," Daryl drawled. The younger girl jumped out of her skin and turned around with a look of horror on her face. It took a moment for her to register Daryl's presence, then she saw his smirk.
"Dipshit! I thought you were him," Daisy hissed, swinging the bag of trash half-heartedly at Daryl. He would've taken it as their usual banter, were it not for the angry light in her eyes.
"Oh, sorry. He bad again last night?" Daryl asked more seriously as he tossed the bottles into the skip. The loud rattle made Daisy cringe and she nodded while shrugging, as if it were no big deal. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing a freshly blooming bruise spreading across her cheekbone. "Yeah, mine too," Daryl sighed. They both found some solidarity in sharing their bruises and hatred of father figures. Daryl grabbed the bag of trash from her, swinging it into the skip easily. She nodded in thanks. The rain began falling in earnest, filling the skip with tiny droplets and making the two companions wipe at their eyes. It was a good excuse, really, as any droplet of water making its way down one's face could be called "rain".
"But I'm goin' back to school next week. So, it's fine," Daisy smiled a little. She leant against the skip, sighing as she cast her gaze back to her trailer. It was directly across from the Dixon's, and out the front sat her father, a piggish man in nature as well as appearance. Daryl snorted.
"Ay, at least you get to leave, not like some of us who're stuck in this shithole."
"Yeah, that's true," Daisy grinned, blowing a raspberry at the disgruntled redneck. Daryl cracked a smile which vanished as he heard his name being bellowed from behind his trailer. Merle back from hunting, no doubt.
"I better go. Catch ya later," Daryl sighed. As he walked towards his brother, he found it telling that Daisy would rather stand in the claggy rain, by a skip full of rotten trash, than spend even one second in her father's presence.
A post-apocalypse memory;
Daryl stood in the middle of the field and surveyed the walkers scrabbling at the fence. The prison was full of people and the walkers seemed to sense they were weaker since the newcomers arrived. They couldn't leave this place, they just couldn't. Even though prison had never been one of his favourite places, this didn't feel like back then. This was a fortress, a safe zone, a symbol of hope for the future. Daryl snorted at his own poetic thoughts and set back to the cells, deciding to gather a group of fence-clearers. Under the outdoor kitchen area, Carol and Beth were laughing about something or other as they skinned the rabbits from yesterday's hunt. A gentle smile grew on Daryl's face. Maybe it was the absence of a mother growing up, but Daryl always found wonder in the absolute acceptance and irrespective happiness that women found in their circumstances. They were cheerful and forgiving, yet stood unmoved by the rush of life around them, like a stubborn rock in the middle of a river. The current could change to go around them, not the other way around. Beth looked up and saw him approaching, and she lifted a hand joyfully. Daryl couldn't help but smile, couldn't help his feet walking nearer despite a million other things he need to do. He just wanted to sit with Carol and Beth, and hear them laugh, and pretend that everything was okay.
"Nice rabbits you got for us," Carol said, waggling a skinned bunny in front of him. Beth giggled at his disgusted reaction. "Any problems at the fence?"
Daryl shrugged. "Yeah, it's a little crowded, nothin' too bad." He felt Beth watching him, felt her smile warm his back as he poked at the pile of rabbit furs. She was so much like Daisy, yet so different. They were both small little things, and both felt the world on their shoulders, yet were resolutely happy in spite of it. But Beth, Beth was light and sunshine and fire. Daisy had been colder, darker, shaped by her life into a form that didn't suit her at all. Had been. Past tense. She was probably dead by now.
"Is everythin' okay?" Beth asked, a pause in her knife as she observed his sullen expression. Daryl half-smiled and nodded. Beth wasn't Daisy. Daisy wasn't here. And all those years they had wasted together as trailer trash kids meant nothing now.
The apocalypse, now;
"Mine," Daryl monotonously said as he stumbled through the forest. The other Claimers scowled with annoyance as they saw Daryl fall on a berry bush. They were all hungry, but even stronger than their hunger was their adherence to the rules of their little gang. If Daryl said the berries were his, then they were his, as much as it pained them to see food go to waste on a newer member.
"Claimed," Daryl's voice, wearisome as ever, rang out as he snatched a piece of meat from the fire, shoving the squirrel into his mouth before anyone could dispute his claim. That was all he ever said nowadays. Mine. Claimed. Taken. Dibs. No other words left his mouth, ever. Since he lost Beth, really actually physically lost her, he couldn't think of anything to say. Any word that left his mouth was an insult to her memory, a cruel reminder that he was not enough to save her. He stretched out before the fire in his claimed sleeping bag and thought longingly of his lost group. Where were they? Were they alive? He tortured himself by not knowing the answers. And even though the Claimers reeked of foul, evil natures, even though they were a kind of harsh savageness he hadn't seen in a long time, he stayed. Daryl stayed because being alone was infinitely more horrifying than whatever the Claimers could do. So he followed, and he didn't talk much except to claim what he needed to live, and he sat in silence mourning the loss of the prison. The loss of his group. His family. But Daryl stayed and he survived.
The most important claim;
It was a foggy morning, the sun had barely risen, and Daryl was freezing. His teeth chattered together as the group gathered their belonging, small disputes arising over equally small items. Daryl ignored it all and shoved his sleeping bag, minimal weapons, and even less food into a backpack. He leant against a tree as close to the dying embers of the fire as he could get. The other group members were chuckling and joking amongst themselves, their crude sneers a permanent expression. Daryl knew the apocalypse hadn't changed them, he knew they had always been (and always would be) grade-A assholes. He didn't concern himself with their chatter and mindless discussions. They mostly talked about what expert killers they were, or what sexual atrocities they had committed against various survivors they had met. Their bragging made Daryl sick to his stomach and he was thankful that in their weeks of travelling together, they hadn't come across a single survivor. He didn't know if he could stand by and watch them carry on their usual activities, but he also knew he wouldn't survive if he protested. Still, he knew the day would come when he would have to choose between his humanity and them. Between staying someone he could still look in the eye in a mirror, or becoming like their evil, rotting selves. He just didn't know that day would come so soon.
A scream ripped through the air, cutting through the cold and piercing Daryl's ear. Almost directly after came a victorious laugh, dry and sickening, like a rabid dog snarling its last breath. Daryl dropped the wire he was using to pick the lock of a house and ran towards the noise, instinctually feeling a rush of adrenaline. The scream sounded again, and Daryl rounded the corner to see Joe, their fearless leader, dragging an occupant out of a ramshackle house. They had been spending the morning looting this small cluster of houses and had found nothing of interest. Until now. The commotion had attracted most of the group, and they crowded around Joe crowing and hollering with glee. Daryl's mouth went dry as he got close and saw Joe holding a crouching girl by the hair. His heart stopped as the girl twisted and he caught a brief glimpse of her face.
Dark, curling hair.
Youthful, turbulent, brown eyes.
Scared.
"D..Daisy?" Daryl tried to call, but his breath caught as he struggled to process what he saw there in front of him. Daisy. His Daisy, who he had spent so many lazy summer afternoons with. Daisy, who had patched him up just as many times as he had physically stopped her pa beating on her. The very same Daisy who he would find hiding, crying, by the creek only to watch her laugh as he stuttered and fussed about what to do. Daisy. Alive.
"Fucking let go," Daisy yelled, kicking her legs as Joe hauled her to her feet. Daryl nearly threw up.
"Looky here boys, it seems to be our lucky day," Joe sneered, shaking the miniscule form that was in his hand. Resounding shouts and cheers were flung from the crowd, and hungry eyes stripped clothes from flesh, and flesh from bones. For a moment, silence reined over the little crowd. Silence filled the air, broken only by Daisy's panicked panting. The Claimers, stunned by their apparent victory, simply stood and observed their prize, too filled with anticipation to do anything but gawp. But Daryl, adrenaline coursing through him, knew exactly what to do. Knew exactly what to say. He knew because it was all he had been saying for the past few weeks, all his mind recognized as feasible action. Daryl Dixon stepped forwards, raised a hand, and said one simple word.
"Claimed."
