Chapter 3: Bared Teeth

A caged animal on display… that's what he feels like. They took his weapons, a 'precaution' they'd said. Even now as he is, dirty and covered in drying blood and sweat from fighting alongside the others, they don't really trust him. It makes sense, he knows. He's just some guy that walked right into them while they were being attacked by lord knows who, but knowing that does nothing to ease his frayed nerves, especially considering he'd just helped their leader (apparently) carve a way back to safety.

Instead, he chooses to submit and let them sit him down on a table before going back to talking amongst themselves. He can see it in all of them: they're scared. Nervous. And it only seems to make the air feel muggier than it already is. He tries to keep his eyes down, hoping to not draw too much attention to himself. He's the black sheep that stumbled into the flock. It'll probably be better to just wait it out. Don't plead, he reminds himself.

"What do we do with 'im?" The quiet question snaps him back to attention. It's the crossbowman who, pointing at him with his chin.

Marshall looks up, catching the glances of the two men. It's a small thing, the way the crossbowman asks, but it's enough for him to start to see the power dynamics in the group. The officer's definitely in charge.

The latter pinches the bridge of his nose for a few seconds before mumbling, "Go get Hershel."

The other man nods slightly and stalks off hurriedly with a soft grunt. He doesn't catch himself staring until the officer walks right up to him. As he sits, hunched over, the other man stands a fair bit taller than him. It was only when he locked eyes with the other that Marshall starts to feel nervous. He's seen that look before.

"You part of a group?"

It's a simple question, but something about it makes it feel like his guts are tripping over themselves. "No." There's a brief silence between them where he shifts uncomfortably. "Just me. I've been alone for a while now." He bites at his lower lip, "Ran into some people a few months back. It didn't work out."

The man nods before dropping down to a crouch, meeting Marshall on his level. Gray blue eyes lock with hazel in a silent debate. His brows furrow, eyes setting hard like steel, "How many of them did you kill?"

The question catches Marshall off guard. He panics for just a second, before he reels it in, but it's enough because before he knows it, the officer's looming over him with his pistol drawn and digging into his forehead.

"Rick!" a woman calls out from the side. Neither of them break their gaze, but Marshall hears the crowd forming.

Rick shakes his head as if rattling thoughts loose before repeating his question, "How many?"

Marshall raises his hands slightly in defeat, trying to keep himself composed. "Two."

"Why."

He hesitates. The memories he'd long buried suddenly start to rattle in their vault. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to remember how sick he felt when those hands touched him. He doesn't need it, doesn't need the reminder of how he'd wanted to die when he thought he'd turn while he was alone. His gaze falters for a moment before looking back at Rick, his eyes red and hateful.

"They were cannibals. They tied us up, baited us. Talked about us like we were cattle." He lets out a shaky breath, "I heard them rape a girl, and one of them tried to..." The words catch in his mouth. He can't say it so he just grunts and glares at the man hovering over him.

Neither of them move.

"Rick." This time it isn't a woman calling out for him from the side. The crossbowman stands next to him, looking almost ready to snatch the gun away from him if he needs to. Marshall sees it then: the reason he's afraid. Rick's broken, and it's almost as though he can see the cracks running through him. As much as he wants to be angry at him, to hate him for making him remember what happened, he can't. Not anymore.

Rick pulls back slowly, taking a few steps before holstering his gun. Shock, anger, and disgust cycle on his face. Then he just looks lost. Marshall can't help but wonder what brought him to this point. Loss is something they'd all experienced. It was almost a prerequisite of this new world. If you hadn't lost sometime, you were either lying or crazy. There isn't much room for attachment. It's a dark, scary world. Pain is everywhere. Loss is just something you either get accustomed to… or you lose yourself. Rick looks like he's stuck in between.

He huffs softly, letting his hackles drop. To think the day had seemed to have had such a promising start. He manages to bite back a sigh when he finally notices the other people standing nearby. There are about seven others about, all of which seem to have their eyes on him. Shit… Now he's starting to feel self-conscious. Then it makes sense.

Shit.

They'd all heard him say it. No wonder the woman with short, gray hair's looking at him like that. It's pity. Pity and sympathy. His chest feels heavy – he doesn't want to go into this conversation right now. Or any time soon. Or at all. It's as though the all the barriers he'd built up in his mind were starting to falter and he just feels… exhausted now. He cups the side of his head to try and will his troubles away, but that only seems to spark more concern among the group.

Before he knows it, the crossbowman takes a step toward him and not so gently moves Marshall's head from side to side, probably checking to see if Rick had roughed him up. A flare of irritation flashes through him, and he swats the calloused hands away. Christ, he's shaken up, not incapable.

"Hershel," the man grunts, pulling his hand back, "'s all yours."

An older man makes his way over to him on crutches. It's a sight that makes Marshall raise a brow curiously. Trailing behind him's a younger girl, no older than eighteen he figures, carrying a bag of medical supplies. She smiles softly when their eyes meet. Marshall can't help but smile in turn. Little gestures mean everything, sometimes.

He has no fight left in him. He's in their home, and he'll play by their rules. Hershel's methodical, asking him to pull back his shirt a bit so he'd have a better area to work with. He introduces his assistant as his youngest daughter, Beth. He has to hand it to the older man, he was still nimble with his hands to patch him up as quick as he did.

"You got lucky. A little deeper and you'd have bled out on the grass."

Marshall winces as the older man wiped over the tender flesh around the stitches. Almost instinctively, he reaches up with his spare hand to feel around only to have it snatched away by… Hershel, he thinks he heard his name was.

"I'm alive right now, that's what matters." He hesitates a moment, unsure what to say, "Thanks." He decides.

"It's not a problem."

"I mean it," He avoids looking at Hershel. He can almost feel the look he's giving him, and it isn't one he wants to face. "You've done more than I could've expected from, well… anyone."

"Were you really all alone?" Beth asks, innocently sweet.

"Yeah. It's not as fun as it sounds though. I haven't really talked to anyone in a while. Feels like I'm gonna bite my tongue on accident." He grins slightly, silently grateful to be talking to someone after months of being alone.

"Must've been scary out there…" Beth says, almost to herself.

"I guess," He lies. "I mean if you aren't scared, you aren't really human, I think. I'd be more worried if someone told me they weren't afraid more than anything. They're either lying, or they mean it. And if they mean it… Well." He doesn't finish his thought.

Marshall takes the silence that follows as an opportunity to fix his shirt and cover his exposed shoulder. He tacks on a few more buttons than he usually would for decency's sake. Beth seems content enough and packed up all the supplies back into the bag before kissing the Hershel on the cheek and striding off happily. Hershel's watching him like an owl, though.

"So," he starts and looked the older man in the eyes, "Rick. He's your leader?"

"Yes." Hershel nods.

Marshall squints a little, "Is he a good man?"

Hershel seems to frown under his beard, "Rick's a troubled man, but he's got a good heart."

Marshall hums quietly, pensive. The way he sees it, he only had two options. One, he can try and stay with this group, or two, risk everything and try and make it on his own. But for how long, he found himself asking. And it's true. How long can he manage on his own? The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he doesn't seem to have a much of a choice. He'd helped them... in the middle of a firefight. He might as well have a target painted on his back now. Stepping outside's practically suicide.

"Alright." He says meekly.

Hershel doesn't seem convinced with his response, but before he can say anything, someone's calling him over to the cellblock for a meeting. The older man nods at him briefly before hobbling up and leaving him to sit alone in silence with only his thoughts to keep him company. It isn't a comfortable feeling, knowing that only a few feet away, in another area, decisions are probably being made about what they're going to do with him.

It sets his nerves on edge. Every minute that ticks by without the sound of the gate opening is another sixty seconds for him to feel uneasy. Shit, the idea of being told to leave is worse than the idea of him leaving by his own choice. Hell, it actually kind of scares him. With a grunt, he pushes himself away from the table, choosing to pace around instead.

"You ain't a hunter."

Marshall reaches for his pick on instinct, only to find himself grabbing the loop of his belt.

"oo, easy there," It's the redneck with a knife for a hand. He brings his hands up in mock defeat, "Jus' wonderin'. I mean ya got a glove 'n' everything. N'aw, you ain't a hunter." He walks closer from whatever corner he'd been hiding in. Everything about him screams rotten to Marshall.

"What do you want?" Marshall folds his arms across his chest.

"Nothin'. Jus' curious is all." He circles around him like a wolf stalking prey, except there's the chance he could be being honest. He isn't out to kill, not in here at least. "Maybe you was a rich boy who learned to shoot a bow and arrow."

Marshall scoffs, "You're full of shit."

"Easy," He grins wickedly, "What you was before don't mean shit. Heh, what matters is that you survived. Let me give ya a word of advice," Marshall raised a brow, "Leave these sheep. They don't got the numbers or the guns to win this fight. They're as good as dead."

"What makes you so sure?" Marshall shifts uncomfortable. A small part of him agrees with the redneck, and it makes him sick.

The other man spits on the ground, "You ain't seen tha Governor, kid."

"And you have?"

"Yep."

"So, what? You want me to just sneak off while they aren't looking?"

"If you're smart."

Marshall grinds his teeth together and narrows his eyes at the redneck, "I'm done running. They need some help? I'll lend a hand."

"Maybe you're more stupid than I thought."

"Maybe." He shrugs, before walking toward the gate the others went through. "But I might as well stick with them through this."

The redneck laughs darkly, "What makes ya think they'll even let ya?"

Marshall glances over his shoulder, a determined look in his eyes, "You think they can afford to say no?" He takes the silence that followed as a no.

Rick and the others are locked in their cellblock and the boy keeping watch didn't seem too keen on unlocking the gate for him, so he does the next best thing and presses himself against the bars. He makes it in time to hear the conversation start to get a bit heated.

"We're not leaving." Rick says, toting a rifle.

"We can't stay here." Hershel counters.

Ah. That's all Marshall needs to hear to catch on to what's being discussed. They're considering the possibility of abandoning the prison. It's a tough call, he can tell that much. The prison's the most secure place he'd run into since the turn. If it was up to him, he'd never want to leave this place… even if the walls almost feel as if they want to close in on him. Too many voices are speaking at once - it's hard to keep up with who's saying what.

"What if there's another sniper out there? A wood pallet won't stop one of those rounds."

"We can't even go outside."

"Not in the daylight."

"Rick says we're not running, we're not running."

Marshall shakes his head, composing himself. "I wanna help." He called out.

Maybe it isn't the smartest thing to do, speaking out like that, but he doesn't feel like playing any games. Not with a threat right outside the walls. "Look, out there I had to make a choice: help you or go. I chose to help, and you," he jabs his finger through the bars in Rick's direction, "trusted me out there. I wanna help, I do, but I can't do that sitting on my ass in the corner." He glances around at the other faces, mentally cataloging them, before stopping on Rick. "All I'm asking is that you trust me again. Let me help."

The Asian man speaks up first, "Why should we trust you?"

Marshall shrugs, wrapping his hands around the bars. "If I'd wanted to hurt any of you, I would've done it outside when we were all fighting. Plus," He starts grinning, "I got that guy on the tower for you."

The girl with short brown hair shifts her weight to one leg and crosses her arms. She purses her lips lightly, "That was you?" He nods. "We saw the arrow and figured it was Daryl." She looks up at the crossbowman who leans against the railing on the catwalks. He shakes his head at her. She blinks once before turning back to Marshall. "Thank you."

He opens his mouth, ready to ask who the hell that is, when he remembers the handmade arrow he has slotted in his quiver. Ah. So the crossbowman's called Daryl. It's a relief to have a name to put on the ragged man. He'd have to ask him later about that arrow.

Rick seems unsure of what to say, so Marshall presses on. "You might as well spray paint a target on my back if I leave here. They already saw me, shot at me even. They think I'm a part of your group."

"'cept yer not." The words come from behind him. It's the fucking redneck.

Marshall glares at him before turning back to the others, "You need the numbers. You said it yourselves. We're not running."

"N'aw," The redneck wanders around him and leans against the bars as well, "Better to live like rats."

He sees the way most of the members of the group tensed at the presence of the man beside him. Good. So it isn't just him that gets a bad vibe from him. How they'd let someone like him stick around was beyond him.

For a second, Rick seems to forget about him, choosing to focus on the other man, "You got a better idea, Merle?"

Merle nods, obviously eager to egg on the leader. "Yea, we should slip out of here in tha night and live ta fight another day." No one seems to want to listen to him. "I'm sure he's got scouts settin' up on ev'ry road out of this place by now."

Marshall didn't notice Daryl closing in from the catwalks, looking down at Merle. "We ain't scared of that prick."

Merle scoffs, "Y'all should be." That gets Marshall's attention. He pushes his irritation aside to listen. If he's gonna talk about who they were up against, it'd be better to listen. "That truck through the fence thing? Tha's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behin', but he's got tha guns and tha numbers. So go ahead an' take this lost pup with ya if ya want," Marshall narrows his eyes but says nothing, "but if he takes the high ground around this place…"

"Shoot," he presses his face close to the bars, "he could just starve us out if he wanted to. "

The girl with short hair's heard enough, "Let's put him in the other cell block."

"No," Daryl cuts her off before she could argue, "He's got a point."

She glares at him before shifting it at Merle. "This is all you. You started this!"

"What difference does whose fault it is?" Beth walks around the woman with graying hair, hurrying down the stairs, "What do we do?" Marshall wonders if that's fear he hears in her voice.

Hershel chimes in, "I said we should leave. Now Axel's dead."

Oh. Marshall feels uneasy hearing that. The image of the body lying in a pool of blood on the concrete flashes behind his eyes. Shit. Is he asking to fill a dead man's shoes?

"We can't just sit here." Hershel adds, raising his voice.

Rick has a blank look on his face, one that Marshall recognizes. He pouts, watching the man's movements. His whole body's tensing as if he's winding up and getting ready to set loose. He starts walking toward the gate, and to Marshall's surprise, Hershel starts shouting after him.

"Get back here!"

Hershel clambers onto his crutches and stands. Marshall can't help but bite his tongue after hearing that outburst. From what he'd gathered of the man, he's likely the most collected of them all. To hear him call out for Rick like that just tells him how far-gone Rick probably is. The silence that falls afterward from the others only vouches for that theory.

The older man's soon standing behind Rick. The way Rick almost seems to look through him sends a chill down Marshall's spine. "You're slipping, Rick. We've all seen it." There it is. "We understand why, but now is not the time. You once said this isn't a democracy," Rick starts to turn, some semblance of him returning, "Now you have to own up to that. I put my family's life in your hands. So get your head clear and do something."

Marshall feels as though he just witnessed something he shouldn't have. And it's true, maybe he shouldn't have. Not with the uncertainty of whether or not he'd be allowed to stay. It feels like learning something personal about someone you don't know beyond a name. Even if you don't want to, you start to care just a little bit, but that sliver's enough. Then you're fucked.

He pulls himself away from the gate when the boy unlocks it for Rick. He's expecting the other man to walk past him, but he stops to look at him. Really look at him. And then he nods. It's a short gesture, but Marshall can't help but wonder… Did that mean what he thinks it does?

Daryl claps his hands on the railing above, glancing down at him, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Welcome to the tombs."