Daryl sighed heavily as he walked across the wrecked tarmac. This was the last fuckin' thing he needed. He tilted his head to the side, massaging roughly at the stiff muscles of his neck. His hand dropped away into his pocket and withdrew a heavy pair of leather gloves. His knuckles seemed to throb in protest as he was left with no choice but to pull them on. He'd been a bit of an idiot really, thinking that his only charge for the next few days, weeks, whatever, would be Carol alone. It was a shame, he was just starting to get into it, their hourly spats and all that. There were so many sides to her. He didn't think he could force himself to get on with a single one, but it was good to be unpredictable. He knew that well. There was little other reason he had survived so long.
But at the same time, he hated how damn right she was. Naive, sheltered Carol was right. Just another of Blake's thugs. A cold brutal nothing. He tried to shake the words away as he slowed up, sheer emptiness surrounding him as he waited. But he somehow couldn't. One of the first things he'd learnt in this life was to trust no one and nothing. And yet he still knew she was right. He didn't want to be nothing, but he knew it was far too late to hope to be something. This was all he was now. He lived in a spiral turned by respect. And unless he wanted to slide down into oblivion, he had to earn the respect he was due. And he'd learnt one failsafe way of getting it. And the rule wasn't so much "If it ain't broke, don't fix it!" as "If it ain't broke, then fuckin' break it."
He didn't turn around as a pained groan filled the air. He closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't heard it, but the adrenaline pumping a little faster through his system now betrayed him.
The voice shook with fear, speaking with a heavy Georgian lilt. "I'm sorry! Please! No.. no.."
He was promptly silenced by the two burly men that only managed to keep their victim on his own two feet by kicking him repeatedly in the shins to force him to place one foot in front of the other.
"Randall Culver." Daryl whispered tiredly to himself, almost wincing in sympathy. "Oh, you fuckin' idiot."
He hit the ground hard as he was thrown down, left to roll around on the tarmac in front of Daryl, screaming in agony.
Daryl took a deep breath and let his mind close off completely. There was no way he could do this consciously. There were some out there who deserved their punishments when they were delivered and there were some that he pitied for ever having met The Gov. Randall was one of the latter.
He'd bolted from Georgia when he was barely fifteen, certain that his drunken father would kill him when their next brawl came. His Mama, a woman everyone around knew he idolised was presumed dead, so vicious were her share in the beatings. Randall's father had said she'd run off with a city banker but Randall had protested this until he was spitting blood. Literally, Daryl had seen it the first time the man had fallen foul of Blake's many intricate, ever changing rules.
The worst thing to have in this life was a weakness. Randall's was his Mama. Daryl envied that somehow, but knew to keep it down. Because Blake, oh he used it, towering above the man, sprawled on the floor precisely as he was right now in fact and goading him even as he was beaten from all sides, calling his Ma everything imaginable. Daryl had always wondered how Philip Blake had managed to forge such steadfast and savage opinions of people he had never met.
And to begin with, Randall had screamed angrily back at Blake, needing to defend his Mama. After all, everyone also knew that the last he had seen of his mother, her body was shielding his as she screamed at his raging father that to get to their son, he'd have to kill her first. After that, Randall had been forced from the room and left to bury his head under a pillow and try and block out her screams. Blake didn't appreciate the will the man still had inside him, and his anger was beaten savagely out of him. He hadn't been a part of that first attack. He'd been stood rigid against the wall, unable to do little more than blink in horror. Randall had been left a mass of broken bones on the warehouse floor, his ribs never likely to heal and his mouth filled with blood and smashed teeth. And no one seemed to give a damn. Therefore, Daryl couldn't either.
"Get up." he hissed.
Randall was promptly dragged up. Daryl bit into his lip to hold back a wince. He was trying to help the man, really. Surely it was better to die standing. Living on his knees had never gotten this man anywhere. Anger had kept him alive day to day, in fact a rather bloody brawl when Randall was a little off sixteen had been what had gotten him noticed by Blake in the first place. And once that happened, there was no escape. At least not until the day you died.
So Randall... he'd be set free tonight.
"Why don't ya ever learn?" he demanded, stepping close and tilting up Randall's stubbly chin so savagely that the bones in his neck ground painfully together. "I tried to help you, Randall, remember?"
He whimpered.
"Remember?"
"Yes! Yes! I'm sorry!"
Daryl laughed scornfully. "Well, that ain't ever meant nothin' has it, eh? If you was sorry, you wouldn't have repaid me like this! I stuck my neck out for you 'cause I thought you was better! I thought you had the brains not be dragged back! What was it, huh? What?"
He counted ten seconds that were filled only by Randall's whimpering. Without focussing on his face, Daryl swung his fist forward into his stomach. The man slumped to the floor. He flexed his hand, wishing his knuckles would throb a little less.
"You should know not to keep me waitin'..."
His gaze flickered to the two that roughly kept Randall on his feet.
"Slimeball got caught with 50K's worth of Meth in his apartment Boss."
Daryl winced audibly. "Fifty huh, Randy? Oooh, that's gonna hurt."
His two colleagues sneered cruelly and dutifully let their support drop away, leaving Randall's at the mercy of their boss' relentless fists.
"What'd you get for possession these days huh? Seven... ten years? The shame you're gonna bring on that precious family of yours... your poor wife. That's if you make it to the clink. Not lookin' likely is it?-"
Daryl pretended he couldn't hear bone after bone shattering. He pretended he knew nothing of the pain as his attack continued. Randall's face by now was not only tear-streaked, but dangerously bloody too, left to choke on the forming pool as it poured from his flattened nose and into his reluctant mouth.
"If you'd just learn-" he roared angrily as Randall screamed.
"Please! No more! No more! My... my wife!"
Daryl drew back his foot, his victim's body rigid as he awaited the next attack. It didn't come. He crouched down and jerked up Randall's head, holding it roughly in his hands and smearing blood all across the poor man's drenched face.
"She won't wait." Daryl hissed cruelly. "They never do. And why would she huh? Look at ya, you're an embarrassment. I gave you the chance to be somethin', Randy, anythin'. And you're nothin'. That's all you're ever gonna be. Worthless scum..."
Daryl shoved Randall away and he landed with a painful thud into his own blood. He bit hesitantly into his lip, finding that one of his workmates had placed a heavy, commanding hand on his shoulder.
"He deserves this, Daryl, man. He let the Boss down."
"Yeah." Daryl answered jerkily, quietly repeating his own words, as if to assure himself that what he was doing was right. "Worthless scum."
" Exactly."
Anger roared dangerously in the centre of Daryl's chest. This was one kid he seriously had tried to help. He seemed too young, too fragile to exist here. Nearly ten years later and the thread the bastard had been hanging from had finally snapped. And so had Daryl. Why did he bother? Why had he even bothered to try and help someone, anyone, when this was all he was reduced to in the end.
His lips set in a stiff sneer, he savagely kicked the broken man in the chest, over and over, furious tears pouring from his eyes as he yelled;
"Jus'... like... the... rest... of... us!"
Randall's screams of torment and sheer agony wore on. Daryl's colleagues had to pull him desperately back as his attack intensified.
"Get the fuck off me!" he roared as hands clamoured for him and he still needed his release. This was the only way he knew, the only way it could be. This was supposed to be what they wanted.
"Boss!" Shane, who was exerting way too much pressure on Daryl's right side bellowed in his ear.
"What?"
His gaze lifted anxiously. Daryl's neck ached again as his went too, and he found himself looking into the big, blue brimming eyes of Carol King, flared in repulsion as she looked down from the fire escape on this ugly scene. His glistening lips were set stiff as tears shook her and she tried to hold back a sob, her quivering hand pressed to her mouth to silence herself before one of them might. She'd seen it. What they could truly do. Just to survive.
She flinched as Daryl's eyes settled on hers. She leapt back, her bare feet heavy against the concrete.
She shook all the more, one shattering sob escaping her as he took one instinctive step forward. She backed up against the door and fled back into the building, choking loudly on her sobs.
The help stood at either side slid him an uneasy glance. Daryl's mouth went dry.
"Shit!" he cursed loudly, bolting forward up the staircase, finding now that the adrenaline shook him in the unkindest of ways, his blood pounding away in his ears.
"Carol!"
