AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
If you missed the last one, because I just posted it yesterday, please go back and make sure that you read it before you read this one.
I hope that you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Daryl didn't know if staying still or moving on mattered. He didn't know if either would help them or if either was required. Some games, he knew, were programmed with a way to "win," but he wasn't sure that this game was programmed as such. He'd certainly never gotten around to writing any such part of a program, and he didn't know if B'Elanna had bothered, either. They'd simply been tinkering with a simulation more than a game that had any clear finish line.
The game was malfunctioning. That was clear. Daryl wasn't sure that anything they had or hadn't programmed even mattered anymore, really. The game wouldn't stop and, from where they were, it wouldn't be controlled. Nothing they had worked. They were on their own until someone realized they were in distress and extracted them from the game.
One of the worst things, arguably, was that the timing in the game, or simulation, or whatever the hell it was, seemed haywire. It was set up to make it feel like time was passing, and it did a damn good job of that. Daryl felt entirely out of his senses when he tried to think of a reality beyond the one in which they were currently trapped. He had no idea how long they had really been in here. It felt like it could have been months—or, maybe, really only an hour or two.
If Daryl thought too much about the difference between the "out there" and the "in here," he started to feel like he was going crazy, so he did his best to put it out of his mind.
The time, at least as they knew it, seemed to tick by with alarming rapidness. They moved on because, if they were going to be trapped forever there—and even if it had only been a few real hours, it was beginning to feel oddly endless to all of them—they at least wanted to be more comfortable. Daryl also feared the building up of some kind of Walker herd, especially since these Walkers were able to surprise all of them with their remarkable speed and dexterity. A herd of these Walkers would be deadly, and there would be nothing any of them could do about it. The best they could hope for was a decent structure to withstand the creatures, and the old barn wasn't going to offer that.
They wandered and, in wandering, they found a few more checkpoints that they'd programmed into the game. They found supplies and weapons—the weapons being welcomed at an almost spiritual level—and then they found a house where they decided to settle and try to wait things out. The chimney meant that that they could build fires. They found water nearby. Daryl could hunt. Carol and Daryl could teach Tom and B'Elanna what they needed to know to begin to truly adapt to this life that, it seemed, might become their new, permanent reality.
They could survive here—that's what Daryl decided—for however long they might be required to do so.
It was the middle of the night—what they knew to be the night—and Daryl and Carol were off-duty for the first half of the night. The only thing that happened, inside the house, was that whoever was on watch had to keep a decent eye on their fire. They didn't like to let it burn out, so they kept it low at all times and built it up when it was needed. Other than that, those on watch were mostly killing time and making sure that there were no signs, outside the doors or windows, that Walkers were building up. Occasionally, their job was to go and kill the Walkers that came scratching at the windows and doorknobs. In the morning, they all dragged all those bodies out to the perimeter they'd marked for their home, and they built an absolutely garish fence with them—a fence that was fairly effective at keeping the other Walkers at bay. Soon, they'd have a fence all the way around their property and, then, they could begin to build upward and make it stronger.
Daryl was awoken from his sleep by a sharp intake of breath. It was hardly a sound at all, but even his unconscious mind, it seemed, could hear Carol—especially if she was in distress. Daryl found her side of the bed empty, and he got up to wander to their bathroom where he found her. Instead of using the bucket that they kept for relieving themselves when it wasn't safe to venture out to the latrine, Daryl found Carol sitting on the closed lid of the non-functioning toilet. She was drawn into herself. Immediately, he rushed to her.
"What's wrong?" He asked. "What's goin' on? You alright? Shit…"
He ran out of the bathroom and, in a scramble, he found their lamp. He found the matches. His hands shook badly enough that he dropped them. He cursed them as they scattered across the floor, and finally he got his hands on one of them. He lit it, gritting his teeth to will his hands to cooperate, and he brought the burning lamp with him.
Carol hadn't moved. She was still drawn into herself. Her face was streaked with tears.
"You're soakin' with sweat," Daryl said, putting the lamp down and kneeling in front of her so that he could hug her. "Hey—what's goin' on? Nightmare?"
"No," Carol said. "Yes, but…no…"
Daryl caught her face and turned it to look at him. He held her eyes in the flickering and dim light.
"Talk to me," he said. "You gotta talk to me. You promised, right? You promised you would talk to me. That's how the hell we get through this. That's how we get through anything."
Carol nodded her head and frowned. The frown grew deeper, and a few more tears renewed the wetness on her face.
"I think I'm losing the baby," Carol said.
Daryl couldn't have felt worse—sick, and heavy, and pained, all at once—if he'd been kicked in the gut and the head, simultaneously, by a horse. He dropped down to his knees in front of her, dizzy, and reminded himself that, even if this was what was happening, she needed him.
"What—why?" Daryl asked.
"I don't know," Carol said. "I don't know why, Daryl. I don't know…I just…"
"Why do you think you're losin' it?" Daryl asked, realizing that she was caught up for a moment and at risk of spiraling out of control. "You bleedin'?"
"No," Carol said.
"Water?" He asked. "Ain't that like part of it? Don't it have like—water in there? You leakin' that? That's why you're wet?"
"No," Carol said. "No—I'm wet because…it's sweat. Daryl—I woke up and I was…sweating."
"That's OK. Sweat's OK," Daryl said. He was suddenly selling himself as a fucking expert on something he, honestly, had no idea about whatsoever. But, expert or not, his few paltry words already seemed to be calming Carol a little. "It's OK," he said. "Sweat's OK. Good—normal. Hell…get hot from the…from the…nightmares and the…baby makin'. Not losin'. The growin'. Remember, Carol. This ain't real. None of this is real. Feels real—it's programmed to do that. To fool our minds. But—none of it's real. When this shit cuts off, and it will cut off, we're just gonna be sittin' on a damn concrete floor. That's where we are right now. On a concrete floor. This—all of it? None of it's real. And sweatin's OK, right? Even if it was real, sweatin' is OK. It's…it's part of baby makin'. Not losin'."
She was calming. She was visibly calming. Her breathing was slowing down. Her cries, now, were quiet, open-mouthed. She wasn't as dedicated to them. She didn't let her eyes leave his—not even for a second. And she was calming the more that Daryl talked, whether or not she knew he was talking out of his ass, so he kept talking.
"Baby's growin' and that's…it causes sweatin'. In the night it's worse and…with that fire, it's hot in here. Don't you think? Hell—I think it's hot in here. Like a brick oven or somethin'. Just—damn hot. I'm sweatin' and I ain't even—ain't even doin' the whole thing where…where I'm growin' shit. That's all that is, though, it's just sweat, and it's OK. That water's cool. You want me to get you some of it? I could wet a rag—a whole damn towel, even. We'll wrap you in it. Cool you down. Here—you wait. You wait right here. I'm just goin' right there."
With the same shaky hands as before, Daryl wet a rag in some of their clean water and wrang out the excess water. He brought it back and carefully wiped at Carol's face. She closed her eyes and sighed. The sigh sounded ragged and tired. The time here, however long it really was, was hard on her—harder on her, even, than the rest of them—and that made it hard on Daryl.
"That feels good, don't it? Yeah—see? You just got hot. You just got too hot. That's all. You got hot and…you had a nightmare…and it just got you scared. But there's nothin' to be scared about. You feelin' better?"
"It hurts," Carol said.
"What?" Daryl asked, his stomach immediately knotting up. "What hurts, Carol?"
"I don't know," she said. "My—stomach. It hurts, Daryl. It's cramping. You're right. I am scared."
Daryl kept wiping her face because he had to. He kept doing it because he needed a moment to figure out how to hide the tremors running through his body that were very nearly painful.
They had fifteen potential little Dixons in a cannister waiting in sickbay that, at this very moment, felt every bit as far away from them as it possibly could have when they'd been in this god-forsaken place for real. They had fifteen little potential Dixons to raise together—but that wouldn't stop her heart from shattering over this one. Daryl willed himself to get control of his feelings.
He caught her face and turned it, catching her eyes again and holding them.
"Don't be scared. Don't be. I got you. OK? Both of you. I got you. It hurts bad?" He asked.
"No," Carol said. "But it's there."
"Constant?" He asked.
"No," Carol said.
"Sharp?" He asked.
"Dull," she said. "An ache. Daryl?" Daryl hummed at her. "I've lost—babies before. A long time ago. It didn't feel like this."
Daryl could not have explained the tidal wave of relief that washed over him suddenly. It made him dizzy. It made him glad that he was on his knees.
"Course it didn't," he said. "Course it—course it didn't. Because that ain't what this is. OK? That ain't what this is…you still gotta relax, OK? You still gotta relax. Being tense like this, it ain't no good. Won't help."
"I don't know what it is," Carol said. "And everything's different here."
"Not everything," Daryl said. "In fact—a lot ain't different at all. This is one of those things that…ain't different."
"What is it?" Carol asked. "I want the doctor, Daryl. I want to ask him what it is. Because I don't know what it is, but I know that it's something, Daryl."
Daryl could hear the urgency in her voice. He wished he could help her. He had no ability to help her, though, and he had no way to get her out of here. He wished, too, that he could just demand the computer take her to sickbay, but every time he'd asked for anything like that, the computer just cancelled his request without even considering it.
"Growin' pains," Daryl said. "That's all it is. I'm sure of it. Just—growin' pains."
"I don't remember this with Sophia," Carol said.
"Like you said," Daryl said, "things are a little different. Come on—let's get some rest."
"I don't feel good," Carol said as a means of protest.
"That's OK," Daryl said. "You can—try to rest. And I'll just—hold you."
111
"Computer! End program!" Chakotay growled. He knew the command was useless, but it didn't stop him from making it. He was starting to feel desperate.
They'd found a very clear trail now. No matter how much time seemed to pass, and Chakotay was losing track of how much time the holoprogram had them spending there, the weather never changed. Something about that, perhaps, had never been programmed—just like the time advancement had obviously never been quite perfected.
With the skills that Chakotay had learned about tracking in his youth, compounded with those he'd learned from Daryl, tracking the others wasn't going to be difficult at all—not now that they'd found a very, very clear trail leading away from an abandoned barn where there was evidence that someone had stayed there.
In Kathryn's bag, she carried several PADDs that should allow direct access to control panels with B'Elanna's level of security. Chakotay didn't know what was happening with the anomaly, or if they were having any luck outside of the program getting control of the ship's power and controls, but B'Elanna's access was, until something changed out there, their only real hope for getting out of this.
Chakotay was remaining confident, maybe because he felt like he had to, that B'Elanna would be able to get them out of this—she just needed the equipment. Soon, he could feel, they would find her. Soon, they could relieve her from whatever she might be doing to give her the chance to focus and work her magic.
But in the meantime, he was growing increasingly more concerned and more desperate.
What had started as a dull ache that he'd only known about because he'd caught an expression that Kathryn wasn't quick enough to hide from him was growing. The dull ache that she'd said felt like a cramp every now again had turned into a stich in her side. After she'd explained it away with the stitch in her side, it had gotten bad enough to where Chakotay had caught her making a face without trying to hide it or, even, making a noise of discomfort when it came.
Now, she was squeezing his arm in her fingers, and she'd doubled over when it hit her this time, stopping their forward progress.
Kathryn could insist she was fine, and maybe she was, but Chakotay was growing increasingly more anxious—and more desperate. There was nothing he could do. The computer, this time, beeped back at him with the noise that said it had closed out their interaction, even though there had never been a response at all.
In frustration, he tried his combadge again.
"Tuvok…can you hear me? Are we getting through yet? Tuvok? Harry?"
There was no response. There was only silence. Beside him, Kathryn offered him her best smile. He couldn't ignore that her hair, escaping the bun as it was, was sticking to her sweaty face, or that she looked, for lack of a better explanation, swollen to him.
"Let's go, Chakotay," she said. "We have to keep moving. I don't want us to lose daylight."
"You can barely move," Chakotay said.
Kathryn laughed. No matter how bad she felt, she could still laugh and look at him like that.
"Now you're being dramatic," she said. "I can always keep going if it matters to me. I want to get that PADD to B'Elanna tonight, Chakotay. I'm ready to go home. I want my bathtub—and our bed. And if we don't move? I'm afraid we'll have to spend another night out here."
Chakotay nodded.
"It won't be far," he assured her.
"I know," Kathryn said. "I can smell smoke. And—since we haven't smelled it before, I'm guessing it belongs to our friends."
"You can smell smoke?" Chakotay asked.
"You can't?" Kathryn countered.
Chakotay laughed to himself. He shook his head.
"I can hardly smell anything," he said.
"And I can smell everything," Kathryn countered.
"You sure you're OK to keep going?" Chakotay asked.
She gave him a soft smile. The pain only came every now and again, and it came in waves. She was clearly free from it for a moment. She slipped her arm through his, where it had been before she'd moved it to rub at her stomach and her back in alternating movements.
"Have to," she said, some teasing to her tone. "You'll hold my hand?"
"Always," Chakotay assured her. "Whatever you need."
"Then—help me find the others," Kathryn said. "Before the sun goes down, Chakotay. That's an order."
She winked quickly at him, and the smile that spread across her lips relieved some of his concern. He patted her hand, looped through his arm, and tugged her with him. He was determined to find the others—wherever they were in this holoprogram from hell, which he was determined to take offline the moment they were free from it—before the holographic sun set on another programmed night.
