"No! No, please, don't, please! Help me, please, I need- I need-" At this point Daryl interrupts the witless babble with a forearm across the throat of the witless babbler, pinning him to a tree.

He's probably a teenager, skinny and dark-haired and barely any chin, a gun in his hands but the hands shaking so badly he could press the damned thing to Daryl's temple, pull the trigger and still miss. His clothes are dirty and ragged, his skin's worse where it's showing through, and he looks exhausted enough to drop without warning.

He could only be a threat by accident, in this state. Daryl is not particularly concerned.

"Shut up, boy. You'll draw walkers, dipshit, screaming like that. Shut up," he hisses.

He nods, quick and desperate, mouth pressed tightly shut. "Good. Stay quiet, hear me?" More over-emphatic nodding. Daryl steps back, drops his arm from the kid's throat but swings the crossbow up. "Now. What the hell d'you want, boy?"

"You, uh, there's," he pauses, gulping down air like he's just surfaced after a week underwater. Daryl supposes maybe he hadn't needed to press quite so hard. "There's, there's more of you, right? With, with guns and," he keeps gasping shallowly, can't seem to catch his breath, and Daryl growls.

He ignores the way the kid flinches back, makes him sit with a hard shove on his shoulders and then pushes his head down further. Daryl ignores, also, the weak, flailing, confused resistance until the kid relaxes, starts taking deeper, slower breaths. "Jesus. Sit. Breathe. …Dipshit." The kid looks up at him through a dark fringe of hair, something like gratitude on his face and Daryl yanks his hand away from his back. That look makes him think of Glenn, just a little, and it does strange things to him. He doesn't want to think about it. "Now talk."

He takes a deep, slow breath and sits up straighter. "Sorry. Thanks. I saw, saw smoke. Followed it, but then someone must have put it out, I couldn't see it anymore, I got lost in the woods, but I must have been going in the right direction. Please. Are there many of you? You have to help. You have to stop them. They're going to- God, it'll be my fault, please, you have to help them…" He's losing the thread again.

Daryl wonders how long he's been blundering alone through the woods, and just what he thinks is going to happen. Why it's so important that there be a lot of people. People with… guns. Shit. He swings the crossbow back up, takes a step back. The kid is looking at him with wide, scared eyes and shit. Shit shit shit. "Kid-"

"Randall, my name's Randall." Shit. Didn't want to know that, didn't need to know that, the less Daryl knows about this kid that he may have to kill in the woods (to protect his people) the better.

Shit.

"Whatever. What do you want a bunch of people for? Throwin' a party? Lookin' to invite your friends, once you know how many of us there are, where we sleep and where we keep our guns?" Voice low and harsh and Daryl doesn't want to have to do this. Fuck, does he resent them for how deeply he needs to protect them. Because, quite frankly, fucked if he will let any harm come to his people, not from fucking walkers or fucking shithead punks either. Shit.

"No!" He almost shouts again, high and desperate, then clamps a hand over his own mouth, eyes huge and dark and apologetic and terrified over his hand. "No," he continues, almost too quiet to be heard now, overcompensating. "I was with a group, but they're," he looks away, expression twisting with something like guilt, something like disgust.

"They've lost their minds, fuck, they don't care- And I said they shouldn't, it wasn't right, but they were going to, so I. I shot him. They'll kill me, if I go back. And they know about the farm, now. And you have to stop them! It'll be my fault. Please, please, it'll be my fault, you have to stop them," he's on his feet again, gun left in the dirt where he was sitting, reaching for Daryl despite the crossbow.

It's awful. Daryl's pretty sure it's awful, and stupid. But the kid (Randall, goddamnit, and knowing the name makes it worse) reminded him of Glenn, just for a second, and apparently that's enough. He lowers the crossbow again.

The kid couldn't hurt someone if he tried, not in this state. And he's pretty sure that Ranger Rick would try to help him, too, and Daryl maybe doesn't want to disappoint him, either. Fucking hell.

"Alright, kid. I take the gun, and keep your hands where I can see 'em. You even blink wrong, I'll kill you. Got me?" He's nodding hard, and smiling, wide and eager to please, and Daryl knows his name and that makes it worse. He scoops up the gun (safety still on, fucking idiot kid, if he'd killed someone it would have been a fucking fluke) and tosses the kid his water bottle. The gratitude is almost too much to bear. The greedy gulping actually is too much.

He looks away, glaring off into the brush. Daryl's always cared more than is good for him. Softheaded and softhearted, Merle used to say, two strikes and you ain't even started playin' yet.

Randall wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, opens his mouth to start talking, but Daryl's about at the end of his tether – someone else can make the rest of the decisions about this kid and whatever mess Daryl's just let him drop into their laps. "Let's go," he snaps. "Walk ahead of me, hands where I can see."

More eager nodding. "You got it, sure thing, whatever you want. Thanks. Thank you, for the water, you know, and. Uh. Thanks."

No more. "Shut up and keep walking."


Shane, of course, tries to shoot Randall within seconds of seeing him. Daryl's beginning to suspect that it's how he says hello.

Daryl was absolutely right that the boy is bringing a mess with him. If anything, it's worse than Daryl had been expecting, which is unusual in itself. The kid was running with a group of real bastards, apparently, and had finally snapped. Killed a would-be rapist, wounded another, and had to flee the scene double-time. That would have been enough trouble to deal with – deciding to shelter this idiot from a pack of vicious, immoral murderers would have been plenty, thanks.

But.

Randall knows where they're going next (because he'd told them about the place, before his change of heart) and it's clearly eating him up, now that he knows what they're likely to do when they get there. He's come to them to beg for their help, to stop the other group from reaching this place. He says there've got days, maybe hours, before they get there. He doesn't know how long, exactly, because he hadn't told them exactly where to go, but he knows that they'll find it soon enough.

He's getting hysterical (no surprise, he's been on the run for two days, hasn't eaten, barely drank, lost and fumbling and scared shitless) but he's not there yet, still making sense.

It's a farm, this place. A girl he knew before the end of the world lived there, along with a pretty big family. Randall had figured out (somehow, though he gets real tight-lipped when someone asks how) that people were there still there, maybe even the people he knew, once upon a time. And he is desperate, he is absolutely, achingly desperate, to stop the incoming barbarians that he is afraid he has sent to these people.

Daryl feels for him, can't help but feel for him. But he isn't sure that sympathy is enough to risk the safety of his people for these strangers who may or may not even be in danger, may or may not even exist.

It scares him, how readily he thinks of them as 'his.'

Rick, of course, thinks that they have to go help – ever the cop, he can't turn away from the idea that someone somewhere needs help that he can provide. With Rick, it is clear, this is duty.

Shane agrees. Not with the motivation, though, Daryl doesn't think. No, Shane has got so much pent-up aggro in him that this chance at a fight must be almost irresistible. A few more weeks without conflict and Shane is either going to make some, or wander off and get in a fucking fistfight with a grizzly bear for kicks.

Lori, with Carol as her supporting chorus, don't like the idea of the men going away and risking their lives, don't like the thought of the children and the camp left unprotected, don't like the thought that the men may not come back, and they especially don't like the thought that doing this might attract the attention of the other group. As horrible as it is that these other people on the farm might be attacked, they don't think that it's our responsibility to help them and put our people at risk.

Carol's voice wavers on her near-silent agreement, and her eyes are red from tears rubbed away harshly. The sight of it clicks in Daryl's mind and he matches it, faint but present, with Shane. His had been one of the dogs Daryl saw dead in the RV. He has a deeply uncomfortable moment of sympathy for the man, chooses to ignore it until it has the good sense to go away.

Dale doesn't seem to know what he wants. He's horrified at the thought of these men being unleashed on innocent and unsuspecting people, and adamant that they do, in fact, have a duty to prevent this from happening if they can. The idea of straight out murdering the marauding group doesn't seem sit too well with him either, though he admits that it may be a necessity. He sits at the fringe of the circle and feeds Randall, making his morally-conflicted-old-fart face, the one that Daryl tries to stay well away from.

Andrea is surprisingly militant. She not only says that we should be trying to help this other group, she is all for killing the attackers. More than that, she insists that she should come, if the group does decide to help. T-Dog agrees pretty strongly, and vocally. They're definitely murderers, probably rapists and who knows what else besides. They're a menace, and if there's a chance to stop them now, he says take it. Otherwise someday it'll be us they're sneakin' up on in the middle of the night. Fuckers should pay for behaviour like that.

Glenn lingers in the outer orbit of the circle, near Daryl, frowning. "What about you, Daryl? You found him. Do you believe him?"

None of my concern Daryl almost says. It's on the tip of his tongue, easy and accustomed. Leave me right out – this is for you lot to figure out. But then, Daryl has apparently claimed these folks as his own. So maybe it is his concern, maybe he's invested enough to speak up, and important enough to be heard. Sure enough, there's expectant silence, and people looking at him like he's got something to say that's worth listening to.

Even a passing glance at Ra-the kid and one thing is clear; this one is too open, earnest, clueless to be carrying off a lie this well. "Yeah, I believe him." The blatant look of gratitude makes him uneasy and he frowns. "Kid looks too stupid to lie that well. Can't say I think it's a good idea to go runnin' off half-cocked to help these other assholes, though." He catches the tail end of what looks like a disappointed glance from Dale, and maybe Glenn, and has to bite his tongue to keep from saying anymore.

But no one else is talking.

And biting his tongue just makes him feel stupid.

So. Fuck it. "Sounds like there's too many for us to take 'em out without a plan. And we'd have to know the area, and how they fight, and who's in charge, how well armed they are..." He looks to Randall expectantly. The kid just stares back blankly for a moment before perking up.

"Oh! Me. Yeah, I know some of that. Better than they do, at least, about the area, and what they've got and where they're based and-"

Daryl rolls his eyes. "What'd I say about breathing Ra- kid? Shut up. Breathe. Then talk. … Dipshit." Despite the name calling, Randall is smiling at him. Beaming, really. And Dale looks approving (in his condescending, I-knew-you'd-come-around, sort of way), and Rick is surprised but pleased. Shane's wearing this alarming, wolfish grin, and Andrea's almost matches. Lori is less impressed, Carol is unreadable (blank, really).

Glenn is smiling at him, too. Which. Well. Daryl just avoids looking at him too much.

"I'm with Daryl. I mean, where would we be, if we didn't stop to help strangers in need?" He looks over to Rick, who smiles back at him. Something seems to occur to Lori, and she slumps, resistance going out of her.

"Fine. But you aren't leaving the children unprotected." Daryl watches Rick's gaze as it jumps from person to person, and he's pretty sure he can guess at the accompanying thoughts. Dale – yes. Not much good in an assault, but a semi-capable defender. Shane – no. Too crazy, doesn't like Dale, shouldn't be left behind with Lori anyways, any fool can see that's a terrible idea.

Daryl himself. He's not too sure what Rick thinks of him. Unpredictable, probably. Too much effort to call to heel, untrustworthy. Not safe to leave him around the women and children, but pretty good at killing things. No.

T-Dog – no. Good enough shot, dependable, not batfuck insane like Shane, Rick needs him. Glenn – no. Not necessarily good at defending a base, but sneaky, more useful to Rick.

Andrea he passes over, and Daryl can see her bristle at that one, feminist rage about to erupt. He also doesn't know that when she and Shane wander off together, more often than not it really is target practice. But even if he were considering her as a combatant rather than someone to be defended, she's too aggressive and doesn't care enough about her own life. No.

Randall is an unknown, more likely a threat than someone who guards against them, and he has essential knowledge, wouldn't do to leave him behind. Obviously no.

There don't seem to be many options. His eyes flick back at Shane once, then move to settle on- no. No, no, no. "No," quiet and half-stunned, Rick either doesn't hear or ignores him. Rick is looking straight at him, and hell, hard up for choices as he is, there must be a better one than Daryl.

"You and Dale, I need you to stay back and guard the camp, make sure we are ready to leave in a hurry." No. This is too much. He isn't the man to be protecting women and children. He is the fucking attack dog, half-rabid and dangerous. No one in their right mind would trust him like this. Merle said. People don't like you, don't trust you, don't want you around. But fuck 'em, you don't need 'em. All you need is me, little brother.

"Me? You out of your mind? I'm not-" Rick's got a hand on his shoulder, right up in his face, too quiet for the rest of the group but intense enough that Daryl can't look away.

"You're dangerous as hell. You're smart, and loyal, and you can kill a man without hesitating if you need to. And you're one of us. I need you to keep my family safe, understand? I would die before letting men like this near my family. I am going to kill them, and if I miss any, I don't want Dale taking them prisoner or bargaining, I want them dead. I am trusting you to do this, Daryl. You protect them. You keep them safe."

Daryl swallows. "Shit. Yeah. Yeah, I can…" Something occurs to him, then, and he's helpless to stop his eyes from finding Glenn, crouched next to Randall and already drawing maps in the dirt. "You too, Sherriff." Rick follows his glance to Glenn and then looks back and Daryl, head tilted in a question. Daryl glares back. Trust or no, everyone else can just mind their own damned business, and keep their noses out of his.

"I'll do my best. We will. We can do this."

Rick goes to join the strategy session then, as though he hasn't just turned the world on its ear. Daryl follows.