Instantly Daryl's right arm moves from Beth to the trigger of his Stryker; neither Daryl nor Beth let go their weapons. Rather, Beth raises hers, toward the eight figures now before them, coming out from both behind a rusted vehicle long ago abandoned in the road and from the stoops of other nearby houses, converging now upon them. The man addressing them, like all his companions, is ragged and rugged; by the looks of them this town is not theirs and they too are living on the road and only passing through. The point man and his beady dark eyes register zero alarm at the raising of Daryl's and Beth's weapons. Secure in his confidence they'll be surrendered in the end, he only eyes the two of them dispassionately. "Course," he says with a dip of his head toward Beth, his eyes fixed on Daryl, seemingly benignly, "we could j'st take her. How does that sound to you?"
Daryl's index finger itches at his trigger. "Ain't going t' happen," he declares gravely.
"Well," the point man snorts, "I tell you what: anything we say is going to happen, 's going to happen. Seein' as we outnumber the two of you four to one." Quickly Beth scans the figures; in the back, she thinks she spies a woman— "That sounds about right, don't it?" The speaker's impassivity eerily recalls the exterior composure of the Governor, except there is an element of transparency about him the Governor never indulged. "Now, you got your listenin' ears on? 'Cuz here's what's going to happen: You all are going to hand over your guns, your food, your gear, the crossbow. Ever'thing."
Their hearts freeze and their insides twist and sicken. Handing over Daryl's crossbow leaves them as good as dead. "Uh,uh," Daryl answers flatly. "Can't do it. We're not doin' that."
Beth's eyes glance at Daryl just as seven semi and fully automatic firearms focus in on them with deadly accuracy. They can't do it it's true. Handing over every weapon they have might be a death sentence, but what is Daryl or she going to do to stop it? She trusts him implicitly, but isn't it better to walk away with nothing, than not to walk away at all? How many times now have they had to start over? They can do it again if they must.
"You will do it," the ringleader corrects, with the cool assurance of someone with a stacked deck and history in his corner. "You're going to hand over everything you've got, and in return f'r playin', we're not going to kill your girl." Beth's face tightens and her deportment stiffens. Her stance spreads a little wider, she grounds her feet, she does not cower; she's afraid, but she'll fight. Elizabeth Greene was there, witness to the day her much-beloved father was butchered by a man not entirely different from this one; she can no longer shrink in the sight of her fear. Beside her, Daryl's aggression and agitation are boiling, she can tell by the way he's bristling, and keeping his weight shifted forward like he's ready to charge. He is not accepting this. Daryl is looking for a way out. Daryl Dixon's ready to fight. "Listen— listen," the man presses Daryl to focus on him and not the others closing in on them. "Now, you're still alive, so that must mean you've got some damn good dumb luck, or you've got some fight in you. Pretty much c'n divide the world by that these days," he declaims. "Course," the man continues, "if it's dumb luck, that's bound to run out." He looks over Beth and Daryl, their skin crawling as they remain frozen under threat of fire. "Looks like that time could be right about now…" He lets his words sink in. "'Nd, if you've got fight, that tells me you've run into the world's share of raiders and rapists." His glance toward Beth sets Daryl fuming. "Now," he assures them, "as far as bad guys go, we're not that bad. We're not going to eat you — for one. And if you haven't run into those types yet, consider yourselves lucky. And we ain't rapists." This time he dips his head in a half-cocked obligatory gesture at Daryl, "In principle. What I'm getting at," he clarifies for both their edification, "we could be persuaded otherwise, if we felt that it would persuade you." He smiles now at Beth, "But I'm counting on not having to do any persuading."
Inwardly erupting with menace and violence, Daryl keeps his head about him, biding his time and forcing back his seething reaction; he grimaces at the beady-eyed man and his crew, "You just threaten her?"
"Yeah," the point man affirms. "I did. See, what she is—" and he stops and nods at Beth, as though she's just newly arrived on the scene, "'Ma'am — is she's your Achilles heel. Everybody's got one, and Doll-face here is yours. All we're doing is exploiting it t' ensure we get what we're after. We're not 'bad'." His eyes follow unfazed as Daryl spits his rejection of this claim at his feet. "What you might call us, is Darwinian. We're bandits; we're not psychopaths. Some people out there are reaching their true potential for some sick-shit evil now that the world's gone and society with it. The world's gone all id for a lot of folks." He looks around at the faces of his tribesman, then back to their two captives. "That's not us. We're not sadists, we're survivalists. When it comes to it, and it has come to it, it's us, who'll survive. Not you." Daryl's arms are shaking, from holding the bow steady for so long, from wanting to act but not, from the helplessness crashing down on him. He can't get them out… "We can kill you," the point man offers. "We can drop you easy. We got the manpower and numbers and the firing power to do it; but we'll just as easily leave you right as rain, just, without your supplies. And weapons." He nods at Beth, "I'll let you keep that knife, girl, but we'll be taking your shoes."
Everything sinks. They're not going to get out of this. Two figures step out from the cluster of men and level their guns to first Daryl's and then Beth's heads. And they remain there, waiting for the order to fire. "Come on now," the dark eyes press, "tik tock. There may be no such thing as time these days, but you should know, we ain't fond of waiting. And th' longer we stay out here, the less chance you're gonna have to get away before the sun's disappeared completely." A Berreta at his temple, Daryl's eyes strain to catch a glimpse of Beth, but pushing her back like he had had shoved her out of his line of vision, and though he can sense her there, he can't get sight of her without turning his head toward her. "You keep checking on her," the point man says, "pretty soon she won't be all right. She is now. Quit while you're ahead. We'll give you a head start. Because, did I mention? This whole place 's gettin' set alight once we're finished."