Hey guys! Thanks for continuing to read! ENDLESS LOVE to those who take the time to review or just to comment! Being honest, the 1.4% of comments per reader is getting me down. It's hard to gauge reader response, or story & writing quality in comparative silence. I feel kind of gross for even mentioning this, especially when there are sooooo many other stories out there that you could be reading (and I SOOOO appreciate you including this story in your reading selection), and also because I know there are so many authors out there with no reviews, or just a handful, but I am getting a little discouraged. I'm sorry to bring it up, I agonized over doing so, and it definitely feels a little grubby and not-done, and it's not about the total review count, I just wonder if the reader-only members don't maybe realize what hearing back from readers means to writers. It takes long hours, days, and sometimes weeks to craft a chapter, it's priceless to get some kind of feedback – maybe a line, a moment, something that stood out (something that worked, something that didn't), or even just that you're excited about or responding to the story in some way - not just big plot points but small things as well. That being said, I want to communicate that when I first started posting in this fandom I was really nervous, and didn't know what kind of reception to expect, but all my time spent within the TWDFF universe has been lovely, collaborative, and fun! So, that's it, I won't mention any of this again; I've been feeling down so I thought I would say something, but I don't want to have thrown a whole negative shade on this good thing we've got going. Honestly, I am VERY grateful to be being read by each and every one of you at all; I am well aware there is a wealth of stellar stories out there to choose from. Okay, now (if I haven't already lost you) back to that cliff hanger…!
[*The original version of this encounter was written and placed before Simon's resurfacing.]
The three figures of Simon Beth and Daryl strain and tense in the fading light, geared up and poised to act. Somewhere there's rustling, then slowly, from the shadows of the forest emerge the shape of human figures. One thick and short, another lean and tanned, a third solidly built and eagle eyed. "Don't shoot!" It's a woman's voice. There are two women approaching, and a man. They wear and carry guns, but they are not aiming them. Though Simon, and perhaps too Beth, would want to take this as a sign to lower their own weapons, neither does.
"Why're you followin' us?" The man, tall and sharp looking, in his forties and graying, does not scare in the face of Daryl's snarls and the two handguns trained on him and his companions. "Ya'gonna talk?" the archer hurls at them. Daryl's narrowed eyes jump from one adversary to another, reading the scene, keeping tabs on every movement, every shift. In the mounting tension his trigger strains to be pulled.
"We're not here to hurt you." The shorter woman, a rifle slung across her shoulder, is breathing hard, watching them with steady eyes and talking to them like a pack ready to charge.
"What do you want?" Beth asks, her voice strong and unflinching.
Daryl twitches at the sound of it. She can take care of herself, but he'd prefer she just blend into the background. He knows and relies upon her strength, but he can't take her becoming a target. If heat is coming, he'll take the brunt of it. "Talk assholes."
"Hey—" the man speaks, reigning in the encounter before it escalates. "We could help each other."
Quickly Daryl reads the woods around them. Turning back, his lined expression lifts and arcs in his scorning interrogation, "How many of you are there?" Once more his crossbow scans their perimeter in the dimming light.
"Three," the man says stately. "It's just us." He's maybe late-fifties; Daryl guesses he's capable, but better with his head than with his hands. A talker. "Three," he submits again, "like you."
Unpersuaded, the soles of Daryl's feet wait to launch him into action. "We got three weapons trained on you – any reason you're still talkin'?" The light is nearly gone, dropping the temperature with it. The tension not abating, the brisk night air seems to sharpen the stakes, intensifying all edges. Daryl's fingers itch on his trigger. His active eyes catch on the silent one, the taller leaner woman. Her quiet is unsettling. As is her stillness, and that hollow look in her eyes.
"Maybe you don't scare us." It was the stouter one who said this, unreasonably even-keeled for the context.
Daryl spits, still holding the bow high and level. "You're crazy if you're not scared. Scared's what makes y'sane."
"You know better than that," the man rebuts evenly. "Anyone still scared of the dead can't take them down – they're weak, and they do not survive. Anyone too afraid to take a chance on the living–" and here he makes a point to look at Beth, to look at Simon "–won't last long."
Daryl shifts his feet where he stands, keeping his crossbow trained on the three of them. "M'bye you haven't run across th' sorts out there."
"No," the man counters; "I assure you, we've had our run-ins."
Daryl's voice constricts and hardens, Beth's grip on her Glock flexes, "An' still you follow us?"
"We saw a kid," the woman says. Her voice is deep and raspy, and oddly transparent. "We saw a girl. We saw a man with no traces of psychopathic behavior."
"We took a chance," the man speaks neutrally, staring down the crossbow. "We saw a functioning group and we took a chance."
His strained arms never faltering, Daryl keeps the bow poised, lethal as ever. His narrowed eyes twitch and watch, taking everything in. "How long you been out here?"
"Some time," the man answers. "We've lost some places."
"What d'ya want?"
"Daryl—" Beth breaks in. He bristles some at her speaking again, but he does not turn back to her "—ask the questions."
With a readjustment of the bow, and a stiffly gruff voice, Daryl speaks the words. "How many walkers you killed?"
"'Walkers'?" the woman repeats. "You mean the dead. A lot."
"Too many to count," confirms the man.
Daryl remains stony and unflinching. "How many people?" Simon and Beth wait. Three fingers hover over triggers in the brief interim before an answer.
"All together between us?" The man studies his inquisitors; his mannerisms are unhurried, his comportment seemingly unstudied. The assuredness with which he conducts himself is difficult to make heads or tails of. It is disconcerting; all of them are. Do they conduct themselves this way because they have nothing to hide, or have they already bested them and need only wait for the strategy to play out? Daryl Simon and Beth wait for the answer. "Seven."
"Eight." The first word spoken by the thin, dark woman, grave and stoic, draws attention. That eight is heavy, and final.
Slowly Daryl's lips curl; he jerks his head at them in the asking of the final question: "Why?" Beth and Simon ground their feet, as though the coming answer could in someway bear more threat to them than the physical people they've held in their sights these past minutes.
"Like we said," the shorter woman speaks. "We haven't encountered the best sorts."
"Such as?" Daryl gruffly presses.
The man looks them each in the eye. "If you're this afraid of us, I gather you can imagine." The thinner woman, the quiet one with amber skin, Daryl thinks he sees her flinch.
"Is this stalemate going to end?" the stouter woman asks brusquely. "You've got the draw on us, we've answered your questions; we aren't here to hurt you."
"What do you want?" Simon can't hold back from asking again.
Simon's voice sounds so young amidst all these adults. The stout woman looks to him. "We could use some help," she answers. "Or just some conversation."
The man raises his hands at his sides, his eyes wide, and open, signaling no ulterior motives. Slowly he unholsters his pistol, flips deftly the handle in their direction, and with eye contact holding, offers the firearm up to any one of them who wants to take it off him. "This isn't a trap." He waits for some action. "Don't tell us you haven't been waiting for this." Still he waits, they all wait. Not one among them moves.
"Three's not enough," the shorter woman says in her hoarse baritone; "not when it doesn't have to be. You know it."
Beth Greene loosens her grip on the gun she's been brandishing. "Daryl—" she speaks softly.
Daryl Dixon grimaces. He wants to trust. He wants to lower his weapon. He used to be able to do this. How many people had he been able to bring into the prison? He wants to believe. Behind him he hears what he thinks is a gun being lowered, and tucked away. "Give it here," Simon says, and the boy steps forward with hand outstretched to accept the offered pistol.
In this moment Daryl recalls the day when the boys took a chance on he and Beth, after he'd beat the shit out of Peter no less. He thinks of the families and the people he and Glenn and Rick brought in from the road, and those they brought in from Woodbury. He thinks about Andrea losing her life trying to give people chances, he thinks about Hershel and he thinks about his brother. He thinks about Dale, and the fight he'd fought on Randall's behalf. He thinks about Shane and the price he paid for not trusting, and the price his actions exacted from the group. He thinks about the governor, and he thinks about Rick, and Carol, and Glenn, and Lori, and the Greenes, giving him a chance, not pushing him away. The past two years converge on him, informing his aggressive exhale. Then the bow drops to his side, and Daryl Dixon strides forward past Simon, and with weathered hand extended, accepts the surrendered firearm.
~ Jody xx