Chapter 3: Chores

A week had passed since Raya and Jasmine first stepped into the prison, and life was beginning to settle into a tentative rhythm. The group had assigned them small tasks to help integrate them into their tight-knit community—everything from organizing supplies to helping with repairs. It was a slow but deliberate process, meant to assess their capabilities and attitudes in close quarters.

Jasmine had surprised everyone with how easily she adapted. Her eyes, which had been filled with fear and uncertainty on their first day, now carried a warmth that drew people in. The initial doubt she'd carried seemed to have melted away as she found herself connecting with others. Her background as a medic quickly made her invaluable, and her gentle nature endeared her to the group. Her kindness was infectious; whether she was patching up scrapes or offering reassuring words, Jasmine's presence had become a quiet balm to the tense atmosphere of the prison.

She had especially won over Glenn and Maggie, she sat in a sturdy chair, leaning forward slightly as she held Glenn's injured hand in her own, her expression focused and calm. Maggie stood close by, her hand on Glenn's shoulder, her concern evident as she explained what had happened.

"He was carrying too many crates at once," Maggie said, shaking her head. "One of them slipped, and the glass shattered. His hand caught a piece of it."

Glenn tried to play it off, offering a lopsided grin despite the pain. "Just another chapter in my 'bad decisions' memoir."

Jasmine chuckled softly but didn't let the humor distract her. "Well, lucky for you, this chapter doesn't end in stitches—just a few. Let's get it cleaned and patched up."

Herschel watched from nearby, his arms crossed as he observed Jasmine's technique with quiet approval. "You've got a good approach," he said, nodding toward her. "Hands can be tricky—always worth taking your time."

"Thanks," Jasmine replied, glancing up briefly. "I've learned the hard way to respect the delicate spots."

As she cleaned the wound, Glenn winced but stayed still under Maggie's reassuring grip. "I'll handle this just fine. I promise," he joked through clenched teeth. "No fainting. That's the new rule."

Maggie smirked. "I'll hold you to that."

With careful precision, Jasmine began stitching the cut, her movements steady and deliberate. "No heavy lifting for a while," she said, her voice firm but kind. "Let someone else take over. And don't even think about pulling these stitches yourself."

"Bossy, huh?" Glenn teased, though his tone was filled with gratitude.

"Efficient," Jasmine corrected with a small smile, wrapping his hand neatly in a bandage. "Done. You're good to go."

Herschel stepped closer, his approving expression reassuring. "Good work, Jasmine. Glenn's lucky to have someone like you here."

"Thanks, Herschel," Jasmine said, standing and tidying her supplies. Her gaze softened as she looked between Glenn and Maggie. "I just want to help wherever I can."

Raya, however, was having a tougher time of it. Her sharp eyes were perpetually scanning, as if she expected trouble to come barreling through the prison walls at any moment. Raya performed every task she was given efficiently and without complaint, but she kept her interactions brief and guarded. The group noticed her diligence, but her defiant posture and wariness kept them at arm's length.

It wasn't that Raya didn't respect the group—she could see their competence and commitment to survival. But trust didn't come easily to her. Her instincts, shaped by past betrayals, warned her not to let her guard down. Every movement she made reflected her unease, her machete rarely leaving her side, as though it were a lifeline she couldn't afford to lose. The closer Raya got to the group, the more distant she seemed to grow.

Her standoffishness was particularly evident when it came to Daryl. He was a hard man to read, though his stoic demeanor spoke volumes. Daryl's scruffy appearance—his leather vest, faded gray shirt, and mud-caked boots—seemed to mirror his personality: practical and deeply reserved. He rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, his words sharp and concise, and his intense gaze tended to linger a second too long for Raya's liking. Something about him kept her on edge, as if he could see straight through her guarded exterior.

Daryl seemed to keep his own distance, circling Raya with the same caution she showed him. It was as if they were two wary predators sizing each other up, unsure whether the other was a threat or an ally. Raya felt his presence in subtle ways—the flicker of his eyes when they crossed paths, the silent observations during meals. He wasn't intrusive, but his watchfulness made her uneasy. She found herself overthinking every interaction, her instincts warning her not to ignore the tension.

Jasmine had tried to bridge the gap between Raya and the group, her soft words and warm presence drawing even the most guarded members out of their shells. Carl had even come to her for some advice. He shuffled awkwardly into the common area, glancing around until his eyes landed on Jasmine, who was organizing supplies. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat, his nervous energy palpable.

"Hey, uh, Jasmine?" he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "Got a minute?"

Jasmine looked up, her expression warm as always. "Of course, Carl. What's up?"

He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Your friend," he said, his voice dropping a little. "I mean... have you noticed how she's, uh... kind of mean? Like, she just brushes people off and doesn't talk to anyone."

Jasmine tilted her head thoughtfully, setting down the items in her hands. "You think she's mean?" she asked, her tone curious rather than judgmental.

Carl nodded, his hands fidgeting. "I mean, yeah. She hasn't even said a word to me, but I see how she acts—like she's too good to even look at us. It's like... I don't know, it's like you can't even go near her."

Jasmine offered a small smile, motioning for Carl to take a seat. When he hesitated, she gestured again, more encouraging this time. He finally sat across from her, still looking uneasy.

"I think you're right about it being tough to get close to her," Jasmine said gently. "But I don't think it's about being mean or thinking she's better than anyone. I know her very well, and she's just... guarded. She's been through a lot, Carl. Sometimes people build walls because they don't know if it's safe to let them down."

Carl furrowed his brow, mulling this over. "So... you're saying it's not because she dosn't like us?"

"Exactly," Jasmine said, her voice reassuring. "It's not about you or anyone else here. Raya's still figuring out if she can trust everyone. A little patience can go a long way. She just needs time."

Carl exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I guess that makes sense. I just—she makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong, you know?"

Jasmine leaned forward slightly, her tone gentle but firm. "You're not doing anything wrong, Carl. And honestly? Just saying hi or chatting with her a minute can make a big difference, even if she doesn't seem like she wants it. Trust me it would make her feel better."

Carl nodded, his expression softening. "Alright, I'll try. But you promise she won't bite my head off."

Jasmine chuckled, patting his arm lightly. "She won't. And if she does, I'm here to patch you up."

Her lightheartedness earned a small, reluctant smile from Carl. Later that afternoon, Carl spotted Raya sitting by herself near the edge of the common area, her posture closed off, her gaze distant. His resolve wavered for a moment, but Jasmine's words echoed in his mind. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to her.

"Hey, Raya," Carl said, his voice uncertain but earnest.

She glanced up briefly, her expression guarded as ever, before returning her attention to the small notebook she held in her hands. "What?" she replied flatly, her tone clipped but not aggressive.

Carl fidgeted, suddenly doubting himself. "Uh, I was just checking in... You know, seeing how you're doing."

Raya didn't respond, her silence heavy. Carl plowed forward, determined to say something meaningful before retreating. "Judith's been getting into everything lately," he said, forcing a light laugh. "This morning, she decided she wanted Maggie's breakfast—knocked the plate clean off the table. You ever see a toddler so determined? It's like she's got superpowers."

Raya's eyes flicked up for a split second, something unreadable crossing her face, before she shook her head slightly. "Sounds messy," she muttered, her tone dismissive.

Carl scratched the back of his neck, feeling the sting of her indifference. "Yeah, it was. Anyway, just wanted to say… if you need anything, you know, I'm around." He lingered for a moment, as if hoping she'd give him more, but when she didn't, he nodded awkwardly and turned to leave.

Raya watched him go, her grip tightening slightly on the notebook. She stared down at the page, her expression hard to read. Carl's attempt had surprised her—it wasn't often that people reached out to her, let alone tried to make her laugh. Though she'd brushed him off, the simple effort lingered in her mind, softening some of the edges she carried. For the first time in a while, she felt a faint glimmer of connection, however small.

Still Raya resisted, her mind weighing whether this fragile sense of safety was worth the risk. She saw how easily Jasmine had begun to trust the group, how her nervous energy had been replaced by quiet confidence, and Raya wondered if she'd ever be able to let her own walls down. For now, she couldn't afford it. The stakes were too high, and the scars she bore—both visible and not—were reminders of the price of misplaced trust.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the prison yard in hues of gold and shadow, Raya sat on a worn bench near the supply shed, sharpening the edge of her machete. The blade caught the light with each deliberate stroke, glinting like a reminder of the fight that never truly left her. Raya's long, dark braid hung over her shoulder, stray strands sticking to her face from the sweat of the day. Her hazel eyes were narrowed in concentration, the sharp focus masking the undercurrent of frustration she felt. Her well-worn tank top clung to her curves, streaked with grime from a long day's work.

Jasmine had joined Maggie for inventory sorting, leaving Raya alone with her thoughts. The absence of her friend only deepened the silence around her. The two women had been inseparable since grade school, their friendship forged through years of shared laughter, secrets, and dreams. They knew each other better than they knew themselves, sisters by bond rather than blood. Together, they had navigated the joys of childhood and the trials of adolescence, always side by side. The fall—the catastrophic collapse of everything they held dear—had tested them in ways they could never have imagined.

Raya sensed rather then heard the silent figure approaching her and wasn't surprised when Daryl appeared nearby, leaning against the corner of the shed with his usual air of casual indifference. Like always, he was clad in his battered leather vest and seemed to blend into the weathered backdrop of the prison. His sharp blue eyes were as piercing as ever, their intensity softened only slightly by the golden light of dusk. His scruffy hair and unshaven face gave him an untamed look, one that matched the roughness of his personality.

"You're good at keepin' to yourself," Daryl remarked, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet like the snap of a twig.

Raya didn't look up, her focus remaining on the blade in her hand. "Didn't know it was a problem," she replied tersely, the edge in her voice mirroring the one she worked into her machete.

"It ain't," he said simply, his tone as sharp as hers. "Just noticed."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't like the way Daryl seemed to see right through her, as if her walls were made of glass. "There's not a lot to talk about," she muttered, still avoiding his gaze.

He shrugged, glancing toward the horizon where the sun was sinking into the treeline. "Doesn't mean you gotta be a ghost." His tone held a note of insight forged from personal experience.

Raya paused, her hand stilling over the blade. Finally, she looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you want, Daryl?"

He didn't flinch under her stare, meeting her with his usual calm intensity. "Nothin'. Just sayin'." He pushed off the shed, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. "Don't let it eat at ya," he added before turning and walking away.

Raya watched him go, her grip tightening on the machete's handle. His words didn't feel like an accusation, but they lingered with her longer than she cared to admit. Trust might have been fragile between them but neither seemed ready to push the boundary further.

The weeks dragged on, each day blurring into the next within the confines of the prison. For Raya, the monotonous routine gnawed at her patience. Despite her efforts to prove herself, the group's hesitance to include her in supply runs left her feeling sidelined. She had done everything asked of her without complaint—organizing supplies, assisting with repairs, and taking on the tasks nobody else wanted. But her sharp eyes often caught the cautious glances cast her way, as though they were still waiting for her to make a wrong move. The confinement grated on her nerves, leaving her feeling like a caged animal.

Jasmine, on the other hand, was thriving. She moved with purpose now. The fear that had once haunted her eyes had softened, replaced by a quiet confidence. Her role as a medic had given her a sense of belonging, and her natural warmth had endeared her to the group. She often laughed and chatted with Glenn and Maggie while sorting medical supplies, her empathy providing a rare lightness for those around her. She had even earned Rick and Carl's respect and trust in the way she adored and dotted on Judith.

Raya couldn't deny that seeing Jasmine happy was a relief, but it also underscored her own struggles to fit in. She felt like a protector without a purpose, her insecurities festering beneath the surface. The only person who seemed to understand her was Carol. The older woman, with her short, graying hair and wise, knowing eyes, had an air of quiet strength that drew Raya in. Carol's soft-spoken words often carried more weight than anyone else's, and she had a way of making Raya feel seen without pushing too hard.

"You and Daryl," Carol had teased one afternoon, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You're more alike than you think. Stubborn as mules, both of you. You two could have a standoff without saying a word, I'd put my money on it lasting all day."

Raya had smirked at the comment, though she couldn't entirely disagree. Daryl, with his scruffy demeanor and guarded nature, seemed to be a constant thorn in her side. Their interactions often escalated into minor spats—him commenting on her stance, her snapping back about his attitude. Carol had explained Daryl in simple terms: "He sees more than he says. Don't take it personally—it's just who he is."

Raya tried to take the advice to heart, but her fiery nature made it hard not to clash with him. She wasn't sure if he annoyed her or if she respected him—or both.

One evening, after completing another round of tedious tasks, she'd finally had enough. Raya spotted Daryl leaning against the fence near the gates, his crossbow slung lazily over his shoulder as he puffed on a makeshift cigarette. The golden light of dusk highlighted the sharp angles of his face, his blue eyes fixed on the treeline as though lost in thought. She stormed across the yard, her boots crunching against the gravel with a determined rhythm. Daryl glanced up as she approached, his expression unreadable except for the faint, knowing smirk that tugged at his lips.

"Daryl," Raya said, her voice cutting through the quiet evening air like the sharp edge of the machete she never seemed to let out of her sight. "We need to talk" Her long, dark braid swayed slightly as she closed the distance between them, hazel eyes blazing with determination. Her curvy yet athletic frame moved with an energy that radiated barely contained frustration.

Leaning casually against the fence, Daryl barely glanced her way at first. His unruly dark hair stuck up in uneven tufts and his scruffy face didn't betray much emotion, though his sharp blue eyes flicked toward her as she approached. "Do we?" Daryl replied lazily, straightening just slightly but still leaning against the fence as though he didn't have a care in the world. "What about?"

Raya crossed her arms, her frustration obvious in the way her jaw tightened. "I've been here for weeks. Weeks. I've done everything your little group has asked of me. I've played nice, kept my head down, proven I can pull my weight. But for some reason, you're all still treating me like I'm some kind of threat. I want in on the next run."

Daryl tilted his head slightly, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "You want in, huh?"

"Yes," she snapped, stepping closer, the heat in her voice undeniable. "I'm done sitting around this prison doing busywork while the rest of you actually contribute to keeping this place alive. I'm not some helpless tagalong, Daryl. You know that."

His smirk didn't waver as he scratched the back of his head, his calm demeanor doing nothing to ease her frustration. "I dunno. What's to stop ya from takin' off the second we're out there? Or maybe leadin' a bunch of walkers right back to our gates. Hell, you could be plannin' to slit my throat the minute I turn my back."

Raya's eyes narrowed, her hands dropping to her sides in clenched fists. "Seriously?" she hissed, her voice cold and sharp. "That's what you think? That I'm here to betray you? If I wanted to hurt your group, don't you think I'd have done it by now?"

Daryl shrugged nonchalantly, his rugged features utterly unreadable. "Could be you're just biding your time. Waitin' for the right moment." He straightened up slightly, his teasing smirk growing. "I mean, it'd be a real smart play. Gain our trust, get us to let ya outside… then poof. You're gone, and we're down a crossbow."

"You're unbelievable," Raya growled, her voice rising slightly as her temper flared. "If you don't trust me, then just say it. But don't stand there and act like you're some genius chess player unraveling some big conspiracy. I'm not your enemy, Daryl. And honestly, I'm getting tired of proving it."

Daryl chuckled quietly, the sound low and gravelly, as if her frustration was some form of amusement to him. He shook his head slowly, that same infuriating smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips. "Man, you're all worked up over this, huh?"

Raya took another step forward, her boots crunching against the gravel as she jabbed a finger in his direction. "I'm sick of being treated like I don't belong here. You don't know me, so stop acting like you've got me all figured out."

Daryl let her words hang in the air for a moment, his eyes studying her fiery expression. She was practically vibrating with pent-up energy, the tension she'd been bottling up for weeks spilling over. Finally, he let out a long breath a stream of smoke escaping his lips as he slung his crossbow fully onto his shoulder. "Alright, alright. You done barkin'?"

"What is your problem?" she shot back, throwing her hands into the air in pure exasperation. "Is this funny to you?"

"Little bit," Daryl admitted, his smirk returning as he pushed off the fence. His tone was maddeningly calm as he added, "You're real fiery when you're mad, y'know that?"

Raya scowled, her jaw tightening even further as she struggled to hold back the colorful language simmering on the tip of her tongue. "Glad I could entertain you. Now, are you gonna keep stalling, or are you actually gonna listen to me?"

He shrugged again, clearly enjoying her rising frustration. "Ain't stalling. Just enjoying the show." Then, after a small, deliberate pause that only made her anger boil hotter, he added, "You're comin' on the next run anyway."

The words hit Raya like a bucket of cold water. "What?" she said, blinking as her voice dipped into disbelief. "You're joking."

Daryl's smirk widened into something closer to an actual grin, his rugged features lighting up with quiet amusement. "Nope. Talked to Rick already. You're in. But, y'know, this whole little tantrum? Worth it."

Raya stared at him, her emotions flipping rapidly between relief, frustration, and the overwhelming urge to wipe the grin off his face. "You knew I was going already, and you let me go off like that just for fun?"

"Sure did," Daryl said with zero remorse, his tone downright smug. "Figured I'd let you get all that fire outta your system. Didn't wanna bring you out there with steam comin' outta your ears."

"You're an ass," Raya said flatly, though there was no venom in her tone now—just pure exasperation.

Daryl chuckled again, the sound rolling off him like a rumble of distant thunder as he tossed his used cigarette onto the gravel and started walking back toward the gate. "Yeah, but you're still gonna follow me out there. Better get your gear ready, princess."

As he walked away, Raya muttered a few choice words under her breath. She'd demanded to go on a run, and now she was finally getting her chance. But even as a small, begrudging smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, she had a feeling that working with Daryl was going to test her patience like nothing else. Still, at least she'd be out of the prison—and she was determined to prove to everyone, that she belonged out there.