#cyclends

shallowly indented pawprints lead daryl one after the other through the underbrush, his feet quietly following them due west. his hands, tawny brushed with dirt and grime, clutch his weapon close to his body as his eyes pinpoint one print after the next. they’re relatively fresh― if he continues on this way, he’ll be having meat tonight, a protein-rich luxury most cannot frequently afford these days.

the tracks lead him through a tall thicket, and so he carefully squeezes his way through to the other side only to see his catch― his dinner ―has already been claimed.

ordinarily, daryl would go out of his way to avoid interaction with people. it’s too much of a hassle, too much of a danger to his self-preservation. but he’s got very little choice now. remaining silent, he lowers his weapon to show that he didn’t come here for a fight, but the look on his face may suggest that he’s a little upset that his dinner plans have been foiled.

@cyclends​   ⟶   Okay, let’s talk.

RED (TAYLOR’S VERSION),   accepting.

she'll take mumbling over screaming. because that's what it feels like, sometimes — she wakes, sweaty, hot, cold, racing, hard, fast, too fucking fast, too much, too fucking much —

her eyes spring open and that's... that. two hours. max. her joints ache from the last time slinging fences and chopping firewood, but it exhausts her enough so she might get just that hour extra. (her eyes are heavy. groggy. there's a chill coming from the slit under the outer door, and fuck, it's early. and cold. and her neck twists with each stretch and jesus fucking christ, she needs to sleep more.)

"mm." noncommittal. a sure, whatever that stems from somewhere deep inside her that she doesn't quite want to come to terms with just yet. but she sits up, swings her feet over the side of the cot, and stretches the muscles in her shoulders without another word.

the list is relentless. scar. runner. scar. clicker. scar. bandit. scar. scar. scar. scar. scar. isaac's inside her head half the time, rooting around in hopes that he can find the one thread to pull to launch them into complete warfare. owen had enough. owen got out. but abby stands, staunch, with the knot in her neck never starting to unravel itself.

two feet on a mountain track is how it started. dad'd done as dad does, slipped, unnoticed, from the confines of the safe-zone and into the wilderness. he leaves no tracks, because he knows she likes a challenge, and hangs his knapsack up against the trunk of one of the trees. he's close. the sun is beginning to set, and she knows that — fuck, dad, can you give it a rest?! (it ends with a gunshot to the gut and a hiker on a trail. it doesn't make her feel... anything, apart from the creeping panic that drains the colour from her face and hastens her hands to his gut. don't die, don't die, don't die. she was fourteen the first time. she thought it would prove as a lesson. it did not.)

she was seventeen when the first scar took a bullet to the throat.

neat, huh? clean. simple. it's a low-risk patrol with manny at her side and a .22 rifle and a magazine of bullets (all accounted for, all ready and at attention) before it all goes wrong. isaac is happy. isaac slaps her on the shoulder and says good work, kid, those scars don't know what hit 'em, and all she can think about is the prophet. she caused this. isaac doesn't cross her mind much anymore when a well-placed bullet shreds through dirt and flesh.

"human or infected?" she was twelve when she first witnessed it. she was fourteen when she first dug an abandoned scythe into a runner's neck. she was fifteen when she started seeing blood on her hands. she was nineteen when it became all-the-time.

oh,  fuck.  she hates when this happens.

as a general rule of thumb, she tries to  avoid  the infected as much as she can. her mom is gone, her brother is gone--  she doesn’t have anyone to watch her back except for herself.  that being said, if she has to take them out, she  will, but it isn’t an ideal situation to be stuck in a building with a shit ton of not only infected, but scattered  clickers. she crouches back down behind a wall, breath heavy, and seeing as her hand is covered in  blood, she brings her forearm up to rest over her mouth in hopes of drowning out some of the sound of herself practically  panting. 

hand shakes as she reloads her revolver. it’s been a long battle, filled with a lot of running around in circles and backtracking. a single bullet drops, enough to make a noise that reverberates off the walls, and before she can gather herself one of the infected lunges, pinning her to the ground.  

            there’s  a  moment  nearly  every  day  that  makes  him  regret  leaving  the  apparent  SAFETY  of  the  QZ.  it  provided  everything  he  needed  at  the  end  of  it,  and  wasn’t  that  the  most  important  thing  of  all ?  of  course  not,  the  trust  in  the  sanctuary  dissolved  at  a  young  age,  the  leader,  corporal,  whoever  the  fuck,  did  whatever  HE  wanted,  assigned  death  to  those . . .  without  any  reason.  at  the  end  of  it,  he  had  to  leave,  had  to  find  out  what  the  truth  was,  why  his  father  had  to  die  for  just  writing  some  papers.  and  he  wouldn’t  find  REAL  ANSWERS  in  the  qz.  however,  he  was  absolute  shit  at  surviving  in  the  outside,  the  danger  just  from  the  elements  was  proving  almost  too  much  for  him.  his  arm  throbs  from  where  he’d  gouged  it  on  a  simple  fence  stake,  a  stupid  mistake,  one  that  he’s  sure  is  INFECTED  NOW  ( not  like  that ).  he  rifles  quickly  through  the  shelves  of  the  ransacked  convenience  store,  knowing  things  like  bacitracin,  neosporin,  hydrogen  peroxide  were  used  in  the  past.  

             “—  fuuuuuuuck...”   it’s a quiet hiss that sounds something similar to a deflating balloon.  (it’s more than just a  drop  —  as abby hazards a glance down at the two boots that are the only things keeping her from slipping and ending up on the ground four floors below,  there’s a large part of her that she thinks is going to puke.  it’s turning in her stomach.  she focuses,  breathes deep,  and trains her eyes on the metal bars ahead of her.  don’t fucking look down.  don’t look down.  keep your eyes up.)

        “—  you ever shut up?”     another breath,  because the more the wind pelts against her,  the more everything begins to  spin,  and  holy shit,  we’re high up,  fuck,  i’m gonna fucking pass out  —  and she shuffles,  slightly,  and about as much as she can move,  from one foot onto the other.  maybe she’s not good with heights.  (owen used to  push  her about it  —  used to take her from one height to the next and hope that the only way she’d push back is by calling him an asshole and proving him wrong anyway.  it’s a control thing.  and a sick thing.  her stomach lurches as the white-knuckled grip of each finger constricts even further around the only thing keeping her from plummeting.)