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Entry tags:
a violent yet flammable world ( closed )
Who| beth greene + jane shepard +daryl dixon + nill + luke + nick, not necessarily at the same time
What| beth's MURDER CATCHALL. it's a clusterfuck.
Where| somewhere in the space port....
When| week 2
Warnings/Notes| death, gore, mentions of suicide/self-harm
What| beth's MURDER CATCHALL. it's a clusterfuck.
Where| somewhere in the space port....
When| week 2
Warnings/Notes| death, gore, mentions of suicide/self-harm
shepard
But there's no choice. She outruns the monsters, breathless and terrified that she won't find him again, that he'll die alone. It feels like she only just got to see him again, but Beth tells herself that everything will be fine. They've found each other once before already, they'll do it again.
Everything's gonna be fine.
She runs until she can't any more, until her lungs burn with the exertion of it and the scratching of claws on the metal walls has faded away. Replaced by footsteps that make her whirl around in search for the source of them. She's weaponless, breathless and disoriented. She's an easy target right now.
no subject
But maybe not, this time. She saw Beth, ragged-run, smelling of fear and sweat, and every kind of unstealthy in her confused haste. Unarmed. Narrow catwalk. Some days, life would just toss you a gimme.
Footsteps in the darkness became a figure in the light; Shepard's Corona glowed like blue-white fire, distorting local gravity. It had a sound, a particular burnt-ozone smell, and to anyone who knew what came next, it was terrifying. Jane wasn't interested in a fistfight, wasn't looking for an unexpected perforation that would fester and infect. She had had enough, last arena, of hobbling on broken bones and pressing pus, and the brief glow was Beth's only warning.
no subject
Either way, she won't get the chance. Not right now, when her vision is caught by the harsh light that suddenly emanates in the darkness. The awful smell and the wave of fear that catches her even though she doesn't know why.
"Hello? Who's there?"
Despite the warning tingles down her spine, her voice doesn't waver at least.
no subject
"I am."
She stepped forward, lit up like noonday with blue biotic flames, and attacked.
no subject
She's not expecting the sensation of her body being lifted the way it is. It knocks the breath from her, feeling as if the sheer force of it has smashed into her bones. Beth can't breathe, she reaches blindly for the railing that she knew was in front of her. Her hands scrabble uselessly at the metal, curling around it for a split second before it was torn from her grasp.
And then -- the sensation of falling. The lurch of it in her chest. Wanting to scream but not having the breath to. And the sharpest pain she's ever felt.
She stabbed me, Beth thinks distantly. Nearly disassociating from what was happening at the moment. She must have. Every breath is tinged with the sharp iron of blood.
no subject
...But now? Right now? It was inconvenient as hell. She could see, leaning over, that the girl was still alive. Her hands were moving, coming up to grasp at the sharp point she'd been impaled on. Like that, it might take her a while to die-- but Shepard didn't think it'd be so long, really.
"God damn it," she muttered, frowning over the railing. Poor kid. But getting down there meant backtracking through the hallways and jumping risked the same death she'd just inflicted on the girl.
Gonna have to apologize for this one, that's for damn sure. But, not today. Sharp on her heel, Shepard turned, and left.
nill
The air tastes acrid, like iron. Or maybe that's just the blood in her mouth. It's hard to tell. Her thoughts, scrambled and panicking as they are will be a beacon to Nill, though she doesn't know that. Or maybe the general misery of the arena will scramble them out.
It's too quiet, too cold. Not enough to block out the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that settles over her.
no subject
And like that, Beth slips through the cracks, until Nill reaches out to check on her and her panicked pain shoots through her mind like an ice pick. She stumbles, one hand bracing against the wall, and stares wide-eyed ahead of herself, unseeing.
"Beth..?"
The voice is a little quieter than it's been, but still soft and gentle, if a little scared, too.
no subject
Her thoughts are a little disjointed right now, hazy from the agony. A mixed jumble of ithurtsithurtsandiwishitwouldstop, trying to grasp at thoughts beyond the immediate. She manages, with a little difficulty. It's faint, fading fast.
Are you safe?
no subject
That much becomes abundantly clear just after a few seconds of listening to her. Beth is dying, and there's nothing Beth can do about it - there sure as hell isn't anything that Nill can do about it. There's no way to save her.
Tears well up in Nill's eyes as she lifts a hand to her mouth, sinking down to sit on the ground and lean back against the wall she was holding on to earlier. If she's with one right now she's forgotten about it, too overwhelmed by the sudden enormity of Beth's agony.
Nill shuts her eyes, and reaches out slowly and carefully, picking the pain apart. She lifts Beth's awareness of it, her ability to perceive it, the little firings of nerve endings. It won't get rid of it completely, because doing that would leave her totally unaware of her body, and that might just scare her. But it will be much easier for her to bare.
"Don't worry about me. I'm fine."
no subject
She is running out of time.
"You have to promise me you'll take care of yourself. Promise."
no subject
She doesn't want to make this any worse for Beth, but it's not like she can honestly make it all that much easier. She's still dying.
Nill's breath catches in her throat, and she squeezes her eyes together more tightly, drops her forehead onto her knees. Don't ask her that, Beth, please don't ask her to do that. Not you and Linden. She doesn't want to lie more than she has to, and she's gonna try her best but how can anyone ask her to take care of herself in a place like this? Please, please don't...
"I promise," she says, and the voice in Beth's head gives no indications of the tears on Nill's cheeks.
"What happened?"
tw: suicide, self-injury.
She's remembering herself in her bathroom with the shattered pieces of mirror around her, the momentary bite of pain as she stood there clutching her bleeding wrist. Cutting so deep that she'd need stitches, deep enough to leave thick scars on the expanse of her skin. Maggie pounding on the door, pleading with her to come out - I'm not mad, please just open the door, please-- and the old dull sensation of watching her mother shamble out of that barn, rotting and nearly unrecognizable. The overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that had followed. I don't want to be gutted. I want go, in my bed, tonight.
But she remembers other things, too. The tiny ladybug that had perched on her finger in the woods. Judith's happy gurgles. Daryl carrying her into the kitchen of that funeral home. Spending time out in the garden with her father - all of these tiny bright spots amongst all the terrible memories that make enduring what she had worth it.
Beth thinks,
I don't wanna die, I don't.
That had been a revelation to her, once. But it isn't any more.
no subject
Even so, Nill is in her head now. She can do a lot, and though most of those things she would never, ever do, especially not to Beth, there was one tiny thing she might be able to do.
If Beth opens her eyes to actually look she won't see anyone there, but it should feel like someone's holding her hand.
"I know," Nill tells her, and she tries to make it sound reassuring, to sound like anything except what she actually feels right now. "It's okay. We'll see each other again. I might just get there a little late."
no subject
"I know. I'm not scared. I'm -- we don't get to be upset. That's what my daddy told me, a while ago. We don't get to be upset." It's been her constant mantra over the past few months. It's what she repeats to herself in the dark, every night. Whenever she needs it.
"Thank you."
no subject
"Take care of yourself too, alright? I'll see you soon."
no subject
There's a lot more that she wants to say. And she wonders, if maybe this was what her dad had felt, or if it had been too quick for him to have any last regrets. She really hopes that was the cast. She hopes he didn't have any regrets.
She can see the exact moment in her mind. The sword flashing in the midday sun. The red gash in her father's neck that had appeared so suddenly. But she also remembers the faintest hint of a smile on his face, too. It's easier, to focus on that instead of anything else.
Her father's smile is the last thing she concentrates on when the last breath is forced out of her body.
no subject
"Bye, Beth," She responds quietly, and there are tears on her face before Beth even breathes her last.
luke
Help, she wants to yell, but her lips don't move and she makes no sound at all.
The sinking realization of powerlessness is worse than anything else.
no subject
There’s blood, too much blood pooling, crawling torturously slowly across the tiled floor and finding every groove and crack along the way, filling them. Luke doesn’t know what cuts deeper – knowing who it belongs to or the fact that she was still clinging to life, suffering. But not alone. Not forgotten.
He yells her name but he doesn’t hear it, his pulse rocking his skull and deafening him as he rushes to her and drops to her side, stark desperation flashing in his eyes.
--sun come up it was blue and gold--
His hands hover uselessly over her, his chest heaving. He can’t fix this. Can’t make it right, can’t make it stop. He’s too late. And he can’t even keep his face from falling as he looks her over - her suit drenched - and takes it all in, his heart lurching sickly. When his eyes finally lift to meet hers, his are incredulous, devastated, almost pleading. But death can’t be bargained with or reasoned with. They know that by now, know it so well.
no subject
The pipe is still in his hand but his grip is weak, and it goes weaker the longer he stands there and stares. He doesn't fall to his knees, too paralyzed and numb to even do anything else besides keeping himself from wanting to vomit. He finally turns his gaze to Luke with sagged shoulders, looking at him as if being expected to be told what to do next.
But they both know what to do. It never gets easier.
"Luke..."
no subject
She can trust him, though. He promised her that he would.
He promised. And that's enough to put her a little at ease as she dies, the faint notes of a melody threading vaguely in her memory.
-- ever since I put your picture in a frame...
no subject
“Shhh, shh, hey.” Swallowing against the ache pressing behind his Adam’s apple, he holds her gaze steady. Fingers finding her bloodied hand, resting lightly, commanding her attention with quiet desperation.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’re right here.” Feels like yesterday when the air had hummed with music and she had smiled a sweet, sad smile in thanks and they had all felt alive again for a little while. Reconnecting to a world that existed only in their collective memories now, a fading dream.
-- limbs thrashing, clawing through water for the surface and going down down down, lungs hungrily sucking in ice-water --
All he can do is keep her from sinking soft and silent into that terrible darkness alone.
“Nick an’ I’re right here with you—“ He says, watching the dimming light in her eyes fade away.
It happens so fast. The words unsaid dry up in Luke's mouth.
He has seen it before, so many times. And yet, somehow, he’s never used to seeing that faraway, blank-eyed stare on someone he knew, seeing and unseeing. Adrenaline races through him in tingling waves, his body going cold and numb, his chest trembling. Squeezing into itself. It hurts so badly, his throat hurts so badly as it tries to close up, that for a moment he can’t do anything more than to sag there like all the strength’s been bled out of him and try to breathe until the next moment comes. His eyes sting hot, teeth catching his lower lip, and he looks up to the ceiling a moment, blinking and blinking, jaw jammed shut against the smallest noise he makes in his throat.
The world doesn’t stop and wait. It never does. But he can’t afford to. He had made a promise. And he knows every second that slips away from them brings him ever closer to breaking it. He couldn't let her turn. He wouldn't.
He lets out a slow, careful, shuddering breath, his features firming with resolve as he considers the sharp piece of scrap metal in his grip. Angling it with her temple is the easiest part. It’s watching the tip trembling imperceptibly a half-inch from her skin and trying to keep her face out of focus that’s hard. It’s trying to pretend it’s a downed walker he’s dealing with and not a girl who struggled and deserved so much more than this that's hard. He smooths a hand over her eyelids, closing them.
No more pain.
A muscle ripples tensely in his jaw and the metal sinks to his fist through her temple, blood leaking hot.
No more pain.
tl;dr the man pain
He bolts down the stairs when he hears the scream. Uncle Pete had just wrestled the girl they had brought in earlier, the one that Nick insisted they should help, off his mom after she tore off part of her arm. He shouts for her, running to her side as the others come from their business to witness what happened. He hears Carlos telling Sarah to stay in the kitchen as Pete held the lurker down and finished her by lodging a knife through her skull.
He looks into his mom's eyes as everyone discussed what to do next even though there isn't even much to discuss to begin with. She is the one to tell everyone that she needs to die and Nick's the first to protest even though he knows more than anything now that an alternative is impossible.
He doesn't just volunteer, but he insists. For the first time (of all times) Pete actually relents despite being the one to volunteer first. Luke pulls him to a tight hug, maybe saying something to him but everything after that then blurs out to a clearing in the woods not far from the cabin. Luke and Pete follow wordlessly behind them as mom puts her good hand on the back of Nick's neck. It's a comforting warmth he doesn't deserve. He tries looking ahead but his gaze is cast to the ground.
"Everythin'll be all right, hon. You'll be fine."
He'd argue that it won't. He'd tell her that there's nothing fine about him especially after what he has to do. But all he does is apologize as soon as he can't stop the tears from falling. "It's my fault, it's all my fault. I'm so sorry mom, I'm sorry."
He'll never forget the look on her face before he manages to pull the trigger. It said, "I'm sorry too."
He lets out a small gasp - the first time he probably so much as take a breath since they found her the moment he sees the knife dig into her. Not once does Nick try to turn away or even blink. The lump in his throat is keeping him from doing much else but let the pipe finally fall from his hands.
This nightmare never ends.
tw: mentions of child abuse
She looks so small. Lying there trapped, impaled, in a widening pool of her own blood. She looks so small.
Before it consciously registers in his mind what his body's doing, he's already off and running full bore down the hall toward the grisly scene as though he can outrun death itself. Heart lodged in his throat, the sudden ringing in his ears becoming deafening, blocking out all other sound. Everything is narrowing to a pinpoint focus with Beth at the center, the eye of the storm, while a terrible rage and grief rises up in him like a living thing, consuming him.
He's too late.
His mind is slipping somewhere else, beyond the reach of logic and reason and into the realm of instinct. A place in him that remembers what it was to be small, living in terror and abandoned by the only person who could have saved him, the disjointed memories like flashes in a horror movie of what had been inflicted upon him by his own father once there was no one to stop him. The old rusted bathtub he'd crawled into after one of the worst episodes, his back flayed open, tub filling with so much of his own blood that he'd hazily wondered if he might drown in it. In his mind's eye the image of Beth lying there mutilated is superimposed over it, her blood indistinguishable from his.
Except he'd lived. Horrendously scarred, made ugly inside and out, but he'd lived. Beth is dead, he knows. Beth is dead and her murderer is right there, the crude weapon he'd killed her with still in hand, crouched over her as though he's admiring his fine work. It's too fucking much.
Daryl offers no warning. No shouting, no useless posturing, nothing to indicate his intentions until he's simply upon Luke, his grunt at the impact of their bodies connecting transforming into a strangled snarl, as he tries to get the other man down. Nick's presence exists outside the scope of his immediate concern; for now he's ignored in favour of attempting to pin Luke to the floor. It's the desperation of someone who no longer cares if he's killed in the process of doing what needs to be done, with a lifetime of pain, fear, and brutality informing his methods. Beth is dead and he's going to rip this asshole apart for it.
permission granted and stuff
His mouth begins to open, throat bobbing sorrily, useless. But there isn’t the time to choke out assurances or to urge them on and on and on until the world has worn them down to nothing. There isn’t the time to reach across the distance that seems to stretch ever further in the silence that thickens between them and pull Nick into a too-brief hug. Deluding himself like he has for years into thinking Nick always needs it more than he does.
By the time Luke senses motion at the blurry edges of his vision something is slamming into him, all bone and sinew and inconsolable rage, the force of it flattening his lungs, unbalancing him. His weapon flies from his hand, alarm jolting through him. His arms snap outwards, clumsily bracing the stranger in an attempt at a takedown. They fall together, hitting the floor with a thud he feels to his teeth, the dizzying aftershock thrumming through him as he fights against the hands grabbing at him and against the weight of someone as wildly determined to pin him down as he is to break free, kneeing and shoving and throwing punches, half-blinded by the lights bursting behind his eyes.
Fingers wet with Beth’s blood strain, scrabbling for the piece of shrapnel just teasingly out of reach.
no subject
He barely lifts his hand with the intention of pulling Luke to a hug when he hears the incoming footsteps too late. The moment he witnesses the figure jump at Luke, his heart stops for a second at the thought of it being a lurker. The glimpse he catches of the man's face - which he immediately recognizes to be Daryl - proves him wrong; his eyes burn with anger and are very much alive.
Nick wastes no time in rushing over, shouting Luke's name as he attempts to pull Daryl away with his own bloodied arms. "Daryl, no! Don't - fuck, don't do this! She already - "
no subject
But he refuses to let up in his assault, and continues struggling against who he still believes to be Beth's murderer. Every gap in the guy's defense is punished viciously even at the expense of leaving himself open. Neither one has a clear weight advantage, so despite Daryl's best efforts to pin the other man beneath him — the better to break open his skull against the ground — he's unable to secure solid enough leverage to do so. Guy's like a goddamn fish.
The grab for the shrapnel doesn't escape his notice. It earns his opponent another resounding fist to the jaw and Daryl immediately reaches for the piece of metal himself. Before he can make use of it, however, he unexpectedly finds himself being forced upright and restrained from behind by arms locked underneath his. Momentarily disoriented, he tries jerking out of the grip, deaf to what's being shouted, still lost in his own fury. Then he's reacting on pure instinct. He throws his head back in a reverse headbutt, cracking Nick square in the face and cutting off his babbled nonsense.
... Nick?
Nervous hands, fear masked with bravado and sarcasm. Wanted to find his friends. That awkward guy. He'd known Beth. This realisation is enough to give Daryl pause, though his entire body remains taut in anticipation of more blood being spilled. He's breathing heavily by this point, nerves practically vibrating with tension, not yet allowing him to feel the extent of his injuries. The thought occurs to him to kill them both. How can he trust anything they say?
Since he can't see Nick from this position, he settles for glaring at the other guy, his murderous intent not yet gone from his eyes. But he's listening. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
no subject
I don’t want to hurt you, Luke, I really don’t.”
He tastes rust when he swallows.
“You’re a smart guy when you want to be. We could have gotten along just fine…”
The voice is all gravel, all implacable cruelty. The voice of a man who had spoken of togetherness and love like he knew what it meant but hadn’t known the first thing about either, not in dealing with them. A man who had liked to pretend everything he had done was for them, a thankless job, an immeasurable sacrifice few were strong enough to be capable of. He and Nick and Pete and Carlos and Sarah and Alvin and Becs and the others – they had all been taken in by the routine and the sense of structure and the seeming normalcy of life in the community, all desperately wanting to believe that they were a part of the beginnings of something new and good. All hungry for the chance to remember that there was something more to life than surviving, once. But it had been too good to be true, as most things are.
They had been tools to Carver. Valued for the work that could be wrung out of them day after day, whether they were sick or well, and their readiness to keep their mouths shut and nod as the noose pulled tighter and tighter around their necks.
Daryl’s eyes are locked on his, wild and righteous and fierce with the violence of existing to beat him into the floor -- and for a moment it’s like he had never left Howe’s at all. He’s still in the pen sprawled by Carver’s feet, starved for air, the ground soaked with a spray of blood and sweat, with Carver looking down at him like something stuck to the bottom of his boot.
After a while they had both known it would come to this some day. That Carver’s lopsided smiles would fall and he’d resent every fearless question that came out of Luke’s mouth, regarding him as a threat to his authority. Threats were to be stamped out. But Carver had needed him for the manpower and the expansion project, he knows that. And Carver could have never resisted the chance to use him as an example to the others. To show them just how misplaced their loyalty to Luke had been.
“But you’ve gone and bit the hand that fed you and you’ve left me no choice.”
Luke’s only distantly aware of something cracking, of the strangled noise he makes when a fist drives into him and crushes out the half-lungful of air he tries to chokes in through blood-bubbling lips. His ears ring, sunspots dancing in his vision.
There was hope for even an ingrate and a rebel to be forgiven in time, Carver would say. All it took was patience and a willingness to change. A willingness to let defiance be beaten out of him and to be broken and reshaped into someone new. Reformed.
Pain doesn’t reach him. Not while that animal desperation hijacks control of his body and a chemical cocktail releases into his bloodstream, flooding his veins. The stranger cracks him in the jaw, snapping his head to one side --
And while synapses fire and misfire and Luke dazedly watches him snatch at the pointed shard of metal it registers, dimly, that Nick knows this guy from somewhere. It takes longer yet to understand that it’s Nick who’s grabbing Daryl and strugglingly dragging him away, Daryl blindly swinging his head back. Luke bristles, eyes going wide.
"No--!" He gasps out, fighting to his feet. Something's wrong. He knows it the second he moves and feels the ragged edges of bone grind and scrape together. There's still no pain, not yet, and he can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse. All that matters now is Nick staying safe and alive -- and that Daryl has suddenly stopped, glaring at him under sweat-heavy brows. Even from a distance, as they gasp for air like dogs, blood streaking their faces, Luke sees every tensing line of Daryl’s body and senses how it hums with unspent violence. Can feel the air tremble with it.
And then it all clicks into his place and he thinks he understands.
It’s not Nick that stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Her name… is Beth.” Luke rasps, chest heaving, his teeth slimy and red. And it’s a while before he manages to clamp down on that white flash of rage that tightens his chest, at least enough to grasp at words. It’s that much harder while his brain still feels like it’s rattling in his skull.
”First day I met her she talked about travellin’ with a group a’ people, about havin’ someone’s baby to look after. Then, a couple weeks later, she was thrown into that deathtrap with the rest of them kids an’ spent the whole time runnin’ an’ hidin’, not wantin’ to hurt anybody even though she could." There's a pause as he spits out the accumulation of blood in his mouth as if to make a point. "...First thing she did when they let her out was find us up on the roof with a box a’ cookies in her hands an’ sing Tom Waits as if everythin’ was fine.”
Luke's throat clenches, his eyes hard and glittering dangerously in that look of defiance, of unshakable conviction Carver had never been able to beat out of him. “I made her a promise --” He presses on, his voice raw. On the edge of cracking. “—‘cause the last thing that girl ever wanted was to come back as a lurker. An’ maybe that don’ mean nothin’ to you… But you don’ look like a stupid person to me, an’ if I’m right… you know that beatin’ a guy to shit ain’t gonna bring her back.”
/throws hands up in the air
It isn't the first time Nick has suffered a broken nose anyway. He can handle that. What he can't handle is another moment of seeing Luke getting beaten in front of him and him not being able to do anything about it. There isn't a second that goes by without Nick wishing he could've done things differently back then at the warehouse or wishing that he was the one in Luke's place instead. God knows that he deserves it more anyway.
So he doesn't let go. Despite wanting to just lie down and dream about something else, he holds on even after Daryl drops the shrapnel and stops resisting. He turns his head to the side spit out whatever blood escaped from his nose to his mouth while staring at the back of Daryl's head as Luke goes on and on like anyone would when they're upset. He can't listen to Tom Waits anymore.
"I told 'm all that. That we know her." He says for the both of them to hear, and hoping that it's enough for Daryl to believe them both. It hurts to talk.
"...she made an announcement 'bout...turnin'. And was lettin' anyone who listened to know what to do in case somethin' happened." It's hard to say how many actually took notice, but he and Luke did. It finally catches up to him at how fast his heart is racing at processing everything, "S-she was already like that when we found her and..."
'There was nothin' we could do about it.'
He shuts his eyes, feeling every bit of his nose hurting but he doesn't care because he can't bear to look at the corpse without letting his mind go to dark places. "'m sorry," he says finally. Even if he isn't right in assuming that Daryl and Beth were close, even if there's a chance that Daryl may lash out again and he needs to restrain him still, Nick needed to say that.
surprise! PUPPY ALIEN WANTS LOVE
This would be a revelation if it had been the first time it's happened. He's always felt like some kind of feral animal trying to exist among people, trying to fit himself into a role that was never meant for him. It's a wonder, sometimes, that Rick hasn't ever exiled him the way he had Carol.
The words waft like smoke around him, indistinct unless he concentrates on each one individually. Which he does until they're gradually given form and meaning in his mind, pulling understanding from him. This isn't some random caricature of a girl being described to him; these two really had known Beth, that much is clear. It's the mention of Tom Waits that catches in his mind and burns away most of his doubt, leaving a heavy sense of finality in its wake.
That seems to take the fight out of him.
His head slowly bows, eyes squeezed shut against the stinging in them, and his posture begins to sag, transforming Nick's restraining hold on him into something supportive as he's forced to accept that this is it. Beth's dead and there's nothing he can do now. How long had she lay there frightened and alone, probably still holding out hope that he would reach her in time? And he hadn't been there. He hadn't been there... but someone else had.
"Thought you killed her," he manages to get out, more growl than voice, with as low and hoarse as it's become. "She's my family." Though he's speaking quietly it's impossible to miss the bite behind those words, intended for whoever was responsible for this atrocity. It's also as much of an explanation, and apology, for his actions that he's capable of giving right now.
The other atrocity — there's blood running into his mouth, and he wonders how much of it is even his own as he unconsciously licks his lips, spits it out — rests squarely on his own shoulders. What has he done? The question is in his reddened eyes when he eventually glances up again, and that's when he notices their uninvited guest dropping from above.
Following his explanation, Nick's hold on him had been loosened enough to allow him to break free of it entirely now, and then he's advancing toward Luke once more. He's rattlesnake-quick, catching the lunging dog-like alien with a right hook that's settled its share of bar brawls back home, the force of it enough to throw the creature backwards, away from its prey.
The xenomutt had taken advantage of the commotion to sneak up on them, and had zeroed in on the easiest target of the trio still alive. The unexpected attack disorients it as it thumps hard against the wall, but it recovers so swiftly that it doesn't reach the ground in its fall, instead springing right off the wall and going straight for Luke again, jaws wide and snarling.
Who's a good little do--OH SHIIII
Family is not only about blood, maybe now more than ever. It’s about the strong gravitational pull of needing and being needed that brought aching, soul-tired survivors together, making friends of strangers. It’s about bonds built over time, little houses of cards in the wind. It’s about having people one could live for, people one would die for. Luke feels a dull, clenching ache in his chest, the tension in the air shifting around them, changing. Thick with more than helpless fury.
Nothing about this attack is okay – that doesn’t change. And as he stands firm, that red fog slowly clearing, it becomes easier to think that he’d never be driven to violent extremes out of desperation and grief. Pain changes people; it has changed them all in ways that can’t be measured and he can’t always remember the man he used to be before the dead rose and civilization fell. He doesn’t know if he’s a better person now than he was before for the lessons he has learned. But what he knows is that the world’s been eating away at him, hollowing him out one little piece at a time – and maybe, one day, there’d be nothing left of himself that he could recognize. Maybe one day he’d be so far gone that he could beat a man’s face into the floor and sleep soundly at night. And that scares him more than anything anyone could ever do to him.
Luke says nothing.
He doesn’t get the chance to, not when the alien drops down onto clicking claws with a feline, predatory grace and bounds for him. Arm raised, he stumbles back a half-step as the thing is suddenly sent flying off course and his gaze snaps to Daryl, heart beating frantic and rabbit-like in his throat. Daryl’s hand is drawn back, fisted – but before that has the chance to sink in the creature comes at him again in a shrieking fury and there’s no room to breathe, to plan for it.
His mind moves lightyears faster than his body -- and as he ducks sharply and sidesteps, whirling to keep it in his sights, it’s already going for his throat. Rows of steel-trap teeth snap around his arm instead and he gasps out a curse, his brain in spasms while he cracks punch after punch into its slippery, helmet-like skull. The thing thrashes and hisses and claws at air, at his chest, scrabbling wildly for purchase. But the raw, eye-watering sting of the grooves it's gouging into him is not as terrifying as feeling its breath on his skin, steam-hot, and the threat of it snapping his arm off with a twist of its jaws.
Something grinds - gives - just slightly behind his knuckles on the fourth punch he lands and he feels its cruel grip on him begin to slacken, his blood bubbling out the corners of its mouth. But it doesn’t stop struggling, its body a mass of bunching, steel-cable muscles. One of its feet kicks out and thumps his ribs in the just the wrong way - in just the way Daryl had bruised them, he’s realizing- and a bright, white-hot light stabs through his skull between the eyes and slices into his brain, through his adrenaline-high. He goes blind; he can’t breathe.
For a moment, at least. Because then the next moment comes and a strangled scream escapes through his clenched teeth and his ears are ringing again, a piercing shrillness that drowns out every thought, that erases everyone and everything around him. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes as he forces them open, a thousand little pinpricks. But somehow in all this he realizes he’s still moving, still able to swing his arm – and the alien – into the wall. Desperately slamming the thing into it over and over until it finally drops to the ground, dazed and writhing like an insect until it’s able to right itself. Its harpoon-like tail lashes around and, by some miracle, Luke backs up in time to avoid it as it stabs at his legs. He grips his mauled arm at the elbow, hunched and snatching for breath.
He can’t keep this up long and he knows it. It knows it.
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For a moment he thought Daryl killed him. He thought he failed to protect what's left of what he considers his family. The look Luke sends him provides little relief with the state he's in now. Maybe if he had been quicker to react he'd -
...have seen that fucking xenomutt coming.
Thankfully, Daryl moved first to give Nick the time to grab Luke's shrapnel. There hasn't been a single time since they all got dumped here that Nick wished he had a rifle with him, but he'll make do (he hopes). It's like a miracle granted when he sees Luke still has the strength in him to get the alien off before Nick gets the chance to kick the fucker off him. He isn't going to give it another opportunity, and takes advantage of the tail out of his way to get the jump on it. The mutt reels back and struggles to buck him off but he keeps an arm looped around its neck to stay on. It claws at Nick's arm, causing him to shout expletives he's sure that the Capitol's getting a kick out of hearing but at the moment rage is working as a sort of anesthetic as he holds on. The tail could get at him at any moment and he knows that, so he works fast.
He digs the shrapnel into the alien's neckline. It only takes one stab for him to give it another and another, letting out all the anger and frustration he had been keeping in for what seems like the longest time. He digs and twists and digs and twist, listening to the creature let out a guttural screech before pulling the shrapnel off along with bits of its flesh with it. It backs up, probably as an attempt to slam him into a wall but it stumbles forward instead, finally falling over to its side while Nick lets himself roll off, unable to just drop the shrapnel like he did with the pipe.
His face hurts, his arm is riddled with bloody claw marks to match with the small bite marks on his other arm, his whole god damn mind and body is in pain...but nowhere near the levels to be considered FUBAR, as Pete would say. Not compared to Luke.
"Luke!" He gets up again to go over to his friend. He doesn't even ask if the other is all right, the look of concern on his face says more than enough. It's obvious that they - Luke especially, need to find medical supplies to keep going. Going where? He doesn't know. They're all going to die at some point and it puts a bad taste in his mouth that the best he can hope for is to be the one to die first.
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Without pausing to consider the potential risk he'll be putting himself in, Daryl reflexively moves to put himself between the xenomutt and Luke once there's an opening to do so. There's simply not time enough to deliberate this whiplash role reversal, when hesitation can mean the difference between survival and being killed in a situation like this. He doubts that Luke's in any shape to be seeking retribution against him at the moment, with the way he's barely keeping his feet, but — he's seen men worse off still be capable of killing, and that knowledge keeps him keenly aware of the man at his back even as he tries to protect him.
For once, his brief moment of having faith in other people isn't punished. As Nick finishes off the alien, Daryl makes a grab for the nearby pipe he'd barely noticed, and wastes no time in repeatedly bringing it down on the alien's dense skull until it finally gives, splintering and busting open with a sickening squelch. Afterward the pipe slips from his hand and clatters loudly to the ground as he staggers, collapsing to his knees before Beth.
That lone xenomutt was a scout for its pack. He's observed their behaviour enough to know more will soon be coming, but he's beyond caring.
The horror of what had been inflicted upon Beth is almost too much for him to comprehend as he takes in her ruined body, her expression in death, the dead blood still trickling from where Luke had kept his promise to her in not letting her turn. Daryl's hand hovers uncertainly near the pipe impaling her body, effectively keeping her pinned to the ground, before he attempts to remove it, the motion becoming more hopelessly desperate as he realises how futile it is. They're supposed to bury their dead. He can't even do that for her here.
You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Daryl Dixon.
There's an irrepressible tremor in his shoulders, and a quiet, choked off sound as he submits to his despair and allows it to overwhelm him, unable to bear its terrible weight any longer. He's gathering Beth's limp body into his arms as much as he can, protectively cradling her head against his chest and murmuring words to her between shuddering breaths, too soft to be overheard. Words that will never reach her now. His cheek rests on her forehead when he bows his head against hers, and the grime covering her face becomes streaked from the tracks of his own tears as they fall there. He's never hated being right more than he does in that moment.
The good people don't survive.
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A sense of helplessness hits him like a punch square to the gut as he looks on, tense and wide-eyed. But Nick has gained the edge he desperately needed one way or another and is stabbing into dense ropes of muscle in its neck, blood – piss-yellow - leaping into the air every time the shrapnel-knife rips out before it drives back in with a meaty squish. It’s a frenzied tangle of man and monster, claws and gnashing teeth -- and the moment the alien’s off Nick, Daryl’s lunging for it like he lives and breathes for this chance, a pipe raised high.
Luke catches Nick’s eyes only briefly, his cry dim in his ears. The thud of metal on exoskeleton bounces off the walls and his jaw stiffens imperceptibly, the skin around his eyes tightening when the dull crack turns into sucking, crackling squelch like a cantaloupe being pulled open. Brain matter pushes through its folding dome of a skull, bubbling –- Carver sprawled out, his face caved into the floor -- and he sees its bug-like, skittery legs, hears its maddened hiss fading into a wheeze.
It’s over.
There’s just the hollow clanging of the pipe as it slips from Daryl’s fingers. And then, after a long time, the unmistakable sound of a shivering, strangled intake of breath.
Luke looks on, arms at his sides. He makes the mistake of letting his gaze linger on Beth too long, blood-soaked and so small, so fragile-looking in Daryl’s arms, and he feels his own throat twist up viciously a second time. There's a sudden, pressing need to find someplace to look at that’s neither at them or at Nick and he does, breathing, breathing. Focusing too hard on some stupid hole in the wall.
“We have to go now,” He says at last, his voice low, the business-like edge in his tone softened by sympathy. And he’s back in the trailer again with Sarah, listening to her rattling breaths and the sobs ripping endlessly from her throat. He shuts his eyes against the memory. The coming threat is unseen but no less real than walkers pressing their faces obscenely against every inch of glass, pawing, jaws working restlessly.
“It ain’t safe here."
It’s a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, being privy to the raw grief of a man he knew nothing about -- a wounded-animal grief that he senses is dangerous to interrupt. But Luke tries anyway, giving a wide berth.
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It's only when he sees Daryl mumbling something not meant for anyone else but Beth to hear that he casts his gaze downwards, looking down at his grimy, yellow stained hands with one of them still loosely gripping onto the shrapnel. The adrenaline rush finally comes down to a slow stop, but his breaths are hitched. The look on his beaten face is that of a young man who can only just barely pass of as a hardened survivor.
"And eventually, it'll be our turn."
Somebody had to say it. Somebody always has to break the mournful silence and remind everyone to stay focused on present reality, and it's always been Luke's burden to do so. He's right that it isn't safe. It never is, and Daryl appears to be the most vulnerable right now which is why Nick's reluctant to just walk away unless he's told to.
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But it's a dream. One that someone like him doesn't deserve, and the memory is receding from his thoughts as he watches Beth's blood darkening the material of his suit even further, a new layer over top of others not yet dry. She's gone and he'll never be able to make right the wrongs he'd committed against her, everything he'd said out of fear when the alcohol had brought out the worst in him, and Beth had suffered the brunt of it because she'd made the mistake of giving a damn about him. It's little comfort knowing at least those ugly words weren't the last he'd spoken to her.
There is no easing such a profound loss, but he's slowly coming back to himself, an unyielding will to live finally consolidating his grief into something more compatible with survival, for now. There's no doubt in his mind that he'll die if he stays here, and that growing sense of urgency is penetrating the heavy fog of his mind. Time to mourn is a luxury he can't afford anymore. When he glances up it's as though he's surfacing from a great depth, his dazed look steadily becoming sharper by degrees, and he's wondering why the hell they're both still here instead of saving their own asses. He can't stomach having any more of their blood on his hands, even indirectly.
Once it's safer to, he'll come back for Beth. Come back and free her from where she's pinned to the ground, and...
Do whatever is in his power to do.
Her body is gently returned to the ground and released, with just his hand lingering against her cheek, as he leans down to press a final kiss to her forehead, heedless of his audience. Then he's withdrawing, willing himself to stand, to move. To leave her. If they stay here, they'll die.
Almost as an afterthought, the pipe is retrieved from where he'd let it fall. It will ultimately be left in Nick's hands, but for now, it's better for both of them to be armed as they seek shelter. Then he steels himself before looking to Luke, taking in his ruined face, his crippled posture, and doesn't allow himself to look away, his expression already carefully shuttered now and not revealing much. He considers offering an arm in a gesture meant to help, in case Luke's not steady enough on his feet to get by on his own, but he can't bring himself to initiate even that much physical contact, and not solely because of what transpired between them a few minutes ago. The sense memory of Nick restraining him is still causing uncomfortable twinges in his back and shoulders, more difficult to ignore now when he's mentally taking stock of his own injuries.
The direction he'd originally come from had been clear — he knows this because he'd cleared it himself — and the xenomutt had appeared from the opposite direction, so backtracking seems the best option at the moment. He gives a nod toward his intended destination and waits for Nick and Luke to start moving before likewise heading back into the corridor.
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No – he didn’t want Daryl to die. But if Daryl had a mind to give up, he wouldn’t - couldn’t – put Nick or himself in any more danger.
Someone had to keep an eye on them.
And maybe it’s with a steely-eyed, quiet defiance that he should meet Daryl when the man finds the will to push to his feet at nineteen and they stop to take measure of each other, a bead of bloodied sweat trembling at the tip of Luke’s nose. Maybe it’s forgiveness that Daryl's searching for. He wouldn’t know. Luke just gazes back inscrutably through hooded lids, jaw set, one eye well on its way to swelling to a slit. Then he blinks and finally looks away, first to Nick, and then down the hall.
“Let’s go,” He says lowly, before turning to double back the way they came.