Daryl Dixon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
weaintashes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-01-10 03:28 pm
weaintashes) wrote in thearena2015-01-10 03:28 pm
Entry tags:
Sleep now under my skin.
Who| Rick & Daryl.
What| Going out together.
Where| The spaceport.
When| During the final hour countdown.
Warnings/Notes| Daryl's stuff, Rick's thangs. May include: death, language, mentions of violence, gore. Will modify as needed.
There was a certain meditative quality to the way Daryl and Rick operated as a team. Their communication while out in the open was conducted through eye contact, signals, and silent gestures alone; words were unnecessary when an entire conversation could be derived from the fine nuances of body language, one of the many benefits of their long association with one another.
Daryl could trust that Rick knew the same things that he knew, that he went through similar deductive processes when figuring something out, and they frequently arrived at the same conclusions. And while there were times when this could lead to some unease — the knowledge that there was someone with enough innate understanding of him to read him at a glance, and who sometimes knew what action he'd take before he himself did — within the context of the arena, he was discovering a new level of appreciation for how efficient it made them.
Through their combined efforts, they managed to hold out until the end, and had done so with relative ease. The only close calls they'd run into had occurred when they'd decided to split up to cover more ground faster, something which they'd eventually agreed was a needless risk once they'd roughly mapped out the entirety of the spaceport, and had stayed together since.
When a monotonous voice devoid of human inflection flooded every corner of the spaceport with the announcement of a countdown, it was almost as though they'd never left the CDC, and Vi was helpfully counting down the minutes they had left to live. There was no explanation for this countdown, but considering the nature and purpose of the arena its meaning was easily inferred. Maybe the Gamemakers had grown bored with the stalemate the last surviving combatants had fallen into, or maybe this had been planned since the beginning, and the whole death match aspect of the arena had been a farce. Whatever the case, the shit was obviously scheduled to hit the fan in one form or another, and soon. They had an hour left.
He slowed to a stop alongside Rick in the corridor they'd been making their way through, exchanging a long look with him. A sort of wary, frustrated anger was darkening his face, and his posture was tight with defiance, as though this was something that could be fought against. Something they could control, and overcome. But it wasn't, and it never had been. Beth's death was proof of that.
So this was it.
What| Going out together.
Where| The spaceport.
When| During the final hour countdown.
Warnings/Notes| Daryl's stuff, Rick's thangs. May include: death, language, mentions of violence, gore. Will modify as needed.
There was a certain meditative quality to the way Daryl and Rick operated as a team. Their communication while out in the open was conducted through eye contact, signals, and silent gestures alone; words were unnecessary when an entire conversation could be derived from the fine nuances of body language, one of the many benefits of their long association with one another.
Daryl could trust that Rick knew the same things that he knew, that he went through similar deductive processes when figuring something out, and they frequently arrived at the same conclusions. And while there were times when this could lead to some unease — the knowledge that there was someone with enough innate understanding of him to read him at a glance, and who sometimes knew what action he'd take before he himself did — within the context of the arena, he was discovering a new level of appreciation for how efficient it made them.
Through their combined efforts, they managed to hold out until the end, and had done so with relative ease. The only close calls they'd run into had occurred when they'd decided to split up to cover more ground faster, something which they'd eventually agreed was a needless risk once they'd roughly mapped out the entirety of the spaceport, and had stayed together since.
When a monotonous voice devoid of human inflection flooded every corner of the spaceport with the announcement of a countdown, it was almost as though they'd never left the CDC, and Vi was helpfully counting down the minutes they had left to live. There was no explanation for this countdown, but considering the nature and purpose of the arena its meaning was easily inferred. Maybe the Gamemakers had grown bored with the stalemate the last surviving combatants had fallen into, or maybe this had been planned since the beginning, and the whole death match aspect of the arena had been a farce. Whatever the case, the shit was obviously scheduled to hit the fan in one form or another, and soon. They had an hour left.
He slowed to a stop alongside Rick in the corridor they'd been making their way through, exchanging a long look with him. A sort of wary, frustrated anger was darkening his face, and his posture was tight with defiance, as though this was something that could be fought against. Something they could control, and overcome. But it wasn't, and it never had been. Beth's death was proof of that.
So this was it.