The Wolves are bastards, and so are the Scars, and everyone's a bastard in Seattle. Daryl counts himself among those numbers, though at least he doesn't have anyone to blame but himself. He's been here about five years, now, watched the skirmishes and the constant, pointless fucking death; there's something to letting people decide your life for you, letting them use your hands to kill, that is a special sort of stupid evil.
He's found that most real, true evil is stupid as fuck.
The WLF thunder dome isn't something you walk up to lightly; Daryl's never truly been. But he knows the wolf kids-- pups, jarheads, whatever you wanna call them-- hang out around the waterfront, constantly wind-whipped with salt and spray. It's an ugly place, and nothing grows there; the buildings lay unused. Perfect place for kids to run off to. It makes sense in retrospect; he didn't go looking for him initially. Fuck, they almost killed him when they found him lurking around. Those kids will kill anything; it's what they're trained for.
No, he said, he doesn't want to live in their compound. Yeah, he lied, he's too old to be a soldier. He knows they got a place for him, if he puts in the work, but he won't work for anyone but himself anymore, and that's something that confused most of them.
It didn't confuse Abby, though. Now when Daryl comes out to the sea, away from the place he calls his own (nobody but Abby knows it, nobody but Abby knows that he sleeps outside in the forest, nobody but Abby knows how to find him), he brings shit to trade. He grows his own tobacco and rolls his own cigarettes-- the kids fucking love that. But he has arrow and fletching as well, animal fur carefully cured and dried, bones from hunts. He doesn't trade for food-- the kids have more than enough of that. But they're kids and love trinkets. A lucky rabbit's foot buys him a cartridge of bullets. A coonskin cap gets him fresh vegetables.
And they all think he's some ancient old man of the woods, when he's barely fifty, and it's kind of hilarious. He wishes he could talk to the scar kids like this, too, but they're something different. When he can talk them down from shooting on sight, they just tell him to run.
But mostly, he can't talk them down from shit.
Today, Daryl has bolts for a crossbow, a rabbit bone buttons, and a coat-hanger made out of deer antlers. He sits in the shitty aquarium, wondering how long it took the dead fish to rot to nothingness, and he listens. People coming. The gait is regular, so not infected. It's plodding and heavy, which means it could be a few people. He hopes it's Abby, who has quickly become his favorite of the WLF kids. She actually thinks.
He picks up his crossbow and shoots a rope on the wall, effectively disabling a trap that would have snared anyone coming through the wall of the gift shop. It makes a clattering noise as it falls to the ground, announcing his presence. And then he closes his eyes, and reclines in a bed made out of a hundred stuffed sea creatures.
no subject
He's found that most real, true evil is stupid as fuck.
The WLF thunder dome isn't something you walk up to lightly; Daryl's never truly been. But he knows the wolf kids-- pups, jarheads, whatever you wanna call them-- hang out around the waterfront, constantly wind-whipped with salt and spray. It's an ugly place, and nothing grows there; the buildings lay unused. Perfect place for kids to run off to. It makes sense in retrospect; he didn't go looking for him initially. Fuck, they almost killed him when they found him lurking around. Those kids will kill anything; it's what they're trained for.
No, he said, he doesn't want to live in their compound. Yeah, he lied, he's too old to be a soldier. He knows they got a place for him, if he puts in the work, but he won't work for anyone but himself anymore, and that's something that confused most of them.
It didn't confuse Abby, though. Now when Daryl comes out to the sea, away from the place he calls his own (nobody but Abby knows it, nobody but Abby knows that he sleeps outside in the forest, nobody but Abby knows how to find him), he brings shit to trade. He grows his own tobacco and rolls his own cigarettes-- the kids fucking love that. But he has arrow and fletching as well, animal fur carefully cured and dried, bones from hunts. He doesn't trade for food-- the kids have more than enough of that. But they're kids and love trinkets. A lucky rabbit's foot buys him a cartridge of bullets. A coonskin cap gets him fresh vegetables.
And they all think he's some ancient old man of the woods, when he's barely fifty, and it's kind of hilarious. He wishes he could talk to the scar kids like this, too, but they're something different. When he can talk them down from shooting on sight, they just tell him to run.
But mostly, he can't talk them down from shit.
Today, Daryl has bolts for a crossbow, a rabbit bone buttons, and a coat-hanger made out of deer antlers. He sits in the shitty aquarium, wondering how long it took the dead fish to rot to nothingness, and he listens. People coming. The gait is regular, so not infected. It's plodding and heavy, which means it could be a few people. He hopes it's Abby, who has quickly become his favorite of the WLF kids. She actually thinks.
He picks up his crossbow and shoots a rope on the wall, effectively disabling a trap that would have snared anyone coming through the wall of the gift shop. It makes a clattering noise as it falls to the ground, announcing his presence. And then he closes his eyes, and reclines in a bed made out of a hundred stuffed sea creatures.