Reciprocity

Daryl craned his face upward, breathing deeper than he had in a long time. It was shaping up to be a beautiful Virgina autumn... the colors of the trees reflected in his eyes as he opened them, now attentive to the sound of snarling. Daryl focused in on the sound. A walker, snarling softly, approached from his right. In one fluid motion, Daryl swung his beloved crossbow from his shoulder, took aim, and let the bolt fly from it. With a satisfying thunk, the bolt found its home in the deadie's eye socket, stilling it mid-stride before collapsing forward bodily. Daryl checked quickly for others before retrieving the precious bolt, using his foot to keep the creature's head still as he yanked it away.

After fall comes winter, which would bring lower temperatures and slower walkers, but also harder times and tense evenings spent by the campfire, surrounded by the people he loved and needed to provide for. In the meantime, the woods crawled with the dead and deer, and that's why he was out here.

Daryl returned his attention to the tracks he had been following all morning. A buck, a large one, had come through here recently. Daryl figured he was only a day or so away from Alexandria; he reckoned the butcher would be thankful for such a prize, to be butchered and preserved for the winter ahead, most likely. He also reckoned that he could stand to eat soon as well. Daryl was used to intermittent hunger, but knew better than to overestimate his own hardiness. To eat is to be strong enough to endure, after all. He continued his chase, setting off Eastward. After an hour, he felt a familiar exhilarating skip in his heartbeat as he realized he was even closer than he had thought.

He slowed his pace and crouched, blue eyes never leaving the sight before him. A healthy stag with an enormous rack grazed in a clearing a little to Daryl's right. The beast seemed relaxed, unaware of the deadly presence now circling the clearing, drawing breath through his nostrils to focus his aim, eyes unwavering, unblinking, and unremorseful as he brought the animal down.

...

Daryl licked his fingers of grease and fat. The deer had been mercifully easy to kill and prepare for transport back home. For this, Daryl experienced a rare moment of thankfulness. It's about time somethin' went right for us. Dog sat at his feet, panting happily. The dog had been exploring without Daryl when he found the deer tracks, yet the scoundrel still enjoyed a full belly and a warm fire. Daryl scoffed playfully at Dog, ruffling his soft ears and muttering faint praise. He gazed off into the encroaching darkness. Twilight had come, and soon, so would night. Daryl made camp just in time; he anticipated he could sleep in relative peace tonight, assuming no dead ones set off the low-hung tin can alarms or traps surrounding the makeshift camp.

Daryl brushed his hands against each other to remove the debris of his meal, then stopped abruptly, keen eyes catching...something moving between the trees. He glanced at Dog, whose ears pricked toward the direction Daryl was looking in and whose tongue had stopped lolling out of his mouth and nose began twitching at the air.

Daryl quickly unsheathed one of the knives laying on the log he sat on and stealthily began his approach from the left. He wove between the trees, dipping his head this way and that, trying to get a better view of the thing he saw without alerting it. His brow furrowed and his lips parted slightly, confused. Hadn't he cleared this area?

Behind him, Dog watched intently, guarding the camp. The canine's ears twitched backwards, and he whirled around, growling softly. After a moment, he heard it again; a thump, in the opposite direction Daryl now walked. He leapt towards it, nose sniffing the ground and leaving the camp...leaving it perfectly unguarded.

As soon as the dog cleared the camp, a figure dropped down from the trees, suspended upside down by rope. Above, a makeshift pulley system kept them aloft by the waist and in prime positioning over the camp via the tight network of sturdy branches. A blaze of hair redder than the leaves of the trees, fingers peeping from shredded gloves, and their eyes were the only parts not covered with dark clothing. The warm green eyes took in the sight before them; a treasure trove of things to steal. The figure took it all in for a moment before beginning to swiftly inspect each item. A set of keys... the name "Dennis" emblazoned on the gift shop key ring. Nope. No bike around here. No gas to get it going with if there were anyways. A crossbow. More trouble than it's worth. A rather attractive and durable hunting knife. Hellooooo gorgeous. The thief turned the blade in their hands, admiring the beauty, simplicity, and function and already imagining all the useful things they could use it for. The thief motioned to put the knife in the bag strapped to their thigh when, with a whistling whoosh, its twin spun through the air and lodged itself in the tree behind the thief. The thief cried out in alarm as they fell to the ground. Daryl's knife had cut the rope clean through.

"OOF," said the thief as they hit the forest floor helter-skelter, one leg hanging over Daryl's sitting log and the opposite hand coming dangerously close to the fire. Daryl jogged back and snatched up the loaded crossbow, hoisting it to his shoulder and glaring down its sights at the thief, who merely groaned.

"Ahhhhh..."

"Get up" snarled Daryl.

Daryl had been distracted, but not fooled by the walker the thief had used. In ingenious fashion, they had led the walker to the site with a rope tied to its waist, tied it to a tree just far enough to warrant leaving the camp to investigate. They had then expertly scaled the thickly foliaged East Coast trees, making their way above the camp and readying for a quick hit before slipping away. Daryl, of course, knew to return as soon as he had seen the walker in its miserable state. He wasted no time with dispatching the dead man and instead hurried back to camp immediately.

The thief's eyes were clamped shut against the dizzying effect the tumble had on them.

"I said get UP." Daryl was beyond irritated. He roughly nudged the thief with his foot.

The thief opened their eyes slowly, one hand in front of their face to gesture compliance. They blinked as they looked at Daryl, then narrowed as cheeks pushed them upwards in a smile. Daryl was unsurprised when the small, slender thief spoke in a woman's tone.

"Wow. You're pretty."

Now that sentence DID surprise him. He was ready to kill her without hesitation and THAT'S what she decided to say to him?

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Oh, man, I could write a book." The thief sat up slightly, but not without sucking air between her teeth sharply in pain. "Right now, though? There's a knife in me." She tugged down her black, tattered scarf to breathe better as she inspected her leg. Daryl noticed, for the first time, that the knife she had attempted to steal was, in fact, partially buried in her thigh. His eyes flicked back to her face. It had smudged, black markings breaking up her fair-featured face, a primitive war paint he did not recognize. She gasped as she touched the knife, then met his gaze. She spoke jovially, completely inappropriate for the predicament she found herself in.

"So, do you want your knife back? I don't think—"

Before she could finish, Daryl dropped the crossbow to his side and had yanked out the knife from her thigh. She yelped in pain and fell backwards again. He spoke.

"'S not deep, or in yer vein. Ye'll live."

He began to walk away.

"Wait," she called, painfully sitting up again. "Where are you going?! Isn't this your camp?"

At that moment, Dog came back, unsuccessful at finding the rocks the thief had thrown to distract him. He was carrying a human thumb and forefinger in his mouth instead. He dropped it in the thief's lap. "Ugh." She picked up the ruined body part between her thumb and forefinger and dropped it disdainfully into the dirt.

"Nah" said Daryl, petting Dog while taking down the tarp he had planned on sleeping under. "Figure you need it more, at this point. Good luck, asshole. Don' touch my stuff, an' we ain't got a problem."

Daryl slung the deer carcass over his broad shoulders, retrieved his knife from the tree, and packed his other belongings. The thief watched him, laughing in amusement and disbelief. The thief cursed at him as he walked away, ineffectively tossing a handful of dirt in his direction. Daryl simply flipped her the bird, not looking behind to see her reaction. She scowled and ripped her scarf off, tying it around the wound on her leg tightly.

...

Daryl furrowed his brow and wiped his eyes. He hadn't gotten the sleep he really needed for this bullshit. A small herd had nearly torn through his pitiful excuse for camp last night, and between that and the would-be thief, he had only gotten a few hours of solid sleep. He found a rare moment of sincere longing for the world Before, when he could hit a snooze button several times before Merle finally shouted loud enough to actually wake him. Now he had Dog, and Dog was relentless with wake up kisses. 'Feed me' Daryl could almost hear the mutt begging.

"Alright, alright, get offa me, mangy dog." Dog wagged his tail furiously and barked. Daryl straightened and rose to his feet, stretching himself. He walked out to the clearing he had exhaustedly picked last night. It overlooked a small lake, with one or two walkers deeply embedded in the shallow muck on one side and half of a wooden fishing boat resting on the other. The biters were pitifully wriggling around, bodies too weak to drag themselves out of the silt and faces barely coming above the water. Daryl watched them for a few moments before turning back to his camp, scratching the stubble on his face. He could probably go a few days more out here, but Carol had made him promise to come back...and between the thief and the herd, he had enough. He began packing again, checking his belongings and collecting the deer he had tied up above the forest floor to protect it from scavengers—Wait a minnit. He had taken a small part off the leg for himself and Dog last night, but now, the whole limb was gone, cut haphazardly through with a small knife by an inexpert and hurried hand, not at all like Daryl's own efficient cuts.

"Dammit!" he swore. That girl followed him. She followed him, watched him, maybe even led that little herd to him. "Touched my stuff."

Screw it, he thought. He was going after her. He finished packing his backpack and began searching furiously. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for: small, light footprints around the edges of the camp, heading toward the water.

"Gotcha."

...

Daryl had followed the tracks for a while. The thief had come in from the forest and left circling the lake, then followed a small stream to the river. There, she had crossed, nearly shaking Daryl from her trail. Luckily, Dog had picked it back up on the other side, several hundred yards upstream. Now, Daryl had arrived at a water station of some sort, an industrial, square building with defunct powerlines running to it and high, small windows dotting the concrete walls. A few broken pipes ran from the building to the river. The largest ran into it from the right side, around the corner from Daryl's door.

She had been clever up until now. There were no tracks going out from the ugly building, which meant she was still inside.

Pro'lly feasting on MY deer, Daryl bitterly thought. He knew it was also likely that she was still being clever, and had set a trap for him. He knew better than to underestimate strangers he met—especially strangers he allowed to live. Experience had been a brutal—but valuable—teacher to Daryl.

He whistled to Dog, an abrupt, soft sound that, combined with a gesture, commanded him to go around to the other side of the square building, where the only other door was. Daryl approached the one closer to him cautiously, with his crossbow raised and a knife ready. He tried the doorknob; it turned easily enough, and he pushed the door open. Musty, cool air tousled his hair. It lacked the stink of rot, but Daryl remained ready for walkers anyways. He crept into the darkness. The heavy door swung closed, and he took a second to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He soon found himself in the single, large room the station comprised of, with light illuminating swirling dust particles through the grimy windows. Small footprints interrupted the thick layer of dirt on the floor, and it was clear that the thief had been living here for a little while at least—not long enough to have more than a few blankets piled up in the corner and the remnants of some pitiful meals on the fold-away table off to the left—including the remnants of his precious kill. There were no places to hide, yet Daryl found no thief. He glanced left and right, lowering his crossbow slightly. He could see the other door, and through it, he could hear Dog, barking a couple of times.

She got the drop on him, literally. With a savage WHOOP piercing the silence, she jumped from the large pipe running along the ceiling near the entrance and landed more or less on the archer, bringing him down backwards. He swung behind him with his knife, missing her by inches and losing his grip as they both fell to the floor. She kicked the crossbow out of his hands. Daryl went to grab it, but she snatched at his vest and his hair. He flipped over from his back, attempting to pin her down. She thrashed wildly, getting in a solid punch to his kidney before scrambling to her feet. He gasped and did the same, now weaponless. She crouched in a boxing stance, also unarmed, ready to take him on. With the black markings and wildly grinning face, she looked absolutely insane.

She laughed, a hearty sound that echoed slightly in the amber-colored concrete space.

"C'mon, pretty boy, let's go!" she taunted.

Seriously, he thought, what is wrong with this girl? They circled each other for a moment. Daryl wondered if she really thought she could take him on. He had the advantage of size and probably experience, judging by her apparent age.

He underestimated her crazy. Snarling, he sprung at him, initiating the next stage of the fight. He caught her wrist too late, and she managed a solid punch directly under his eye. She used the leverage to pull herself up, kicking him square in the chest, making him cough slightly as he doubled over. She went in for another hit with her knee, but Daryl was prepared for her this time. He blocked her with both hands and shoved her backwards. Off balance, the thief stuck out her arms to steady herself. Daryl snatched her wrist and whirled her around, pinning her arm behind her back before she could headbutt him. She stomped on his foot, hard. He grunted, but managed, somehow, to catch her other arm and wrestle her to the ground. She struggled and snarled loudly a few more moments, not ready to give up. He was pretty sure he heard the snap of teeth near his face.

Hey," he said, "hey, HEY! Knock it off, it's over!" She stilled, growling and struggling to breathe under his weight. His face was right next to hers, his whiskers scratching her cheek and her breath puffing out strand of his hair. "Now, me an' you, we're gonna have a nice lil' chat."

With that he hauled her up. As soon as his weight was off of her, she began thrashing again, cursing nonsensically. Fed up, Daryl simply picked her up by her waist, letting her kick and scream as he hauled her to the pile of blankets. Using one arm, he pushed her down and pinned her there, and used the other to reach for her pack. He found what he was looking for and began to tie her hands with her own rope, using his knee on her chest.

The thief's vicious grunts and swears turned into innocently panicked sobs. She stared at him, eyes wide and even tearing up. "Wait, WAIT. What are you—"

"Shut up" Daryl said, tersely, but softer than before. He knew what this must seem like—a man much bigger and stronger than her tossing her around like a sack of potatoes towards a bed. He was not that kind of man, but assuaging her fears was not foremost in his mind. Making sure she stopped thieving, on the other hand—the other communities needed to be protected as well. He cared about them, and the people he had come to know and fight for in them. Besides...her newfound helplessness seemed a little too forced to be genuine.

As soon as he was done, he shoved her into a sitting position on the pile of rags. He jammed his finger in her face, glaring at her dewey-eyed face.

"Stay." She gulped and nodded. He did not trust the gesture and got up only to inspect the door furthest from where he came in, about a yard to the left of the bed. Unlike the other door, it was securely rusted or locked shut. He took note of a few rags shoved under it and assumed the thief had shoved them there to keep out drafts. He strode towards the door he came in, glancing over his shoulder at her. She was still sitting, completely still and avoiding his gaze, pouting now instead of pitiful. So was an act. Unbelievable, he thought. He called in Dog and gathered his pack from the entrance before closing the door behind him.

...

Daryl had not spoken a word to her since he commanded her to stay put. He just sat at the table with his boots up on it, eating some mystery meat slowly and occasionally feeding his dog, who had obediently laid next to him. She had adjusted a few times since then, each movement earning her a wary glare. Each time, she had simply glared back, even regaining some of her pride and jutting her chin stubbornly at him. She was clearly planning her next move. Now she sat cross-legged, slouched against the wall and beginning to get irritated with the older man. He'd dragged her ass around, talking about a chat, and had said nothing, and as the minutes rolled into hours, she finally couldn't take it anymore.

"So, what?"

Daryl stopped eating to look at her.

"What?"

"What, 'what?' you said we were going to chat, let's chat then. I'm bored."

Daryl grunted, eyes returning to inspect the little bone for remnants of meat.

"Jus' waitin' on you. Figured you'd be ready to talk soon, anyhow."

The thief rolled her eyes, smirking. "Well, I guess I'm ready to talk."

"Good." Daryl tossed the last of his meal to Dog, who ate the morsel and looked up at his master, brown eyes watching as he got off the chair and sat on his heels in front of her.

"What's yer name, then?"

She cocked her head and smiled. "Chance."

He nodded, grunting in acknowledgement. "Daryl."

She laughed suddenly, barking it out like she could not contain herself. Dog flinched and Daryl raised an eyebrow.

"Not Dennis?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I have to say, that's actually a relief. You don't look like a Dennis. You look like... a Johnny, maybe Hugh. I guess Daryl works good too." She let her eyes drift over his massive arms.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject.

"You do this often?" He pointed to his pack. She understood he meant the thieving.

"Only when I have to. It's hard out here, you oughta know."

He turned his attention back to her. "'Out here?' You got a camp? Are there others?"

She squared her shoulders defiantly. "Yes."

"How many?"

"A hundred." She squinted at him, still smiling oddly and holding his gaze.

He dropped his head. "This only works if yer honest with me."

Chance said nothing. She continued to look at him, but less defiantly. She stared at him, trying to work out his emotions. Other people wore them on their faces...he didn't look like he wore them at all.

"I'm alone. It's just me. There were others, but..." She fell silent again. Anybody who had survived this long knew.