It's been so long since Daryl thought of the fall itself, the collapse-in-progress, that for a moment he has to sit and wonder just how long it's been. Time seems to have become an accordion of itself, folding in and expanding at once; he can measure against the baby, knows it hasn't been a lifetime, but it feels that way. And yet every so often he wakes up and, just for a second, wonders why he isn't in a shitty trailer.
"That shit's crazy," he mutters, somewhat without his own say-so. Had people really been dispatched to try and help in that capacity? His most profound memory of everything finally giving way is he and his brother hustling it up to the roof of a motel to watch the military pour napalm down over the streets of Atlanta. Merle had laughed, cackling in his unhinged way, and Daryl had felt disconnected. Society, this overwhelming and intrinsic human thing he'd been shamed his whole life for not being a part of, went so bad so fast, like it was never real.
And Spencer and individual people like him were being flown around, trying to help. Surreal.
Daryl thinks to ask more. They've come across a lot of people, and not everyone in their group started out in Georgia. Maybe somebody's come across an FBI agent— they've found cops and ex-marines and politicians and one rock star. You never know. But that.
Something behind Daryl's eyes shutters, even though his expression doesn't change. Awkward silence before he finally answers,
"Nah." Abrupt. He shrugs dismissively. All dead, he nearly adds, but doesn't. You're supposed to miss dead people. (Merle, cackling in his unhinged way. Daryl still sees him sometimes, like a fucking poltergeist.) "I'm just. Present. Reckon I can keep an eye out for your folks, though."
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"That shit's crazy," he mutters, somewhat without his own say-so. Had people really been dispatched to try and help in that capacity? His most profound memory of everything finally giving way is he and his brother hustling it up to the roof of a motel to watch the military pour napalm down over the streets of Atlanta. Merle had laughed, cackling in his unhinged way, and Daryl had felt disconnected. Society, this overwhelming and intrinsic human thing he'd been shamed his whole life for not being a part of, went so bad so fast, like it was never real.
And Spencer and individual people like him were being flown around, trying to help. Surreal.
Daryl thinks to ask more. They've come across a lot of people, and not everyone in their group started out in Georgia. Maybe somebody's come across an FBI agent— they've found cops and ex-marines and politicians and one rock star. You never know. But that.
Something behind Daryl's eyes shutters, even though his expression doesn't change. Awkward silence before he finally answers,
"Nah." Abrupt. He shrugs dismissively. All dead, he nearly adds, but doesn't. You're supposed to miss dead people. (Merle, cackling in his unhinged way. Daryl still sees him sometimes, like a fucking poltergeist.) "I'm just. Present. Reckon I can keep an eye out for your folks, though."