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piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
technophobics) wrote in piscesnebula2023-10-24 05:47 pm
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"Yes. The civil breakdown has led to more people feeling comfortable to give into their darkest urges. People that might have otherwise never murdered or raped because they were too afraid of death or jail or the social consequences, now don't have to fear those things as much. Some people that felt powerless in their ordinary lives have now gone overboard to compensate, or people that had authority have been desperate to reclaim it, or..."
Reid trails off, shooting Daryl a wry, sad little smile.
"Without country-wide communication, I couldn't begin to estimate the numbers of people. We can estimate the number of walkers due to transmission rates and calculated spread, but-- despite the fact that they're the cause of the fall of large society, they seem less scary than some regular old humans out there. All the walkers can do is kill you and turn you."
He'd seen the worst of the worst at the FBI, but the scale and ambition of crime has grown. Mob mentality is a hell of a thing.
From here, the walls of the Forty-Eight have just become visible through the trees. Reid can see a lookout on the top of one of them, watching their path, and he gives an awkward wave.
"I can't say for certain you won't have to worry about people like that in the Forty-Eight," Reid apologizes, hands twisting together. "We've had to eject a few people. But... the threat of losing shelter, steady food, and running water, seems to keep people's behavior in check. For the most part." He grimaces. "It's barbaric to exile people, but it's more efficient than the alternatives according to Charlie."
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A mild inquiry. Daryl isn't sure where he standsβ it's barbaric because the world is the way it is, it's merciful because the alternative is prolonged captivity or execution, it's incredibly dangerous because they're cutting loose people who are armed with information about them who now might want revenge for being expelled. Interesting, and not a moral or strategic question he's in a hurry to have to decide. For a little while in their last home, he'd been voted on the council that made decisions for the community, but they hadn't ever come up on an issue like that. If it hadn't been lost, he figures they would have eventually, though he still doesn't know what he might do.
However Reid answers, Daryl won't have much input. He listens, he observes him, but there's not much he's going to contribute to the topic. Doing his own kind of investigation, not at all like a profiler. Just poking him with a stick and then walling himself off against any return pokes.
Returning to the gates is funny for a second, when he feels like a wild animal dragging a wayward cub back in, and then everything after that second is uncomfortable. He murmurs a 'see you around' to Reid before he oils away to post up with his group in their temporary housing, dodging any attempts to thank him for running a fest quest. He keeps to himself for the next few days, resisting integration, and the data from his arrival interview marks him as a bit of a mystery. No clear answer about what he did before, and possessing skills that do not lend himself to easy living in synthesized suburbia.
A rare public sighting puts him on the porch of their assigned townhome, smoking a cigarette and sharpening a hunting knife, technically babysitting. He makes sure to exhale away from the infant girl, who is otherwise happy to be crawling around in her new soft playpen.
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No, he doesn't agree with exile. He thinks criminals, even the worst of them, deserve basic human rights like shelter and safety. But the world's a different place now, and they don't have the manpower to spare for keeping watch over a jail at all hours. Spencer's about to get ramped up into a talk about the difficulty of deciding which laws applied to this place, when they reach the Forty-Eight, and he awkwardly stops mid-ramble, farewelling Daryl.
Over the next few days, he reads over the admission interviews. Charlie's put him in charge of feeling out the new arrivals -- in her words, he needed to put his 'big profiler brain' into action and scope out if any of them were a danger.
But Spencer's kind of more excited about something else: genetic sequencing. Which is why when he goes to see Daryl, he's practically vibrating with energy, eyes bright and his tie fluttering in the breeze.
"Daryl, hi!" He beams, and then stops short, directing a baffled stare at the baby. "And hello, unknown child? Oh, no, I know who you are, you were accounted for in the interviews but you didn't give one of your own. That'll have to be rectified later."
To Daryl, he presents a somewhat battered sheaf of papers with tiny text on them. "This is a consent form. I have a personal project related to genetic research, and while I've studied most of the people in the Forty-Eight, you as a new arrival present an exciting opportunity for additional data. All I need is a DNA sample." He pauses. "You don't have to say yes, obviously. You'd be within your rights to refuse."
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Potentially agonizing silence goes on for a bit, unless Reid decides to fill it.
Daryl sets the papers down on the porch railing, whetstone atop them as a weight. He takes a drag of his cigarette, turns his head so he exhales away from Reid and the baby, reaches aside to tap ash off the end of it. He's not being especially considerate of the nicely painted porch, but it's not out of disrespect; he just doesn't think of it.
At last:
"Can you explain it to me?"
He does actually more or less understand the paperwork, having been through a serious medical incident in the past. (Unmentioned in his interview, but if Reid happens to be familiar with motorcycle gang insignia, he's free to have noticed that while Daryl doesn't actually have colors anywhere on his kutte, but he does have large angel wing patches on the back, which usually symbolize survival of a bad crash in MC subculture.) But he's curious, and this guy doesn't seem like he's got any reservations about going on about things at length. There's another chair on the porch if he'd like.
Meanwhile, Daryl finishes off his cigarette, and then picks the baby up. He mutters that her name's Judith, and then quietly informs her that they're talking to Jodi Foster.
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"Of course!" he says cheerfully. "Do you know what the greatest recorded evolutionary advantage in humans is? A gene called ERAP2. In the 1300's, the Black Death killed somewhere between thirty and fifty percent of the European population, and aside from the horror it caused it did something really interesting: it didn't just cause social upheaval, it also caused a rapid micro-evolution in our genetics.
There were four genetic mutations found in many survivors of the Plague, but one, ERAP2, provided a 40% increased chance of survival. And these mutations occurred over the course of decades, which is incredibly fast compared to all previously known genetic mutation occurrences. The fastest one we knew of previously was the slow change toward lactose tolerance, and that took thousands of years!"
In full lecture mode, he barely stops for breath.
"I've been studying the genetics of every sample I can find to see if there's a chance the same might occur today. We know it's a virus that causes people to turn, but we barely got the chance to study it before the outbreak began. There might be people out there that already have a genetic variation that nullifies the virus, or it might be arising today -- either way, if I can find someone that has a greater chance of survival... well, gene therapy would be exceedingly difficult on a mass scale, but it would be a chance. A chance to turn the world around."
Finally, Reid sits, perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair like a stork coming in to roost, all gangly limbs. He doesn't know if he needs to explain any of what he just said, but he prefers to not treat people like they're idiots, and Daryl hadn't squinted at the consent form like it was gibberish.
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Above his paygrade, is all. Above all of theirs, he thinks. That Reid cares says a lot about him, a lot of good about him, but Daryl can't put his faith in things like broad turnaround chances. Just himself, and sometimes, other people. He looks at the younger man, and pats Judith's back as she reaches a chubby hand out to paw at the edge of his vest and its chunky seam. Not for the first time, he's stricken with the intrusive thought of what she might look like, resurrected by the sickness. If something happened to her, or if it was just nothing, the crushing but completely human curse of crib death. Maybe the world will right itself before she's old enough to form memories of the way it is right now, or maybe they just have to make this new world livable for the next generation on their own.
"Dunno if it's a virus," he says after a while. "They didn't at the CDC, anyway. We were there in Atlanta before it blew. The last doc in there showed us the work he had left."
Been ages since he thought about it. The memories are glassy, hyper-real, distorted from the trauma sandwich of it all and the fact that he'd had way too much to drink the entire duration of that stay, but they're still there. Even the bits he doesn't understand.
"Can't hurt to keel looking, though. I guess. That one of your degrees? You a doctor doctor, too?"
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Reid blinks, looking stumped. It's an abrupt, though interesting reminder that he knows very little about the man sitting across from him. Daryl is easy to read emotionally: he's withdrawn and comes off as distant, says little because he prefers to observe rather than babble, though he's honest and upfront with what he chooses to say. He's obviously devoted to his people, and is willing to put himself through a lot of hardship to ensure their safety. Despite his gruff-set expression and ragged looks, he's gentle, too, his hand careful on Judith's back.
Reid just has no idea what he used to do. He's usually really good at guessing that, but since broader civilization fell, it's hard to tell with a lot of people. Reid's seen former lab geeks dressed like the Terminator, and former serial killers dressed like they're at the office. He'd assume that Daryl was maybe part of a motorcycle gang, given the kutte and the symbolic insignia even without a specific gang marker, but beyond that, he's stumped. Why was Daryl at the CDC? Was he a doctor? A researcher? A diplomat?
It's... frustrating. He likes knowing everything. It makes him feel secure.
But. He does love a puzzle.
"Oh, no, I'm not a medical doctor, but I did study genetic disorders as a hobby," he admits. "And when the outbreak began-- I started reading every academic text I could get my hands on and thought might be useful. How-to guides for civil engineering. Medical texts. Geographical surveys. I read fast." Kind of an understatement. "And whenever I go out, I scavenge what books I can. There's a few other medical doctors and scientists here too, though we don't have a lot of time to work on studying genetics -- work in the Forty-Eight takes precedence."
He leans forward, eyes bright. "So, is it okay if I take a sample of your DNA? Like the consent form says, I won't share your data with anyone other than the medical staff here."
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A strange time. He had mentioned it in his interview, but only briefly. That they'd tried to seek shelter there after realizing that the military base nearest them was a lost cause, but it didn't work out. Which is true. Quite a lot hasn't worked out. Of that first group from Atlanta, just about thirty people, only five remain. Patchworked out with others they've met over the years into their surreal family.
(If he knew what Reid was wondering, he'd laugh. There's no way Daryl seems like he had a job at the CDC, he knows damn well.)
"As a hobby," he echoes. Genetic disorders. Daryl's starting to figure out that the younger man is a total weirdo, not just smart. Makes Daryl like him more, though. Not that he should be thinking about liking or disliking anyone here. He wants it to work out, but he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has to stay vigilant for his people, even while they decompress. They deserve the break, and given he has nothing else to offer, continuing to be a proverbial guard dog is the least he can do.
A shrug, then. "Sure." Why not. Daryl's DNA is already in a million databases due to the number of times he's voluntarily provided samples to get various cops off his back. There's nothing remarkable lurking in his genetics; he had chicken pox as a kid and he never did any of the intravenous drugs his brother trafficked. (Just the non-intravenous ones. He's not a saint.) Maybe he's developing lung cancer thanks to a lifetime of smoking, but at this stage, he figures if he ends up dying slowly and miserably in bed, he'll have lucked the fuck out.
"You need to draw blood, or just swab me?"
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"Neither, we do it by saliva samples," Reid says cheerfully, patting at his pockets until he finds the sample tubes he'd brought along, one of which he offers to Daryl. It's inelegant, but hey, it works.
He doesn't elaborate on Daryl's amused little note at his hobby, because it would inevitably involve why he's been studying genetic disorders for a long time, and that's not something he's very open about. He'd be more than happy to ramble on about the particularly interesting points of said hobby, but right now, he has something more important to get to.
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" It's said accompanied with a bitten lip, somewhere between awkward and nervous and a profiler's familiarity with asking personal questions. "Your admission interview was a little bare, and I don't need the full details of your entire history, but-- well, in the spirit of honesty, I've been sent to determine if you or any of your group is a danger to the Forty-Eight." He grimaces. "Sorry."
It feels rude. It probably is rude, though Reid's never been the best judge of social mores. But they've got a jumpy, paranoid population who's gone a little soft due to being safer than most, and the last thing any of them want is to let in someone who might be dangerous. From the inside, it'd be all too easy to compromise the security of the Forty-Eight.
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Some shifting. Daryl props one leg up, ankle on his knee, so that Judith can sit cradled on his lap while he accepts the tube. He's seen one of these before, too.
No comment for a moment. He strokes a hand over the baby's head and her fine hair while she pats her hands at his knee, popping the sample tube open with his other. It might be rude, leveled at someone else. But Daryl is the anomaly and he knows it. He also knows Reid's nervous, and can tell the younger man feels bad about askingβ doesn't take a profiler to have some experience with reading people.
"Don't have to apologize."
Saliva sample collected, he closes the tube and hands it over to Reid. Maybe one of them will even remember the release form. He jiggles Judy a little, and she babbles some nonsense, then grips his fingers. Daryl looks like he's going to say something else, but before he can get it out, the door to the townhouse opens and a young blonde woman with scars on her face appears, looking bleary-eyed and contrite.
A brief shuffle as she apologizes for having taken such a long nap, but Daryl tells her it's fine. He passes off baby Judith to her, who only fusses a little at being taken away. She likes Aunty Beth just as much as she likes Uncle Daryl, but only Daryl lets her chew on his clothes. Priorities in babyland. Beth (who survives in every au i write sry them's the rules) smiles at Spencer and politely says hello as she scoops Judith up, friendly and sweet, before she heads back inside and leaves the two men alone on the porch.
Quiet, then. Daryl stares at him, waiting.
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He greets Beth with an awkward little wave and an awkward little smile -- at least heightened paranoia in the post-walker world means that very few people try to shake his hand, which is a big relief for a man who dies inside every time he thinks about bacteria transmission -- and then it's just the two of them.
Spencer silently hands over the medical consent form again, along with a pen that had previously been tucked behind his ear, mostly hidden in the curls of his hair. The last page is the one Daryl needs to sign, a handwritten form because the electricity they have is better used on lighting and heat, and not printing medical forms. The sample collection tube gets tucked into his pocket.
"Have you ever been arrested for a violent crime?" is the first question. And it's a loaded one, because a lot of people who have would deny it -- but to Spencer, it just adds to his knowledge of the person if they do try to lie.
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But it passes. He hands both the papers and the pen back. Question time, apparently.
"No," he answers, looking at him. A beat, then: "Couldn't I just lie?"
He isn't lying. He hasn't been arrested for a violent crime, or any crime. Which does not mean he hasn't committed any (he has), just that he's managed to avoid being caught. But he's not worried about that; he has no control over what Spencer believes. He's mostly just wondering as to what the methodology is here. Lie detectors are fake, he knows that much, but the younger man isn't doing anything but sitting across with him, eyeballs presumably peeled.
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He's not as good of a lie detector as Hotch or Gideon or Rossi were, but he does okay. There's a lot of subtle signs that people give off if they're telling the truth or if they're lying: eye contact, the steadiness of their voice, the openness of their body language, how much detail they put into things.
He can tell that Daryl's not lying about being arrested for a violent crime because his answer is simple. Someone that was lying might feel the need to pad that out with details: of course not, I've always been a good person, I've always been charitable to my community. Daryl's simple no is very telling. He doesn't feel the need to defend his answer.
"If I asked the rest of your group about what they think of you, what do you think their answers might be?" he asks, fidgeting with a corner of the consent form, compulsively smoothing out a dog-ear of the page.
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Daryl is motivated to behave, now, no matter that he still seems standoffish. But he's had to be prepared to defend himself since he was a child, and he doesn't know how to turn it off. He may never; he may always seem like he could become hostile at any moment, even just sitting around.
His head tips. Observing Spencer. "That how you could tell?" Wry. "Gossip?"
Seems about as useful as lie detectors. But he shrugs, and answers anyway.
"Dunno. They've done alright by me, most of 'em. Like to think I've done the best I can in return."
He's underselling it, but he doesn't know that. Unaware of how much some people care about him, because he doesn't think he deserves it. Daryl's gaze falters and he looks away out at the street-turned-walkway. Plain, old-world insecurity. He doesn't care what broader society thinks of him, didn't then and doesn't now, but he cares about what his people think of him.
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That little glance away is telling, since Daryl's gaze has been steady up until now. He desperately wants what he said to be true, but he isn't sure that it is. He isn't sure that his people would actually say something so kind about him. He comes off as self-assured, but there's some insecurity there.
It's not unusual. Spencer would like to think he's useful to this community as well, but some nights he can't sleep because he worries he isn't doing enough, stricken with guilt over sleeping instead of doing.
"Most of them?" he repeats curiously. On Hotch or Morgan, that question would have been a narrow-eyed taunt; on Spencer, it's a wide-eyed innocent question. Two very different methods that work on different people, and it's partially because Spencer knows he can't really pull off the whole steely eyed, grim-jawed serious thing, but partially because he knows his non-threatening demeanor is good for helping people open up.
He takes the pen from behind his ear again, spinning it between his fingers.
"So there's some of them that haven't done alright by you," he continues. "Are there any continuing feuds that might pose a danger to you or anyone else?"
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But. Daryl looks back at Reid, his gaze contemplative. Stormy blue eyes thinking about him and his eagerness to do things. Outside the walls scraping at willow bark despite clearly never having so much as gone camping before the turn, and now in here, doing these followup interviews while also soliciting participation in genetic research. Spinning plates. He wonders how much stale coffee Spencer drinks on the daily.
"Ain't what I meant."
He wishes he could ration another cigarette just to have something to do with his hands; he doesn't want to pull at his cuticles like a child. His fingers tap briefly on his knee, but he makes himself stop. Almost nervous. Communicating effectively past yes or no answers has never been his strong suit.
"Just don't know some of 'em well. The priest, the redhead, the chick with the busted arm. Folks we found on the road. I know Gabriel is fucking terrified of us, no matter we saved his life half a dozen times. Not his fault. He just wishes survival could be a kinder business, and being angry at the people doing the surviving is... easier than being mad at God, or whatever."
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So, he can probably tick off the 'not religious' box for Daryl, then. Spencer wonders if he ever used to be, before. A lot of people have lost their faith. Then again, a lot of people found it, too. Drastic circumstances makes for drastic change.
Still, it's good to know that Daryl doesn't seem to have any big conflicts with any of the people in his group. He doesn't even take it personally when a member is continuously scared of them despite doing everything he can to help, which is extremely even-tempered of him.
"Are there any feuds in your group?" he follows up, tone a little lighter than before. This one's not so much an interview question as it is plain curiosity. "We obviously can't mandate in the Forty-Eight that nobody has any arguments, but it's useful to know where the sources of strife are. It sounds nosy, I know, but the leadership does its best to mediate arguments over resources, if that's what any feuds are over."
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"Regular shit. Folks in close quarters get annoyed now and again."
He doesn't think anyone will confess anything dire. In fact, he'd be more inclined to anticipate his people closing ranks over even the most minor infractions. Barring, say, the aforementioned Gabriel, but even if the man decides to babble on about the violence he's witnessed, a few followup questions are bound to stump judgement. Yes, he's seen them murder other living humans brutally, he's seen executions and slaughters. Why? Oh, well, cannibals, slavers, rapists.
Kind of a wash.
"Your people got problems? Anything we should avoid stepping into by accident?"
Reid's probably not here to give an interview of his own, but fair's fair, Daryl thinks. Besides, the younger man sort of seems like the kind of guy who got his ass kicked a lot at school, no matter that now he's an FBI agent and someone in a position of authority at 48. Meaning he should have a good sense of who the assholes are, profiler or not.