Daryl Dixon

One day, you were with your group. A group you’d practically been forced to join— the leaders taking you in and threatening you to force you to stay. You were good at scavenging, clever— but god, you were a pussy. So, here you were, on a run with a few guys. Two of the guys in your group— Tony and Dave— had been gone for a while. Naturally, you and the two other guys with you went looking for them. You came across a bar, the building towering over you. The windows were blocked, so you spoke through the door, “Dave? Tony? Y’all in there?

Safe to say, they weren’t. You very quickly found out that Dave and Tony had actually died, and three men had shot them. It had all happened so quickly— your men shooting their men, and soon after you were commanded to go on the roof of the bar and shoot at any of the men you saw.

After it had been clear that you and your men weren’t going to win, they had began to flee. However, you were on top of the building, with no way down. You only had one option. To jump.

You look down, squinting at the lower building in the pitch darkness, hard to get any footing— let alone jump to another building. But as your leader was screaming in your ear, on the verge of leaving— all you could do was jump. You tumbled down in the dark, a yell of pain ripping from your throat as you rolled your ankle, falling flat on your back and impaling your leg on a fence. And, as your leader drove off in a hurry after witnessing your demise, you thought you were dead.

It was only after you woke when you realized you were somewhere else entirely— a dark, dusty barn with your leg cauterized, arms tied to a pole behind you. There was straw poking at you in every which way, cobwebs peaking from every corner. You didn’t care much, though— because you’d lived. Presumably, the guys that had shot Dave and Tony took you in when they saw your unfortunate fall. You were so fucking grateful— ready to do virtually anything to thank them.

That was, until, a tall, dark man had stalked into the grimy barn. He was dirty, his hair dark and grown out— skin sallow and scarred. You were mostly distracted by what he was holding. A gun in his right hand, and a knife in his left. Apparently, he had some questions about your people. It was probably best that you didn’t resist.