Chapter Text
Daryl’s shoulder screamed in protest as it connected with the door again, and the only two things he was aware of was the pounding of blood in his ears and the horrible moaning of the creatures as they shuffled closer and closer to him, their rotting arms reaching out for him.
But the door would just not fucking break. No matter hard Daryl threw himself at it, it wouldn’t give. He tried to keep himself from succumbing to the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him, but the pack was closing in and it was all he could do to keep from screaming and bringing enemy tributes down on him too.
The dead things- the dead people- were practically on top of him, whipping themselves into a frenzy over their cornered prey. Daryl prepared himself for one last launch at the door. If it didn’t break down this time, he wouldn’t let himself die cowering against the wall. No, he would go down fighting, hand to hand with the monsters and he would take out as many as he could before they tore him apart. A low roar ripped itself out of his throat as Daryl threw himself at the door with every last bit of adrenaline-fueled might he could muster.
And it broke.
Whatever had been keeping it closed snapped and the door flew inward, carrying Daryl with it. He toppled awkwardly into the building, bruised his face on the floor and rolled a little ways before scrambling to his feet. He didn’t even glance back at the horde of the walking dead behind him as he sprinted down the long, unlit hallway in front of him. He knew they were right behind him, stumbling through the doorway with their unsettling, lurching gait, and he had only one thing on his mind anyway. Run.
Hyperaware of the growls echoing behind him, Daryl ran like he never had before, his breath coming in huge, heaving gasps as his traitorous brain conjured up images of cold, lifeless hands clutching at him and yellowing teeth sinking into his skin. He flew past doors with grimy windows and old benches haphazardly shoved against the walls. Before he knew it, he had reached the end of the hallway and found himself confronted by a set of double doors.
As he slammed into them, trying to get them open as fast as possible, Daryl let himself glance back at the horde behind him to gauge their distance.
To his complete and utter bewilderment, none one of them had even managed to get halfway down the hallway. They were still intent on their prey, and they were moving more quickly than when he had first spotted them, but for all their snarling and terrible humanness, none of them were moving faster than a staggering half-run, half-walk.
Daryl didn’t allow himself to relax. The Gamemakers were infamous for engineering terrible things that had traits bordering on the supernatural, and he’d seen too many tributes let their guard down for a second and die as a result. He pulled open the double doors and ran up the concrete staircase behind them, not stopping to wait and see if the walkers were intelligent enough to pull open the doors.
Daryl raced up the stairs until it felt like his lungs would burst and his legs were pumping acid instead of blood. Even then, he refused to stop and continued to climb despite his muscles’ protests. He paused after a few minutes and crouched down to listen for growls echoing up the staircase that meant the walkers were following him, but the stairwell was completely silent. Daryl let himself take a few deep, shaky breaths to try and stop his hands from trembling. They had not managed to get through the doors. But that had been a close motherfucking encounter. Too close, and all he wanted to do now that the adrenaline had subsided was sit on his ass and cry and feel sorry for himself.
But he knew he was more than likely on camera right now, unless there was a life or death fight going on somewhere else. His life had been in serious danger for the first time and the Gamemakers would want to broadcast how he was going to handle it. And Daryl was not weak. The fiery depths of Hell would freeze over before he gave the entire country a reason to believe otherwise and lost all his chances of gaining a sponsor or two.
So Daryl pushed himself back up and continued to climb the seemingly endless stairs. He kept his expression stoic and calm, as if he hadn’t been affected at all by the walkers. But now that the immediate threat of the walkers had gone, he became painfully aware of the pounding of his heart, the dryness in his throat and the copious amounts of sweat causing his clothes to stick to his skin.
As he slowly made his way up the stairs, trying not to sweat any more than he already had, his thoughts turned back to getting up to the roof. Not only would it give him a damn good view of the arena, it would show sponsors that he wasn’t completely stupid and prove that he was able to keep his head after life threatening situations. He kept an eye out for hidden traps that Gamemakers might have set to keep tributes off the roof, but he eventually made it to the top floor without incident.
He clambered out of an open window onto the ancient fire escape jutting out from the side of the wall. His view of this side of the arena was exceptional, but there was no break in the expanse of the tall gray buildings of the ruined city, no snatches of blue or silver that would signal water. He saw a loose group of small humanoid figures moving sluggishly along a street far below him, and he wondered with a jolt if they were the freshly formed Career pack, hunting down tributes that had failed to run far enough or hide cleverly enough. His chest contracted in cold fear when he realized it was more of the walkers, ambling along aimlessly until they encountered fresh meat. Jesus, how many of them were there? Did they fill the entire city? The entire arena?
Daryl sat for a moment, contemplating the problem of the dangerous walker population and enjoying the cooling effect of the wind on his sweaty face. The setting sun was throwing vibrant oranges and pinks across the blue sky as it began its descent toward the horizon. He figured he had roughly an hour before it would be completely dark, and he wanted to see what was on the other side of the arena before finding himself somewhere to hide for the night.
As he pulled himself up the narrow ladder leading onto the roof, one of Daryl’s boots slipped on the metal rungs at the same time a particularly strong gust of wind blasted him. He was knocked sideways and for a second, he was flailing, eighty stories in the air above a rickety fire escape, holding on with only his hands as he struggled to get a grip again.
One of his boots hit something solid behind him. Daryl finally managed to get himself stabilized on the ladder, and he twisted to see what he possibly could have kicked. For a moment, he stared blankly into space as there were no protective metal bars encircling the ladder he was on. Keeping a firm grip on a metal rung, Daryl reached out a hand and leaned toward the empty space behind him. His hand bumped something solid and invisible two feet away, and he snorted in derision. Typical of the Gamemakers to add a force field around the ladder. Wouldn’t want any tributes throwing themselves off a building. No excitement or suspense for the audience.
Daryl quickly pulled himself up the rest of the way and stood staring eastward. The arena was roughly circular as far as he could tell, since the edges seemed hazy and far away. Daryl’s view was completely unbroken, and the city occupied about a third of the arena before dropping into a short expanse of tangled roads and fields. But it was the sight of the green forest that covered the entire eastern half of the arena that had Daryl gripping the handle of his dagger with almost feverish excitement as he dared to hope for the best. The trees would have food for him to catch and places for him to hide. If he made it to that forest, he had a fighting chance to get out of this place alive.
Daryl stayed on the roof a little longer, trying to memorize the arena before it got too dark. There was a small patch of green in the heart of the city that marked where the Cornucopia was located, a long, skinny break in the expanse of forest that might be a river or a gorge, and another circular bare spot near the edge that was likely a small pond. The only thing that unsettled him was how many of the walkers there seemed to be wandering the city streets. Daryl strained to see any quickly moving figures that might indicate his fellow tributes, but they were all either bunkering down for the night or else hidden amongst the buildings.
At last, when he finally admitted to himself that he wouldn’t be able to glean any more information from the rapidly darkening landscape, Daryl went back to the ladder and resigned himself to sleeping on the fire escape for the night. The roof felt too open and the inside of the building felt too claustrophobic, but the fire escape would keep him hidden from view from anyone looking up and the force field was an oddly comforting bonus. He dragged some old benches and storage cabinets around to block the door leading to the stairwell and the window that led to the fire escape for added security. Almost as soon as Daryl had finished building himself a kind of nest out of his sleeping bag, he heard the anthem, magnified so all the remaining tributes would hear it. The Gamemakers played the anthem right before they showed the death recap, and Daryl scrambled back up to the roof, suddenly desperate to see whether Rick had survived the first day.
Back home, he knew Merle would be watching a full coverage of each and every death with exclusive commentary by Claudius and Caesar. But broadcasting the details of the killings would give an unfair advantage to the living tributes, like if Daryl had managed to get a hold of the crossbow and shot someone with it, everyone would know his secret, so only simple headshots and district numbers were shown in the arena.
The first headshot suddenly appeared, pale silvery white against the blue-black sky. It was one of the boys from District 2, which meant that all of the tributes from District 1 had survived, including Eye Patch Kid. Daryl took a deep breath and ticked the first of the nineteen off on his fingers. The next two were both of the girls from District 3. Then a blond girl from 4- Amy, he thought was her name. All four tributes from 5. A boy from 6 that Daryl remembered was called Jim from the interviews. Both girls from 7. A boy and a girl each from 8 and 9. Yes, there was the boy Daryl had fought with over the backpack. Both boys from 10.
Daryl held his breath as the headshot of one of the boys from 11 hung in the air. There was only one more tribute to go, were they from District 12? Would it be Rick’s face he saw next, flashing silver in the sky? Sophia’s? No, there was one of the girls from 11, and then the Capitol seal was back with a final flourish of the anthem before it blinked out, plunging Daryl back into darkness.
He crept back to his sleeping bag, feeling relieved that Rick and the others had survived and almost shameful because of it. He didn’t understand the conflicting emotions that arose whenever he thought of Rick, the emotions that he tried to squash down every time they came up. Gratitude for the edge Rick had given him by professing his love for him in the interview. The warmth that blossomed in his chest every time his face came to mind, the memory of the way he had blushed when asked if he had anyone special. The dread that his face would be part of the death recap, floating silvery- white in the sky as his cold body was sent back to District 12. The terror that they might meet in the arena and be forced to fight.
The awful, heart-wrenching thought that in order for Daryl to survive and go home, Rick had to die.