Walking Dead Ficlet: "Captured"
Title: Captured
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl
Rating: PG
Word Count: 504
Summary: He's got a high tolerance for pain, forged through years of living with his old man. They can do whatever they want to him. He ain't telling them shit.
Notes: Gapfiller for Episode 308. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "sensory deprivation"
Captured
by Severina
His friends got away.
Daryl tries to keep that in mind when they surround him, when they strip him of his bow and his gun and force him to his knees. He saw Rick and Maggie make it up and over the bus, saw Oscar laying down covering fire as they helped Glenn out of Woodbury. His friends got away.
He sneers at his captors when they bind his hands behind his back, ignores the wrench of pain in his shoulder. Takes the sucker punch that he sees coming from a mile away, spits out the blood and stares defiantly up at the fucker who's too chicken-shit to take him on in a fair fight.
He's got a high tolerance for pain, forged through years of living with his old man. They can do whatever they want to him. He ain't telling them shit.
He's fine until they put the canvas bag over his head.
That's when he realizes that they ain't gonna lock him up, torture him, question him. They're just gonna kill him.
He tries to take shallow even breaths, but the heavy cloth pulls into his mouth with every breath, catches on his dry lips, sucks at his throat. Tries to suffocate him. The voices of his captors are muffled, derisive mumbles and snickering laughter, and this time when the punch comes he can't see, can't prepare for it. The force of the blow sends him over onto his side, and though he tries to scramble away the boot still catches him in the ribcage, steals his breath. He gasps through the pain.
When they pull him to his feet he stumbles - him, always so sure-footed no matter where he is - and leans into the chest of one of the Governor's men. The man laughs, cuffs him in the head, sends him staggering into the chest of another. It becomes a game, then, to push and pull him as they walk. Daryl tries to get his breathing under control, tries to get his feet properly under him. Tries not to focus on the sweat burning into his eyes beneath the coarse cloth, or the sound of his own harsh, staccato breathing in his ears. He tries to keep the panic at bay.
When the air on his exposed skin changes, he knows they've pushed him into an open area. The sound of the voices is louder, here, chants and screams for his blood. And one voice overrides them all, an orator's voice, no different from the fire and brimstone pastors of his childhood. The words are still muffled, but the intent is clear. He's going to die.
At least his friends - his family - got away.
18 down, 7 to go. Eek.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl
Rating: PG
Word Count: 504
Summary: He's got a high tolerance for pain, forged through years of living with his old man. They can do whatever they want to him. He ain't telling them shit.
Notes: Gapfiller for Episode 308. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "sensory deprivation"
Captured
by Severina
His friends got away.
Daryl tries to keep that in mind when they surround him, when they strip him of his bow and his gun and force him to his knees. He saw Rick and Maggie make it up and over the bus, saw Oscar laying down covering fire as they helped Glenn out of Woodbury. His friends got away.
He sneers at his captors when they bind his hands behind his back, ignores the wrench of pain in his shoulder. Takes the sucker punch that he sees coming from a mile away, spits out the blood and stares defiantly up at the fucker who's too chicken-shit to take him on in a fair fight.
He's got a high tolerance for pain, forged through years of living with his old man. They can do whatever they want to him. He ain't telling them shit.
He's fine until they put the canvas bag over his head.
That's when he realizes that they ain't gonna lock him up, torture him, question him. They're just gonna kill him.
He tries to take shallow even breaths, but the heavy cloth pulls into his mouth with every breath, catches on his dry lips, sucks at his throat. Tries to suffocate him. The voices of his captors are muffled, derisive mumbles and snickering laughter, and this time when the punch comes he can't see, can't prepare for it. The force of the blow sends him over onto his side, and though he tries to scramble away the boot still catches him in the ribcage, steals his breath. He gasps through the pain.
When they pull him to his feet he stumbles - him, always so sure-footed no matter where he is - and leans into the chest of one of the Governor's men. The man laughs, cuffs him in the head, sends him staggering into the chest of another. It becomes a game, then, to push and pull him as they walk. Daryl tries to get his breathing under control, tries to get his feet properly under him. Tries not to focus on the sweat burning into his eyes beneath the coarse cloth, or the sound of his own harsh, staccato breathing in his ears. He tries to keep the panic at bay.
When the air on his exposed skin changes, he knows they've pushed him into an open area. The sound of the voices is louder, here, chants and screams for his blood. And one voice overrides them all, an orator's voice, no different from the fire and brimstone pastors of his childhood. The words are still muffled, but the intent is clear. He's going to die.
At least his friends - his family - got away.
18 down, 7 to go. Eek.
.