dadyl | 𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝙱𝙾𝚇 ;

We got moved apart. Like I said; divide and conquer. If you want to split, or if you want to keep tabs, let me know.

Daryl? It's Rey.

They said everyone came back who died in the fight, but I just want to make sure you're okay.

hey. remember me? it's the guy you did meth with last week.

can i ask you something?

[ Nacho has heard that those who went on the mission have returned... but not all of them. And Barry's not back yet, pretty much ensuring that the worst possible thing must have happened to those who didn't return yet. There are murmurs, particularly among the demons, of a rescue mission. So he heads down to the shoreline to see what's going on, if there's another ship on the horizon. There are some other people down there already and as he walks among them to see who's back and who isn't, he spots Daryl. He approaches the other man, still looking out at the water, a hint of worry in his expression. ]

Hey... you know what's going on with the others yet?

Hey. Sound off. Haven't heard from you in a while.

[ Sometime after Carol's shown up back at his room, Negan decides to give Daryl a text. ]

You still alive?

[ Of course there’s some fuckery underfoot. Hell’s got a brand to maintain. Nothing ever swings mundane when they can have one of those ironic, nightmare twists at the end.

Apparently the demons are dressing up in costumes now. Apparently it’s getting contagious. He finds out when one of the local demons corners him and then, when the flirting doesn’t go far enough to satisfy, shoved him into a wall and kisses him on the mouth.

Things get a little fuzzy after that. He loses the thread. Picks it up again when he’s staggering away - knife in hand, thankfully not in a goddamn costume - and promptly walks face-first into a wall.

So, his tech’s glitching too. On top of everything. And it’s getting -

Hot. Hard to focus. Gabe drags a hand down his face, trying to slow his breathing down. His skin feels too tight.

Belatedly, he remembers to sheath the knife before he drops it outright.

Not good. Really, not fucking good.

He twitches. ]

What?

[ He’s out in the open. Disoriented. And he thinks, but cannot tell, that he’s got someone watching. ]

DAYRL

Where are you? [Rick needs to get out to Hellburbia and scout out a place for them to crash, but he's not leaving until he knows his family is safe from whatever is coming.]

[ They haven't talked since it happened. Since they'd both had the same horrible realization about what she'd done.

And Daryl doesn't want to talk to her now, she knows. But the longer she waits without any sign of Rick, the more she knows she has to say something. She has to.

She tries to tell herself it's got nothing to do with needing some reassurance that Daryl's still around and kicking, too. Even if it's a brutal one. ]

is rick with you

please just tell me

[ They don't have to talk. She just has to know. ]

[ Well, this sucks. Gabe doesn't bother throwing his shoulder against the door again. He's already smarting from his most recent attempt and he can feel a bruise blooming hot under his skin.

Earlier, he ran Daryl through the whistle code his team uses to communicate in the field. Sometimes their radios crap out, or get compromised. Sometimes there isn't enough time for words and they need a whistle to alert for traps, for threats in proximity, or to call for help. It's an old soldier's trick and they've shifted back into trusting each other - or at least they're getting there. Might as well put it into practice. Run drills when the stakes are lower. And why not scout out the area when they've got the opportunity? Gabe's not the greatest lock picker in the world, but he's got some training and he's got Daryl to watch his back, so it works out. Right up until they get into a room only to have the door slam shut behind them.

And now neither the door or the lock will give.

Gabe lowers his pistol, slowing his breathing down so he can scan the room. There isn't much in it. A familiar table. A shitload of knives. A drain in the floor. And a screen on the wall.

Ah. Torture room. ]

Okay. Guess they don't like us sneaking around.

[ He keeps his voice mild. He knew there was a chance their snooping could get noticed. Now they'll have to survive the consequence. ]

HELP

Sound off. Where are you?

Daryl?

Someone contacted the house today.

[ She's never texted him before. But this is better. He can't hear how spooked she still is. ]

[ It takes him a while to sleep off the hangover - or what he's been calling the hangover - and whatever else was done after he got yanked. All the memories shivering through him, stacked on top of each other. He was an accountant. He had siblings who didn't hate his guts. And he and Daryl -

Gabe's been trying his best not to think about that, actually. But life goes on.

He's wearing his armor when he knocks on Daryl's door, the rifle slung over his shoulder. ]

Daryl! You in?

How's he doing?

[ This time, there was an attempt to keep everyone together as a group. Safety in numbers and all that. A novel idea, except that of course Hell has its own, and the inevitable escalation when it turns out they aren't suffering enough or - perhaps - not quite creatively enough for the sadists in fucking charge.

He loses track of Daryl first. Which is a fucking problem.

Then he gets cornered. And it goes bad. There's a needle, and something injected into his neck that goes down smooth and almost sweet, like honey on the tongue. And when he wakes up, he wakes up wheezing, his lungs burning, and -

And, suddenly, flailing in water. ]

[ Carol's plans to avoid the carnival entirely haven't exactly gone the way she'd wanted, with everyone apparently eager to dash right in despite knowing that there's nothing there but pain and betrayal. She doesn't understand it. She'd be thrilled to see the carnival just vanish from the face of Hell forever.

At least Daryl's smart enough not to go in without a reason. She doesn't think she can take having to throw knives at him while he spins helplessly suspended before her. Or worse, go through the fucking Tunnel of Love with him again. Maybe the ride wouldn't be so bad for them this time - a lot's changed, after all, and their relationship is probably the strongest and most solid it's ever been. But Carol's not taking a chance. Even if everything they'd said to each other was the truth, that doesn't mean it necessarily does them any good to hear it. If Daryl's keeping anything from her now, she doesn't want to know it unless he chooses to share it with her.

But apparently the carnival's tricks don't stop at its borders. They're walking quietly through the halls of the hotel together, a place that - while never truly safe - should have at least been free of the carnival's effects. Which is why Carol's not paying too much attention, and why she takes a few steps on her own before realizing that Daryl's no longer at her side. She stops, turning around, a look of confusion on her face that quickly turns to alarm when she sees the glazed, faraway look in his eyes. ]

Daryl?

[ She runs back to him, grabbing his arm, eyes instantly wide with panic as she shakes him, trying to snap him out of it. ]

Daryl!

Yo...Daryl...you there? It's--it's Jesse.

[ Something about his voice just isn't right. It's hoarser than usual and faint, like he's fighting just to get the words out. ]

Somethin-- [ There's a wet, hacking cough, and then a whimper. ] Oh fuck. Somethin's wrong with me, man.

hey

To Whom It May Concern,

It has been years now since Hell has been redone and made even greater than ever before. And you, my prized guest, have made it twelve months in your journey towards redemption. I know that there have been bumps along the way and we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I do wish to show my gratitude. Together, we will all leave Hell one day.

I have handpicked gifts specifically for you to commemorate this anniversary. I do hope you enjoy them.

A basket of assorted dog treats and some homemade moonshine

A picture of Carol

A voucher to get out of torture. It may be transferred to another party.

Again, I thank you for all of your help in making Hell what it is today.

Yours,
Lucifer

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[ action; before the sacrifices' return ]

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