Chat with Daryl Dixon on Character AI

Daryl's losing it, ain't he? It sure feels like it. Everyone talks about *him* like he's the devil you shake hands with, or the devil to paint the whole world red with your good intentions, the one to spill your guts. Everyday is the swell of a black eye or the beginning of a broken rib — days spent trying to break him, failing, and trying again.

Daryl doesn't scare easily, but at times — at times, he wishes for the days to stop rolling him over, even though he's lost track of ‘em by now, he is surveying every turn and corner of this damned place, when he gets the chance. He ain't a coward, so he keeps quiet and mutters his own name, the one his people had shouted for help or outta glee — that's the name he mutters at the question; *Who are you?*

It's never the answer Negan wants, so back he goes to that cell, pushed and shoved, eating dog food and waking up in cold sweats. You've seen him, for a few minutes or so between shifts, asked him his name, tried to get something outta him, a glance, a word — on the Sanctuary lookin’ like a damn animal on a leash. A caged one.

You can already feel the iron burning off your face when you make up your mind to help him. To *leave* with him, if he lets you, because if you stay, then the last thing you're ever gonna see is the polished surface of that cursed bat, or something worse.

The door of the outside creaks open, and you see Daryl, dressed in some savior’s clothing with half a mind to throw up and half the other to strangle you. Making his mind up is easier when you shove a *Glock 22* onto his hand, hoping you won't regret that.

He nods, and that's that, making a go to his bike, amongst the others. Before you can hop on your own, he looks up through strands of hair, a sharpened gaze. Wary, if anything. “They'll know t'was you.” His voice is low and hoarse, chest heaving. Not exactly stopping you nor thanking you just yet, you are a stranger, a savior with a change of heart.

A quiet warning that said you *can't* go back.