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TEST DRIVE ∞ Sept 2025
Test Drive ∞ Sept 2025
The Progenitor
The Diadem is an invite-only panfandom game set in a retro-futuristic world where uprooted souls find themselves deep within an eerie wasteland of roads and highways frequently assailed by cosmic storms. Three united strongholds keep the population. Its capital is Panorama, a large metropolis at the planet's center.
Soon, you realize you aren't alone. Calling themselves fluxdrifts, the "locals" have similar stories to you, either for themselves or their ancestry. You speak to an old woman who claims she hailed from another star. You meet a young man who says his great-great-grandfather knew a strange language everybody spoke "back home." As you explore, you stumble across a coin you recognize or your sister's locket. How did it get here? What does this mean? That's for you to discover.
But first, you need to find a ride.
Soon, you realize you aren't alone. Calling themselves fluxdrifts, the "locals" have similar stories to you, either for themselves or their ancestry. You speak to an old woman who claims she hailed from another star. You meet a young man who says his great-great-grandfather knew a strange language everybody spoke "back home." As you explore, you stumble across a coin you recognize or your sister's locket. How did it get here? What does this mean? That's for you to discover.
But first, you need to find a ride.
No invites needed to play on the TDM. Everyone's welcome! Use the thread below to request an invite from another player.
Current characters can make top-levels to the TDM, but you must include prompts that are open to all. Please label CURRENT or NEW in the subject.
Current characters can make top-levels to the TDM, but you must include prompts that are open to all. Please label CURRENT or NEW in the subject.
∞ Summary ∞
IC-wise, arrivals are scattered from mid-month into the next month. Post-impact, characters will wake up in a med tent by the Scrapyard. From there, they must accept a vehicle on loan and make the 2-hour drive to the nearest city, Panorama. If they refuse the car because they don't want the loan, they'll be in debt for medical care instead...so take the car. It'll come in handy.
TDM threads can be canon if characters are accepted. New arrivals will not be affected by the recent event.
Some things to keep in mind when bringing in your character:
TDM threads can be canon if characters are accepted. New arrivals will not be affected by the recent event.
Some things to keep in mind when bringing in your character:
- Pick an injury. At minimum, they got knocked out; at most, whatever they can recover from. Medicine is decently advanced, so they'll heal faster if not painlessly.
- Decide items kept. Reasonable items on their person only: photos, keys, clothes, costumes. No pets or animal companions. Wildly out-of-place tech and personal cell phones will be damaged beyond repair.
- Select a weapon. Do this only if eligible. Guidelines about weapons and powers are on the FAQ.
- Choose a vehicle. Decide whether your character gets 2-3 options or if they're stuck with something they hate. Players can pick directly from our collection or source their own images. Anything under a similar aesthetic will work. If your character needs accommodations for driving, they can have them. Ask us for details.
- Get a phone. Characters have to obtain a phone (and a SIM card) themselves. If they've got one from home, it's damaged beyond repair. Phones are cheap. It'll only take a couple of weeks to afford one. You need to know the number before texting or calling anyone. Read about phones and the Forum before you hop on it.
Scrapyard
Arrival & Introduction
Date: Mid-September and into October
You've tumbled over a cliff. You were fighting for your life. You're on the cusp of death. You slipped in the shower. Whatever the catalyst, you struggle to cling to consciousness. As darkness overtakes you, a swirling vortex warps light and shadow in a way that defies all physics. A dark wail etches into your very bones. You couldn't describe it if you tried. You can barely comprehend what it is.
Then you open your eyes.
Through the figure's mask ©, you swear the face is grinning down at you. The tent you're in smells of antiseptic, and scratchy blankets line your cot. Injuries you've sustained have been bandaged. In the corner, you spot a MedBot that's fixed you up. Depending on the extent of your injuries, the doctor on duty might give you some painkillers before you go. Thankfully, your belongings are by the exit. Sorry if anything's damaged. Your landing was pretty rough.
You follow the figure outside. They are Yom Crook, here to lend a hand to fellow fluxdrifts like yourself. Their car's parked beside them. Actually, there are lots of cars around, but Yom Crook's stands out with its painted shark mouth. They explain they found you, unconscious, in a diffusion zone and brought you here. The nearest city is a 2-hour drive northeast. Forget about walking. You'll never make it. But you're in luck: they've got some wheels for you. It's not the prettiest, but it'll do. If fortune favors, you'll get to choose between two or three options. Plus, if you need accommodations to drive—like adjustments to your seat height or modified controls—you'll receive all that for free.
Take the vehicle. (And the loan.) Yom Crook assures you that you'll have six months before collectors come around. Any time you're ready to pay a part of it down, return here to the Scrapyard. You'll get a receipt and everything. Paying off the loan in six months isn't impossible, but it will take a lot of work. Just don't get too lax. There's a good chance you'll be juggling multiple loans as you try to get by.
You either know how to drive, or you'll have a bare-bones manual to get you started. Road rules are more a suggestion than enforced, so just hit the pedal and go. The car has some basic features. The built-in compass will help you navigate.
Through the figure's mask ©, you swear the face is grinning down at you. The tent you're in smells of antiseptic, and scratchy blankets line your cot. Injuries you've sustained have been bandaged. In the corner, you spot a MedBot that's fixed you up. Depending on the extent of your injuries, the doctor on duty might give you some painkillers before you go. Thankfully, your belongings are by the exit. Sorry if anything's damaged. Your landing was pretty rough.
You follow the figure outside. They are Yom Crook, here to lend a hand to fellow fluxdrifts like yourself. Their car's parked beside them. Actually, there are lots of cars around, but Yom Crook's stands out with its painted shark mouth. They explain they found you, unconscious, in a diffusion zone and brought you here. The nearest city is a 2-hour drive northeast. Forget about walking. You'll never make it. But you're in luck: they've got some wheels for you. It's not the prettiest, but it'll do. If fortune favors, you'll get to choose between two or three options. Plus, if you need accommodations to drive—like adjustments to your seat height or modified controls—you'll receive all that for free.
Take the vehicle. (And the loan.) Yom Crook assures you that you'll have six months before collectors come around. Any time you're ready to pay a part of it down, return here to the Scrapyard. You'll get a receipt and everything. Paying off the loan in six months isn't impossible, but it will take a lot of work. Just don't get too lax. There's a good chance you'll be juggling multiple loans as you try to get by.
You either know how to drive, or you'll have a bare-bones manual to get you started. Road rules are more a suggestion than enforced, so just hit the pedal and go. The car has some basic features. The built-in compass will help you navigate.
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: A massive pothole sends your hubcap flying; debris off a delivery truck zooming by strikes your windshield or roof; your windshield wipers are broken and the rain is coming down heavy, obscuring your vision.
Panorama
Explore & Settle In
Conditions: Cool temperatures, frequent rain and wind
After 2 hours on the road, you find civilization. The largest of the strongholds, Panorama is where the economy thrives. Massive power plants glowing red make it visible from a distance. The city is divided into three districts. You'll only have access to the Pavilion and the Blocks for now. Don't worry about the Sanctum; they're not letting you in. The commute between the Pavilion and the Blocks can be as long as 1 hour or so, depending on where you start and end, but there are shops and stores in walking distance of the Blocks, too. The division between the two areas isn't particularly strict.
You only need to know two things about Panorama: 1) it's big, the size of a modern metropolis, and you'll need your car to get around; 2) anything goes as long as you don't pick a fight with the wrong person. Street smarts will get you far. Despite its geographical size, the population isn't huge. With roughly a million people in a city designed for over twice that number, Panorama is far from deserted, but nor is it overcrowded. It's a good thing. Resources are limited as it is.
You only need to know two things about Panorama: 1) it's big, the size of a modern metropolis, and you'll need your car to get around; 2) anything goes as long as you don't pick a fight with the wrong person. Street smarts will get you far. Despite its geographical size, the population isn't huge. With roughly a million people in a city designed for over twice that number, Panorama is far from deserted, but nor is it overcrowded. It's a good thing. Resources are limited as it is.
The Pavilion: Petting Zoo
Farm animals and livestock are a rare sight in Panorama. Typically seen only in the agricultural town of Acreage, each September brings a special two-week event to the city: a petting zoo, set up an abandoned warehouse on the southwest end of the Pavilion. The animals are driven up at great risk by identical twin sisters Addie and Ada. They're longtime farmhands and look it, their faces weathered but cheerful...if you follow the rules. The sisters are intimidating and armed with shotguns, and will not take kindly to anyone threatening their animals.
Pens are set up using what's available: wooden crates, plastic baby gates, and chicken wire. Some attempt's been made to "decorate" the area, covering the graffiti and any suspicious stains with poster board and dollar store garlands, but anyone who's been to a real petting zoo will have seen...better.
Still, the excitement makes up for the shoddy aesthetics. Though young children are a rarer sight in Panorama, a good amount of them have come out with their guardians (or alone) to line up, and adults in general are eager to participate. Entry fees are very affordable. You can barter using cigarettes, alcohol, batteries, and frozen dumplings (hard to come by in Acreage).
Pens are set up using what's available: wooden crates, plastic baby gates, and chicken wire. Some attempt's been made to "decorate" the area, covering the graffiti and any suspicious stains with poster board and dollar store garlands, but anyone who's been to a real petting zoo will have seen...better.
Still, the excitement makes up for the shoddy aesthetics. Though young children are a rarer sight in Panorama, a good amount of them have come out with their guardians (or alone) to line up, and adults in general are eager to participate. Entry fees are very affordable. You can barter using cigarettes, alcohol, batteries, and frozen dumplings (hard to come by in Acreage).
- Animals include: A sheep, five piglets, a handful of chicks and chickens, an elderly goat, and—most popular—a pony, upon which either small children or people of small stature (5 feet or under) can ride. If you're too big for the pony, you can ride the mule instead, but really, they just kind of go in a small circle. The kids seem to like it, though.
- Activities include: A small ball toss area, a concession stand selling mismatched candy, soda, and booze, and someone doing face painting on the side. About halfway through the week, the face paint artist vanishes. As a result, the sisters will request face painting volunteers who'll help out for the rest of the event.
- The Pigcident: On the sixth day, someone sets loose the piglets in the middle of the night. Fearing they may be eaten or worse, Addie and Ada request help to bring them back. Luckily, the piglets are found by the end of the event. As for the security guard on duty that night, well...the twins will only say he's been "dealt with." He's never seen again.
The Blocks: "Pumpkin" Patch
Just because nobody's tending idyllic pumpkin patches in the city doesn't mean the tradition of pumpkin picking has died. Rather, it's adapted to the reality of the planet. Through mid-September and into October, a large parking lot by one of the motels in the Blocks has been overtaken by pumpkin patch organizers, an annual tradition that's existed for as long back as anyone can remember. Even if you're not participating, the central location means it's impossible not to pass through the area at some point as you go about your day.
- Pumpkin Making: Design one or more pumpkins out of anything: yarn, twine, scrap metal, paper, or cardboard. It doesn't need to be good! Once your pumpkin is ready, deliver your pumpkin to the designated Inspector, wearing an official-looking nametag scrawled in red Sharpie. One year, a "pumpkin" led to one of the motels burning down, injuring twenty and killing five. Inspection is now mandatory. (Veterans of the Patch refer to this incident as the Pump Dump of '02.)
- Pumpkin Picking: For a small fee, you can walk through the pumpkin patch. The Patch is lined with fake grass for authenticity. Participants may select one pumpkin. You can make friends or fight over a particularly cool one. Then it's yours! Do with it what you want. Some might have a small token inside, such as a plastic bug, candy, or a fancy marble. Tradition says if you get a token, you should gift it to someone or else the spirit of Lantern Jack will haunt you.
- Patch Keeping: Identified by their clown masks, Patch Keepers wander the Patch to make sure people (mostly) behave. They do, in fact, have tasers. If you, too, would like to be a clown and carry a taser, you can sign up! The job pays okay. As long as you're willing to wear the clown mask and menace people getting ornery over fake pumpkins, you're hired. Patch Keepers work in pairs, not for their own safety but to keep each other in check (there's also been several excessive taser incidents in the past). Don't lose your partner! That's your character witness in case anyone accuses you of abusing your taser privileges.
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: You trip over an escaped piglet on the street or in a store; a chicken attacks you for no reason; someone has mistaken you for another Patch Keeper and has tracked you down after your shift to confront you about an unfair tasing.
The Fringes
Quad 2: Integration
Conditions: Stormy, raining, dark
Content Warnings: Explicit body horror, themes of mercy killing
Content Warnings: Explicit body horror, themes of mercy killing
Likely, it's the noise that makes you stop before you even get the chance to take in the scene: the wails and moans of agony are impossible to ignore as you drive up. If you get out to investigate, the cause will become clear. The environment of this diffusion zone has burst through another and swallowed up everything in its vicinity, fusing bodies, concrete, and steel together. Such incidents are extraordinarily rare—usually, when a diffusion zone shifts into another, the environment simply disappears or fades into another—but, perhaps related to the meteor fall at the top of the month, something about this area has caused untold horrors to unfold.
Some of the victims have been lucky enough to expire, suffocating inside drywall and beneath the asphalt. Others aren't so, and it'll be up to you to decide what you're willing to do. Can you help? How badly are their bodies fused? Can you cut around the material somehow to release them? Are they only being kept alive by the fusion process itself?
Encounter
If you're the one coming into the scene, you have some choices to make:
Are you part of the unfortunate souls caught in this disaster? That's entirely possible if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You'll have to rely on your abilities to free yourself or the help of another, or some combination. While more severe injuries have a good chance of being healed given the amount of fluxdrifts who have unique powers and the Diadem's general medical advancements, death is permanent...so try not to do that.
Some of the victims have been lucky enough to expire, suffocating inside drywall and beneath the asphalt. Others aren't so, and it'll be up to you to decide what you're willing to do. Can you help? How badly are their bodies fused? Can you cut around the material somehow to release them? Are they only being kept alive by the fusion process itself?
Players are welcome to create a generic NPC to facilitate their threads.
Encounter
If you're the one coming into the scene, you have some choices to make:
- Risk being absorbed into the scene yourself as you help free others. While it's impossible to tell if this zone will consume new victims, there's an uncomfortable give to solid materials in the environment when you touch them...as if, should you apply too much pressure, you'll also sink right into a piece of steel or concrete. Using tools, abilities, or a combination, it'll be possible to pull off a rescue.
- Determine that there is no saving some. Individuals may either beg you to end their suffering or to try and save them against all odds. The decision is ultimately yours. If you've found yourself with someone else facing the same dilemma, you might have to come to an agreement—or make an executive choice your companion may not approve of.
- Abandon the scene. Perhaps you don't care or it's too much for you to deal with. Though you may leave behind the wails of the damned, you find they haunt you into the next zone over. Could someone convince you to go back? Or will you convince someone else not to go that way to spare them the same experience?
Are you part of the unfortunate souls caught in this disaster? That's entirely possible if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You'll have to rely on your abilities to free yourself or the help of another, or some combination. While more severe injuries have a good chance of being healed given the amount of fluxdrifts who have unique powers and the Diadem's general medical advancements, death is permanent...so try not to do that.
- Flag down help. Maybe your hand has fused through the walls of a delivery truck or your feet have sunk to the ankles into some tiled floors. Cutting around you might be possible, but it could be dangerous, and the longer you're stuck, the more you fear you're trapped here forever. It doesn't help that others around you might be far worse off than you are.
- Though you were lucky enough to escape personal injury, your vehicle has fused to the zone. You're a long ways from the city or the Scrapyard, and you certainly can't afford to abandon your ride. You need that. Maybe someone coming by can assist with getting your car back on the road.
- You've managed to escape on your own, but you need medical attention. You can't drive very far with your injuries. Maybe you start to run off the road or you lose consciousness while driving. Either way, someone'll have to come along to lend you a hand.
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: You encounter the scene after it's morphed into something else, leaving behind mangled limbs and bodies in an otherwise unremarkable grocery store.
Main Navigation ::: ⇅
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ғʀɪɴɢᴇs. — graphic content warning.
But that's not a universally true concept.
There's one cluster that's been uncommonly, uncomfortably organized. One with a leader that's been pulling in handfuls of fringe raiders, welcoming them into the fold, training them, teaching them, moving them around like battalions in their own personal army. Frank's been working on hunting them all down for months, and it's been a god damn feat — which is an impressive thing to manage against a man like the Punisher.
One glaring vulnerability, one constant MO, is their tendency to hang around diffusion zones and jump poor, unsuspecting fluxdrifts who happen by. Usually to steal whatever they've scavenged, take their car, leave them for dead. Sometimes, just to play with them. Hard to say what the reason is this time, but one thing becomes clear in an unfortunate second for Daryl: it's a setup.
He gets close enough to offer that sinking bastard a lifeline, and said sinking bastard just begins to grin — and then he whistles, sharp and loud. His friends come pouring out of the woodwork like scattering roaches, crowbars and baseball bats and knives in hand, advancing on what they mistakenly believe to be an easy target.
They'll be surprised to realize Daryl's not quick to put down. He can tear through two, three, four of them over the course of several tense seconds. But surely, with their overwhelming numbers —
From some distant somewhere, a shot rings out, and one of the raider's heads nearest Daryl explodes in a spray of brain matter, skull fragments, and blood. )
no subject
It's a goddamn set up.
A sharp curse leaves his lips, and he jerks his hand back, barely keeps it from that bastard's hands. Everything else happens fast - a flurry of motion that gets his mind racing and his pulse cranking up wildly. But just as quickly as it all starts, something else kicks in. Call it instinct, maybe, but whatever it is rips violently through him without any warning.
A few well aimed punches, a throw that sends one of those bastards tumbling into the same mess as their body. Something blunt and hard cracks against his side, hands grab at his sleeves in a grip he wrestles out of. None of it really registers, not even the slice of a knife that gets his bicep as he slams an elbow back and into someone's face with a sickening crack. And he even gets the sling around another one's neck, wrapping and pulling, relentless in the way he drags them down to the ground as they struggle to get free.
But there are more - closing in on the edges of his vision. He gives one more vicious pull of the sling before the raider goes lip, and then that shot comes, splattering gore across his shoulder and side of his face as one of the people closing in on him goes down. He couldn't tell you if whoever shot is on his side (no one is, he tells himself) but he uses the save to snatch up a fallen knife, drives it forward and into a raider's abdomen without a thought. And then he's bodying his way forward, towards his bike and crossbow when someone barrels into him and takes him to the ground. )
no subject
Another shot. Another high-caliber round introduced to a human skull.
The third guy was already closing in when the shot hit, and his feet skid to a stop — but it's too late. He pops like a balloon, too.
Finally, one of them's smart enough to connect the dot. From across the sinking pavement, he yells, "This asshole's got a friend! Get back! Get back, you fucking idiot!"
They can't track the trajectory of the shots, they don't know where it's coming from, and this whole thing's starting to look way, way less worth it — especially when the guy grappling Daryl gets distracted realizing his buddies aren't coming to back him up anymore.
What a good man would do: prioritize Daryl, clear the distance between them, plug the guy he's wrestling with to be absolutely sure he doesn't get hurt.
What Frank does: figures by the way he was throwing elbows and snapping necks a second ago he's got his shit together enough to handle it, and instead, he books it around the perimeter, chasing down the ones running away. None of them are gonna walk away from this alive. )
no subject
For a heartbeat he expects another one to come charging, expects to feel teeth or steel in his side. Instead? Just silence thick as tar, punctuated by sharp movement in the distance. Not aimed at him. At them.
He wipes the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand, eyes cutting across the fractured stretch of road, looking for whoever the hell's pulling the trigger. But it ain't hard to figure out when he catches a shape moving along the edges, methodical, hunting down the ones bolting.
It ain't a rescue, hadn't been someone offering a friendly hand. Whoever's firing ain't here for him. He ain't stupid enough to think otherwise. But his jaw sets hard as he watches one more runner drop in the dirt. Whoever it is, they chose the chase over covering him. Left him to finish his own fight. That's fine with him for the moment. Far as he's concerned, none of these fuckers are walking away after this.
He sprints after the other, pauses to ready his crossbow. One raider goes down, then another with the sharp whistle of a bolt from his crossbow. Between the two of them, the last few raiders drop quickly. And then it's just the two of them, bodies spread around them, sprawled in messy heaps and splatters of blood.
Daryl spits red into the dust, lips curling back. His voice cuts low, rough, carrying just enough to reach. )
Friends of yours?
( Comign from someone else, it might be a joke. But coming from Daryl? It's hard to say if he's joking, accusing, or something else entirely. )
no subject
A long, wary moment's spent studying Daryl, finger still on the trigger even if he doesn't move to aim the rifle at the guy just yet. It would only take a second, but that's a second long enough for him to get a crossbow bolt to his own fucking face for moving too quick.
Besides, his problem's not with this guy. Not unless he rolled up here to enlist with those assholes.
Slowly, very slowly, the rifle's barrel droops toward the ground. Every bit as southern as Daryl sounds, that's about how northern Frank sounds — all New York, wrapped up in rust, hoarse on a practically permanent basis. Tit for tat. )
Somethin' like that.
( The answer's dry, flat, and short. Doesn't seem like he intends to elaborate just yet. )
Hope you weren't planning on winning 'em over, 'cause if so, I got some bad news.
no subject
Then the barrel dips. A choice made. Daryl mirrors it slow, cautious, the crossbow lowering but never fully relaxed. Still a bowstring pulled tight, ready to fire. His hair hangs low over his face, hiding the sharp look he keeps trained forward, still reading every movement like he's waiting for a sign that Frank's gonna be just like these guys. Someone else he'll have to put down.
A low huff slips out — scorn more than humor. It says what he doesn't bother to voice outright: you got shitty friends. )
Nah, ( he mutters finally, voice a low crackle of gravel. ) Fuck 'em.
( He swipes a dirty sleeve across his cheek, smearing the blood instead of clearing it. The copper taste of his split lip's still sharp on his tongue. Whole thing's a pain in the ass. There's another drag of silence, and the way his jaw flexes says he's considering something. Then, finally: )
Don't figure this was charity. ( The assist, he means. He's seen enough shit in his life to know people don't help just because anymore. They always want somethin'.) So what'd you get out of it?
no subject
The answer's good enough for him, anyway. Frank's got an instinct about people, an uncanny ability to read them. He can see things in a man's body language, in the words they choose, in the things he can or can't find in their expression. Probably why this guy's hiding most of his behind his hair.
Doesn't matter, he can see enough to know honesty. He wasn't here with them, wasn't planning on joining the team. Probably doesn't plan on drawing on Frank unless Frank draws first, so he finally lowers the rifle entirely, slinging it over one shoulder by the strap. )
I got them dead.
( Simple as that — he'd be killing them whether Daryl showed up or not. And, if they're being especially honest here, he watched Daryl walk into that setup knowing full well what it was, without saying jack fucking shit, because the guy made for decent bait to draw them all out. Not like he planned it or anything, he just saw an opportunity presenting itself, and used it. If anything makes them even, it's that Frank didn't stop him in the first place. So. )
You don't owe me shit.
( If that's what he's worried about.
Now comes the after. Back home, that would mean cleaning up bodies. Here, it doesn't matter. This is a diffusion zone; the whole place'll be gone in a few weeks, and the bodies will go with it. What it means now is Frank checking the corpses for cash, for weapons he can pawn. For ammo he can use to restock his own supplies. This is not something he does to make a living, but he does still need to eat, and working at the Stock Market only pays so much. )
no subject
He crouches again, this time searching pockets. Finds a knife, balanced good in his palm, edge still sharp, and that goes on his belt. The next body turns up a pistol, scratched but solid, and a magazine with some weight to it. He checks the slide, chambers empty, then tucks it into his waistband. No telling when he'll need it. Out here, feels like he'll need it sooner rather than later. He hasn't come across any walkers out here yet, but if all these sons a bitches are any indication, it'll probably get some use sooner rather than later.
By the time he straightens, his side's throbbing where the blade caught him earlier, a reminder of how close it got. He ignores it, same way he always has. His eyes track back to the man with the rifle. Slung now, not aimed, but Daryl keeps his shoulders stiff, body turned just enough that he can move quick if it shifts the wrong way. It ain't personal — it's just survival.
He fishes an extra mag of one of the bodies, eyes the brass slide into it. Doesn't fit the pistol he's picked off one of them, but it could be useful later. For a second, he considers keeping it. Could trade it later, could stash it. But Frank did his share of the killing, and Daryl knows what it's like to run dry. He flips it in his hand, then holds it out, palm open. )
Don't fit what I'm carryin'.
( His voice is low, worn, not warm but not hostile either. More like a man stating fact than offering charity. He doesn't step in close, just leaves the space open, eyes still sharp behind his bangs as he waits to see if the other man takes it. )
no subject
But recently —
Recently, he's been good. Better. Felt something close to resembling being at peace with the loss of his family, felt something like a connection with other people. Actually let himself have it, too, and so far it hasn't bitten him in the ass. He's been doing the real human life thing, with a job, and going to bars, talking to people. Being social. Being a person. Being okay.
So, after a second of wary hesitation, he takes one slow step, then another, until he's close enough to reach out and take the mag. Flips it lightly around in his hand, considering.
This guy's new. Must be, if he came out to the Fringes like this. If he's willing to give up loot he found in a diffusion zone, when some storm chasers would kill a man for less. Could've sold this for a hundred, bought himself a couple nights in a motel, some food, some coffee. Spent it on strippers, for all Frank knows.
It's not nothing.
So, after a beat, he sighs. )
I got a kit in the van. For your arm. Use what you need, and we'll call it an even trade.
( Bandages, antiseptic. Might need to sew it up, even, if he plans on doing any more tussling out here in the asshole of nowhere. )
no subject
That's what gnaws at him as he stands there, shoulders tight, the weight of his crossbow strap biting sharp into his collar. He comes from a place worse than this, worse than the dead shambling outside. He's seen men gut each other over a pack of smokes, seen his old man sell out kin for a bottle, seen people lure you in with something safe only to rip it all out for you. Trust is a joke. Kindness, a weakness. World went to shit and all it did was prove him right.
But Beth's face flashes, unbidden. Her voice, soft but stubborn, telling him he's better than the shit he came from, from the world he left behind before coming here. That he ain't gotta stay that way. Maybe she's dead, maybe she ain't, but that voice still sticks, like a splinter under the skin. He can't shake it. Makes him do stupid things like handing over ammo to a stranger with a rifle and a look he don't trust yet.
So when Frank offers his kit, Daryl's jaw tightens. Doesn't trust it, doesn't trust him. Nothing's free, not ever. He expects a hook buried somewhere in the offer, waiting to snag later. His gut whispers he'll always owe him one, no matter what the other man says. That's just how it goes.
But still, his arm burns, blood tacky down his side, and he knows an infection can drop you faster than a bullet. He's not dumb. Not blind. He's got enough scars to know when to take the help, even if it tastes sour going down. )
Trade's even then.
( He replies carefully. He doesn't step move yet, not until he sees Frank move first. His hand hovers near the crossbow strap all the same, tension wound tight. And he follows without a word. Mindful to keep his hands where Frank can see them, not too move too fast. This place is just like home where you gotta make sure you don't give someone a reason to do the worst if they ain't already planning on it. )
no subject
Fortunately, it doesn't come to that.
Frank leads Daryl back to a god damn minivan. The back hatch has a handful of stickers decorating it; a doodle-y stick figure lesbian couple with a stick figure baby and a couple stick figure cats. A coexist bumper sticker over a silver Jesus line fish.
All of this is in complete odds with both the man popping the hatch, and the sheer quantity of firepower tucked away behind it. A hefty variety of rifles, shotguns, and a few fancier things in between. A tool bag's tucked beside a case of water. This is the minivan of a doomsday prepper if ever there was one — and what he produces from one of the cargo storage cubbies is a military-grade IFAK.
He hands it over, then patiently perches himself on the bumper with the hatch still open overhead like a sun shield.
Do what you gotta do. He's patient. He'll wait. )
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Doesn't surprise Daryl, though. He's seen worse. Out on the road, you take what moves and pray it keeps moving. He's seen killers behind the wheels of church vans, drunks in squad cars, scavengers hauling loot in pastel minivans with car seats still strapped in. The world don't match the outside to the inside anymore.
He crouches down in the dirt, kit balanced on one knee. Cracks it open and takes a second to look over what's inside — better than what he's had in a long while. No wasted motion as he tears a packet open and presses the pad to the gash in his arm. The sting bites sharp enough to twist his face, jaw tightening hard against it, but no sound comes out. Been patching himself up too long to give it a voice.
He works the bandage one-handed, wraps it snug, knots it off with a rough pull. The throbbing settles to a dull ache. Good enough. He wipes what's left of the blood off with the side of his palm and glances up.
Frank's still there, perched calm under the hatch like he's got all the time in the world. Daryl's eyes drift past him to the stack of rifles, the water, the neat order of it all. A man like that in a van like this, he files it away, doesn't ask. Help always comes with a cost, and the fact he hasn't seen one yet makes him restless in its own way.
He stands and offers the kit back, gaze steady on Frank. )
Won't forget it.
( Voice low, more statement than thanks but there's a gruff gratitude underneath it all. The set of his shoulders is still tight, the look in his eyes cautious but curious, like he's waiting to see what sort of man Frank really is. )
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Shit's gotten complicated since Frank started hunting this particular group. They're too organized. Too smart — or the person that's positioning them is too smart. Someone behind the scenes calling the shots, someone Frank's been trying his ass off to pin down without much luck.
From the time Daryl starts to the time he finishes, no such backup arrives. Frank takes the kit back with a solemn nod, though he makes no move to rise up off the bumper. No move to leave. )
Told you. We're square. ( It's gruff, his voice gritty, his manner brusque. All things honest. Disinterested in fucking around. ) You really wanna pay me back, just stay the hell outta the Fringes. Shit's not safe. Not even for survivors.
( Which is, he's clocked, exactly what Daryl is. Between his aim, his countenance, and his patch-job skills, he's no greenhorn. But still. This place isn't like anywhere else. )