Deprived of any sense of normalcy, Daryl is left to pace and stew within the base. General Zahal has said a lot of shit, and Daryl thinks the guy might even believe some of it. None of it matters, though. Actions are the only thing that really matter in the long run. Zahal's actions have not filled Daryl with confidence. He avoids the man and his cronies. Daryl stalks the halls of the Cetagandan base, ignoring the art, ignoring the people, and memorizing the layout. He goes everywhere he's allowed.

He sets his eye on the restricted areas, but even he knows how to wait. He can't jump right into it after getting drugged by these assholes. Too noticeable. He doesn't know why he cares, but it's too stupid a move even for him.

He waits until nightfall, when all the technicians and scientists have gone to bed. When the halls are dimmed and the guards are sleepy, Daryl goes back to the mess hall, to a corner of the room with a large statue.

It's made of swirling green marble (he thinks it's marble). It's pretty, if he's honest with himself. It's not ugly. Like everything here, it's a little too perfect, and the simple cleanness, the fact that it's clearly been polished, unnerves him.

Daryl reaches up to a sharp branch jutting off from the statue's base, and breaks it off.

They said the exotics were free to leave whenever they wanted. Daryl doesn't jump on that chance as quick as he thought. Shit, he knows he should. Survival is everything. But his feet have been sluggish ever since he got here, and he's been slower to act than he'd like. Nothing seems to matter anymore.

He goes outside with the guard's permission, feeling more than anything like some kind of dangerous criminal. Still, he plays nice. He bides his time. He stews.

Daryl goes outside. He goes under the watchful gaze of guardsmen up on posts, eyeing his every move, but he goes. Inspecting the line of trees, Daryl looks it over before picking one, and he begins to climb.