Drugged, tazed, exhausted and disoriented, Daryl still knows how to read between the lines. They want her gone so they can get some real work done, and not have to worry about offending her. Whatever haut is, it matters to them.

The makeup, Daryl begins to suspect, ain't just a fashion thing. It's status. She isn't wearing it because she's... hmm. He's not sure. Maybe if he ever sleeps again, that'll help his thinking.

It might be better for him if she left. It might be worse. Really, all of this boils down to one fine point, sharp and direct enough to fit through the head of a pin: Daryl doesn't care what they do to him. His people aren't here. He's never going to see them again. Beth's brains are blown out over linoleum flooring in Atlanta. He's on some goddamn alien operating table. Daryl is finding it harder and harder to care about anything at all.

So he goads her. "Better run," he says. "Let your little slaves do the real work."