By Daryl's standards, he's been a damn saint so far. He hasn't hit any of the guards, hasn't tried to escape the guards, hasn't tried to punch a goddamn hole in their shiny walls. He does it for the other people here. They're terrified, and he knows making the kind of fuss he's itching for will just spook the guards and get them all the closer to being lined up against a warehouse wall.

The whole thing, the false politeness, the smiley bullshit, reminds him more of Terminus than he'd like to admit. Being rounded up and told to bend over and cough in a fancy lab doesn't help. Terminus didn't have a lab, they didn't care that goddamn much. But the clinical way Gareth and his shitheads looked at them, like they weren't people, just things to be used up, sets him back farther than he'd like to admit.

It all comes to a head when a doctor asks him to open his mouth so she can stick a swab in it. "Screw you," he says, his voice a low growl.