Who: America & Amirrorca, Daryl & mirror!Daryl
Where: out in the woods
When: Oct 31 during the Halloween event
Rating: horrible. R I guess.
Summary: Basically the mirrors are assholes who both want to fuck Daryl up, so why not pit him against a super powered psycho who despises his very being?
The Story:

For some ungodly reason, America actually likes that squinty-eyed trash heap. It's not totally incomprehensible; Daryl not only tolerates America's company but seems to enjoy it, and he's strangely compatible with the blonde boy who personifies his country. It's just that Amirrorca refuses to understand it. Outright denies that there is any possible reason America could possibly be better off with this irate beast.

What d'ya even see in him? the Mirror spits (or as close as you can get when you're a disembodied presence in someone's head).

America says that he sees potential, and he sees a good man, and that it's really nice to have Southerners who don't hate him to hang out with, and how good Daryl's been to him, and it was at this point that America' voice was drowned out by a deafening white noise as Amirroca starts to see red. Arguing would be futile. It's a good thing that America can't read his thoughts even though they share the same body because he's imagining taking his nail-studded bat and driving it right into Daryl's face. Maybe afterwards he'd let that shitty little raptor that likes to use America as a chewtoy lick the blood off right before the Mirror wrings its neck like a chicken.

In the midst of his fury he grabs control away from America, refusing to relinquish it not matter how loudly America protests and attempts to yank him back into passiveness.

Let's go for a walk. Just you and me, he thinks. He can still feel America gripping tightly, holding on so hard that the Mirror thinks he's going to give them both a migraine, but he's stopped trying to yank him out of control.

In all honesty his plan was just to go into the forest and punch some trees until he felt better. Maybe build a little fort for his dear Alfie to appease him. They could camp out there and stare at the stars, far away from every other person in the mansion. Just them. Like it was meant to be.

The plan is suddenly revised when he spots the object of his hatred treading around some piss-poor excuse of a campsite. Something presses at him and he can feel America's dread, and though his counterpart doesn't say anything, he knows it's a demand (or plea) to leave his friend alone.

The blond's body stands at the edge of the forest rigid and eyes seething with hatred. With only the slightest jolt his demeanor suddenly melts into something anxious. The tenseness hasn't left his shoulders, but now he stands rooted in place trying to smile.

"Um, I didn't know you were out here," he stammers. Sweat clings to his forehead. "I just figured..."

His posture suddenly stiffens and glare returns. "It was supposed to be just us out here."