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"Just ain't us, man."

Daryl's own words ring in his ears as he watches Rick walk off to talk to Merle. He doesn't agree with Rick's decision to go through with it, giving Michonne over to that jackass Governor, but he can still respect it. Survival is something Daryl understands. It's a bitch, and you don't gotta like it. Survival forces people to do things that cross the line of decency, and turning over a woman to certain death sure as hell ain't decent. It isn't them, isn't their group, but Daryl knows that Rick is just doing what he's gotta do for the greater good.

Giving Hershel a shrug, Daryl pushes off of the wall he'd leaned himself against. Maybe he'll go check on L'il Ass Kicker before getting his gear. A slight smile tugs at one corner of his mouth at the thought of her. Judith, so tiny and perfect. He won't admit it to anyone, but that baby gives him hope that maybe the entire world ain't gone to shit after all.

"Later." Nodding at Hershel, Daryl reaches a hand out to the heavy, barred prison door and pushes slightly.

Preoccupied with deciding which knife to take along with his crossbow, he doesn't notice initially that suddenly he is no longer in the prison until he realizes that his footfalls sound different. They aren't echoing; they sound muffled, barely perceptible instead.

Puzzled, Daryl looks down to see that he is standing on some sort of large, decorative Oriental carpet. Mouth setting in a thin line, he lifts his gaze, eyes sweeping across a strange, large library that certainly isn't part of the prison.

"What the hell," he mutters. "Didn't fall in no rabbit hole, so where the hell am I?" Instinctively, he begins looking around for things he can use for makeshift weapons. Never can tell when you'll run into a walker, after all.

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Larry had been up on the balcony, had come in here to find something light to read over his lunch breaks and had found himself inexplicably drawn to a book of Robert Browning poems on the library's upper level. The slender volume now clutched in one hand, he leaned leisurely over the railing, neck craned to get a look at the man who had just spoken. Larry hadn't clearly heard what had been asked, but the note of bewilderment had been clear enough.

He himself wasn't exactly clean, having spent the better part of his day trimming hedges, but there was a difference in the fresh streaks of brown and green across his t-shirt and the way this new guy's clothes were ragged and stained. It wasn't a look he was unfamiliar with, and his eyebrows drew faintly together in concern.

"You look a little lost," he called down, hunched over forearms leaned against the top rail.

Although he is glad the sound is a person's voice and not a walker's moans, Daryl isn't prepared to let his guard down. Craning his neck, he looks up in the direction of a balcony. Guy doesn't look as worse for wear as Daryl and he's carrying a book, not a weapon.

"You could say that," Daryl replies, eyes flickering to the fireplace. To the immediate left of it is a fire poker; that would work in a pinch if any geeks show up. "Wasn't in any place this Trumped up just a minute ago."

Larry had to laugh at that, and nodded his understanding, his smile lingering.

"Yeah, it's a little much," he agreed, and made for the spiral staircase. They made an interesting pair amidst all the polished hardwood and gilded trappings.

"I'm Larry," he introduced once he reached the bottom, book of poetry still in hand. "Where was it you came from?"

Even if this guy isn't a walker, Daryl isn't about to let his guard down. He's been around the block -- and then some.

"Daryl," he returned warily. While the guy hasn't given Daryl a reason not to trust him, he also hasn't given Daryl a reason to trust him. Spilling his guts about the prison isn't anything Daryl is prepared to do. True, he has no clue where he is or how he got here, but that doesn't mean he shouldn't still do everything he can to protect the group.

"Definitely not here. Georgia. Accommodations slightly less frou-frou than this."

"You and me both, although I wasn't in Georgia," Larry said. He remained at the bottom of the stairs out of deference to Daryl's obvious distrust of the situation, but it was really only a matter of time before someone else came walking through.

"You're in a hotel," Larry continued, knowing it probably didn't sound like much of an explanation. "And I'm guessing you're gonna think I'm crazy here, but the hotel's in an alternate dimension. You might be able to get back home if you try one of the doors. It works for some people."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Daryl mulls over what Larry's told him. The guy doesn't seem crazy, but the explanation sure as hell is.

"You shittin' me?" Daryl asks, one corner of his mouth turning down as he considers the notion further. It stands to reason that if a damned zombie apocalypse can happen, why not an alternate dimension? His eyes narrow. "How long you been here?"

"Amazingly, I am not shitting you," Larry answered, smiling faintly despite Daryl's continued and justified seriousness. "I've been here a couple of weeks. Not very long. You're right to be skeptical, I would be, too. But what I've said is one hundred percent true."

He pointed past Daryl to the library's wide entrance. "You go down that hall there and take a left, there's a front desk where they've even got informational pamphlets on it, that's how real it is."