There was a time when Daryl was just about as white-bread a kid as you could find growing up in Manhattan. His family sure was— his dad was an accountant, his mom was a part-time chiropractor, they had season tickets for the Yankees and they went on a road trip once a summer. They would've stuck him in Cub Scouts and piano lessons, only the scheduling never quite worked out right; by the time his little brother got to that age, things had shifted around, so they did it with him instead.
That was the problem— they all just did things, and assumed he'd just follow along. They never explained why he should, or why he should want to; probably assumed he'd pick that up at school anyway, or figure it out for himself. If they even thought about it at all. His parents got some hints that that wasn't happening, made some token efforts and figured it would turn around on his own; his teachers were focused on their best and worst students, and paid less attention to Daryl and the others in the middle; and his brother was too young and self-absorbed. Meanwhile, Daryl's own attention started to turn away from all of them, instead focusing on friends and strangers alike.
By the time he hit double digits, he'd decided, to hell with it, he didn't want to do things their way, and that wasn't likely to change any time soon; he was going to go off and figure out what he wanted to do. Sure, there were lots of people out there who failed at life, but lots more who didn't. It was all pretty vague at first, but one thing he learned quickly was how to stay under his parents' radar. That was one thing you could pick up at school pretty easily, if you knew who to talk to (and didn't do something stupid like piss them off). Tell them a story, but not so detailed that it sounds rehearsed. If they push you for details, blow them off a little, they expect that anyway. And let them catch you on some of the small stuff, so they think they've done their job. Past that, it was mostly just slacking off, with little thought for the future, and that was even easier.
Late in 2006, he was hanging out with some other guys his age in Central Park: smoking, bullshitting about girls they'd supposedly felt up, and generally having a good time. Right up until they got knocked on their asses by the shockwave, and then nearly blinded by the mushroom cloud rising up from what used to be a perfectly good bunch of buildings. What the fuck, man, did the towelheads finally pull off another 9/11, only worse? Then, before they got too far with that train of thought, something else hit them: the rest of them came from different parts of the city, but Daryl's apartment was right there at ground zero. Actually it was closer to the edge of the blast, and his family probably wasn't home at that time of day… but the kids didn't think through any of that, and so the damage was done: if they didn't know how to deal with the bomb, then they really didn't know how to deal with somebody who lost everything to it. And instead of sticking around and figuring something out? They cut and run.
Assholes. Never liked them anyway.
As it turned out, his father's office was far enough away that he was basically untouched - he had some health problems over the next few years, but nothing that could clearly be tied to the bomb - but the others were actually closer to ground zero, and succumbed to broken bones and radiation poisoning mere days later. Life insurance covered the bills, including a new apartment, but offered nothing for the emotional damage; neither did the usual support organizations, which were swamped with worse cases. A couple of extended family members came in to visit and help a little, but none of them could work out a long-term stay.
While his father trudged on through what was left of his old life, Daryl was driven further away from it, and neither of them had the time or energy to deal with the wedge between them. He took a new lesson from it, too: his family's vaunted 'normal life' was not only annoying, it had flat-out dropped the ball in a big way, and would someday do so again. He needed to get a handle on an alternative; let somebody else get screwed over next time. He made some new friends, and eventually found a couple who knew how to get away with shoplifting: avoid electronic tags on the merchandise, look for places that aren't paying proper attention to their CCTVs, and stick to things you can use yourself or pawn without looking suspicious. A few years later, he saved up for his own fake driver's license so he could buy beer and cigarettes for himself and a few friends. All small-time, while the cops had their hands full with gangs and other violent types.
When the truth about the Evolved first came out, he was righteously pissed off at the guy who set off the nuke, but since he took himself out too, it never went beyond angry words. Over the next few years, he became more distrustful as smaller disasters kept making the news, though it was countered by his existing distrust of the police and journalists— at least some of them probably helped screw things up, or helped make them sound screwed up so they could get more money out of it. Registration was a predictable response, albeit pretty useless as far as he could tell; when it was extended to everyone, his father dragged them both in one weekend… only for Daryl's test to come up positive. Did they screw it up, or was he really another metaphorical bomb waiting to go off? After a few weeks went by with no change, it became just one more headache among several others.
During the unnatural blizzard in early 2010, his father's health went further south, and they were both too occupied with mere survival to worry about anything else. The mass visions came and went - his father didn't get one, while Daryl's involved him and a brunette girl trying to escape a chaotic, violent mob - but he never met any such girl, and he and his father just holed up in the apartment on the day of the rioting.
Then, a few weeks later, his luck twisted around on a much more personal level. His own fault, really, getting overconfident: going for a USB drive, slipping it out of the packaging so it wouldn't set off the scanner at the exit. Thought he'd gotten away with it, too, until the clerk started chasing him. He made a run for it, went down an alley ending in a chainlink fence and figured he was busted… but the clerk looked right at him, then shook his head and took off in a different direction. Once Daryl snapped out of his confusion - he must have manifested something, whatever it was - he waited a few more minutes, then snuck back out into the crowd, ditching the drive down a drainage ditch for good measure.
As of the start of 2011, he's just worked out what his ability is, and how to turn it on and off when he wants to, but he needs to figure out how far he can push it. He's pretty sure it hasn't gone off again by accident, but while the first time saved his skin, the possibility of a less fortunate repeat still bugs him. If the government catches on to it, they'd probably flag it as dangerous. Okay, he is a little dangerous, but not in the kill-lots-of-people sense, right? And last but not least, he'll be done with high school in a few months, at which point his father will expect him to go get a job - or apply for college, he says, but let's be realistic here. The free ride, such as it is, is nearly up.
