Daryl's fingers clenched and released slowly, his heart pounding in impotent fury. The dark gray shackles around his wrists bit into the skin, but he couldn't help slowly twisting his bound arms. Other prisoners shuffled quietly behind him, and a balding man to his right stared despondently at the far wall. Light pooled into their holding pen from the stage before them, where some other poor soul was being sold off. The pen reeked of sweat, dirt, and misery.

A guard walked leisurely past their cage, paused, and grinned darkly. He reached out with his nightstick and banged it between the bars near a shrunken, hollow woman who immediately cowered away from him. The guard laughed.

"You assholes should be smiling," he boasted. "You're the lucky ones. You get bought, you get to live."

None of the prisoners replied. Daryl's jaw clenched. Lucky, he called it. Lucky to be sold off as property to some rich asshole who had the legal right to do whatever he wanted to them, up to and including murdering them. Lucky.

The guard's smile faded when none of the prisoners responded, and a foul look settled upon his bloated face. He spat at the woman.

"It's better than you shits deserve," he hissed viciously. "Fucking parasites, dragging society down. Criminals. You should all be shot, and good riddance to you."

I'll take that over fucking slavery, Daryl mused darkly. The guard withdrew his night stick and stuck it back into his belt, stalking away. Daryl narrowed his eyes. Too bad the fucker didn't stick that thing over here by me. I would've grabbed it in a heartbeat.

But that was part of the problem. Out of the twenty or so people in the pen, only Daryl was still angry, still fumed over the bullshit laws that had landed him in this pen in the first place. The others had given up, one by one, resigning themselves to their fates without even a whimper. They all knew what horrible lives awaited them, and they'd unanimously decided to check out early. Daryl's fists clenched once more, and this time, he let them stay that way. He wouldn't check out. He wouldn't give in. If they wanted him to be a good little pet, they'd have to Pacify him first.

He wasn't even supposed to be here. Merle was the one who'd robbed those stores, and Merle was the one who'd beaten that black man half to death. When the police came looking and couldn't find his brother, they decided to snatch up Daryl instead, invoking the "familial atonement" law that their country loved so fucking much. Any and all immediate family members could be punished for a crime committed by their relatives, even if they'd had nothing to do with it. Politicians claimed that it acted as a deterrent. After all, who would commit a crime, knowing that their family would pay for it, too?

Daryl snorted. As if Daryl's well-being had ever factored into any of Merle's decisions. Their father was long dead, may he rot in hell, and their mother had been committed to a mental facility over a decade ago. The only person left to punish in Merle's stead was Daryl, and since he'd refused to rat out his brother during questioning—even if he'd known where the asshole was, there was no way he'd ever turn his back on family like that, and they'd probably both have ended up in irons anyway—here he was, ready to be sold to the highest bidder.

Assuming anyone bid on him at all. If they didn't, the judge presiding over the auction would change his sentence from "life indenture" to death on the grounds that Daryl was clearly of no use to society.

Daryl hoped nobody bid on him.

"I WON'T! I WON'T! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

A ruckus spontaneously broke out on stage, snapping Daryl out of his thoughts. The man on the auction block had started screaming, swinging his bound wrists around. The guard from before rushed towards the stage, followed closely by several cronies. The prisoner kept screaming, his eyes bulging and face turning red. He swung clumsily at the auctioneer, who backed away with a disgusted scowl on his face. The auctioneer waved a hand at the judge, who was seated behind a dais at the back of the stage. The judge, expression blank, nodded regally and pulled out a slender, black remote. As one, Daryl and the other caged prisoners tensed. The judge calmly pointed the remote at the flailing prisoner and pressed a series of numbers.

The prisoner's reaction was immediate. He dropped to the ground and screamed, writhing and contorting in pain. Veins stood out on his throat and face. The guards backed away, forming an impassive ring around the man and blocking him partially from view. After a few seconds, the screams cut off. Daryl's knuckles turned white with tension as he stared as the stage. The guards finally relaxed, stepping away from the fallen prisoner and moving back to their posts. Nobody moved to help the man on the floor.

Daryl didn't blame them. The man stared up at the rusted rafters of the courthouse, irises bleached gray. Silently, mechanically, the prisoner sat up, paused, and clumsily gained his feet. At a mumbled word from the auctioneer, he stepped back up onto the platform and stared sightlessly into the crowd.

He'd been Pacified.

The other prisoners behind Daryl shrank away from the front of the pen, huddling together in fear. Daryl stood his ground, jaw tight and shoulders squared. He didn't plan on kowtowing to whichever fucktard bought him, and like hell was he going to look away from his fate. He would own this for however long they left him with a mind. A woman behind him whispered.

"Walker…"

At that word, the balding man to Daryl's right began moaning quietly, but his vacant expression didn't change. Daryl glared at him. These assholes were scared of being Pacified, of being turned into Walkers, as the lower classes called them? Idiots shouldn't be afraid of having their minds stripped from them. It was more or less the same as being dead. It was being awake and aware that was fucking terrifying.

The sound of a gavel falling dragged Daryl's attention back to the stage. The Walker was tugged down off the platform, and he lumbered mindlessly off into the wings on the other end of the stage. Daryl had no idea if he'd been sold or not, and honestly, he didn't give a fuck. Walkers had no problems anymore.

The judge idly shuffled through the papers on the dais, then looked up with a bored expression.

"The next lot is number 1842, Daryl Dixon," he called loudly.

Daryl took a deep, steadying breath, ignoring the stench that filled his nostrils. The guard came over to the cage, looked him in the eye, and unlocked the door.

"No funny business, asshole," the guard snarled. Daryl's lips tightened, but he said nothing. He strode confidently out of the cage, then paused obediently as the guard swung the door shut behind him and locked it once more. Daryl could hear the other prisoners shifting, and one started weeping quietly, but he pushed them out of his mind. Anger coursed through him, burning behind his sweaty palms in his still-clenched fists. Before the guard could shove him towards the stage, Daryl slowly walked out into the light. The heat from the lamps at the front edge of the stage made him break out in a fresh sweat, slicking his bare chest and legs. Sawdust that had been spread on the floor swirled up and clung to his feet and calves. He glanced briefly at the old, dark stains beneath the sawdust on the smooth wooden floor.

At least a few people fought back, he thought grimly.

Without prompting, Daryl stepped up onto the platform and glared through the lights into the crowd. Wealthy and well-to-do folks milled around, sipping jovially on drinks dripping with condensation and clinking with ice. Some of the wealthiest, lords and ladies, were being fanned gently by their own slaves. From this distance, Daryl couldn't tell if the slaves were Walkers or contractors—indentured servants whose contracts had been purchased. Somehow, he doubted any of them were actually hired help.

Daryl resisted the urge to swallow hard to soothe his parched throat or to try and tug at the humiliatingly revealing loincloth they'd supplied him with. The sad, brown excuse for underwear hid practically nothing. His cheeks were burning, but it was suppressed fury causing it, not embarrassment.

Behind him, the judge cleared his throat. "Lot 1842 has been charged with robbery, battery, and attempted manslaughter under the familial atonement clause of Article 52.3.3 of the Georgian Code of Law. The perpetrator was his brother, Merle Dixon. In light of their close familial ties and time spent together, I hereby sentence Mr. Dixon to be punished to the full extent of the law for his brother's crimes. The preliminary sentence is life indenture. Auctioneer, you may proceed."

The auctioneer, a burly man wearing a thick, sleeveless leather jerkin, grinned.

"Well, folks, what we have here today is a man in his prime, used to the backwoods life and hard labor." He swung a pointing stick at Daryl and slapped him on the arm. Daryl ground his teeth, but he held his peace. "Just look at these arms, ladies and gentlemen! This man would have no problem doing some heavy lifting." He struck Daryl's legs next. "You don't get legs like these without stamina. Consider him an all-purpose asset! Can I start the bidding at twenty credits?"

The crowd eyed him, but none of those pasty-faced assholes lifted a finger to bid. The auctioneer shook his head.

"Ladies and gentlemen, don't let him go to waste! After all, he's good for more than just yard work." When the auctioneer waggled his eyebrows, Daryl had to take several slow, deep breaths to keep from leaping forward and strangling him. Not yet, not yet. "This man has been untried, so he's yours to break in as you choose! Do I hear fifteen credits?"

A woman near the stage got a glint in her eye as she looked Daryl over. His skin crawled. She delicately lifted a hand, but before she could speak, Daryl cut in.

"I got somethin' to say," he announced loudly. Suddenly, he had the full attention of the entire room, and he could feel their gazes prickling his skin. The auctioneer glanced at him anxiously, eyes narrowing. "If you folks want to buy me, that's your right, according to this fucked up government we have. But you know what I think?"

"That's enough out of you," the auctioneer warned, but Daryl ignored him.

"You're all fucking monsters," Daryl spat. "Sitting there in your pretty fucking mansions, fucking your pretty fucking slaves. We're not the ones who should be shot, you fuckers are. And if any one of you has the balls to come near me, I'LL TEAR YOUR FUCKING ARMS OFF!"

He could see the guards rushing towards him out of the corner of his eye, and he smiled grimly.

"FUCK you, FUCK your government, and FUCK this entire fucking COUNTRY!" he yelled, pent-up rage bursting out of him. When a guard reached out to him, he gripped one fist in the other and swung hard at the man's face. He clocked the guard square in the temple, and the man dropped like a rock. Daryl snarled at the other guards and glared out into the crowd. "I hope you all rot in hell!"

The auctioneer looked behind Daryl, most likely giving the judge his cue. Adrenaline pulsed through Daryl's veins, and he rocked up onto the balls of his feet. Any second now, it would all be over. With any luck, Merle, that fucking asshole, was long gone, and they'd never find him. Daryl turned to stare challengingly at the judge. He'd force that man to look him in the fucking eyes as he stripped Daryl's mind away. The judge looked down at him, clearly unimpressed, and lifted the remote.

"Two hundred credits!"

The call from the back of the room brought everything to a standstill. Slowly, Daryl turned back to the crowd, squinting as he tried to make out the fucking idiot who'd just bid on him. Whoever it was, he was deep in the shadows. Daryl scowled.

"Are you a fucking retard?" he yelled. "I told you that I'll fuck you up, and I meant it!"

The auctioneer was also squinting out into the crowd, one hand raised to shade his eyes. Thrown off his game, the man sputtered.

"I…I have a bid for two hundred credits from…" Some cue in the back made the man inhale sharply and straighten. "From Lord Grimes. Do I hear two-oh-one?"

Silence. The other wealthy assholes looked at each other, and the auctioneer shifted his feet awkwardly. Daryl stared at his mystery buyer incredulously.

"Seriously, I will fucking cut you!" he called out. The auctioneer glanced nervously at the judge, who actually looked uncomfortable for a change, but the white-haired man slowly shook his head. The auctioneer swallowed and nodded.

"If…if I have no more bids…" He paused uneasily. "Then…lot 1842 is sold to Lord Richard Grimes for two hundred credits."

After a moment's hesitation, the judge struck his gavel. Shock froze Daryl to his spot on the platform. He'd deliberately acted out. He'd threatened the entire crowd. He'd punched a guard in the head. Why the fuck would somebody buy him for that much money? Daryl could've lived on two hundred credits for two months. He was so startled that when a guard tugged him off the platform, all he could do was stumble obediently behind him. The darkness of the wings on the far side of the stage swallowed him, and he jerked against his captor's hold. The guard dragged him through a pair of double doors into a lit corridor that ran along the outside of the auction room.

"Wait…wait a fucking minute!" he blurted. The guard glared at him, but he didn't reply. "I was supposed to…you were supposed to fucking Pacify me! Or kill me! What the fuck is wrong with you people?!"

The guard scowled. "Maybe you'll get lucky and your new owner will Pacify you," he shot back. Then the man glanced sideways at him with a faint leer. "Or maybe you won't, and he won't. I hear some people like their contractors…feisty."

Daryl stomach turned. No. No. He would not become a sex slave, not while he was alive and thinking. Adrenaline shot through him again, and he shoved at the guard, hoping to catch him off balance. This guard was no slouch, however, and he instinctively turned into Daryl's push and swung him around by his cuffs. A sharp kick to Daryl's stomach knocked the wind out of him, and he doubled over. Clenching his teeth, Daryl ignored his burning lungs and charged forward. The guard wrapped his beefy arms around him and squeezed, growling into Daryl's ear.

"You little fucker," the guard ground out. As Daryl struggled, kicking at the man's knees, he looked over his shoulder at another man hovering nearby. "Andre, get a fucking remote—"

"Don't you dare," a calm, cool voice cut in.

Daryl stopped struggling for a moment, twisting in the guard's arms to look at the newcomer. The guard actually dropped him and stepped back, hands raised.

"L-Lord Grimes. I'm sorry, but he started fighting me. I had to restrain him—"

"Then restrain him," the man interrupted coldly. He stepped forward, light catching on his formal clothing. A deep red robe coat with gold trim was draped over a fitted black velvet vest and white shirt, a thin gold chain wrapping around his trim waist. The lord's family crest, a big red and gold standard with a knight's helmet on top, was embroidered on his left breast. Tight, black pants were tucked into a pair of tall, black leather boots that gleamed dully in the light. A tall black woman hovered behind him, a sword strapped to her back. Her eyes glinted.

Lord Grimes gave Daryl an assessing look, blue eyes void of emotion. His lips tightened behind his thick beard.

"Have they done anything to you?" he questioned brusquely.

Daryl stared at him. "You mean aside from fucking selling me to the highest bidder?"

"Yes."

Motherfucker. Daryl ground his teeth. "No, they ain't done nothing to me. You looking to break me yourself? Didn't want somebody else to get to me first?"

Instead of replying, Lord Grimes turned to the nervous guard. "I'll take it from here. Tell Judge Avery that the credits will be wired to the court's account before midnight."

"Yes, milord. I will." The guard's head bobbed eagerly. Daryl watched him apprehensively, then turned to his new owner. What the hell kind of man was he? Why were the guards so nervous around him? He swallowed and shifted his weight.

What kind of man had just purchased the rest of Daryl's life?

The man named Andre stepped closer to Lord Grimes, timidly holding out an embossed card.

"Would you like to have his code, Lord Grimes?" Andre asked quietly. Lord Grimes took the card, glanced at it, and wordlessly handed it off to the black woman. She stuffed it into the neck of her brown leather vest. Andre shifted his feet. "I assume you also have a remote at home?"

Lord Grimes said nothing, staring the man down with a gaze as cold as ice. Andre visibly wilted under the attention.

"I, ah. I'll take that as a yes." Andre wrung his hands, shoulders climbing towards his ears as Lord Grimes continued to glare at him. "Is there something else you needed tonight, milord?"

Lord Grimes held out a hand, palm up. When Andre merely stared at it like it was a snake ready to strike, the lord grimaced.

"The key, if you don't mind," he demanded shortly. Andre flinched, then dug in his pockets.

"Of course! Of course, sir, I apologize. Here it is!" He withdrew the key to Daryl's shackles and handed it over, smiling weakly. Lord Grimes closed his fingers around the metal key and turned to eye the guard at Daryl's side. The burly man shrank back.

Lord Grimes stepped closer, gazing intently at the guard. "Let this be a warning to you. If you ever lay a hand on my property again…" His voice dropped a register, eyes narrowing. "You'll be the next person on the auction block. Is that clear?"

The guard's head bobbed again, and he took a sharp step backwards. "Yes, milord! Understood. It'll never happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Lord Grimes turned back to Daryl. "We're leaving."

Daryl stared at him, flexing his fingers. "Are you an idiot? What the fuck makes you think I'm going anywhere with you? You should either Pacify me or kill me, because I fucking swear I'll come after you."

Lord Grimes gave him an unimpressed look. "I have no intention of ever Pacifying you," he stated baldly. "And if your life is worth that little to you, you can go ahead and push Michonne into murdering you. Personally, I would find that to be a waste."

Daryl glanced at the black woman—Michonne—and narrowed his eyes at Lord Grimes. "A waste of your precious money?"

Lord Grimes' expression didn't so much as flicker. "That money meant nothing to me. Your life, however, is something I consider valuable. It's up to you to decide whether you want it to mean something."

With that, the lord turned on his heel and began walking towards the front exit. Michonne put her hand on the hilt of her sword and flanked Daryl, wordlessly encouraging him to move forward. Daryl glared at her, then scowled at the lord's back.

"I ain't bending over for you, you sick fucker!" he roared. "You may own my contract, but you don't fucking own me!"

Lord Grimes stopped dead in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, eyes glinting.

"GOOD."

And with that baffling statement, the lord continued on his way. Eyebrows furrowed, Daryl followed along behind him with Michonne matching his stride. The three of them walked silently down the mostly empty hallway, the cool tiled floor slick beneath Daryl's sawdust-encrusted feet. Every so often, a swell of noise burst out of the auction room. When they hit the lobby, the ceiling swooped up and away from them in an intricately carved marble dome. Quotes about freedom were interwoven with stone ivy that climbed the walls. A statue of the governor stood proudly at the center of the lobby, golden laurels at his massive feet. Daryl scowled.

A man of great honor, the statue's plaque proclaimed. He granted us freedom from criminals. Peace and prosperity. Virtue.

Daryl just barely refrained from spitting at it. The Governor was said to have a massive mansion staffed entirely by a legion of Walkers, and he'd pushed through countless new bills that encouraged Pacification for less and less serious crimes. Nobody knew what the guy's problem was with the masses, but ever since he'd been elected, anyone who wasn't part of the nobility had been walking lightly. The nobles, being the only class who weren't implanted with Pacification chips at birth, had slightly less to fear. They couldn't be sold, and they couldn't be Pacified.

They sure as fuck could be killed, though.

Two armed guards were waiting at the front doors of the courthouse. The moment they spotted Lord Grimes, both men straightened to attention and pulled open the heavy oak doors. The lord paused and turned towards Daryl and Michonne, waiting patiently for the two of them to catch up. Once they had, he stepped out into the night.

Cool air hit Daryl's bare, sweaty skin, causing goosebumps to instantly break out. He shivered involuntarily. Cars drove past at a leisurely pace, few drivers willing to risk a speeding violation right in front of the courthouse. At a nearby café, people were eating and drinking merrily, unconcerned that so many of their peers were being sold off as property a handful of yards away. After all, criminals deserved what happened to them, didn't they? Daryl scowled.

Just wait until somebody you know does something stupid and lands you on the block, Daryl thought sourly.

A black sedan was waiting for them at the curb. An elderly white man was standing beside it, hands clasped in front of him. At the sight of Lord Grimes, the old man broke out with a grin. He nodded at Daryl.

"Is this him?" he asked eagerly. Daryl frowned. "Him"?

Lord Grimes nodded. "Yeah, Dale, this is him. Let's just hurry up and get home, alright?"

Daryl's eyes snapped towards the lord. His tone had warmed considerably when speaking to his servant, his southern drawl instantly becoming more pronounced. Where had the crisp, cool speech of the nobility gone? Dale moved to open the rear door for Lord Grimes, but Michonne stepped forward.

"Rick, are you sure about this?" she hissed. Daryl's eyebrows flew up. She's addressing him informally?

Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, and to his shock, actually quirked his lips up into a half smile. "Michonne, I'm pretty sure that if he tries to kill me, he won't get far before you stab him. Daryl, when was the last time they even fed you?"

Daryl blinked. What the fuck is going on here? "Yesterday, I guess?"

"You gonna try and kill me when we get in the car, or can it wait until we get home?" Lord Grimes asked dryly.

Daryl wanted to protest that he'd take the fucker out as soon as possible, but…he had to admit, he was getting a little bit curious. Why did Lord Grimes look so pleased when Daryl had stood up to him? Why did he let his servant speak so informally to him? And what the fuck did his driver mean when he asked if Daryl was "him"? Did Lord Grimes come to the courthouse specifically for Daryl? Why?

After a long moment, Daryl stiffly shrugged his shoulders. "I guess it can wait."

"Great." Lord Grimes climbed into the back seat and slid down to the other end. Michonne glared at Daryl, but she moved to the front passenger side door without protest. She slung the sword off her back and got into the car, her movements short and furious.

Daryl hesitated, but another cool gust of wind made him shiver again, and he stepped into the car. The black leather of the seat clung to his skin. Daryl shifted uncomfortably as Dale shut the door behind him, the sawdust on his skin prickling and itching. Michonne twisted in her seat, sword in her lap. She stared intently at Daryl, making him frown reflexively. Dale chuckled quietly to himself as he got into the car and started it up. They gently inched their way into the flowing traffic, and away they went.

The four of them sat in silence for several minutes. Daryl found himself staring suspiciously at Lord Grimes, who was gazing out the window with a contemplative look on his face. Street lights swept across his skin, periodically casting him in shadow. Michonne sat as still as a statue, eyes never wavering from Daryl. Just when Daryl felt the need to start fidgeting, Lord Grimes blinked and turned to face him.

"If you promise not to try and strangle me, I'll remove those cuffs," he offered in a low voice. Daryl dropped his eyes to the overly tight shackles, then looked back up at Lord Grimes' light blue eyes. He wordlessly held out his wrists.

Michonne's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword. "Rick."

"Michonne," Lord Grimes returned mildly. He gently took hold of Daryl's cuffs and pushed the key into the lock. "It's not that I trust you, just so you know. I just don't think you're stupid."

Daryl glowered at him. "Fuck you."

That half-smile flashed again. With a quiet click, the shackles popped open. Daryl pursed his lips to keep from sighing in relief, and he reflexively began to rub at his abused wrists. The skin was red and raw, blood welling up where the iron had broken his flesh. Lord Grimes eyed them, then wordlessly leaned forward to dig in a pouch attached to the back of Michonne's seat. He pulled out a tube of ointment, hesitated, and extended it to Daryl. Daryl stared at him, then slowly took the tube. His fingers fumbled as he twisted the cap off and squirted some of the white cream into his palm. He gingerly rubbed the ointment into his skin, briefly closing his eyes at the soothing coolness that sank into him. When he opened his eyes, Lord Grimes was staring at him. Daryl scowled.

"What's with you?" he asked defensively, leaning away from the other man. Lord Grimes shrugged, glanced at the tube of ointment, and then looked away. Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. Did he want to do this for me? he thought incredulously. What the fuck is wrong with this guy? He shifted away from the lord, pressing his back up against the door. He asked suspiciously, "Why'd you want to sit with me in the back of the car, anyway?"

Lord Grimes glanced at him, eyebrows raised. He snorted inelegantly.

"Not for the reason you're thinking right now, I can promise you that." Shaking his head, the nobleman reached down and pulled a black drawstring back out from underneath Michonne's seat. He tossed the bag lightly at Daryl, who caught it reflexively. "Here. I'm sure you're sick of parading around in that underwear, and there's no need for you to be nearly naked when we get to the manor."

Daryl stared at the bag in his hands, then slowly opened it. He pulled out a towel, a soft gray t-shirt, and some sweatpants. When he dug around a bit, his fingers also caught on a pair of socks and slippers. He pulled them out, then looked questioningly at Lord Grimes. The other man shrugged.

"Didn't know your shoe size."

Baffled, Daryl used the towel to wipe off the sweat and sawdust and gingerly pulled on the clothing he'd been given. Nothing had Lord Grimes' family crest on it, or any other indication that Daryl was property. He felt himself relaxing slightly, now that he was clothed like an actual human being. Frowning, he folded his arms.

"Why're you doing this, man? Did you…" he hesitated because the idea was retarded, but he couldn't help continuing, "…did you come to the courthouse just to buy me?"

Lord Grimes looked at him. "Yes."

"Why? There ain't nothin' special about me."

The nobleman looked him over, expression betraying nothing. His eyes rose to meet Daryl's.

"A few reasons. One, your lot said that none of the crimes you were convicted for had anything to do with you." Lord Grimes's expression darkened. "That would almost be reason enough. Two, you're young, and you're fit." When Daryl tensed, the lord rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'm not going to try anything with you. Even if I were that kind of guy, Michonne would gut me."

"Damn straight," the woman chimed in. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. He still couldn't figure out why the psychotic woman was so comfortable around the man.

"And three, you fought back. You still have some spirit left." Something profoundly sad crossed Lord Grimes' face, but it disappeared before Daryl could react to it. "Wasn't sure you were worth it until that."

Daryl placed his hands over his knees and clenched them into fists. "Those sound like shit reasons to me."

Instead of taking offense, Lord Grimes shrugged it off. "Well, they're mine, and they're the best you're going to get for now."

Daryl's eyes narrowed. Which means that you had another reason for buying me. What the fuck are you up to?

Deciding to drop the topic for now, Daryl glared out the window. The city of Atlanta streamed by, lights and music gently caressing the car as they passed through. To look at it, you'd never know how fucked the majority of people were. Even in the dark, he could pick out Walkers running errands for their masters, their shuffling gaits distinctive from a distance. That had nearly been Daryl's fate, and he wasn't entirely certain if he was disappointed or not. Being brain-dead had to be a step up from being a living, suffering slave, right?

He sat in troubled silence for the rest of the ride out of the city.

The hour had grown late by the time the black sedan finally turned onto a narrow, paved road. Daryl straightened, glancing warily at the towering stone and wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lord's home. A woman with long brown hair stood on a platform behind the wall to the side of a massive, heavy gate. When Dale waved at her through the windshield, she nodded shortly and gestured to somebody unseen with the massive gun in her hands. The gate slowly opened just enough to let the sedan through, and it swung shut the second all four tires hit the cobbled driveway. A large, bald black man waved at them from the ground, another large gun in his hands. Daryl took note of them briefly, but his attention was almost immediately captured by the colossal building in front of them.

Lord Grimes' manor was less a house and more a gothic fortress, with towers and buttresses jutting up everywhere. The entire compound was surrounded by a stone fence that had a walkway running behind it, and other people wearing dark clothing could be seen moving along it. The manor itself had a façade of deep gray stone, and it loomed like a gargoyle over the courtyard they were pulling into. Daryl stared up at it apprehensively. Just how rich was Lord Grimes? Daryl had spotted a large house or two over his lifetime, but this manor was easily the largest building he'd ever seen that wasn't a skyscraper.

No wonder he thought two hundred credits was nothing.

Dale pulled the car up to the grand entryway and came to a gentle stop. Michonne didn't move, having not budged from her twisted position in her seat. Daryl just stared at the massive door leading into the house. Lord Grimes glanced at all three of them, rolled his eyes, and opened his door.

"C'mon. Let's get you inside and get some food in you," he said casually as he stepped out of the car. Michonne immediately followed suit. After a moment's hesitation, Daryl opened his own door and stepped outside. Somehow, the manor seemed even larger once he was standing in front of it. It felt like the building itself was judging him, and Daryl was definitely coming up short. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the sensation and began to follow the lord up the smooth sandstone steps leading to the front door. Before he could get very far, however, Michonne came up beside him, grabbed his arm, and leaned in close.

"You try anything to hurt Rick or our people, and I'll cut your arms off," she hissed. Daryl looked at her incredulously.

"Why the fuck do you call him Rick?" he shot back. "What's wrong with you? Doesn't he own you?"

Michonne simply glared at him in reply. She stormed up the steps to Lord Grimes, who was waiting by the door and watching them with open curiosity. She muttered something to him that Daryl couldn't hear, and when the nobleman shook his head, she glanced back at Daryl, scowled, and moved to open the front door. Lord Grimes waved at Dale, who cheerfully drove off. Daryl slowly made his way up the steps, his slippers quietly scuffing against the stone. Lord Grimes waited until Daryl was beside him to go inside. Daryl followed, passing a clearly ticked off Michonne, who sullenly closed the door behind him.

The grand foyer expanded before him, gleaming with dark marble floors and polished wooden bannisters. The scent of polish and rosewood hit Daryl's nose. Above him, a shimmering crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, its sharp edges pointing down threateningly at him. Despite the late hour, Daryl could hear people moving through the hallways, chatting quietly as they performed whatever tasks they had been given. Lord Grimes glanced at Daryl, then tipped his head.

"Kitchen's this way. Come on." He looked back at Michonne. "We'll be fine. Get some rest."

The black woman glowered at him, but she didn't protest. Daryl watched her climb the spiraling stairs to the side of the foyer. Lifting an eyebrow, he turned to Lord Grimes.

"I thought you said you didn't trust me."

"I don't." The nobleman moved to a table with a massive flower arrangement on top of it. He stuck his hand into the bouquet and almost immediately withdrew a tremendous, silver revolver. He nonchalantly checked the cylinder, slid it back in place, and lowered the gun, his thumb on the hammer. "But now I'm armed."

Daryl looked at the gun, then brought his eyes back up to Lord Grimes'. He nodded. The lord gestured with the gun for Daryl to precede him. Shrugging mentally, Daryl did as he was asked. If the man wanted to kill him now on his nice, shiny floors, that wasn't really a problem for Daryl, and he had a feeling that Lord Grimes had been sincere when he said that Daryl's life was valuable to him. What that meant, exactly, Daryl had no fucking clue, but at least he wasn't likely to get shot in the back.

Lord Grimes fell into step behind him and to his right, just out of grabbing range. The marble of the foyer gave way to wood and carpet as they walked into a hallway. The walls were painted an inoffensive shade of cream, dotted here and there by a framed portrait or landscape. Every other light in the hallway was turned off, filling the corridor with shadows. Before long, the scent of food began to waft into Daryl's nose, and his stomach started growling. His shoulders tensed, waiting for mockery from the other man, but Lord Grimes said nothing. Light spilled into the hallway from a large opening in the wall, and Daryl could hear people talking amiably. After a quick glance at Lord Grimes, Daryl stepped through the entryway into a tremendous kitchen.

Several people looked up at him, pausing in their conversation. A young, blonde woman was perched on a pristine countertop, her legs swinging idly. Another woman with short brown hair leaned against the same counter, arms folded over her chest. An Asian man was seated at a huge wooden table next to a white-haired Caucasian man with a bushy beard. Lord Grimes stepped up beside him.

"Everyone, meet Daryl Dixon. He'll be joining our little family here," Lord Grimes told the group. He pointed at each person individually. "Daryl, meet Hershel, his daughters, Beth and Maggie, and Maggie's husband, Glenn."

"I like how I'm the afterthought," Glenn piped up. He was nibbling on a piece of cheese. "It's not like I contribute around here or anything."

Lord Grimes rolled his eyes. "I appreciate everything you do, Glenn. Daryl, take my advice, and don't play chess with him. Ever."

"Spoilsport!"

The nobleman shook his head. "I'm tired, Daryl's got to be tired, and he's hungry. Will one of you fix him something to eat and show him to his room?"

Maggie straightened up, eyeing Daryl up and down. "I can handle that."

"Thanks." Lord Grimes looked at Daryl, an assessing glint in his eyes. "Don't do anything stupid."

With that, the nobleman left the bright kitchen. Daryl stared after him. He really, truly wasn't sure what to think about all of this. What the fuck did Lord Grimes bring him here for?

While he thought, Maggie moved to the fridge and perused its contents. "You allergic to anything, Daryl?"

He started. "I…nah. I can eat anything."

She nodded. "Alright. Sandwich sound good for right now?" She didn't wait for a response before she started pulling out ingredients. Daryl watched as she stacked them on the counter, pulled down a plate, and began efficiently constructing a massive sandwich with what looked like turkey, ham, roast beef, and cheese. Humiliatingly, Daryl's stomach let out a loud grumble, but none of the people in the kitchen reacted to it. He looked away from the food and found himself locking eyes with Hershel.

The older man was watching him intently, but there was no hostility in his expression. After a moment, his features softened.

"You must be awfully confused, son," he spoke quietly. Something about his gentle tone made Daryl shift his weight uncomfortably. Hershel gave him a faint smile. "It'll be alright. You're safe here."

"Yeah? Safe from who?" Daryl muttered under his breath. Hershel seemed to hear him anyway, and his smile took on a sad edge.

Maggie completed the sandwich and moved to put the rest of the ingredients back in the fridge. She put her hands on her hips and looked Daryl in the eye.

"You wanna eat this down here, or eat it in your room?" she asked. There was a faintly challenging glint in her eyes that Daryl didn't understand, but he was suddenly too tired to care. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to know these fucking people, and he didn't want to be somebody's property. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"In my room, I guess." At least that way I don't have to talk to any of you.

Maggie nodded, grabbed a handful of napkins, and picked up the plate. She handed it to him brusquely. Daryl's eyes dropped to the sandwich, a giant monstrosity of thick bread, meat, cheese, and various condiments oozing out the sides. It looked fucking delicious. His stomach rumbled again. This time, her lips quirked upwards.

"Come on, you." She led the way back out into the hallway. Daryl paused briefly to look at the others. Beth smiled at him and lifted a hand, Hershel nodded, and Glenn simply watched him. Frowning, Daryl followed the woman out into the dark corridor.

Maggie led him up several flights of stairs, narrow windows giving him brief glimpses of the sprawling manor grounds. Just as Daryl started to tire, his steps dragging, she stepped out onto a landing and stopped at the first door on the right. She opened the door, reached in, and flicked on a light. She then stepped back and gestured Daryl in. Eyeing her suspiciously, he walked past her into the room and froze.

The room was huge, filled with a massive bed lumped high with blankets and pillows. A thick carpet squished under his feet. A large wooden dresser took up a good portion of the far wall, with a window that overlooked the sprawling back yard of the manor. A small table sat to the right of the bed, with two small, upholstered chairs on either side. Another open door to the left revealed a large en suite bathroom, complete with a tub and a separate shower stall. Daryl stared at the room in shock, then turned to look at the woman who'd brought him here.

"What the fuck?" he managed. "This ain't no cell."

She grinned. "Was that what you were expecting? Sorry to disappoint you."

Daryl stared at her helplessly. "What the fuck is going on here?"

Her grin faded, and she shrugged, looking away. "You'll figure it out." She nodded at the dresser. "We put some clothes that might fit you in the dresser. Beth'll take your measurements tomorrow, get you fitted properly. We'll pick up your dishes in the morning when we come get you for breakfast. The shower will never run out of hot water, so take as long as you like."

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "In the morning. You locking me in here?"

"Yup." She raised an eyebrow. "You gotta earn our trust first. If you do that, you'll be free to come and go like the rest of us. Rick isn't keeping us prisoner."

He huffed out a breath and set the plate down on the small table. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of it.

"Why do you all call him that? Why're you all so comfortable around him?"

"Rick?" she repeated, surprise coloring her tone. "He hates being called Lord Grimes. He usually won't even respond if you try to."

Daryl turned his head to stare at her. "Does he own you?"

She sniffed. "Rick owns my contract, yes. He doesn't own me."

"He know that?"

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Obviously." She looked him in the eyes. "He isn't the kind of man you think he is, Daryl Dixon. You might want to give him a chance."

Daryl frowned at her. "Why should I?"

She smiled slowly. "Because we might need you."

With that bizarre statement, she stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. The lock turned with a quiet snick. Daryl stared at the door for a long moment. The hell was that supposed to mean? Shaking his head, he put a hand to his temple and began rubbing it. None of this made any goddamn sense. Why would they need him? Why would Lord Grimes—Rick—buy a bunch of people who stood up to him and addressed him by his real name? Did he just like breaking people?

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head again. Michonne, Maggie, and Glenn didn't seem broken. They didn't seem cowed in the least. If that's what Rick wanted, why didn't he just hire people with attitude? Why buy them?

With a sigh, he moved to the window and looked down. It was a sharp drop from his window to the ground, with nothing but several stories of smooth stone beneath him. Nothing obvious to grab onto as hand or footholds. Rick had been telling the truth—he didn't trust Daryl. At least he wasn't stupid.

Mind filled with troubled thoughts, Daryl ate his sandwich and took a quick shower that unintentionally became a long one once he felt that soothing water hit his skin. He hadn't been able to clean himself since the police had taken charge of him two weeks ago, and it felt unbelievably good to wash all of that sweat and grime off his body. He didn't even care that the soap and shampoo were fancy-ass brands that smelled like girly shit. Once done with his shower, he swaddled himself in the largest, fluffiest towel he'd ever seen. He held up a corner to his nose and simply inhaled the scent of clean fabric. Sighing, he stepped back out into his room and rummaged in the dresser for something to wear as pajamas.

After he'd dressed himself, he crossed over to the door and rattled the handle. The lock held firm. Daryl grimaced as he looked around the room. What could he use as a weapon? Just because these crazy people were being nice to him, that didn't mean that they couldn't be trying to sucker him into a false sense of security. Or worse, for all he knew, Rick had a key to the room and would come in here in the middle of the night, reassurances be damned. Scowling, Daryl combed the room. Underneath the dresser, he found a long, sharp sliver of wood that had separated from the baseboard, and he broke it off with a wrench of his hand. He eyed it with grim satisfaction. If he aimed right, he could take out an eye with it.

Uneasy, Daryl crawled into bed and stuffed the sliver under his pillow. He left the light on. If Rick—Lord Grimes—whatever tried to come in here and force himself on Daryl, he sure as fuck wasn't going to be taken by surprise.

Hours passed, and despite himself, Daryl found himself falling into a deep, restless sleep.

Rick stood in his dark study, wearily pouring himself a triple shot of whiskey. He carefully put the cap back on the bottle and stared at his tumbler with poorly disguised hatred.

You've done it again, you son of a bitch, he thought darkly. You own another human being. A man who thinks you bought him as a sex slave. Does it feel good? He reached out and picked up the glass, fingers clenching tightly around the delicate crystal. Is it fucking worth it?

Rick gritted his teeth. "Yes," he hissed aloud into the silence. "Yes, it's worth it. It has to be worth it."

Moving over to the window, he glared out into the sprawling lands he'd inherited from his father. His father, who'd raised him to value all life equally, who would never dream of owning another soul. His father, who would be disgusted if he could see his son now. Scowling, Rick tossed all three shots back in one fluid motion and slammed the glass down on the windowsill. The crystal cracked loudly.

"Think of Carl," he muttered to himself. "Think of Judith. It's worth it."

He braced his hands on the windowsill and lowered his head. He hissed one more time.

"It's worth it."

A/N: Cover image done by AmandaTolleson. Check her out on deviantart! Crossposted to AO3 and my tumblr (all under akaitsume).