Here we go. I finally started writing this story and can't wait for later chapters. The first ones will introduce the characters and what they have been through before the Outbreak and right at the beginning of it. I will NOT go with the whole TWD plot. In later chapters there will be slash/smut scenes.

Don't kill me or hate me. Any mistakes I made are due to my lack of english vocabulary and grammar. I am still working on it.

Like a broken mirror

- Georgia - Some day in 2009 before the Dead started walking the earth.

It was a tough day, Merle had beaten the crap out of him because he was drugged and couldn't stand the fact that Daryl talked to that blonde girl from across the street. Not that he had wanted to talk to her but that girl was like a lil' puppy every time she saw him she had to come over and say something. She was annoying. His dad had yelled at him because there was no beer left in the fridge and above all he couldn't find a job. He never learned anything because his dad was against it or he showed up with several bruises his dad or brother left on his face when they were high. Everything he ever wanted was to run away from his life. But how can you run away from your blood, your family and the only home you ever knew? It was like something was holding him here and like an invisible tow pulling him somewhere else. Daryl closed his eyes for a second and nipped at his whiskey. He didn't even like that stuff but he needed something harder than beer and something that would make him drunk a little bit faster. Something that would make the pain go away. Merle had punched his jaw which now looked like a blue and red canvas instead of flesh. His upper lip was swollen and bloody. It happened a lot. Merle was getting more and more like his Dad. Drugs, Alcohol and Pain. The Unholy Trinity of his family.

"Hey Bud, 'nother one?"

Daryl looked up to the barkeeper who was offering him a second drink. He nodded.

"You look like crap kiddo. Who was it? Merle again?"

Daryl wasn't in the mood for that conversation. Even so Bart was always nice to talk to. "That's none of your business."

The barkeeper shrugged. "Yeah whatever." And with that he was back at his business. Daryl watched him for a while and then looked up to the little screen they had installed right above the bar. There were news about a brutal murder of some mafiosi in Boston. "Last night a group of people were killed in a building in Boston. Police states that the attackers came through the window and one through the front door. One survivor was found in a panic room. The victims were found with pennies in their eyes, arms crossed and one was executed with two bullets through the head. Rumours and recently found victims lead to the conclusion that those people were killed by "The Saints" who disappeared for several years after killing several people in the 90s." Daryl snorted. Someone is doing the dirty work back there and now they are trying to find killers that kill bad people. This world really is going to shit.

"The survivor described those men like this." Daryl looked at the picture that was shown on screen. It was just a sketch but it was enough. Why the hell had one of those fuckers HIS face? The mole on the left side over his lip was there, a stubble turning into a goatee, the half-closed eyes. It was like someone had drawn a picture of him.

"Hey Dixon, looks like someone stole your face or was it you and you haven't told anybody about your double life?"

Daryl looked over to the person who spoke.

"Fuck off Harold." The old man in the corner of the pub chuckled. Daryl wasn't in the mood to find such a thing funny. Because sooner or later someone will recognize him. Maybe the police. "My day couldn't get any better..." He swallowed the last bits of his drink, puts money on the desk and left for the woods. He has no intention to go home. He rather would go to that little hut he discovered and look up to the stars. He loved the woods and loved to be surrounded by the silence of the night. It was the only place that he could really be himself. Without anybody putting more scars on his body.

He was laying in the grass while the full moon colored everything in deep blue shades. It was no cloud at the sky and Daryl smiled. He could see the stars and started asking himself if that guy with his face had a better childhood. Who was he? Were they related somehow? He had read about doppelgänger and look-a-likes but they were always a bit different but from that sketch he knew they weren't. Maybe he should try to find them. He shook his head. "Bullshit", he mumbled and then closed his eyes. The Whiskey was working now.

Some days later.

He was sitting in the living room, drinking moonshine that Merle had stolen from someone. Merle was out with his biker-friends and his dad was working the night shift. So he was all alone in their place and he was watching the news again. He did that a lot the last couple of days, just to get news on those two Saints. He wanted to know who they were. Wanted to know if they were captured. But there was simply nothing and that was frustrating. The longer they were in the open the higher the chance got that anyone would think thats him. he already had to speak to a police officer and convince him that he had never been to Boston and that he most certainly not had murdered people. He was against all violent behaviour. He only used it to defend himself or people he cared about. Or to kill animals. He was a hunter. Daryl looked over to the front door, his crossbow leaning next to it, ready to be used. He smiled. Merle had taught him to shoot it and how to hunt and prepare the food. Merle... Daryl sighed. He was an asshole. But he has a heart and even when he beats him, he knows that Merle loves him. He would defend him whenever he has to and he would be the one guy that Daryl always called if he needed help. At least if Merle wasn't in prison.

"...they were caught when the two of them and le duce stormed a house and killed several men. They didn't run. They dropped their weapons as if their work was finally done." Daryl looked to the screen again. There they were. The Saints. Daryl swallowed. "The police stated that the name of the two are "Murphy and Connor MacManus". Al Duce was their father." Daryl gave up listening and just watched how the police was trying to get both of them inside a building. The police had to fight their way through a lot of people. He saw the one with his face but what was more frightening was the look on the face of the other twin. His eyes were full of rage, full of anger and still full of...hope? Daryl looked at the tattoo that was shown. A virgin Mary on their neck. His dark blonde hair looked as if he just took a nap. His eyes blue. Somehow Daryl thought "He looks much older than the other one". His face stealer was looking furious and was giving death glares to the camera. His eyes blue like Daryl's. Everything was like looking in a mirror except the hair. That guys hair was a lot darker than his and Daryl had no tattoo that anybody could easily see.

He watched as long as they were showing those strangers and then turned off the TV. Grabbing the bottle of moonshine and putting it back in the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water instead and went outside to sit on the porch. There was a man with his face and a different story. He had a twin brother that didn't even look like him. Daryl's head was exploding with questions which will never be answered. But he couldn't stop thinking.

Why did that guy have his face?

Why did they kill those people?

Who would do their work now?

Why didn't they fight?

What were they fighting for?

Why did he care?