Author's Note: Rated M for graphic violence against Negan. Written for the Fix It Challenge on Nine Lives Archive, which you should all check out bc it has the best Caryl fics.
Set roughly sometime after 7x04. Daryl is Negan's hostage, nothing else terrible has happened yet.
"Burninate" is a verb particularly associated with my screen name. If you'd like to see the background on that, go to YouTube and search "Trogdor Strongbad" but fair warning, the answer is...weird.
Chapter 1: The Spark
The rumble of trucks from the road spiked Carol's pulse, and all the leaves on the trees around her snapped into brighter focus. This was it. This would either save Daryl, or it would cost her everything she had left.
She sprinted out into the road, careful not to get too far ahead of the walkers following her. "Help!" she shrieked, running up the dashed yellow line with her arms waving. Negan might shoot her on sight, but Michonne said she thought he wasn't as cruel as he was ego-driven. And a man with a large ego could never resist a damsel in distress.
One of the walkers caught her shirt and she struggled with it, keeping its head just away from her while trying to make her arms look shaking and weak. It wasn't hard to garner enough strength with her heartbeat thundering in her ears and her peripheral vision telling her there were three trucks full of men. She had a single pistol on her hip, and if she didn't miss even once, she had enough bullets for maybe half of them.
The trucks stopped and a tall, slick-haired man got out. "Well, well, well. What do we have here? Go on, Joey. Help the lady out, what's wrong with you?"
She shoved the walker away from her as she realized what was about to happen. Most people she'd ever met thought they were a better shot than they were. The walker was nearly a full arm's length away from her, rotting skin drooping from one eye socket, when its head exploded.
She snapped her mouth closed out of long habit—to avoid the spray—and wiped her lips with her sleeve after the walker fell.
A man with a leather jacket and a wire-wrapped bat swaggered over. With a Babe Ruth-worthy windup, he took out the second walker. He propped the now-dripping bat over his shoulder and grinned at her, droplets of blood shining in his salt and pepper beard. "Well, hello."
"Th-than—" The words stuck on her tongue and she switched tactics quickly. "Oh my god, I was so frightened! I don't know what I would have done if you wouldn't have come along."
It was him. With Michonne's descriptions and that bat, it couldn't be anyone but Negan. Anger twisted, black and writhing in the pit of her stomach.
"Anything for a lady," he drawled, then his gaze focused as he got a clear look at her face. "And you are…quite a lady, aren't you?"
Carol wiped the spray of blood from her cheek with a hand that was suddenly shaking from more than feigned shock. The memory of Axel's head exploding played all too clearly in her memory, and she blinked, reaching for the canteen on her belt. "So thirsty. Sorry. Was running—" she gasped out, fumbling at the lid with ineffectual hands.
"Let me get that for you, darlin'." He propped the wire-wrapped bat against his leg and took the canteen. The three armed goons who'd spanned out behind him looked bored. He unscrewed the lid and she reached for it quickly.
"Oh, aren't you sweet—oops!" Her quavering hand jogged the canteen, clear fluid splashing up onto his jacket and all down his front. The sharp fumes hit their noses at the same moment.
His eyes widened, went hard. She flicked the lighter she'd been hiding in her other sleeve and took a step back as he caught on fire. The canteen fell, spilling more gasoline around his shoes, pooling the liquid like a silvery skating rink for dancing orange flames.
Carol drew her gun and shot the three men behind him, then dove for the front of the first truck and took cover. Men boiled out of the next truck, taking cover on the far side and starting to shoot in her direction. She almost smiled.
A rifle cracked from the shelter of the forest. Once. Twice. She counted five before it fell silent, though Negan's screams nearly drowned out everything, along with the thumps of his hands as he tried to beat out the flames.
Truck two, down. She could hear low, scared murmurs from the first truck, behind her. She was sheltered by the engine block, and it sat up high enough she couldn't see into the cab without standing. Instead she spun around the edge, keeping low and then popping up to the window. In the extra second she took to check for Daryl, one of them got their gun up.
Her bullet punched through glass just before his. It took off the chin of the man nearest her, and grazed the top of the head of the guy next to him. She turned and cleared the backseat. Two bullets, one man. Her last two finished off the men in the front seat. She plastered her back to the truck and dropped one clip, slammed in another one.
She'd rather have come in with one of the automatic rifles she borrowed from the Kingdom, but it was harder to play the helpless woman with an M-16 slung over her shoulder.
She could still do it, but it was harder.
The graceful, metallic swish of Michonne's katana came from the back of the convoy, but Rosita's rifle didn't speak from the trees again. She desperately wanted to check the backs of the trucks for Daryl, but if she did, Negan would die too quickly. He'd been taking Daryl along as an example on some of his town visits, which meant they couldn't just swiss cheese the convoy with bullets. But then, it also meant there was a chance they'd get Daryl here and not have to invade the main compound with just the three of them.
She strode around the front of the trucks, keeping a sharp eye out for stragglers. She picked up the fallen bat. Lucille, Michonne had called it. It felt heavier than it should in her hand. With the barbed wire, maybe, or the weight of the knowledge that if Daryl had been in any of those trucks, he'd already be out and fighting alongside them. Tying his hands barely slowed him down these days, it had happened so many times.
Negan gave an agonized groan as she rounded the truck and caught sight of his red, blistered face. His beard and hair had singed away to little black smoldering dots, but his leather jacket had saved him from the worst of the flames, and his jeans were barely scorched.
Carol sighed. "Stop, drop, and roll. They teach it to every school child." She pulled back and rammed the bat into his crotch. He fell with a high, thin scream, smothering the flames on his chest against the pavement. She kicked him over, a little flicker of flame licking the toe of her boot as the gas splattered on it came alight. She rubbed it out on Negan's writhing leg, then shoved him a couple of times with the bat until the rest of the flames were out.
He whimpered, his face so crumpled it was nearly unrecognizable. "Pl-pl—" he stuttered. Carol raised the bat and smashed it down on his arm, the crunch of his shattering elbow making her stomach twitch and bubble acidly. Fortunately, she hadn't been stupid enough to eat before this. He coughed out a horrible groan of pain and she almost wanted to do the same because this wasn't feeling so great on her freshly-healed bullet wounds.
She switched position and broke his other arm before he could reach for the fire-heated knife still on his belt. Or start to beg. She couldn't take begging, not even from him. It made the inside of her head go squirmy and dark and horrible.
"Rosita!" she called.
Grass rustled and the other woman strolled out of the woods, slinging another rifle across her back that she'd borrowed from the Kingdom's tiny stash. "Remember me, asshole?" Rosita smiled sharply, and then her boot came down on his face. Gently, holding him in place with his cheek smooshed against the dirty sole of her shoe.
Carol laid down the bat, trying to catch her breath. It took some real strength to swing that thing hard enough to break bones. You had to really mean it. She blocked thoughts of Glenn out of her head. She couldn't think of him. Not his sweet, dark eyes that had always seen the exact truth of the terrible things they'd had to do. Who never hesitated to do them anyway. Who never stopped being sorry for all those same things.
She set the tip of her trench knife against Negan's forehead. She'd sharpened it last night when they made the plan, so the letter would stand out clearer. But now she hesitated.
They'd never decided. An A for Abraham, for Alexandria. A G for Glenn. A D for Daryl. A C, to keep up appearances…
"Carve an A," Rosita said. "I don't know what it means, but when they brought Daryl to Alexandria, he was wearing this sweatsuit with an A painted on it. It must be some kind of humiliating symbol with the Saviors, if they did it to him."
Carol pressed down hard, the metal scraping bone as Negan sobbed out a moan. Her cheek twitched at the blood streaming down into his eyes, but her hand didn't waver. She didn't particularly care for floral cardigans, either, but you used the props you needed to support your performance.
"Sorry for the theatrics," she said conversationally, needing the lightness of her own voice to steady her. "People do like a story, and this is the one they'll be expecting me to tell." She tipped her head, studying her work, and wiped some of the blood off her blade onto his scorched jacket before she added the crosspiece to the A. "Adultery," she said, sitting back on her heels. "They tell me you have quite a few wives."
Rosita lifted her boot, the tread of it imprinted on his cheek with dirt and a dusting of soot. "Wouldn't that be B for bigamy? We could do up his cheeks, too." She kicked him in the face. His head snapped to the side, blood and spit flying out of his mouth and soaking into Carol's pants.
"What…" he rasped, his voice barely audible. "You want? I can—"
"I'll tell you what I want," Carol said, her anger rising now. It was just like facing down Pete again. A man looking down at her with derision in his eyes. That look that said he thought he could do whatever he wanted just because he'd been born bigger, stronger. Just then, Michonne striding up between the trucks, blood dripping down her sword.
Michonne shook her head, which meant Daryl wasn't here. Wherever he was, he was still suffering. Carol's anger flamed into rage.
"I don't like bullies," she said, and jerked open Negan's jacket, the zipper on it hot enough to nearly sear her palm. "But every bully has a weak point." She tapped her blade on the fly of his pants, where the fabric was shredded from the strike of the barbed wire-wrapped bat. "Rick tried to out-bully you, but his weak point is his family, so that's where you struck." Negan keened a tiny noise, writhing with his broken arms slumped uselessly on the pavement.
She raised her knife and brought it down with the strength of both arms, right into his white, soft belly.
He screamed. Louder and longer than she thought him still capable of, and he thrashed so hard he ripped open his own stomach on her blade.
"That was for Glenn," she said. "And Abraham. And everything you did to Rick, and—"
He was still screaming, squirming against the pain, and she pulled her knife out with bile rising in her throat. It wasn't the same as she'd imagined. This wasn't satisfying her at all because what she wanted wasn't his pain. What she wanted was Daryl safe, to see his eyes lighten in that tiny smile of his. She'd meant to keep Negan alive through everything they had to do, but an evil person in pain was just like any other person in pain. It was horrible, and it changed nothing about the past. Not one damn thing.
She jerked her knife out of his belly and brought it to his throat.
"Shut up," she growled. She had one last thing she wanted to say, and she wanted him to hear her. "You know who gave me this knife? Best present I ever got." Her fingers tightened, secure in each little nook of the handle. "Daryl," she whispered, and watched his terrified eyes change in recognition.
She slit his throat.
She stood up, not needing to see him bleed out to know it happened. From here, it was just one long to-do list and there was only so much daylight left.
Michonne took a tighter grip on her sword. "Rosita. Hold up his arm."
#
"How the hell do you get these things on?" Carol griped from behind the truck, hopping on one bare foot as she yanked at the leather pants clinging to her thighs. "Cooking spray?"
Rosita laughed. "Pure grit and determination. Do they fit okay?"
"They'd fit fine, if they were panty hose." She kept her tone light, distracting them all from the grisly tasks they'd had to complete before the next part of the mission. She sucked in a breath and zipped the borrowed black leather pants, doing a deep knee bend or two to work some flexibility into them. Once they were situated though, they were almost comforting. Supportive, like a good bra.
She snatched up her bloodstained clothes and strode around the front of the truck, practicing her villain walk. She shortened and lengthened her stride once or twice, experimenting.
Rosita whistled. "Hot mama!"
Michonne frowned. "I still say you should have taken his jacket. It's what they do, showing off what they've taken. Like scalps."
"It's too big. Loose clothes make you appear small, helpless." Carol pulled her shoulders back, not looking at the fresh walker sagging on its knees next to Michonne. "How do I look?" Carl had outgrown the black button-down she was wearing, so it was pretty small, and she'd tucked it tight into the back of her pants, making it as fitted as she could without taking the time for a rush tailoring job.
Michonne shrugged off her leather vest, slid it around Carol's shoulders, closed it and then tugged it down to accentuate the other woman's breasts.
"You look like vengeance," Michonne said, her voice smooth and dark. But there was a note of satisfaction in it, so different from the desperation that had made her eyes hollow when she showed up on Carol's doorstep outside the Kingdom.
"How bad is it back home?" Carol had asked.
"Bad as it gets," Michonne had answered.
She'd been right. And wrong.
Now, the taller woman handed Carol a length of chain and Carol forced herself to look at the walker that had been Negan. She draped the length of chain around his neck, leaning forward to keep the high-buckled boots Daryl had given her away from the blood that dripped from Negan's handless arms. Using a bit of string and a snaring knot Daryl had taught her, she tied Lucille to the chain so the bat would swing and bang into Negan's body with every step.
His eyes were vacant now, harmless. His face gaping open where his mouth had been cut away.
"Finally," Rosita said. "I thought the man would never stop talking."
Author's Note: Okay, so that was maybe a little gruesome even for a revenge fic. Sorry for the gore! I needed the therapy. And in the next chapter, we get to see Carol really ride to Daryl's rescue, so stick around.