A/N: I'm back! Imorca and madcorvus over on tumblr came up with this radical idea of a 1940's noir-style AU for our Walking Dead characters. Somehow, I got dragged into the shenanigans, so here we are. I'll go into more detail with my notes on the first chapter as to what I'm actually doing with this tale. For now, enjoy this itty bitty teaser of a prologue. A taste, if you will, of what's to come. Trust me, it's not going to be what you expect. ;)

Warnings: Language, violence, gore, death, sex, angst. If you've read any of my other works, you know to expect all of the above. This will be no different.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of AMC, the basic idea and setting are the brainchild of imorca and madcorvus. Me, I'm just the vessel. I'm still not sure why I'm involved, but it's too late now. Suckers.


1947, Atlanta

If there was a more run down diner in the whole of Atlanta, Merle Dixon wasn't sure where it would be. The table was gritty and rough under his hands, splinters threatening to snag on his callused fingers. The tiled floor was dusty, chips and cracks running along every square of the odd diamond pattern. He watched the busty blonde behind the counter as she tossed him a curious eye over her shoulder. Any other day, any other time, he'd return the interest. Not today, though. Today was business for the old man.

He checked his watch; half an hour had passed. Daryl and his crew should have the site cleaned up by now, the body moved, the weapon tossed in the trunk of the car to be safely disposed of at a later time. Soon enough, the foreman would come to open up and find Peletier's body but any evidence that linked this to them would be long cleared. They knew well enough how to work around the cops and stay hidden. Greene was smart; he'd trained them well.

The waitress sauntered over with his coffee, hips sashaying back and forth in a manner that was obviously well rehearsed. Merle recognized a good, old fashioned 'come hither' strut when he saw one, having spent much of his spare time in the dark corners of Andrea Harrison's establishment, but he also recognized the worn, dark circles under her eyes she'd tried to bury under layers of makeup. This dame wanted a fix as well as a bit of fun. Merle sighed as she placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him.

"Can I getcha anything else?" she asked coyly.

"Not tonight, doll."

"You sure about that?" She reached out and ran her hand down his shoulder. Merle flinched and shrugged her hand off him. Lousy broad.

"Scram," he ordered.

With a huff, she stalked back to her place behind the counter, 'come hither' walk forgotten in her frustration. Merle chuckled as he watched her snatch up her dirty rag to wipe down the counter yet again from lack of anything else to do. He was the only customer, his presence upon entering enough to send the diner's few patrons scampering out the doors upon his arrival. Nothing like the reputation of a good henchman to clear a room. Merle took a swig of the lukewarm, bitter coffee and winced.

"I piss better coffee in the mornings," he muttered. Merle took his flask from his inside coat pocket, taking a moment to rub his thumb along the beaten silver before popping the cap and pouring a generous shot of whiskey into his cup. He took a long pull from the flask before shoving it back into his pocket, letting the whiskey roll around his tongue before swallowing, enjoying the burn as it crept down his throat.

He drummed his fingers on the table, impatient now to get a move on. Where was he? Merle took another drink of his coffee; as it always did, whiskey made everything better. He was half thinking of ordering something to eat despite the risk of food poisoning this place clearly harbored when the flash of lights spilled across his table through the window; a car was turning in to the lot outside. He squinted, waiting; one of the car doors opened and a figure stood out. It took Merle a minute to place him in the dark outside, blinded as he was by the headlights. The figure waved and he caught a flash of sandy hair. Daryl. Good.

Merle quickly drained his coffee; slapping the empty cup back on its saucer, he stood and jammed his fedora back on his head and dropped several bills on the table, leaving a little extra to make up for his rejection of the blonde honey.

The night was cold as he stepped outside and swished his long coat over his shoulders. Merle glanced at the sky; it was so late it was almost early. Daryl was waiting outside the car, his cigarette already smoked almost to the filter. Merle waved away the cigarette case his brother held out to him, impatient now for news.

"Job's done," Daryl said quickly.

"Anybody see ya?"

"'Course not," Daryl scoffed. "Don't give me any shit."

Merle grinned. Daryl had been working with him for old man Greene for a few years now, rising up in the ranks to become one of the top enforcers faster than anyone else in recent memory. Still, he was Merle's baby brother and so a little shit-giving was required every now and then. Just to keep things in place. Merle nudged Daryl with his elbow, pushing him aside so he could climb into the car. He could hear grumbling as Daryl got in after him but chose to ignore it for the moment, letting the rumble of the engine soothe him as the car pulled out onto the road.

"So what now?"

"Let the cops do their thing," Merle replied. "Then we take the wife to see the old man."

"The wife?" Daryl asked. "What's Greene want with her?"

"Dead or not, Peletier owes a debt," Merle said. "It'll be up to her to settle up now."

Daryl was silent, gnawing on his thumb in a telltale sign that he wasn't happy with the situation but wasn't going to bitch about it. Merle knew that anything involving threatening women was Daryl's weakness, but Daryl knew enough to shut up about it.

"Looks like rain," he said instead. Smart boy.

"So it does," Merle replied.

Sure enough, the rain started to fall as the car drove into the night, the two men unaware that the growing storm above was just a hint of things to come.