Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Warnings: See original chapter for all warnings and related information.

Authors Note #1: *Rated for adult language, adult situations, kidnapping, violence, allusions to rape, misogyny, chauvinistic attitudes, and some serious whump.

Sanctuary for All

Chapter 3

"Enough!" The man behind him snapped. Cutting through the whooping and cursing like a hot knife gliding through butter as the group surrounding him suddenly froze in place, acting like that single word by itself carried more weight than a dozen loaded pistols.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Tempering the urge to retaliate as nervous tension thrummed down the length of him, humming through his bones and down his spine until he was nearly vibrating in place. Twitching and sparking like a blown transformer spitting out it's last bit of juice, weakened, but undeniably dangerous.

Instead he forced himself to still. Ignoring the slow trickle that was beginning to seep down from a cut just above his right eye, letting it pass unhindered as a few rogue dribbles began dappling across his abused lips, painting him with his own fluids as he felt his skin grow taunt under layer after layer of partially dried blood.

"Was he alone?" The unseen man asked, completely ignoring him as he spoke over his head and towards the group of men that had captured him.

He cocked his head; there was something different about his voice. Something subtle and almost understated that played with the syllables as they slipped off his tongue. An accent perhaps? Yes, that had to be it. It was American, but definitely not Georgian. Sounded almost like New York, or maybe even Boston.

He was somewhat surprised when the high pitched douche bag that had spoken before didn't jump at the chance to respond, only flicking a rather self satisfied brow when green shirt shoved his way through the mess of people. Squinting through what promised to be a truly spectacular black eye as he straightened self consciously, his tattered green shirt now a splattered mess of dirt streaks and red splotches as he made to speak.

"He was with another man, young, black haired. But he sent him back the way they'd came about ten minutes before we took him." The man replied with a grimace, eyes flickering down at him murderously as he clutched at his side.

"…And you didn't go after him?" The leader hissed, voice steely and deliberately quiet, seemingly at odds with the way the group of men suddenly stilled. The entire crowd seeming to take a collective, half a step backwards as a muted flurry of whispering rippled through the crowd.

He blinked. Taking in everything from the group's body language to their facial expressions as the echoes reverberated inside his skull like parade music accompanying an unexpected epiphany. They weren't just nervous, they were scared shitless…

Green shirt's Adam's apple bobbed visibly, running a trembling hand through his stark black hair as he cleared his throat nervously. "N-no… He was long gone by the time we had this one surrounded. It took all of us just to take him down. And by the time we got him back to the truck there were walkers coming down from the loggin' road. There was no time to go after the other one without risking alerting his group." Green shirt responded, looking all kinds of hesitant as his eyes darted from the man behind him to the gun still shoved against the back of his head.

The silence stretched, breathless and suffocating as the leader remained silent. You could have heard a fucking pin drop. And honestly, he didn't blame them. The man had a voice that could have made anyone pause, oozing power, control and a particular brand of narcissistic self righteousness that you almost couldn't help but stop and marvel at.

A quiet shiver trickled down the length of his spine as he considered it, using the lull to his advantage as he took in every detail of the scene around him. From the high vaulted ceilings and shoddy décor, to the nervous tics and twitchin' limbs of the group ringed around him. This wasn't a community or a group…this was a pack of rabid dogs barely leashed by a brute of an alpha.

As it was it didn't take much effort to consider the man himself. Hell, he'd already formulated an image to match the snatches of words and half heard conversations that echoed in the back of his conscious mind. - This was a man that was used to obedience and utter compliance, that much was blindingly obvious. But he didn't just expect obedience, he demanded it. His leadership here was evidence enough of that, acting out a form of ruler ship that appeared to be enforced by fear rather than good example.

The mark of a dictator masquerading as a savoir…

It was all there in his voice. His tone had a quiet, understated strength that demanded one's attention more effectively than a yell or a shout. And worse still, it had a sort of false graciousness to it, coming out in a jagged mess of soft, lilting tones that put his teeth on edge without even tryin'.

Promising violence and retribution in every slip of the tongue and lightly accented syllable. Twisting harmless words and seemingly off-hand phrases into something under handed and foul. Until every word, every phrase was all but drowning under the weight of his own ill intentions.

He knew without having to turn around that this was a man that was not to be trifled with. The kind of a man you better pray you killed right the first time, because if you didn't you'd probably end up still being alive when your intestines started cooling in the open air.

Oh, he was a dangerous one alright, all soothing and dulcet on the surface, but as nasty as a crocodile and twice as mean just underneath. …Christ, he'd stepped in some seriously royal shit this time.

Coarse fabric rasped against coarse fabric as the man shifted behind him. Barrel squelching nastily as it firmed against the back of his head, flowing together with his change of stance as the man moved closer. Leaning down until he was just out of range, so close that if he dared to move his head, only a scant few inches would have separated them.

He remained motionless as the man sunk down on his haunches. His closeness making his lip curl as the man's calm, vapid breaths ghosted across his prickling skin. Spreading across his abused flesh like that of an oil slick, cloying and disgustingly thick as something inside him shuddered. The air around them suddenly awash with the scent of freshly washed skin and clean smelling clothes as the unusual smell filtered through his blood encrusted nostrils.

His fingers itched. Still bound together by at least two or three knots of rope as every cell in his body screamed for him to just whirl around and hamstring the bastard. To tear him apart with his bare hands and make each and every one of those miserable mother fuckers pay for what they'd done.

Shit, if only…

It was only when green shirt began to squirm in place that the man broke the silence. "Markham? Weston?" he called, causing two men he didn't recognize, to straighten and push to the front of the crowd.

"Deliver the usual message if you please. His vest should do the trick I think." The man behind him began, false deference all but oozing from his lips as the men nodded, muscles tensing visibly as their gaze flickered from him to the floor as the leader snapped his fingers sharply.

"Follow their trail as best you can. See if you can't find out where they're based. Then make sure you leave the message where they can all see it. I don't want a repeat of last time gentlemen. Remember, this plan doesn't work unless they know not only that their man has been taken, but where he's been taken to." He snapped, a shadow of annoyance creeping into his tone as the two men nodded quickly and started forwards.

Wait…What?

But before he could even so much as struggle, half a dozen new faces all but fell on him. Undoing the ties on his left side and wresting the thick black leather up and over his head. The action smearing streaks of fresh crimson across the dirty, angel wing decals until they flashed a rusty, fire hydrant red in the low afternoon light.

He hissed in pain. Injured side exploding into a burning mass of agony as one of the fucker's knees dug brutally into his side. Barely catching what happened next as the leader raised his voice above the din. Demanding silence as green shirt walked back into his line of vision. Inching forward in response to an invisible summons from the man behind him, trepidation and uncertainty clouding his features as a vein in his temple started pulsing rhythmically.

And in spite of himself, he stilled, captivated by the play of emotions that flickered across the man's face like microfilm. The whites of his eyes blood shot and far too large, as his forehead glinted with the beginnings of a clammy sweat. The man wasn't just afraid, he was fucking terrified…

He didn't have to catch all the words to get the just of the conversation. All he needed to see was how green shirt suddenly froze in place. Looking stricken and just a hair past utter terror as the tone of his skin suddenly did it's best to mirror the color of his shirt. Staying that way for a few long seconds before it seemed to pale. Turning sallow and sickly in the low light as the man nodded frantically and disappeared from sight.

"Take him to the back room and lock him up." The leader said dismissively, trousers rasping together as the man shifted. Making way for the others to seize him by the pits and drag him to his feet.

"You'd best let me go!" He rasped, nearly tripping over his own tongue as the first words he'd managed to get out since he'd regained consciousness all but tumbled from his lips. Teeth clenched together as the gun twitched against his skull, too angry and panicked to be concerned about the cool press of metal when all he could think about was the others. …Rick, Carol, Glenn…everyone. They didn't know. He had to warn them. These men were going to-…

But instead, he was stuck here, alone. Powerless to stop his mind from racing as every possible scenario streamed through his mind like one of those rickety old film reels they used to have in the community center back home. Useless contraptions that played those spotty, black and white cartoons after Sunday school that froze more often than they played in the first place.

It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to follow their trail back to the farm. There had been no reason to cover their tracks. And when they did…if the likes of this group found them... Well, Christ..

The barrel pressed up against his blood slicked scalp abruptly vanished as the group started to drag him away. Smacking him around as he arched his head backwards, desperate to caught a glimpse of the man in question as he dug his boot heels into the age-worn tiles and held his ground.

"…Or what?" one of the men heckled, looking back at his buddies with a cocky snarl as he yanked him forward. "You can't do nothin' about it shit head!" the man crowed, flashing a mouthful of crooked, nicotine stained teeth as he grinned nastily.

He baulked. There was no other way to describe it. Stomaching lurching as something in his mind just fucking snapped. Every muscle in his body went on point, crackling with nervous energy as every last reserve he didn't even know he had surged forward at once. Hell, he barely even felt it when he took a cuff to the temple. Struggling viciously as he legs and fists struck out frantically, connecting with hard muscle and unsuspecting flesh as he cussed out a blue streak to match. Kicking up one hell of a ruckus as the men barely hanging on to him were forced to physically drag him across the mud streaked tiles.

Because theatrics' aside, that asshole was right, he couldn't do a damned thing about it. Him, the others, he was fuckin' helpless. Bile rose up in the back of his throat at the very thought. Acrid and foul as it burned through the delicate tissue and flooded across his tongue, threatening to unman him completely as he gagged and nearly vomited. Throat constricting as he forced himself to swallow, determined not to give these idiots the satisfaction as they pushed him through the crowd.

…Because a Dixon didn't do helpless, not now and certainly not ever.

"Careful boys, we wouldn't want to damage the merchandise before delivery, now would we?" came an airy, disinterested sigh. As a few of the man jostled and stumbled. Clearly jockeying for position around him as the leader's voice molded almost seamlessly into the background.

Fuck this shit!

He craned his head, trying to get a look at the man as they dragged him away. Hands still bound together as he caught one of the fuckers with a vicious uppercut to the jaw. Almost succeeding in wriggling out of their grip entirely as the man's chin snapped back with the force of the blow.

But the leader didn't move into his line of vision at all. In fact, he didn't even seem concerned with the fact that the entire room was echoing with his curses and yells. Or that it was taking four fully grown men just to wrestle him from the room.

Instead the man simply sighed; the sound exaggerated and shockingly close as he finally managed to whirled in place. Catching only the smallest glimpse of cleanly pressed pin stripe trousers and a curly mop of thick, salt and pepper hair before the butt of the man's gun abruptly slammed down across the back of his head.

And suddenly, he wasn't thinking about much of anything anymore...

A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! There will be more to come!

"The enemy is fear. We think it is hate; but, it is fear." - Gandhi