Previously, in From Whence we Came:

The day his hometown was evacuated, Carl Grimes waited for his mother to pick him up from school, but Lori never came. Surviving by the skin of his teeth, he was later found by a group that called themselves the Saviors. And when the Saviors later found a town called Alexandria, Carl discovered a man he thought died when he was twelve years old. There, kneeling in the dust, with Lucille lingering over his head, was his father.

But Rick didn't recognize him. Known as 'Patch' by the Saviors, Carl managed to hide his identity as he helped his father's people from behind the scenes, saving the town from a bandit group called the 'Wolves' and even befriending a girl named Sophia in the process. But he could only continue the ruse for so long, his identity revealed publicly by Negan and his father forced to choose between his two children.

While severely injured, Carl survived imprisonment in Sanctuary, escaping with one of Negan's wives, Sherry. He escaped to the Kingdom, discovered Shane Walsh's survival, and befriended the king's adopted children before finally reuniting with his father. Hilltop, Kingdom, and Alexandria are newly allied, preparing for a surprise attack to go to war. But Sherry is missing, and even as all the pieces begin to fall into place, it's possible that the Kingdom's reason for joining the alliance might be founded on a lie, a murder that Shane himself could have been responsible for.

But murder or not, they have a war to prepare for. With their newly acquired cannons in tow, there's still more work to be done before the Coalition can begin the attack against Negan. And while Carl's past involvement in the slaughter of the children of Oceanside has nearly destroyed everything they've been preparing for, there's even a larger threat on the horizon. A helicopter hovers over the Kingdom's walls, a trinity symbol on its side. The same one Carl had run into only days before...

Chapter 17

Carl would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the thrill of a fight.

He didn't always enjoy battles. There was no joy in seeing people he knew being torn apart, or being scared shitless with his back to a wall. But when he was winning? When the Wolves were being trampled beneath his horse's feet, or Ron's face was being bashed into the corner of his cell? There was a thrill to it. There was a sadistic, dangerous part of Carl that got off of the adrenaline rush, on the satisfaction of outmaneuvering an impossible situation and seeing his enemies absolutely ruined for it.

And right now, Carl needs that rush, because a helicopter is hovering above the Kingdom's walls and he has to get his head in the game. He can't afford to wallow in self pity or self doubt. There's simply no time.

It's like a switch turns on. Carl doesn't know how to handle friendships, or love interests, or relationships in general. But a threat? He knows how to handle a threat.

You stand tall. You don't show weakness. You evaluate the situation, keep your head together, and choose whether to kneel or to fight.

The question is, which one will get the Kingdom out of this alive?

Civilians are scattering like frightened rabbits, too curious to run away, but too scared to draw any closer to the mechanical leviathan. For a brief moment, Carl wonders what he did wrong. How he and Ben managed to lead the armored scavengers straight back to the Kingdom. But when the chopper finally chooses its landing spot, a flattened area near the humvee, he knows.

In a town filled with gardeners and spears, the military vehicle sticks out like a red thumb. Someone has already gotten to work stripping its exterior, welding pieces of it to the U-hauls' sides, but it's still easy to make out what it is, especially from an aerial view. The scavengers must have seen the vehicle and put two and two together. This realization stops Carl in his tracks, and he swears under his breath at his own foolishness, at his own ill luck.

They're clearly outgunned. The guards might have rifles, now, but behind the walls, the town itself is still practically defenseless, with unarmed civilians lingering out in the open. There's no place to take cover, nowhere to retreat to that these people can't easily follow. If a fight breaks out, even if they did win, the casualties would be enormous.

How the hell did they stand a chance against a helicopter? And of all the times for this group to arrive, why did it have to be now, just two days before the attack?

It comes to no surprise to Carl that the leaders have rushed towards the commotion as well. King Ezekiel steps forward, arms outstretched in hesitant greeting. The tightness in his lips, the broadening of his shoulders reveals a protective stance, as if the king thinks that his mere presence will draw the newcomers away from the elderly and focus their attention on him.

But as the helicopter finally finishes its descent, the armed men inside seem focused on anything but the king, surveilling the crowd as if they're looking for something in particular. Even in the distance, Carl can make out multiple people in the body of the aircraft, one of them stepping forward as the acting leader. He mentally establishes a headcount. Five in the body, two in the front, and an unknown number of figures in the back, obscured behind tinted windows. The Kingdom could take them. A lot of people might die, but if they targeted the pilot first, they could win.

But if this group had helicopters….who knew how powerful they really were?

Alexandria had made the same mistake once, taking down a single outpost when they should have taken down five, and had suffered for it. How many people did this group have? Where did they even come from?

All of Carl's thoughts come to a screeching halt as the armored leader steps forward, megaphone in hand. With his helmet on, his face is indistinguishable from the rest of his men, whose very eyes are obscured by dark goggles. Carl narrows his gaze. He had only seen them from afar before, and hadn't had a chance to examine the shock armor. It makes them impenetrable against walkers, no doubt, as every inch of their body is covered and protected from the gnashing of teeth. But is it bullet-proof?

King Ezekiel steps forward to make contact, but he's immediately drowned out by the chopper's roar. In fact, it's difficult for the royal man to even stand. The wind whips around his clothes, forcing him to use his outstretched arms to maintain his balance. There's a grey blur, and suddenly the king's hair is gone, revealing a shaved scalp underneath. Carl has to blink once, then twice to make sure he's not imagining things. It's a wig. This entire time, the king has been wearing a wig.

While it's a situation that Carl will later find hilarious, in the moment, it only serves to make the normally majestic leader look strangely vulnerable. The scavengers' leader doesn't even attempt to speak to the king, instead turning the other direction and bringing the megaphone to his lips. Above the whirring of the blades, above the murmured voices of the crowd, his voice rings clear.

"We're looking for the kid with the fucked up face."

Shit.

Fucking.

Dammit.

For a moment, silence reigns. But slowly, people begin to murmur among themselves, whispering and turning to find where he is. Because there's absolutely no doubt who the scavengers are looking for, or exactly who has brought this plight to their land. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out.

In the distance, Carl meets his father's wide-eyed gaze. Rick shakes his head, very clearly mouthing the word 'no'.

Carl grimaces, knowing he won't comply.

He idly wonders how many times he's given his father a heart attack, this week. Or today, even. He's about to give him another one, because he can't back down from this, not now. It's not even out of pride, but because this is a test.

Carl has done this dance a thousand times, he's just usually the one on the other side of the equation. The helicopter, the armor? They might have their practical uses, but right now they're here for show. This group is ignoring Ezekiel, ignoring the established order of things, and making a point of letting the Kingdom know exactly how powerful they are. It's a power play. This dramatic entrance is designed to be intimidating, to establish that they're the top dog in this situation.

And who knows? They might just be.

But as Carl spots the dismantled humvee in the distance, and a partially rolled up U-haul beside it, he knows that the Kingdom needs to at least show its teeth.

He quickly turns around, praying that Wheelock has followed him. His guess is rewarded, and in a low voice, he murmurs something to the other man that he never imagined he would hear himself say in a thousand years.

"I'll distract them, and you get to the cannon. If I say the word, roll up the back. Got it?"

From Wheelock's response, that's not something the other man had ever expected to hear, either. He pauses for a moment before he's able to reply, "...it's not loaded. I don't even have gunpowder with me-"

"They don't know that." Carl hisses back.

He doesn't have time to argue about it. He doesn't give the other man the time to argue about it, instead turning back around and stepping into the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Ben slinking away towards the tiger pen. He never thought his friend would run from this sort of situation, but he doesn't fault him for it. Instead, he's just relieved that there's at least one less casualty that might erupt from this situation. One more loved one that's safe.

The rest of the Kingdom parts before him like the red sea. They're staring at him mournfully, as if they know he's walking towards his death. The cafeteria folks. The elderly woman who washed his clothes. Wide-eyed children who had stared at him in the classroom. Sophia. Henry. His father. Ezekiel. Even Oceanside is present, no doubt wondering exactly what this new alliance has gotten them into.

God, Carl can't screw this up.

He can't.

So he plays the game. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, scowling as he steps forward. The leader smirks as he makes eye contact, making a motion for the pilot to cut the gas. The engine audibly groans, chopper blades finally whirring to a stop. Carl can hear himself breathe again. Which is good, because he wasn't actually sure he was breathing there, for a second.

But he doesn't let his anxiety show, instead spitting disinterestedly into the dust. He meets the leaders' gaze. "Something I can do for you fellas?" He asks, leaning back on his haunches.

Carl can hear the smirk in the other man's reply. "Damn. No offense, kid, but up close? You're even uglier than I thought."

"Bold words for a stormtrooper." Carl retorts back, looking pointedly at the armored getup. He raises an eyebrow at the other man, who barks out a laugh.

"Yeah, I thought we might get along. You can tell your people to relax. You don't hurt us? And we won't hurt you." The leader assures, more loudly than before. "Although that's rather generous of me, since your boy nearly got several of my guys killed. Even tried to run over some of them, if I recall? You've got some guts, kid."

Carl shrugs. "Wasn't trying to run over them, they just got in the way. And thanks for takin' on that herd for me. Appreciated that."

"I bet." The leader says, sounding amused.

King Ezekiel sees this as his chance. No longer drowned out by the chopper, he steps forward, flashing a dangerously charismatic smile. "You have us at a disadvantage, gentlemen. You seem to be familiar with us, but we are not quite familiar with you. I am King Ezekiel. We apologize for any inconvenience our Carl might have caused. Surely you understand youth and its follies?"

"That I do." The leader replies, still seeming rather bored. But his helmet turns back towards Carl, tilting his head to the side. "Carl? A face like that, and your name is Carl?"

"I've got a lot of nicknames. You? You can call me Frankenstein Grimes." Carl says, flashing his teeth. He makes sure to stretch the corner of his lips further than normal, stepping forward so the storm trooper will be sure to see the sutures stretching to their limit.

To the teen's pleasure, some of the scavengers shuffle, visibly repulsed even behind their armor. Good. Carl continues, stepping even closer towards the helicopter. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see movement around the U-haul, with Wheelock quietly getting into position. "What about you? Do I just keep callin' you a stormtrooper in my head, or…..?"

"We keep to code names in the field. Like nicknames, just more efficient." The leader says, still amused, but a bit more sober than before. "I'm Red 7, but you can call me Red."

Carl nods curtly. "Good to meet you, Red. Now, our people's arms are gettin' tired from pointin' our guns at you. Mind fillin' us in on exactly what you're doing here? I doubt you'd waste fuel and make all this fuss just 'cause of lil' ol' me."

"There was another boy with you. Blond. Couldn't make out his face. Is he here, too?"

Carl narrows his gaze at the other man. "He's my wingman. Kind of like your pilot, there. Had to haul his ass out of a tree. Surprised your scouts didn't see him, guess you were too distracted tinkering with your new toy to notice the teenagers right on your flank. Seems a little sloppy, if you ask me, but I don't have all that fancy armor, so."

"If you did, you might still have half your face."

"Oh, I lost the eye years ago, so I doubt it. Took a bullet to the head. What about you? Those helmets of yours bulletproof?"

The shock troopers behind Red tighten their grips on their weapons, and for a moment, Carl thinks that he's gone too far. He doesn't want to start a fight, just show that the Kingdom is formidable in one. He doesn't doubt that these people could wipe the Kingdom out, if they wanted the territory badly enough. But if they're just bullies? Hoping to scare some peasants into giving them their stuff? Not actually intending to conquer them? Bullies pick on the weakest links. They single out abused little girls with freckles, not sheriff deputy's sons with mean right hooks.

"Damn, kid." Red laughs bitterly. "You are exactly the kind of reckless son of a bitch we've been looking for."

"And what are you looking for, exactly?" Carl glowers. "Why would the Commonwealth waste its time stopping in the middle of nowhere? To greet the neighbors? Recruit one-eyed teenagers? Just cut the smalltalk, man, what's your deal?"

Red pauses for a moment, evaluating the teen before he reaches to dig into his pockets. He pulls out a rectangular device, holding it up in a non-threatening fashion. "I meant what I said. You don't hurt us, and we won't hurt you. This is a radio. I'm going to toss it towards you."

A radio.

Carl would prefer a Mountain Dew, to be honest.

He has exactly a split second decide whether or not to catch it. If it's a grenade, he's likely dead anyways, so with a quick prayer, he reaches up and snags the hard plastic out of the sky. The man wasn't lying. It's just a basic radio, although with a different looking antenna than he's used to seeing.

"You're right. We're not here to greet the neighbors, because we're not neighbors. In fact, you don't need to know where we're from, you just need to know that we're looking to trade."

Trade.

They're here to trade.

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

"Bullshit." Carl says, keeping his expression steady. "You didn't fly out to the middle of nowhere to ask some random ass kids in a humvee if their people wanted to trade with you. You're clearly well-fed, armed to the teeth. What could we even have that you want?"

Red nods at the question, like he was already expecting it. For the first time in the entire conversation, he turns his helmet to address the crowd. "You want food? We have food. You want weapons? We have weapons. But what we need is a bit more specific. Harder to get. We're working on a cure."

You could hear a pin drop.

But shit still smells, and this shit smells from a mile away.

"We've heard that one before." Rick expresses that exact sentiment, now standing at Carl's shoulder. It never ceases to amaze the teen how quickly his father can shift into a threat to be reckoned with. How the same man that had been lovingly kissing Judith only hours ago is now standing tall with clenched fists and a snarl on his lips.

But Red doesn't take the bait, shrugging off Carl's father the same way he did Ezekiel only moments prior. "It doesn't matter to me whether you believe it, or not. Your people don't exactly look like scientists. All you need to know is that if we get what we need? Then you get what you need. We nod, shake hands, and both go our separate ways. I told you, we're not from around here. We're not interested in your land, or staging some sort of coup. We're not adding to our border. What we're looking for is very…..specialized."

"I take it you're not talking about helicopter parts, here." Carl mutters, furrowing his brows. Red nods, turning back to the crowd. All traces of amusement are gone, the soldier instead donning a more sympathetic tone.

"What I'm about to ask…..it's hard. Not everyone is willing to agree to it. And I'll be honest, the only reason I stopped here, today? Is because Frankenstein Grimes over there made an impression on me. Looked like he's seen some pretty tough shit, especially for a kid his age. I thought that if his people were as tough as him, that I'd have a chance. I didn't seek you out. Just saw that humvee in town, realized who it belonged to, and thought it was worth asking."

Well that fills Carl with confidence. He's uncomfortably reminded of Rick's own speech to Wheelock. If they don't agree to whatever these shitty terms are…. what happens? Will they take what they want by force, too, the same way Carl's own father had planned? But the armored man doesn't give anyone a chance to express their doubts, continuing his speech with practiced ease.

"Our scientists? They've got more of the dead to study than they know what to do with. If they just needed corpses, we'd be putting nets around those bastards by the dozen. But that's not the problem. We know what people's brains look like after they've changed. What our scientists need to understand is the why. They need to see the process as it's happening. We're not bad people. If we were, we'd come down here guns blazing, kidnapping everyone and using you as test subjects. But we're not going to do that."

"What we're asking? Sometimes, people get bitten. It happens. You get bitten, you put a gun to your head, and that's it. Your loved ones grieve, but they're left with nothing. Just a rotting corpse instead of a biting one. But instead….if you get bit? Use that radio. Call us the moment it happens. Some people change in a couple of hours. For others, the fever lasts days. But no matter what, you're going to die. But if you get to us quickly enough for our people to take a look at you? We'll leave supplies behind for your loved ones, and your death might actually mean something. We want to find out why the bite always kills. We want to find out why the brain reanimates the way it does, no matter how the person dies. But we need your help to do that."

It takes Carl longer than he'd like to admit to process what the shock trooper just said.

The whole thing is sending alarm bells off in his head, but it also….strangely makes sense. This feels like a trap, but if it were, why wouldn't they just grab people off the streets? They're clearly capable of it. He's desperately attempting to come up with a response, and it's clear the leaders of the various communities are attempting to do the same. But as he tries to puzzle through the strangers' intentions, as he lets his gaze drift over the troopers, he notices something odd.

His headcount is the same as it was before, with the men and women that had been in the body of the flying vehicle stepping forward when their leader had. The pilots have understandably remained in the cockpit, but…. the people in the back haven't moved. The windows are tinted, making it difficult for Carl to get a good look. But the more closely he looks, the more he realizes that the figure closest to the window has a bag over its head.

Jesus Christ.

These people had passed by the Kingdom while they were already on business. Those aren't soldiers in the back of the chopper. Those are people. People who've taken them up on this offer…..willingly or unwillingly. A murky hunch begins to form in the back of Carl's brain. One he can't quite grasp, can't even quite put into words, but one he can't ignore.

"What if we want something unconventional in return?" He offers suddenly. He can feel the crowd's attention snapping back to him. What he's about to suggest…..it might get him exiled. Hell, the Kingdom might just let Oceanside put a bullet in him after he's done. But he has to suggest it, has to explore the possibility, because he wants to see just how far these people are willing to go.

Red's helmet tips to the side. "Depends. Like what?"

"Air support." Carl replies, forcing himself to meet the leader's gaze. He doesn't want to stare too long at the window and give himself away.

The suggestion sends the crowd murmuring among themselves, and out of the corner of his eye, he can make out the shorn Ezekiel opening his mouth in protest, but nothing comes out. Like the other leaders, the king is still grasping for words, and Carl hasn't said anything too appalling. Not yet, at least.

"Smart, but no-can-do, kiddo. Our pilots are too valuable to risk in someone else's fight."

"I'm not asking you to fight. Just fly overhead, look intimidating. And when we win? You'll have over a hundred POWs you can experiment on."

This sends the crowd into an uproar. Carl doesn't have to see Father Gabriel to imagine how much the episcopal preacher must be condemning him, now. Even Ezekiel looks outright appalled, and his father is tugging roughly on his shoulder, trying to pull him off to the side to talk to him. But Carl doesn't budge. It's not his place to suggest such a thing to a foreign power, he knows. But as practical as the idea actually sounds to him, that's not why he's suggested it. He stares Red down. The scavenger is looking over the crowd, taking in the revolted reactions, but the man himself isn't acting offended in the slightest. His men had taken a few steps back at the mere sight of Carl's scars, but this doesn't seem to phase them at all.

They don't mind taking unwillingly bitten subjects, just as long as they're not the ones actually killing them.

But…. why? Why make that distinction?

"I'm afraid it's still too much of a risk." Red decides at last, shaking his head. "And our capacity is limited. Something like that….we're too far away to haul by the truckload. We can only take a few people at a time."

He's not denying it. He's wisely side-stepping the issue, sensing the crowd's protests at the idea. Carl raises his voice, speaking as loudly as he can so he can be heard over the noise.

"Like the people you have in the back right now?"

And just like that, the crowd goes silent. Even his father's grip falters, as he turns back in shock at his son's words. This gets a reaction out of the troopers, their leader visibly straightening at being called out on the matter.

"Yes." Red says at last. "Like the people we have in the back right now."

Carl doesn't give anyone time to react. He's caught Red off guard, and he wants to keep him that way. "I want to see them." He says quickly. "Before we agree to anything, I want to talk to them, face-to-face."

The trooper falters at this, and for the first time in the conversation, turns to share a bewildered look with his peers. They seem equally taken aback, unsure of what to do. But Carl presses forward. "Look, your story sounds believable, but I want to hear it from them. If we don't? You've just wasted a trip for nothing. So what's it going to be?"

Is Carl still breathing? He's not sure he's still breathing. But he has a leg up on the situation, and he can't lose it, no matter how much his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. He schools his expression. He doesn't have the benefit of a helmet or goggles to mask his nervousness. Red finally gives a reluctant nod. He motions to one of his men, who steps back into the helicopter and reaches into the back.

Through the tinted windows Carl can make out something…..sparkling? He has to be imagining things. But he's not. Now that the figures are moving, the one closest to the window is catching sunlight as it moves, practically glimmering as the two subjects move into Carl's line of sight.

And now, Carl isn't breathing at all. He's sure of it.

Because even with a bag over her head, Carl would recognize that black sequined dress anywhere. He's only ever seen one like it, and only met one group of women who would bother to wear such a thing. Negan's wives.

It's Sherry.

His blood runs cold.

Carl doesn't recognize the second figure, but as the two of them are escorted forward, it's clear that they're disoriented, relying on the trooper to guide them. They can't see through the bags. Sherry is shaky on her feet even for someone who's been blindfolded, and Carl's heart plummets at the sight of it. She's barefoot. She's barefoot, and in the same dress he last saw her in. God, how long ago had that been? Weeks? Months? It feels like decades.

If she's bit…..God, if she's bit, then she's had to have been held somewhere else all this time. But where?

And just like that, it's like the last piece of the puzzle snaps into place, and Carl raises one eye to meet Red's. He feels dangerous, now, seething more than he ever did for Martinez or the Wolf. He wants to pry every piece of this bastard's armor off and gouge out his eyes. He wants to tear his dick off and shove it up his ass. He wants to do every unimaginable thing he can think of to the man before feeding him to the biters, because he wants this man to suffer.

But there's a bigger picture. There's a crowd of innocent people staring wide-eyed at the sight before them, and somewhere out there, there's a place this fucker calls home.

"Take off the bags." Carl says lowly, careful to keep his voice steady. "Gags, too, if they're wearing them."

His assumption is proven right. Red gives a nod, and the scavenger escorting them removes them, one by one. Carl sucks in a breath at the sight of it. The man with her is an absolute stranger to the teen, he could be anyone. But even squinting from the sudden burst of sunlight, that's her. That's Sherry.

And as her vision returns and the gag is removed, she tries to gather her bearings, blinking rapidly as she peers at the dozens of eyes watching her. But then she sees him. And she absolutely crumples.

"Patch?"

She stumbles in sheer relief, and Carl feels something break inside of himself. He wants to rush forward and comfort her, but he's starkly aware of the series of guns that are raising behind him, and subsequently among the scavengers, too. The Kingdom might not know who she is, but it's clear that she knows him. And that's good enough for them.

God, Carl loves these people.

"Hey, Sherry." He smiles comfortingly, doing his damn best to keep his expression steady. "How ya holdin' up?"

She's thinner than before, her face gaunt, though the bulge around her stomach is more prominent than ever. But upon further examination, Carl's heart sinks. An inflamed set of teeth marks decorate the delicate flesh around her neck. She's dying. He just asked a dying woman how she was doing.

But she only smiles tiredly back. "Could use a foot massage, to be honest."

"Thought you said your name was Grimes." Red mutters coldly. The tone has completely shifted, all trace of friendliness gone. He knows he's been had, now he's just trying to see if he can salvage the situation. But Carl was past considering these people's offer a long time ago.

"Told you, I'm a man of many nicknames. And right now, yours is fuckface. Because you've just gone and fucked up beyond all belief." He growls. He steps forward threateningly, practically feeling his lips take on the same snarl his father had been wearing moments before.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to hand over the girl. The guy, too, if he wants, that's up to him. But afterwards? You're going to fuck off and never step anywhere near these surrounding counties ever again. I don't care if they're willing or not, you're not doing it."

Carl has never been good at poker. But he has a pretty good idea of what's in his hand, and what's in his opponent's hand, and right now? Screw it all to hell. If he's playing the game, he's playing the game.

Red laughs in his face, stretching his arms back around him, towards his troopers, towards the helicopter. "I hate to say it, kid, but you're outmatched. I'm sorry about your friend, I really am, but she was already bit when we found her. And a pregnant lady? With a baby and its stem cells? She's premium product. She's already dead, we're just giving her death meaning."

This is where Carl is either going to hit or miss, but he's fairly certain he's not going to miss. He takes another step forward, scowling so profoundly he can feel some of his sutures stretching, but he doesn't care. "She was already bit, huh? A lot of people 'just so happen to get bit' around that junkyard, I'm guessin'?"

Hook.

Line.

And.

Sinker.

He can see the man recoil in shock, and now it's Carl's turn to laugh in his face. Because that murky haze? That missing puzzle piece? It's all starting to come together.

"All this time, I thought people were gettin' snatched off the road to get eaten, that those freaks were cannibals or somethin'. But that was never it, was it? Out of that whole hoarder's wet dream, they've always managed to have one cleared out spot next to the rail cars. I always thought that was weird, but for it to be a damn helicopter pad? I never would have dreamed it. But that's what they do, isn't it? They traffic people. Kidnap 'em, force them to get bit, and then call you in exchange for the goods. And you don't care as long as they're the ones forcin' the bite."

Red doesn't admit to it. But he doesn't deny it, either, which is how Carl knows it's true.

"We're not handing her over." Red says flatly. "All these people's lives, are they worth risking for a woman that's already dead?" But Carl just shakes his head. Because he has another guess. A wild guess, but it's the only guess he has, and he's on a roll, so he goes for it.

"I think you will. Because that's the other thing... ever since you folks got here, I've been thinkin' to myself…. why waste the fuel? Why are you botherin' to fly out, make multiple trips, and for what? To get one or two people at a time? You're risking all these soldiers, trained pilots, and spending all this time keeping freaking helicopters operational, and this all you get out of it? And that's after giving away food? It didn't make sense. That is, unless…...you don't want your people to know what you're doing here, do you?"

Checkmate.

He audibly cackles at their silence, flashing his teeth as he shakes his head. He raises his hands, pointing towards the crowd. "We know a thing or two about leaders keeping things from their people to protect them, doin' dirty work they wouldn't approve of. But you? What happened here doesn't even compare to you. Your people probably know that you're working on a cure, but for you to fly all the way out here instead of usin' the locals? Or negotiating with your neighbors? Somethin' tells me that if your people found out exactly what you were offerin' here, they'd pitch a fit, wouldn't they?"

Carl doesn't need to see the man's expression to sense the absolute loathing that's engulfing him right now. The stiffening of his shoulders, the way his arms hold his weapon more closely to his body says it all. "It's the deal, kid, take it or leave it. Your dead stay buried, or they come with us and give something to their loved ones. Your choice, just like the Junkyard made their choice. Whether you like it or not, she's coming with us."

"Oh, I don't think she is." Carl seethes. He whistles sharply, motioning towards the U-haul. Wheelock is quick on the draw, the rolling door flying open to reveal the cannon that's pointed right at the helicopter's nose. The scavengers raise their weapons.

"Look, fuckface. I get it. You're big, you're tough, and you could probably stomp our town into little bits if you wanted to. But here's the thing. That entire time? We would be a thorn in your side. We are a fight you do not want right now, because by the end of it? You'd have a lot of dead folks on your hands that you won't be able to wave off as a 'flying accident'. You show your face around these parts again? If we get a whiff that you're still in the area? We'll find out where you're from, your people will find out exactly what you've been doing here, and we will turn your little world upside down. Is that something you seriously want to risk right now?"

Once again, Carl nearly thinks that he's overstepped that carefully drawn line. Red isn't just cold, now, he's absolutely pissed. And while his men have their rifles pointed at the U-haul, Red is entirely focused on the teen. But as he starts to speak, he just suddenly- stops. He transforms from a confident, infuriated soldier to an absolutely flabbergasted one in a matter of seconds.

For a moment, Carl preens, thinking this is something that he's accomplished, but when he hears the distant rattling of chinking metal, he realizes it's something else entirely.

He turns around and realizes why.

Shiva strolls through the skittish crowd, her chain jangling loosely behind her. Ben follows, spear in hand, until she finally finds who she's looking for. Ezekiel. She rubs up against his leg affectionately, growling lowly at the numerous eyes watching her. Carl's not sure how much of the situation she understands, but it's clear that she understands that the king is being threatened, and she is not happy about it, at all.

Canons, and tigers, and kings, oh my.

The scavengers have just unknowingly floated straight into Oz, and they're absolutely speechless.

"What the hell-"

"I'm the wingman." Benjamin interrupts, swallowing hard and looking a little shaky. "They call me Prince Ben. And this is Shiva. You've been ignoring her favorite person, our king. And that other guy, standing beside Carl? That's Rick Grimes. He leads a completely different community, one just as big as ours, and has commanded an attack against hundreds of men without a single casualty on his side. In fact, you've been insulting a lot of leaders here, today, from a lot of different places. So if your intention was to come here on some sort of diplomatic mission? I'd say you've failed. We're here today, united, to make this place safer. To make this place a safe zone. And if you mess with one of us? You're messing with all of us."

Carl won't lie, he feels a little proud. And more than a little bewildered.

Did Ben….did he just quote Spiderman? Seriously?

And there weren't hundreds of men at that outpost, it was more like forty to fifty-

But his friend's tendency for tall tales does the trick. King Ezekiel stands tall, stroking Shiva's head as he looks down his nose at the scavengers, who are resembling scolded children more and more by the minute. "You will hand over the fair maiden." He booms. "And the gentleman, should he wish. And you will do so now."

There's some awkward shuffling, followed by an awkward pause. But then? Red looks back at the soldier escorting Sherry and nods.

She stumbles forward, and Carl drops the radio in his rush to catch her. It's a little weird that she's sniffling in his arms, that she's the one seeking comfort from him, but he doesn't question it. She had snuck enough protein bars to him over the years, ruffled his hair, and let him act like the stupid preteen boy that he was to have earned it. She might not be strong against biters, or against whoever the hell these guys were, but she had been strong for him when he had been at his weakest, and he's happy to repay the favor. He holds her tightly, glaring at the soldiers beyond.

To Carl's surprise, the dirtied man that had accompanied her shakes his head, offering a trembling smile. "I….I….thank you, but….he's right. My family, they….they need this. I just wanted-"

But the stranger doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Red has already motioned to the pilot, and with a slow groan, the blades are slowly speeding up, drowning out anything the man had to say. He no longer has a voice. To them, he's just another subject, and they treat him as such as they push him back into the chopper, rifles raised in a cautious retreat.

The grass bows beneath the ceaseless wind, but Red lingers in the helicopter's doorway, bringing the megaphone back to his lips. He nods towards Carl, towards the block of plastic lying in the dust. "If you ever change your mind, you know how to call us."

Shiva chooses that moment to roar.

And with that, they're gone.

"Holy crap. That was….that was….how did you do that? They were like, 'grarrarar!' and you were like, 'grrrr!' They were intimidated by you, man!"

And just like that, it's like the world has returned to normal and the whole affair never even happened. Benjamin has reverted back into being the fanboy that he is while everyone else is staring at Carl like he's a freak of nature. But right now, Sherry is content to be held in his arms, and he's content to let her, guarding her from curious eyes.

"You were wrong, Shane." Maggie steps forward, her lips tilting upwards as she takes in the two of them. "That wasn't Lori. That was all Rick Grimes."

And a little bit of Negan, if Carl is going to be honest with himself.

But as if summoned, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns to meet his father's gaze. Rick is kneeling, now, his eyes approving and demeanor gentle. He nods towards Sherry, whose face is still tucked into Carl's shirt. It's only out of sheer trust for the man that he's able to let her go, gently pushing her back so she can face the others.

"Sherry, this is my Dad. Dad? This is Sherry. She's the one that got me out." He confirms loudly, making sure the others can hear.

"I'm the whore of Babylon, he means." She laughs bitterly, wiping her nose on her arm. In the background, Carl notices Maggie shifting uncomfortably, her grip around her own belly tightening as she eyes Sherry's stomach. He watches her hawkishly, wary that she might try something. The father of Sherry's baby had killed the father of Maggie's baby, after all. But the Hilltop leader merely stares, lips pursed tightly together as she takes in the sight of it all.

"It was the junkyard, right? Have you been there this entire time?" Carl asks, swallowing hard. She nods.

"Yeah….it was….they didn't keep the others nearly as long, only for a couple of days at a time. But they wanted visible proof that I was pregnant, I think. Made me more valuable. Dwight….is he….did he….?"

"We don't know." Rick responds softly. "We haven't heard from him."

Sherry furrows her brow at this, shakily looking back and forth between Carl and his father. It's Carl who finally explains. "The entire time we were tryin' to get out….. turns out, Dwight was tryin' to get us out. Both of us. We just beat him to the punch."

Sherry looks like she's been punched in the gut, her body racking forward at the news as if to release another sob, but instead, she doesn't make a sound. She simply accepts the invisible blow with a shaky sigh, as if by now, she had come to expect the worst from the world. And from the clamminess of her skin, she isn't wrong.

"How long ago did they….did your neck…..?" Carl stutters out, eyeing the wound with distaste.

"Just before the chopper picked us up. They rigged up one of the biters to some sort of clamp? I don't know how to describe it. We were like cattle getting branded, only….only not."

"And these people….the Commonwealth. There's no doubt that they saw what was going on? That they knew you were forced into it?" Rick prods gently, eyes searching. She nods again.

"I think they prefer it that way." She murmurs quietly. "It was proof that the bite was fresh, that they would have time to take us back to….well, wherever they were taking us."

"Somewhere up North, I think." Rick mutters to himself, looking to the sky. "His accent… it came out a couple times. Pennsylvania, New Jersey, maybe? Then again, he might have traveled. We made it all the way here from Georgia, after all."

"No, I think… I think you're right. The others sounded like him, too." She says hesitantly, biting her lip. Rick turns back to her, every ounce of his law enforcement background coming out as he speaks.

"Did they say anything? Talk about anything, mention anything at all that might indicate where they were from or if they had another reason for being here?"

"The junkyard creeps them out, I know that. They acted like anyone outside of their group were barbarians. But they….they did mention Texas. And something called CRM? Outside of that, I'm sorry, I don't know. They were talking like it was a….a different branch or something."

"Texas?" Rick questions, disturbed. "That's a long ways away from DC."

"Maybe they don't just have helicopters, maybe they have working planes." Carl murmurs, shifting uncomfortably at the thought of it.

"Does this change anything?" Maggie questions suddenly, stepping closer towards them. Her expression is cold, and it's clear that she's doing everything in her power not to stare at the crumpled woman before her. "I doubt they're coming back here anytime, soon. And if they are, they're sticking to the junkyard. We still have a war to fight."

It's then that Sherry turns to really take in the crowd, seeming to comprehend Benjamin's words for the first time. Some are dressed in homemade Kingdom clothes, others in laundered Alexandria or Hilltop dress. The Oceansiders stick out most of all, in coastal garments with visibly anxious dispositions. It's never occurred to him how different they all look from one another, how each community had developed its own culture over time.

"You did it, Patch. You actually did it." She breathes, wide-eyed as she looks over the crowd.

"Nah." He shakes his head, smiling. "I've just been along for the ride. They're the real bigwigs…..speakin' of which, you have somethin' you want to tell us, your majesty?"

King Ezekiel looks abashed, having been caught just as he was placing his dreadlocks back on his head. They're slightly crooked, now, the usually snug bonnet askew from the force of the wind. He shrugs, offering a sheepish grin. "What can I say? The theatre department here had its uses. I felt they made me look more….kingly."

Sherry visibly blanches at this, at Ezekiel, at the irked tiger sprawled out by his side, but recovers remarkably well. "Nice to meet you, your...uh…. Majesty. They..…they look good. And you look good, Patch, now that you've got your hat and some meat on your bones. But, your mouth…."

Carl reaches up, feeling where the rip in his mouth and jawline should be. He had been so caught up in his standoff against the scavengers, he hadn't thought to check it. Sure enough, the sutures feel more stretched than before. If he tries, he can just barely get the tip of his pinkie through what used to be tightly sewn.

Well. If he couldn't eat without making a mess before, he sure as hell won't be able to, now.

He shrugs, deliberately stretching it out in a similar grin as he had held before, where he can feel them tugging against his lips. "Probably need to see if someone can replace 'em. Still looks pretty cool for stuff like this, though, right?"

Sherry rolls her eyes, thumbing his hat downwards to where he can't see. "More like terrifying. You're such a boy. You forget, I remember when you were still pissin' your sleeping bag."

"That was one time and I was sick as a dog. If you're not nice to me, I won't give you any cigarettes." He threatens, fixing his hat and crossing his arms. Her eyes widen at this, and she draws back, tilting her head to the side.

"You're pulling my leg."

"I'm not." He insists, digging in his pockets and dangling one in front of her face. She snatches it, sniffing it as she notices the unusual filter. "You're giving a dying womana homemade cigarette? You really are an angel, Patch. Got a light?"

The reminder of this, of her own wounds causes Carl to frown. "Maybe we should let you sit down somewhere a little less public, first. Catch up on the old days for a little while. Is that...is that ok with y'all?" He looks up, looking between Ezekiel, Rick, and Maggie. There's an unspoken question in the air, one nobody wants to voice.

Can I spend some time with her before we have to put her down?

Ezekiel gives a nod with a slight bow, his nose scrunching. "Of course, fair lady. Take all the time you need…... but did you say….homemade?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Rick says, digging his hands into Carl's pocket. Carl yelps at the sudden intrusion, jumping back as he sees the rest of his batch crumpled in his father's hands. "Where did you get this?"

"I made them. Give 'em back." He insists, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

"You made them?" Rick questions, examining it more closely.

"I thought you hated smoking." Sherry insists nosily, shakily rising to her feet. "What did you trade for the tobacco, a deck of cards? Ammo?"

He stands along with her, muttering under his breath.

"Skin mags."

She audibly guffaws at this, even as Rick and King Ezekiel look horrified. She shakes her head apologetically towards Rick. "I'm sorry, Dwight and I probably weren't the best of influences. But that bartering thing? That's all him. Been like that since day one. He managed to trade Frankie's own sleeping pills back to her and make a profit. I can't remember, what did she end up giving you?"

"Hair dye and mascara. Traded that to Arat in exchange for a machete. It was a nice one, too, she'd kept it up real good."

"So that's where she got the dye. I always wondered why she bothered, with as short as she kept her hair. She was bleaching a buzzcut."

"As enlightening as this conversation is…." Rick mutters, looking more than a little worried, "...maybe Carl was right. We should get you inside, get some water, and do some damage control out here."

It's at this moment that Carl realizes that the crowd hasn't dissipated, that even out of hearing range, people are still peering at them, interested in seeing what one of Negan's wives looks like. He nods, and offering an arm to Sherry, feels his father's hand on his shoulder once more.

"And Carl?"

"Yeah?"

"You handled that well. Really well. I'm proud of you. But…..do me a favor. Don't do it again?"

Carl only smiles that frightening smile, letting his tear open just a little bit more. He intends for it to be funny, but his father merely sighs, sharing a forlorn glance with Maggie and King Ezekiel before trodding towards the crowd.

Carl takes her to the nurse's office.

It feels a little weird, being here. Most of the school has been remodeled into something else over time, but rooms that have retained their traditional uses still look like they would have before the outbreak. Cheerful health posters decorate the wall. It feels like his mom should be coming by to pick him up from running a fever, and not like he's escorting a woman to the place she's going to die.

But that's why he chose this room, after all. He doesn't know how long Sherry has left, the fever working more quickly on some than it does for others. But if she passes in the night? He wants a room with a sturdy door, as far away from the sleeping quarters as he can manage.

"It's selfish…..but I'm glad you didn't let them take me. I was scared of dying alone. I'm scared of dying, period." She admits with a shaky laugh, carefully sitting down onto a cot.

"I'm glad someone is." A voice sounds. Carl turns, blinking, to find Sophia standing in the doorway.

For a moment, he's so utterly exhausted by everything that's happened today, that he doesn't even process her words. A goofy smile comes over him at her appearance, and it takes seconds of blinking before her irritated demeanor dawns on him. He gives an awkward wave before shoving that smile down, clearing his throat as she glares.

But her irritation simmers into exasperation, and she sighs, shaking her head with a smile as she leans against the doorway. She crosses her arms, raising a pointed eyebrow.

"Wheelock told your dad about that cannon not being loaded. Figured I'd warn you, since Rick looked like his veins were gonna pop out of his skull after he heard."

Oops.

Carl winces, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah….I was hopin' nobody would find out about that. But, hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"If it hadn't, you could be dead. Kind of like with Oceanside, earlier? You don't- just because you were with Negan, doesn't mean you have something to prove. I was part of the team that convinced Oceanside to come here in the first place. Her grandmother is stubborn, but I could have talked with Cyndie and reasoned with her. But instead, you…..just stop trying to get yourself killed, alright? You have people that care about you, now." Sophia shakes her head, clearing her throat as she finally takes in Sherry, whose eyes are wide as saucers.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make this awkward. Rick asked me to check on y'all. I'm Sophia, nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too." Sherry says, taking a closer look at the girl. She seems to be figuring something out, but what, Carl doesn't know. "He had people that cared about him before, too, you know." She says softly.

Sophia blinks at this, as if the idea of any sort of meaningful relationships happening within Sanctuary's walls is incomprehensible to her. In fact, right now, both women seem to be evaluating each other for the first time, and Carl doesn't know what the hell to make of it. He lived a very different life in Sanctuary than the one he lives in the Kingdom. Now that those two worlds are colliding…..it's bewildering, to say the least.

"Well, thank you, then." Sophia decides at last, nodding towards Carl. "I'm glad he had somebody, at least. He's mentioned you guys, and from the sounds of things, you're just as much of a victim of Negan's as he is."

Victim. The word rubs Carl the wrong way, especially coming from Sophia, but he doesn't know why. It seems to rub Sherry the wrong way, too, as the woman lets out a bitter laugh.

"We all made our choice, some of us just more happily than others."

"But you did it to save your husband." Sophia insists softly. "That's gotta count for something."

"And I left him back there to die." Sherry says tiredly, shaking her head. "We always said we'd go out like Bonnie and Clyde, but when it came down to it, and Negan had a gun to Dwight's head? Dwight didn't want to live in that world, but I made him. He had to watch me with Negan, every day, and pretend like it didn't bother him. It made him….it made him everything he didn't want to be, and that's my fault."

"I thought that by gettin' out, I could help him break from that. But now…. it was all for nothing. I'm not gonna die helping people create a cure or by bringing this baby into the world. I'm not going out fighting against Negan. I'm just….after all this, it doesn't mean anything. Sometimes, you just die, and your death doesn't mean a goddamn thing. It just iswhat it is."

She's crying now, and Carl doesn't know what to do other than stare at the floor. She's too far away to offer a shoulder to cry on, and he's too…..too….whatever he is to instigate a hug. She's his friend, she's his friend's wife, and he wants to fix this. But there is no fixing a bite. So instead, he just stares at his hands and says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"You could write him a letter."

The suggestion is so strange, so out of the blue, that it quells her tears for a moment. Even Sophia is staring at him now, eyebrow raised, but he continues.

"When Negan called me out in Alexandria….all I could think about was that I'd never get a chance to explain to my dad, or say goodbye. I just kept thinkin' over and over of what I wanted to tell everyone, before I went. I didn't get the chance before I got whacked upside the head, but….you do. If Dwight's out there, and you want to write somethin' to him, I'll get it to him. I promise."

And Carl doesn't make promises he can't keep.

He had been trying to cheer her up, as little as he knew how, but now she's crying more than before. Sophia rushes forward….and now Sophia is hugging Sherry of all people, all while he's just sitting there stupidly, watching the two of them and not knowing what to do.

But at last, Sherry lets go of the other girl, nodding appreciatively at both of them. She isn't looking at him like he's stupid, or like there's something he should be doing. There's hope in her eyes.

"Could you….could you get me some paper and a pen?"

He does. While Sophia stays behind with the other woman, he makes it his mission to find some, ignoring everything and everyone in his path. And then, distantly, he remembers something else Sherry told him, a long time ago. About Dwight bringing her pretzels and beer.

He doesn't have beer, but he finds hard cider and pretzels, at least. They're sourdough and homemade, soft rather than crunchy, but he hopes they'll do.

And when he returns, with paper and pretzels in hand, the sight of it only makes the older woman sniffle more. But she's smiling through the tears.

"Thank you, Patch. Whatever happens? I'm glad we met."

"Me, too, Sher." He says, softly. "Me, too."

And he means it.

She writes letters into the evening, until the sun is gone and she's penning sentences by candlelight. Even after Sophia leaves, as others come and go, she continues, scribbling into the night. And all the while, he stands guard, sometimes by her side, sometimes outside her door. Sometimes they talk, other times they sit in silence. But he stays by her. He stays until her scribbling comes to a stop, until the minutes come and go. At first, he thinks that she's given into her exhaustion and gone to sleep.

It's a few minutes later that he realizes she's never going to wake up.

He sits outside her door longer than he'd like to admit, cradling a pistol in his hand. He's done this before, for other Saviors. Hell, he did this when he was thirteen for that man in the bunker. It shouldn't be hard. Whatever is starting to groan in that nurse's office isn't Sherry, anymore. He knows that.

But at the end of the day, it's one thing for Carl to move effortlessly during a battle, and another for him to know what to do when that battle is over. He didn't even think when he was facing off against the scavengers, or against Oceanside. His body just moved. His mouth just spoke. He just did what he needed to do, said what he needed to say, to try to get everyone he cared about through it alive.

But there's no real threat, here. No emergency. There's just another biter, wearing his friend's dress and what's left of her face.

If the world were different, if there had never been an outbreak, they probably would have never even known each other. They had absolutely nothing in common, and she wasn't that muchyounger than his own mother. But Dwight had filled the role of an older brother, of an uncle-figure, and as a result she had found her way into his life, too.

He steadies himself, focusing on his breathing. He tries to think rationally, think of this situation as just another fight, as just another biter waiting in a room that he's about to clear. But if Carl is alarmed by the emotional side of him coming out, about the part of him that cares about Sherry and is mourning her, he finds the practical part of him even more jarring.

Because he has an idea. As he thinks about the last letter he saw her writing, the one addressed to Negan, he has a terrible, frightening idea that only a terrible person could think of. But the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it could work.

His father finds him like that, thinking deeply with a gun in hand.

"Carl…. she was your friend. Let me do it."

The offer is kind, but Carl stops him, blocking the doorway with his arm. His father looks at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation, but Carl doesn't say anything, not at first. He digs out one last cigarette from his pocket and lights it. The smoke leaks from his sutures long before he gets the chance to blow the rest out, but he blows it out all the same. Taking a deep breath, he holsters his gun and shakes his head.

"Do you know why Negan calls his bat 'Lucille'?" He asks, looking up at the man. His father is bewildered, and slow to answer given his exhaustion and the odd time of night. Rick shakes his head slowly, eyeing his son in concern. But Carl only sighs, leaning back in his chair. He can hear Sherry…..what's left of Sherry, growling behind him, drawn to the noise from behind the door.

"It was after his first wife." Carl replies, taking another drag. Again, the smoke seeps out of the side of his mouth, the strange sight of it disturbing his father, but he doesn't care. The nicotine calms his nerves, preventing his voice from shaking as he speaks.

"Before the outbreak, she got cancer. And he always felt guilty for the way things ended, because even after she was diagnosed, he kept cheatin' on her and foolin' around with other women. Even though he loved her. By the time she was dyin', really dyin'...the outbreak had just started. Nobody knew that you didn't have to be bitten to be infected, yet. So when she died in her hospital bed, and she turned…..he couldn't do it. He couldn't look her in the eye and put her down, after everything he'd done to her. So he left her behind, left her alone like that, and he always blamed himself for it. Promised himself that he'd never be that weak-willed again."

"Carl…." Rick says, slowly. "...where are you goin' with this?"

"Don't you get it? Negan….that's part of why he's always been so hard to beat. That dark side of himself, the one that enjoys what he does to people….he embraces it. Everyone thinks he's a sociopath, but he's like me. He pretends he doesn't care about his wives, about anybody but himself, but back at Sanctuary? After the confrontation? He wouldn't even speak to me. He let Dwight do it all. I think….I think that he took me as a hostage because he didn't want me to die. We can use that. We can use that against him."

"I don't understand." Rick says flatly, but from the reservation in his father's eyes, Carl is beginning to think that he's beginning to. He won't like it. He won't like that Carl is the one suggesting this. But he might just go along with it, all the same.

And this way? This way Sherry's death might mean something, after all.

Carl puts the cigarette out, rubbing what's left of it against the wall. He watches the embers dwindle away against the concrete, until nothing is left of it but ash and smoke. It leaves a familiar mark on the wall, one that resembles the scars littered across his chest. He stares at it for a moment before finally speaking.

"We're going to get Daryl back. And we're going to use Sherry to do it."

Author's Note:

So yeah. That was a heavy chapter. But stay tuned, the final siege against Negan is finally coming! Although I'm afraid the show's season finale is going to beat me to the punch on some of what I have planned.

Also, please note that this chapter was written during Season 10. At this point in the show, the helicopter group has only been vaguely addressed, and as a result, this chapter is COMPLETELY AU. I may edit this at a later date when the show finally addressed this plot arc, but at this time I've combined what I know from the comics, what the show has implied, and my own assumptions into the mix. Please let me know your thoughts in the reviews! Good and bad. ;)