[A/N] Hello dear readers! Thank you for sticking with this story and if you've just stumbled upon it: Welcome! As always, I very much hope you'll enjoy it. Thank you to those who followed and favorited, and special thanks to reviewers: Karen, Alice, TWD, enchantmentanjel and guests.

I would like to warn you that there are two gory scenes in this chapter.

I would also like to put a little disclaimer: I used some plot and dialogue from The Walking Dead comic books, and mixed that with my own interpretation of things.

And lastly, I made some small edits to Chapter 5 for continuity. One of them is the walkers pinned to the outside fences of the Sanctuary and the other is Negan cutting Ellie's zipties loose, as I had accidentally edited that out. The edits are really not large enough to have to go back and read the entire chapter again, don't worry (but of course you are welcome to, haha).


Carl looks at me sheepishly, the large assault rifle seeming unsuited for his thin, young frame. My heart racing, I whisper harshly, "What are you doing here? Do you have any idea what he'll do to you?!"

"I'm stopping this."

"By getting yourself and me killed?! If Negan finds out you tagged along, it'll be on my head!" I feel like a vein might be popping out of my forehead at the moment. I have a responsibility to Rick to keep his son safe. Or at least to keep him from making this mess any bigger.

Negan will think this was my doing. That I snuck him into the back of this truck while I was with Rosita. My hands shake and my brow sweats in a feverish attempt to find a solution to this problem. And we need one fast. We only have until the end of this truck ride before the shitshow begins.

I hum, my voice shaky and croaky with nerves. I stand up and pace toward the back door of the truck. With my tied up hands, I try to shake the door gently. Maybe he didn't lock it properly and I can throw Carl out to avoid what is to come. It'd certainly increase his chance of survival.

Sadly, the door doesn't give in.

I try to kick it in. I drag a couple mattresses in front of the door, again straining my unfortunate shoulder. I sit on the mattresses and kick hard with both my legs, to no avail.

"Ellie, I'm not going back. I'm ending this. For my dad, for Enid, for Judith."

"You're ending your own life for Rick, Enid and Judith if you carry this shit out," I mutter, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

"You can't stop me."

"Carl, you are fucking brave, okay. But you are not stopping this on your own. You're just not."

He just hums and looks away. I sigh exasperatedly.

"Okay. Well, I can't throw you out, so we need a plan."

"Shoot everyone once the door opens."

I draw nervous little circles on my palm with my thumb.

I don't think there's another way.

I am ninety percent sure Negan will be the one to open this door so he can bully me again. The man would waste away if he couldn't pester me a few more times before dinner.

"Okay. But I'll be sitting ducks as long as I have these zipties." I shake my tied wrists in the air.

He pulls out a knife, cutting me loose. I rub my sore wrists.

"Would have been real helpful when I tried to kick down the door just now, stud."

Carl beams. "Wouldn't have been as fun."

Despite everything, I laugh softly. This is the best chance I've had and probably will have. I just wished it didn't have to come in the form of a kid.

"Okay," I sigh, "At least give me the knife."

He hands it over.

I analyze the room, see where I would be most useful with my sole knife. Or, least likely to get killed.

I walk to the little space next to the door.

"What if I stand here like this," I press my back against the wall, knife ready in hand.

Carl walks over, feeling the wall. "Can the bullets come through this?" My hand runs over the wall too.

"We can put up a mattress against it to be sure."

Carl nods. The two of us carry it and put it in place.

"Let's cover the floor in mattresses, too. They'll have a difficult time entering that way." Carl nods seriously.

Once we've arranged things as much to our advantage as we can, we get into position. Carl gets into the mattress fort we built him. That's the irony of an apocalypse childhood: You don't get fun, fluffy pillow forts. You get a mattress fort built with the sole purpose of survival.

As the truck finally comes to a stop, my hands start shaking and become clammy, my breathing labored.

This is it.

We can't screw this up or he'll probably give us the hot iron to the face like he did Dwight. Like Carl's face isn't marred enough at this point. God, he is just a kid.

Holding my palm to the side of the truck, I feel vibrations. They're getting out of the truck.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. We got this. We got this.

We hear conversation outside, muted by the truck's walls. One of the voices is unmistakably Negan's, tinged with authority.

The door rattles, and my rigid grip around the knife turns my knuckles a bright white.

The door slams open, immediately illuminating Carl's mattress fort.

"What the f-" Carl opens fire, ruthlessly shooting at whoever is unlucky enough to have opened the door. Kudos to the kid, his aim is more than decent considering he has only one eye left.

But they're not Negan.

No, he is outside, roaring out a repetitive string of expletives.

"Throw Negan into the truck if you want to live!" Carl yells.

"Don't you fucking dare," he says in a dangerous voice to his men. Silence. Then heavy footfalls, the distinct sounds of Negan's boots. With Carl facing the door, and me facing Carl, I see Negan's silhouette eclipsing the beam of light that was previously on Carl's fort.

With one important movement, I press the point of my knife against his temple, pushing my hand against the other side of his head, stepping in front of him. I figure this way I can push his head into the knife if he tries to do anything to Carl.

To think I was stumbling over my words not to say the wrong thing to him just this morning.

"Oh, my dear Ellie," he says smirking. "You fucked up now," he says in a singsong voice, his eyes shining darkly.

My stomach turns to ice, freezing all the way up to my throat so I can't speak. Even now...

I hate the way his eyes are on me. I hate the way his warm breath hits my face. I hate him.

If I'd have to kill him now, it would be my first human kill.

And honestly, I don't know if I'm cut out for that.

With an easy movement, I could sink my knife into his brain, and this would all be over. The fact that I even have this control over his life clouds my head with consequences.

I don't know how he does this so easily. So readily.

"You," he points laughingly at Carl over my head, "are one scary fucking kid," he ends the sentence with a tight-lipped frown.

Suddenly Negan is shoved in the back hard, falling on top of me. He catches himself while I fall on my back. Hovering over me, he looks wolfish with his amused smirk and predatory eyes.

Dwight had apparently snuck in, neither Carl nor me having seen him behind Negan's broad form. I stare cross-eyed down the barrel of a gun, and see Dwight's thin silhouette behind it in the dark.

Bile rises in my throat at the sight of him. Not due to his marred face, god no, but due to all the things he has done to us.

"Drop the gun, kid, unless you want her brains splattered over these perfectly intact mattresses. Would be a shame."

Moisture pools in my eyes but I don't spill a drop for this asshole.

I smile, croaking softly, "How's your dick? Blue and purple I bet. I heard Eugene bit down good."

Negan dissolves into laughter above me. After a good fifteen seconds, I think he is about to die. Maybe Carl and I didn't have to try so hard.

Maybe I could just make a few more offensive jokes. Negan wipes tears of laughter from the outer corners of his eyes.

"Damn girl, that was the best thing I've heard anyone say in a long time," he says, still giggling. "Maybe I should just kill the kid here and now. I like you angry."

"Just let me kill them, boss?" Dwight's hands seem to itch for it.

Negan ignores him. "Kid, throw me the gun," he says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. I turn my head in an uncomfortable angle to look at Carl. He looks back at me, his one eye conveying defeat. I slightly nod at him, my expression grim.

He slides the gun over a mattress to Negan.

"Can I at least kill the bitch?" Dwight huffs, crushing his gun against my forehead.

"No, stand the fuck down, Dwight. The girl and the kid have balls eight times the size of yours. And theirs ain't purple," he sniggers.

To say I am a bit rattled by his reaction would be an understatement. I had expected to have my toes cut off and hung on Lucille as a trophy for trying to kill him.

Maybe his bold arrogance never saw that as a serious happening to begin with.

Maybe he likes to be surprised by people.

Negan seems to come with a lot of maybes.

"The kid is our guest. And Ellie, sugar, you lost a few points by, you know, putting a knife to my head. But you gained a few by dissing Dwight. You're not as much of a pussy as you pretend to be," he says with an appreciative grin.

I nod. Standard procedure.

"Let's show your little friend around then."

He puts his arm around my shoulders, resting Lucille lazily against my good shoulder. He puts just enough pressure on the injured shoulder. He knows all too well: It's not like he could forget, the sling around it like a neon arrow screaming 'easy target'.

He motions for Carl to walk beside us, Dwight behind us.

"So, now, let's just address the elephant in the room. Or the Ellie in the room," he chuckles. "Did our little Ellie-Bellie here sneak you in while she was traipsing around Alexandria unsupervised?"

What the fuck is even wrong with him for that nickname?

"No," Carl says, his demeanor calm.

I frown, keeping quiet. I don't want Carl to take the blame. He's just a kid, for fuck's sake.

"Are. You. Sure?" He asks, prodding Carl in the shoulder after each word.

"Yes."

"No. I helped him," I say, a fearful tremor in my voice.

"Ellie, dear, you're talking shit. I can tell."

"Yeah, she is. It was my plan, she had nothing to do with it."

"You ain't scared of fucking anything, are you, kid?"

Carl stays silent.

As we enter the front door, Negan orders Dwight, "Lock this sweetheart in her room. Give her something to remind her where she stands," his eyes expressive as to what, his eyebrows raising.

Dwight nods, grabbing my wounded shoulder with much less intricacy than Negan would.

My heart suddenly in my throat, I struggle against Dwight. My panic overtaking me, I squeak, "Don't hurt him. Don't hurt Carl. Negan, please. Please!"

But Dwight already 'escorted' me around the corner. I decide to just walk along to lessen the throbbing, painful pressure in my shoulder.

It's ridiculous, really: My presence would not prevent Negan from harming Carl. Maybe it would even encourage it.

But this way I have no control over it at all, and that is more scary an idea than any.

After much struggling against Dwight's surprisingly firm grip and lots of burdening my shoulder way more than necessary, I find myself in my room in the middle of the afternoon again. Except this time Dwight needs to 'give me something to remind me where I stand'.

Needless to say, I am scared shitless.

"I don't want this any more than you do," he says breathy, taking out a stained knife and wiping it off on his pants. I run into the corner of the room, as far away from him as I can go.

"Okay, that's a lie. After humiliating me, I want this a little more than you do," he nods, exhaling heavily through his nose. "But Negan just needs to get his point across."

"What are you going to do to me?" I ask, my eyes wide and my jaw tense with stress.

"Mark you. As a... permanent reminder that you are one of us now."

"That I am Negan's," I say, my voice small. As if my shoulder and arm didn't make that abundantly clear, scratched with barbed wire and having been knocked out of place.

Dwight approaches, cornering me. I try to flee in the other direction, but his hand shoots out to my injured shoulder, pinning it against the wall hard. I scream in pain, while he takes my distraction to start what he was sent to do. His hand now pins my left wrist against the wall.

The tip of his knife enters the soft skin of the back of my hand. I scream awfully for the burning pain. The cold of the knife inside my warm skin bites its way through my veins.

I don't doubt the entire Sanctuary hears me. My screams tend to do have that terrifying effect.

The carving continues until I'm lightheaded. Spots dance in front of my eyes and blood rushes in my ears like a passing plane.

Finally, he loosens his grip on my hand. I yank it back, wiping the tear tracks from my face with my other hand.

Inspecting the violated hand, I feel sick as a dog.

He carved a thick 'S' in it, stretching from just below my knuckles to the top of my wrist. He didn't simply make three carves, either. It's a chunky 'S', the missing skin creating a gaping open wound. Droplets of blood trail down my thumb and wrist, the red of the fresh blood making my skin white as paper. But that might also be of shock.

I sink to the ground, breathing heavy and crying.

Without another word, Dwight walks to the door. He looks at my mess of a form on the floor, brows lightly furrowed in what might be pity, before leaving and locking up behind him.

I lay on the ground until the tear tracks have dried.


Hours later, the blood has dried as well.

Every gush of cold air flowing past it is a reminder of the raw, stinging flesh, trying so desperately to heal.

It will scar, definitely. The ability to heal perfectly is lost due to the fact that strips of skin are missing.

As far as marks go, I have been branded pretty permanently.

'S' for Savior. Or Sanctuary. Or 'Stupid bitch you shouldn't have tried to kill me'.

Any of those things. But my money is on the first. Except money has no value.

My clean underwear I have yet to receive is on the first.

At least I am alive. That's what I have to hold on to.

The door rattling off its lock has me off the bed in record speed and standing in that bloody (literally) corner again, as far away from the door as possible.

It's Jimmy.

I run to him, no longer able to keep in my sobs, throwing my arms around his neck.

"Jesus, Ellie. What happened?" I can hear fear in his voice.

I wipe my eyes on my shirt sleeve, showing him my left hand.

"Oh, fuck. I'm so sorry," he says, his voice taut. He hugs me, rubbing my back in an attempt to calm me down.

"I'm so sorry to put this on you now, but Negan told me to fetch you," he says carefully.

"No, it's okay," I sniffle, trying to eradicate any evidence that I have been crying. I don't grant Negan the satisfaction of seeing that.

We walk slowly to the main hall, to give my eyes and face a chance to lose their pinkness. I tell Jim what happened at Sanctuary, leaving out the part of my injured friends. That is a story for another, less sad day.

As soon as we get there, I know something's wrong.

The eating tables and benches have been pushed to the side of the hall, creating an empty space in the middle. A man sits in a chair, his arms tied behind his back and his ankles tied to the chair legs. He looks bug-eyed with terror, anxious sweat clamming his forehead and nose.

A large crowd has formed around the man, I think all of Sanctuary's residents are here right now. It's like a public trial.

I spot Carl next to Negan, though he strays as far from his side as possible without reprimand. I sigh heavily with relief.

I seek out his hands. Carl didn't get similarly marked. Thank god. What I do see in his hands, is Lucille: He is forced to hold her, just like his father was. Negan must fucking love that parallel.

One thing that is painstakingly clear is that Carl's body language is screaming that he wants to get out of here.

The burning furnace in the corner, that is usually used for heating and cooking, is working extra hard today. A Savior stands over it, holding something in it. A stick? I bet they're heating the iron.

Is he going to mark another person?

Negan slides a glove on his right hand, while whistling the Saviors' tune, everyone joining in again.

I wish they wouldn't. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's abrasive, like nails on a chalk board.

They stop whistling, and it is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

His expression grave, he says in a booming voice, "What we are about to witness today is going to be fuckin' gruesome. I wish it didn't have to happen. I wish I didn't have to do this every fucking time. But you all know why," he drawls.

The Saviors rumble altogether, "The rules keep us alive."

"Thank you. That's right," he leans his elbows against the back of the chair the man is trembling on, crossing his ankles.

"We are here to restore civilization to this shithole of a world. We are the Saviors," he emphasizes.

"We can't save, we can't protect, we can't be a Sanctuary without the rules. They are what makes everything work."

He pauses as the Savior at the furnace carefully takes the stick out. A clothing iron dangles on a hook at the end of the stick, steam rolling threateningly off the underside.

He carries it over to Negan dutifully, like it's the Olympic fucking flame.

Negan takes it solemnly off the stick with his gloved hand.

"This is the consequence if you break the rules. This very rule in particular," he says, looking pointedly at a woman with short blond hair, gold hoop earrings and a grey, form-hugging dress. Obviously a wife.

She has watery eyeliner running mercilessly down her cheeks.

The woman who had addressed me a few days ago, Sherry I think, is standing next to her, comforting her.

Jim looks at me, looking a bit green around the gills himself. It's what Jim had explained to me: That girl must have slept with the guy tied to the chair.

"It is considered an honor to be my wife, to no longer have to earn points for foods and services. I don't force anyone to be with me: It's completely voluntary. But there's one thing you can't do: Be unfaithful." He sighs dramatically.

"This is a hard pill to swallow for others. But swallow it, you most certainly will. Or it's the iron for you."

He walks to stand in front of the guy. "I'm sorry, Mark," he says, monotonously. "It is what it is." Negan seems exasperated.

Then, without warning, he presses the iron firmly against Mark's face.

Mark let's out such a nightmarish scream, I get the urge to get on my knees and retch. If the scream wasn't enough to make me retch, the smell of burned flesh filling my nostrils definitely is. He holds the iron on Mark's face a few more moments for good measure.

When pulling the iron off, strings of molten skin come off Mark's face with it. I look away. I don't need to see this.

"See, now that wasn't so bad, right Markie?" No answer.

Negan slaps his neck a bit, mumbling, "Pussy passed out," just loud enough for us to hear.

"This is now behind us, all is forgiven. Mark will forever bear the mark of shame on his face for what he did. All will know what he's done."

He hangs the iron on the end of the stick again, the Savior carrying it away. But not before I catch a glimpse of wet, bulbous flesh sticking firmly to the underside of it.

I shudder, a bout of queasiness hitting me again.

"Don't any of you do this again." He pauses. "I don't want to have to do this shit fucking ever again."

Something about this statement just makes me see red. Here we have a horror scene, with a woman crying her heart out; a man passed out with open eyes, undeniable terror etched on his face. A disfigured face he has to live with for the rest of his life.

And he dares to blame them?

As Negan walks over to Carl to retrieve Lucille, I walk to him, stomping furiously.

Jim hisses, "Ellie!" But this is just wrong. Somebody needs to say something.

He thinks it's funny when I'm rude? Let's see what he thinks of this.

I tap his shoulder, and as he turns around, I slap him hard across the face. He lets out a disgruntled growl, but I start speaking with a forced calm.

"How dare you fucking do that to people."

With a snarl, he grabs both my shoulders, slamming me against the wall hard. Lucille rolls over the ground as a result.

"Carson?!"

He comes running like the good, obedient pussy that he is.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get these people the hell out of here. I need a moment alone with Ellie."

"Yes, sir."

Carson starts yelling for the people to get back to what they were doing. He even yells 'nothing to see here'. Self-important prick.

"Ellie," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I have been very patient with you. Do you really fucking think this is the time to question my methods?"

"Yes, sir," I hiss.

"Cut the crap, Ellie!" He growls, slamming his hands on either side of my face.

I flinch, saying quietly but clearly, "This is wrong."

I gesture to where the crowd had been moments ago.

He grabs a fistful of my hair with one hand, grabbing my left hand with the other. He directs my head to the 'S'.

"You're a Savior now. You belong to us now, and you better fucking start acting like it."

"I don't want to belong to you if this is how you solve things."

"They knew what would happen. They did it anyway. How the fuck is that my fault?"

"You set the damn rules. You fucking forced them into this."

"I never forced a woman, god-fucking-damnit."

"What do you do to those women that they want to be with you so goddamn desperately?"

He smirks. "Aside from my dazzling looks and endless fucking charm?"

"Fuck you."

Unwinding his hand from my hair, he pushes his hand down on my lips.

"Please, Ellie, just shut the fuck up. I fucking like your feisty motherfucking attitude, I do. But you're becoming a real pain in the ass with your continuous search for 'good'," he air-quotes, "in this fucking world. Don't think for a fucking second," he hisses, bringing his face in close to mine, "that I won't kill you if you become too much of a fucking burden to me."

I think this is the moment to shut up. How does he even know I look for good in people to a fault?

I nod, holding his burning gaze.

"I don't fucking want to kill you," he rumbles softly. "Am I clear?"

"Yeah."

I know he doesn't want to kill people: He wants people to work for him. But still, that admission sounded surprisingly genuine. I would have rather expected him to poke fun at me.

He finally gets out of my face.

"To answer your other question: I'll show you exactly what I have that those women want. Don't worry, I won't show you my dick. If you don't want," he purrs the last part, a dirty grin on his face.

He signals for Carson to bring Carl here and he bends over to pick up Lucille, dusting her off. "Look what you made me do. Lucille fucking hates being on the ground," he pouts. "I think she wants to kill you," he jokes. "She is a jealous lady."

I scowl, uneasiness unconcealed on my face.

"I'm kidding, Ellie, doll. Lighten the fuck up. I just told you I didn't want to kill you. Fuckin' relax."

Carl's brows knit together with obvious discomfort, too. Negan's interactions with me seem to make everyone nearby uncomfortable.

"We're going up," his eyes dart between Carl and me. "I'm showing you my penthouse."