A/N: My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. If you've seen the most recent episode of season four, can you see why I'd be inspired to pump out another chapter of this story?

WARNING: Epic and violent scenes ahead! You should turn back now if you can't handle blood, guts, or torture, but that's probably why you're here, so... here we go!

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23)

Plan B

It takes Michonne several seconds to process the reason why he's looking at her like that, inching slowly closer, and when she finally does, she's trapped. Should she cross the line, break the barrier she'd spent so long building to keep everyone out? Could she? Did she want to? Merle obviously did. What if she didn't? Should she tell him to back off? Could she? Did she want to? Merle obviously didn't.

The world just had to go to shit.

There are really good reasons why they would never work, why this could never happen; she just couldn't think of them right now. There aren't any real reasons for it to happen, and she fights tooth and nail against all instinct to meet Merle halfway.

But in the end, she doesn't exactly have a choice.

He leans forward, hesitating only once to stare into her hardened eyes, as if asking for permission to proceed. Not that he would have stepped away from her if she'd asked—or told him—but she later convinces herself it's the thought that counted. Because he's changed, he's different, yet still Merle Dixon, the most unpredictable asshole she's ever met. The last thing she thinks before all hell breaks loose is that maybe she thinks a little too much.

She doesn't have to worry about crossing the line first because he does that for her. Rough, dry lips brush against her own, instantly draining any form of resistance out of her. Merle pulls back enough to see her initial reaction, but he's yanked forward without warning by a pair of strong hands buried deep in his worn shirt.

It takes Michonne several seconds to process the fact that she's kissing him back, that she's not stopping either of them, and that she just doesn't care. She gets lost in Merle, ignoring the walkers and the Governor and the apocalypse, if only for a minute. It's not the same as forgetting, but she takes what she can get.

She's so caught up in ignoring and not caring that she doesn't notice they have a visitor. Neither does Merle, too frustrated with being one-handed and trying to prevent any injuries from occurring to take note of something so seemingly insignificant. They don't realize the visitor is dead. Not until it's too late. Merle whirls to lodge his bayonet in the head of the lone walker but catches the zombie in the shoulder instead, having misjudged the creature's proximity. Michonne draws her sword, but the walker proves to be one step ahead, sinking its teeth into Merle's neck before she can drive the blade into its brain, successfully sending the carcass to the ground in a crumpled heap. She doesn't scream or cry or do anything a typical blonde in a horror movie would do. Survival mode kicks in, and she sheaths her Katana, dropping to Merle's side to staunch the blood flowing freely from the spot where a chunk of his jugular used to be with her hand. Sticky red liquid seeps through her fingers, and soon the thin material of her shirt is soaked and clinging to her torso. She tries and tries and tries, but there's nothing she can do for him except wait and put him down herself.

"I'm really gonna miss you, girl."

Michonne waits, watches his eyes grow dark and cold, watches him rise, growling with hunger for human flesh. But she can't do it. She can't kill him. It's her fault for dragging him into this mess, back to the prison. She deserves to suffer.

The thing that used to be Merle doesn't hesitate, and what's left of Michonne doesn't stop him from eating her alive.

A hand lands on her shoulder, and Michonne reflexively shoves it away, scrambling backward in the darkness to put as much distance between her and the second snarling walker as possible.

"Hey, easy . . . Easy."

Fatigue and lack of illumination had initially blurred his outline, but the kneeling form of Rick Grimes at her bedside swims into focus. He offers two open palms to show he means her no harm, subtly suggesting he couldn't overpower her even if he wanted to, the gesture dripping with more submissiveness than she cares to analyze. "Bad night?" Rick asks gently, eyebrow quirked knowingly.

Michonne doesn't answer. Snatching her Katana from the end of the bed, she does her best to avoid his eyes. They've already played this game. She knows he genuinely cares about the group, knows he considers her a member of it now. She supposes she is. He doesn't have to continuously make amends for trying to do the right thing. She can't muster the strength to tell him he's wasting his time—their time. Glancing through the doorway of the cell, she can see reddish-orange light bleeding into the small space. Just past sunrise. Michonne stands and sidesteps Rick, every ounce of vigor reserved for the Governor and his men. She hopes Rick's conscience will be clear before the Devil comes knocking at their door.

She discovers the group has congregated on the ground floor of C Block, just outside her designated cell. Daryl stares her down from the middle of the circle, crossbow locked and loaded, just visible over his right shoulder. He can't seem to stand still, weight shifting almost constantly from one leg to the other. By his ragged, jittery appearance, Daryl projects the air of a restless redneck—a part of him many had been happy to see die. The others surround him on either side, bags of supplies slung over their shoulders, guns in hand, protective gear in place. Rick emerges beside her, taking in the scene, watching as Daryl glances up at something on the second floor and nods once before meeting Rick's gaze. "We ready or what?" he barks anxiously.

Michonne scans the group again, realizing one essential member is missing. Daryl's eyes flick upwards again. Some silent exchange takes place in the space of a second, and that's all it takes for her to know just who he's soundlessly communicating with.

"Yeah," Rick replies firmly. "We're ready." The former sheriff has no choice but to accept the assault rifle Daryl shoves into his hands and fall into step behind the crossbow-wielding Dixon.

Michonne follows, passing Hershel and Carol. The two elected to stay behind bring up the rear, Judith cradled in Carol's arms.

And all Michonne can wonder is how Merle slept.

Five armored trucks and vehicles tear through the woods leading to the West Georgia Correctional Facility, one armed with a high-powered machine gun, another carrying Martinez. Even without a rocker launcher in his hands, the machine gun and other armed men would have done plenty damage on their own. The rest is just to show Rick they mean business. From the safety of the back of the line, the Governor watches, waiting for the trees to clear so he can catch the first view of the prison. His plan is simple: Destroy everything.

Unfortunately, things don't go according to plan.

It's not until his driver hits the breaks and the front two tires of the truck begin to deflate that he understands who he's dealing with. He shoves the passenger door open to assess the damage to the armored vehicles in front of him. The three preceding his have been rendered useless by hidden spikes, tires almost completely flattened and losing air quickly. The Governor curses under his breath, running a hurried hand through his hair before grabbing his weapon from the front seat of the truck. He meets Martinez on the side of the dirt road.

"What do we do?" Martinez asks quietly.

"We walk," the Governor responds simply, checking to make sure his gun is loaded. "We have plenty of ammo to take out the biters."

"And the trucks?"

"Leave 'em." The one-eyed leader turns to address the rest of his soldiers. "Grab what you can, and let's go!"

It comes as no surprise when they find C Block empty. Taking out the guard towers had still been feasible with the rocker launcher, the biters left to skill and numbers. The Governor decides to split the soldiers into two groups, the one Martinez forms following him into the mazelike hallways of the prison with flashlights, armed to the teeth. He has walked these halls a thousand times in his head, and each time his plan had failed. Something had always appeared from around the corner—a walker, a herd of walkers, Michonne . . . Rick—to kill him. To slaughter his people. To ruin everything. To make him jolt awake and slam a fist against the wall.

But never smoke.

The Governor is swallowed in a sea of whirling gas, forced to his knees by a coughing fit he doesn't have the slightest chance of stopping. The citizens of Woodbury panic, fear and confusion the perfect recipe to send them scurrying for the comfort of safety, leaving him behind to suffer. Beams of flashlights dance wildly on the walls on either side of him until they too fade. Then there is just the sound of his hacking. Just when he begins to think he'll cough up a lung, a hard object slams into the side of his head, sending the ground up to meet his face none too gently. He can taste the blood filling his mouth, sliding down his face. The Governor turns his head to stare up at the ceiling. His blurred vision doesn't assist him in locating his attacker, the sudden movement making his stomach churn. Closing his eyes, laughter almost immediately reaches his ears, foreign and mad. Not until Merle Dixon's smug face appears does he realize what awaits him. Another face—Merle's brother's—and then another—Michonne's—joins his. And finally Rick's.

The Dixon brothers drag him through the fog and into a room devoid of human life. They push him into a chair and handcuff his wrists and ankles to it. Without saying a word, Merle holds the door open until Rick, Daryl, and Michonne have all filed out. Merle glares back at him like he's a piece of meat, and the laughter just seems to get louder, magnified as the waves of sound echo off the walls. And just like that, the door closes and locks behind the killers. They walk free.

That's when he realizes none of them had been laughing.

After hours of nonstop hysteria, the Governor finds himself exhausted and alone, wondering what had been so funny to him in the first place.