For Want of a Nail: the idea that a small or overlooked detail can have significant consequences.
In this universe, Carl hasn't been around to act out his short-sighted plan to assassinate Negan. In canon, this was the trigger that paved the road to All Out War.
With Carl gone, the dynamics and outcomes change. Rick is not as quick to fight back, Negan doesn't play house in Alexandria, and various characters' fates diverge. We're in canon-divergence land, people. Anything could happen :)
We'll be picking up where we left off in New Dawn. There's quite a bit of ground to cover, and I'll be updating the tags as we go along. As before, the content warnings are the usual mile for these two fandoms. If you have any specific concerns, feel free to drop me a message (my email's in my profile).
We made it to Book Two, people! And this time, with Winchesters!
Chapter One: For Want of a Nail
The walker-pit was littered with broken glass, a relatively new development.
Daryl followed the rest of the workers into the yard, mindful of his bare feet. Some of the other workers got to wear shoes, but Daryl hadn't earned his yet. At least, that was what the Saviors had told him.
All the glass had turned the yard into a minefield. The damn salt just made it worse. The ground was covered in it – layers and layers of dry, crusted flakes. Why the salt? Daryl had never bothered to ask. All he knew was that it was annoying as shit and made every little cut sting like a bitch.
His jailors would smirk whenever he'd returned to his cell with bleeding feet. "You could make this all go away," they'd jeer. "Just say the word. What's your name?"
Daryl kept telling them – it hadn't changed. It wasn't gonna.
(Except later, when he was alone in his cell, Daryl would sometimes catch himself thinking: someday it just might.
Wouldn't it be easier to just pretend?)
In the light of day, surrounded by monsters both dead and alive, the chance to join the Saviors had never seemed less appealing. And so he stayed barefoot. Stayed Daryl. It was alright, nothing he couldn't handle. The soles of his feet were thick and callused.
The bastards could keep their damn shoes.
"Get to work, meatbags!" a guard yelled, shoving the last worker through the narrow gate and slamming it shut, agitating the dead even more than their presence already had. The guards never went into the yard with them.
The worker stumbled, letting out a small hiss of pain. He was young, somewhere around Carl's age, bruised black and blue as if somebody's fists had taken a special interest in his face. Daryl must've passed him around the yard before, but this was the first time he'd noticed the kid's tracksuit was stained with more than just dirt.
Instinct made Daryl catch the boy's shoulder, steadying him. The kid gave a full-body flinch at the contact and Daryl's hand snapped back. He didn't bother asking the kid if he was alright. It would've been a ridiculous question.
"M'fine," the kid muttered anyway, bending down to pull a sliver of glass from between his toes. The cut trickled sluggishly.
A guard called out a vaguely threatening warning. Wordlessly, Daryl and the young worker went their separate ways. It was a big yard, but teamwork was generally frowned upon.
By now, this was a familiar ritual – securing the dead, feeding them, spraying 'em with salt. Cleaning the filth from between their legs. It was a dangerous, mind numbing routine, meant to break more than just their backs.
("Boss' orders, that's why," he'd overheard the guards once, casting whispers and furtive glances. "Negan is into some occult-type shit. You gotta roll with it, alright? Just keep your head down and you'll be fine.")
Yard work was a privilege. At least, that was what the Saviors had told him. For once, Daryl didn't disagree. Better here than in his dark cell, with nothing but his piss-bucket and that fucking song for company. And so, like a good prisoner, Daryl had kept his head down. Day by day, he shoved perfectly good meat between snapping, green-tinted teeth, and tried not to think too hard about what he was doing.
They usually fed him after yard work. Usually.
A withered hand made a grab at him. Daryl stayed still, knowing the rusty pike would hold the walker at bay. He sighed quietly, reaching into the bucket of raw meat they'd handed him at the gate.
The walker stared back hungrily, making a low, gurgling sound in the back of its throat. Its face was a gaunt, sunken mess, a haunting shadow of its former beauty.
It was Sherry. What was left of her.
He wasn't surprised to see her there. Sherry had been dead for weeks. She'd tried to run, they'd said. Traitors and runaways got the yard, they'd said. Her… relationship with Negan hadn't been enough to save her. Her ex-husband hadn't saved her, either.
She'd been a good person once, underneath it all. Daryl felt sorry for her. Not enough to take her out, though. It wasn't worth the punishment.
The creature chewed noisily when he fed it, staring back at him with Sherry's empty, empty eyes. He gave it an extra-large piece, just for the hell of it. They weren't supposed to overfeed the walkers, but a quick glance at the bored guards told him exactly how much they really cared.
"I'm saying it's a shame," one of them said, loud enough for Daryl to overhear. "I would've stuck Dwight in next to her."
The other guard frowned. His head was wrapped in thick, sweat-stained bandages. "Why? Dwight wasn't a traitor."
"It's romantic." The guard shrugged. "They would've been together again, in the end."
The bandaged guard scowled. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Not wanting to draw their attention, Daryl kept working. He grabbed a handful of salt from one of the overflowing bags scattered about the yard and tossed it over Sherry's body like some kind of fucked up confetti.
But his mind was reeling from the revelation.
Dwight was dead, Daryl thought as he cut a path through the yard, feeding and salting the walkers along his path. Dwight was dead, and he was not the only one.
Not that the Saviors had said anything, of course. But Daryl wasn't stupid. He could damn well count. He'd been seeing fewer guards recently. Sometimes they'd show up wounded. Sometimes they wouldn't show up at all.
Rick's fighting back, Daryl thought with a sudden conviction, hiding a smile behind the dirty fall of his hair.
Maybe he found the kids. Maybe he found Carol.
He hoped they were giving the Saviors the hell they deserved.
(It didn't occur to him that it might be somebody else.)
A strange creaking sound pulled Daryl away from his thoughts. It stood out from the normal racket—the workers' grunts, the jeers from the guards, the dead straining and writhing in their restraints. The sound was like something stretching, like something that was about to give.
Frowning, Daryl looked around for the source. His gaze landed on the young worker from earlier. The kid was managing a strong-looking walker, one that had been bundled up in chains and pinned to the fence at the outermost part of the yard. It was easily a head taller than the kid himself, fresh enough that its muscles had yet to wither away. It had died young, too, its throat sliced in a thin, cruel line.
Several rings in the chain-link fence snapped. The walker lurched, but in a split second, Daryl was there, yanking the kid back before the walker could sink its teeth into his neck. The creature hissed, teeth snapping on air, held back despite the newfound slack in its restraints. Dark eyes covered in a thin gray film glared back with something that could almost pass as anger.
"Woah," the kid breathed softly. Then he froze.
Daryl saw it as well. The walker, strong as it was, had managed to tear a hole in the fence. It was small, just a few broken links near the tension bar. But it was also the farthest part of the yard, where the fence separated the Saviors' compound from the outside world. And now, there was an opening.
No one else seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary yet. Daryl turned his head a fraction, watching the guards from the corner of his eye. Next to him, the kid swallowed audibly.
It was broad daylight.
It could have been another test.
"Go if you're going," the kid whispered.
Ignoring the snarling walker, the young worker picked up his feed bucket. As if nothing had happened, the kid made his way to the next writhing corpse, putting some distance between himself and Daryl.
Suddenly, the kid shouted, dropping the bucket and spilling its contents on the salt-crusted earth. All eyes turned to the kid as he yelled out curses, jumping on one leg as he clutched a bleeding foot, ignoring the guards' demands to shut the hell up.
Daryl didn't waste another second. While the guards were distracted, Daryl threw himself behind the snarling walker, pushing his too-thin body through a too-small gap in the fence. The broken links cut him, leaving angry red trails along his arm and torso. Daryl barely even noticed them. The cuts weren't bleeding enough to leave a trail, which was all that mattered.
Daryl ran as fast as his feet could carry him, flitting between rundown industrial buildings. It wouldn't be long until the Saviors noticed he was gone. Behind him, he could still hear the kid's shouting, until suddenly, it stopped.
His chest heaved as he made it behind cover. It was tempting to keep running, but the odds were not in his favor. He had been a prisoner for far too long, his body weakened by starvation and sleep deprivation. Adrenaline had carried him this far, but he knew he would never make it out of the industrial park the Saviors had called their home before someone caught up to him.
Not in broad daylight, anyway.
He knew his best chance would be to stay close and wait until nightfall. He could slip away then and hopefully make it to the edge of the nearby woods. All he had to do until then was hide.
But where?
His gaze fell on a storm drain. Breathing hard, Daryl's knees hit the asphalt with a thud he barely noticed. He dug his fingers between the bars and pulled with all his strength, but it didn't want to budge. Determined and more than a little bit desperate, Daryl dug his fingers into the spaces where the cover met the cracked asphalt, using his fingernails to curve out the accumulated dirt.
It worked. Daryl jumped inside the storm drain, his feet sinking into the muck below. He pulled the grid cover over his head just as footsteps rounded the street corner, mocking voices calling out his name.
Something scurried past Daryl's foot in the dark. He held his breath.
The footsteps moved away.
Daryl kept holding his breath until his lungs screamed in protest.
It was a dark, moonless night. He'd waited an hour into nightfall before pushing the storm drain's cover and raising his numb body out of the hole.
The world felt different when cast in shadow, sharper somehow. The air was crisp in his lungs. He didn't know the exact location of the compound, but the night sky hinted that he was somewhere westward of Alexandria. Daryl had no intention of leading the Saviors back there, not until he figured out what Rick had been up to.
He needed a change of clothes and a weapon in his hand. With Dwight dead, he wondered what had become of his crossbow. His vest was probably long gone. The Saviors burned their dead.
There were plenty of corpses in his path. He managed to slide the boots off a dead man, lacing them tightly over his aching feet. He didn't want to waste any more time on clothes, so he settled for rolling his body in the dirt to darken his tracksuit. The Saviors didn't stop looking for him, but he had his ear to the ground, and in the shadows, it was easy enough to hide.
Once he made it past the edge of the woods, Daryl allowed himself a moment to shudder in relief. It was a brief respite, though. He had a long way to go, and he didn't even know where he was going.
It was still dark when he stumbled upon the small town. It had long been abandoned, with the woods encroaching on its borders, nature reclaiming what had been carved away. Daryl thought it must have been a nice little town once, nice enough that it had never housed any of the factory workers from the nearby industrial park.
Daylight was a couple of hours away, yet Daryl was already lightheaded with hunger and fatigue. The town had already been ransacked, but he could see a church up ahead. No doubt, there would be a kitchen. Some people still got squeamish when it came to "stealing" from churches. Daryl had no such reservations.
It was easy enough to pry a few boards from the window, nails all but rusted away. He was careful to move them back in place once he had climbed inside, loose enough to have a quick escape, but leaving the window looking undisturbed. The church was shrouded in darkness, but Daryl's eyes had become accustomed to the dark.
He found the small kitchenette in the back. Starlight filtered through the haphazardly boarded windows. His heart sank as he spotted the empty cabinets, but he wasn't surprised. It had been a long time since the world had changed. There was no room left for the squeamish.
The next room appeared to be a modest-looking study. The sofa looked welcoming, but Daryl's gaze was drawn to the desk. He could have sworn he had seen something shine there. He approached it cautiously.
The desk was covered in some creepy-looking shit, from the strangely bright white feathers arranged in a delicate row to the book open on some gothic-like scribbling. There were tiny vials with labels he couldn't make out in the dark, a mortar and pestle close to overflowing with a gritty-looking gloop, little rocks that looked more like crystals, and, inexplicably, a salt shaker.
Again with the fucking salt.
And yes, those absolutely were dried out chicken feet. He wondered if they were okay to eat.
Daryl picked up one of the tiny feathers. It must have been a trick of the light, but he could've sworn it glowed for a moment there.
("Occult-type shit," the guard had whispered.)
Exhaustion slowed Daryl down, and he was too late to spot the movement behind him. There was nothing he could do except freeze when he heard the gun's safety click behind his head.
"Put that down," came the gruff demand. The barrel prodded the back of Daryl's head. "Now."
With a long, careful exhale, Daryl allowed the feather to drop from his hand. For a moment, he considered reaching for the pestle, but he was too slow, too exhausted, and the gun was far too close. He felt, rather than saw, the man's carefully released exhale as he took a few cautious steps back.
"Turn around, hands up. Do it slowly."
There was a click, and suddenly a bright light shone on Daryl's face. Forced to squint, he bared his teeth in a silent growl. Then, the light clicked away.
"You look like shit," the unfamiliar man said. It wasn't mocking, despite the heavy-handed delivery.
They both tensed up when they heard the vehicle rolling up the street. The stranger tapped the flashlight to his lips, signaling for Daryl to be quiet. The car's high beams illuminated the street, but showed no signs of slowing down. The beam landed on the stranger's face for a brief moment, lighting up his pale green eyes eerily. Then, it drove away, as quickly as it had come.
"You can breathe, man," the stranger said after a long moment. "They're gone."
Daryl glared at the man. There was something strangely familiar about him, although Daryl was sure they'd never met before.
The man sighed and lowered his gun. "I'm not with those assholes." He gestured at his face. "I mean, do I look like a bag of dicks?"
Daryl pointedly said nothing.
Unexpectedly, the man snorted. He took another step back, re-engaging the safety of his handgun. It was an interesting piece, with a shiny grip and what looked to Daryl like fancy etchings along the barrel. Although he had lowered it, Daryl had no doubt that the gun could be pointed back at him in the blink of an eye.
The stranger gave Daryl a wide berth as he circled his way around the desk. He moved stiffly, favoring his right leg. Sitting down at the desk, he reached down to rummage under it, never taking his eyes off Daryl.
"Look, I know a man on the run when I see one," he said conversationally. "What do these guys call themselves again, the Savers? Jesus Christ." Straightening up, he dropped a bottle of water and a couple of protein bars on the desk, right beside the chicken feet. "This country, man. Can't throw a rock without hitting another damn cult. You got a name, pal?"
Daryl inhaled sharply. He'd learned to hate that question.
The man frowned. Then he glanced down, seemingly noticing all the weird crap on the desk, and shrugged. "Would it help if I said this is exactly what it looks like?"
When Daryl didn't reply, he continued. "Listen, man, I don't wanna shoot you. You look like you've been up shit's creek, and anyway, I've got shit to do. So, are you gonna eat, or are you just gonna stand there and stare?"
Daryl considered the man for another long moment. It could be a trick, but either way, what choice did he have? Making up his mind, Daryl dragged one of the chairs closer and sat down on the other side of the desk.
"Daryl," he offered, his voice an underused, dry croak.
The stranger didn't smile, but he pointedly pushed the bottle of water toward Daryl. "Name's Dean."
A/N: Poor Daryl. Did you notice he said one word throughout this entire chapter? Please drop a comment and let me know what you think! I'll be honest - feedback feeds into my motivation like nothing else. Real life's kicking my ass, but I'll do everything I can to update regularly.