OMG, go on youtube and find the remix of this song below! Trust me, it's the best remix I've heard. YOU'RE WELCOME! :)

Every time I re-watch Rick's group entering Alexandria for the first time, this song comes to mind.

PS. We finally found a casting for Jamie - Kyle Gaz Garrick from Call of Duty (picked by jayispunk, who tells me he has golden retriever energy like Jamie.)

All my friends are heathens, take it slow
Wait for them to ask you who you know
Please don't make any sudden moves
You don't know the half of the abuse

Welcome to the room of people
Who have rooms of people that they loved one day
Docked away
Just because we check the guns at the door
Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades

You'll never know the psychopath sitting next to you
You'll never know the murderer sitting next to you
You'll think, "How'd I get here, sitting next to you?"
But after all I've said, please don't forget

Stranger Things/Heathens by Twenty one pilots

Chapter 45 - Lucky

Your steps are slow and relaxed as you take in the surroundings of the home office, reminiscent of your old home in New York. Your fingers lightly drag across the bookshelf before you, while you await the arrival of the community's leader. Soft whispers can be heard emanating from another room, indicating that Deanna Moore, the woman in charge, is engaged in a one-on-one conversation with Aaron. You can only speculate that Aaron is likely sharing everything he heard about the so-called "cure" with her. Although you don't know who Deanna is, you understand that, from this point forward, it will be a game of chess, and you have no intention of losing.

Your train of thought is momentarily interrupted as movement catches your eye outside the window. Intrigued, you move closer, astounded by the sight before you. A young woman is walking a dog—a seemingly mundane action, yet so foreign in the current world.

From the moment you stepped through the gates of Alexandria, a realization struck you: for the people here, the world hadn't changed. Guided by Aaron along the neatly paved roads, you took in the sight of beautiful single-family houses with meticulously trimmed lawns lining the streets, as the distant sounds of dogs barking and children's laughter filled the air.

The community stood in stark contrast to the desolate and dangerous world you had become accustomed to. Yet, Alexandria seemed to cling to a sense of normalcy and peace, leaving you with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism about what lies beneath the surface of this seemingly idyllic place.

"Hello," a voice calls from behind you, and as you turn, you come face to face with an older petite woman. Her short hair and sharp eyes exude a sense of authority. "I am Deanna Moore, and you must be Doctor Alice Dixon."

"Hello," you nod, returning her scrutinizing gaze as she studies you from head to toe. It immediately becomes clear that this woman is not to be underestimated. And just like that, you realize the reason why she saved your interview for last—to assess and understand everyone before forming her opinion about them, outside of the context of the treatment you bring to the table. Okay, so maybe not as easy as taking candy from a baby.

"Do you mind if I record this?" she asks, waving you towards a seat at the front.

"Why?" you inquire, though you already know the reason, simply wanting to hear her answer.

"We're all about transparency," Deanna states calmly.

"Sure," you reply nonchalantly, aware that transparency isn't the sole reason she wants to record. It's likely so she can review the interview later, dissecting every word and analyzing both verbal and non-verbal cues. She's a smart woman.

But so are you, so you give her the performance she seeks. Taking a seat on the couch across from her and the camera, you position yourself with a straight back, crossed legs, and direct yet soft eyes.

"Aaron told me something extraordinary about you," she begins, her tone kind and gentle, though you can sense that she hasn't fully embraced the idea of the cure like Aaron has. "He said you were working on a solution for this virus, even though you barely have anything to eat."

"Well, I wouldn't call it a solution just yet. It's all theory and hypotheses," you respond honestly, maintaining a steady gaze with her, never blinking or looking away. Playing your part, you continue, "It's not a solution until we can gather the necessary facts."

She hums, and instead of posing another question, she simply keeps looking at you. There's a pause, and your eyebrow slowly rises when her lips curl into a small smile. "You are a highborn," she says, getting up from her seat.

You follow her movements with your gaze as she walks around the sofa where she was seated. "Highborn? What year is this, 1555?" you question, eyebrows still raised.

"Ha, you have a sense of humor. I like that," Deanna laughs as she stops next to the camera. "You see, I'm exceptionally good at reading people, and something tells me that you are too." With that said, she presses a button on the camera and the red light turns off. "If I didn't know you were a doctor already, I would have guessed you were a politician. So, how about it, Doctor? Let's have a candid conversation."

Though you try to maintain a neutral expression, you can't help but be surprised. You relax your shoulders and offer a smile, realizing that the game has taken a new turn. "I think my father would be very proud to hear you call me a politician," you begin. "He was the District Attorney of Georgia, District 11, and he ran for the governor's seat twice. But in the end, I think he preferred the freedom he had as a DA."

"Now I understand why you remind me of myself—a daughter of a DA. It makes sense," Deanna chuckles, gesturing towards your posture and overall etiquette. "You see, I too consider myself a highborn, lucky enough to be born to the right parents. My father was the governor of Ohio, and I was well-read and well-groomed."

You can sense that she is trying to establish a connection, recognizing the shared experiences that come with growing up in the political sphere. "I followed in his footsteps, and by the time I was a little older than you, I became the governor of the same district when he retired. It sort of became a family gig, and later on, I became a senator."

"It's in your blood," you tell her, acknowledging the inherent influence of family background.

"Exactly," she says. "I was in D.C., gathering information and resources on how we could best help manage the crisis of the outbreak when martial law was enacted. They only allowed select individuals as part of the early evacuation. But again, lucky enough, the army stopped us on the back road and redirected us to a safe zone, a self-sustaining suburban community—Alexandria."

"You built the wall?" you question, curious about the origins of the sturdy fortification.

"My husband was a professor of architecture, and with the help of my two sons, they constructed the first wall. Soon, more people joined us," she explains, leaning forward with passion in her voice.

"You see, in times like this, who we were before matters. Your skill set matters," Deanna nods, her determination evident. "We desperately need people like you. But ultimately, what matters most is what you want. Do you want to be here?"

You take a moment to contemplate her question, allowing your thoughts to settle. After a brief pause, you meet Deanna's gaze with unwavering determination. "You know, my father used to say that there is no such thing as luck, but rather the meeting of opportunity and preparation." You begin opening up, reflecting on the fortunate moments that have shaped your journey.

"When the outbreak happened, I was in Iraq," you share, feeling her attention drawn to your words. "It was a stroke of luck that I was rescued and brought to Fort Benning military base to take over for my predecessor, Dr. Lehman, a military doctor who was bitten during his research."

Your hands instinctively move to the dog tag around your neck, and you can sense her curiosity piqued. "When the base was overrun, I was lucky to have the right people to save me and protect me once again," you continue, thinking of Charles and the countless times he saved your life.

You think back to the pharmacy and all the people you met afterward—T-Dog, Lori, Hershel, Beth, and all the people who died from the flu. "Throughout this chaos, I found my childhood sweetheart, and we recently got married. How lucky am I for everything to have fallen into place?" You reflect on the Governor's attack and Charles' passing, acknowledging the hardships but also recognizing the positive outcomes.

"But perhaps I'm looking at this from a different perspective," you mull over your thoughts aloud. "Perhaps, there is a greater force at play, a law of nature that dictates I am meant to be here because nature always finds a way to correct herself. It's not just luck that has brought me to this point. It's the culmination of having the right people, like my husband, the right motivations, and the push to find a solution—for the people I love. It feels like a calling rather than mere luck."

Deanna leans forward in her seat, her fingers intertwining as she locks her gaze with yours. "I know it's a big question, and the pressure that comes with it, but I need to know, we all do. Do you think you can do this? Can you develop the treatment?" Her voice carries a hint of something, an underlying intensity, perhaps a mix of hope and skepticism, as her eyes study you, searching for any signs of deception.

"With the right resources and time, I believe it's possible," you reply honestly, carefully considering the weight of her question. You understand the magnitude of the task ahead, but you are determined to try, to give it your all. "I was in communication with other military doctors and officials based at the Navy Yard in D.C. before it was overrun. Their last message said that they were going underground, which is why I came here."

Deanna's gaze is steady and thoughtful. A moment of silence fills the room as she absorbs your words. Then, with a heavy sigh, she breaks the news. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but D.C. is gone."

You stare at Deanna, feeling as if the ground has been swept from under your feet, as reality hits you like a ton of bricks. Though you are frozen, the woman in front of you continues, "As you know, major cities were hotspots for the virus, and D.C. was no exception," Deanna says, her voice filled with regret. "Most of northern Virginia was evacuated as part of Operation Cobalt, a contingency plan involving the bombing of major infected cities. Unfortunately, D.C. was one of the first cities in line for this drastic measure."

The entire journey, all the sacrifices you made, and the hopes and dreams you built upon reaching D.C., now feel like shattered fragments of a distant past. A heavy breath escapes your lips as the weight of reality begins to sink in. Thoughts of Charles flood your mind. Did he know about Operation Cobalt all along? Or perhaps his unwavering determination to reach D.C. was fueled by hope rather than concrete knowledge.

As you reflect on these thoughts, a mix of emotions swirl within you—despair, disappointment, and a profound sense of loss.

"I have a few scouts breaching the borders of D.C., scavenging for supplies, but for the most part, it's extremely unsafe to enter," Deanna's voice brings you back to the present moment. She looks at your face, easily seeing the devastation etched on your features.

She rises from her seat and walks over to you, sitting on the coffee table right in front of you. Her hand reaches out, gently touching yours. "Maybe you were meant to be here. Maybe we are the lucky ones. Perhaps it was the law of nature that brought you to this place—a community with its own solar grid, cisterns, sewage filtration, and so on. Maybe my husband and I are part of those right people in your life to help you achieve this cure right here in Alexandria."

You look up at her, wondering when the shift in the conversation from a game of politics to a genuine connection took place. "I understand that this place may not be what you initially wanted, but I want you to see its potential, for what it could become," she says, squeezing your hand. "So, what do you say, Doctor? Let us help you, help us," she adds, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

A moment of silence passes as your eyes search hers, assessing the words spoken and the conviction behind them. "Alright, I will do my best," you agree, realizing that you don't really have other options at this point.

"Wonderful!" Deanna says, pulling her hands back with a clap, her smile widening as if she has just won another election. "Welcome to Alexandria, Doctor Dixon," she exclaims, getting up and pulling you along with her. With eager steps, she leads you through her house, retracing your steps to where your group is waiting.

"I want us to celebrate, but first I want you to rest, eat, and take a moment for yourself. Tomorrow, I would like to personally give you a tour and introduce you to Pete, our doctor," Deanna says as she guides you to your waiting group.

As you walk down the quiet street of Alexandria, with Merle on one side and Daryl on the other, you can't help but notice the curious gazes of the citizens. Their eyes are filled with apprehension, following your every step. Some stop in their tracks, openly observing you, while others peek through partially drawn curtains, barely concealing their curiosity.

You catch snippets of hushed whispers as you pass by, the sound of speculation hanging in the air. You can feel the scrutiny like a touch, as their eyes move from the Dixon brothers to you, from your dirty clothes to your even dirtier face.

"Look at us now, huh? Back to bein' nothin' but white trash, it seems," Merle remarks as he brings his prosthetic arm up, clicking the latch of his knife, openly displaying the gleaming blade. His fingers glide across it while he smirks at random strangers, a defense mechanism masking his vulnerability, you suspect. "Everyone here's clenchin' their damn ass cheeks like we're all fixin' to rob this place blind, like a bunch of fuckin' lowlifes," he adds, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and defiance.

Although Daryl remains silent, his body language speaks volumes. Your hand instinctively tightens its grip around his hand as you return their stares with a stern cold gaze of your own.

A few steps ahead, Aaron engages in conversation with Rick and Carl, leading the way to your new home within the community. Walking behind them, you can't help but feel exposed without your gun in a sense, so your hand moves to the machete at your hip. The first step after leaving Deanna's office involved a woman collecting all your guns in a bin. Surprisingly, your entire group had complied, one by one handing over their weapons as Deanna explained, "They're still your guns, but for safety reasons, we'll keep them stored here."

Your footstep comes to a halt, interrupting your train of thought. "Both of them?" Rick questions, his voice drawing your gaze towards two large houses ahead.

"At your disposal," Aaron confirms with a nonchalant nod. "I'd call dibs on that one," he points to the house on the left, "it has more curb appeal." He then hands Rick the keys.

You take a step forward to follow Rick, but Aaron addresses you next. "Oh, Doctor, your house is over there," he points towards a third house. "Deanna specifically requested that you have one of your own—something about a wedding present," he says with a smile. You exchange a glance with Daryl, both of you uneasy about the separation, and he briefly looks towards Rick. With a nod of acknowledgment, you allow Aaron to lead the way.

With just a few steps, you approach the front of another grand home. "Here you are," Aaron says, placing the key in your hand, indicating that this is now your new residence in Alexandria. "Welcome to the Dixon household," he adds with a broad smile, joining you in admiring the house's gray and white exterior.

"If you need anything, I'm two doors down," Aaron suggests, motioning to his home down the block.

"Jamie?" you question before he can depart, wondering what's taking the soldier so long.

The rest of the group was offered the chance to check out the storage room where spare clothes and shoes were kept, and Jamie had volunteered to handle the 'shopping' for all three of you. Considering the suspicious glances directed at the Dixon brothers, you felt it might not be wise to leave Merle unattended on his first day.

"I'll go check on him now," Aaron nods, stepping away. "I'll let him know where you are." With those words, he leaves you at your new home.

Merle is the first to stride ahead, while Daryl hesitates beside you, visibly uneasy. You look between the two brothers, intrigued by how they navigate their surroundings—Merle, adaptable and capable of playing his part, proven with the Governor as well as here with the group, while Daryl, a man who never quite fit in until the apocalypse, is now forced to adjust.

You turn to your husband and observe the tension in his shoulders. "It's okay, sweetheart," you whisper, gently tugging his hand, knowing he feels like he's back in a world where he doesn't belong again. "It's just you and me." He glances from you to the house and lets out a sigh before taking a step forward.

The first thing that catches your eye is the spacious front patio, where two swing chairs sway gently in the breeze. Uncertain of what to expect, anticipation builds as you insert the key and push open the door. Merle lets out a whistle as he enters first, and you follow right behind, your eyes scanning the place.

The first thing you see is the meticulously decorated living room with large plush sofas and a coffee table decked with carefully arranged trinkets. You release Daryl's hand and slowly explore the adjacent rooms, discovering a tastefully set dining area with an elegant table and chairs. Beyond the living and dining spaces, there is a cozy fireplace with a bookshelf adorning each side, while another sofa sits in front.

As you hum in satisfaction, a sense of normalcy washes over you. Homes like this are not unfamiliar, and you can easily envision yourself making it your own. Your steps quicken as you continue your exploration, eventually stepping into a magnificent kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art appliances and gleaming countertops.

As you come around to the living room, you notice that Daryl hasn't moved much, having shifted to sit on the sofa instead. Merle appears, making his way around the corner, and his cynical remark breaks the silence. "Heh, so they're just handin' this here house to us on a silver platter, huh?" he comments, leaning against the door frame. "I'm tellin' y'all, there's somethin' fishy 'bout this whole deal. Don't know 'bout y'all, but it's settin' off alarm bells in my head."

"Deanna is a skilled politician, adept at winning people over," you muse, considering the motivations behind her actions. "Otherwise, she would have placed us with Rick and the rest."

Daryl scoffs dismissively, "She's just after you to find a damn cure," he grumbles. You nod, aware that Deanna wants to ensure the cure remains within Alexandria by making you feel comfortable and at home.

"True, that's definitely her agenda," you concede. "But let's not forget, she also needs all of us. Look at the people here; they haven't truly learned how to survive, not like we have."

"So, you're sayin' this is just a clever way to kiss some serious ass?" Merle interjects skeptically.

"Exactly. Regardless of her motives, I don't know about you, but I'm in desperate need of a shower," you retort, moving toward Daryl. He looks up at you when you grab his hand. "Come on, let's take a shower," you insist, and he rolls his eyes but allows himself to be dragged along.

Merle saunters away, shouting, "Well, y'all tell Brooklyn I call dibs on the basement," as he disappears down the steps.

You lead Daryl up the stairs, finding yourself on the upper floor of the house, the oak-colored hardwood floor beneath your feet. Slowly pacing around, you open a door and peek inside. The upper level comprises three bedrooms and two bathrooms. As you reach the last door, which leads to the master bedroom, you pause, taking in the creamy-colored walls, the large king-size bed positioned at the center of the room, adorned with plush pillows and soft linens. Sunlight streams in through the large windows, filling the space with natural light, adding an airy feel to the room.

You take a step, walking around the room, allowing a sense of serenity to wash over you. It's the first time you've seen a bed like this since the outbreak. Throughout your journey, from military bunk beds to RV pullouts, from hard mattresses in the prison to the cold floors of Woodbury and the outdoor dirt, finally having a comfortable bed feels like a luxury. A smile spreads across your face as you gaze out the window, taking in the view of the small backyard, where flowers bloom and birds flutter about.

Turning to Daryl with excitement, you find him standing near the door, having only moved a few inches. Memories flood back of him standing just as stiffly in your bedroom the first time he entered, looking around as if he didn't belong. You move closer to him, about to speak, when the echo of the front door slamming shut resonates throughout the house.

"Yo! This place is lit!" you hear Jamie's voice boom through the house, his footsteps thumping on the hard floor as he moves swiftly.

"Let me go get the clothes he got us," you tell Daryl, leaning up and pressing a quick kiss to his lips, though he wears a slight frown. With that, you walk past him and head downstairs, only to be greeted by the soft noise of a familiar voice ringing below.

As you descend to the basement, not finding the soldier on the first floor, Jamie's voice continues. "Come on, this place is the perfect bachelor pad. There's even an audio system," he exclaims, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "I'm a young buck, and you're old as hell, so whatcha need all this space for, huh?"

"Look, pal, you snooze, you lose. That's the name of the game," Merle asserts, positioned on a couch facing yet another fireplace, as you come around the corner. "If you were too busy playin' hooky and missed out, then that's on you. Ain't nobody else's fault but your own. So don't come cryin' to me and throwin' a tantrum like a damn toddler."

Quickly scanning the space, you realize that the "basement" is not exactly a traditional basement but rather a lower floor that opens up to an open-concept area with its own exit leading to the backyard. A large king-size bed sits at the center against one wall, accompanied by a sizable dresser and another door, likely leading to a bathroom.

"Why are you doin' me dirty, man? I thought we were compadres, homies, bros," Jamie whines, dramatically waving his hand in the air.

"Well, ain't that an even better reason... bro," Merle counters with a smirk.

"All right, what's going on here?" you interject, already aware of their dispute.

Jamie immediately turns, realizing you're right behind him. "Yo, Alie, you're on my side, right?" He steps closer, making his case. "The basement has its own bathroom and a separate entrance. He doesn't need that, not like I do."

"I'm a light sleeper, alright. There ain't no way I'm sharin' my space with them, if you catch my drift," Merle says to Jamie, rising from his seat and pointing a finger at you. "But you, well, you sleep like a damn rock. Ain't nothing gonna wake you up once you're snoring away."

"I'm too big for the queen-size bed they probably have up there, but there's a king-size bed down here!" Jamie counters, his gaze shifting between you and Merle.

"Alright, alright, how about this?" you propose, stepping between the two men. "I'll swap you our king-size bed for your queen-size, and Merle here will help you move it."

"Alie, come on..." Jamie pleads, looking at you with his puppy-dog eyes. With a roll of your eyes, you turn away, already exhausted by their bickering. As you start making your way back up the stairs, you hear Merle laugh, exclaiming, "Well, would you look at that? It all worked out in the end, didn't it? Ain't that somethin'?" He calls out after Jamie, who follows closely behind you.

"I fuckin hate you both!" Jamie hollers from below, before mumbling to himself, "This could have been a sweet crib for me... I could bring the ladies... have a man cave... maybe even get a gaming system."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, where are the damn change of clothes?" you wave him off, eager to return to your shower. Jamie lets out a deep sigh and leads you to a large suitcase in the living room.

"What took you so long, by the way?" You question, greedily grabbing toothpaste, razor, and deodorants as if they were precious treasures you had never seen before.

"My girl Rosita needed some help..." Jamie mumbles beside you, and you suspect his definition of "help" likely involved carrying her bag.

Judging by the contents of the suitcase, it seems that black is the only color Jamie is familiar with. You retrieve a faded black casual shirt and black jeans for Daryl, along with loose-fitting black pants for yourself and a t-shirt with some sort of music band's logo printed on the front.

When you come across a very promiscuous, lacy underwear, you hold it up in the air, teasingly addressing Jamie. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. "You need Jesus," you tell him with a mock stern voice, but nonetheless decide to keep the underwear as you head up the stairs.

As you enter back into the bedroom, you find Daryl lying on the bed, his legs folded at the knee with his feet still touching the ground. He turns sideways, watching you as you set the toiletries and change of clothes on the dresser counter.

"The hell is going on?" he asks, his eyes fixed on you as you start unbuttoning your shirt.

"They're fighting over the basement," you inform him, peeling off your shirt and bra. There's a moment of silence as Daryl's gaze trails across your naked chest before he speaks again.

"That selfish prick, he oughta just let Jamie have it after he carried his sorry ass all the way to Woodbury," Daryl mutters, his annoyance evident. You chuckle, realizing that Jamie has embellished the story, now claiming to have carried Merle all the way to Woodbury, rather than just to the barn where you found the RV.

"Hmm, let them fight," you dismiss Daryl's concern, kicking off your pants and shoes, "they're arguing just like how you two used to, except without the fistfights." Standing before him in nothing but your underwear, you slowly climb onto him, straddling him with a knee on each side as you sit on his stomach.

The warmth of his body radiates beneath you as his hand glides up and down your thighs. "Do you remember when Merle first joined us at the prison?" you ask, looking down at him with sultry eyes.

"People didn't trust him, kept him out," you continue, his hand gradually creeping up your waist. "He tried, and eventually, he won everyone over."

"Pfft, I wouldn't say 'won,' they just tolerate his ass," Daryl scoffs, his attention more focused on your body than the conversation about his brother.

"The point I'm trying to make is this—do you remember that day when you first took me hunting? We promised each other that we would try to build a real future," you say, grasping his hand before it reaches your breast. Your mind also drifts back to that fateful night, after the flu outbreak at the prison, when you lay side by side on your bunk bed. "Again at the prison, we promised each other that we would find a way to live, and this could be it, Daryl. I'm right here with you, together."

Daryl lets out a sigh, his hand moving away from you to support himself as he pushes himself up. "I know," he says, looking into your eyes. "This place ain't exactly what I thought it'd be, but I'm gonna try, sweetheart. Y'know I'll do anythin' for ya, for us," he whispers as you slide your hands around his neck.

"And I'll do anything for you, for us," you sigh, pressing your lips to his neck. "I love you." You continue, moving your lips up, planting a trail of kisses along his hairline, feeling one of his hands glide to your ass. With a quick jerk, you grasp his hand and move back to slide off him. "Nope, shower first," you scold playfully.

"You ain't playing fair," he huffs, dropping back onto the bed in a lying position. "Sittin' on me like this, knowin' I'd cut out my goddamn heart and give it to ya if you asked."

You roll your eyes, picking up your change of clothes and toothbrush. "You don't need to cut out and give me what's already mine, Daryl Dixon," you say, walking towards the master bathroom. However, you pause at the door. "Maybe tonight we can christen the bed... but only if you scrub my back," you tease, disappearing behind the door.

As you enter Alexandria's infirmary, the house-turned-clinic, the familiar scent of disinfectant and medicine fills your senses. Soft sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting warm beams that dance on the pale blue walls. Deanna takes on the role of your guide as you follow her deeper into the house.

"We had another doctor before Pete came along. He helped us set up the infirmary," Deanna explains while your eyes wander around the room, taking in the sight of neatly arranged medical supplies and equipment lining the shelves. "There was a nearby clinic, and we gathered all the machines in a large truck," she continues, observing your movement towards the sturdy wooden table at the center. It serves as the primary workspace, adorned with vials and carefully labeled containers.

"He did a lot for us, that doctor... but unfortunately, he got bitten during one of his excursions to bring medical supplies here," Deanna says, her gaze shifting behind you. Following her eyes, you turn to discover framed photographs of medical professionals and their patients from a time long gone. The remnants of a bygone era serve as a constant reminder of the world that once was—a world where healing and hope were taken for granted. Among the pictures, one man, possibly of South Asian descent, appears repeatedly, suggesting that this must be the doctor Deanna is referring to.

"Come," she beckons, leading you further. "We converted the bedrooms into patient rooms—" her sentence is cut short by the sound of running water as one of the doors opens, revealing a tall man with hooded eyes and sandy hair.

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," Deanna laughs, her exaggerated manner suggesting that she doesn't hold the man in high regard. "This is Pete Anderson, our current resident doctor," she introduces, turning towards you.

"Pete," she says, motioning you towards him, "this is Dr. Alice Dixon, our newest member." As he looks at you, his gaze scans you slowly from top to bottom.

"Another doctor, huh?" he says with a smile that fails to conceal his underlying dislike for the idea. "We haven't seen one of those in quite some time." With a stiff smile, he extends his hand towards you, his eyes roaming over your figure deliberately. "Very exciting!"

As you shake his hand and attempt to pull away, he doesn't immediately let go. There is a slight tightness in his grasp as he continues, "You're not from around here, right? DC had annual Doctors conventions, and I would have remembered your face if I'd seen it before." His grip tightens further as he probes, "Where did you practice before the outbreak?"

You recognize this tactic, a simple technique you've seen your father use to assert dominance. However, the man before you is failing miserably in his attempt to evoke the same reaction—perhaps it would have worked on a more simple woman. Maintaining a neutral expression, you tighten your grip around his hand and respond, "I completed my residency at Presbyterian Hospital—Columbia University Medical Center. But I didn't practice in the traditional sense." Instantly, you notice a raise of his eyebrow as if he has just stumbled upon something intriguing.

"Oh, I suppose it makes sense," he muses, his smile growing wider, as he glances at Deanna, finally releasing your hand. "You seem quite young to have practiced medicine before all this chaos." You also cast a glance at the woman, who has been silently observing your exchange.

Deanna, the astute politician, doesn't give anything away, but you read Pete like a book, recognizing the obvious. There's something about your presence that threatens him, perhaps because as the sole doctor in the community, it gave him a sense of status and privilege. Now, with your arrival, he sees you as competition. Your gaze shifts between Pete and Deanna once more, capturing the simmering tension lurking beneath the surface.

"Pete, let's not be judgmental," Deanna counters, returning his smile with one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Pete was a renowned surgeon at MedStar Washington Hospital Center, and he likes to remind us of that whenever he gets a chance," she says, playfully teasing him, a subtle jab hidden beneath the facade of a joke.

"Fair enough," Pete concedes, raising his hand in mock surrender. "But it's still quite unusual to come across someone so young with real medical training."

"I'm not as young as I look, but I suppose you're right. I wasn't practicing within the confines of a prestigious hospital, hidden behind fancy walls," you reply nonchalantly, stepping away to explore the rest of the room. "I was out on the combat zone, tending to wounds. Besides, my specialization is in virology, so my training focuses on studying and understanding infectious diseases." Pausing in front of a worn yet well-maintained autoclave, its soft hum filling the air as it diligently sterilizes instruments, you turn to face Pete and Deanna, a slow smirk forming on your lips. "In a way, I'm the 'new breed' of doctor required in this world."

Before Pete can voice his opinion on the matter, Deanna claps her hands together and steps forward, effectively ending the conversation. "Well, let's not hold you up," she says, nodding towards Pete. "We're going to continue with the tour."

As Deanna guides you out of the room, you follow without sparing another glance at Pete. The petite woman leads you deeper into the clinic until she opens the door to a separate room. Inside, rows of beds are adorned with clean white sheets. Deanna closes the door behind you once you both enter. She remains silent for a moment, observing your movements as you walk ahead.

"I have a job for you," she finally speaks, her voice breaking through the silence. As you approach one of the small tables situated next to each bed, she continues, "Until we can figure out a way to set up your lab, I want you to assist Pete."

As her words reach your ears, they begin to fade into the background, as if you were suddenly submerged underwater. Your eyes fixate on the gleaming, pristine medical tools under the overhead light of a lamp. Time seems to stand still as your body freezes in place, and your unblinking gaze becomes locked onto a particular object—a clear, round plastic item resting on a metal tray on the nightstand's surface.

Memories rush at you with an unsettling force, overwhelming your senses. Your trembling hands reach out to pick up the round plastic air pump, and your mind is abruptly transported back to the suffocating darkness of the prison cells of the past, as your fingers squeeze it.

"Hold him still," Hershel's voice echoes in your ears, and you find yourself transported back in time. The scene unfolds before you: you are gripping your patient tightly, restraining him as Hershel diligently pumps air down the man's throat.

"Two doctors are better than one," Deanna's voice lingers in the background, as you grip the clear plastic container, pumping it harder.

"I can't," you whisper.

You see her—Ms. Jackson, the woman with a failing heart from Woodbury— you brush her gray hair back and pray for her as your tears stream down your face. With your fingers still in her hair, you align your wrist with her ears and press the button on your hidden blade. The blade extends with screeching force, and the knife slices through her ear canal into her brain with a sickening crunch.

"Yes, you can," Deanna says confidently.

You stand in the hall, Rick, and Charles before you, "What in God's name are you doin'?" Hershel hollers, his face in a clear display of distress, "As a doctor, you took the Hippocratic Oath. You swore to protect life. Yet, you're puttin' 'em down in there like an animal!"

"You're a tough cookie; I knew it the second I saw you. You can handle a bit of workplace sexism," Deanna reassures you.

Before you walk out, you grasp Hershel's hand, and you can see the sorrow in his eyes. When you whisper your apologies, you know he will never be the same again either. Yet you walk away—your footsteps feeling slow and echoing all around the prison cell.

"I CAN'T!" you howl at Deanna, stumbling back, the air pump slipping from your grasp. Hershel's face lingers in your mind, a haunting reminder of the last time you saw him, with his sorrowful eyes looking back at you.

Tears well up in your eyes as you meet Deanna's wide-eyed gaze. "I can't. I have broken my Hippocratic Oath," you confess, memories of the seven individuals who were at your mercy flooding your thoughts. Each face, including that of Doctor S, etched in your memory. "We were in a prison, back before we were on the road... a Spanish flu broke out... and there were so many... we didn't have the supplies to treat everyone."

"I understand, you guys have been through so much," Deanna says, taking a step closer.

"No, you don't understand," you shake your head, backing away. "They were suffering... enduring long and torturous deaths." The weight of guilt hangs heavy upon you. "I killed them; I made it quick."

Deanna's mouth opens and closes, the realization finally sinking in that this wasn't merely a case of a doctor losing patients. "I can't practice medicine, not in the way you want me to. In case of emergencies, I'm willing to help, but from now on, I am a research doctor," you state firmly.

There is a moment of silence as Deanna processes all the information. After a pause, she speaks again, her voice softer. "Alright, I'm sorry I sprung it on you so suddenly," she says, taking another step towards you. "Take the time you need. I'm sure I can find something meaningful for you to do." Her hand reaches out and gently clasps yours.

"But in the meantime, I would like you to join me and my family for dinner. Reg has been eager to meet you," she says, offering a small smile. "How about it, tomorrow?"

You nod, accepting her invitation. "Sure," you reply softly, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability, your gaze fixed on the ground.