Merry Christmas! Or happy holidays to those who don't celebrate. As I mentioned in the last chapter, I've been really struggling to write, and I think I need some motivation. I really need to hear from you guys to give me a boost.
Ok, now I need you to start by watching the video, then listening to the song I tagged before you started reading, just for the full reading experience.
Recap: Chapter 31 - Domino Effect- Hershel nods, his fatherly voice ringing out in the stillness. "I think life is always a test, and we're bein' tested now."
Do you feel safe?
Out in the light
Or is this the place
Where monsters hide?
You're not such an easy target
One minute I know you then I don't
I know you then I don't
You're not such an easy target
One minute I know you then I don't
I know you then I don't
Hello, who are you?
Hello, who are you?
Who are you?
Hello, who are you?
Hello, who are you?
Who are you?
You can't escape
You can't outrun
Your DNA
What's in your blood
You're not such an easy target
One minute I know you then I don't
I know you then I don't
Who are you by Svrcina
Chapter 62 - Who are you?
You sit perched on your high laboratory chair, surrounded by scattered books and papers, research you haven't touched in weeks, experiments left unfinished. Your attention wanders far from your immediate surroundings as your thoughts swirl like a storm within you.
Sunlight filters through the church's stained glass, bathing everything in hues of color, creating patterns that seem almost otherworldly. One hand rests gently on your belly, while the other absentmindedly twirls the cigar Abraham gave you.
You feel like you're sinking into darkness, drowning in a sea of horror. Yet, even in this abyss, amid the piercing ring in your ears, there is a faint light, small and flickering. It's hope—in the form of a child's laughter echoing all around you, distant as if you're hearing it through a long tunnel. The sound is sweet and bubbly, a beacon of joy in a world that has long forgotten what that feels like. You picture a baby in your arms, tiny fingers gripping yours, and this thought, seems to be the only thing holding you together.
It's only been two days since your return from the Sanctuary, two days since you learned of your pregnancy. You're not sure how far along you are, likely just a few weeks. But in these past two days, you've tried to do the things you know you should – eat, sleep – but it's a struggle.
With all the mattresses taken by the Saviors, only cold, hard floors and makeshift beds remain, comforters piled together. There, on the unforgiving ground, you've had nothing but time to think. Your thoughts are scattered, like pieces of a puzzle refusing to fit. You mull over everything you've learned about the Saviors, from the workers to Negan's harem of wives, and the intricate web of power and control that stretches far beyond Negan's charismatic facade. This leads you to an unsettling realization: the threat is far more extensive than you initially believed.
The idea of simply figuring out a way to kill Negan crosses your mind, perhaps through poison, as his wives have hinted. But deep down, you know it's more complex than that. Your father's teachings, those endless history lessons from childhood, have instilled one key lesson in you: regimes always outlast their leaders.
Even if you were to succeed in removing Negan, the monstrous system would persist. Next in line would be Simon, an unpredictable man who creeps you to your core. That is, after you pay for the consequences that follow Negan's demise, or your people do.
With Negan, at least it's the devil you know. You comprehend his twisted logic, his rules, his brand of chaos. With him, you cling to a semblance of control, fragile as it may be.
Your thoughts are interrupted by light knock on the laboratory's double doors. You pivot to find Gabriel standing there, his clerical collar neatly in place, a Bible clutched in his hand, seemingly ready to deliver a sermon.
"Gabe," you call out, noting the small smile on his face. "Is everything alright?"
He responds with an unwavering cheerfulness. "You're called, and only you can answer," he says enigmatically, his words leave you puzzled. You raise an eyebrow in response.
"Mhmm," he hums, taking measured steps toward you, "You can't run from it, you can't deny it, you can't pass it off. It's your call. God knew what he was doing; he knew who he was calling. And it's you."
A hopeful glint shines in Gabriel's eyes as he closes the gap between you, standing just a few feet away. "He expertly, and intricately detailed every aspect of your life—your being, your persona, everything about you, from the texture of your hair to the color of your eyes, to the way you love, to who you love—it's all part of your calling."
"Gabriel," you sigh, sensing the conversation steering towards religious territory.
"I know, I know," Gabriel quickly concedes, raising his hand in a gesture of surrender, acknowledging your reluctance. "But I've been watching you from the sidelines, speechless, watching you perform miracles, lifting people's spirits, healing their bodies and souls, and renewing their faith, mine included." His words tighten something in your gut, and you struggle to meet the earnest hope in his eyes.
Closing the gap further, Gabriel continues, "I woke up this morning with this… need deep in my heart, and I realized what it is, what God is telling me to do, what I'm meant to do with my time here. I think I'm meant to be that for you."
"Thank you," you respond softly, your gaze lowered, offering him a melancholic, toothless smile. "But I am a woman of science, and God has no place in my life."
Gabriel lets out a gentle laugh, prompting you to look up in surprise. "So you say, yet here we are, in a church," he gestures towards the large, richly colored wooden cross that hangs on the far side of your lab—a relic from the original church, a beautiful piece you couldn't bring yourself to remove. "Where God is guiding your hands, right? Where science is His tool." His words echo what you once yelled at him in this very room, when he was the one on the other side of that darkness.
"I understand these are challenging times, but our people here need you to lift them up again. Rick, he needs reassurance that you're still with him," Gabriel insists, tilting his head sideways to catch your gaze. "Everyone here waits for you, believes in you, looks to you for guidance."
You shake your head, your lip caught between your teeth, as memories flood in—of those who believed in you, who followed you, only to end up dead or in pain. "I don't want them to believe in me. Not anymore."
Gabriel steps even closer, his hand reaching out to rest on top of yours. "It's not up to you who God calls. It's not up to any of us who bear that cross. Only He," he says warmly. "But you see, those whom God chooses, the devil favors. All of this is just a test, an obstacle you must overcome."
"A test?" you mummer skeptically.
"Yes. I think life has always been a test, don't you think?" Gabriel asks, and his words hit you like a force, instantly transporting you back to the prison, just after the flu outbreak, standing so sure of yourself in that dingy room with Rick, Charles, where Hershel had spoken those very words.
Seeing the vulnerability on your face, Gabriel moves to pull an empty chair—usually occupied by Eugene—closer to you. He sits down calmly, placing the Bible on his lap. "I would like to pray for you, if that's alright," he offers, his demeanor gentle.
"Okay," you whisper faintly, your hand instinctively coming to rest on your belly—part of you wanting to share your pregnancy, but you keep it to yourself anyways.
Gabriel nods, his smile widening, and he opens the book in his lap. The room falls into a hushed silence, save for the gentle rustling of the thin pages as he flips through the book with reverence. "I have a favorite passage, one that I believe is fitting for your situation," he begins, his finger tracing down the pages until he finds the verse he's searching for. "Isaiah 6:8," he recites, pausing to look up at you with a nod, as if it's your destiny he's describing. "'Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?'" He lets the words linger, "'and I said, 'Here am I; send me!'"
You tighten your grip around your body, eyes closed, allowing Gabriel's words to envelop you like a comforting blanket. Maybe this is a test, as Hershel said, a challenge set before you, and you find yourself silently hoping—if there truly is a God—that He gives you the strength to pass it.
Dwight leans on the railing at the Sanctuary's entrance, his morning egg sandwich merely a formality in his hand. He chews mechanically, his gaze fixed on the relentless struggle of the undead across the yard in the fenced area. The prisoners have pinned it, impaling it through a pole as makeshift security. It's a gruesome sight of rotten flesh and gore, yet Dwight can't tear his eyes away. In some strange way, he feels a connection to that creature as it writhes in a futile struggle for freedom, its decayed body sliding up and down, trapped in an endless, mindless effort.
In this ghastly sight, Dwight sees a reflection of himself. He, too, is caught in a relentless cycle, not of physical entrapment, but of spirit and will. His existence has morphed into something like an '80s sitcom rerun he watches nightly, sitting in front of the TV, drifting in and out of consciousness, carving miniature figures, a diversion from the reality he can't face.
The reality of the choices he has made that brought him to this moment. For the illusion of safety, he took a route that cost him dearly: the love of his life. She chose to give herself to Negan to protect him, a price paid for warmth, food, and a comfortable bed. Now, he plays the role he chose, serving Negan, surviving by taking from the weak, a toy soldier, just like the ones he carves on his board.
And there are times like right now, where clarity strikes him, and he sees so clearly. How he's a prisoner of his own making, bent to his knees for Negan, surrendering his identity, all for survival. He's become a mere tool, an extension of another's will, going up and down on the totem pole just like the undead in front of him. But he is a walking dead, a shell of the man he used to be, trapped in a life he has accepted but never truly embraced.
Dwight takes another bite of his breakfast sandwich as he continues to watch, his eyes shifting to the prisoners working in the fenced area like the undead, until his gaze lands on Daryl. There, Daryl works among them, using a chain to pin an undead to the fence with practiced ease.
There's something about Daryl that gnaws at Dwight's insides, a complex mix of emotions and connections that he can't fully comprehend. Perhaps it's because he sees so much of himself in Daryl, the many parallels in their lives, or maybe it's because Daryl was there when Dwight made the biggest mistake of his life—returning to the Sanctuary. They were strangers back then, but now they're both here, prisoners in their own ways, facing a common threat in Negan, who seems obsessed with taking Daryl's wife.
Dwight is utterly perplexed by Negan's obsession with her. Ever since that woman threw herself at Daryl, willing to die for her husband during the lineup, Negan has been fixated on her. Dwight suspects, in some twisted way, Negan craves that kind of unconditional love and loyalty for himself. This desire is obvious in the way he makes his people kneel and worship him. Dwight imagines Negan believes that by taking Daryl's wife, he might somehow transfer her devotion to himself.
This fixation is clear in the absurd lengths Negan goes to, like demolishing their medical storage room to construct some sort of lab to meet her needs. Confused handymen and construction workers poring over architectural plans and books to make it happen. As bizarre as it is, it's one that Negan seems determined to pursue.
Yet, despite everything, part of Dwight desperately wants Daryl to kneel, to give in to Negan's demands, for his wife to be taken just like his. Not just to please Negan, because he knows that pleasing Negan means protecting Sherry and the lifestyle he sacrificed everything for, but also because of who Daryl fundamentally is.
It was a complicated mix of emotions Dwight finds himself in, driven by a need to validate his own choices and actions. Seeing someone like Daryl, stubborn and inherently tough, fall just like him, would somehow justify his own misery. It would prove he isn't a weak man, but someone who had been left with no other choice in this brutal world. If Daryl could fall to his knees before Negan, only then perhaps everything Dwight has done would make sense.
He supposes he's no better than Negan in his own delusion.
"Dwighty boy!"
Dwight jumps from his thoughts, half a sandwich still in his hand as Negan's voice cuts through the morning air. He turns to see Negan, bat in hand, with Simon trailing behind him as they both approach.
"There you are," Simon says, clapping a heavy hand on Dwight's back, causing a slight flinch, as he comes to stand to his left. Negan flanks his other side, creating a feeling of enclosure Dwight has grown all too familiar with. "How's the dummy vehicle comin' along?"
It's a vehicle they plan on taking to Hilltop tonight, with speakers wired to the battery, master locks welded onto the doors, and all windows barred. It's a message, a strategy meant to sow fear and assert dominance when they finally show up and "save" Hilltop from the Biters they'll unleash upon them.
"The blacksmith is still working on it," Dwight replies, keeping his tone neutral. "They should be done in a few hours."
"Good, make sure them speakers come with one of those remotes," Simon acknowledges with a smirk. "I don't want all this effort goin' down the drain if we can't fire up them damn things." He leans on the railing with a smirk, his dark glee palpable. "These farmers ain't gonna know what's about to hit 'em."
Dwight nods, his appetite gone, sandwich hanging limply in his hand. He's aware of Hilltop's situation, their subjugation under Negan's rule. His attention drifts, following Simon's gaze to his right. There stands Negan, uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes intently fixed across the yard.
Simon, noticing the silence, questions with a curious look. "Boss, everythin' alright?"
Negan nods slightly, his eyes still on the prisoners working. "Just trying to figure out that one," he says, nodding subtly towards Daryl, who maneuvers skillfully among the undead, a stark contrast to the stumbling efforts of the others. "Dwight, what's the latest scoop on our redneck problem?" he inquires.
"It's a slow progress, but we're getting there," Dwight lies, a desperate attempt to buy time, thinking back to Daryl's defiant words from days ago, refusing to ever give in. 'I get why you did it, why you took the deal. You were thinking about someone else. That's why I can't,' Daryl had said.
Simon scoffs, clearly unimpressed. "Why in the hell are we even botherin' with this guy? Seems like we're just wasting our time and resources," he argues dismissively. "We've tried everything - mind games, starvation, threats, even a little bit of Lucille therapy. Perhaps it's high time we considered cuttin' our loss. We've got the brother; he gets it. He's more of our style," he adds, referring to Merle, his new drinking buddy.
Negan, however, shakes his head, disagreeing. "People are resources, Simon, especially him." He nods toward Daryl, who skillfully handles the undead. "There's a certain fearlessness in that redneck blood. It's even rubbin' off on his damn wife." He chuckles, and Dwight recognizes Negan's interest not only in physical strength but also in breaking and bending strong wills. "We've got one Dixon, but I want the complete set. Besides, I've taken quite a likin' to his smokin' hot wife, and our friend Daryl here is my leverage to her."
Simon shrugs, uninterested. "Meh, I ain't seein' the appeal. She talks way too damn much and is a bit of a know-it-all for my taste. I prefer them more... compliant."
Negan snorts, leaning against the railing. "To each their own, Simon. To each their own…"
Dwight, caught in the middle of this exchange, becomes increasingly uncomfortable. He's part of the conversation yet feels disconnected from it, his own internal conflicts simmering beneath the surface.
Simon, not one to give up easily, presses further. "I get it, she's got her uses, and she's an asset to what we're doin', but why take the long road? It ain't like our methods have failed us before." There is a pause, his tone taking on a sadistic edge. "Rinse and repeat, works every time."
"My plan is on track," Dwight interjects, eager to defend his strategy, needing to maintain his role in breaking Daryl. "I can get through to him; I just need more time."
Simon tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ooor," he drawls, "we could just hit him in the rib." He looks at Negan suggestively. "Catch yourself two birds with one stone, if you ask me."
"His ribs?" Dwight echoes, puzzled, glancing back and forth between the two. "Daryl won't break by force," he asserts, thinking of the scars he had seen on Daryl's back when they had stripped him.
"Ah, not that kind of rib," Simon clarifies, his grin widening. "I'm talkin' about the biblical kind. You know, 'And the Lord took one of man's ribs and from that rib, he made a woman?' Genesis 2:21." He quotes with a chuckle, amused at Dwight's baffled expression. "What can I say? I read the scripture now and then."
Negan chuckles darkly, draping an arm over Dwight's shoulder. "Simon's got a point. After all, every Adam has his Eve, Dwighty boy. And every Eve is a man's greatest weakness," he whispers menacingly, sending a chill down Dwight's spine.
Simon's eyes glint with a sinister gleam, "Exactly. We make it crystal clear to Daryl that her life hangs by a very, very thin thread, as is his. A mutual vulnerability," he says, with a dark enthusiasm that seems to grow. "I betcha he'll sing us a whole goddamn symphony. And as a bonus, you get to play hero with his precious wife, snatch that hot piece of ass you've been eyein', and we get to clip Daryl's wings."
Dwight's stomach churns at the thought as a scheme begins to take shape right before him. They're going to set her up, set Daryl up, the same way they're heading out to do with Hilltop tonight. Yet, despite himself, he can't help but asks, "And you think this will work?"
Negan's laughter is harsh and cold. "It worked on you, didn't it?" he taunts, his words feeling like a physical blow, reminding Dwight of his own vulnerabilities and the compromises he's made. "Relax, D. We're just playing the game as it's meant to be played." He pats his back, a gesture that's almost seems affectionate but deeply sinister. "Now, load up that asshole and let's get movin'. I have a bride to collect."
As Negan walks away, Simon steps in closer, casually taking Dwight's half-eaten sandwich from his frozen fingers. "Come on, I'll give ya the breakdown of the plan," he says, biting into the sandwich nonchalantly. "You're gonna want to hear this."
Dwight watches them stride away, feeling a deep sense of foreboding. With a heavy sigh, he pulls himself together and follows.
After all, there is nowhere to go; everything is his or it will be.
As you make your way back home, your steps are deliberate and contemplative, each one allowing Gabriel's soothing prayers to envelop your thoughts. You've just spent nearly an hour with him in your laboratory, during which he read and recited scripture while you simply existed in the present moment.
Turning the corner onto your street, you notice a flurry of activity near your house. Although curiosity tugs at you, you maintain a steady pace. Soon, your gaze lands on Rick and Michonne, on their front porch. Michonne's hand traces a gentle path up and down Rick's chest as they engage in a hushed conversation.
Your attention then shifts to your own home next door, as the front door swings open, and Jamie emerges with a backpack in hand, closely followed by Rosita. Together, they make their way toward the two trucks parked across the street from your house, where Aaron is diligently refilling the gas tanks.
As you get closer, Michonne catches sight of you and says something to Rick. He turns, his eyes briefly meeting yours as Michonne, with a reassuring hand on his shoulder, retreats inside their home.
It's been quite some time since you and Rick had a conversation, since that fateful lineup. Both of you have withdrawn into your respective shells of grief, a shared retreat reflected in the somber mood of the community.
Rick's gaze lingers on you, and, as if guided by an unseen force, you find yourself moving toward him. The words of Gabriel from earlier resonate in your mind, directing your steps. Rick meets you halfway, and together, without a need for words, you both settle on the steps of his porch.
"Hi," he finally breaks the silence, his voice tinged with a mixture of relief and weariness.
"Hi," you respond. The air hangs heavy with unspoken thoughts as you both sit, momentarily distracted by Aaron, Jamie, and Rosita as they continue preparing the trucks.
Eventually, Rick breaks the silence again. "We've been out scavenging, but it's been slim pickings," he says, a hint of defeat in his tone. "We still have a few days before they come back for their next tribute, and I'm heading north with Aaron in a few hours to look for supplies. Rosita and Jamie are going east to check some abandoned factories that might have something useful." He nods towards the second truck, outlining the plan with a weary determination.
You nod silently, observing Rosita as she fiddles with the vehicle. Her frustration is palpable as she shoots an annoyed look at Jamie, who responds with a warm smile, gently leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Rick sighs deeply, his voice a soft mixture of regret. "I'm sorry, Alie," he begins. "I know I've been distant when you needed a friend... I just didn't rightly know how to face you after everything that's happened." You turn to him, meeting his bright sapphire eyes, where the sincerity in his gaze is unmistakable. "You've always been there for me—through everything with Lori, the baby, the Governor, at my lowest and at my best. I'm sorry I couldn't do the same for you." His voice cracks, revealing the depth of his regret and the weight he's carried since the lineup.
Tears well up in Rick's eyes, but he manages to hold them back, struggling to contain his emotions. In that moment, you realize that your feelings of loss, grief, pain, and overwhelming darkness are mirrored in him, though in his own way. It's a shared burden that neither of you has been able to fully express until now.
Rick's voice carries a sense of responsibility as he continues, "I pushed for this, the fight with the Saviors, the deal with Hilltop. I was so sure we could win; I thought we had it all figured out."
When you respond, your voice is more stable than you feel. "It wasn't just you. I was there too, making choices, affecting lives." A heavy weight settles within you, acknowledging your role in the events that led to this point. "I'm sorry as well, for what happened to Abraham and Glenn."
At the mention of their names, Rick's hands tighten around his knees. "Glenn," he whispers, the name catching in his throat. "He was there for me, right at the very start, saved my life. He's the reason I found my family and everyone else. And I couldn't save him when he needed me the most."
You sense the burden that's been eating at him, though you can't offer the physical comfort he needs, you lean in. As your shoulder touches his, he reaches out, placing his hand over yours, gripping tightly. "We can't undo the past," he says. "This is our reality now, on our knees, offering up tokens. But it's a price I'm willing to pay if it means I can spare more lives, if it means I get to hold my kids, kiss them goodnight. It's just—" He's cut off mid-thought.
"Saviors! Incoming!" The shout from the gate pierces the air, instantly changing the atmosphere. Rick springs to his feet, and you follow, your body tensing. Exchanging a glance, you both head towards the gate, Jamie, Rosita, and Aaron trailing behind. Residents begin to emerge from their homes, drawn by the commotion.
Eugene and Tobin, who've been on watch duty, stand by the gate, their faces etched with unease. A loud engine roars from behind, followed by the resounding clangs – bang, bang, bang – as the bat collides against the railing of the gate. "Little pig, little pig, let-me-in," Negan's voice calls out.
Rick nods, and the gate is pulled open. Negan stands there, flanked by Simon and Dwight on each side, a group of Saviors looming in the background. Among them, you spot Daryl, and a wave of foreboding washes over you.
Negan strides in with a wide grin, but Rick is the first to speak. "We had a deal. You're early, again." He says, his voice tinged with confusion at their unexpected arrival. "We still have at least three days until our next offering."
"Relax, Ricky," Negan replies, sauntering over and casually slinging his arm around Rick. "We're not here for a pick-up. 'Cause if we were, you'd be majorly screwed." His gaze then shifts to you, pointing Lucille in your direction. "We're here for my girl."
You raise an eyebrow, perplexed, but Negan doesn't miss a beat. "My dear sweet Alice, I offered you the privilege of becoming one of my wives, a damn gift from the universe, if I do say so myself. But then whatcha do, hah? You shove your middle finger right up its ass!" he exclaims, all the while wearing an exaggerated expression of heartbreak.
Rick glances toward you, bewildered, as he hears the offer you've been avoiding.
"I believe I made myself perfectly clear on that, so I'm not sure what this is all about?" you ask, your voice tinged with apprehension, your gaze flitting between the faces of the Saviors in search of any hint.
Negan leans in towards Rick, as if he's about to share some scandalous secrets. "Oh, look at those innocent eyes, playin' me like a fiddle," he smirks, then releasing Rick, he playfully wiggles his fingers in your direction. "Nope! Not today, sweetheart! We're here to give you Dixons a proper lesson."
Your heart quickens at those words, memories of the brutality you witnessed just days ago when Negan delivered a "lesson" to his own people flooding your mind. The scent of charred flesh still lingers in your nostrils as you take a step forward, trying to maintain your composure. "Negan, we had an agreement. I provide, and I earn. I thought we were making progress on that."
He shrugs nonchalantly, his smirk growing wider. "I thought so too, until we didn't." Negan turns to Simon. "Simon," he commands.
As Simon steps forward, anger flares within you. "I've honored my part of the deal. I gave you solid proof like you asked," you say through gritted teeth. "Negan?!"
But Simon is already in your face, his hand raised as though in a friendly gesture. "Hello, friend," he greets with an unsettlingly jovial tone. "We need to have a little chat."
You maintain a stoic expression, but your eyes can't help but drift past him to Daryl, who stands tense and clenched-fisted a few feet away, clearly as blindsided by the situation as you are.
"Are you hidin' something from us?" Simon asks with a wide grin, so close his breath brushes across your face. "Anything at all you wanna get off your chest?"
"What?" you ask, completely baffled. Behind you, Jamie steps forward, hovering over the immediate threat.
"This is your only chance," Simon hums the word in a sing-song tone, eyeing you expectantly. "There ain't no do-overs here."
At that moment, Rick steps in, addressing Negan directly. "What's goin' on here?" he demands, his eyes darting between the standoff and Negan, who seems thoroughly entertained by the unfolding drama.
Negan starts theatrically, "Your doctor here," he gestures at you, pacing with an exaggerated swagger, "thought we were a bunch of idiots. Even had the guts to say it to my face the last time I paid a visit." He pauses, turning to you with a cunning smile. "Then, imagine my damn surprise when she shows up at my doorstep, hand-delivering some fancy antibiotic she claims to have whipped up herself." His tone escalates, laced with mock surprise. "An antibiotic," he continues, "that she had purposefully contaminated. She tried to poison us, folks!" He accuses, like a prosecutor in a courtroom drama.
Heat creeps up through your body, and you step away from Simon, face flushed in disbelief and anger. The incessant ringing in your ears, a background noise you've been trying to ignore, suddenly spikes up. "No, I didn't," you protest, your voice strained. "I didn't that."
Rick's expression is unreadable as he shoots you a probing gaze. "Alie..." His voice trails off, heavy with unspoken questions.
You feel the weight of the situation as panic sets in, your mind racing through scenarios. "Yes, Rick, I took the antibiotics there. Negan wanted concrete proof for me to earn Daryl back," you admit, the words tumbling out as you struggle to explain yourself. You had lied when you left, told Gabriel at the gate you were scavenging, and kept your trip to the Sanctuary from Rick, unsure of how he might react. "But, I swear to you, my work was clean. We maintained a sterile environment and followed proper procedures. Everything was documented meticulously, from temperature to pH balance."
You hold Rick's gaze as you shake your head, pleading with him to believe you. "Rick, you know I would never do that. I wouldn't risk Daryl like that."
Rick turns to face Negan, his body tense. "If she says it was clean, then it's clean."
Negan shrugs, his voice dripping with feigned contemplation as he looks at you expectantly. "Well, either she's feedin' me a load of bull, or my doc's feedin' me a load of bull. Makes you start to wonder who's got somethin' to gain if I kick the bucket, don't it?"
"Lying ain't gonna do you no favors," Simon says as he walks backward, his gaze and smile never leaving you. "You best start talkin' 'cause one way or another, the truth's gonna come out," he says, his hand gently falling over Daryl's shoulder in a firm grasp, the implication of threat you do not miss.
A tightness grips your chest, and you step back, trying to steady yourself as the scene appears to blur out of view. It's as if you're observing the situation from above, looking down on a chessboard. Your heart pounds as you realize the trap you've inadvertently walked into with a suffocating sense of dread. You gasp for air, but all you can catch is the acrid scent of cigar smoke permeating the air.
All eyes are fixed on you, the gathered crowd of Alexandrians and Saviors blending into a sea of indistinguishable faces. Amidst them, your father stands out, his face sharply defined, his presence vivid. You regard him with a glassy gaze as he approaches with a purposeful stride, encircling you until his hand rests firmly on your shoulder, his voice a challenging hiss in your ear.
"He's making his move, mia figlia. You're not thinking five steps ahead as you should have," he whispers urgently. "He's setting you up, twisting the narrative to his advantage. He's checkmating you."
The world seems to spin, pressure mounting as you try to strategize your way out of this predicament. You can make out the faces around you—Rick, Michonne, Carl, Aaron, Eric, Gabriel, Jamie, Rosita, Tobin, and many more—each face revealing a mix of emotions, mainly confusion and fear. But then you catch Eugene's terrified gaze. He shrinks back, his body language signaling fear, yet his eyes convey the truth. He's been by your side since the beginning of the production. Your work is undeniably clean.
Seizing the opportunity, Simon steps forward, a predatory grin on his face. "Clearly, she ain't too keen on chattin'," he remarks, slicing through your moment of vulnerability. "Maybe a little persuasion will loosen her tongue," he announces, his voice dripping with dark, sadistic pleasure. He claps his hands. "Alright, fellas, let's show them what happens to liars."
Your blood runs cold as the cocking of guns comes from all directions, aimed at you and your people. But your heart entirely stops as several Saviors circle Daryl like vultures. "Negan, come on, you know the truth! Why would I personally deliver the antibiotics if my intention was to poison you?! Why would I risk my husband like that?!" You speak rapidly, your voice cracking with anxiety. "You know I would never do something like that! Please!" But Daryl prepares himself, his fists clenched in defiance, readying for a fight.
Instinctively, you take a desperate step toward your husband, but Jamie's arms swiftly encircle you, pulling you behind his protective stance. His body tenses, ready to spring into action, but a cold barrel of a gun presses against his temple, halting any movement he might make, a mocking tsk escaping a Savior lips. Jamie's jaw clenches tightly, and his eyes dart toward Rosita, who faces a similar threat with a gun trained on her head.
As the Saviors descend upon Daryl, your scream pierces the air, a cacophony of fear, helplessness, and anger swirling within you. You stand there, caught in the eye of the storm orchestrated by Negan. "STOP IT! WE HAD A DEAL! WE HAD A DEEEALL!" Your voice rises to a desperate crescendo, the ringing in your ears amplifying into a piercing shriek, drowning out all other sounds. Daryl fights back with raw, desperate strength, but the sheer numbers of attackers quickly overwhelm him, raining down blows.
"STOP IT! STOP!" You cry out, your voice hoarse with desperation as Daryl endures hit after brutal hit. You can't bear to witness the horror as blood spatters on the dark cement driveway. You cover your face, tears streaming down your cheeks. Only then do you register Rick's voice, barely contained fury in his tone.
"Let's just talk about THIS! We can find a solution." Rick attempts to reason with Negan, his words tinged with anger.
Panic propels you forward, and you move closer to Negan, ignoring the gun still pointed at you, your hands clasped together in a plea. "Negan, please, just stop, okay! Please! Just stop this!"
Your father's presence looms, his stern face surveying the scene. "What was it that you had said again? Oh yes, 'you won't let what happened to Maggie happen again, not to you,' right? So, what's your move now?"
Negan's smile widens, basking in the control he wields, and as he steps closer, his men momentarily relent their assault on Daryl. "Darling, I can convince Simon to back off," he offers, his voice feigning concern while his expression remains arrogantly smug. "But you gotta understand, he's pretty damn pissed off, and he's got every right to be." At his words, Simon roughly pulls Daryl up by his collar, forcing him onto his knees. "You went ahead and tried to hurt my people after I welcomed you into my home, after I offered you a place by my side. Hell, I could've put an end to it right there, during that lineup, for both you and that asshole!" He gestures at Daryl with his bat. "But I didn't. I chose to show mercy. I gave you the kind of patience most folks can only wish for."
Tears cloud your vision as you watch Negan strut about, each step oozing arrogance and self-assurance. "Now, you and Daryl, could strike some sort of deal with me, earn my forgiveness." His smirk grows wider, the insinuation behind his words clear as day. "Forgiveness I might just be willin' to dole out, but you've got to convince me you're worth it."
In that moment, Tonya's ominous warning echoes in your mind. "It doesn't matter. Refusing him will come at a price, and if not you, then your loved ones will have to pay the cost. If Negan wants you here, then he will find a way to make sure you're here." The weight of her caution hangs heavily over the tense scene.
Your gaze locks onto Daryl, battered and bloodied, on his knees. The cut above his eye and the blood from his nose merge old bruises with new, a visual testament to pain and resilience. Yet, in his eyes, there's an unwavering, fearless defiance as he spits blood onto the ground with such a Dixon-like gesture. There, in that moment, you see the boy you fell in love with, the one who stood bravely before your father. So fearless. And if he's brave, you have to be too.
An involuntary sob escapes your lips, and your hand instinctively presses against your stomach —for your baby. You shake your head slowly, your refusal unspoken but resolute.
Negan tilts his head, studying you. "Alright, suit yourself," he says with a casual shrug. He turns to a man looming over Daryl. "Davie."
The man steps forward, a sinister grin on his face. He pulls a wire from his pocket, wrapping it around his hands in a methodical, chilling manner, his gaze fixed on you.
"Whatever the danger ahead, I can live with it," you had told Tonya, and now you must confront the consequences of your defiance.
Rick, despite the gun aimed at his head, steps in. "That's enough, Negan. She understands, we all do." His voice is strained, his entire demeanor charged with anger. "You've made your point. Just end this." He takes a step forward, only to be halted by Negan's bat, its barbed wire pressing against his chest.
When Negan speaks, his face is humorless. "You better keep your ass outta this, Rick, or you might just find yourself takin' his spot." The tension in the air is suffocating as they hold gaze. "Don't make me do this in front of your boy."
At that moment, Daryl attempts to get back on his feet, but the man, 'Davie,' swings over him with the wire. The ringing in your ears becomes unbearable, a relentless drilling through your brain. You grip your ears in agony as Daryl chokes, struggling under the wire, his fingers desperately fighting to keep it from tightening around his neck.
"Oh, my baby girl, what's it going to be?" your father's voice pierces through the chaos. "It's time to decide before it's too late."
Daryl strangles, his face reddening, as he locks his fingers underneath the wire to prevent it from fully constricting his neck while he wrestles the Savior to the ground. Around you, gasps and screams fill the air, but they sound distant, like a chaotic blur from worlds away.
The scene becomes disorienting, the very ground slipping away beneath you. And just like that, you're back at the lineup, on your knees once again, the bat coming down on Abraham's head, and you're covered in blood, overwhelmed by the terror and helplessness.
Then, in a mere fraction of a second, something inside of you snaps, and a primal scream erupts from your throat as you lunge forward. You act on instinct, slamming your wrist against your thigh, and the sound of metal scraping against metal slices through the tense air as your hidden knife springs to life.
You land on the man's back, pinning Daryl beneath him. With almost surgical precision, you attack. A sensation of warmth and wetness trickles down your chest as your knife plunges, one thrust after another, striking rapidly into the juncture of his neck. The metallic scent of blood overwhelms your senses, and all you can see is red. Everything gets consumed by red.
The man releases Daryl and stumbles backward, but you go down with him. A fierce struggle ensues, but you hold on tenaciously, your legs locked around him, fingernails clawing at his shirt. The world around you erupts into chaos, filled with screams and shouts that create a deafening cacophony. Yet, beneath the weight of the man, you push the blade deeper, driven by a wild and desperate instinct. You pull it out, only to thrust it back in, your throat raw from your screams.
Simon's voice slices through the pandemonium as he grabs your hair, trying to drag you off. "You little— Do you have any idea—"
"Don't fuckin' touch her!" Jamie's voice roars as he charges like a rampaging bull, colliding with Simon with such force that you're torn from his grasp. For a split second, you catch a glimpse of Jamie's fist connecting solidly before he too is swarmed by Saviors.
Still, strong hands grip you, yanking you away, and you are dragged and manhandled to the ground. A lifeless body lies a few feet away, almost decapitated. Kicking and screaming, you resist with all your strength, as hands grapple with your arm, struggling to disarm you. But the leather strap and knife are finally wrenched from your wrist.
In the midst of the chaos, Simon's twisted laughter echoes, as he lies on the ground, blood dripping from his nose. Negan's voice roars above everyone else's, seething with fury. "Oh, that is a no-no! That is a MOTHERFUCKING no-no!"
Once again, someone grabs you by the hair, hauling you forward until you're forced onto your knees. To your left, Daryl is similarly forced down, and to your right, Jamie's large frame is also compelled onto his knees.
Simon, still chuckling despite his bloody nose, pulls himself to his feet. "Ya'll just made a big fuckin' mistake," he taunts, walking toward you. In a swift, retaliatory move, he swings at Jamie. Jamie collapses onto all fours, displaying defiance in every gesture as he spits onto the ground, perhaps influenced by Merle, in true Dixon fashion.
A random Savior presents your leather strap with the hidden blade still extended to Negan. "What in the hell is this, huh?" Negan asks, examining the weapon, turning it over in his hands. He raises his voice to Rick, gesturing with the knife. "You see this, Rick? The last time I paid y'all a visit, someone had the balls to hide one of our guns and thought they could squirrel it away. Now, this time, one of my guys ends up dead." He nods toward the motionless body behind you, the implicit threat clear in his tone.
Rick stands there, motionless, absorbing his wrath.
"I could've started swingin' Lucille the second we rolled up, but I didn't. You wanna know why? All we wanted was a little honesty and a smidge of remorse. Was that askin' for the moon? Was that too frickin' much to expect?! Hell, NO!" Negan turns his attention to you, and you look up at him, tears running down your face, covered in blood, and gasping for air, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.
"This right here," he gestures with the knife, "tells me you ain't learned a damn thing, even after all the crap that's gone down. And maybe, just maybe, some of your people haven't learned either." His gaze sweeps over the shocked and fearful faces of the Alexandrians. "Maybe y'all need a little reminder about who the hell we are. It's a damn shame, really. I thought we were all singin' from the same damn hymn book."
With a casual flick of his finger, Negan commands. "Alright, gentlemen, line up everyone, put a gun right behind their heads." Cries and gasps fill the air as Alexandrians, including Rick and your core group, are herded onto their knees, guns pressed against their heads. You can feel a barrel of a gun being pressed to the back of your head, as Dwight moves the crossbow to Daryl, and Simon delightfully places a pistol to Jamie's head. "You know the drill, level the guns with their noses. So, if you have to fire..." He makes a squirting noise, imitating a gunshot blowing through his nose.
Negan's words become a jumbled haze, barely penetrating the ringing in your ears. The air feels thin around you, his pacing before you seeming like predatory circling. "Here is the thing, something y'all dicks, pricks, and hicks might not understand," Negan declares. "There are winners and there are losers. You lose, you die. You live, you win, you get the prize, you get the shit! It's that simple."
Negan's words almost seem entirely directed at you, but it's your father's voice that fights through the fog inside your head.
"You won't die. You won't lose. And you won't give in."
Negan squats down before you, resting his weight on Lucille, and he speaks in a low, menacing tone. "Now, I told you, if you keep testing my patience, there'd be no more offers." His gaze is unwavering, piercing through you. "Well, I'm a man of my word, so here it is—no offers. It's a choice now, between your precious Daryl," he sneers, glancing disdainfully at your husband, "or..." He turns to Jamie on your right. "Who might you be?"
Jamie straightens his shoulders, his chin lifted defiantly. "I'm Sergeant James Carter, her brother."
"Her brother?" Negan echoes, as if mulling over the revelation, but he quickly moves on, his smile turning mischievous. "So, it's between Daryl and your brother, then." He leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Just between us, I don't care for douchey Davey over there," he nods towards the corpse. "He's got this creepy habit of ogling my wives, so no tears for his departure. But this isn't about him, not really. It's about the principle of things, Doc. We've got rules and expectations for a reason, and everyone's gotta play by 'em."
As you struggle, your chest feels tighter and tighter, and there is this crushing weight on your whole body. Your mind tries to grasp the meaning of Negan's words, and the grim reality of your situation becomes clear. You've broken a rule, and you know you're going to be punished. Punishment, like the one he showed you just a few days ago. A part of you braces for the pain that might be coming your way.
Negan stands, his movements swift and deliberate as he unbuckles his belt. "I don't know if you remember, but I warned you, not once but twice," he says, pulling the leather strap free. But as he lowers himself again, it's not you he goes for but Daryl. "What I say? If you try something, I will cut pieces off Daryl and put 'em on your doorstep, or I'd make you do it for me. And then whatcha do? You try something anyways." Daryl struggles, trying to pull away, but the men around him hold him down, pushed flat to the ground. Negan chuckles, sliding the belt under Daryl's arm.
Your body shakes uncontrollably, breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The sensation is overwhelmingly familiar, almost like a heart attack.
Negan glances at you, tightening the belt buckle. "You killed one of my men, right in front of me. Can't let that slide, now can I? I have a reputation to maintain." His gaze drifts past you.
"Simon, you got a pen?" Negan asks nonchalantly.
"Yeah," Simon responds with a grin, and a Sharpie is tossed to Negan.
Negan catches it, preparing to mark Daryl's skin, but Simon interjects with a taunting tone. "Um, boss, just one arm? I mean, it's a man's life we're talkin' about."
Negan feigns contemplation, a mock seriousness playing on his face. "He's right, you know? It is a man's life," he muses, looking at you. "The punishment's gotta fit the crime. Both arms it is!" Your fingers claw into the hard concrete beneath you, a physical reaction as the reality of the situation sinks in.
There's a swift movement behind you, and Simon tosses his own belt into the mix. "Don't worry, champ," Negan says to Daryl, sliding the second belt onto his other arm. "If you make it through this, we'll get you some nice prosthetics. One for wiping your ass and one for killing the dead. Poetic justice, if you ask me." His chuckle is a cruel sound that chills you to the bone.
Negan rises theatrically, securing Lucille under his arm while surveying his handiwork. He paces around, adding a dramatic flair to the moment. Pausing near Rick, he bends down to snatch his hatchet from its sheath at his waist. "Let's make this interesting, shall we," he declares, drawing a pistol from his own pants. He opens the chamber, allowing a few bullets to clink into his hand. Holding up a single bullet, he approaches you.
"Look at me." he commands, and you raise your tearful gaze to meet his, your mouth open, gasping for air. "There's one bullet in here. One bullet," he says, loading it and snapping the chamber shut, safety off. "You even think of anything funny, everyone here dies, women and children included. Shit you do NOT want to see." He places the gun and hatchet before you, a sinister offering.
Your hand moves to your chest, fisting your shirt over your heart, your vision distorted. You remember this exact sensation; you felt it once, on your knees just like this outside of the prison. "You're okay. You're just having a panic attack," Jamie had told you as he pinned you to his chest. You're just having a panic attack, you tell yourself now as your heart constricts and you look up from the weapons to Negan's twisted smile.
"Because I like you, I'm givin' you three choices," he says. "Option one: you cut Daryl's arms, both of them, one big swing, clean as butter, none of that hack-job nonsense." His tone is casual, as if discussing the weather. "Option number two: you shoot the big sergeant here, in the head. Quick, painless, and more than what Davie got over there." His voice drops ominously. "Option number three: both you and Daryl here give me what I want. And I mean that, right now!"
In a distant corner of your mind, a realization dawns: Negan is recreating the psychological torment he imposed on Rick at the lineup, aiming to shatter you just as he did Rick. "You become one of my wives, married in matrimony, and Daryl here works for me," Negan elaborates on his twisted demands, turning his attention to your husband. His tone drips with sarcasm. "Of course, he'll start from the bottom, no more cushy digs for him; that's off the table now too." His grin widens. "And as a reminder of your actions today, he gets the iron."
Negan chuckles, observing your trembling form. "All fine choices, just pick one, and we'll call it square. I've got faith that you'll make the wise decision."
Cold sweat trickles down your back, your shirt clinging to your skin. Nausea churns in your chest, and you find yourself staring blankly at the ground, vision blurring as you struggle for breath, your lungs feeling constricted. "I'm waiting," Negan presses. "If you're looking for a way out, there is none. This is it. There is no door number 4."
"Mi figlia," your father's voice resonates in your ears. You look up, but instead of Negan, it's him standing before you, his posture erect. "You can't lose. Surrendering isn't an option." His hand reaches out, lifting your chin just like he did at the lineup. "History repeats itself, as I always say."
You shudder with sobs, your father's touch gentle as he wipes away your tears. "History has brought you to this moment," he continues, his voice soft. "This is the culmination of everything I've prepared you for your entire life. You are a Hart, and like your grandfather, this is your defining moment, your quid pro quo, and Negan is your officer."
Negan's fingers snap in front of your face, abruptly pulling you back to the harsh reality. He towers over you, his frustration palpable. "Not making a decision is a BIG decision!" he bellows. "Believe me when I say, you do NOT want me to make that choice for you. If I have to, I'll put an end to both of 'em, right here and now!"
His words echo in your mind, mirroring your own sentiment from a different time, a different world. "Morgan, a choice must be made, one way or another. Because not making a decision—is a big decision." Those words, once spoken by you, when you made the choice to attack the satellite station, now return to haunt you.
Here you are, heart pounding, as you turn to Jamie. Tears stream down your face, your nose running, gasping for air. His face is twisted with rage, veins in his neck and face standing out sharply. Through your own panic, the blur of your tears, you see a dawning realization in Jamie's eyes, as if he's just come to understand he's being pitted against Daryl.
"In times like this, you have a chance to decide, or it will be decided for you. you said that, here you are now, decide," your father remarks.
Then, you shift your gaze to Daryl. His face is a map of pain and blood, one eye swollen shut, a raw, red mark from the wire encircling his neck. His teeth are gritted, his eyes are wet. "Alie, just do it, take my hands, take 'em," he pleads, his voice raspy with pain and desperation. "It's alright, I'll be fine." Daryl's plea, filled with self-sacrifice, makes the choice for you.
Your fingers, slick with sweat and trembling, make their way to grasp the handle of the hatchet. You reach for your husband, your hand shaking as it meets his, holding it down. The black line of the marker on his wrist feels like a brand, a permanent scar of this moment.
"Sweetheart, look at me," Daryl whispers, his eyes locking with yours as you lift the hatchet. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice is barely above a sigh, his eyes filled with tears as he encourages you. "You can do this, alright? You got this. This here's just one more thing we gotta do to make it all happen." He repeats words you once said to each other as a promise. One more thing to survive, one more thing to make it all work, your dreams of family.
"Boooring!" Negan's loud voice cuts through the tension. "What's taking so long? Looks like you could use a little nudge, huh? Well, you've got ten seconds to make up your minds. If not, it's gonna be Lucille's wrath they'll face. No skin off my back. I mean, why the hell am I working so hard trying to convince you both? If anything, it's one more mouth I gotta feed." He leans down to catch your gaze. "But we'll still take you, chain you to a damn wall, and have you produce for us, this time under the careful watch of my doctor."
With a sinister smile, Negan begins his countdown. "Here we go! One Mississippi!"
A pained cry escapes your lips, but Daryl is there, bracing himself for what's to come. "You can do this, ya can. I'm right here with you. It's you and me, like always."
"Oh, ain't that just sweet," Negan mocks. "Two Mississippi!"
"Draw your line, everything else is just another piece on the board." Your father's voice resonates with determination. "You can't lose. The last time we lost, you know what happened to your grandfather. You saw it in me, you saw it in yourself."
Gasping, you lift the hatchet higher, your other hand gripping Daryl's tightly, your fingers digging into his skin. All you feel is the familiarity of his calloused fingers. The hands that taught you so much, from tying fishing knots to changing your first tire, to building a fire. Hands that convey so much love, in words he couldn't say. Hands that taught you how to love, how to be loved, how to be touched.
"Three Mississippi!"
Daryl urges you on. "Alie, come on!"
You could give in, just as your grandpa did when the officer visited him nightly. Many women have faced worse. You could survive, just like your grandfather did, he survived the war, his tormentor. You could survive too, bide your time, and fight back.
"Four Mississippi!"
All you can see are your father's immaculate Italian leather shoes in front of you. His voice, tinged with controlled anger, cuts through your thoughts. "Are you going to give yourself to him? Are you going to give him your child too? Let your baby call him 'daddy'?" He questions, each word is enunciated with precision. "Your grandfather had a reason to hold on, something worth returning to. What do you have? Only death, hunger, and despair. Your choice is here, right here at this moment. If you lose, you will not just lose yourself, but everything else."
"Five Mississippi!"
"Please, Negan! There must be another way!" Rick pleads from his knees, his voice trembling with desperation. "We can negotiate, work something out. She—she could be valuable in other ways, been working on figuring out this virus..."
"Geez Louise, Rick," Negan huffs with a dismissive gesture, "always gotta be the star of the show, huh? Hogging the damn spotlight like it's your own personal disco. Now, would you kindly just shut up and enjoy the goddamn show?"
"Think, mi figlia!" your father urges. "Do you really think Daryl's the type of man who will give you away willingly? Or do you think he would rather die here, on his knees, than ever call himself 'Negan'? You have always understood who Daryl truly is at his core. He's unshakable, the one thing consistent throughout all his pain and suffering. That's one of the reasons you love him– because he inspires you, motivates you, a man who taught you kindness and resilience."
"Six Mississippi!" Negan's voice taunts with a mocking sing-song tone.
"Sweetheart, please! Just do it!" Daryl begs, and you cry out, your screams a chaotic mix of desperation and dread, your nails digging into his skin as you try to force the axe down. Just swing! Just do it! Nausea tightens your throat, everything you had for breakfast threatens to resurface.
"But he'll probably kneel for you," your father muses thoughtfully, as if pondering a chess move. "Call himself Negan to protect you and his child once he learns of your pregnancy. Just as you were prepared to sacrifice yourself for him. Negan will undoubtedly exploit that leverage, and once he has you, he has him for good. And in the end, the young boy you knew in that library, on that cliff, the boy you first fell in love with all those years ago, will be no more. There will be nothing left of him but hate and darkness. That is if he doesn't do anything reckless, die trying."
"Seven Mississippi!" Negan's voice booms.
Your father's gaze shifts to Jamie, assessing him like a seasoned hunter studying his prey. "You could always choose the soldier," he suggests coldly.
But the very thought wrenches at your heart. Jamie, your protector in a world overrun by the dead and darkness, who loves you unconditionally. He's been your rock, your shield against the horrors of this new world. You are all he has, his only family in this world. To choose him would be to betray the very essence of your bond.
Your hands tremble, the axe wavering in the air.
"Please, just do it!" Daryl's voice is desperate, his plea a raw wound in the heavy air. "Do it!"
Your father's voice resonates like a haunting echo as he paces before you. "The soldier has found love, finally got the girl," he observes, his gaze briefly flickering toward Rosita. "He's excited about life, working toward a future, much like you." But then he chuckles bitterly. "Yet you've always had to make the tough choices, haven't you? Ultimately, it comes down to what matters most to you – your love for your brother or your husband."
"Time out!" Negan interrupts the agonizing moment, his hand forming a "T" shape with his palm facing upward over the bat. "I had my fingers crossed she'd make her decision, but it seems like she just can't bring herself to do it." He squats in front of Daryl, his expression feigning mock pity. "Just look at her," he gestures towards you, blood and sweat making your hair stick to your skin, eyes wild, face red and wet from tears and a runny nose. "Come on, Daryl, make it easier on her. You know what I'm after. After all she's done for you, pick for her. Choose the option that hurts her the least."
"Thought you had it all, huh? Lucky everything worked out for you." your father's voice is laced with a bitter chuckle. "It's time to pay your dues."
Negan's gaze hardens as he looks at Daryl. "Who are you, Daryl?"
"Who are you, Alice?" The question is echoed by your father, turning towards you. "You keep trying to heal this world, find the cure, be a leader, lift people's spirits with your little speeches... but you forget your true identity: a Hart."
Daryl remains silent, gritting his teeth, refusing to answer. There is a pause, and Negan's face contorts in anger when he doesn't get what he wants. "Alright then, have it your way," he says as he stands, frustration palpable. "Eight Mississippi!"
"You thought this was a love story, didn't you?" Your father continues. "The girl who loved with all her heart. A love story capable of transcending time, space, and world-ending events." He chuckles as he comes to stand before you, his eyes meeting yours. "But you must know by now. This is not a love story, mi figlia, and you are not the hero. This is the making of a villain. A legacy passed down from your grandfather to me, and from me to you."
"Nine Mississippi!"
"Alright!" Daryl suddenly shouts, "Alright, just hold up. I'll give ya whatcha want, just... just stop this." Negan's response is a triumphant, mocking laugh, exaggerated fist pumping in the air.
Daryl's breath comes out in a huff as the men release their hold on him, and he rises to his knees, shoulders clenched as if it's tearing him apart. "It's only gonna be me. You get me, not her," he negotiates, his voice strained.
Negan shakes his head, his smile gleeful. "Nah, it's all or nothing," he taunts. "But first things first, let's start from the beginnin', shall we?" His whole body oozes cockiness as he stands tall before him, a grin of power on his face. He enunciates his question again, "Who are you?"
BANG!
A gunshot reverberates through you, a physical shockwave that sends a warm spray across your face. Your brain feels like it's rattling inside your skull. From somewhere to your left, a scream rips through the air, raw and agonizing. You turn, confused and disoriented, only to see Rosita, struggling against a Savior's grasp, her tears carving paths down her cheeks.
"HOO-LEE SHIT!" Negan's voice echoes through the chaos.
You follow Rosita's horrified gaze, and your entire world screeches to a complete halt. The sight before you sends darkness that seems to engulf your vision like a suffocating shroud. Your mouth opens involuntarily, and a guttural scream tears from your throat. There lies Jamie, motionless on the ground, his eyes wide open, staring emptily, lifeless, as blood pools around him from a bullet wound in his of Form
Instinctively, you lunge towards him, desperate to deny the horrifying reality before your eyes. But then, the weight of the gun in your hand anchors you back to the grim truth, heavy like a guilty conscience, still clutched in your trembling grip. You drop it as if it burns, the gun clattering to the ground, realization hitting you like a physical blow: you fired the shot. You killed Jamie. Jamie… Jamie… Jamie…
The truth is too much to bear, and a part of you detaches from everything. Your body reacts violently, lurching forward as vomit surges up uncontrollably. Everything inside you comes pouring out, expelled onto the ground. Negan hastily steps back, avoiding the mess, while you collapse to your hands and knees, retching and hacking, your body wracked with convulsions, your scream mixing with sobs.
"Wow," Negan gasps in mock surprise, his voice twisted with sadistic amusement. "He jumps in to protect you, and you just blow his head open? That's some seriously screwed-up shit!"
Your scream seems endless as your world comes undone before you. Coldness envelops you, ice in your veins, and you no longer fight it. Panic, pain, helplessness dissolve, and desperation gives way to a sense of acceptance. The darkness that's always lurked deep within you now embraces you like a long-lost friend.
Your gasp is short, like there is no air in your lungs, and your scream slowly melds into a chilling, eerie laugh as you come to terms with what you've done. You pull back from the mess, your body weak, nails scraping against the ground, yet somehow you find the strength.
"You keep looking at Rick because he's a man," your words emerge broken and fragmented, barely above a whisper as your knees shake. "But it's me. I'm going to kill you. All of you." You state it with eerie calmness, pulling yourself upright, legs trembling beneath you. You face Negan, consumed by a red haze of rage. "Me, not Rick. Me." The words fall from your lips like a curse. "You've just dug your own grave, and I'm going to bury you in it. Six feet deep. Not even God can save you from me now."
"Whoa!" Negan says, hands raised in a mock gesture of surrender, not taking your threat seriously at all. "Let's not take the Lord's name in vain," he jests, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. "You pulled the trigger, not me. You had choices, and you made 'em."
In the background, Rosita's heart-wrenching cries continue to fill the air as you step forward, your chin held high, emotion drained from your voice. "I played your game," you state flatly. "So now get the fuck out of my home."
"Listen," Simon begins to interject, his voice tinged with anger, but Negan silences him with a wave of his hand.
"It's cool, Simon. It's all cool," Negan says softly, his eyes locked onto your face. "She made her choice, and I did say I'd accept one of three."
You step away from Negan, your gaze returning to Jamie's lifeless form. You take in every detail of his beautiful features one last time, from his warm brown skin to his once vibrant and cheerful face, now forever eerily still. Tears stream down your face as you bend down, reaching for the dog tag around his neck. With trembling, bloodied fingers, you slip the chain off. It feels unbearably heavy in your hand, still carrying the warmth of his skin.
"Newton's third law—like you once said," Morgan's words echo in your memory. "'For every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction.'" This is your consequence, and someone else has paid the price for your actions.
With the chain still in your hand, you step over his body, your legs heavy as if weighed down by iron.
Negan's eyes track your every movement. "Oh, fucck me," he mutters under his breath with small smile on his face.
The Saviors lower their rifles from the Alexandrians, and the tension begins to ebb away. Some of them collapse to the ground, while others slowly start to rise from their knees. Rosita weeps as she crawls towards Jamie. You walk through the crowd, not looking back, but as you pass Gabriel, you notice him still on his knees, tears glistening in his eyes, hands pressed together as if in prayer.
You pause beside him, your gaze fixed ahead. "I answered the call," you whisper, "but it was never God who was calling," With that, you continue to walk, your steps unsteady. Leaving Gabriel sorrowful and in tears.
"Daddy!" you call out, and in response, your father's hand finds yours.
"Mi figlia, welcome home," he murmurs, his steps falling in perfect sync with yours. You tighten your grip on both your father's hand and the dog tag as you make your way toward the four walls you once called home.
'You all thought you were going to grow old together happy ever after. No… it doesn't work like that.'
Rosita's world narrows down to the sight of Jamie's lifeless body. She remains kneeling beside him, the weight of her grief a tangible force as she gently extracts the knife from his head. Tears blur her vision as the numbness that envelops her is punctuated by the sharp sting of her tears. The saviors have departed, dragging Daryl with them, leaving behind a scene of brutality and despair.
Now, she's forced to put a knife through the one person who had truly cared about her before he could turn. The one person who truly understood her, who saw her flaws, her imperfections, her scars, and yet chose to love her regardless. Her sunshine. His laughter, warmth, and the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her—all gone in an instant. He's gone. Jamie's gone. And it feels so wrong, all of it, like there is a glitch in her universe.
Sobs rack Rosita's body, overwhelming her with grief as she looks at Jamie's now closed eyes. Rick approaches, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, a bed sheet in hand. "Rosita?" he calls softly. His eyes hold a grave understanding, acknowledging the pain of losing someone dear.
They are about to bury him; the grave is being dug at this very moment. A reality that seemed unfathomable to her. He was just there, teasing her, and now he's gone.
Rosita slowly pushes herself to her feet, stepping aside, her gaze lingering on Jamie's now covered body. The sight of blood seeping through the fabric is a harsh reminder of the finality of his death. Her core group, including Carl, steps forward to carry Jamie's body.
As she watches them rise, so does her anger, like a tide of waves washing over her. She has always survived when others, stronger and more deserving, have not. Denise, Glenn, Abraham, and now Jamie. Many lives snuffed out, all intertwined with the same person. All followed one person. It's as if the world has handed her a focal point for her anger.
With newfound resolve, Rosita marches back to her temporary home. Her steps are driven by focused rage, burning like a wildfire, consuming her from within. Jamie had loved one person more than anything in the world, and that person was Alice. He confided in Rosita during their many conversations about their journeys from Iraq to here. He had worshipped her, believing she could do no wrong. And now, in his final moments, she had betrayed him.
Rosita's feet move swiftly, climbing the front porch steps two at a time, fists clenched with the need for retribution. Her feet pound as she kicks open the front door, breathless. There she briefly pauses when she spots Alice standing motionless in the living room, her eyes distant and vacant, clutching Jamie's dog tags. The sight of the dog tag is the final trigger. Rosita charges, a guttural scream tearing from her throat as she tackles Alice to the ground with a resounding crash.
"How could you!" Rosita screams, straddling Alice, her legs pinning her down. Her fists pummel Alice's face, each strike unleashing her bottled-up anguish and sense of betrayal. "He loved you! How could you!"
Alice offers no resistance, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach as she endures the beating, sobbing loudly.
"He would have done anything for you!" Rosita's voice cracks under the weight of her emotions, her fists descending one after another. "How could you not do the same for him?!" Suddenly, two strong arms seize her, yanking her away. "Let me go! No!" She struggles against Aaron's hold as he pins her to his chest. "No! You lying bitch! He trusted you; I trusted you!"
Rick immediately rushes over to help Alice, but she pushes him away. Her face is a bloody mess, the lines between her wounds and the brutality of the day indistinguishable.
Rosita collapses into Aaron's arms, her cries echoing through the room.
Alice doesn't utter a word. She pushes herself up, away from those who hover over her, her movements sluggish and heavy, her hands still clutching her stomach. Slowly, she drags herself toward the stairs, her sobs a continuous thread of pain.
Dwight's face remains stoic as he walks past the saviors, his gaze fixed on some distant point. He navigates the busy area filled with men loading and unloading supplies, decisions being made about what goes to the outpost and what doesn't. He doesn't pay attention to his surroundings, his mind consumed by a turbulent sea of emotions.
Eventually, he finds it: a secluded spot, a quiet corner between the back of the building and a cold metal fence. There, away from prying eyes, he allows himself a moment of vulnerability. Dwight leans his head against the wall, the dam of his composure finally breaking. Tears, long-held back, begin to fall freely.
He covers his mouth with trembling fingers, stifling the scream tearing from his throat. Quickly, he glances around, making sure no one has heard his outburst.
Negan had lied about her antibiotics, manipulating the situation to his advantage, and her impulsive reaction had only played her right into his hands. It had only been a few hours since they returned, just a short time for the rumors to spread. The news of the doctor's actions reached the wives like wildfire. A woman who should have been one of them had played Negan's game and come out victorious. The truth is written all over their faces, and one glance at Sherry is all it takes to shatter Dwight. It's a bitter reminder of what could have been.
In his mind, Daryl wins once again. He and his wife made choices that Dwight couldn't bring himself to make. Everything now comes into focus, how he had more than one path to take that fateful day. He and Sherry had escaped, only to return, beg for forgiveness, kneel. There were many roads they could have taken, but he chose wrong.
Now he has killed time and time again for Negan and has become someone he no longer recognizes. Daryl's words from that burned forest haunt him. He warned Dwight that he would be sorry. The world spins around him as he clings to the fence, his muscles tense, teeth gritted, and he shakes it violently, rattling it like how his world has been rattled. It's here that he finally accepts the harsh reality — he has lost everything, his sense of self, his moral compass, and the woman he loved.
Rosita's steps carry a weight heavier than her own as she walks down the streets of Alexandria. She's adrift in her own storm of emotions, her footsteps uneven and aimless. Yet, unbidden, her feet leads her to the gate, right where it happened.
She stops when she sees it—the bloodstain on the ground. Her fists still ache from the rage-fueled beating she delivered earlier, but her anger feels uncontained, bubbling beneath the surface. She wants vengeance, craves it with every fiber of her being, but she doesn't know how to go about it.
As she turns to depart, her foot snags on something solid. She bends down to pick it up, feeling the empty shell of a bullet casing. The same bullet that killed Jamie.
It's as if the universe itself has handed her the answer she's been seeking. She whirls around, her pace quickening as her feet lead her back to a house, she once called home. She gets there quickly, and her bruised fist bangs on the door. It takes a few seconds before the door is cracked open, and Eugene's half-face peeks out.
"Make me a bullet," she whispers, her voice barely held together.
Horror registers on Eugene's face. "For her?" he questions, already aware of the beating she dished out.
"No, for him," she answers, her determination clear. She knows what she must do. She didn't start this fight with the saviors, but she will end it. She's going to kill Negan.
Notes:
God, I really struggled with this chapter. I love Jamie, and it's always been the plan for his story to end here, but when the time came, I had a hard time actually writing this. My heart just broke. RIP James Carter. But I hope you understand it's important for her character development and the next arc of the story, similar to Glenn for Maggie.
It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so very deeply - David Jones.