Hi! I'm back from my vacation and into the matrix. sigh.

Anyways, per usual, all the science in this chapter is based on fact.

RECAP- Chapter 18 - "Morality is for the week, a social construct for the herd. There are only two things in this world. A predator and a prey. A lion, and a sheep, same as the wild, the rest is built to keep the mass a bay. There is no heaven or hell, when we die, we just die. So, if you want something, then the world is your oyster. Take it, nothing can stop you." His voice is unwavering, and his hands reaches out for yours, holding it in both of his.

Are we the hunters?
Are we the hunted?
Are we the monsters?
Show me the fear under your skin
Life is a game, are you gonna play now?
Should I run away? Are you gonna stay now?
Who can you trust?
Are you one of us?

Tell me where you got your gun
Tell me whose side are you on
Line 'em up and tell them run
Light 'em up now one by one

Monsters by Tommee Profitt

Chapter 52 - The Lioness vs The Wolves

As the first light of dawn streams through the curtains, a warm golden hue fills the room. You sit on the edge of the bed, your back to Daryl, his figure casting a shadow as he stands behind you. The air is crisp with the remnants of the night, and a gentle breeze plays with the curtains. This moment of serenity is a prelude to the inevitable pandemonium that awaits the day.

Daryl's proximity is comforting. His bare chest almost touches your back, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him. You relish the slightly clumsy feel of his fingers as they deftly work through your hair, weaving strands into a braid.

Your fingers instinctively reach to touch your hair, growing impatient. A swift slap meets your hand. "Ow!" you exclaim, adding a touch of theatricality as you rub the offended spot. "How much longer?"

You can't see his face, but the indignant huff he lets out paints a vivid picture. "Ya asked for this," he reminds you, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "If ya don't wanna done right, tell me. Otherwise, keep quiet and let me do my thing."

"Okay, okay, fine," you reply, your tone playfully chiding. Your fingers gently brush against the redness of your palm, a memento from the strenuous work of the previous day. "When did you even learn to braid hair?"

"I didn't," Daryl responds, a slight shrug punctuating his words. "I can twine and splice a rope. This ain't all that different."

You chuckle, trying to turn and catch his gaze, but he gently, yet firmly, nudges your head forward. "Wow, so, I'm just your test subject?"

"Well, you did ask for it, didn't ya?" he retorts.

"It's only because my hand hurts, and I couldn't do it myself," you counter, your gaze briefly shifting to your hands again. The toll of yesterday's work is evident on them, having spent hours alongside your fellow survivors shoveling dirt. This grueling hard labor is an entirely new experience for you, and the once-soft texture of your hands is now marred with red blisters, some of them filled with fluid.

The chain of events began the day after your mission when Rick took charge of handling the horde of walkers you spotted down the cliff. The subsequent meeting, this time hosted in Deanna's home, brought together familiar faces of most Alexandrians. Their expressions painted a mixture of anxiety and concern as everyone grappled with the challenges ahead.

Carter, a vaguely familiar face, had persistently voiced his opposition to Rick's plans. However, despite the prevailing skepticism towards Rick, the majority ultimately aligned with him. You were well aware of your pivotal role in this scenario—you needed to serve as a bridge between Rick and the Alexandrians. The residents of the community trusted you, and in turn, you needed to extend that trust to Rick by aligning yourself with his leadership. This commitment also translated into strenuous labor—digging holes and constructing walls to fortify against the oncoming horde, all as part of Rick's plan.

Daryl's voice draws you back to the present, his words capturing your attention. "Did Rick tell ya? He wants to stop lookin' for people."

You emit a thoughtful hum, "and you don't agree?" you ask, already sensing his stance from the tone of his voice.

"Nah, I don't. Don't sit too well with me," he replies, the final touches of the braid falling into place. His fingers linger at the end of the braid, and you can feel the weight of his thoughts in that touch. "If ain't for Aaron, we wouldn't even be here. Seems like Rick's losin' sight of that. There might just be families out there, decent folks tryin' to make it."

Pausing to contemplate, you consider the perspectives at play, knowing that Rick's viewpoint stems from a place of trauma and distrust about the world. "I think Rick's main concern is keeping this place safe, but I totally get your point." you remark, shifting to turn and face him. As he gently secures the tip of your braid with a rubber scrunchie, you meet his gaze. "Once we're past this Walkers situation, we should talk to him about it."

Daryl's vivid blue eyes lock onto yours, his unruly bed hair only enhancing his rugged charm. You slide your hand down the length of the thick braid, inspecting the handiwork as you step over to the dresser and catch your reflection in the mirror. "Wow, this is beautiful," you exclaim, glancing back at him with a big smile. You can see why it took some time—it's neat, every strand in place, and tightly bound. "Seriously, you should ditch the whole Alexandria recruiter thing and just become my personal hair stylist." You tease lightly, running your fingers over your new braid.

Daryl lets out a scoff, accompanied by a roll of his eyes, though a subtle smile betrays his amusement. He takes the seat on the edge of the bed you vacated, and you can't resist your excitement, sliding in between his legs. His arms instinctively wrap around your waist, drawing you close. "Thank you," you murmur, your fingers gliding over his shoulders, skimming across small scars, likely gained after the fall.

Your lips maintain a joyful curve as you lean in to press a kiss against his mouth. You hum as the kiss deepens, his hands slipping beneath the oversized shirt you're wearing, his calloused fingers running over your bare skin. You tilt your head sideways and pull back with a laugh as he nips at your lips. Your faces remain inches apart, and you gaze into his eyes, your breath mingling together. Your fingers brush his hair away from his face, revealing his rugged features, as his hand gently trails up and down your lower back underneath your shirt.

"Have I told you," you begin, your voice soft, "Maggie's pregnant."

"Huh?" he murmurs, his eyes half-closing as he enjoys the sensation of your fingers in his hair.

"Yeah," you continue, watching his reaction closely. "She's keeping it under wraps for now, feels it's too early to announce. But what do you think? Isn't it wonderful?" you add, uncertain of how to broach the topic, unsure if now is the right time, or if you're even on the same page when it comes to the idea of children. What you do know is your deep love for him, and the future you talked about as kids—one that included children—has been dancing at the edges of your mind ever since you learned of Maggie's pregnancy. But now, as you stand so close to him, his body heat all around you, those dreams seem more tangible than ever.

He snorts, his eyes still half-closed, "What do I think? I reckon Glenn's got himself a pair of cojones the size of Texas for even thinkin' 'bout it, let alone actually doin' it."

"But don't you find that brave?" you press, your tone gentle yet probing. At the sound of your voice, his eyes reluctantly open to meet yours, studying you. "They're making a choice to keep on living and loving, even with all the insane shit the world has thrown at them. They're not letting anything stand in their way." Your voice trembles slightly, but you hold his gaze steadily.

He sighs, shifting his gaze away from you, a certain vulnerability evident on his face. "Nah, I think he's pushin' too fast," he mutters in a tone you can't quite decipher. "I mean, we've barely been here, what, a few weeks? And look at the mess we're knee-deep in now. 'Bout to herd thousands of walkers. If this whole thing goes belly up, this place could be gone in a flash. What's the plan then? Back on the road, with a pregnant lady in tow."

"No, it's gonna go right," you insist, your hands cupping his cheeks, guiding his eyes back to yours. "Rick's plan will work. We'll make it work, I promise." You're not entirely sure what you're promising, but there's an unspoken understanding between you two, and he seems to read beneath the layer of your promise. "And if something goes wrong, Maggie has us—she has all of us. We'll take care of each other."

"You ain't seen it, sweetheart... with Lori," Daryl counters, his tone almost pleading. "After we lost the farm, we spent seven months on the road, scrapin' by, always on the move. It was damn near torture to watch..."

"That was a different time, a different situation," you interject gently, your hand still holding his cheek. "This is the world now, and as harsh as it sounds, this might be as good as it gets. Waiting for the 'perfect' time is a luxury they might never have again. Look at all the people we've lost, so many, just gone. When you really think about it, the only thing we can really hold onto is the present. And in this fucked up world, making the call to keep on living and loving? To me, that's like the bravest act of all." Your words hang in the air, a silent plea.

Daryl gently takes hold of your hands on his cheeks, his gaze averted, lost in his thoughts. His fingers interlace with yours, and as he notices the blisters marking your palms, a soft look overcomes him, and he tenderly presses his lips to each wounded hand.

"Daryl," you begin, a whirlwind of emotions threatening to spill over, the weight of the impending question making your heart race, as you're ready to just go ahead and ask instead of dancing around, subliminally using Maggie.

His eyes meet yours, full of understanding and an almost palpable vulnerability. "Don't," he whispers, stopping you before you can proceed. "Let's just get through this mission. Once it's done... we'll talk."

You take a deep breath, nodding. You can feel the unspoken words and emotions between you. "Okay," you manage to say, your voice steady yet laced with the depth of your feelings. "Okay," you repeat softly, as much for yourself as for him. "I just... I love you, Daryl. So much."

This time, when you lean in to kiss him, he responds by drawing you closer, shifting back on the bed as he pulls you with him. You break the kiss only long enough to tug your shirt over your head, then you press yourself against him again, your tongues meeting almost in a frenzy, your bare chests pressed against each other. He deftly flips you over, his fingers quickly working on the button on your pants, wordlessly channeling the raw emotions and needs that words could never adequately express.

You jog down the familiar streets of Alexandria, a long stretch from your lab to your home, as the late morning sun paints shadows across the pavement. A sense of urgency fills your steps as you're running behind schedule for your cooking lesson with Carol.

"I'll be a modern woman with a career, but a traditional wife at home. I'll cook every meal, clean up after all my Dixons in our home."

You had promised to give him a home, unlike the one he had growing up—a home filled with warmth, laughter, and home-cooked meals. It was a promise made with the idea of a family you hoped to build. And if you were moving toward having that family, starting with cooking lessons seemed to be a fitting step. Who better to teach you the ropes of domesticity and homemaking than Carol? She'd given you an odd look when you'd requested cooking lessons, but she had simply smiled and agreed without further questions.

As you near your home, your pace begins to slow, your breath finding its rhythm. But you catch something out of the corner of your eye that makes your eyebrows lift – Gabriel, seated on your front porch. He looks both determined and nervous, his posture stiff, and he quickly stands the moment he spots you.

"Gabriel? Is everything alright?" you question, ascending the steps to stand before him.

"Yes—yes, everything's fine. I'm here... to apologize," he responds, his voice carrying a genuine note of contrition. He takes a step closer, his eyes locking onto yours with earnestness. "I wanted to explain myself, about what happened. I need you to understand that everything I said was about me, not the group."

You absorb his words, sensing the authenticity behind them. Lately, you've noticed his presence around you, even if he avoids direct eye contact. It's as if he's been hovering, waiting for the right moment. Though you haven't spoken since the emotional exchange you shared, you've seen him making an effort to make amends, lending a helping hand when possible.

"It's... it's okay, but I think you should address the group when things settle down," you reply, your tone gentle. What happened—you had let it go, his actions weren't personally directed at you, but the rest of the group might feel differently.

He nods repeatedly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. Yes, I will. I intend to make things right." He steps closer, and you try to hide your surprise when he takes your hand in both of his. "I also want to thank you," he continues, his gaze meeting yours. "For renewing my faith, for showing me the light when I was lost."

"Ahmm," unsure how to respond, you withdraw your hand and instead place it on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "We're okay, Gabriel. Everything is going to be all right."

Relief and gratitude shimmer in Gabriel's eyes, "yeah, okay. We're okay," he exhales, a weight seemingly lifted from his shoulders. With that, you move around him, leaving him with a smile playing on his lips as you continue on your way.

With a final glance at Gabriel, you stride forward, pushing open the front door. The familiar sounds of sizzling and rhythmic chopping fill the air, signaling that Carol is already deep into her culinary efforts in the kitchen.

You head deeper into your home, pushing open the sliding door, and Carol's eyes lift, a playful smirk forming on her lips. "Well, well, look who finally decided to make an appearance," she teases.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," you respond, walking briskly around the kitchen island where an assortment of ingredients is arranged. At the sink, you wash your hands diligently, the apologies still lingering on your lips. "I had Eugene help me set up the lab, and time just slipped away."

Curious, you glance over at what Carol is preparing, and your eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion as you take in the sight of a bunch of acorns spread out on a baking pan. "So, what are we making?" you start, but before you can fully process that, something else grabs your attention. "Hold on, did Olivia really give you an entire sack of rice?" you ask incredulously, observing the large bag of brown rice perched on the counter.

"Well, yeah, considering we've got a lot of hungry mouths to feed," Carol replies with a grin, gesturing behind her to a sizable pot simmering on low heat. The plan was simple: since you decided to skip out on the labor-intensive digging due to the blisters on your hands, you've chosen to show your support by cooking lunch for the crew. It's a way to contribute and also hone your cooking skills.

"We're gonna be making yellow rice and beans, and since we managed to get some flour, I'm whipping up a batch of my famous cookies for dessert," Carol explains, nodding towards jars of flour and applesauce, a cube of chocolate and a few rounds of beets that sit nearby.

"Sounds delicious," you comment, rubbing your hands together in anticipation. "So, what's my first lesson for today?"

Carol gestures towards a bowl of ripe tomatoes from the garden. "You can dice these tomatoes into small pieces, but be quick so the onions don't burn," she instructs, pushing the bowl towards you.

"Alright, I can do that," you reply with a small smile, picking up a knife and grabbing a chopping board.

Under Carol's watchful eyes, you quickly fall into a rhythm, mirroring her actions and mentally noting each step as she places the acorns into a food processor.

As the two of you work, she breaks the comfortable silence, "So, how are things between you and Daryl?" she questions, her focus divided between unloading the ground acorns into a bowl and mixing them with the flour.

"We're good," you respond, glancing at her with a soft smile, aware of her deep loyalty to Daryl. "Actually, better than good," you admit.

Carol acknowledges your words with a nod, her attention shifting to the diced tomatoes you've prepared. She gestures for you to add them to the onions that are sizzling on the stove. "He seems happy, and so does his brother," she notes. "And surprisingly, I haven't seen the two of them clash much."

You hum as you stir the pot, considering her words. "They still have their moments, but for the most part, Merle has Jamie. He's kind of taken on that little brother role, though in a much healthier way." You explain. You recognize the significant change and growth in Daryl since your early days together, and you suspect that Jamie's presence has played a pivotal role in maintaining peace in the house.

Carol offers a warm smile, adding a thought of her own. "And Daryl's got you."

Now, that's an understatement of the year.

"Yeah, he does..." You reply with a soft smile, as memories flood your mind, and just like that, you find yourself opening up to Carol. "Even back when we were kids, we've always had this... connection, you know? And now, it's been like fifteen years, and we've changed so much, but weirdly, it's like no time has passed at all." Nostalgia tinges your expression, and a chuckle escapes you. "Back then, we'd bicker over the smallest things, and he'd give me his signature huff for like a second."

Instinctively, your eyes drift to the tattoo on your wrist— 'to infinity and beyond'— the words serving as a bold reminder. "These days, it's different. Maybe it's the hardships we've faced and the loss we endured together, but we just talk, no matter the morning or late at night… Having that constant presence, that person who's always there no matter what, it's... grounding." You've never felt more secure in your life than you do now.

As you glance over at Carol, you find her watching you, her expression soft and understanding. "I'm sure he feels the same way," she offers before returning her attention to the cookie dough in front of her. "You should've seen him back at the Atlanta camp. He was like an angry child, bitter at the world. But I suppose his world makes more sense now." She shrugs, a small smile gracing her lips. "I'm just glad he found what he was looking for."

Her sentiment prompts you to turn the conversation back to her, "And what about you? What do you want?" you ask, a mischievous smile breaking across your face. "I mean, Merle has been giving you the eye," you remark, managing to stifle a laugh.

She snorts, playfully nudging you with her shoulder. "Oh please, you must be joking." Both of you share a light laugh, but as her gaze shifts downward, you sense there's more to the story. You hum, gently poking her with your elbow. She laughs, backing away, "Alright, alright, I may have gotten to know Tobin a bit better during the drive," she reveals, reminding you that the two of them were teamed up during the NIH mission.

"Ohh, mamma mia, Tobin!" You can't help but tease, "He's quite the catch! Tall, handsome..."

She rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile. "Would you stop—"

Your playful banter is interrupted by the doorbell's chime. You both pause, exchanging a curious glance, wondering who could be visiting. Setting aside your tasks, you navigate around the kitchen island, making your way to the living room to answer the door.

Your eyebrows rise in surprise as you're met by a chorus of cheerful greetings from a group of women standing before you. Amanda, her bright red hair matching her sunny smile, speaks up first. "We heard you're cooking for the group, and thought we'd lend a hand!" she exclaims.

Steering the car to the side of the road, you let out an impressed whistle as you take in the progress the group has made on the temporary wall. The afternoon sun beats down on the work site, highlighting the determined faces and sweat-drenched brows of those laboring to reinforce the defenses against the upcoming horde. Carol, already in motion, exits the passenger side with purpose, and you follow suit with a smile.

A few people wave in your direction, and your smile widens in response. As you take in your surroundings, you notice Rick heading your way. "Hey!" you call out, your voice carrying a genuine warmth. "We brought some lunch for everyone. Figured you all could use a break and a good meal."

"Hey," he responds, removing his work glove as he stands before you. His brow furrows slightly as he glances at the truck bed Carol is opening. "Alie, you know we don't have time for this. We need to keep pushing. We can't afford to slow down," he replies with a hint of concern in his tone.

Narrowing your eyes playfully, you adopt a mock stern expression. "Rick, breaks are important too. People need to refuel, and a little bit of food can go a long way in boosting morale," you assert firmly yet gently.

You observe his hesitation, watching as his gaze shifts between the people working, then to Carol, who is waiting patiently. It's clear that he's torn, wanting to maintain the pace but also recognizing the significance of what you're suggesting. You tread carefully, respecting his leadership role. "Come on, Rick. My father used to say that a good leader knows when to give in a little—that's how you win favors."

He sighs, his gaze flickering to the neatly stacked containers in the back of the truck. With a nod, he concedes, "Alright, fine, a quick lunch break then."

A triumphant grin spreads across your face. "That's the spirit!" you exclaim, your voice carrying across the work site. Lifting a container high, you declare, "Lunch is served, everyone! And we've got some ice-cold lemonade to wash it down!"

You playfully push the container into Rick's hand, offering him a gentle nudge. "Lead by example," you tease.

Rick scoffs playfully, a chuckle escaping him. "Your father said that too?" he asks, accepting the lunch box from you.

"Actually, he did!" You laugh, and he shakes his head at your response, stepping aside as people begin to gather, fatigue etched on their faces.

As Carol starts distributing the containers, you greet those around you with a smile. With the food being passed around, the atmosphere shifts. Laughter and conversation fill the air. Grabbing another lunch box that you had purposely set aside, you scan the area for your husband.

There he is, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with dirt down the road. The effort is evident in his tense muscles, his shirt clings to his body, soaked in sweat. You can't help but admire the sight of Daryl, his arms looking sculpted like a work of art, the definition of his muscles accentuated in his sleeveless cut-off shirt.

Unable to resist, a playful whistle escapes your lips as you approach him. "Well, well, is this a free show, or do I need to buy a ticket?" you tease, your voice dripping with mock admiration. "Looking especially rugged today, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl rolls his eyes, but a subtle smirk plays at the corner of his lips. "Cut it out, goofball," he retorts as he guides the wheelbarrow to the side, his focus shifting to you. "I'm starvin'—Is that grub meant for me, or you just here tryna sweet talk me?"

"Consider it a combo deal, my love," you reply with a wink.

Daryl snorts, his eyes crinkling as he battles back a smile. "You're somethin' else, y'know that?" He wipes his hands on his jeans and accepts the container from you. As he settles down on a patch of grass with a contented sigh, you join him, your sides touching. In true Daryl Dixon fashion, he digs into the food with his bare hands, dirt be damned.

You watch him with a mixture of amusement and affection. "You know," you begin, your tone conspiratorial, "I cooked this myself—that's why I threw in an extra cookie just for you."

Daryl raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. "You? Cook?"

You laugh and give him a playful shove. "Yes, me. I'll have you know your wife is a culinary prodigy."

Before Daryl can reply, Jamie's voice interrupts, "Don't listen to her, Daryl. She burned water once." Jamie adds with a chuckle, following Merle over to where you're sitting.

Rolling your eyes with a laugh, you watch as the two men join you on the ground. "How's it going, guys?"

Jamie lets out an exasperated sigh, his expression turning slightly sour. "Oh, don't even get me started," he replies. "That Carter guy has been up my ass all day, nitpicking every little thing."

"Well, ain't that somethin'," Merle chimes in, leaning back with a knowing grin. "Annoying ol' Carter's at it again, huh?"

Jamie huffs defiantly, "Oh, excuse me, for your information, I'm Jamie 'the tank' Carter. Not just the handsome Carter around here, but the fun one too, clearly."

Merle chuckles. "Ain't nobody calls you 'the tank.'"

"And ain't no one's calling you 'Merle the Hero' either, but hey, we all have our fantasies."

"That's 'cause I've actually done somethin' heroic—tell him sweet cheeks."

Shaking your head in amusement as their banter spirals, you turn your attention back to Daryl, who's quietly enjoying his meal while keeping an amused eye on the ongoing exchange. You reach out and give his folded legs a gentle pat before getting up, making your way toward Rick, who appears to be inspecting the progress of the wall at the far corner.

You step beside him, both of you silently contemplating the structure in front of you for a few moments. The subtle creak of the pillar as he tests one of the posts fills the space until Rick finally turns to face you, his eyes serious. "I don't think you should come with us on this mission."

"Hmm?" Turning to face him, your gaze remains steady. "Rick, you know I can hold my own out there."

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to find the right words. "It's not about that," he begins, tilting his head towards the field. Following his gaze, you see Deanna, seemingly lost in her thoughts, wandering aimlessly. You hadn't even noticed she was here this whole time. "Deanna is checked out, barely present. And I don't blame her. But people here look up to you now. This mission—we can handle it, you don't need to," he gestures to the surroundings.

"No, Rick," you interrupt, "That's precisely why I need to be out there, especially now. Why do you think Deanna is here, despite her state? People are afraid, and they need to see familiar faces they trust to help them get through this." And you both know; people here don't trust him yet.

You pause, knowing there's more behind your motivation, as you let your gaze wander across the grass to where Daryl, toward where your family sits, still chatting and laughing. Your voice softens, "Besides, Daryl will be out there, on the frontlines, and I intend to be right there with him." You plan to be beside him on that bike, whether he likes it or not.

Rick studies you, his concern evident in his eyes. "I still think you're more needed at home, getting your lab set up and working on that cure. Daryl told me about the French video, the variant... We need that cure."

You take in a deep breath, knowing that you really haven't had the time to think about everything you saw on that video. "Viruses don't simply travel on their own; they require a host for transmission. It's a strong possibility that this variant is localized to France, or perhaps neighboring countries."

But Rick isn't easily dissuaded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it won't reach us. But we can't be certain."

A lump forms in your throat, emotions swirling. "Rick, I can't," you whisper, eyes darting to Daryl, "All of this—finding a cure, building a future—it won't matter to me if he's not there. None of it means anything to me if he doesn't make it home—If I lose him."

Rick sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he considers your words.

"Don't worry. We know what to do. We've got this," you assure him, giving his forearm a reassuring pat. You will do whatever it takes to protect your own.

The dimly lit basement of your new lab—aka the old church—has now been transformed into a storage room for the chemicals. A gentle buzz from the ventilation fan fills the space as you and Eugene stand shoulder to shoulder, meticulously taking inventory of the various acids. Clad in your personal protective equipment from head to toe, the two of you make an odd pair. Eugene appears slightly comical, with his gear seeming a size too small for his tall frame.

The construction crew had done an excellent job preparing the space for your needs, insulating the walls and arranging the chemical storage cabinets to suit your requirements. Now, you handle the cylinders with care, examining the contents and the secondary layer of graduated cylinders that hold the chemicals.

Your attention remains focused on the task at hand, your mind completely occupied, as you take notes and measurements. However, Eugene seems to be following a different storyline. Working with him has its perks; he is thorough, almost to a fault. Whether it's due to his autism or his ability to hyperfocus, you never have to repeat yourself. However, you've come to realize that his mouth could actually keep up with his thoughts for days on end.

Trying to remain engrossed in your task, Eugene's perpetual commentary becomes increasingly difficult to sideline. "You see, when it comes to wrangling corrosive acids, it's a darn-tootin' fact that proper ventilation is of the utmost essence." His voice, albeit somewhat muffled by his protective mask, drones on, "As per the mighty fine federal regulations, they make it crystal clear that we ain't to be triflin' with these substances without givin' 'em the—"

"Eugene," you interject, your tone laced with amusement and exasperation. "While I admire your encyclopedic knowledge, we need to focus on this inventory."

Eugene pauses mid-sentence, his eyes shifting from the tubes to meet yours. "Ah, of course," he responds, sounding slightly sheepish. "It's just... These regulations ain't just some run-of-the-mill guidelines, but rather a set of rules that carry a heap of weight when you're talkin' about stuff that can eat through metal like a hot knife through butter—"

Your response is interrupted by the abrupt static crackling from the walkie-talkie attached to your waist.

"Sweetheart!" Daryl's voice pierces through the noise, frantic undertones audible amidst the chaos in the background.

Your heart skips a beat as you halt your actions, quickly removing your thick gloves. You manage to retrieve your walkie-talkie from beneath your protective gear, your voice tinged with worry, "Daryl, can you hear me? What's happening?"

"It's goin' down now," comes his terse reply, the backdrop filled with Rick's authoritative shouts. "The damn trucks gave out - the quarry's open."

"What?!" you exclaim, your voice laced with disbelief, quickly removing your headgear as you turn to sprint up the stairs, leaving Eugene behind. "What do you mean the truck gave out?! This was supposed to be just a rehearsal!" The walls for the horde diversion were completed, and today's agenda was a simple drill to familiarize everyone with their roles.

"Well, ain't no more dry run now," Daryl's voice remains composed despite the chaos around him. "We're goin' live." You even hear the revving of a motorcycle engine in the background.

You stop in the main room of the church, standing amidst the tables, machines, beeping equipment, and the remnants of stained glass of your newly established lab. "Daryl, we're supposed to do this together," panic tinges your voice. "Just—just wait for me, okay, I'll be there in like ten minutes." You quickly calculate the time it would take for you to reach him.

"Nah, it's too late," Daryl's strained voice is nearly drowned out by the roaring of his motorcycle engine. "Ain't no time for that. We got this, Alie. We'll be home soon."

The weight of the situation settles heavily on you, and you instinctively pull the walkie-talkie away, frustration erupting, "FUCK!"

Taking a deep breath to collect yourself, your voice shaky from stress, you call out, "Rick! Rick, damn it! Give me something!"

Rick's voice breaks through, heavy breathing suggesting he's on the move. "Alie, the plan is a go! They must've been drawn to our presence; the truck blocking the herd gave out." A brief pause, as if he's catching his breath. "They're heading toward home. We ain't got a choice."

Exhaling slowly, you try to steady your racing heart, convincing yourself that everything will be alright, though uncertainty gnaws at your gut. Your thought is interrupted by Eugene's matter-of-fact voice slicing through the tension, "They're takin' 'em about 20 miles south and considering the pace at which walkers move, I estimate no more than six hours 'fore this here situation sorts itself out… they'll be just fine and dandy."

You turn to look back at him, nodding to yourself, a mixture of determination and anxiety filling your chest. "Yeah, you're right. There's nothing we can do, so let's just get back to work," you state, clenching the walkie-talkie.

The room falls into silence as you trail after Eugene, donning your protective gear once again, focused on the inventory at hand. Eugene, no longer a continuous stream of chatter, his words are replaced by the soft static of the walkie-talkie at your hips. Rick's voice cuts through the airwaves, each directive punctuating the silence like a Sunday morning sermon.

"Remember the rendezvous point," Rick's commanding tone reverberates through the room. "Daryl, what's your ETA?"

"We're here, and the package is secured," Daryl's response offers a moment of relief, allowing you to mentally trace their location.

However, your thoughts are abruptly shattered by a high-pitched scream that seems both distant and alarmingly close. At first, you wonder if it's emanating from the radio itself, but then you notice Eugene staring up at the small, insulated window set high on the basement wall.

"What the hell is that?" you vocalize your thoughts, as another blood-curdling scream pierces the air. Your instinct says to go investigate, but before you can even move, more screams join the chorus, echoing from all directions. Your heart clenches in your chest, and when Eugene turns to you, his expression full of fear.

"Go, look out at the window, and tell me what you see," you instruct, urgency coloring your voice. Eugene hesitates, his gaze locked on the window, before gathering the courage to step closer. Balancing on his tiptoes, he uses his height advantage to peer outside, and in an instant, his countenance shifts from curiosity to sheer terror.

"What is it? What do you see?" You press, your voice barely audible over the cacophony of screams that persist.

Eugene stammers, his fear palpable as he struggles to find words. "P-People... T-they're... attacking... there are people out there."

Fear washes over you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, you get yanked back in time, memories resurfacing with a vengeance. For a split second, you're transported back to the prison cell, Charles's frantic voice jolting you awake, "The governor is here—we're under attack!"

Drawing a deep breath, you focus on the present. "Eugene, help me up," Your words are swift, driven by the need to assess the situation firsthand. "Crouch down so I can use you to boost myself to the window."

Eugene nods, his body trembling as he lowers himself into a crouched position. You grasp his shoulder, as his fingers interlocking to form a stable platform. With his support, you propel yourself upward, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your eyes meet the window's view. The sight that meets your gaze freezes your blood in your veins.

Before your eyes unfolds a scene of pure horror, a tableau straight out of a nightmare. The church, situated at the heart of the community, now serves as a backdrop for the unfolding catastrophe. Right before your eyes, just a mere few feet away, a gruesome scene plays out in agonizing detail— a man possessed by a savage frenzy kneels over a woman with dark hair, his appearance almost feral, as he repeatedly thrusts a blade into her body. He dips his finger into the woman's blood and smears it across his forehead, his actions a disturbing ritual.

And then his gaze shifts toward your tiny window near the ground on the outside, as if sensing your stare. Time seems to stretch, your eyes locking in an involuntary connection. The blood-dripping W on his forehead traces a sinister path down his face, sending an icy shiver of pure terror coursing down your spine.

Instinct takes over, and you drop to the ground, your heart pounding in your chest. Your mind races, desperately trying to make sense of the horrific scene you've just witnessed. But before you can fully process it, a chilling cackle pierces the air, as the man slaps his face against the window, smearing blood as he tries to peer inside. Panic tightens its grip on you as he rises, his laughter ringing in your ears – as he moves with a disturbing glee, and you know he's seen you.

"He saw me," you murmur to Eugene, your voice shaky with terror. "We have to get out of here, right now."

Eugene's complexion drains of color, as you waste no time, swiftly shedding your protective gear, trading security for speed. Suddenly, a deafening thud echoes from above, followed by the shattering of glass, and you pause, realizing that he's found a way inside, the seconds ticking away before he finds the entrance into the basement too.

With your heart racing, Merle's gruff voice cuts through, as if he's right next to you. "How about in your new lab? Ain't nobody gonna expect a gun in a church."

Yes, you have a gun. That's the lifeline you need—now you just have to get to it. Swiftly surveying your surroundings, your eyes settle on the lineup of acids on the table, neatly cataloged for inventory. You act with focused precision, grabbing one of the empty beakers laying around and deftly pouring hydrogen fluoride (HF) into it. Your attention shifts to another container containing pentafluoride (SbF5). Science, your constant companion, guides your hands.

Eugene's voice trembles as he interrupts your actions, his fear palpable. "N-no-no-no, w-what, w-what are you doin'? You c-can't mix that."

"Fluoroantimonic acid," you explain quickly, your voice firm and resolute. "When these two chemicals combine, they create superacid—I know my science and federal regulations, too."

Eugene's voice wavers, "B-but, you can't—"

You step forward, cutting him off, "Eugene, look at me." Your eyes lock onto his. "You are a survivor. You always have been. You made it this far because you did whatever it took to get it done—now I need you to do it one more time. Can you do that for me?"

Eugene shakes his head, his body trembling with fear.

But you push, "When I open the door, you run. Do you hear me? You draw his attention to you."

His wide eyes are filled with terror, his voice quivering as he responds. "I-I can't, I j-just can't. Please don't," he begs, his fear making his words stutter.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy footsteps descends the stairs. "We're running out of time, Eugene. We need a diversion." you hiss, your voice tinged with desperation. "You remember those old video games you told me about? Think of this as one of them. Only this time, it's not pixels on a screen—it's real life. Just one sprint, Eugene. One brave act."

Eugene swallows hard, nodding slowly, tears glistening in his eyes. "O-okay... okay," he whispers, looking like he's ready to wet his pants, "When you open the d-door... I'll run."

With the beaker clutched tightly in your gloved hand, you turn, pouring the pentafluoride into it with practiced precision. The glass instantly heats up under your gloves, the pressure building as time races against you. The seconds feel like an eternity, the corrosive nature of the acid threatening to dissolve the glass container. You can almost hear the countdown in your head as you brace yourself for the imminent confrontation.

As you fling the door open, Eugene stumbles forward, his movements shaky as he bolts away, nearly tripping in his haste. The W man's haunting laughter fills the corridor, and you brace yourself against the door frame, catching a glimpse of the man's menacing figure as he rushes toward Eugene, the knife glinting ominously.

In a heartbeat, you seize your chance. As the man charges past you, you fling the contents of the beaker, the acidic mixture splattering onto his face. The reaction is immediate and gruesome, his features twisting in unimaginable agony. He doesn't have a chance to react, or scream, just choke as he stumbles backwards and drops, his face disintegrating in a grotesque spectacle of melting flesh. The acid devours him in a matter of seconds, his terrifying presence obliterated.

"Holy fuck," you swear breathlessly, the beaker bursting in your hand as you hastily yank off your gloves, stepping back to assess any potential injury. "I didn't know it was gonna do that."

A pungent odor fills the air, an acrid stench unlike anything you've encountered before. The corrosive power of the acid is staggering, evidenced by the W emblem disappearing from the man's face, replaced by a gaping, oozing wound that's now eating through the hardwood floor too.

"It's like somethin' ripped straight outta them Alien movies." Eugene begins, breathing heavy a few feet from you, only to be cut off by a blaring of a horn throughout the community. "What in the sam hill is that?!"

"PEEP!"

The sound is nonstop, piercing the air, reminding you what's happening outside. Without hesitation, you leap over the now lifeless body, bolting towards the small office situated in the corner of the hall, Eugene hot on your heels. You crash through the door, grabbing a chair and hauling it to the far corner of the room, the blaring horn outside shaking your nerves.

Rick's voice filters through the walkie still affixed to your pants, his tone frantic. "Alie! What's happening? Alie!"

"Rick, what's goin' on?" Daryl's voice joins the frantic chorus, but you're too occupied to respond. Mounting the chair, you stand on your tiptoes, your fingers up one of the square coffered ceilings. Your touch zeroes in on the hidden crevice, and with a determined pull, you retrieve the rifle stashed within. As you raise the walkie to your mouth, your voice carries a mix of urgency and determination. "I'm here, Rick, I'm here. We're under attack."

"Under attack? The hell ya mean under attack?" Daryl's voice breaks through the tension, filled with concern.

"It's the W's, they're here," you respond, your pace quickening as you move away from the chair and out of the little office door. "We have casualties." You don't spare a glance back at Eugene, but you hear the distinctive click of the office door locking behind you.

"We need that horn to stop, Alie, it's drawing all the walkers towards east. They're heading towards home." Rick's voice sounds strained, as if he's running while speaking to you. You ascend the stairs in tandem with his words.

"No way! Alie, just hold on, alright? Don't make a move," Daryl's voice cuts in, fraught with panic. In the background, you can hear Abraham and Sasha yelling at him, their voices overlapping, but Daryl appears singularly focused, speaking over their protests. "I'm on my way, sweetheart. Just hang tight!" He says as the revving of his bike's engine fills the background.

"Daryl, you can't! Daryl!" Rick's desperate pleas cut through, "We need you here."

"Hell nah, Rick! I ain't riskin' it," Daryl's voice is unyielding over the roar of the engine. "You can't ask me that. You can't! Alie! Just wait for me, okay? I'm comin' home!"

"Daryl, listen," Rick's voice lowers, "I know how you feel. I've got my kids there – Carl, Judith. But we have to keep moving, or the bad back there gets worse."

Amidst the tumultuous backdrop of voices, the blaring horn, and the distant screams, your senses seem to dull. You stand before the church door, your grip firm on the rifle, muscles tense yet controlled. Every piece of training from Jamie, every lesson from Charles, aligns within you, and calmness replaces the pounding of your heart. As you exhale, your body goes cold… yet steady.

Bringing the walkie back to your lips, you speak, "Daryl, you're going to have to trust me, just like I trust you. I need you to finish your job, make our home safe, and come back to me in one piece. I've got this, okay? I'll handle it." And then, as if responding to your words, the blaring horn suddenly stops.

"Daryl! Come on, brother," Rick's voice carries an understanding tone. "We need to get this done, they need us to get this done."

"Alie..." Daryl's voice follows, quieter now, as if he's pulled to the side of the road, the roar of the bike's engine subsiding.

You pop the magazine, checking the fully stocked bullets, and then snap it back, your thumb clicking off the rifle's safety.

"I love you! Now go get it done." With those words, you push open the wooden double doors of the church and step out.

Outside, you're met with a scene that seems almost like déjà vu – a disorienting mix of sounds and sensations transports you back to your last moments in the prison.

The world around you blurs, your focus narrowing onto the box truck that once held your chemical just a few steps away – the same truck that Sasha was mounted on during your last mission. "High ground," you think instinctively, and with purpose, you move swiftly towards the truck. Scaling the side ladder, you drop onto the roof, your grip on the rifle tightening; the cold metal juxtaposed against the warmth of the sun-soaked surface beneath you.

From your bird's-eye view, the chaos unfolds below, a symphony of desperation and fear. You can see them, the people who are threatening your community, your people, your home – Alexandria.

.

"Bang!" "Bang!" "Bang!"

.

It feels eerily easy, almost like being back on a prison ground, shooting a paintball at a swinging ball. Methodically, you pick them off one by one, each shot a precise execution that sends vibrations up your shoulders with the force of the recoil. The scent of gunpowder envelops you like a familiar companion, a part of this dance between life and death.

Through the scope of your rifle, a flash of bright red hair catches your attention – Amanda. She's running for her life, her shoulder bleeding, her screams piercing the air, while two armed men chase her, their knives glinting in the sun. Your heart quickens as you rise to your feet, your eye still focused on the scope. "Run toward me! To the truck! RUN!" Your words cut through the chaos, and you witness the split-second when Amanda locks her eyes onto you.

A bullet whizzes past her, just in time to clip one of her pursuers, and then the other. She stumbles towards you, her sobs mixing with words of relief and desperation. "Oh my god! oh my god – I can't find my babies!" But Amanda isn't the only one who sees you. Other Alexandrians emerge from their hiding too – from behind bushes and water barrels – and they're all running towards you, driven by a collective need for safety. "GO! GO! Run into the church! Lock the door behind you!" Your voice is commanding.

With renewed purpose, you settle back down, your eye to the scope, scanning for any lingering threats. Yet, it becomes clear that the attackers have also spotted you. Like startled roaches scattering from sudden light, they take cover, retreating from your line of sight.

"Come on, come at me," you mutter to yourself, your gaze unwavering through the scope of your rifle. Your finger hovers over the trigger, ready to unleash a storm with a single pull.

You recognize now they know where you are, you need to outsmart them, lure them out, give them a bait somehow. After all, it's personal now after you gunned so many of their friends. You can practically feel their thirst for revenge; all you have to do is manipulate it to your advantage.

"Mia figlia, because you are a woman, the world will underestimate you. That's your power." Your father's voice whispers in the back of your mind.

Your thoughts move faster than your conscious mind. Your fingers find the rubber band securing your hair, and with a swift tug, Daryl's braid comes undone, allowing your hair to cascade down your back – a visual transformation that adds to the illusion. In one fluid motion, you click the safety of your rifle back into place before standing tall on the truck. You mimic firing a shot, followed by a deliberate click of an "empty chamber".

"There are only two things in this world. A predator and a prey. A lion and a sheep."

You play your part, delivering a theatrical performance, an image of vulnerability. "Damn it!" you exclaim as you even shake your rifle with frustration painted across your features.

They fall into the trap. The following moments unfold like a gruesome ballet. Their frenzied laughter fills the atmosphere as they sprint toward you from all sides, knives and machetes held high, believing they have you cornered.

"Wait for it… Wait for it," you mutter to yourself.

"A lion might be stronger, but a lioness is the ideal hunter. Quick, agile, merciless. She feeds the pride. You are a lioness, Mia figlia. You go for the jugular, you understand?"

You understand.

A lioness waits patiently, then strikes with precision.

You maintain the fearful façade, shaking and whimpering. Then, as their silhouettes close in, in an instant, your face goes flat, your lips curve into a wicked grin. The metallic clink of the safety disengaging is the last warning they'll ever get. "Run!" you taunt, giving both an invitation and a challenge.

The onslaught of gunfire erupts from your rifle, a tempest of lethal force tearing through the air with surgical precision. Their realization comes too late—surprise morphs into agony as bodies crumple to the ground, screams of pain replacing their laughter as you take down your targets with ruthless efficiency.

Some of them at the back who managed to escape, become your new targets. Your movements are swift as you descend down the truck's ladder, your rifle remains raised, stock nestled firmly against your shoulder. Adrenaline surges through your veins, heightening your senses as you stalk your prey, and the chase begins.

As you round a corner, you nearly collide with Morgan, your reflexes almost causing you to pull the trigger. "Did you see them? Where did they go?" you demand, your voice edged with tension.

"They're gone," he responds calmly, standing in your path as if to prevent you from proceeding. Puzzled by his words, you try to move around him, only to find him shifting to block your way once again. "Please. All the wolves, they're gone. Let's just call it."

Frustration flares within you. "There's no chance in hell they're leaving this place alive," you assert firmly.

Morgan's gaze locks onto yours with unwavering resolve in his eyes. "Please, Dr. Alice. You're better than this—I know you are. I've seen it that day at the graveyard, when you and Rick had that talk 'bout findin' balance between empathy and logic. These folks, they're lookin' to you, so here is your chance to show 'em that harmony, that balance. Please, I'm askin' you, kindly, to take another look at things, to reconsider."

"Fuck harmony—after what they did to my people, they don't deserve to live," you retort, taking a step forward. Yet, Morgan stands firm, immovable, blocking your path again, hands tight on his staff. Anger surges within you, and you raise your rifle, aiming it squarely at him. "These 'wolves' were slaughtering my people for sport. You saved my husband's life, and for that, I'll let this go, but I won't ask again. Move."

In the midst of this tense standoff, movement flickers at the edge of your vision – a figure emerging from behind Morgan. Instinct takes over, and you shift your aim, your finger tightening around the trigger.

"Stop! It's me! it's me!" a voice pierces through the tension.

"Carol?" you gasp, your muscles relaxing as she removes her mask, dressed as one of them. Your gaze locks onto the W painted on her forehead, your brow furrowing.

"Yeah, come on, the armory is secured. Let's finish this," she asserts. This time, as you move to follow her, Morgan does not intervene.

He had held you back enough to give the wolves enough time to slip away.

As Carol continues her search, you shift your focus toward the infirmary. Pushing through the door, your eyes quickly scan the room, taking in the scene before you. The moment Denise spots you, her tears flow even more freely, her face red, eyes bloodshot as Holly's lifeless form lies on a stretcher. Her voice quivers as she tries to speak through her sobs, "I did everything I could... I tried, but I couldn't save her."

Stepping closer, your voice adopts a soft and comforting tone. "I'm so sorry, Denise. I'm sorry I couldn't be here for you, but you did your best." As you pull her into a hug, she clings to you, her blood-stained hand grasping at your clothes. "Death is part of the job, and your best is all anyone can ask for."

Amidst her sobs, you reach for your walkie-talkie, still attached to your hip, and with one hand still holding her, you bring it to your lips. "It's over," you relay into it with a sigh.