Sorry for about the late post, folks. I've been struggling to write lately, plus not sure where I want to take the plot or how to get there. anyways, I know y'all been waiting, so here you go.

Recap: Chapter 15 - Grace
You let out a sigh. You look toward Daryl, and he looks at you, even though he looks defeated, his eyes held fire.
"I ain't got nowhere to go, but I ain't beggin to stay." Merle finally speaks.

Recap: Chapter 40 - Peter losing Wendy
He puffs out smoke, contemplating the board, before pressing his cigar against the ashtray. His face maintains its stern expression, but his eyes burn with an intense fire. "I've told you before, we don't lose—I never lose," he declares, echoing the words he once spoke when revealing the story of your grandfather. As if to demonstrate his point, he makes his final move—a move that would result in his own defeat, sacrificing his own king.

"If I must lose you, then so be it. But you won't lose me," he asserts with conviction. "If you choose to run, then run. You are my daughter, and my blood flows through your veins. You will always be my legacy, and I will always be your hovering shadow. Eventually, you will find your way back home, back to me."

Recap: Chapter 56 - More, there is always more...
Daryl, on the other hand, approaches you, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of your head. "He's one slippery son of a bitch, so I'm gonna make damn sure everything's squared away." As Daryl heads for the door, he can't resist detouring to the Tupperware, grabbing a few cookies, and stuffing one into his mouth as he exits.

Darkness leaves me breathless
Who blocked out the sun?
Shadows make me reckless
Am I the only one?

Playing games, in the black of the night
Stumbling, close my eyes
Standing here, on the edge, petrified
All alone, out of sight

How far does the dark go?
Give me an omen, show me a sign

How Far Does the Dark Go? - Anya Marina

Chapter 60 - Time To Come Home

The morning sunlight filters through the church's stained-glass window, casting a colorful halo-like glow on your surroundings. You sit atop your high work chair in the laboratory, idly toying with the queen chess piece. Your mind is a tumultuous sea of thoughts, each crashing into the next, drowning you in a relentless storm of emotions. The incessant ringing in your ears remains a constant reminder of the horrors you've witnessed, a dissonant backdrop to your inner turmoil. It has been four days since the lineup with Negan; each moment since then only brings more darkness.

Your lack of sleep exacerbates your torment, leaving you feeling like a fragile thread on the brink of snapping. The moment you close your eyes, the memories of the bat coming down over your head, the terror, the blood, the helplessness, all rush back in vivid detail. The nightmares replay like a broken record, refusing to let you escape the horrors of that day.

And then there's Daryl. His absence casts a dark cloud over you, a storm of emotions raging within. Rage simmers just beneath the surface, an overwhelming anger at Negan and the world. But it's the worry for your husband that consumes you. The "what ifs" plague your mind like relentless demons. What if Daryl tries to run and they kill him? What if he acts impulsively and fights back, only for them to decide it's easier to kill him? What if he's already dead, and you may never know? The uncertainty gnaws at your sanity.

Your spirit feels shattered, and it's all reflected in the community. The people of Alexandria maintain their distance, perhaps understanding your need for space, but you can hear the rumors and whispers. Rick, too, seems to have withdrawn into himself. He walks with his head down, avoids eye contact, and has not once acknowledged you.

Maybe he's going through what you are, but his silence speaks volumes and affects the morale of the entire community. It feels like everything is teetering on the edge of despair, everyone adjusting to this new way of life.

"Get out of your head; you're overthinking," echoes the voice of your father, commanding and deep, cutting through the fog of your thoughts as the familiar scent of his cigar seems to weave through the air.

You look up to find him sitting across from you, a chessboard on the table between you. Medical notes, books, and research form a makeshift wall around you, a barrier against the outside world. Your father's presence feels so real, so tangible, that you momentarily forget he's a hallucination born of trauma and stress.

His eyes, so similar to yours, fix on you with disappointment. "There is nothing sadder than a lioness eating grass and calling herself sheep." You swallow the lump forming in your throat and look away.

Your father leans forward, his expression serious as he confronts you. "You've been running all your life from who you are." He reaches out a hand, and you tense, his touch cool and reassuring on your hand. "You are a Hart, mia figlia. It's time to come home."

A pause envelops the room as you draw in a deep breath, struggling to regain your composure. Your father reaches out, making a deliberate move on the chessboard, advancing his bishop with purposeful intent. "Life is like a chessboard," he imparts, his voice steady, "Victory only beckons to those who dare to make a move. You know what needs to be done; it's time to take that step."

For the last four days, that's all you've been doing—planning a way out, trying to think it through. Your voice is but a whisper, as you finally speak. "He has Daryl," you confess, your voice trembling. "I can't make a move, Dad. I'm trapped." As long as Negan has Daryl, he has you by the balls.

Your father's expression remains stern and calculating, unwavering in his resolve. "It doesn't matter if he has Daryl," he asserts firmly, "If he wanted him dead, he would've already been dead."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, the ringing in your ears reaching a higher pitch, but your father is relentless. His presence is steadfast, and you feel his determination seeping into your being.

"Your husband is no ordinary man. He'll survive this, just like he's survived everything else in his life, and he'll come back to you. But you need to be ready for what comes next," he counsels, circling the table to stand before you. "Mia figlia, whether you like it or not, you are a Hart, and we do not lose."

You jerk your hand, meeting his gaze, pain threading your voice. "But I did lose," you confess. "Didn't you see Abraham? Glenn... Maggie? Didn't you see me? I've already lost."

Your father's expression doesn't waver. "Do you know why I always say, 'we don't lose?'" he asks. "Why I never lose?"

Turning away, frustration courses through you. "Why don't you enlighten me?" you challenge, the edge in your voice sharp.

"Remember," he reminds you, his voice growing colder, an undercurrent of anger palpable, "I am but a fragment of your imagination, my knowledge is your knowledge. So answer the question." he commands, enunciating each word slowly, deliberately.

There's a pause, and you feel like a chastened child under his unyielding stare. "Because the last time we lost a game…" you begin, your voice softening as you recall the story, "the last time we lost on the chessboard was when Grandfather played against his officer." And you know the aftermath of that loss, the legacy that shaped your family.

"Yes," your father acknowledges, stepping closer. "That trauma was felt for decades, molding generations. It shaped who he was, who I became, who you are." His hand reaches for your cheek in a tender gesture. "Defeat is not in our creed. You will not lose. So, what's the game plan?"

You clench your fist. "I won't risk Daryl," you state firmly, your resolve unwavering. "That's one thing I won't compromise, no matter the circumstances."

A slow, dark smirk curls at your father's lips. "Very well. Show me your strategy then," he challenges, gesturing to the chessboard. "Chess 101: the player who controls the center of the board controls the game. Right now, Negan controls the center. Your move, how will you disrupt his play?"

You lean over the chessboard, your mind formulating a plan. "Our top priority must be to protect Daryl while he's there until we can get him out," you assert, thinking out loud. You shift a chess piece thoughtfully, looking at the entirety of the board… a move five steps ahead. "Perhaps I could make myself indispensable enough that it could indirectly protect Daryl. Maybe I could leverage the cure as a bargaining chip..."

"No," your father interjects firmly, a swift hand countering your move on the board. "If you dangle the prospect of a cure before a man like Negan, it can go two ways: you'll either become his most prized possession, a golden goose he'd never let go, or you become the greatest threat to everything he's built, to his dominion, the very foundation of his control."

You exhale heavily, acknowledging the truth in his words. Negan might not want the cure to exist, as it represents the possibility of returning to normalcy, a world without the undead that supposedly justifies his power. But if he does want the cure, he will undoubtedly take you, keep you within arm's reach, a 'guarded' asset. Your existence would then be leverage against Daryl and potentially even Rick.

Your father nods, as if perceiving your inner thoughts. "Anyone who believes in the cure will give in because it represents hope for the future. And with you by his side, it might even strengthen the loyalty of his people." His tone grows cold as he offers a warning. "Under no circumstance can you let him capture you."

"He might still find out," you counter, the edge of worry creeping into your voice. It's not like the notion of the cure is a well-guarded secret within the community.

"Then you lie," your father instructs firmly. "You look him dead in the eyes and fabricate the truth. Negan doesn't know everything. He views Rick as his primary threat, and you're not under his radar." He leans closer. "The art is to reveal just enough but never the entirety. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do—" you begin to respond, but your words are abruptly cut short.

"Who are you talking to?" a voice suddenly interrupts, startling you.

You swirl around to find Paul Rovia, dressed in his long leather coat, fingerless gloves, and his signature beanie, staring at you curiously from the entrance of your lab.

"Jesus," you breathe out his nickname in surprise. Glancing down at the chessboard, you realize that, aside from the queen in your hand, none of the other pieces have moved.

"I—I was just thinking out loud," you stammer, hastily rising from your seat and setting the piece back in its place on the board. "What brings you here? How long have you been standing there?"

"Did you know you can actually scale these walls from the outside?" Jesus responds cryptically, stepping further into the space, his gaze sweeping across the array lab equipment like it's his first visit.

"What?" you ask, puzzled, looking at him with furrowed brows.

"Your walls," he clarifies, gesturing behind him. "They're easy to climb from the outside."

A brief silence falls as your gazes lock, and you wonder if he genuinely climbed your walls. "I promised Maggie I would check on you," he then adds.

At the mention of Maggie, your heart drops, and you can almost hear her scream in the back of your mind. You cast your eyes away, pretending to shuffle papers on the table to appear busy. You've been avoiding the thought of her, of what she's endured, the magnitude of her loss. It's a pain you understand all too well, resonating with your own fears and the precarious thread on which your and Daryl's fates hang.

"But I thought... maybe my presence here ain't exactly welcome anymore, not after... after all that's happened. I came here and..." Jesus trails off, seemingly unaware of the emotional turmoil inside you. "Maggie's worried about you," he adds, moving to stand by the glove box, eyeing the dead inside. "How are you holding up?"

"She's worried about me?" You respond with a tinge of cynicism directed at yourself and your actions. Tears begin to well up in your eyes, and with a heavy sigh, you voice the question that's haunted your thoughts, dreading the answer that might follow. "How is she? Is the baby..."

"The baby's fine," Jesus assures you gently, his eyes filled with compassion. You look at him, a surge of relief washing over you. "Maggie's strong, probably one of the strongest women I've ever come across."

"Yeah," you sigh.

Jesus takes a step closer to you, his hand hovering as if to offer comfort, but it never makes contact. Suddenly, a loud bang disrupts the moment, as your door barges open and Enid stands there, her eyes wide with alarm, breathless with urgency.

"Enid, what's going on?" you ask, your nerves on edge.

"They're here," she pants out, glancing from you to Jesus. "The Saviors are at the gate."

"Now? They're early!" They had promised to return in a week, but it's barely been four days. You turn to Jesus, your worry evident in the tension of your shoulders. "Hide," you command sharply. "They can't link Alexandria with Hilltop."

You hardly see him move as you take a step forward, wiping away your tears, and steeling yourself. "It's showtime," your father's voice whispers in your mind, bracing you for the perilous charade ahead. "Negan is just another pawn in your game; manipulate him as you must."

You take a deep, steadying breath, preparing yourself, and as you exhale, your body turns cold yet steady.

With that, you're off. Adrenaline surges, your heart races in your chest as you jog toward the gate, Enid keeping pace at your heels. Memories of that fateful lineup flood back with every step, the weight of the past four days, the sleepless nights, and the worry for Daryl pressing down on you like an unbearable burden.

Approaching the heart of the community, you spot Rick at the gate, surrounded by a group of men. Negan looms among them, unmistakable and domineering. Your pace instinctively slows as your eyes catch sight of Rick holding Lucille, and a sense of dread settles in your stomach.

Then, you catch sight of Daryl among the group, and for a moment, time seems to entirely freeze. Your heart lurches, the sight of him still alive floods you with relief like an ocean. Yet, in that same breath, anger threatens to drown you as you recall the last time you saw him, as the Saviors dragged him away into that van.

Negan's voice slices through the haze of your thoughts, diverting your attention from Daryl to the man himself. As he catches sight of you, a sardonic smile plays on his lips, his voice dripping with mock affection. "Ah, there she is—Dr. Pee-Pee Pants. You're a doctor, right?" he questions, his words casual, almost friendly. "Seems I didn't catch your name back then, but your pretty eyes? They've been on my mind."

But you're hardly listening; your focus is on Daryl, who stands before you. His face is swollen, barefoot, battered and bruised, dressed in dirty sweats, with an "A" painted on his chest. You bite your lip as you watch him struggle to avoid meeting your gaze. Despite his efforts, his eyes grow increasingly tearful by the second, and they eventually rise to meet yours. Your heart squeezes almost painfully, and you hold your breath, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill. All you want to do is apologize for ever putting him in a position where he had to watch you almost meet the bat. But instead, you resist the urge to throw yourself into his arms.

Negan catches the direction of your stare, and his grin broadens, slinging an arm over your shoulder with a possessive ease. "Oh yeah, I brought him along," he boasts, arrogance dripping from every syllable. "Figured you'd appreciate a look. I know he's a little dinged up, but that's mostly his own doin'."

The weight of his arm is suffocating, and you steel yourself against the flood of emotions, standing rigid in his grasp. An uneasy silence hangs in the air as you both fixate on Daryl, Negan's smile growing broader with every passing second. "What, no 'thank you'?" he chides, feigning insult as he steps back. "I didn't have to do it, you know. I could've just left him to rot in that damn cell—."

"Thank you," the words scrape out of you, coated in the gravel of suppressed fury and pain, maintaining the facade. "Thank you for allowing me to see my husband."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he replies, his glee unmistakable. "Now, how about a name? Or does 'Pee-Pee Pants' suit you?"

"Alice," you state, your gaze once again drifting toward Daryl, unable to resist. "Doctor Alice Dixon."

"Pretty," Negan remarks with a smirk. "Now let's get back to business." He then turns his attention to Rick, but in that moment, your hand reaches out toward Daryl, barely inches from his tattered silhouette. Every ounce of despair, agony, and the nagging fear that you might be losing your sanity converge in that fleeting gesture.

"Daryl..." you murmur.

"NO!" Negan interrupts sharply, as he swiftly pivots towards you. "No, you've got it all wrong. He's here as the help. You can ogle him all you want, but you can't touch him or talk to him, and I won't make you chop anythin' off him." His voice lifts, mockingly sweet, to address Rick and the crowd. "Same goes for everyone."

The tension crackles in the air, but Negan's smile never falters. "Now, get to work, boys. Let's see what they've got for us," he commands, signaling to a woman with olive skin and blonde-tipped hair amongst his crew. "Arat."

With a nod, she moves, her expression stern and uncompromising. "You heard him! Move!"

Your heart sinks as you watch Daryl being led away, a Savior gripping the back of his shirt.

Merle Dixon stands on the front porch of his home, his gaze fixed on the unsettling procession of Saviors moving from house to house. He leans casually against the railing, a lit joint between his lips—its smoke curling up into the air, as he waits for the man in a leather jacket and a bat.

He doesn't budge as a group of Saviors climb the few steps and move past him into his home, presumably to raid and take whatever they want. But Merle's attention is focused on another presence, a man casually walking, with Rick trailing behind while clutching a bat in his hand.

This was the sumbitch who took his brother, threatened his family. Merle can see it plain as day in Alie; she's been all kinds of messed up ever since that damned lineup, all holed up, whisperin' to herself. He was s'posed to be watchin' her back, and there's a part of him that feels like he let her down.

That ain't been sittin' right with him, not one bit.

Merle had heard the tale from Aaron 'bout how Alie went and made the ultimate sacrifice for his brother, ready to lay down her life. She figured Daryl was worth that kinda sacrifice, somethin' even their own ma wouldn't have done. Now, Merle can't rightly fathom what's goin' through Daryl's head, how it might be eatin' away at his brother, or how deep his anger runs, but one thing's for sure, a man's gotta protect his own.

Perhaps it's high time he repaid Alie for everything she had done for him. She saved his ass, not just in the physical sense, and he know damn well he wouldn't be standin' here if it weren't for her.

He's got a job to do, and he's damn well gonna do it right.

His contemplation is cut short as Negan and Rick draw near. Just as they are about to pass by, Merle decides to make his presence known, his voice laden with a smirk as he exhales a plume of smoke. "Well, well, well, ain't this a sight. The Savior-in-chief himself, I reckon," he calls out, his words laced with sarcasm. Negan and Rick both come to a sudden halt, their attention shifting to Merle on the porch.

"You must be Negan, swingin' that infamous bat of yours. Oh, what was her name again? Melissa?" Merle teases with a feigned thoughtful expression.

Negan gives Rick an exaggerated look of confusion before redirecting his attention to Merle. He takes in the man, from Merle's dark smirk to the glint in his eye. "It's Lucille," Negan corrects with emphasis, then glances back at Rick with a grin. "Is this joker serious? Maybe I'm losing my edge."

Merle maintains his smirk, undeterred by Negan's reaction. "Lucille, right. My apologies," he says, taking another drag from his joint. "Just thought I'd give the man who's been causin' so much ruckus 'round here a proper welcome."

"Is that right?" Negan muses, clearly intrigued by Merle's bravado.

Merle nonchalantly waves the lit joint like a peace offering, his gaze never wavering from Negan. "I heard all 'bout what you and your crew did, makin' ol' limp dick Rick here pay," Merle taunts, throwing a smirk in Rick's direction, who shoots back a look of thinly-veiled irritation. However, Merle isn't done needling him. "Wish I could've been there to see it myself. The name's Merle, in case you give a damn."

"I don't." Negan replies bluntly, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two men. "But I gotta say, I am intrigued by that hint of animosity I'm pickin' up here." He smiles, rubbing his hands together as if he's uncovering a juicy detail.

"What can I say, Rick and me, we got ourselves some unfinished business, ain't that right, Officer Friendly?" Merle jests, finally raising his prosthetic arm, which had been concealed by the porch railing.

"Hot damn! You shittin' me?" Negan exclaims, his interest visibly spiking, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Merle's modified limb. It doesn't take him long to connect the dots, and he looks at Rick with newfound amusement. "Seriously, Rick did that to you?"

"I shit you not," Merle replies with a chuckle.

"Ricky-dicky-Doo, I knew you had it in you," Negan jibes, clapping a heavy hand on Rick's shoulder before turning to ascend the porch steps toward Merle. As Rick follows, Negan pauses just before the threshold, turns back with a commanding air. "Rick, be a good host and fetch me some lemonade. And don't skimp on the ice, now." A charged silence hangs as Rick grips Lucille tighter, the tension palpable. But after a brief pause, he relents and strides off to get the lemonade.

Negan, momentarily, watches Rick's retreating figure with a gleeful expression before sauntering over to Merle. He positions himself alongside him, curiosity piqued. "So, this arm of yours... What's the story? Some biter got a taste?" he questions, casually reaching for the joint Merle extends.

"Nothin' as dramatic as a walker. It was all thanks to our dear Officer Friendly and his sidekick, that Chinese kid you played whack-a-mole with." Merle recounts, a bitter edge to his words. "They left me handcuffed to a pipe on a rooftop in Atlanta. Surrounded by walkers, I had no choice but to cut my own hand to survive. Nearly bled out doin' it."

Negan lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed as he exhales a cloud of smoke. "You chopped off your own hand? I gotta hand it to ya, that takes some serious steel cojones. But I'm startin' to see that you've got yourself quite the hefty pair," he says with a chuckle. "But what I don't get is," he leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "why you're here, bendin' the knee to Rick after everything he did to you?"

Merle nods towards a figure across the street, Negan follows the gesture to see Daryl helping move a mattress from one of the nearby houses. "My kid brother," he explains, "he's got himself a bitch out here."

Negan lets out a derisive laugh. "Oh, you're related to that prick, Mr. stick-up-his-ass over there?"

Merle gives a wry chuckle. "What can I say, family genetics, it's like a damn lottery. I got all the charm, and he got all the stick. But hey, we do some crazy things for family, right?

The moment is cut short, as Rick returns with a glass of lemonade, both men's attention shifts to him. Merle leans in towards Negan, as they watch Rick, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost sinister tone, as if letting Negan in on a dark secret. "You know, I'm actually a bit of a fan of yours. Always figured I'd play my cards right, wait for the perfect chance... you catch my drift?" he hints with a malevolent undertone. "But karma knows how to stroke it."

Negan chuckles heartily and turns to Rick as he climbs the steps. "I like this guy! He's a riot," he remarks, accepting the drink from Rick before turning back to Merle. "Now, let's see that badass arm of yours. Show me this masterpiece!"

Merle plays along, his smirk still in place. "Hey, I'll show ya whatever you want, as long as you don't go askin' to touch it. You gotta at least buy me dinner or somethin'," he jokes, reaching for the locking mechanism of his prosthetic arm. With a few pulls and tugs of the leather, he detaches it, revealing the scarred stump. "Ta-da! So, whatcha think?"

"Holy hell! Looks like a damn hard salami gone wrong!" Negan exclaims, leaning closer to inspect the scarred remnant. "How the hell do you jerk off, all left-handed and shit?"

"Ain't no need for manual labor," Merle says, slipping his prosthetic back into place. His smirk remains unwavering as he brushes off Negan's comments. "You seen this place? There's more pussy here than a damn gynecologist's office."

Negan lets out a loud laugh, clearly amused. "Ahh, you're my kind of guy!" he blurts out, slinging an arm over Merle's shoulder in a chummy gesture. "Come on, give me the goddamn grand tour." With that, he hands back the joint, having taken just a single drag.

Side by side, they amble down the steps, embarking on an impromptu tour, while Rick falls into step behind them, a silent shadow to their conversation. Merle, seizing the opportunity to probe, casually asks, "So, what's the setup like at your place? Beats this joint, I bet?"

Negan smirks and playfully wiggles his eyebrows. "Why, you interested?"

Merle chuckles, matching Negan's playfulness with his own. "Why the hell not? I'm always up for backin' the winning horse. Beats stickin' around here, puttin' up with Rick's gloom and doom," he retorts, shooting a glance over his shoulder at Rick, his expression laden with a mix of mockery and contempt. "Guy's a regular downer."

As Merle strolls beside Negan, projecting the image of a new ally, his mind replays a flashback from just two days ago with vivid clarity.

He had been seated in the backyard, nursing a bottle of liquor as a means to drown his worries, when the back door swung open. Expecting Jamie, his gaze instead landed on Alie. He scrutinized her face, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the paleness of her complexion. She joined him by the fire he had kindled, the only sound in the air being the fire's sporadic crackling. Reaching for the liquor bottle nestled between his feet, he extended it towards her wordlessly, unsure if she had even eaten anything to stomach a drink.

She declined with a shake of her head, her expression resolute as she turned to face him. "You remember that five-step plan I had for you back at the prison, after the Governor?"

Merle grunted, his interest piqued.

"It's time," Alie announced, her eyes losing their warmth, leaving only something cold behind. "Time for you to slip on them old shoes again, be the right-hand man."

Merle's head cocked slightly as he absorbed the weight of her words.

Leaning closer, her voice dropped to a hushed tone, her hand finding a warm place against his. "Negan's going to be here in a few days for their first tribute collection. Make him notice you. He'll see your potential, your caliber. You're the sort of man that would catch his eye."

Merle took a moment to process her strategy, the wheels in his mind gradually beginning to turn. "You want me to join the Saviors?" he clarified, the full scope of her plan dawning on him.

Alie nodded, "We need an insider. Someone to watch over Daryl and keep tabs on Negan."

Merle took another deep swig of the burning liquor, contemplating the severe ramifications of her plan. "There's a price for joinin' them, you know? It ain't gonna be simple. They're gonna wanna see some proof of loyalty, might even ask me to off one of our own."

"Then that's what you do," Alice replied, her voice ringing with steely conviction. "Pick someone. Do whatever it takes to bring Daryl back. I can live with it."

Now, as Merle walks in step with Negan, every fiber of his being is acutely aware of the path he has chosen. He is ready to cross any line, to protect his brother and his family.

You stand in front of the lab's double doors, forming a human barricade. The air crackles with tension as you confront Simon and the group of saviors who have assembled before you. Jamie, standing by your side, echoes your firm declaration, his voice steady and unwavering. "You heard the lady," he asserts firmly, "No one is permitted to enter here."

Simon, however, remains undeterred, his trademark cocky smile plastered on his face. "Whoa there, big guy," he drawls sarcastically, his voice oozing condescension. He scrutinizes Jamie's imposing figure with a dismissive sweep of his eyes. "Seems like you folks might be a tad out of the loop, or maybe news just ain't making its way around these parts quick enough. But I'm here to bring you up to speed – Alexandria? Well, it's officially Saviors' turf now. That means, that little slice of paradise, along with whatever you've got stashed away, it all falls under our jurisdiction." His gaze shifts from you to the slightly cracked laboratory door. "And for the two of you to be keepin' such a watchful eye on it like a couple of fortress sentinels, there must be somethin' mighty special tucked away in there."

Your fist tightens at your side, and you step in, pressing your hand against Jamie's back, silently cautioning him against any impulsive action. "There's nothing here for you, just a sterile environment that you could easily contaminate," you explain, your voice firm, no matter how disturbed this man makes you feel. "It's off-limits, Simon."

"Off-limits, she says?" he retorts mockingly, his grin growing wider. "Well, that's a new one. but I do appreciate a good mystery, I must say." Leaning in closer, his breath invades your personal space. "Just between us, whatcha got in there? Your secret recipe for canned peaches?" He taunts in a hushed tone, locking eyes with you. There's a tense standoff, and you maintain a blank expression, a mask of calm inherited from your father, even though your nerves are on high alert as Simon's smirk darkens. Beside you, you sense Jamie tensing up, ready to spring.

"Wow, quite the tough nut to crack, ain't ya?" Simon comments, glancing at his men with a feigned joviality. He steps back, his laughter still lingering in the air. "But here's the deal, sweetheart. The Saviors, well, we've got a real talent for cracking even the toughest nuts." His voice is light, but the threat is clear as he mimics the swing of an invisible bat with a sinister click of his tongue.

The air is thick with impending conflict, Jamie inching forward, ready to confront. But before tensions can erupt, a new voice cuts through the standoff. "Simon, what's going on here?" You glance past the Saviors to see Negan, Merle, and Rick approaching casually.

Simon turns, a hint of irritation in his voice. "The lady here says no entry," he reports, his tone betraying his annoyance at being challenged.

Negan makes a ticking noise with his tongue as he strides toward you, half a glass of what appears to be lemonade in hand. "Doctor pee pee pants, you know the rule: every house, every nook and cranny. No exceptions."

There is a pause, and with a weary sigh, you step back, your voice tinged with a touch of resignation. "Only two people, and please don't touch anything. Most of this stuff is hazardous."

Simon and the women from earlier, Arat, enter the lab, while Negan, still grinning broadly, hands his drink to a Savior at the door. He seems utterly at ease, a man without a care in the world. "You see, it's this type of thing that just tickles my balls," Negan jeers, his voice dripping with amusement. "A little cooperation, and everything's pleasant as punch."

Negan then strides past you into your lab, leaving his group and yours at the door. You exchange a knowing nod with Rick before following Negan inside, aware that this is where the real game begins.

Inside, Negan moves with an air of ownership, his confident swagger filling the room. He appears completely at home, surveying your equipment with a mixture of curiosity and entitlement.

"So, what's the deal with this place?" he questions, his attention turning toward the long table adorned with an assortment of machinery, some emitting a low hum. With a curious gaze, he approaches your glove box housing the severed walker's head, with its rotten brain exposed. "Or are you just into some freaky dicky stuff?"

Your reply is laced with sarcasm. "It's called science, in case that's a concept foreign to you." You move, shooting him a sidelong glance, not letting his comments rattle you as you make your way toward your working area, which houses all the easily contaminated materials. "From the looks of you, I doubt you're the academic type."

Negan's laughter rings out, clearly amused by your sharp tongue. "Oooh, feisty!" he quips, his tone playful. "Not everyone is a smarty-pants with looks to boot like you, doc." His eyes roam over your form, slow and deliberate.

You roll your eyes, staying composed and relaxed. Keeping yourself occupied, you snap your gloves before you begin organizing blood samples and petri dishes. But Negan isn't quite finished with his playful teasing. "I gotta ask, doc, do you rock them sexy glasses?" he continues, his tone suggestive. "Cause if you do, that'd be the cherry on top of the whole damn sundae."

Before you can respond, the basement door swings open, and the sound of footsteps fills the room as Simon and the women emerge from below, having completed their search.

"Nothin' of note here, boss," Simon reports, and Negan waves his hand dismissively, signaling for the others to exit. Soon, it's just you and Negan, alone in the laboratory.

"So, are you gonna spill the beans and tell me what you're workin' on?" he asks as he steps closer, his confident stride bringing him within your personal space. He leans casually on the table beside you, and a part of you instinctively recoils, memories of the horrifying night flashing in your mind – kneeling helplessly as he stood over you with his bat.

You lift your gaze to meet his, concealing the trauma and unease churning inside you. There's a discernible intensity in the way he scrutinizes you, from the determined look in your eyes to the loose strands of dark hair flowing down your back and further down your figure, marked by an unmistakable hint of male interest.

An alarm bell goes off in your head, but you know you have to play the game you've set up. "I'm a virologist, or I was," you begin, carefully choosing your words. "I was working for the military, trying to figure out what caused the outbreak, maybe even find a solution. But our facility was overrun."

You gesture towards the array of chemicals and equipment scattered across the lab. "Now, I'm attempting to continue the research here, but it's hard without a full team and the right resources. Everything's moving... painfully slow." you confess, allowing a hint of frustration to creep into your voice. It's a story that offers enough information to capture his interest but keeps the true extent of your capabilities hidden.

Returning your focus to the microscope before you, you retrieve a glass specimen containing a blood sample and deftly position it under the lens. "Do you want to see the virus—" Your sentence is abruptly halted as Negan's hand reaches out, his fingers grazing a loose strand of your hair. You react instinctively, smacking his hand away, your soft, glossy hair slipping from between his fingers. Your body remains tense, your hand subtly shifting toward the concealed knife mechanism strapped to your wrist. "Do NOT touch me," you sternly command.

Negan withdraws his hand, his smile widening, seemingly unfazed by your reaction. "There it is, darlin', that bravery," he whispers, pushing himself off the table. "I want you to know, what you did out there, offerin' yourself up for your husband like that... that was some serious, hardcore shit."

You scoff, wary of his intentions.

"I mean every word of it," he insists, stepping closer to emphasize his sincerity. "Lucille's popped her fair share of noggins, but she ain't ever seen anything quite like what you've got goin' on, especially after you saw what happened to your ginger friend."

At the mention of Abraham, a surge of anger simmers beneath the surface, triggering memories of the gruesome scene. You can almost smell the metallic scent of blood and brain matter sticking to you, the brutal death that still haunts your thoughts. Your heart races within your chest, and you feel breathless.

But suddenly, the scent of blood gives way to the aroma of cigar smoke, and you sense your father's presence materializing right behind you.

"Relax, mia figlia," he whispers to you. "You hold the strings, not him. Play him."

Negan continues, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "Y'know, true bravery ain't just about actin' all tough and macho. It's about pushin' through even when you're scared outta your damn mind, pissin' your goddamn pants, and still steppin' up to the plate when it counts."

"I wasn't trying to be brave," you mumble, and there's a fleeting moment where he holds your gaze before his familiar smirk reappears.

"And that's precisely what makes you a real, bona fide badass," he remarks, moving in front of the microscope. There is a brief pause as he squints through the lens, his posture bent to accommodate his height.

You watch him with slightly raised eyebrows, wondering what that was all about, and you don't have to wait long for an explanation. "Which brings me right back to an offer I've got for you." he says, words lingering in the air. "An offer, one that's temptin' as hell."

He lifts from the telescope, facing you with a grin, his eyes taking on a seductive gaze. "How about you become one of my wives?" he suggests.

Both of your brows shoot up in surprise, momentarily stunned by Negan's audacious proposition, unsure if he's being serious or if this is some twisted power play. You assume that when he says, "one of my wives," there must be many women subjected to that role.

His smile grows even wider as he elaborates, "I get it, you might think you just literally threw yourself under Lucille for your husband, so what chance do I have with a super hot doctor like you, right? But lemme tell ya, you'd be surprised at the lengths these wives will go to protect their husbands." The implication of his words strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

Your blood runs cold at the realization that he's serious about this proposition. You've already shown him how far you're willing to go to protect Daryl, and that act of self-sacrifice has made you a valuable commodity in his eyes, and he's here to take advantage of that.

Negan steps closer, and on instinct, you take a step back. "I'll make it worth your while. You bring all your little gadgets and join me at the Sanctuary." he offers, gesturing toward the machines and equipment around you. "I can hook you up with a sweet setup, your own fancy laboratory, the whole nine yards. Live like the ballsy queen that you are."

"You're in danger." A voice, unmistakably your father's, whispers urgently in your ear, "He's not asking, nor is this an offer." You realize the truth in those words. Negan has complete power over you, and he can coerce your compliance, especially since he holds Daryl as a bargaining chip.

Seizing the moment of your silence, Negan presses further. "And to sweeten the deal, if you play nice, I might even let you have some conjugal visits with your husband—ex-husband to be." He laughs, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "So, what's your verdict, doc?"

You maintain your composure, though it's challenging to keep your anger in check as you face Negan. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you whisper harshly, your voice tinged with disbelief and irritation. "Were you dropped on your head as a child or something?"

Negan's response is a whistle, accompanied by a sly smile. "Phew, look at those eyes," he comments, with an underlying hint of innuendo. "I can't decide if I should be scared or turned on."

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you clench your fists, standing firm. "I have to respectfully decline your offer," you state clearly, hoping to convey finality.

Negan responds in his usual mocking tone, "I get it, darlin', I'm shooting the shot too soon. We'll let the piss on your pants dry first." With that, he begins to move around you. "But still, point out what you need here, and my guys will get it all packed up for you."

You realize he plans to take you regardless of your answer. Quickly, you scramble for a strategy, trying to create leverage. "I can't just pack up my work," you argue. "You mentioned building me a lab. Does that mean you have engineers and architects among your people?" You question him, hoping to plant a seed for a fabricated story. When Negan looks back at you, you casually shrug. "No offense, but judging by your men, I see a lot of brawn, not much brain."

Negan chuckles at your observation. "In a world chock-full of nails, I need a whole lotta hammers," he responds, seemingly entertained by your comment.

That's all you need to spin your lie further. "My work is dangerous," you explain, mixing truth with fiction. "Many of the chemicals I use are toxic if inhaled or if released into the air." You walk over to the other long table where your books are stacked, your face earnest as you continue. "This place, this lab… I know it might not look much, but it's designed with safety in mind." You gesture toward the building that was once a church. "This is the outcome of months of hard work from skilled engineers, architects, lot of resources painstakingly scavenged; lives even lost to put it together."

Negan raises an eyebrow at your words. "Well, where them nerds at?" he asks. "We'll take 'em along with us."

"They're dead," you respond with a feigned sadness, continuing to spin your web of calculated deception. "Noah, Reg, Pete, Nicolas." You mention names that hold partial truth. "Some time ago, a horde of the dead swept through here, and a portion of our wall collapsed." You let out a deep sigh. "We lost a lot that day."

Negan watches you, as you feed him a carefully constructed narrative, his expression contemplation.

"Make him believe it. Leave no room for doubt," your father's whisper echoes in your mind.

You take a step forward, a note of resignation in your voice. "Look, don't think I don't understand, I know how this works." you state, your voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. "I know as long as I prove myself useful to you, provide something of value, there's a shot you'll start seeing my worth. And I also know that might just help keep Daryl safe. And maybe, just maybe, if I do right by you, you'll give him back to me."

Negan chuckles at your words. "Would you just look at that pretty brain of yours workin' overtime," he remarks with amusement. "Thinkin' ahead of the game."

Deciding it's time to offer him something concrete, you gesture towards the church's basement door. "I want to show you something," you say, leading the way. There's a brief pause, and he follows, trailing close behind.

As you both descend into the dimly lit lower hallway, Negan keeps up his playful banter. "Leadin' me down into a dark basement, huh?" He jokes, "Just so we're clear, if you're tryin' to take advantage of me, I'm givin' my full consent."

You roll your eyes at his relentless humor, guiding him to a small room that once served as an office. As he steps inside, the sound of his boots crunching over the thick plastic lining the walls and floor fills the space. His eyes roam the room, eventually focusing on two large barrels in the center.

"What have we got here? Some kind of booze?" he guesses, picking up on the scent that's very similar to apple cider in the air.

"No, nothing like that," you correct, positioning yourself beside him. "As a virologist, part of my expertise lies in microbiology," you say, smirking slightly and gesturing towards the barrel. "What you're looking at is the first batch of antibiotics we're producing."

Negan appears skeptical, his eyebrow knitting as he looks down at you. "From scratch?"

"Yes," you nod confidently, knowing you have to sell the idea to him.

He regards the barrels in front of him, scanning the transparent plastic tubes fitted to facilitate oxygen flow. You continue, maintaining the ruse, weaving in more details to bolster your fabricated narrative. "You see, this room has been specially insulated to maintain the correct pH balance, providing the microbial the perfect environment to grow."

Turning fully toward Negan, your voice assumes a more intimate and persuasive tone. "I'm showing you this because I know you understand that the biggest problem in this world isn't a lack of food or the dead. We can grow food, and we can fight the dead."

You hold his gaze, standing close under the light fixture, and his eyes run over your face as he listens.

"Do you know what the biggest problem was during the Dark Ages?" you pose a rhetorical question. "It was diseases—everything from the bubonic plague to whooping cough, smallpox, influenza, you name it. Nowadays, doctors are a rare commodity, but even with a doctor, any of those diseases could make a comeback." Your words are steeped in truth, drawing from the harsh realities you've witnessed, like the Spanish flu outbreak at the prison. "It's only a matter of time before resources run dry, and we're all fucked."

Your voice drops to a hush as if you're sharing a secret. "Alexandria has a working lab that can provide that for you. I know this is just our first batch, and we're just getting started. But I'm talking about the future, the long run." You pause, allowing the weight of your words to sink in. "It may take time, but I'm committed to doing the work. We'll cooperate. Rick, he's a good leader; he'll work with you."

Negan's face breaks out into slow smirks, seemingly impressed. "So, I'm guessin' this is one of them 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' kinda situations."

"Yes. A very simple one." You don't waver, locking eyes with Negan. "You give me Daryl back."

There is a moment of pause.

And then, Negan laughs, seemingly impressed by your negotiation. "I knew I liked you, doc," he remarks, his smile wide as if in admiration. "But now, you just... poof." He gestures dramatically, as if his mind has been blown.

Almost as if on cue, a distant sound of gunfire reverberates through the air, a stark reminder of who you were dealing with.

Negan's smile slowly drops, replaced by something serious. "Goddamn it, Rick," he mutters in frustration. Without another word, he abruptly turns and strides out of the room. You release a sigh of relief, uncertain if your persuasive efforts were enough to sway him into leaving you be and securing Daryl's safety. You can only hope that the seeds of reasoning you've planted in his mind will take root.

Your heart feels heavy as you watch Dwight unload Daryl's bike from Rosita's van. In the background, a line of the Saviors' trucks stands, laden with mattresses, sofas, and other spoils Negan is taking from Alexandria. But your focus isn't on those material losses; your focus is entirely on Daryl.

You stand there, a mask of fear thinly veiled by a facade of calm plastered on your face. Inside, helplessness gnaws at you relentlessly, as anxiety has firmly lodged itself in your chest, palpable and suffocating. Your foot taps an uneasy rhythm on the ground, your eyes unblinkingly fixed on Daryl's back, a constant in your line of sight.

The conversation with Negan replays over and over in your head. You rack your brain desperately searching for anything you can say or do that could persuade Negan to release Daryl. Yet, deep down, you know it's a near-impossible task. But you knew it wouldn't be simple, and you didn't expect immediate results when you spoke with him earlier. Still, a sense of dread fills you, knowing you'll have to watch Daryl being taken away once more.

The earlier gunfire that disrupted your conversation had come from Carl's attempt to stop some of the Saviors from taking all the medication—the same medication Denise had died securing. This led to Negan's true agenda—the reason why he had shown up earlier than expected. It was a strategy to disarm Alexandria and take all your guns. A deliberate tactic to catch you off guard, so you wouldn't anticipate his visit, leaving no room for your group to prepare or resist.

This became even more evident when Olivia was interrogated over two missing handguns, her life on the line. Which led Rick to call a meeting in hopes of finding them.

You realize there's a part of Negan that still doubts whether he has truly broken Rick or your people. And amidst the chaos, you learn that you're not the only one lying to Negan. Gabriel had whispered to you how he and Rick had convinced Negan that Maggie was dead, supposedly buried out in the back.

"Doc!" Negan calls out, jarring you out of your thoughts. Daryl's eyes flicker toward you, pausing briefly in his laborious task of loading the trucks.

Negan strides over, leaving Rick and the others behind by the gate, as he comes to stand uncomfortably close. "You didn't honestly think I'd leave without sayin' goodbye to my new favorite girl, now did you?" he asks, his voice dripping with mock affection. "About my offer from earlier... are you absolutely sure I can't persuade you to change your mind?" he probes with a wink, a smirk playing on his lips.

You can't help but sigh in exasperation, and as your eyes inevitably seek out Daryl once more, the question that's been weighing on your mind slips out. "What we talked about earlier; I meant every word... it's just... I need to ask if Daryl can stay now."

Negan's gaze follows yours, his smile widening at the sight of your husband. "Not happenin'," he states bluntly.

You step back, your lip caught between your teeth, silently pleading with your eyes as they lock onto Daryl. Negan, sensing your vulnerability, feigns contemplation. "You know what, I don't know," he muses, his gaze fixed on Daryl. "Maybe Daryl could plead his case. Maybe Daryl could sway me."

The atmosphere is thick with unspoken emotions, and you hold your breath, the lump in your throat constricting your voice. You know Daryl's answer even before he looks away. Negan turns his expectant gaze to Daryl, his head tilted, a twisted grin on his face. "Well, Daarryl?"

There's a tense moment before Daryl's eyes finally meet yours. His body is tense, fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turn white. But the look in his eyes is heartbreaking as you hold his bruised and tearful face. In that gaze, you see his resignation; he won't beg, won't give Negan the satisfaction because he knows Negan won't let him go. This is merely a sick game of dominance.

Silently, you nod at Daryl, swallowing the scream that threatens to escape your throat, the plea for him to stay, to understand that you need him desperately, that your mind is slipping into darkness. But then, Merle's words echo in your mind from the time at the prison. "I ain't gonna beg." Daryl won't beg, not after everything.

Negan laughs mockingly, "Aw-shucks!" he exclaims, throwing a triumphant fist in the air. "Well, you tried," he taunts, reveling in the torment etched across Daryl's face.

With a gleeful chuckle, Negan turns back to you. "Now, if you want your husband back, you better take your pretty behind back to that lab and earn his freedom," he instructs, leaning in close, his breath warm against your face. "The stuff you're talking about, it's massive, world-changing kinda big, and I'm gonna need some rock-solid proof."

His words hang in the air as he finally steps away. "Until then, this is ta-ta, darlin'," he says, his voice dripping with insincerity. But just as he begins to walk away, he pauses and turns back to the gathered crowd. "Merle, you comin'?" he calls out.

From among the Alexandrians, Merle steps forward, his stride confident. Behind him, Jamie follows with a bewildered look etched on his face. "Hell yeah, I am," Merle declares.

Jamie's brows knit together in confusion. "Hey! Merle, what the hell are you doin', dude?" he asks, his voice tinged with surprise, struggling to make sense of the situation.

Merle's response is blunt, his tone dismissive. "Ain't it obvious? I'm ditchin' this joint. What the hell does it look like I'm doin'?" he calls back, his decision seemingly unwavering.

"What?!" Jamie's reaction is immediate, his eyes widening in shock, just as whispers ripple through the crowd. "Are you serious right now?! Are you FUCKIN' serious? " he exclaims, stepping forward, his entire body tensed, his voice filled with disbelief. "After everything?! There is no fuckin' way!"

You act swiftly, moving to Jamie's side, your hands gripping his arms in an attempt to hold him back and prevent him from unintentionally sabotaging the plan. "MERLE! BROTHER!" Jamie shouts, his voice laced with hurt at the person he considers his best friend's choice and betrayal, but Merle doesn't look back, his resolve unshaken.

Negan watches the drama unfold with amusement, and you suspect he sees this as a win, a validation of his control. Rosita steps up, her face taut with suppressed anger. She takes over from you, her fingers interlocking with Jamie's as you step back. "Let him go," she whispers to Jamie, her voice a mix of fury and resignation. "He's made his choice. We don't need him."

As Merle walks past Rick, he abruptly stops. "Oh, one more thing, Rick…" he says, feigning a moment of thoughtfulness. In a sudden, swift move, he swings his fist at Rick's face. There's a gasp from the crowd, as the impact resonates with a loud thud, and Rick stumbles backward. "That's for my damn arm, you prick," Merle shouts, glaring at Rick with disdain, before spitting on the ground.

Negan's laughter fills the air, a harsh, mocking sound. "Ooh, that's got to hurt!" he exclaims, clearly enjoying the scene. He then ushers Merle towards the truck, turning to Rick with a mocking comment. "You'll be fine, Ricky boy. Look on the bright side, nobody died."

You can feel the weight of your people's gazes on you, their silent expectation for you to take action, to lead as you've done in the past. But instead, you turn away, unable to bear witness to any more of Negan's terror and his cruel delight in stripping away those you care about.

"Alie," you hear Amanda call your name from among the crowd, her tone pleading, but you don't acknowledge her. You just walk away, heading back to what once felt like home, now just a hollow shell of safety and normalcy. Each step feels robotic, disconnected from the world that continues to spiral into chaos around you. A wave of nausea builds in your throat, threatening to overwhelm you.

As you walk, the faint scent of cigar smoke drifts around you, and another set of footsteps falls in sync with yours. You feel a familiar, comforting hand slip into yours — your father's. His presence is both a balm and a reminder of your losses. Your hand tightens around his, tears brimming in your eyes as you think of Merle, the guilt gnawing at you for possibly sending him into danger, wondering if this is another decision you will regret later. "Mia figlia, it's time to come home," your father repeats gently, and you fight to ignore his words. "It's time to come home."

Reaching the front porch, you open the door mindlessly, only to step back startled as Jesus suddenly appears before you. "Are they gone?" he asks, leaving you momentarily puzzled by how he stayed hidden from the Saviors.

"He's one slippery son of a bitch," you recall Daryl saying.

You glance back, half-expecting to see Negan's group still lurking. "Almost," you reply, watching as Jesus moves to the window, peering out cautiously. As you observe him, an idea begins to take shape in your mind. "Hey, Jesus, do me a favor."

He looks back at you, his expression curious. "I need you to follow them," you state, your eyes simmering dark. "Even if they have left by now, they can't be far, not with all that crap they loaded up."

As he steps away from the curtain, his eyebrows lift in surprise. You unclip the walkie-talkie from your pants and hand it to him. "I want to know where Negan sleeps."

A small smirk plays on Jesus's lips in consideration as he takes the walkie-talkie. "You got it," he replies, and then he's out the door, swift and purposeful.

You stand there momentarily, engulfed in silence and alone. But then the nausea hits you with full force. You move, sprinting towards the bathroom, barely making it in time before succumbing to the overwhelming urge to vomit, your face pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet. The reality of the situation seems to be crashing down on you all at once.

Notes:

In the comic, it's Rick who tells Jesus to follow the Saviors.
In the show, it's Sasha.
In this story, it's Alie. lol