Hello everyone, I apologize for the delay in this post. I've been facing some difficulties with writing and getting proper sleep lately. I'm not quite certain what's going on, but I also decided to take a trip to get away for the holidays, hoping that might help. I'm back now and will make an effort to get back on schedule, although I can't guarantee it. Thank you all for your patience and understanding. Much love to you all!
Chapter recap - Chapter 18 - Morality - "But if you must have morality, then make it only a few, draw a line where you would never cross. For me, it's you and your mother. The two of you I will not risk, the two of you I will protect, and kill for, no one and nothing comes above the two of you, everything else is just another piece on a chessboard." He releases your hands, leaning back in his chair. He reaches for his coffee again, and there is a light in his eyes, and a smirk on his lips.
Too far a way to go
can't see the light
(light, light)
Come through the dark
Into your
Into your heart
Tonight here tonight
Through the Dark by Vanbur
Chapter 61 - Rules are Rules...
"We're on easy street, and it feels so sweet."
Daryl lies there in the darkness, enduring the relentless blare of "Easy Street," which continues to grate on his nerves. They reckon they can break him with these mind games, and in their twisted way, they ain't entirely wrong. The physical torture is nothing compared to the internal war raging within him. An inferno of emotions engulfs him: anger, regret, sorrow, and guilt, threatening to consume him whole.
But survival's always been his second nature, like his damn anthem since he was a kid. The familiar sensation of helplessness ain't foreign to him. He has weathered the most brutal of storms and withstood relentless beatings from his old man, never allowing them to break him.
However, this? This is uncharted territory—an entirely new level of despair. A level of desperation he has never known, and it's all his damn fault. He got Glenn killed, and Alie... she almost died for him, for a worthless nobody like him. The weight of his actions is like a thousand-pound anchor, draggin' him into a pit of self-loathing.
Since his capture by the Saviors, time has blurred into a disorienting haze. Stripped of everything—clothes and dignity alike—he hardly registers the cold in this dark, cramped closet they've got him in. Not with his mind so far away, trapped in a limbo of agony and longing, taunting him with vivid, painfully clear memories of her.
And he's right there again, with his Alie, bathed in that soft morning light filtering through their bedroom window, curtains swaying' gentle-like. She's hovering over him, her bare body softly pressed against his chest, her warm skin a stark contrast to the chilling cold he feels now. Sunlight catches the delicate texture of her dark hair, casting a reddish hue as it falls around him like the ocean.
Her laughter, a sound he knows better than his own heartbeat, it echoes in his thoughts, drowning out that ear-piercin' music. Her brown eyes, deep and shining like molten gold in the sun, it's a memory he clings to, wishing he could turn back time and make things right again.
But then the memory shifts cruelly. He's right back in that damn lineup, surrounded by the Saviors, pinned to the ground so hard it feels like his ribs might just crack. Alie's kneeling beside him, terror etched in her wide eyes, her body trembling under the harsh spotlight. Negan's menacing figure looms above her, his bat raised.
He had never felt that kind of fear, not even when his old man stood over him, belt in hand, not when he was dragged out to the pillar for his lashings. This fear was a new flavor, as he watched his person, his wife, ready to lay down her life to protect him, willing to die so that he might live.
That memory, it plays over and over in agonizing detail—the taste of dirt, sweat, and tears, the anticipation of the fatal blow, the sickening thud when Lucille struck flesh, the overpowering pain of knowing he couldn't save her, that he's the reason she was there.
Damn it all!
He had been so damn close, hadn't he? Close to having it all, the things he reckoned were impossible, the things he figured weren't meant for him, all of it, right there—happiness, a family, a future with the one person he wanted most. How in the hell did he end up here? How the hell did he manage to screw it all up? All of it, just got whisked away in one damn swoop, paying the price for his reckless choices.
Daryl clenches his eyes shut, a scream, raw and filled with pain, clawing at his throat. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the torment will tear him apart, but he refuses to give in. With trembling limbs, he pushes himself up, rising as if the act of standing could ease the suffocating weight on his chest. But the guilt and regret cling to him, threatening to yank him back into the abyss.
The cheerful music blaring in the background mocks his agony. Desperate to numb the pain, Daryl brings his fists to the concrete wall of his prison, slamming them hard over and over again. The physical pain offers a temporary distraction, allowing him to focus his overwhelming emotions into something tangible. He barely notices his knuckles scraping against the rough surface, the concrete eating away at his skin.
When he stops, his knuckles are battered, blood trickling down his fingers, staining the wall. He rests his forehead against the cold concrete, his shoulders shaking, tears flowing freely, releasing his pent-up sorrow and anger.
There, his mind drifts to a recent interaction with Negan. He recalls being led by Dwight into a room that resembled a makeshift studio apartment, complete with a small kitchenette, a bed, and a television. There, Negan had awaited him. Daryl kept his head down, fearing that his anger would get the best of him again.
Negan had rambled on about Dwight's transformation into a loyal follower, uttering phrases like "D saw the light. He's a hustler now, and you could be too," while making a dismissive gesture toward Dwight with his barbed-wire bat. "See, we weren't always cool. D and his super-hot wife and super-hot sis."
Daryl knows precisely where this conversation is heading, having been an unwilling observer to the ordeal involving Dwight, Sherry, and her sister. But Negan doesn't know that, and he continues, recounting the events in the burned forest, from Sherry's sister's meds to Dwight and Sherry's escape and their return to beg for Negan's pardon.
"Dwight begged me not to kill Sherry, which I thought was kinda cute," Negan remarks with a twisted chuckle. "So, I was just gonna kill him." Leaning in closer, he adopts a tone as if he's about to share some scandalous secret. "But then Sherry says she will marry me if I let Dwight live, which, if you think about it, is a pretty screwed-up deal since I was gonna marry her sister until she wound up dead."
Drawing back with a wicked grin, Negan adds casually, "Buuuttt, Sherry is suuper-hot!" He continues nonchalantly, "Anyways, it was a start, but it wasn't enough, so Dwight got the iron, and then I married his super-hot wife." He glances at Dwight with sadistic pleasure. "Ex-wife."
Daryl can sense the pain radiating from Dwight, but Negan isn't finished yet. "After all that, he still got on board. Now look at him. Pow! One of my top guys!" Then Negan turns his attention to Daryl, "All that to say, I think you can be too."
Daryl doesn't look up as Negan invades his personal space, standing so close that he can feel his breath on his face. "You see, we got ourselves a rule among the Saviors, and it's a damn simple one," Negan states, turning to Dwight and raising Lucille as if it were a teacher's pointer at the man next to him.
"You earn what you take." Dwight responds almost inaudibly.
"That's absolutely right, Dwighty boy!" Negan exclaims, as though they were in a classroom, though the atmosphere couldn't be further from educational. He directs the same sarcastic grin toward Daryl, his voice taking on an icy edge. "Daryl, I'm gonna take your super-hot wife, and that, my friend, is non-negotiable."
Daryl's fists clench involuntarily, his vision blurring by a haze of fury. He fights the overwhelming urge, refusing to let anger consume him, screaming at himself not to act on it.
"Of course, I'm not gonna leave you hangin'," Negan persists in his manipulation, undeterred, gesturing around the room's meager comforts. "All of this could be yours. You could be one of us, easily one of my top guys." He offers, as if the material possessions in the room hold any genuine meaning for Daryl. "All you gotta do is answer one question."
A tense silence hangs in the air before Negan poses his question, each moment amplifying the weight of the impending choice. "Who are you?"
Over his dead body.
It doesn't matter what Negan throws at him. They could torture him, break him inside and out, Negan could put his head on the Sanctuary's fence spikes if he damn well pleased. He ain't gonna let 'em win. He won't give in, even if it means paying with his life. He'd rather face the slowest death than hand over his wife, say Negan's name as his own.
But Merle... Merle was doing just that. Yet deep down, Daryl knows his brother wouldn't willingly join the Saviors. And if there's one thing he knows about his wife, she must be involved, somehow pulling strings in this mess. Merle wouldn't just walk away from her, trading the one person who's had his back for three square meals, without some ulterior motive.
Regardless of the circumstances, Daryl's got one thing on his mind—survival. It ain't for himself, but for her, because he understands that he'll be used as a pawn against her.
He gotta hang on, chow down on that dog food they hand him, and keep on survivin', all for the dream they had, for that promise they made to each other. He's gotta figure a way out, to make things right, protect his family like he should've done from the start, even if it feels like an impossible task now.
"I'm right here with you. I'm here, and we'll do it together. You and me, okay? It's you and me, like always."
That's what she said to him in the woods, moments before they were caught by the Saviors. Those words are now his lifeline, what he holds on to. He will not let this be the end.
You're sitting on the cold bathroom floor, your back against the porcelain tub. The taste of vomit still lingers in your mouth, an unwelcome reminder of the morning's persistent nausea. Your ears are ringing loudly, drowning out the world around you as you clutch the plastic stick in your trembling hand. A small screen displays a plus sign, and several others are scattered around you, all bearing the same undeniable symbol.
In the distance, Jamie's voice calls out, knocking on the bathroom door. But it feels like an echo reverberating through a vast tunnel, far removed from your current state. Panic courses through your veins, your heart pounding, as you look up at the vision of your father sitting in front of you on the closed toilet seat, looking out of place in his crisp suit.
"Dad, what do I do?" you whisper, barely audible, as he looks at the pregnancy test with a stoic demeanor. Lately, you haven't been able to keep food down, and you've thought, perhaps it's the stress of it all, but now…
"This changes everything," your father says, his voice steady.
Your eyes catch a book on the floor beside you, tears clouding your vision. "The Pregnancy Guide for Men: What to Expect When You're Expecting." After the Saviors ransacked your home—stealing mattresses, overturning furniture—you were in the bedroom, tidying up when you found the book, Daryl's book. It's this book that led you to take a pregnancy test, fully expecting a negative result.
"You're carrying a life," your father continues, his words laden with significance. "The future of the Hart's legacy."
A loud knock comes again. "Alie, is everythin' alright?" Jamie's muffled voice seeps through the door. "You've been in there for a while, and I'm starting to get worried."
You hear Rosita's voice outside the door, drawing your attention momentarily. "Just go in there," she mutters, presumably to Jamie.
"Why don'tcha go in there? You're a woman," Jamie responds in a hushed tone.
Rosita scoffs, her frustration evident. "And what am I supposed to say? It's not like we're close."
You return your gaze to the pregnancy test, your emotions swirling. This was everything you had ever wanted and dreamed of, something that now felt tangible in your hand. But with the Saviors looming over your shoulder, it all feels like you're walking on a tightrope.
"Before, I worried about the dead, questioning if I should even bring a life into this world," you say with a shake of your head. "But I forgot how dangerous the living could be, where the real threat lies."
Your father's hand reaches over, gripping yours, anchoring you. "It's irrelevant. This only means the game has changed. Everything you've worked hard for, every hardship you've endured, has led you to this precise moment. As the world crumbled, you made it happen. You achieved what you desired—a chance at motherhood, a baby with the person you cherish. But in doing so, you've raised the stakes, with so much more now on the line to lose."
You meet your father's intense gaze, his words sinking in. "Negan and the Saviors stand in your way now. What will you do to protect your unborn, your future?"
You take a deep breath when you reply. "Anything," you declare firmly. "Everything."
"Then draw your line where you would never cross," he repeats the words he once said to you. There's a small smile on his face as he echoes them. "For me, it was you and your mother."
You understand now. Your path is clear. You've fought to be here, killed for this moment. It's your future, you made it here, just as you and Daryl talked about as teenagers. You're determined to turn it into reality, and it starts with getting Daryl back, no matter what it takes.
Your father's nod, seemingly understanding your thoughts. "It's time to embrace who you are, who you were always meant to be. It's time to come home."
Before you can reply, the bathroom door handle rattles. "Alie, I'm coming in," Jamie announces, pushing the door open slightly, his hand covering his eyes. "Cover up anything you don't want me to see, cause here I come." He warns playfully, and there's a pause as he peeks through his fingers.
"Oh," he lets out, dropping his hand when he realizes you're decent. The room fills with an awkward silence as Jamie takes in the scene - the empty pregnancy test boxes, test sticks scattered on the floor. He closes the door gently, before lowering himself beside you, his large frame folding into the cramped space. "You're pregnant, huh," he finally says, his voice betraying no surprise.
"I just don't understand how it happened so soon," you confess, looking at the test in your hand.
Jamie looks thoughtful for a moment. "Well, I ain't no doctor or anything, but when two people love each other," he starts, a mischievous smile on his face. Before he can finish, you playfully swat him, and he shrinks back with a giggle.
You exhale again, "Daryl and I talked about starting a family," you begin, instinctively tracing the tiny scar on your upper arm, a reminder of that decision. "I only had my contraceptive implant removed just a few weeks ago, and it normally takes months for the hormones to balance and pregnancy to be possible."
Jamie hums thoughtfully beside you. "Yeah, but is it impossible to get pregnant early?" he asks.
"Well... No," you reply with a sigh, your medical knowledge kicking in. "Some women can conceive immediately after the implant is removed."
Jamie nods, his tone becoming more serious as he lowers his voice, speaking words you couldn't bring yourself to say. "I know you wish this wasn't happening right now, and it must be scary as hell, especially with everything that's happened. But it's here," he says, nodding toward the pregnancy test still in your hand. "And I'm here for you, you know that, right? You can talk to me."
You cast your eyes downward, your shoulders drooping, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The room falls silent as Jamie waits patiently for your next words.
When you remain silent, he opens up further. "I don't know if I ever told you this, but there was a sergeant I used to know back when I first joined the army. He saw my wet ears and kinda took me in under his wing," Jamie starts, his tone filled with nostalgia. "He was this cool cat from Chicago, joined the army after 9/11, and he was pretty much deployed all over the world—Somalia, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan." He pauses, glancing at you expectantly. "But something happened to him on his last mission, something he wouldn't share."
You meet Jamie's sympathetic gaze, his large brown eyes filled with understanding, as he continues. "After that, he struggled to sleep, eat. He was… talking to himself, kept saying his ears were ringing," he says, and your hand subconsciously moves to your ear as you listen intently. "They said it was PTSD, but he never showed a sign before that."
You avert your gaze, your throat tightening as you recall your last conversation with Carol. "What you went through, what you had to do… trauma manifests in many ways," you had said to her, and you wonder if this is what she must have felt before she went up and disappeared. "It's normal to feel like everything is under control one day, only for a single event to crack open the protective barrier that keeps everything at bay."
Jamie inches closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. "I know you've been talkin' to yourself, can't sleep, can't eat," he whispers gently. "We both know how strong you are, but you gotta give yourself a break. You've been in the trenches, a civilian in a war zone long before the world fell apart. Now, facing death, something so brutal, feeling like your ticket is punched, accepting the end... it changes a person."
You remember advising Carol. "You know you need to talk, so why not with me?"
A moment hangs in the air as you choke down the lump in your throat and finally open up. "I just... I just can't... I can't get myself away from that moment. I'm stuck on my knees... covered in Abraham's remains. I smell the blood in my sleep... I hear Maggie's scream… I see the bat coming down on my head. And then I think how selfish it is for me to feel this way when others have lost so much." Your voice breaks, tears flowing freely.
"You're not selfish," he reassures you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close to his side. "You're really not."
You shake your head, burying yourself in Jamie's embrace, finding solace in the weight of his arm and the warmth radiating from him. "And now this… I just have this terrible, gnawing feeling it might not work out for us this time," you murmur, your tears dampening his shirt as you grip the test stick tightly. "But I'll die before I let him take this from me."
"Don't think like that. Everything will be okay in the end," Jamie says, gently lifting your chin to meet your gaze.
"And if it's not okay?" you ask through your tears.
"Then it's not the end," he replies with a smile, his thumb brushing your cheeks to wipe away your tears. "We'll fight them if we have to. You've got people who love you, who believe in you. And we'll get Daryl back. Your baby will have his father."
You nod in agreement. You refuse, absolutely refuse to lose, but first, you must understand exactly who these Saviors and Negan truly are, and what you're up against.
"And hey, don't you forget, this little one's gonna have a damn cool uncle like me," Jamie tries to lighten the mood. "We all know I'm a hell of a lot better than... Merle." His voice falters as he mentions Merle, his expression turning somber.
You can see the contemplation on his face as he hesitates, unsure if he should voice what's been on his mind. "You sent him, didn't you?" he finally asks, his voice filled with curiosity. "There ain't no way he would join the Saviors. I had to physically restrain him from coming after you that day... and I'm glad I did, even though he was pissed off, ready to tear them a 'whole new asshole'—his words, not mine."
"Yes, I sent him," you confess, locking eyes with Jamie. "We needed someone on the inside."
"I knew it!" he exclaims. "Why didn'tcha tell me?"
You give Jamie a look that says it all. Both of you know he's not the best at keeping secrets, and you couldn't risk the potential consequences if he had inadvertently shared this information with Rosita or Rick. It was a tough choice, but necessary to keep him in the dark.
Jamie lets out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, you don't gotta keep anything from me, right? I can follow orders if that's what you need. I've got your back."
You can't help but smile. "I love you. I don't know if I ever told you that."
He snorts, his smile widening. "Love you too. Now, let's go get you some food, huh? Everyone in Alexandria can hear your stomach growling." With that, he stands up, gently pulling you to your feet.
You gather yourself, picking up the empty boxes, wrappers, and test sticks, tossing them in the trash. As you wash your hands, Jamie waits by the door. "You know, Jamie's a great name for a boy or a girl," he jokes, a mischievous glint in his eye.
You scoff, glancing back at him. "I mean it," he persists. "We could be Big J and Little J. Or JC and JD."
He follows you out as you head down the stairs, keeping the mood light. "I'm just saying, it's alphabetically askin' for it."
You're in the small room, the once office in the basement of the church, the stark brightness of a single overhead light casts sharp shadows on the plastic-covered floor. The crinkling of plastic echoes with each careful step you take. Your gloved hand clutches a thin white linen tightly as you crouch beside Eugene, who struggles to tilt the wine barrel containing your homemade antibiotic. Its scent, a mix of sour citrus and apple, permeates the air.
As Eugene tilts the barrel, the bunghole slowly leaks the broth onto the linen, a filtration method you devised to separate the solid biomass from the liquid. Underneath, a bucket sits, gradually filling with the cloudy broth. Eugene's exertion fills the otherwise silent room, and you watch the bucket slowly fill.
Once it's full, Eugene moves the barrel away. You swiftly tie the linen around the chunk of biomass and set it aside. As you examine the bucket, scrutinizing the shimmering liquid for any imperfections, Eugene's voice breaks your concentration.
"Are you sure 'bout this?" he asks, and you look up at his bruised face—a reminder of the beatings he endured at the hands of the Saviors right before the lineup. He's been withdrawn ever since, keeping to himself, just as you have.
"We have no choice," you reply, meeting his gaze with determination. "We've documented every step meticulously. We'll try making it again for ourselves."
Your resolve is clear; you won't let what happened to Maggie happen again, not to you. You can't afford to be passive in any sense, can't wait around, hoping that Negan will return Daryl to you. So far, all the Saviors do is take, and you won't let them take anything else from you.
You need to know your enemy better, even if it means venturing into the lion's den. It's been a few days since Jesus provided you with the location of the Saviors' headquarters over the walkie-talkie—a street address marked on a map. Perhaps it's time to pay them a visit.
Eugene stands awkwardly, his face etched with defeat, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Despite all that's goin' on... You always come off so fearless," he murmurs, his gaze drifting away.
You rise to your feet, the bucket of liquid culture positioned between you and Eugene. "I'm afraid," you confess, touching your stomach instinctively. "I'm afraid all the time. But we have to produce for them. Making them happy is what will keep Daryl alive. This is how I earn my husband back."
Eugene's face reflects a mix of desperation and fear. "Yeah, but takin' an unfinished product to the Saviors... How can we be certain this concoction will even work as advertised? What if it doesn't do what we claim? What if that angers Negan, and he wants retribution for subpar work?"
You look down at the liquid, confident in its potential, despite the uncertainty. "It's all here. See that color," you say, pointing at the subtle shades in the liquid. Eugene's concerns are valid; it's an incomplete product, but that's precisely the point. It's a calculated move, an excuse to knock on Negan's door. He must have doctors among his ranks, given the size of his group, and that's the plan—to ask for 'help' from his medical staff. Perhaps this way, he and his people could unwittingly become your test subjects to verify the antibiotic's effectiveness and potency.
Noticing Eugene's hesitation, you ask him a fifth-grade chemistry question. "You were a chemistry teacher. Tell me, how do you separate salt from water?" A small smile plays on your lips as you watch his brow furrow in a quizzical expression, his gaze shifting to the liquid, connecting the dots.
"Evaporation," he answers after a moment, realization dawning in his eyes.
"Exactly," you affirm. "It's all here in liquid form. All they have to do is figure out the temperature to evaporate the fluid, leaving the antibiotic's crystalline form behind." It's a deliberate ploy, giving the Saviors just enough information, delivering just enough to satisfy them while concealing your true intentions.
After all, it's time to see how Negan operates, who you're truly playing against.
You grip the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles white as the Virginia road stretches out before you, the dense trees blurring into a sea of green. It's been an uncertain journey, and you're not entirely sure how long you've been driving. However, an open map rests on the dashboard, with a red pen circling the location of the Sanctuary. Your destination is close, possibly less than a mile away.
Jamie fidgets anxiously in the passenger seat, his leg tapping nervously. As you ease the car onto a dirt road, slowing to a halt, Jamie's concerns finally spill over. "Alie, please," he pleads, worry etched on his face, "my gut tells me this is not a good idea."
Yet, your resolve is unshaken. "I have to," you murmur, parking the car amidst the desolation of abandoned buildings and structures.
Turning in your seat, you can see the tension coiled in his shoulders. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I can go with ya, wait by the car."
"No, they might provoke you, test your size. It's safer if I go alone," you explain. You had left Alexandria with Jamie, telling Gabriel at the gate that you were going scavenging, knowing that Rick might feel otherwise if he knew your true intentions. "I've got Merle on the inside; he'll keep an eye on me," you assure him, trying to reassure yourself as well. "But if I don't return, you need to inform Rick of my whereabouts and the Sanctuary's location."
Jamie's expression becomes even more torn by the second, and you know the profound sense of responsibility he feels for your life, something he's held onto. His last mission. You let out a sigh and gesture to the sealed red jug sitting in the back seat. "This has value to them—I have value to them. They won't hurt me."
Reaching over, you place your hand on his, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Come on," you urge, your voice gentle yet resolute. "You said you don't want me to keep secrets from you. If you mean that, then you have to trust my plan."
With a heavy heart, Jamie nods, his eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "I hate this," he mumbles as he reluctantly releases your hand and opens the car door. It feels like pulling teeth, and he steps out of the vehicle with painstaking slowness. Standing by the open door, he locks eyes with you. "You better come back safely."
You nod firmly, your determination unwavering, and with that, he closes the door and begins to move on foot to a safe distance, ready to support you from afar. You shift the gear back into drive, and the car begins to move forward. Fear tightens its grip on your chest, doubts gnawing at your mind, questioning this course of action.
But then, a gentle breeze wafts through the open window, carrying the distinct aroma of a cigar into the car. Your father occupies the seat recently vacated by Jamie, his gaze meeting yours. "There's nothing to fear. You are the predator here, and they are merely your prey," he advises, his words infusing you with newfound resolve. "Victory lies in understanding your adversary."
"I know, Father. Get in, get out. Keep Negan thinking I'm more valuable to him in Alexandria," you recite, echoing the strategy in your mind.
"Use any means necessary, mi figlia," your father advises, repeating words he had once shared with you as a child. "If you must step, then step. If you must cheat, then cheat. If you must stump, then stump. And if you must kill, then kill." He leans in closer, his voice a whisper. "But by all means, you must not lose."
"I won't lose," you agree, and as if on cue, you spot it—the large gray building that matches the description Jesus gave you. Your car slows as you round the street, observing the walkers chained to the metal gate surrounding it. The building, once a factory of some kind, looms ominously against a backdrop of heavy, gray clouds that seem to press down upon the earth itself. Its towering structure, a monolithic block of concrete and weathered brick, stands as a silent testament to the desolation that surrounds it. The windows, once clear and offering a view of the outside world, are now dirty and cracked.
You guide your car towards the front, where a few men are stationed, guarding the gate. Without hesitation, you can feel that icy determination taking over you. "This is for your unborn. For your future," your father reminds you.
"For my baby," you echo softly, moving forward. One of the guards motions towards your car, and you're not sure if he thought you were one of them, but you proceed to enter the facility and carefully park the car in the spot he gestures to.
Exiting the car with feigned confidence, you pull out the red 2-gallon jug from the back seat. The guard, rifle slung over his shoulder, approaches. "Who are you?" he asks, eyeing you suspiciously.
"Alice from Alexandria," you answer confidently. "I'm here to make a delivery."
However, it seems that your voice has attracted unexpected attention. Suddenly, you hear Daryl's voice call out your name. "Alie!"
You instantly turn, a wave of relief floods you as you spot him, just beyond the fenced area a few feet away. A knot forms in your stomach, your hand instinctively resting on your belly. Daryl isn't alone; there are other similarly dressed men, all wearing dirty sweats with an 'A' painted on their chests. They all seem to be dealing with the undead, but you can't quite make out what they're doing.
Daryl swiftly dodges a walker on a chain and moves closer to you, his fingers gripping the fence that separates you. "What the hell you doin' here?" He questions, his face a mix of panic and fear.
Before you can answer, the guard snaps his fingers in your face, demanding your focus. "A delivery? We weren't informed of any deliveries today," he says, his presence towering over you with broad shoulders and tattooed arms.
"This isn't a scheduled delivery," you respond calmly, standing your ground and refusing to be intimidated. "But regardless, I'm here to make a delivery. So, go on ahead and fetch your... master or whatever the hell Negan calls himself around here."
"My master?" the man scoffs, stepping closer to you. Unfazed, you meet his gaze with a blank expression, hoping that your audacity or bravery will catch Negan's attention when he arrives. "Are you mouthin' off to me, bitch?" he sneers.
He shoves you forcefully, and your back hits the car. Behind the gate, Daryl paces anxiously, his fingers gripping the fence like a trapped animal. "What do we have here?" the man demands, snatching the jug from your hand.
"Merle!" Daryl shouts, frantically waving his hand, signaling towards your direction as his brother appears from the side of the building.
"Hey!" Merle yells as he spots you, breaking into a jog towards the confrontation. "What the hell's goin' on here?"
"I was just about to teach this bitch some respect, that's what's goin' on," the man retorts with hostility.
"Like hell ya are," Merle counters confidently, his swagger suggesting he's adapted quickly to Negan's crew. "You're way outta your goddamn pay grade. Why don'tcha quit playin' sheriff and go fetch our fearless leader?" He commands, assuming authority as if he's been part of the group all along. The man hesitates for a moment, taking in Merle's presence. "The hell you starin' at me for? Quit draggin' your feet and step on it, boy."
The man places the jug down and heads towards the building. Merle turns to you, maintaining the act. "Whatcha doin' here, doc?" he whispers, grabbing your shoulder, turning you around against the car for a quick pat-down, spreading your legs apart, with a light sweep of his.
"I need to see how things operate here, what I'm dealing with," you whisper, and you can feel him deliberately skipping over the concealed knife mechanism on your arms, the pat-down more a visual display for anyone watching.
"What's goin' through that head of yours, sweet cheeks? Ya know this is risky," Merle mutters, removing your machete and walkie from your waist. You turn to face him with a sigh, but before you can respond, a voice interrupts.
"Well, shit!" Negan's voice resonates from the building's entrance, followed by Dwight and the man who confronted you. He strolls over, twirling his bat and grinning. "If it ain't my favorite doctor!"
He playfully smacks Merle's arm in a chummy manner. "You see, this right here, this is exactly what I'm talkin' about. Massive lady balls!" Negan comments, as if it's a trait they've discussed before.
Your expression remains composed as you lift the red jug. "You said you wanted some solid proof."
"So, you just waltz your pretty behind right in here to hand-deliver me that shit, huh?" Negan asks with an impressed look, his smile growing wider.
You nonchalantly shrug your shoulders, maintaining your facade as you play the game you've initiated. You meet Negan's gaze with a confident lie. "Yes and no," you reply. "I could've waited until your next tribute collection, but I need help, preferably from a doctor or someone with a medical expertise. I assume you have one of those around here."
"You assume right," Negan confirms, stepping closer with an air of command. He casually slings his bat over his shoulder, barely glancing at the man behind him who first confronted you. "You—Inform Dr. Carson of our guest," Negan orders, and the man promptly heads back towards the building.
Negan's gaze then shifts beyond you to where Daryl is positioned, and his lips curl into a mischievous smirk. "Come on, darlin'," he says, purposefully emphasizing the word as he drapes his arm around you. "I'll give you the grand tour, roll out the goddamn red carpet and all."
Daryl's voice, thick with anger and concern, cuts through the air. "If ya so much as lay a finger on her..."
Negan faces Daryl, his tone teasing, almost enjoying the provocation. "You wanna lose your hand?" he mocks, keeping you tucked by his side. "I can get you a matching one, like your brother's, but you know, much less cooler."
At the exchange, Dwight marches toward the fence and unlocks it with authority. He brings Daryl out by the back of the sweats, dragging him along. You can see the anger and desperation in your husband's eyes, and you wish you could reassure him that you have things under control. But you remain silent, your heart in your throat.
Negan, with a triumphant grin, starts to lead you away, clearly relishing Daryl's distress, only to pause and look back.
"Oh, Dwighty boy," Negan calls out casually. "Why don't you grab Daryl, take him to the kitchen and do a little grub prep? Only the finest for my favorite girl."
With a nod, Dwight turns to lead Daryl towards the same direction Merle had come from earlier. However, Negan interjects once more. "While you're at it, clear my schedule. I've got a lot to show my guest," he says, glancing at you. "Well, damn, I guess this means I won't have time to screw any of my wives today." He flashes that sadistic smile at Dwight. "I mean, maybe just one," he adds, turning his gaze to Daryl. "Or two, if I can get this one to say 'I do.'"
There's a fleeting, cryptic expression that crosses Dwight's face in response to Negan's remark, suggesting that there's more beneath the surface. Nevertheless, Dwight continues leading Daryl away. Your husband jerks away to look back at you, and you maintain eye contact, hoping he can discern the reassurance in your gaze.
"Come on, darlin'," Negan says again, placing his hand on your lower back. You tense at his touch as you ascend the steps, following his lead. Each step feels weighty, as if you're entering the gates of hell, with the uncertainty of emerging unscathed. Your chest tightens, heart thumping as the heavy metal door swings open.
To your surprise, Negan holds the door open for you. As you step in, a familiar scent of cigar wafts in, and your father's Italian leather shoes enter in sync. His hand finds yours, a comforting echo of your childhood as you accompany him to work. And with his presence by your side, you feel invincible. Your demeanor shifts, confident as you follow Negan's lead into the building.
Your eyes take in the surroundings—a former factory with a high ceilings and exposed piping, lending it an atmosphere both grand and oppressive. The air is thick with a peculiar scent, like an old gym, mingled with the distant buzz of a crowd.
"Check this out," Negan says, striding forward like a showman, his bat casually resting on his shoulder. He gestures towards the crowd below as though unveiling a grand spectacle just for you. You follow him, peering over the railing, your gaze fixed on the lower level. It's a bustling, market-like setup, teeming with people of all sizes and shapes, each engrossed in various activities—until they notice Negan.
In an instant, as if a switch has been flipped, a hush descends upon the crowd. One by one, they drop to their knees, their gazes lifting in a mixture of fear and reverence toward him, as though he's a king holding court. Negan's lips curl into a confident grin, his charisma on full display as he revels in the adoration of his subjects. Your eyebrows shoot up in disbelief, as you witness the extent of his ego and power.
"As you all know," Negan's voice booms, echoing off the walls, "the Saviors collect a shit-ton, and if you work hard, abide by the rules, you earn some of that shit. But today, I'm feeling generous. Tonight, everyone gets fresh vegetables for dinner. No points needed." The crowd erupts into cheers, a stark contrast to their previous subservience. Negan glances back at you, his expression oozing smugness.
However, even as the crowd celebrates, your analytical mind is at work. You observe the structure of Negan's empire, the mention of a points system that seems to function like currency, unlike the communal ethos of Alexandria, where resources are shared equally among survivors.
Suddenly, your father's voice cuts through your thoughts. "This is not a sanctuary but a cult, operating under the guise of a dictatorship," he whispers, his words revealing the true nature of Negan's reign.
You can't help but see it now, the glaring reality. Negan lives a life of luxury at the expense of others, while those from the strongest to the most vulnerable kneel before him, everyone calling themselves Negan, until he strips their identity away, leaving only himself and his dominion over their lives.
Negan's voice pulls you back as he leans on the railing. "See that, respect. Cool, huh?" He boasts, as if trying to impress you with his power. "They're still on their knees?" he asks without looking back. You nod, silently acknowledging his control.
"As you were!" Negan commands, and the room erupts back into activity, the facade of normalcy returning as if nothing had happened.
Negan nudges you, breaking your contemplation of the surreal scene around you. "Come on, the medical bay is this way," he says, and you follow, your father in tow, as he leads you down a windowless gray corridor.
"I thought about what you said, the whole laboratory thing." Negan starts, a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. But your attention is split, with your focus constantly drawn towards his subjects in the hallways, who pause what they were doing to drop to their knees as you pass.
Negan continues eagerly, "I was gonna surprise you with it, but since you're here…" He stops in front of a door, his hand poised on the handle, and his words finally start to register. "I've got a handful of fellas who did construction before, including one who was part of a crew that helped put up a hospital." You watch him with mix of confusion and suspicion as he wiggles his eyebrows, and then, like he's unveiling a gift, Negan swings the door open and exclaims, "Ta-da!"
You step forward, surveying the room's barren appearance, stripped down to its bones. Cold, gray cement walls and concrete floor are punctuated only by a few scattered construction supplies. "We're gonna turn this into a laboratory for you," he announces proudly.
"What?" you echo, taken aback, your eyes flicking back to Negan, who stands near the doorway.
"Yeah, it's a bit of a work in progress. You should see these guys, they act like they've never read a goddamn book before," he laughs, approaching you. "But I want you to see it. All this, I'm makin' this happen just for you."
You stand there, stunned and unsure of what to say, realizing that Negan has found a way around the escape route you had created for yourself. His smug satisfaction only adds to your bewilderment. "I know, lost for words by my freakin' awesomeness," he remarks, clearly trying to impress you.
Your father, leaning by the door, voices his opinion, "He's not done with you. The idea of you entices him. You've only postponed what he deems inevitable. Tread with caution, mi figlia."
"Come on, there's a ton more I wanna show you," Negan insists, placing a hand on your back and guiding you toward the open door. "But let's go see the doctor first." With that reminder, you are brought back to the weight of the jug in your grip.
As Negan leads you to another door along the hallway, you rack your brain for a way out of this situation, part of you increasingly glad you made this trip, as it gives you a heads-up about what's waiting for you.
"Carson!" Negan hollers as he strides into the room, and you follow suit to find a spacious room transformed into a makeshift infirmary. A thin Caucasian man with a receding hairline and a lab coat stands at attention, and Negan's grin stretches wide as he waves towards you, introducing you with enthusiasm. "I would like you to meet Dr. Alice. She's the one whipin' up medicine from scratch."
The doctor looks puzzled and steps forward, his curiosity piqued. "Medicine?" He questions, his tone uncertain. "You mean like home remedies, I presume?"
You step forward, lifting the jug slightly. "No. I need you to purify and conduct a quality test on the antibiotic I've produced. That includes assessing potency," Your expression remains neutral as you issue your orders.
Negan looks back and forth, almost intrigued by your dynamic. The doctor hesitates, clearly caught off guard. "Ah... I'm a surgeon," he stammers, as if offering an explanation. "Perhaps we need a pharmacist, or something along those lines?"
There's an awkward moment as you glance back at Negan.
In the background you can hear your father's soft, indifferent chuckle, aware of your newfound leverage. "Even his doctor can't offer what you bring to the table. That's a checkmate."
Negan's grin falters, and the doctor, attempting to recover, smiles gawkily as he gestures towards his desk. "Right… Please, this way, doctor."
You trail closely behind Negan as he guides you to what he refers to as the "last stop" on this unconventional tour of the sanctuary. It wasn't long before Negan left you in the company of Doctor Carson, engrossed in a deep discussion about testing the potency of the antibiotics. But within just a few minutes, Negan returns, seemingly eager to show you something else.
"Here we are, darlin'," Negan announces as he stops in front of a set of double doors, turning to look at you as if building up suspense. You raise an eyebrow, uncertain about what to expect. But as he pushes the doors open, the sight that greets you catches you completely off guard.
Before you stands a line of women, each clad in tight form-fitting black dresses, set against the grand backdrop of the room's opulent decor.
Their eyes meet yours, and an awkward silence hangs in the air, their expressions revealing little. Among them, a brunette woman with a forced smile steps forward.
"Hi, I'm Sherry. We've been expecting you," she says, her eyes flicking to Negan as if seeking his approval.
You cast a glance back at Negan, whose smile has grown wider, and you begin to piece together who these women might be. He steps closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder as he gestures toward the dozen or so women.
"My dear Alice, I would like to introduce you to my wives—" Negan starts, but his words are abruptly cut off by a meek sob coming from a blonde woman tucked away in the far corner.
His smile fades as he turns towards direction. "Can I talk to you for a minute, dear wife?" he says to Sherry, his sweet voice insinuating anything but sweetness, as he leads her by the arm toward a liquor bar, leaving you standing there, confused and uncertain.
The atmosphere in the room feels charged with curiosity and unspoken tension, as another brunette approaches, offering a timid smile.
"Hi, I'm Tonya," she introduces, taking your hand. "Come sit with us. Negan mentioned you might be joining us soon, and he wants us to show you everything he has to offer."
"Oh, is that so?" you respond, your tone uneasy, as Tonya leads you to a couch, finally understanding the purpose of this bizarre assembly.
As you take a seat, your eyes involuntarily follow Negan and Sherry, who appears to be whispering to him, distressed. However, your line of sight is obscured as another woman with vibrant red hair approaches, offering you a beer.
"So, you're a doctor?" the red-haired woman says, taking a seat beside you. "I'm Frankie, by the way. Negan told us you make medicine and stuff."
"Yeah…" you respond to Frankie's friendly conversation with a nod, though your attention drifts back to Negan and Sherry.
"That's pretty cool," Tonya comments to your left, drawing your attention back to her. "I was a chef, and Frankie was a masseuse. Not exactly practical in a post-apocalyptic world," she chuckles, but you don't miss the fleeting, meaningful glances exchanged between the two women.
You don't need to engage in small talk for long as Negan steps forward, his focus on the crying blonde woman perched at the edge of the sofa across from you. Your eyes follow him as he lowers himself to his knees in front of her.
"Amber, baby," he soothes, his voice filled with an unsettling mix of tenderness and authority. "You know I don't want anyone here who doesn't want to be here, right? So, if you wanna leave, go back to Mark; you can. But the one thing you can NOT do is cheat on me, you understand."
"I'm sorry," she weeps, her head bowed in remorse.
"No, you know the rules. You wanna go back to your husband, to your mother, work for points, that's fine by me. In fact, I'll put you on the same damn job," Negan whispers, his tone carrying a manipulative edge. Then, he turns to glance at you, insinuating, "There are plenty of other girls ready to take your spot."
"No, I'll stay, I want to stay." Amber insists, lifting her tearful eyes to meet his. "I'm sorry. I love you."
"Of course, you do." Negan chuckles, his fingers moving to wipe away her tears. "But you know what that means, right?" he asks, and she nods, fresh tears welling up in her eyes, her face contorting in pain.
Leaning forward, Negan presses a kiss to her forehead. "It's all gonna work out aces for you, darlin'. All is good," he offers in reassurance. Then, rising to his feet, he shifts his focus to Sherry, who has been observing the exchange, her arms folded.
"See, I was gentle," he comments with a smirk, eliciting an eye roll from Sherry. As she turns to walk away, Negan grabs her hand, stopping her. With a mischievous grin, he leans in for a kiss, and you avert your gaze, your mind racing as you try to process the complex dynamics unfolding before you.
Your father's words echo in your mind, "He coerced them into marriage, masquerading it as consent. It's all surface, an illusion. How could they truly consent when he has power over their survival, pressing down on them with an iron fist?"
Your thoughts are abruptly interrupted as the double doors swing open, and Dwight strides in, leading Daryl by the back of his shirt. There's a pause in the room as Daryl's gaze locks onto you, his shoulders tense, his hands clutching a charcuterie board laden with cheese, fruits, and slices of meat. But Dwight's eyes are drawn to the couple kissing in the room, and the look on his face makes your heart sink, as he just stares with absolute torment in his eyes.
In that moment, the pieces of the puzzle click into place. Sherry is Dwight's wife; the same woman Daryl had once tried to save in that burnt forest.
Negan gradually breaks away from the kiss, a mockingly delighted glint in his eyes as he fixes his gaze on Dwight. Sherry releases a desolate sigh, her gaze falling to the floor. Negan leans in to whisper to her, "Go fetch Doctor Carson for me, tell him I need him in the hall." She nods, her head still bowed, and quietly exits the room.
The two men, Negan and Dwight, watch her departure in silence, but it's Daryl who breaks the tension, his voice heavy with confrontation. "Why you got her here?" he growls, his gaze directed at you.
"Whoa!" Negan exclaims dramatically, pretending to be offended. "That is between me and my future missus," he taunts, clearly relishing the opportunity to provoke Daryl.
"You hurt her in any way," Daryl threatens, his eyes burning with barely contained anger. But Negan steps closer, invading Daryl's space while idly picking at cheese with a toothpick.
"Don't test me, Daryl, don't-fuckin-test-me," he warns, in a taunting, melodic tone, his grin widening as he nudges Daryl in your direction, "Move along now, my lady awaits."
After a brief pause, Daryl steps forward, extending the tray towards you. You take in his matted hair and still-bruised face, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes, your presence here causing a storm in his mind. Your gut knots with tension as he leans over to offer the tray, and you place the beer down, reaching over to take the plate, your hands covering his. They linger for a moment, your thumb gently caressing his bloody knuckles. Silently, you mouth, "I'm fine," your gaze locked with his.
The tension in the room is palpable, with all the women's eyes fixed on you. You accept the plate from Daryl and place it on the coffee table in front of you, but Daryl remains motionless, gazing at you with desperation in his eyes. "Alie..." he starts, voice strained, but Dwight, taking swift strides, yanks him back by the sweatshirt, shattering the moment.
"Nah, you're not here to chat. You're the help," Negan remarks casually, dismissing any chance of conversation. Turning to Dwight, he commands, "Get him a mop. He's got idle hands and way too much free time to yammer."
Dwight nods, starting to move, but Negan's voice halts him. "Dwighty boy, fire up that furnace while you're at it. It's time for another lesson." Dwight hesitates, then complies, pulling Daryl along. As they exit, there's a scuffle, and Daryl glances back at you. You maintain a composed facade, despite the tight knot in your stomach, as he vanishes from view.
Negan turns to you with that upbeat smile still on his face. "As much as I hate it, duty calls. Gotta step away for bit, run the show, and all that jazz. I'm sure you understand."
You decide it's time to make your exit as well. "Actually, I should probably get going."
"No, we're not done here," Negan asserts, before addressing Tonya and Frankie beside you, "Ladies, do me a favor and keep things nice and cozy while I'm away, would you?" With that, he strides out, bat slung over his shoulder, whistling a melody.
You're left sitting awkwardly amidst the group of women. Amber starts to cry, and the others gather around her, offering comforting words. You can't help but question your decision to come here, a nagging fear that Negan might not let you leave, that you've walked right into his grasp. But from what you've seen, you know one thing: for whatever reason he needs your consent. Until then, you're safe.
Tonya turns to you, sharing a subtle look with Frankie before speaking. "Negan wanted us to explain the perks of being with him, and I believe you'd fit right in with the girls," she begins brightly. "We get three meals a day, no points needed. Roof over our heads, beautiful dresses, clean beds, medical care. Practically anything we want; Negan is generous enough to give it to us."
You raise your hand, interrupting her before she can continue further, "Look, I'll stop you right there. I'm glad that you all feel secure and content here, but I need to be clear: I will NEVER betray my husband, not for warm meals, not for pretty things, not for anything."
Tonya averts her gaze, her demeanor changing as a shadow crosses her expression. "We all said that once," she says cynically, looking down. "But this isn't just about you. We need you to consider accepting his offer."
Frankie immediately takes over, moving closer to you and pressing her hand over yours. "What she means is, as a doctor, you know things, right?" she questions, her voice dropping to a whisper as she insinuates, "Like how to make things... if one was interested in exterminating... a certain rodent."
Your eyebrows shoot up as you grasp the implication of her words. "I don't know where you're going with this, but whatever it is, I'm not the one."
Frankie's hand squeezes yours, and she pleads, "Please—"
But you cut her off, your raised voice drawing the attention of the other girls. "He has my husband, dangling his life over my head like it's some goddamn joke, and you want me to risk that?" You scoff in frustration, pulling your hand away. "That's the only reason I'm even here entertaining this conversation." Frankie backs off, sensing the other girls' watchful eyes.
But it's Tonya who continues, her voice emotionless. "It doesn't matter," she says, her voice flat. "Refusing him will come at a price, and if not you, then your loved ones will have to pay the cost." She reaches out, swiftly grabbing a glass of liquor from the coffee table and downs it in one gulp. "If Negan wants you here, then he will find a way to make sure you're here... It's best to spare yourself the heartache and guilt." She pauses, her voice dropping to a whisper as she adds, "Believe me, it will eat you alive."
Despite the gravity of her words, you remain composed. "I'm sorry." You state firmly, "Whatever the danger ahead, I can live with it."
The weighty silence lingers, and you can see the pain in Tonya's eyes, but your resolve remains unshaken. Before any more words can be exchanged in the room, the door gets pushed open again, and a heavy-set man enters.
"Ladies, your presence is requested by Negan," he announces to everyone, including you.
You rise from your seat and follow the girls as they make their way out, nothing but footsteps echoing in the hallways. After a series of turns, you find yourself back in the area you first entered, the industrial setting with the workers below. Negan waves at you from the upper-level railing. As you head over to join him, the other girls descend the stairs to the lower level.
Negan wears a smug smile when you stand beside him, and you peer down below to see a man tied to a chair in the center of the crowd. Beside him, Daryl holds a bucket and a mop, while Dwight stokes the flames of a large furnace, casting a sinister light across his marred face.
"Well, darlin', it's time for a little schooling. So, keep them eyes peeled and pay attention." Negan whispers. He then brings his bat down onto the metal railing with a resounding clang, as if it were a judge's gavel. Instantly, the crowd below falls into a hushed silence and drops to their knees, their attention riveted on him.
"You know the deal," Negan declares, his voice echoing through the vast space. "What's about to happen is gonna be hard to watch." He then starts to walk, descending the stairs with a swagger, leaving you behind. "We are the Saviors. That means we survive, provide security for others, bring civilization back to this world." Each step is deliberate, exuding authority, his tone akin to that of reprimanding children. "I wish I could ignore the rules and let it slide. But I can't. Rules are what makes it all work."
With apprehension, you watch as Negan stops before the man seated in the chair, who is now trembling and sweating profusely. "If you don't follow the rules, if you cut corners, then it's the iron for you." He states extending the bat out casually, and Dwight takes it, in exchange for a single thick glove.
A sense of dread washes over you as Dwight, donning the other glove, reaches into the furnace and retrieves a red-hot iron that's been cooking in the flames, the metal glowing bright orange ominously.
Your fingers clench around the railing, heart racing as you piece together what's about to happen, connecting the dots to why half of Dwight's face is covered in scars. Your eyes, wide with panic, find your husband's, locking onto his as he looks up at you. In the eyes of the man you love, you ground yourself, anchoring amidst this nightmare.
Inhaling deeply, you turn your attention back to Negan as he speaks again. "Mark, I'm sorry," he says with feigned apology. "Rules are rules, and you're well aware of the consequences. I guess it is what it is."
Your knuckles turn white as Negan hovers the red-hot iron near the man's face, and he looks up at you, seemingly searching for a reaction or perhaps hoping to instill fear. His gaze remains fixed as the iron makes contact with Mark's flesh, his harrowing scream piercing through the scene, accompanied by gasps from the crowd. Yet, you maintain stone-faced, determined not to blink or avert your gaze. Negan's smile broadens at your unflinching demeanor.
However, beneath your composed exterior, a storm of rage rages within you. A part of you succumbs to it as darkness falls over you like a blanket. The ringing in your ears grows louder, the scent of cigar smoke mingling with the scent of burning flesh in the air as your father's hands press on your shoulder.
"Look closely, mia figlia," your father's voice resonates in a hushed whisper, brushing against your ear. "This is the adversary you face. A man who holds your husband's life. A man who mercilessly took the lives of your friends, who terrorizes you, who subjugates his people under his boots, who coerces and exploits women, and burns the faces of their loved ones. That is what stands between you and everything you've strived for—the well-being of your people and the future of your unborn child."
His tone takes on a different timbre, a contained fury teetering on the brink of eruption. "It's time to come home, come back to me. Show him—show them all what it means to be a Hart. Let's see who prevails: the big bad wolf or the lioness."
Negan withdraws the iron, leaving the man unconscious from the excruciating pain. "Ah, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" Negan quips, chuckling as he reveals the peeled flesh. "That's it. We're settled. All squared. Let this be a reminder that rules matter!" He taunts the crowd, stepping back as Mark's bladder gives way, wetness pooling on the hard ground.
"Jesus, he pissed himself," Negan jeers, signals for Doctor Carson, who steps forward as though it's a routine medical checkup.
Negan, still wielding the iron, shifts his focus to Daryl and his mop. Then, his eyes briefly flick back up to you. In a sudden, unsettling move, he brings the still scorching iron dangerously close to your husband's face, his grin widening as if expecting a reaction. However, when your expression remains steadfast, he chuckles and points to the urine on the floor. "Clean that up," he orders Daryl.
With that, the iron is returned to its place, and Lucille is once again firmly in his grip. You observe Negan's approach with a chilling composure, a sense of icy detachment coursing through your veins as he returns to stand beside you.
"Man, you're just one ice-cold cucumber, heh." he chuckles, but his laughter fades as he notices your still hardened expression. "I can almost read your thoughts. Lunatic, right?" He raises his arm in a mock surrender, adding, "But rules are what keep this world spinnin'."
Struggling to maintain restraint, you can't help but respond with thinly veiled contempt. "I guess it must be convenient to be the one making the rules."
Negan feigns hurt, clutching his chest theatrically. "Oh, sounds like you're pissed at me," he observes.
"I need to leave. I have work waiting for me at home," you reply tersely. "Thank you for the... hospitality."
There's a pause from Negan, and you're unsure if he's contemplating your expression or deliberating whether to let you leave. Eventually, he motions towards the exit. "Let me walk you out."
With one last glance back at Daryl below, you accompany Negan, matching his stride. Outside, the afternoon sun illuminates the bustling activity at the Saviors' sanctuary entrance with trucks loading and unloading.
You spot your car where you left it. You take a step toward it, but Negan's hand shoots out, grasping you. Your reaction is instinctive; you yank back, but he holds on and steps into your personal space, as your gaze meets head on.
"Listen, I get it, it's a whole damn lot to wrap your head around. But you know what? it ain't all bad out here," he begins, his eyes taking in the fire in yours, his tone softening slightly. "You can fit right in, right by my side. Take my offer, be my wife." He smirks teasingly. "If you want me to drop to one knee, you just gotta say the word."
His proposition hangs in the air, and you stare up at Negan, your frustration palpable as your fists clench. "Do you even hear yourself?" You challenge, aware that few dare to confront him. "Use your head for once, not just your dick." Your voice is harsh, held back but brutally honest. "We both know I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. But consider what I've brought you today—a concrete proof."
With another forceful tug, you free your arm from his grip, your chest heaving up and down. Taking a deep breath, you try again, knowing that he still holds Daryl captive, and you need to tread carefully. "You've got construction workers trying to do engineers' and architects' jobs. Maybe they'll get it done, maybe they'll fuck it up, and the toxic air from my chemicals will spread through this building, contaminating the air. Why gamble when you have a proven solution? Why risk it?"
Throughout your impassioned speech, Negan simply stares at you, absorbing your words. When he finally responds, it's with a cocky smile. "Oh, boy, oh boy, did I mention I kinda like it when you scold me like that?" he retorts, his tone laced with mockery, treating the situation as if it's merely a game. "It's that fire in your eyes, reminds me of someone just as a spitfire."
You roll your eyes and let out an exasperated scoff. "Who, your mother?" you scoff.
He raises an eyebrow and grins, clearly entertained. "Oh, pardon me, you dirty girl!" With a chuckle, he lifts the bat, gesturing towards it as if to accentuate his point.
Your response drips with sarcasm. "Oh, I remind you of Lucille? Your bat?"
There's a momentary softening in Negan's eyes as he looks down at the bat. "That's a story for another day," he says, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.
You don't wait to press or read his body language, you take a step back, ready to leave. "Look, I need to get going. I have things to do."
Negan's smile lingers with a touch of warning. "Well, just think about what I said," he suggests. " A man's patience can only stretch so far. Next time, it might not be an offer."
You choose not to respond verbally. Instead, you meet his gaze with a composed demeanor. After a brief pause, you turn away and walk, noticing Merle near your car, ready with your belongings.