Helloo everyone! I'm back with another chapter!
P.S. I hadn't realized from before but pretty much the entirety of Season 8 spans only one week or so, with the majority of episodes happening within a day or two. This chapter covers events from Season 8, Episodes 1 through 5.
Recap: Chapter 19 - The Puppet Master - Glenn interrupts your contemplation with his suggestion, "…we can lead the walkers right to them. They'll have walkers on their ass one-side, and they got us on the other. We close them in." You acknowledge that his idea has potential, and you are starting to notice Glenn is a bright young man.
Hold the line, yeah
Do you fight for pride or glory?
Do you hold your scars close to your heart?
Fall behind, yeah
Who will live to tell your story?
You were taught to leave no man behind
Backbone by Kaleo
Chapter 68 - Memento Mori
The afternoon sun peeks through the faltering curtains as you sit at the grand round table, with your chess set positioned at the center. It has only been a few hours since your heartfelt speech, and since then, the community has been tidied up—a massive grave dug for your enemies and individual graves for your friends and allies, with Gabriel leading a somber procession.
Now beyond the slightly ajar window, the sound of banging reaches your ears, as the collective allies nail sheets of metal leftover from the Alexandria construction onto cars as covers, following Rick's orders.
To your left, Maggie sits with an intense, focused gaze. Cyndie is to your right, her hands clasped tightly in anticipation. Across from you, Rick occupies another seat, and beside him, King Ezekiel appears to beam with joy, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
In essence, this is Arthur's round table—a symbol of equality, unity, and freedom. You had sought the largest round table within the community and relocated it to what was once Deanna's living room, knowing it would curry favor with the king. After all, the game of chess isn't over until the last move is made. You may not be Knights, and this might not be Camelot, but the reference is apt as you prepare to make decisions that will impact many lives.
Amidst the backdrop of banging that resembles a war drum, the room remains quiet. Your core group encircles the table, including King Ezekiel's advisers, whom he refers to as his court. His right-hand man, Jerry, along with Morgan and, surprisingly, Carol—who seems more introspective than usual—stand by his side. Behind Rick, Michonne and Carl linger, with Carl watching his father intently. Rick likely wants Carl present so he feels involved in the decision-making process, to dissuade him from taking impulsive actions, like jumping on a moving truck headed toward the Sanctuary.
To your left, behind Maggie, Sasha and Tara stand resolute, with Jesus casually leaning at the back by the window. Like Jesus, Daryl and Rosita hover behind you, with Daryl biting his nail, a habit when he's anxious or in deep thought, while both lean against the bookcase that holds Reg's and Deanna's impressive collection of books.
Behind Cyndie's chair, the Oceanside women, Beatrice and Kathy stand close, their proximity showing both familial ties and protectiveness, ready to advise her on any decision that would affect their community. By the door, Gabriel and Aaron stand, both wearing the same apprehensive look on their face.
When the room settles, it's Rick who initiates the meeting. "We all know why we're here—now that we've started this, we're not going to wait until they get their shit together and attack us. We need to bring the fight to their doorstep," he says, his voice a blend of resolve and determination. "These next few days, maybe even weeks, will be crucial. We gotta be smart, keep our movements quiet, limit time outside. We need eyes on all our communities, round the clock. With the exception of Oceanside, since their location remains hidden from the Saviors."
Maggie nods, her expression set in grim determination. "Now that Negan knows about our joint forces, things won't be easy. They'll have lookouts too. Areas will be heavily monitored; they'll see us comin' miles away."
"It won't matter," you interject confidently, leaning forward. "We have eyes on the inside now. What matters most is that we have a bulletproof plan and stick to it."
"I agree," Rick says contemplatively, leaning over to pick up the black king from the chessboard that you usually use to help visualize your plans. He studies it intently, lost in thought. "We could use Dwight to locate all their outposts, find out where their lookouts are stationed. I say we hit 'em all at once, time it perfect. That way, they can't back each other up, and nobody gets out."
You hold your tongue, waiting for their input as King Ezekiel leans on the table, his voice uncertain. "Even with all four of our communities combined, we don't have the numbers to attack every outpost and still manage an assault on the Sanctuary. We'll be stretched too thin. Negan knows this; it's what makes him confident of victory."
Rick's response is measured, his finger rolling a black king back and forth on the table. "I've been thinking about that too," he admits, suggesting deep contemplation. "That's where the walkers on Highway 18 come in. They're close enough to the Sanctuary that we can redirect them with noise or flares."
He places the king on the table before the collective, then picks up a handful of white pawns, "We know what it's like to be trapped by the dead. How quickly supplies run out and tensions rise." One by one, he places the pawns, encircling the king. "All their food comes from us and whatever else they scavenge. With that gone and with that many people, how long do you think it's gonna last before they turn on each other? When they realize Negan can't keep them safe."
The silence that follows is thick, each leader pondering the proposed idea. You lean forward, your brow pinched as you fix your gaze on Rick and his chess piece demonstration. "And then what? What's the ultimate goal here, Rick?"
"This war started because of one man: Negan," Rick states firmly, his eyes hard. "We take him out."
"That won't work," you counter, shaking your head.
"It will," Rick insists, his confidence unshaken.
"It took me 24 hours to get us out when we had the herd at our gate," you state, your voice hinting at frustration. "Besides, simply killing Negan won't solve our problems, either. He has lieutenants—there are hierarchies, a structure to their whole system."
"We'll have snipers stationed around their building; we'll make sure they don't get out." Rick says, his expression hardening as he pushes back. "Most of their people are following him out of fear or necessity. We'll give 'em a chance to surrender, pick the right side. If they refuse, the lieutenants are next." His voice carries a resolute certainty, and you understand his perspective, and if things were different, you would agree with him.
The room's eyes are on you, not just the leaders, but also their representatives, all watching the exchange intently. "It doesn't matter," you say, softer this time but with a firmness that leaves no room for argument. "You just leave a hole waiting to be filled—a power vacuum. History tells us so, over and over again. When Julius Caesar was assassinated, his nephew stepped right in, kept the empire rolling. After Hitler, those who believed in his ideology became the Neo-Nazi movement. It happened again after Saddam Hussein, which led to ISIS. Same with Libya, after Gaddafi... the story repeats. This pattern is just human nature."
You slowly glance around the table, holding each leader's gaze as you continue. "What do you think happens after Negan falls? They have the numbers—the workers, the soldiers. They make things, but they don't grow. What do you think happens when people go hungry? Someone else, perhaps even a foot soldier, will pick up a bat along with the system and ideology that worked for them before."
"What options do we have then?" Meggie asks, her gaze shifting from you to Rick. "How do we fix this and still win?"
You thrust your finger up, pointing at Rick across the table. "You said, 'we have to come for them before they come for us. We can't leave them alive,' that's what you said at the beginning of this," you remind him. "The only way I see is that we get a message out to Merle, get our people out—"
"Merle?" Michonne interrupts, her confusion palpable from where she stands behind Rick.
You pause, suddenly aware of where Daryl is standing, just a few feet away. "I guess you should probably know, I asked him to join the Saviors, earn their trust, figure out a way to get Daryl out," you reveal, though it was more than that. You knew Merle would have been a target if he had stayed here. Negan would notice him and consequently, he would have gotten himself in trouble with Negan regardless of what you say.
"So what?" Tara begins, her face a mixture of disbelief and something you can't quite pinpoint. "He's playing both sides and he still killed Olivia without even a second thought?" she asks, her gaze shifting toward Daryl, who looks away.
The room quiets, waiting for an answer, a few of your people exchanging looks. "He had no choice," you state firmly.
"What do you mean he had no choice—" Tara interjects, but she is cut off by Michonne.
"We'll deal with our internal issues later. Let's just get through this first," Michonne asserts, bringing the conversation back to the strategic issues at hand.
Of course, after that, you know what you're about to say and how it will come off. But you've mulled it over in your head repeatedly. You keep your face expressionless as you hold Rick's gaze across the table. "I was saying—the best tactical plan would be to bomb the sanctuary and everything within it. Then our numbers will be enough to take on all the outposts," you suggest with a casual shrug, as if discussing something mundane. "It's a plan that gives us a guaranteed win."
The room's atmosphere thickens, the gravity of your words hanging heavily in the air. Not just the leaders, but everyone in the room grapples with the implications, the cold logic of your proposal, the moral complexities involved. It's Rick who speaks first, his voice tight with objection. "There are hundreds of people there. Workers, families, kids. People who didn't ask for this fight, just looking for a safe place to call home."
King Ezekiel's expression turns solemn as he nods in agreement. "My apologies, my lady, but I'm with Rick on this one," he declares, the joviality of his earlier demeanor stripped away. "I cannot in good conscience agree to that."
"Yeah, I'm with them, too," Cyndie adds softly, speaking up for the first time. She looks at you with apprehension. "It would make us no better than them if we did."
You glance toward Maggie, who looks down at the table, her face grim but clearly aligned with your perspective. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you feel the fatigue and stress of the day's events weighing on you. "I'm not saying this to be cold or out for revenge. It's just that this world, it's brutal, cruel, and dark," you insist, looking up to hold each leader's gaze in turn. "I understand the gravity of what I'm suggesting, what I'm ready to do, and it affects me just as much as you. But it's necessary—to make sure we don't end up back here, doing this same dance. We got a duty to protect our own and everyone else counting on us for leadership. We must win, at all costs."
"And we will win," Rick interjects firmly, not ready to concede.
"Not with the current plan, we won't," you retort sharply.
Rick's response is equally firm, "We will. We'll make it work."
"It's—" you begin to argue further, but Rick raises his voice, cutting you off.
"It's Glenn's plan!" he declares, his tone filled with passion, a shadow of grief crossing his features. There is a pause, a ripple of reaction sweeps through the room as he glances at Maggie, the moment lingering. "It was his idea, back at the prison when we were up against the Governor. I believe it could work for us now... we just gotta let him lead us through this."
Your mind races back to the prison days, recalling Glenn's suggestion of utilizing the walkers, a detail you hadn't focused on then, lost in your own strategizing. Rick's voice becomes softer yet unwavering, "We coordinate, use what we've got, let the walkers handle the Sanctuary while we take down their outposts. When they surrender—and they will—we make an example out of Negan. End this, once and for all."
The room falls silent, all eyes turning to Maggie, and you can't help but glance her way as well. Her expression is soft, tinged with vulnerability as her hand rests instinctively over her slightly rounded belly. When her eyes meet yours, you feel the weight of her gaze without words.
"We should put it to a vote, make sure we're all on the same page," Rick says, turning to look at the people around the room. "Who here agrees we should blow them up?" he asks, and you know without even turning to see that you've lost this argument. Only Daryl and Rosita raise their hands in support.
With your eyes still on Maggie, you let out a resigned sigh. "Alright, we'll try it your way. But if this plan fails, we do it my way, no questions asked."
"It won't fail," Rick responds eagerly, his voice filled with a confidence that seems to lift the room slightly.
"Still," you push back, your tone less convinced, "I'll only agree to it if I can have a contingency plan in place. For that, I need Michonne, Rosita, and Sasha to sit this fight out."
Rick pauses, his eyes sweeping over the women in question, tilting his head to confirm with Michonne before nodding. "Done." When he hears nothing from you, he glances around the rest of the room. "If anyone else disagrees, here's your chance to say your piece." The silence that follows is palpable, yet beneath it, there's a sense of relief that permeates the air. "Alright, let's do this."
"To the coalition!" Ezekiel exclaims, his hand slamming on the table with theatrical zest, his smile returning. Noticing the confused looks around him, he elaborates, "It's a name I've been thinking for our esteemed assembly."
"Right on!" Jerry cheers, ever loyal to his king, causing Cyndie to chuckle. Her laughter lightens the mood, as the tension dissipates, giving way to a more relaxed and united front. Rick leans over to refine the plan, and the rest of the team moves closer to the table. Ideas on how to herd the walkers begin to circulate, the room now buzzing with strategic chatter.
Daryl, too, steps forward, his calloused hand landing on the back of your neck, his fingers moving comfortingly. You glance up at him and hold his determined gaze, grounding yourself and your worries. He ends up volunteering to be the one to communicate with Dwight, his voice firm and committed.
You let Rick drive the discussion, chiming in only when necessary, though your gut churns with the fear that this plan might lead many to their deaths. After a long discussion filled with numerous "what ifs," the meeting concludes.
As Rick pulls Daryl aside for a private word, you rise from your seat and tap Meggie, nodding toward the exit. She follows, falling in step with you as you walk out together. Stepping aside on the front porch, you voice the question you've been contemplating throughout the meeting. "Hey, you think the Hilltop's blacksmith could build me something?" you ask, watching as people file out of the house.
"Yeah, I don't see why not. What do you need?" Maggie asks, her eyebrows knitting together slightly.
"A Catapult," you state plainly.
"A Catapult—you're still thinkin' about bombing the Sanctuary." She states, her tone almost accusatory, her voice dropping to a hush.
You shake your head; you've already decided you'll play by their plan. "No, I'm just thinking of the worst-case scenario," you explain, staring out into the distance. "If everything works out, then Hilltop has a catapult they don't need, but if not…" Your voice trails off, leaving the unsaid implications hanging between you and Meggie in the cool evening air.
It's early morning when you find yourself standing in front of your old home, hesitation gnawing at your insides. With a deep breath, you push open the front door, forcing yourself not to look around as you walk in and head straight for the stairs. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch signs of new occupancy: pillows and folded blankets neatly arranged on each couch, the Oceanside ladies' backpacks, and handmade spears propped against the wall. It feels like someone else's home now, a stark contrast to the version of you that holds some of her fondest memories here.
Following the strategy meeting, Maggie and King Ezekiel return to their respective homes to prepare for the impending conflict, which only takes 36 hours to orchestrate. Daryl coordinates communication with Dwight, using his crossbow to shoot messages across the Sanctuary fence. Dwight provides crucial information—not just the locations of the lookouts and outposts but also details on which outposts are heavily armed and the whereabouts of Negan's .50 caliber machine gun, dubbed "the Fat Lady". He even divulges details about the crisis meeting Negan is holding with all his lieutenants to address the communities' rebellion.
Rick sees this as the optimal moment to strike, with all the key players gathered in one place, and you find yourself in agreement. Now, Alexandria buzzes with activity, everyone rushing to prepare for departure in just a few hours.
Your footsteps echo hesitantly as you approach the master bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, silently inviting you to confront what lies within. A wave of nausea hits you, but you steel yourself. "Get some clean clothes and go," you mutter to yourself, pushing the door fully open. The room is clean, a stark contrast to the chaos you left behind—no blood-stained blankets piled into a makeshift bed, no bloody footprints or vomit stains on the carpet. Instead, everything is tidy, the bedding neatly made on the floor, and pillows casually strewn about. An unknown backpack, dirty boots, and an empty military-grade meal packaging rest by a small lamp, signaling a new occupant's presence.
Your movements are sluggish, almost reluctant, as you approach the bi-fold doors of your closet and pull them open. Your hands tremble slightly as they sift through the hanging clothes, searching for something clean and comfortable for the looming mission. You snag a pair of worn jeans and sling them over your shoulder, reaching deeper for a shirt. As you do, your foot strikes something unexpected—a box, lidless and tucked away at the back. You glance down, and instantly, the air leaves your lungs.
The box is filled mostly with personal items—hygiene products, a hairbrush, lotion—all essentials that were once kept on your dresser. It appears someone had tidied up, grouping these items together. But atop the pile sits something entirely unexpected: a blue and white covered book titled "The Pregnancy Guide for Men: What to Expect When You're Expecting."
In that moment, all the emotion hits you like a tidal wave, sweeping you up and overwhelming you with its raw intensity.
You gently pick the book up and take a step back. It feels heavy in your hand, weighted with the significance of what it represents— the lives that paid for it and the impending battles that lie ahead. Your whole body trembles as tears begin to stain the cover, and you find yourself sinking slowly onto the makeshift mattress.
Right there, in the bathroom across from where you now sit, you had shed your old self, letting go of the person who dreamed of ordinary things. So why are these tears coming now? You have accepted your new role, embraced your destiny as your father's daughter. Outside, an army waits, ready for your command. Today is supposed to be the day your enemies pay.
Yet, grief washes over you again and again, each wave knocking you harder than the last.
Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by the creak of a footstep on the stairs. You don't have time to compose yourself before Daryl rounds the corner. The door is wide open, leaving you fully exposed at the foot of the makeshift bed. His expression shifts entirely as he takes in the sight of you—fully dressed and prepared, his dark shirt and ankle ties in place—and fresh tears wells up in your eyes.
"Cyndie saw you come in," he offers by way of explanation, motioning behind him, his tone gentle. He pauses at the entry, his posture taut with concern. "What's wrong?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
Daryl stands frozen in the doorway, the instinct to go to her warring with the sight of tears streaming down her cheeks. Even when he asks what's wrong, he already knows. It's the book clutched in her hands, a symbol of everything he failed to provide, haunting him like the sleepless nights he spent ruminating over it while he sat in his cell at the Sanctuary.
That little book, filled with fears and fantasies of fatherhood, now seems like a relic of a simpler time when such concerns were his only worry. His body aches as he watches the tears streak down her cheeks. She shakes her head, gripping the book so tightly that her nails seem to dent the cover.
"I keep thinking about that promise we made after Beth's death. 'I go where you go, hurt when you hurt, fight when you fight,'" she says softly, her face flushed against the pale morning light streaming through the window. "I realize now how naïve and unrealistic that was, no matter how much I meant it. We are about to start something big, with consequences we can't even begin to understand."
She drops the book to cover her face, her shoulders shaking. "It just dawned on me—I could lose you today, just as easily as you were taken from me," her voice is raspy, muffled by her hands, "And you could lose me just as easily as that bat swung at my head." She pauses, the painful admission hanging in the air.
Daryl's hands clench into fists at his sides, noticing how small she looks in that moment, Negan's words echoing in the back of his head: "You, Daryl, failed as a man to protect what's yours."
It's only then that Daryl realizes she's saying goodbye, aware that today might strip her of everything else, too. That he will be out there without her, and things could go wrong. "And I want you to know, no matter what happens out there, today, tomorrow, you're my sweetheart, my sunshine in this dark world, and I love you," she weeps the words, "I have loved you my whole life. I think of you before I think of myself—"
"Stop, stop," Daryl interrupts, his footsteps swift as he approaches, sinking to his knees before her. "I know ya love me," he murmurs gently, "I ain't got no doubt about that."
Since escaping the Sanctuary, Daryl hasn't questioned any of her decisions, understanding the immense stress she's under. He knows how little she sleeps, how often she wakes from nightmares gasping for air beside him. What he wants most is for her to win, to finally be able to let go, to heal, to see her smile again. That's why he follows wherever she goes, doing whatever she needs without a second thought.
And if it means blowing up the Sanctuary, so be it. But he's determined not to let it come to that. He's committed to ensuring Rick's plan succeeds, that she never has to go that far. From here on out, it's up to him to protect her, to shield her from the darkest outcomes of the battles ahead.
That's the thought he had when he woke up this morning. The first hints of dawn have barely touched the horizon when Daryl is already on the move, mingling with the busy preparations in Alexandria, getting ready for the fight ahead. With practiced hands, he methodically checks and rechecks each component of his bike—fuel, brakes, tire pressure—knowing today, every detail matters more than ever.
For that reason, he meets up with Rick afterward, running over the plan one more time. Rick's plan has many moving parts that need to go perfectly—taking out the lookout posts at the Sanctuary and along the way, guiding the walkers without a hitch at the right time, and synchronizing attacks on all the outposts. And Daryl is determined to make sure it happens; he has to win this for her. They're so close now. In a few days, this could all be over.
Now, he gently pulls at her hands to reveal her face. "Our first night up in that watch tower, back at the prison, I made ya a promise—I'd do better, keep you safe. You took a bullet 'cause of me back then, and I swore I'd always look after you." He confesses softly, the weight of his failures pressing down on him. "You're mine — to keep safe, protect, provide for. That's what a husband does. But no matter how hard I try, I keep almost gettin' you killed, again and again. I keep fuckin' it up."
In his heart, he feels the sting of Negan's words—his failures, his shortcomings as a husband. It's a brutal truth, but it is nonetheless the truth. Now, with everything at stake, he knows that he must do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to fulfill the vows he made long ago.
"Daryl," she whispers, her eyes—those pretty eyes he loves so much—glossy with tears. "I've done things in your name, things you've never asked for." She looks down, her hand squeezing his, fresh tears welling up, and he knows she's referring to the lineup, how she put herself in harm's way for him, and then again with Jamie. "I'm so sorry about that. I know it's a heavy burden to carry."
He shakes his head, his expression softening. "Nah, that's not how it went down, not at all." He reaches up to run his thumbs across her cheeks as he cups her face. He presses his forehead to hers, his voice a low murmur, filled with regret. "All I ever wanted was to be worthy of ya, to be the kind of man, husband, that'd make your folks proud if they could see us now."
She breaks down, her cries stifled as she pulls him close, her face buried in his neck. "I ain't the best with words, not like you. Don't know how to say how much I love ya, whatcha mean to me," he admits, his fingers running through the soft curls at the back of her neck. "But I'm good with these fists, so out there, I'll fight for you, for us. I'd march into hell for ya. I'd lay down my life for ya, just like you've done for me."
He feels the dampness of her tears as she nods, her lips pressing a gentle kiss to his neck. "It's gonna be alright, and I'll be just fine out there," he reassures her as he continues to hold her close. "We're gonna win, and I'll come back to you. Always do, don't I? And when I do, I'll work harder to be the man you deserve, to give ya all them things I promised."
She pulls back slightly to look at him, a tearful chuckle escaping her lips. "For someone who says he's not good with words, those are some pretty good words," she says, reaching up to grasp his wrinkled collar and pulling him into a wet, salty kiss. "I love you," she mumbles against his lips, the softness of her tongue meeting his, and he returns the kiss just as fervently.
After a moment, she pulls back, their foreheads still pressed together, their breath mingling in the small space between them. Her voice is husky, honey-sweet, and laden with emotion, as she whispers, "Close the door."
Without hesitation, he springs into action. With a swift kick, the door slams shut behind him, while his hands swiftly work to undo his ankle ties. Simultaneously, she lifts her shirt over her head in a fluid motion, both consumed by a desperate need for connection before the storm of war descends upon them.
She drags herself up the makeshift mattress, discarding her shirt and bra. Without a moment's delay, he crawls over her, sliding his leg between hers, his shirt also cast aside. He presses his lips to hers—open and wet, every fiber of his being tingling with anticipation. Pulling back slightly, his eyes sweep over her, drinking in her flushed, lustful appearance. His fingers run through her soft, short hair at her nape, gliding across her peachy cheeks to her parted kissed lips, then moving to the curves of her hollow neck, down the supple roundness of her breasts.
He takes a deep breath before diving back in like a starving man. His kiss is deep and fervent, eliciting a soft moan from her as she fumbles with the button of his pants. Her toes work to push his shoes off, her movements eager and impatient. As soon as she frees him, her hands wander across his chest, pulling him closer as she wraps her legs tightly around his hips. The air is thick with Daryl's deep groans as his lips trail down to her neck, his fingers already down her pants, her legs flexing on either side of him. His tongue finally encircles a soft, perky nipple, his fingers busy between her wet folds.
Caught up in the intensity, she arches under him, nails dragging across his back. He steadies himself with one hand beside her head as he begins to tug at her pants, only to halt at the sight of dirty boots sitting a few feet away. His gaze flickers from the shoes—too small to be a man's—back to his wife. "Who the hell is stayin' in this room now?" he asks, suddenly realizing they're in someone else's bed.
A snort of laughter escapes her, her gaze guiltily shifting toward the items. "I don't know," she admits with a playful bite of her lip. Then, shrugging off the intrusion, she pushes him back, eagerly kicks off her pants. Daryl watches, lips curving into a smile before following suit, shimming out of his pants. If she's not stopping, neither is he.
She swings her naked body over his, settling gently onto his lap. He happily embraces her, her soft breasts pressing against his chest, his lips meeting hers as his fingers trace the curve of her back. She grinds on him, rubbing his cock against her wet opening, her moans muffled against his lips.
His whole body is tense, her wetness coating him like sweet honey; his cock is painfully hard and throbbing. He's thoughtless in that moment as he sucks on her tongue, his toes curling in anticipation of the tight warmth awaiting him. She guides him with her hand as she slowly rises, before gently sitting on it, both gasping at the snug fit.
"Daryl..." she cries out as he starts to move, his thrusts firm and impatient. She meets each push with glossy eyes and parted lips, her fingers tightening around his shoulder. His hands grip both her ass cheeks firmly, using it to keep her pressed down on him as he bounces her on his cock, her breasts moving in sync against his chest. His movements are deep and urgent, like a man possessed, her arousal dripping around him. The slap of skin meeting skin and wet slurping sound echoes around them, along with her stifled moans she tries to silence from attracting any attention.
His eyes meet her honey-colored ones, half-lidded, watching him with lust. "I love you," he whispers, his voice rough and breathless.
A few feet away, a little book lies tossed aside, its open pages a silent testament to the passion unfolding in the room.
You'd think getting laid would ease your stress, but instead, tension grips your shoulders like a vice. You stand on the Monroe's front porch, freshly showered and ready for the battle ahead. The cold metal of your rifle feels reassuring in your hands as you lean on it, watching Daryl across the street kick-starting his motorcycle. The rumble of his engine blends seamlessly with the symphony of vehicles preparing for departure. All are poised to converge at the meeting spot where Maggie will lead the Hilltop, and Ezekiel, along with his Kingdom fighters, will join them.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Rick walking down the street, flanked by Michonne and Carl. His expression is soft as he exchanges a few quiet words with his family—a stark contrast to the storm brewing within you. As they approach, you descend the steps to meet them on equal footing.
Rick appears confident, his hair combed back, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and his iconic silver Colt Python tucked at his waist. "Hey," he greets you as you fall in beside Carl. "We're ready to head out."
You nod, your pace measured as you walk towards the van. Rick catches the anxiety etched across your face. "Have some faith," he says, offering a gentle smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know," you admit with a sigh.
Rick nods, pausing by his car. He seems ready to leave, yet he lingers, his gaze intent on you. Michonne nudges him, giving him a pointed look. Heeding her silent cue, Rick leans in closer. "Listen," he begins, "once we get everything in place, all we can do is wait 'em out. I'm gonna use that time, try to get the Scavengers on our side again."
"Rick," you groan at the idea.
Rick steps closer, determined. "With Jadis gone, they have no leader. They're probably scared and uncertain, and I wanna reach out to them again, this time for real." He speaks with conviction, his hand reaching for yours. "We need allies. The only way we're gonna win this is together. I want to do this."
You can't trust the Scavengers, especially not with everything hanging in the balance. They're unpredictable, capable of flipping sides when it suits them. But this is Rick's plan, and you have a feeling he will proceed regardless of the risks. "And you agree with this?" you ask, turning to Michonne.
She nods firmly. "Yeah, I do," she says, casting Rick a supportive glance. "There has to be a future we can all share."
You bite your tongue and nod in acquiescence. "Okay," you respond with a shrug, knowing you'll deal with it if you have to. "Good luck, and don't forget to keep me updated."
"Will do," Rick affirms with a reassuring smile. He then turns to affectionately tap Carl's sheriff's hat in a fatherly gesture. After a brief kiss to Michonne, he steps into his car.
"Alie!" Suddenly, your name pierces the air. It's Cyndie, jogging towards you with a rifle slung over her shoulder, accompanied by Beatrice and two unfamiliar women from Oceanside. "All the ladies are briefed about the meetup location," she reports, a crucial part of your contingency plan involving the Oceanside community. "Let us know once it's secured, and we'll pass on the message."
"Good, make sure they wait for the codeword," you instruct, and she nods. As they turn to leave, you reach out, catching her hand. "Stay safe out there, okay? Don't rush into things."
She gives you a bright smile before rushing off to join her group loading into a car.
The roar of Daryl's bike takes the lead as he maneuvers to the front, the gate opening to the road ahead. The engines of the cars fill the community as they file out one by one. Your fist tightens at your side, a knot forming in your stomach as you close your eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Deep in your heart, you're aware that not everyone in this convoy may make it back.
"You ready?" a voice calls out, and you open your eyes to see Rosita and Sasha, both dressed and armed.
"Yeah," you reply, your hand instinctively going to the machete secured at your waist. "Let's go." You stride towards the sedan parked to the side.
"You're in charge until we get back," Michonne tells Carl, who returns her gaze with youthful smile as she turns to follow you.
You've been driving for some time, the desolate road unfolding endlessly ahead, bordered by dense woods on either side. An open map is spread wide across your lap, and your fingers clutch the steering wheel—knuckles white, a clear sign of the tension coursing through your veins. With each press of the gas pedal, you try to leave your racing thoughts behind.
Beside you in the passenger seat, Michonne's knee taps out a nervous rhythm, Rick's old watch dangling from her hand, its broken strap swinging gently. She checks it compulsively, likely timing the group's movements according to the plan. You sense her restlessness, her desire to be with the others, leading from the front.
In the backseat, Sasha and Rosita sit in tense silence, their presence marked only by the occasional shift of weight or a soft sigh. The car is a bubble of tense anticipation, each of you lost in your own thoughts about what lies ahead.
As you turn onto a new, more desolate stretch of road, Michonne looks up, her brows knitting as the surroundings shift dramatically. Scattered homes are replaced by the looming structure; a sign, "KENNEDY HIGH SCHOOL" hangs slightly askew across an abandoned building, just as you saw it last.
"Why are we here?" Michonne finally breaks the silence, as you pull over.
"We found this place awhile back when I was out with Daryl," you reply, not entirely addressing her question. Your gaze is fixed on the red brick walls stark against the sky, broken-down cars and school buses lined up across the parking lot, forming a makeshift barricade. It was here that you confessed your deepest desires, perched on the bleachers, grappling with your yearning for motherhood amidst the chaos.
"And?" Michonne prods, her tone urging you to continue, but you don't answer right away. Instead, you pop the trunk and step out of the car. The crisp air hits you, carrying the faint, musty scent of abandonment and decay. The women follow, their expressions a mix of confusion and curiosity.
"Like seriously, what's the plan?" Rosita's voice is tinged with apprehension as she crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing the imposing structure. You retrieve your rifle and a large bolt cutter from the trunk, then join them with purposeful strides.
"We're gonna evacuate everyone, gather up our supplies, and relocate here by the end of the day," you declare firmly, prompting exchanged glances among the women. "This will be Alexandria 2.0, our new temporary home." With that, you lead the way through the obstacle of abandoned vehicles.
"Evacuate?" Sasha echoes, as the women trail behind you towards the main entrance. "But why?"
"Because she doesn't think we're going to win," Rosita interjects, as you all come to a stop in front of the steps leading to the building, the growls of the dead buzzing just beyond the entry. "That's what she means by a contingency plan."
You turn to face them, thrusting the bolt cutter into Michonne's hand. "Look," you start, "If everything pans out, we've just wasted a day. But if it don't, I promise you, they're gonna come at us with everything they've got. This place, it could be what stands between us surviving and getting another shot to fight back."
The idea had been inspired by the Kingdom, by how Ezekiel had transformed a school into a home. If it worked for him, it could work for you too—provided it's done right.
Michonne shakes her head, her expression a mix of exasperation and a trace of annoyance. "You know you got some serious issues with control, right? You need to trust Rick. He's going to win—we're going to win."
"She's right. It's just the four of us, and who knows how many of them are in there. It's risky," Sasha agrees with Michonne. "We got a solid plan, and worst-case scenario, we can always head to Hilltop. Maggie'll take us in."
"There are too many of us, and that would put a heavy strain on Hilltop. Plus, let's consider how convenient it would be for the Saviors to have us all in one place," you counter, having already contemplated this scenario and its associated risks in advance. "If this goes sideways, and if I was Negan, I'd do exactly what we're currently doing to them. He could easily redirect all the dead right back to Hilltop's gate. And the only thing in his way would be the Kingdom's fighters, which he could easily overrun. I don't want Negan to know where we sleep."
You turn to Michonne and gesture toward the rusted chain-link binding the school's double doors shut. "Come on, once we take out the outposts, the Oceanside women are gonna clean out their supplies—food, medicine, fuel—it's all coming here."
Michonne steps forward, her resolve strengthening despite her reservations. Handling the dead is where she excels; unmatched by anyone else. She eyes the faded warning sign ominously painted across the door, which reads 'Don't open, dead inside.'
"Fine," Michonne agrees with a determined nod, raising the bolt cutter. "If we're gonna do this, we need to control how many walkers are coming at us. We're gonna take them on a few at a time, so we don't get overwhelmed."
She motions towards you and Sasha, aligning the cutter with the rusted chain. "You both take the door. Let a few through, then close it when I say. Rosita, you're with me."
The pounding and groaning of walkers echo from behind the door, their restless hunger amplified by your presence. You and Sasha exchange a tense glance, gripping the door handles tightly. "Okay, ready. One, two, three," you count down, and with a snap, the chain breaks.
Michonne instantly steps back, her sword drawn, with Rosita by her side wielding her large knife. You and Sasha pull the doors open simultaneously. The growl from within is deafening, a cacophony of desperation as they push against the opening.
"Close!" Michonne commands as about dozen emerge, her sword whistling through the air. Easier said than done. You push against the door with all your might, feet skidding on the cement as the force of the dead proves too powerful.
"I said, CLOSE THE DOOR!" But they tumble out in a relentless wave, all noise and dead weight. Glancing up, you catch Sasha's strained face, hand on the glass, pushing, but then the realization dawns on both of you as the walkers turn towards your all-too-obvious presence, inches away.
"WE CAN'T HOLD THEM! LET GO," you yell at Sasha, giving her a nod, and with that both of you step back, giving up on the door, and swinging your rifles forward. Like you, Sasha's expertise lies with the rifle. Gunshots ring out, each one precise, targeting their heads as you both continue to back away, creating distance.
Once you've put some space between yourselves and the oncoming horde, close enough to regroup with Michonne and Rosita, you switch to your machete, conserving ammunition. Sasha follows suit, drawing her knife. Michonne leads the charge, her katana slicing through the air, cleaving through any stray undead that dare approach.
It takes some time, but the flood of walkers eventually begins to dwindle, proving exactly why that warning was painted on the door. Yet, this is precisely why you chose these three women. Their skills, their resolve—each moving calculated and efficient, a formidable team of girl power in every sense.
When the onslaught finally subsides, you're left breathless, your arms heavy and aching from the force of your swings, and all four of you are caked in grime, blood, and decay. You slide your dirty machete back into its sheath and take a moment to breathe, the release of anger, stress, and frustration against the dead almost therapeutic. However, the persistent banging from somewhere within the school signals that the danger is far from over.
"There are still more, be on guard," Michonne cautions as she leads the way, stepping cautiously over the fallen bodies into the open doorway.
The corridors of the school are dimly lit, the air thick with the stench of mildew, dust, and decay. Shafts of sunlight break through the partially boarded-up windows and the open door behind you, illuminating the faded and tattered red and white banners proclaiming homecoming victories that still cling to the walls—remnants of a forgotten era of school spirit.
You move quietly, the soft echo of your combined footsteps on the tiled floor mingling with the growls of the dead. Lockers line the halls, some hanging open, others sealed shut. Chairs and desks are toppled and broken, open and collapsed tents scattered here and there among the debris. Strewn around are the remains of those who once found shelter here—bodies now dried and decomposed, their tattered clothes whispering tales of desperate hope and final moments. It's just as you had guessed the first time you came here—this school might have served as a safe haven during the early stages of the outbreak, before it too fell prey to the spread of the dead.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a crack behind you, and you turn to see Michonne forcefully pulling on one of the boarded windows, toppling it over and flooding the space with light. "You guys take the upper level," she instructs you and Sasha, her expression somber as she moves to the next window. "We'll check the lower level."
You nod, and you and Sasha fall into step together, both your rifles raised again. Michonne and Rosita work in tandem to open more windows, bathing the gloomy interior in much-needed light as you head toward the central staircase leading to the upper floor, following the growl echoing from somewhere above.
"You know, I understand your frustration, I really do," Sasha says quietly as you ascend the stairs, her eyes scanning ahead. Her voice is soft yet firm beside you. "But we're gonna be okay." You glance at her, making eye contact. Her expression is genuine, filled with an understanding that bridges the gap between fear and hope. "There is a part of you that agrees with Rick, there has to be. Maybe just listen to that."
Gabriel's shirt clings to his back, soaked with sweat, as he presses against the metal door, every muscle tensed. Though bolted shut, he can't help but brace it with his body, his handgun clenched tightly in his other hand. The inside of the stationary trailer is dark, hot and stuffy, thick with the stench of death. On the other side, Negan's steady footsteps pace back and forth.
"People are a resource, Gabriel," Negan's voice seeps through the thin walls, smooth and persuasive, belying the chaos that had unfolded just a few hours ago. "Take a chance, 'Gut up,' walk among the dead and cross the courtyard. We make it inside, we live."
Despite the underlying threat in his words, there's a subtle coercion, as if he's trying to convince Gabriel of some twisted truth. "I don't want to kill you. That's not what I want," Negan continues. "What I want is for you to work with me. That's all I ever wanted."
Gabriel's mind races, his thoughts a jumbled mess.
How had he ended up here, risking everything for a man like Gregory, whom he had never met before? But he was a man of faith, and the idea of abandoning the former leader of Hilltop to the walkers, as Gregory had done to him, was unthinkable. The moral compass instilled by his faith spinning wildly.
The plan had been clear. Rick's strategy had unfolded perfectly. They had gotten through the watch posts; Rick issuing his ultimatum to Negan and his lieutenants with cold precision. The rest of their group had successfully delivered the massive herd of walkers toward the Sanctuary, drawing them in further by the gunfire Gabriel had participated in as he and the Coalition fought back the snipers hidden in the windows of the Sanctuary building.
But then, the unexpected threw him into the path of danger. Caught in the turmoil, he had been swarmed by walkers, clawing at his heels. With nowhere to go, Gabriel stumbled into an old box trailer parked in the courtyard for refuge, only to come face-to-face with Negan.
That morning, as he had prepared for battle, Gabriel had accepted the grim possibility that he might not make it back. He had felt strangely at peace with it, trusting in Rick's leadership and their righteous cause. That's what he thought of when Negan jumped him, assuming the worst—that Negan was going to kill him after disarming him of his gun and knife.
Yet, here he is, still breathing.
As they sat, the trailer stifling and permeated with the stench of decay, the constant growl of the dead outside forming a grim soundtrack, Negan attempted to lighten the mood. With malicious glee, he jabbed at Gabriel, trying to provoke him. It was during this uneasy dialogue that Gabriel found his purpose, his reason for why he had stopped for Gregory. "I think I'm here to take your confession," He had said.
Negan initially dismissed him, his responses mocking and belittling. But the conversation had shifted when Gabriel brought up sins, particularly those involving wives. Only then did Negan show a crack in his armor. "Was there a first? One before all of this, a wife you promised to have and to hold, forsaking all others. One you told that lie to?"
At this, Negan's grip tightened around his bat, his back turning to Gabriel. Seizing the moment, Gabriel lunged forward, snatching the pistol from Negan's waistband and dodging the bat as he stumbled into the adjacent room, locking the door behind him.
Now here he is, secured behind the door, weighing his scant options while the walls shake from the dead pounding on them.
"I don't know if I can believe you. You've lied before," Gabriel muses aloud. Trusting Negan is a bitter pill to swallow, given the inherent deception in the Saviors' creed. They claim to save people, yet the safety they provide is never consensual. They demand half, but it's never just half—it's whatever they want, whenever they want. No one is free; it's a proverbial prison for merely existing within reachable. Their own people, the workers, are just subjects, a labor camp disguised as refuge, from which there is no escape. Even when Negan says 'people are a resource,' he neglects to mention they are resources to be exploited by the strong.
"You've looked Dr. Alice in the eyes and said she tried to poison you, knowin' full well the product she bought was clean," Gabriel continues, his thoughts drifting through the myriad of lies Negan has spun. "She begged you. We all did, but you just laughed." He remembers that day vividly—the blood painting the concrete red, the fallout, the lives lost since then. Each day he prays, yet the cruelty of man seems boundless.
"I don't get it. I don't get it at all," Gabriel says, his eyes welling up, his voice raspy and thick with emotion. "You could've worked with her, with Rick, with the other communities. You could've saved lives like you claimed you do. You had the power to change everything, for us, for your people. But instead, you choose to kill."
"I didn't kill anyone that didn't deserve it," Negan's voice comes through, sounding close, as if he's leaning on the door from the other side.
"What about the workers you treat like slaves? The communities of people you forced into labor and servitude?" Gabriel counters, his voice firm, calling him out on everything.
"It's an economy," Negan shoots back immediately, "and no one's going hungry."
"Carl told us about your many wives, the women you pressured into marrying you, like what you tried to do to Alie," Gabriel's voice drips with accusation, struggling to grasp Negan's rationale.
"Every one of those women made their choice," Negan retorts defensively, the tension mounting with each word.
"Really?" Gabriel recoils, pulling back from the door, incredulously. "Putting a gun in a woman's hand, asking her to choose between the people she loves—that's their choice? That's how you justify it?"
Silence falls, punctuated only by the incessant buzzing of the dead outside and the creaking of the walls. After a pause, Negan's voice comes softer, almost contemplating what happened. "That wasn't my aim when I showed up. It was meant to be a scare tactic, nothing more. I never thought she'd actually do it, offing the soldier."
Gabriel's anger spikes at that, but before he can respond, a loud crack interrupts him—the window glass behind him begins to splinter under the assault of the dead limbs pressing against it. It doesn't matter now what it is, or it was. Death is imminent; these walls will give out before the Saviors give in to Rick's demands. Time is running out.
Focusing on the reason for his probing, Gabriel reverts, "Then confess. Tell me about how you're weak. Only then will I believe you." It's his duty, ordained by God, to offer this chance at salvation to the sinner.
"None of us is without sin. I killed before, but that's not my greatest sin," he offers, seeking to open the door to Negan's own admissions. "I locked my congregation out when it all started. I listened to them die as I cowered inside. I failed them. I failed God. And every day, I work hard to lessen that failure, to be of service and purpose."
Gabriel's solemn words hang in the stifling air, his voice shaking with emotion. "Now, I offer you the assurance of pardon, penance, and absolution. I will go with you. I will work with you. And I will show you that working as equals is the only true way to grace, to a future. I will do this, if you confess."
"Jesus, Gabey," Negan responds, his voice tinged with a mocking familiarity. "What you did... it's downright horrible, cowardly, spineless shit. I guess that's what a confession's supposed to be, right?"
A heavy silence settles, only the not-so-distant moans of the undead piercing it. After a moment, Negan reluctantly begins to peel back the layers of his past. "My first wife, she was my real wife. The only one I ever had, till death did us part. This was all before this..." He murmurs, a rare chuckle escaping him as if he's picturing her right then. "She was something else—gorgeous, gutsy, had a wit sharper than a razor. And me? I was a lousy husband. I lied to her, screwed around on her."
Negan's voice softens, strained as if each word is a struggle. "And yet, she still loved me, had my back in ways I didn't deserve. She was sick…cancer. And when she passed, it was during this." He exhales heavily, the sound of a man confronting his own failures. "I just couldn't do it, couldn't bring myself to put her down. That's how damn weak I was. Couldn't come through for her... even in death..."
Gabriel ponders in that moment if this is something Negan has ever shared before, or if he's been locked in his own prison of guilt and regret. Negan's voice wavers, teetering on the edge of vulnerability and contemplation. "What I did... I wanted that back, that feeling. I wanted her back. And when your doc threw herself on her husband that day at the lineup... she reminded me, in many ways, of my wife. Of what I lost. That's what I'll confess. Yeah, maybe I did bite a big one here."
Understanding Negan's logic is beyond Gabriel; the thought of trying to replace a lost love by coercing another married woman into a role she doesn't want is baffling. Yet, as a priest, his role is to accept the confession, not to judge the confessor.
Keeping his promise, Gabriel takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, cautiously opening it. In his hand, he holds the gun out, offering it as a gesture of trust and surrender. "You're forgiven."
Negan stands on the other side, his expression hard, unreadable. Then, without warning, his fist connects with Gabriel's face with a thud before he scoffs.
"Gut up," he commands, motioning with his bat towards the dead he had dragged through one of the broken windows.
As your vehicle glides into Alexandria, a palpable tension hangs in the air, like a storm on the brink of eruption. Exhaustion weighs heavily on you, the result of hours spent hauling body after body to the back of the school, preparing them to be burned under the cover of darkness. Exiting the vehicle after parking, you trail behind Michonne, Sasha, and Rosita, their fatigued expressions mirroring your own weariness.
A smile flickers across Carl's face as he hurries toward Michonne, followed by a small crowd consisting of those not fighting—mostly the elderly, women, and children. He halts a few feet away, taking in the sight of blood and decay that clings to your clothes.
Turning to the assembled crowd, your voice carries clear and strong. "Alright, everyone, we're going to do our part and evacuate Alexandria," you announce, knowing time is of the essence.
"Evacuate? Why?" Amanda questions, her gaze reflecting the crowd's confusion. Her eyes shift from your walker-splattered attire to the similarly battered appearances of the women behind you.
"Everything is under control," you assert firmly, locking eyes with the gathered crowd. "This is merely a precautionary measure, but rest assured, we've secured a safe location," you reassure them. "If all goes according to plan, we'll be back in our homes by the end of the week. In the meantime, while our men keep the Saviors busy, we'll use this opportunity to pack our essentials," you continue, garnering nods of agreement from some, ready to contribute to the war effort, while others remain apprehensive—likely those who've never ventured beyond Alexandria's walls.
"Remember, bring only what's necessary; we cannot afford multiple trips," you emphasize, as murmurs ripple through the crowd as they disperse. Before Amanda departs, you beckon the red-haired woman. "Get some help if you need it. You're in charge of gathering what's left in our pantry," you instruct. With a nod, she hurries off to fulfill her task.
Turning back, you find Michonne engaged in hushed conversation with Carl, while Rosita and Sasha observe the departing crowd with tired eyes. "Before you go pack, I need your help with one more thing," you address the three women, gesturing towards your lab before leading the way.
Moments later, you push open the double doors of the church. Inside, the scene isn't what you expect. The last time you were here, everything was a haze of rage, and you remember a blur of destruction over your lab, swinging your rifle over it like the bat had swung over your head. Yet now, the space is meticulously clean, one table bare except for your ruined equipment, the other neatly and alphabetically arranged with books—Eugene no doubt.
Without pausing to inspect further, you head toward the side door leading to the basement. The ladies follow, Carl included, into your storage area that has grown extensively over the last few months.
"We're bringing these chemicals with us," you announce, stepping over the scar in the floor left by the confrontation with the W man, where the acid had eaten away at the surface.
"All of them?" Rosita questions, eyeing the bulky metal cabinets on wheels.
"No, just that one—the organic solvents," you clarify, pointing to the designated cabinet. After all, nothing is more perilous than a chemical bomb. "They're highly reactive, so handle them with care when we move them upstairs."
With a resigned exhale, Rosita agrees, and they position themselves to push the cart, you reach for your walkie-talkie, bringing it to your lips.
"Jonny, do you copy?" Static crackles before a response comes through.
"Jonny, this is June, we copy. Over," one of the Oceanside women's voices confirms through the speaker, using the agreed codeword in case anyone intercepts the call.
"The nest is secured, we're good to go," you report, turning to assist with the heavy cart as an affirmative response comes through.
"Copy that," she replies, signaling the start of your carefully laid plans.
That evening, as the sun dips low in the sky, you find yourself perched atop one of the school buses, having showered and settled into your new location. There's still much to do, but for now, a few rooms have been cleaned and made usable.
From this vantage point, you survey the surroundings, the panoramic view providing an ideal lookout post. With binoculars pressed firmly against your eyes, you continuously scan the landscape, a quiet anxiety hanging heavily in the air. Suddenly, the distant roar of engines shatters the stillness sharply,
drawing your attention toward the horizon.
It's the convoy of your people—vehicles fortified with scrap metal bolted to the sides, heading toward their new temporary home. Among the array of vehicles, a familiar motorcycle zips through the formation, darting ahead. Only then do you exhale, a sense of relief washing over you as you lower the binoculars, a small smile playing on your lips. You begin your descent, climbing down through the roof hatch.
The sound of the approaching convoy acts as a signal, stirring those sheltered within the school. One by one, the Alexandrians emerge, their faces illuminated with hope and relief, rushing out to greet their returning loved ones.
Stepping off the bus, you weave through the growing crowd. As the vehicles roll to a stop and doors swing open, people begin to disembark, but the scene carries a bittersweet undertone. Amid the reunions, you notice a few wounded, their bodies wrapped in blood-stained bandages. A sinking feeling grips you as a truck laden with bodies covered in white sheets pulls in; not everyone has made it back.
You pivot towards the motorcycle as it comes to a stop. Daryl's face is grizzled and weary, his hair matted with sweat. Before he can dismount, you rush toward him, throwing yourself at him right where he sits. He grunts, pulling you tight against him, his body radiating warmth and reeking of battle. His lips press to your temple as you cling to him like your life depends on it. A comforting gesture that is all too brief.
"Alie," a voice calls out, pulling you from the moment.
It's Tara and Cyndie approaching, their expressions a mix of relief and fatigue. "Hey," you greet them, "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, all things considered," Tara responds, retrieving a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "Got something from Maggie," she explains, handing it to you.
"Yeah, me too," Cyndie adds, following suit, her expression somber as she hands you another note. "And this is from Carol."
Before you can fully process their words, Daryl, still astride his bike, produces a folded paper from his chest pocket. "Got this from Rick," he states simply.
Holding the three messages in your hands, you realize these aren't just updates; they're snapshots of what's about to come, from the leaders scattered across the battlefield.
Notes:
The Catapult idea is drawn from Episode 11 (Dead or Alive Or), where Eugene suggests using a Catapult to hurl walker guts over the Hilltop fence for dramatic effect. However, from that idea, Negan opts to use weapons coated in walker blood.