Hello everyone, thanks for all the love in the last chapter! :) It's been a year since we started this story, and what a journey it has been. I'm sorry I made you all wait for so long for this chapter, but I'm realizing that not setting up a deadline works better for me now, at least during this funk.

P.S.! Trigger warning for this chapter! If you feel some type of way, just stop reading. This story is not worth your mental health.


Where can I go?
When the shadows are calling
Shadows are calling me
What can I do?
When it's pulling me under
Pulling me underneath

It's getting close
I lose control
It's taking over

I'm slipping into the deep end
I'm in over my head
I can't catch my breath
I'm slipping into the deep end
Feel the current within
I can't help but give in

Like light in my veins
Darkness is sinking
Darkness is sinking me
Commanding my soul
I am under the surface
Where the blackness burns beneath

Deep end by Ruelle

Chapter 63 - 'Everything gets a return'

You lie on the floor on your makeshift mattress, your body shaking, the ringing in your ears almost seeming to vibrate, so loud, so all-consuming. All you can do is brace yourself. Pressing your face into the pillow, you gasp into it, hands clenched tightly around the covers, as if holding onto them might anchor you in this storm of pain that seems almost beyond physical. You can't tell how long it's been—a day, a few hours, a few seconds—but your tears flow endlessly, a relentless river carving through the barren landscape of your soul.

Memories of Jamie flood your mind like scenes from a black and white movie playing on a broken VCR. Smudges of dry blood surround you—a stark, visceral reminder of what you've done. Everything feels like a dream, like nothing is real except for the hollow emptiness gnawing at you. But in reality, you're sinking into an ocean of darkness, stiff and heavy, like an immovable object drifting further and further from the shore of sanity.

All you can see is Jamie, dead a few feet away. Sweet Jamie—eyes still open, wide and empty. Kind Jamie—a man who called himself your brother, moments before he died. And you... you betrayed that.

Your mind, desperate for escape, fights tooth and nail, hurtling you back to another time, another place... far away from this moment.

.

You're walking down the bustling corridors of a temporary military base in Iraq, surrounded by chaos and urgency. It's only been a few days since your arrival, and the base is a labyrinth of unfamiliar faces and routines. You gracefully weave through a sea of personnel in your blue jumpsuit and crisp lab coat, the standard uniform for all doctors here.

Focused on the paperwork in your hands, you make your way to your station, a corridor for all MSF volunteers and staff, your mind lost in thought. You barely notice the door to your office as you push it open. The sudden bang of folders hitting the floor jolts you from your reverie. Looking up, you see a tall, broad-shouldered man in Army garb, frozen amidst the sea of scattered papers. His outstretched hand, a failed attempt to catch the falling documents. His dark skin and youthful face lend him an almost boyish charm, despite the sharpness of his uniform.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued, as you study this unexpected intruder. He seems caught between the urge to flee and the discipline of his training, his awkward smile an attempt to bridge the gap. "Can I help you?" Your voice is firm yet gentle, an olive branch in this unexpected encounter.

The man clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. "I... I'm sorry," he stammers. "They told me to wait here..." He straightens, snapping into a salute with military precision. "Hello ma'am... ah, doctor... I'm Sergeant James Carter, reporting for duty."

Your brow furrows in confusion. "Ah?"

He looks almost deflated as his hand slowly falls from the salute. "I've been assigned as your guardian... ma'am," he adds, the enthusiasm waning. Retrieving an official document from his chest pocket, he extends it toward you with a steadier hand. You accept it, swiftly scanning its contents. The paper, adorned with the army's seal, outlines his assignment to you.

"Alright then," you say, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. You extend your hand, breaking through the formality. "At ease, Sergeant. Please, call me Alice." His response is a wide, sincere smile. His large hand engulfs yours in a warm, firm handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Alice. And you can call me Jamie," he replies, his eyes shining with a light that seems out of place in this war-torn setting.

You nod and move past him to your desk, while Jamie quickly gathers the file. As you settle into your chair, you give him a thoughtful glance, noticing his somewhat awkward stance. Navigating this complex environment has been challenging, but this unexpected partnership might just be a silver lining. "Hey, Jamie, could you please get me some coffee?" you ask. Little do you know, this simple request will become a story he will tell with great amusement in the years to come, playfully referring to himself as your assistant whenever he gets the chance.

.

"Aww, isn't that just adorable." A familiar voice, laced with bitter irony, wrenches you from the depths of your memories. Your body clenches instinctively, the ringing in your ears intensifying, a visceral reaction to this haunting presence. A raw, uncontrollable cry escapes your lips.

"Oh, surprised to see me?" The voice continues, footsteps echoing around the room, the sound of fabric rustling against the ground suggesting he's sitting just a few feet away. "You forgot all about me, didn't you? Left me behind, to turn. I guess as long as you survive, right? As long as you get to win."

"Charles," you whisper, your voice breaking as fresh tears flood your eyes. You bury your face deeper into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut in a futile attempt to escape this ghost from the past.

"How could you?" His voice is sharp and accusing. "I loved you, and you knew it. You've always known. And yet, you used that against me. You used the trust I had for you." His words are like venom, reopening scars you thought had healed. "I would have done anything for you. Absolutely anything. I asked you to leave the prison that day, I begged you..."

Your mind reels, casting you back to that fateful moment, sitting on the steps of the prison, Charles' hand in yours, his eyes pleading.

"No, but not without your precious Daryl, right?" His laugh, a disturbing blend of rage and mockery, cuts through you. "You left me," he says softly, before his voice crescendos into a scream. "YOU LEFT ME! YOU LEFT ME TO DIE! TO BE CONSUMED, FOR MY FLESH TO ROT!"

"Please don't," you cry out, your voice a desperate plea amidst sobs. The guilt is relentless, eating you from the inside like a walker. "I didn't know that was going to happen. The flu... it happened so fast, and they needed us there. You know I would never… I loved you," you whisper, each word a fragment of broken pieces.

"Aww, isn't that sweet. Look at me and say that. Go on, look at me," he taunts, his voice heavy with resentment. "LOOK AT ME!" His command booms like a thunderclap in the small room when you fail to comply.

Trembling, you hesitantly draw back the covers, daring only to peek out. Your vision blurs with tears as you slowly lift your head, the world around you seeming to spin. And then, you see him. His light buzz cut hair is the only thing recognizable. The sight wrenches a sob from deep within you. There sits Charles on the hard wooden floor, still clad in his military uniform, now faded and weathered by time. His face is a grotesque tapestry of decay, half-eaten away to the bone by walkers, crawling with maggots, just as you left him on the prison grounds.

"You loved me, right? Look what you did to me. You would never, right? Like you did to Jamie? What a joke," he sneers. "You used me, just as you used Jamie! Everyone's just a pawn in your game!"

Tears continue to stream down your face as you vehemently shake your head, your fingers gripping the blankets in a mix of despair and denial. "No, I didn't. I never wanted any of this... I never did!"

"Yes, you did!" he shoots back, his voice rising in accusation. "Parading around, talking about a cure… You manipulated everyone! People who believed in you, who cared for you. They're all gone now, just like Jamie. He loved you, protected you, had your back long before the world fell apart, and he's gone!"

"Stop it! Please, just stop!" Your cry is a heart-wrenching wail, your entire body feeling like it's being ripped apart. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean for any of this to happen... I didn't..."

"Why should I stop?" Charles counters mercilessly. "Did you stop? You're a murderer!"

Each word is a blow, a brutal assault on your already fragile psyche. The ringing in your ears intensifies. Your body feels coiled, every nerve strained, and you dig your nails into your skin in a futile attempt to ground yourself, seeking some physical pain to ease the torment.

Suddenly, you jerk off your mattress, flinching as another voice slices through the tense air, a voice that shouldn't be there.

"Alie." It's Jamie, and his voice resonates in a heartbreaking whisper, as if he's right there sitting on the floor with you, just like old times, flanked between the two soldiers, reminiscent of when it all began. "Why, Alie?"

"No, no, no, no," you murmur frantically, drawing the cover over yourself, as if it could shield you from the pain of his words. Curling into a tight ball, you try to shut out the world, but the ringing in your ears intensifies into a deafening cacophony, a symphony of screeching noise. "Please don't," you plead with the phantoms of your mind.

Jamie's voice cracks with emotion, "How could you fire that shot?" he asks, and your tears flow unbidden. "I survived; I made it... How could you be the one to do this?"

"Please..." you beg, your face pressed into the pillow, your breaths shallow gasps.

"It's always about you, isn't it? What about me? What about my life, my happiness?" Jamie's voice is thick with accusation and disappointment. "I found someone in all this, I was falling in love, and you took that from me. You could have given yourself, you had choices." He doesn't hold back, his voice breaking. "You were right, you really are selfish."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" your muffled screams fill the fabric of your pillow, your body wracked with sobs.

Jamie's voice takes on a bitter edge, accompanied by a tsk that sounds like a head shake. "You said you could live with it, the consequences. But you won't. This will haunt you for the rest of your life."

"Please forgive me. Please…" you wail into the covers around you. He's right. You will never live with it. You can never go back and change things. This is it. Only endless echoes of what once was and what can never be again. The air around you feels thick, suffocating, with the familiar smell of cigar smoke wafting through.

Suddenly, a hand, tender and familiar, brushes your hair aside as a warm presence settles beside you on the mattress. "You've always known, mia figlia," your father's voice, gentle and soft, drifts to your ears. His breath is warm as he leans in closer. "The bill comes due, always. And you did not blink from protecting what's yours. I am proud of you. You won."

Charles' biting scoff cuts sharply, "Of course she won. We were always expendable to her," he sneers accusingly. "Countless lives lost due to the consequences of her actions. From the prison to Alexandria. Denise, Glenn, Abraham, now Jamie… a trail of bodies left in her wake."

"It should have been me," you choke out between sobs, under the weight of your actions. "What have I done? Daddy, what have I done?"

"You survived," your father replies, his tone firm and unwavering. "Death casts its shadow everywhere in this new world, turning it into a vast graveyard of those we cherished. But you must not let it consume you," he advises, his hand resting reassuringly on your shoulder. "You are a Hart. You drew your line in this chaotic world, and everything else, regretfully, became a piece in the greater game."

"Yeah, just pieces," Jamie's voice chimes in bitterly. "Makes me wonder who's next in your game?"

"If it means you'll win," your father counters coolly.

You shake your head vehemently, despair gripping your voice. "I didn't win. I lost everything. Everything!" Your shout is muffled against the pillow. "What else can I lose? What more can this world take from me?" Every aspiration, every endeavor you painstakingly built, all of it…just fell apart.

Your father's chuckle, a sound eerily out of place, echoes in the tense atmosphere. The soldiers join in, it's as if he, Jamie, and Charles are privy to some inside joke you're not a part of, their laughter a dissonant chorus enveloping you. "Words spoken too soon, I suppose," your father muses, his voice laden with an ominous undertone. He leans in, his words tinged with a dark implication, "Do you feel that..."

At the tone of his voice, you hesitantly pull back the blanket, a sense of dread washing over you as you glance at his face. Only then do you register the severe abdominal cramping hidden under your stress, the sensation of warmth and dampness beneath you becoming unmistakable, accompanied by the pungent smell of iron.

"No! No! No! No! No!" Your screams are frantic as you leap up, peeling the blanket away, scrambling to your feet, the covers tangling around you. The sight that greets you is a nightmare – a pool of blood between your legs, a crimson stain spread across the makeshift mattress. The realization hits you like a tidal wave: you've been bleeding for a while.

A guttural scream tears from your throat, so loud it seems to shake the very walls. Your panic and terror come forth as the room spins, and you struggle to comprehend the magnitude of what's happening.

Your father stands before you, his face etched in determination, his hands urgently grasping your shoulders. "Don't let go! Don't let your baby go! Mia figlia, don't let your baby go!" His voice is a desperate command. You scream from the depths of your gut, instinctively closing your legs tighter, a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable, made obvious by the increasing pelvic pressure.

The sound of frantic footsteps thunders up the stairs, and the bedroom door flings open with urgency. Eric stands there, his face marked with the imprints of a hastily abandoned pillow, as if he'd been sleeping in your living room. "What? What's happening?" he starts, but his words trail off as his eyes land on the blood-soaked fabric of your pants. Horror spreads across his features. "Oh god..." he breathes, shock rendering him momentarily of Form

"My baby." With your mouth agape and tears streaming down your face, you manage to choke out the words. "I-I'm losing... I'm losing my baby!"

Eric seems paralyzed, his hand stretching out towards you, then withdrawing, as if unsure how to bridge the distance. "I-I'll go-get someone, a w-woman, yeah a woman." he stammers, more to himself than to you. He turns and shouts as he rushes back out the door, "Help! We need help! Michonne!" His voice fades into the distance as he descends the stairs, leaving you alone once more.

Standing there, with blood seeping down your legs, the room feels hollow, devoid of anything but your ghosts.

Charles' laughter is a dark, mocking sound, tinged with a perverse delight. "Karma's a cruel mistress, isn't it? The universe sure has a twisted sense of humor!" His cackle grows louder, more unhinged. "You sacrificed your family to protect your baby, only to lose it. What irony!"

It was all for nothing. Every sacrifice, every painful decision – meaningless. The world you knew, the life you fought so fiercely to protect, seems to crumble before your eyes.

Your gaze wanders around the room, searching desperately for something unknown. It lands on Jamie's downcast face, a bullet wound marring his forehead, then shifts to Charles's disfigured and rotting visage, and finally to your father, his posture rigid, his expression stern.

However, through the gap in the cracked curtains, a gentle breeze stirs, unveiling the outdoor seats and the neglected fire pit come into view –– a place where you once laughed until tears streamed down your face.

But those moments are now distant echoes from a life that no longer exists. Everyone from that night is gone, one way or another— Daryl, Denise, Abe, Merle, Rosita... Jamie. Each one a haunting specter in the desolate corridors of your mind. Now, you're here, alone... utterly alone.

With trembling legs and uncontrollable sobs, you make your way to the bathroom. Unsteady hands close the door behind you, the click of the lock echoing like a final verdict, sealing yourself away from the world that has taken everything from you.

The world outside feels distant, almost surreal, as if you're a mere observer in your own life. You move mechanically, your actions devoid of intent, as you turn on the faucet, watching with a numb detachment as the bathtub fills. Methodically, you unbutton your shirt and undress, each piece removed with a slow, almost ritualistic precision. Your body feels foreign, as if it belongs to someone else, your senses dulled to everything but the persistent ringing in your ears, your soft, involuntary cries, and the sound of water steadily rising in the tub.

As you step into the bathtub, the cold porcelain barely registers against your skin. The water surrounding you gradually adopts a murky red hue, yet you remain emotionally detached, as if the reality of the situation can't quite penetrate the fog that envelops your mind. You lower yourself into the water, letting it envelop you like a cocoon. Beside the tub, your father appears, sitting on the edge, his presence both comforting and haunting.

From the other side of the door, Eric's voice pierces the silence. "Alie!" he calls out, his voice tinged with panic.

"She's in here!" A female voice accompanies his, the bathroom door handle rattling in a futile attempt to gain entry.

"Alie, honey, it's me, Amanda," she calls softly, her voice muffled and laced with concern. "Could you please open the door? Rick and Aaron are out scavenging, and Michonne's not here. It's only me and Eric."

But you don't respond, your gaze fixed on your father. "Daddy..." you whisper, a mere exhale of weariness.

He looks at you, his expression somber. "The world is cruel, mia figlia. It will strip you down to your very bone if you let it," he murmurs. "But it seems it already has. You're in pain, longing for an end to it all. You feel there's nothing left for you."

You don't want to voice it, but tears trail down your cheeks as you maintain his gaze, defeated. Then, with a heavy heart, he gives a silent nod, as if granting permission. "You could do it here, in the quiet solitude of the water. Many have drowned in a bathtub."

Deep inside, you know this is what you deserve, and the thought holds a dark allure, a penance for a life marked by loss and guilt. It should have been you. Maybe you should have died when you got shot by the governor's men, or perhaps at the lineup when Negan brought down that bat.

With resignation, you slide deeper into the water, drawing in a deep breath as the darkness inside mirrors the surrounding waters, filling your senses.

In this submerged silence, you close your eyes, allowing yourself to drift away to a different place, a memory untouched by the harshness of your reality. You find yourself back in your wonderland, inside a tent, lying on a sleeping bag, the remnants of a campfire long extinguished. Beside you lies a young Daryl, his face unmarred by the trials of the world, his hair short, his blue eyes gazing at you as though you're his entire world. You reach out, your fingers gently brushing his cheek, warm and real.

"I can see it so clearly," you muse out loud, lost in a dreamy state. "We'll buy a plot of land outside the city, close to the woods and mountains, so you can still have your stars. We'll build a cozy home with a big porch and a fire pit. We can even adopt a few dogs to go hunting with you. A chicken coop would be lovely too, where we could harvest fresh eggs. And every morning, I'll whip up a slightly overcooked breakfast for you." Your grin is infectious, painting a picture of a future filled with simple joys.

And just like that, you're transported to that perfect world you had envisioned—a world untouched by the virus. You stand in a beautifully decorated home, every piece of furniture thoughtfully arranged, exuding warmth and comfort. Your gaze sweeps over the photographs adorning the walls, but before you can inspect them closely, a cry pierces the air—a baby's cry.

Instinctively, you turn towards the sound, driven by an irresistible maternal pull. There, behind you, lies a baby's crib. You approach it swiftly, your heart pounding with a primal urge. Peering in, you're greeted by the sight of a baby girl, her cheeks rosy, a delicate pink ribbon adorning her wispy hair. She wriggles beneath her blanket, her tiny fists dancing in the air. A smile breaks across your face, one of pure, unadulterated love, as you reach to gently lift her into your arms. The weight of her feels so real, so substantial, cradling her close to your chest.

"Aww, sweetheart, hi," you whisper, each word a tender caress, as you rock her soothingly. You take a moment to absorb every detail—her bright blue eyes, the fine dark hair atop her head.

"You are so beautiful, my sweetie, so incredibly beautiful," you coo with a chuckle, a wave of contentment washing over you. Holding her close, you walk around the room, your heart swelling with the vision of her.

But then, laughter drifts in from outside, catching your attention. You move towards the window, peering through at the scene beyond the glass. There, in the yard, you see Daryl, wings still on his vest, chasing a chicken. His expression is mildly annoyed, but following closely behind him is a little boy, giggling with delight as if this is the most entertaining thing in the world.

Your breath catches in your throat, a warm smile lighting up your face as laughter bubbles up from within. The scene is charmingly chaotic—Daryl, the chicken darting between his legs with frantic clucking, and the little boy's infectious giggles filling the air. It's a moment of pure, simple joy—a snapshot of the life you had dreamed of, the family you had yearned for.

"Alice," a voice calls, you turn, smile still on your face, only to see your father standing there, his presence casting a shadow over the idyllic scene. Your face drops, as your chest tightens, a suffocating sensation washing over you as if you're drowning.

"No, wait!" you gasp, clutching the imaginary bundle in your arms tighter, unwilling to let go of the fleeting moment of happiness.

From beyond the bathroom door, Amanda's voice echoes, distant yet reverberating off the walls. "Alie, please open the door! Goddamn it! Where is Carol when we need her?"

"Alie, please! We just want to make sure you're okay!" Eric's voice joins in, sounding as if his face is pressed against the door. "Look, if she doesn't open the door, we'll have to break it," he says to Amanda, his words frantic.

In your paradise, your father approaches, the sound of his footsteps echoing like the ticking of time. "That's the thing about drowning," he muses. "A story of opposites. There's peace, in water, like it's holding you. But there's this thing in your head... and it's raging, fighting every nerve with madness." Your body convulses as if on cue, your throat burning, air in your lungs depleting, a desperate struggle against death. "To fight. To survive. All the while, a question lingers: have you had enough?"

Abruptly, you're yanked from your fantasy, hurled back into the grim reality of your blood-stained bathtub. You gasp for air greedily, coughing, clutching the tub's edges to pull yourself up, eyes wide and fixated on the murky crimson water.

The door rattles with repeated bangs, the sound of someone desperately slamming against it. "Please, Alie, just open the door," Amanda pleads, her voice almost drowned out by the door's groaning and creaking. "You won't break the door like that, Eric. Get something heavy. Hurry, it's been a while since the water stopped running."

Beside the tub, your father kneels, his hand tenderly sweeping the wet hair from your face. "It's time to let her go. Let Alie die here with her dreams," he whispers, his tone resolute. "You will rise, baptized in the blood of your unborn, rise, like a Phoenix from your ashes."

You gaze at him, your entire body feeling like it's on fire. He nods, a chilling certainty in his demeanor. "You have it in you, just as I did. That proclivity for danger. You don't need to feel shame, sorrow, or despair. You need to rage, burn it all. The world is trying to die, let it."

In that moment, everything stops, as if you finally understand the answer that's been staring at you in your father's eyes. The ringing in your ears fades away as if it had never existed in the first place, a mere illusion. With each labored breath you take, waves of anger course through you, breaking down the barriers you've meticulously built.

And so, you let it go.

You release everything you've been desperately holding onto. Alie, the persona, the identity you've always clung to be, drowns in the depths of your despair. All your life you've been running when you should have been embracing the monster within. Fighting to be someone else, instead of accepting your inherent capabilities, your true self, who you've always been.

Gritting your teeth, your fingers clench the bathtub's edge as you push to rise, your father's voice accompanying your ascent, following to stand. "It's like your friend Morgan said: 'It's all a circle, everything gets a return.' Now you understand your path."

You stand before him, naked and raw as the day you were born, stripped to your very core. You meet his gaze with newfound resolve, water cascading down your body, eyes mirroring his steely determination.

"Who are you, Alice Hart?" your father asks, his lips curling slightly.

"The conqueror," you reply, unflinching. A title, a name once bestowed to your father, and now it's yours. Your legacy, your destiny. It's yours by right of blood. You will take the name and redefine it in your own image.

"Yes. Show them all what that means. Show them who you really are." he encourages, drawing you close until your foreheads touch. There, you stand, united in breath and purpose. "You are not a man; your strength isn't in brute force. You're a woman, and the world will underestimate you. That's your power. You're a chess master. Play them all."

Of course, the world has always been a chessboard, every person a potential pawn in the grand scheme of life. You step back, feeling a surge of renewal. Your father steps away, his chuckle dark, twisted.

Water trails behind you as you step out of the tub and move towards the vanity sink. The mirror reflects a version of yourself - eyes hardened, hair clinging to your skin, face pallid from blood loss, and marred with bruises from the beating you endured just a day ago. Your hand reaches for the side drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors. The woman in the mirror is no longer who you want to see.

"There she goes… down the rabbit hole," your father hums, observing as you seize a chunk of hair. The sound of scissors slicing through fills the room, long strands tumbling to the floor and sink. Each cut strips away a piece of your past, severing ties to the woman you once were. It all falls away, leaving nothing but stubble brushing your cheeks. The hair, so reminiscent of your mother, the length you've cherished your whole life, now discarded on the floor. In the end, you no longer resemble your mother; only David Hart remains.

You let the scissors drop with a clatter, their job done. Stepping back, you regard your new reflection. "Let's play," you murmur to the woman in the mirror, a declaration to yourself as much as to the world.

Turning, you step over the blood-soaked cloth on the floor, approaching the door and unlocking it with a steady hand. As it swings open, Amanda's face appears, her bright red hair framing her concerned expression. "Alie, is everything—" she starts, but her words falter as her eyes involuntarily drop to your naked form, completely taken off guard.

Just then, Eric rushes in, your machete in hand. "I got..." he begins, only to stop short, his eyes widening at the sight before him. It takes him a moment, and with a mumbled "oh," he turns around, offering the privacy of his back.

"Is there anything I can do? Anything you need—" Amanda tries again, stepping tentatively towards you.

But you step back, distancing yourself from their apprehension. "Thank you for your concern," you respond calmly. "But I'm alright." Your voice is composed, a clear indicator of your regained control.

Pivoting gracefully, you stride towards your closet, leaving Amanda and Eric behind, a mix of confusion and concern on their faces, uncertain of how to react or what to do next.


As you stride toward the lab, each step is controlled and purposeful. You feel Amanda and Eric's gaze piercing your back, lingering as you leave them behind on the porch. Dressed in black from head to toe, your heavy leather boots thud with each step. Jamie's military uniform top drapes over your shoulders, emblazoned with his name, "J. Carter," meticulously sewn onto the chest according to standard military practices. The garment hangs loosely, oversized, its sleeves rolled up to your elbows, and the hem extending down to your hips.

The stares of your fellow Alexandrians are palpable as you pass by, some even stepping out of their homes to openly gawk. Yet, you pay them no mind, your focus unwavering. Pushing open the double doors of the old church, you step into your lab.

Inside, you find Eugene sitting in his chair, engrossed in a book. He looks up upon your entrance, his gaze fixates on your new appearance, "Well... I surely didn't think I'd be seeing you..." he starts to speak, but his words trail off as you continue walking, heading straight for the side door leading to the basement.

Down the corridor, you enter the small room, your boots crunching against the plastic covering the floor. In the center, two wine barrels sit, the very spot where you spent countless hours brewing the antibiotics, the same pursuit that ultimately led to Jamie's death.

You regard the barrels with a cold detachment, a stark contrast to the emotions they once elicited. Without a moment's hesitation, you climb onto one of the barrels, your boots soiling the thin plastic pipe used for air filtration, now bending under your weight. You reach into the square coffered ceiling, your fingers searching for something hidden since the wolves' attack - your rifle, stashed away and forgotten, never recorded in the armory's inventory.

Hopping down from the barrel, you land firmly on your feet, the echoing sound reverberating in the room's stillness. As you make your way out, you eject the magazine from the rifle to inspect its contents—only a few bullets remain, but you reckon it's better than being unarmed.

Eugene's gaze follows you as you stride back into the lab, the rifle now slung over your shoulder. You head to your desk, rummaging through books and scattered papers in search of the cigar you had left behind. Eugene's voice breaks the silence, his voice cautious. "I reckon I oughta extend my heartfelt condolences for your loss. Jamie was a bona fide powerhouse, brave as they come, and a downright formidable adversary in the realm of video games." His words sting like salt in a wound, but you try to ignore them. "Folks here understands. You were caught in a predicament, wedged between a solid boulder and a mighty tough spot, no two ways 'bout it."

Your search halts as your fingers brush against the cigar hidden between the pages of your notebook. Lifting it, your gaze inadvertently falls upon the detailed notes beneath – Eugene's meticulous handwriting documenting each step involved in your antibiotic process. The rage that's been simmering beneath the surface crashes over you like a tidal wave. With a deliberate motion, you place the cigar between your lips, and you fist the pages, ripping it out furiously.

"What in the name of Sam Hill are you doin'?" Eugene exclaims, taking a step forward, his voice rising in alarm as he tries to rescue the torn pages from your dismissive toss. "We invested a goodly amount of hours into those!"

You pivot toward the other desk, your eyes falling upon the machines that beep ominously, the glove box, the walker's head blinking lifelessly. Without uttering a word, your face a mask of icy determination, you swing the rifle off your shoulder. You expertly eject the magazine, checking the safety is engaged, before flopping it over, wielding it like a makeshift bat.

With a force fueled by unbridled fury, you bring the butt of the rifle crashing down onto the nearest machine. Sparks fly as it crumples under the brutal impact. Eugene recoils in shock, the papers he clutched fluttering helplessly to the floor.

"Doctor Alice, please!" he pleads, his voice tinged with fear and disbelief. "The immense effort that went into acquiring these machines... takin' a hammer to 'em ain't gonna bring Jamie. It's just plain pointless."

But his pleas fall on deaf ears, smothered by the roar of your own anger. Your rampage continues, each ruthless swing of the rifle reducing another piece of equipment, one after another. Eugene can only watch, frozen in place, as the once-promising laboratory—a symbol of hope and progress—transforms into a graveyard of shattered dreams.

At last, the room falls silent, save for the echoes of destruction and your labored breathing. You stand amidst the wreckage, your shoulder aching, your chest heaving with exertion.

The destruction didn't provide the relief you sought, but it signifies the dawn of a new chapter. Taking a deep breath, you pull Jamie's lighter from the breast pocket of the uniform, the one he always carried. Finally, after months of holding onto the cigar, you finally light it, drawing in the harsh, familiar smoke, letting it envelop you in its dense embrace.

Yes, the beginning of something new indeed.

You reload the rifle as you stride out, leaving Eugene behind. Your steps carry a different weight as you exit the lab. Outside, on the steps of the old church, a crowd has gathered, likely drawn by the commotion, murmuring amongst themselves.

Their stares follow you as you push past them, unfazed, a faint smirk on your lips. Your disheveled appearance, bruised face, chopped hair, cigar in hand—must be a sight to behold, and you wonder if this is how your father felt – confident, cunning, shrouded in an enigmatic darkness.

You make your way towards the small field surrounded by trees that serves as Alexandria's cemetery. The freshly dug grave is easy to spot, marked by a simple wooden plank like the rest of the fallen. You stand before it, a small, melancholic smile crossing your face at the sight of his name: Jamie 'The Tank' Carter. He finally got his nickname to stick, albeit in death.

The cigar smoke twirls upwards as you speak softly, your throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Jamie, for protecting me, for being my constant in this ever-changing nightmare. You were the light in this dark world, my knight in camouflage. I wish I could rewrite our story, go back... but I can't."

Squatting down, you rest on your rifle. "But I make you this promise," you vow, your tone resolute and fierce. "They will all pay. Negan will regret the day he ever picked up that bat. I will burn them all to ashes." With a decisive motion, you press the lit cigar into the dirt, onto his grave, extinguishing it. You dust off the tip and slide it back into your chest pocket. You will light it again when you succeed in keeping your promise.

With one last poignant look at the grave, you tenderly kiss your fingers and press them against the wooden plank, bidding Jamie a silent farewell. As you weave through the trees, leaving the cemetery behind, the same crowd awaits you, with Gabriel at the forefront, his face etched with uncertainty.

Before he can utter a word, Rosita's voice slices through the air. "You had a gun this whole time!" she exclaims, attempting to push through the crowd towards you. "This whole time!"

"Don't," Gabriel intervenes, extending an outstretched hand to stop her, while Spencer and Tobin hold her back. "Just leave it be, Rosita. Please."

Your expression remains impassive as you cast a glance in her direction, but Gabriel steps in front of you. "Alie, what's going on?" he asks, his voice heavy with concern.

Ignoring him, you pivot and head straight for the line of cars parked near the gate. Gabriel follows, trailing behind you, doing anything to dissuade you. "Where are you going? Michonne just left, and… and Rick and Aaron will be back any minute."

You reach the old, beat-up truck and pull the door open, only to have Gabriel's hand catch it. "Please wait. Don't do anything reckless," he pleads, his eyes brimming with desperation.

You turn to him, offering a small, inscrutable smile. "Don't worry, Gabe. I'm never truly reckless," you reassure him. "Besides, I'm just going to Hilltop to see Maggie." Your motive is clear – to put some distance between yourself and Alexandria, beyond Negan's immediate reach, ensuring you can no longer be used against Daryl. Only then can he stand a fighting chance.

The moment the truck's engine roars to life, and you drive out of Alexandria, it sets off a chain reaction of events.

Rosita, her anger palpable, as she marches towards the lab with a determined stride, knowing she'll find Eugene there. He had promised her a bullet, a promise she intends to ensure he keeps.

Simultaneously, Enid rushes back to the house that has become her temporary home, to get her bag that's been ready and waiting. Her concern for Maggie, fueled by the memory of Glenn and the unborn child, propels her forward. She's been aching to see Maggie, and now that you're heading there, she wants to follow too, to reassure herself that there's still some semblance of hope and stability amidst the chaos.

In the background, Carl stands as a silent observer, torn between conflicting emotions. Part of him hungers for vengeance, a deep-seated desire to confront and kill Negan for all he's done. Yet another part of him clings to the hope of finding peace like he read in that yellow book from Morgan, of returning to those brief moments when life felt somewhat normal. For now, he follows Enid, motivated by his affection for her and a protective instinct, ensuring that she doesn't do anything reckless.


As you look up from the map, the dense woods give way to an open landscape. Easing your foot off the accelerator, you guide the car onto a muddy road, with Hilltop coming into view. Perched atop a gentle hill, it's surrounded by a high wooden palisade that stretches impressively in both of Form

You bring the car to a stop just outside the gate, shifting it into park before stepping out. Daryl had brushed it off, describing it as an old historic museum, but seeing it in person changes your perspective. The wooden walls reinforced with long logs and makeshift barriers, rising tall and sturdy, present an imposing presence.

Your observations are abruptly interrupted as an Asian man peers over the gate, spear in hand. "Who goes there!" he calls down with an authoritative tone.

"Alice from Alexandria," you respond, projecting your voice to carry over the distance. Almost immediately, another face appears above the wall – it's Jesus, his surprise evident as he smiles. "Kal, go get Maggie!" he instructs the guard before calling down, "Open the gate!" Moments later, the massive wooden structure groans open.

You take only a few steps inside as Jesus descends the ladder of the watchtower, his movements swift. "I'm surprised to see Rick let you out of his sight, let alone drive this far by yourself," he remarks as he strides towards you.

A smirk plays on your lips as you respond, "He doesn't know I'm here."

His eyebrows arch in playful intrigue. "Well then, welcome to Hilltop," he says, gesturing expansively with his hand.

Your eyes sweep across the settlement, instantly noting the stark contrast with Alexandria. Dominating the center is a grand colonial-style red brick house with rows of windows and a grand entrance, giving off an air of antiquity and grandeur. The community around it is a seamless blend of past and present – a blacksmith hammers away diligently at a makeshift station to your right, while sorghum fields stretch out, their tall stalks swaying gently in the breeze in the background.

Laughter from the right draws your attention to a row of neatly arranged trailer homes. Laundry hangs on lines between them, gardens flourish, and colorful flowers bloom in window boxes.

"Alie!" Maggie's voice cuts through your observations. You turn to see her rushing towards you, Sasha close behind. Maggie looks a bit worn, her complexion somewhat pale, but there's an unmistakable strength in her stride. Her eyes well up with tears as she swiftly embraces you, her arms holding you tightly. You can't help but return the affection, rubbing her back comfortingly.

"You're here," she utters, her voice a blend of relief and joy. Her gaze drifts over your bruised face and newly cropped hair that now brushes your jaw. "Your face... your hair," she murmurs softly, her fingers delicately touching the tips of your hair.

"Yeah, a lot has happened..." you admit, your hand unconsciously touching your hair. Sasha's knowing gaze meets yours, and she nods in silent understanding, her expression speaking volumes.

Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and face Maggie, reaching out to clasp her hands. "They came twice, took half of our supplies, paraded Daryl around – they still have him... and Jamie, he's gone," you reveal, maintaining a flat tone, refusing to let yourself feel the full brunt of it all. "I'm sorry about everything – Glenn, Abe. I'm sorry I couldn't make it here sooner. But I'm here now."

Maggie's lips tremble, her grip on your hands tightening. "You're here to fight with me," she states, her voice filled with unwavering determination.

"I'm here to fight with you," you affirm, nodding solemnly. A tearful smile breaks through Maggie's sadness as she pulls you into another hug, and this time Sasha joins in with a chuckle. In that moment, you wonder if Maggie had felt isolated, if she rages inside, yearning for someone to stand beside her and fight.

"But first, I need to see your OBGYN," you say, pulling away from the hug. Maggie's expression shifts to worry, but you quickly dismiss her concern with a wave of your hand. "I'm still your physician, remember? It's time I check on your status," you lie with practiced smoothness.

Jesus, who had respectfully kept his distance during the reunion, steps forward. "The medical trailer is this way," he says, gesturing towards a trailer set apart in the corner. You nod in acknowledgment, and together you all make your way towards it.

As Jesus and Sasha stay back at the entrance, you follow Maggie inside. "Doctor Carson," Maggie announces upon entry. A Caucasian man with brown hair, with clipboard in hand, turns to greet you. "This is Doctor Alice, the one I mentioned."

"Oh, pleasure to meet you," Doctor Carson greets warmly, offering a handshake, as his gaze briefly lingers on the bruises marking your face. "I've heard quite a bit about you." he adds.

"It's nice to meet you, Doctor Carson," you reply, shaking his hand firmly, though his name gives you pause, reminding you of another Doctor Carson you met recently.

A brief pause follows, the air charged with a subtle tension as Doctor Carson awaits further conversation. You glance at Maggie, who appears to take the cue. "I'll go get your car moved," she says, reaching to take the rifle off your shoulder. With a nod of acknowledgment, you watch her leave and close the door behind her.

Alone with Doctor Carson, he sets his clipboard on the nearby desk, a knowing look in his eyes. "Is everything alright?" he asks, his tone gentle.

You don't respond right away, choosing instead to drift around the confined space. Eventually, you pause by a cabinet containing medications. "I'm Maggie's primary physician, and I'd like to review her chart and status," you state, eyeing the bottles inside before turning to face him. "And... I'm also here as a patient."

His expression softens. "Oh, you're pregnant?"

Your expression remains neutral, your voice flat as you reply, "Not anymore."

His face falls at your words. "I see. Please, right this way," he gestures towards the medical bed. You step forward, hoisting yourself onto the bed, your eyes briefly glancing at the ultrasound machine adjacent to it. Memories of Maggie's excitement to show you the black and white image flash in your mind. That was the day it all began. A bittersweet reminder of when you hoped you might be in this position for a happier reason.

Doctor Carson approaches, donning latex gloves and picking up a bottle of ultrasound gel. To distract yourself from the impending procedure, you voice the question that's been nagging at you. "So, Doctor Carson, how many of you are there? Or is it just a common name around here?"

He looks momentarily taken aback, both his eyebrows arching up, before realization dawns. "Ah, you've been inside the Sanctuary? You met my brother?" he asks, his curiosity evident. "How is he?"

You lie back, lifting your shirt to expose your belly, ready. "Surviving," you reply succinctly, just as you are.


Stepping out of the trailer, you feel a strange lightness in your body, a hollow aftermath of the ultrasound's stark revelation. Doctor Carson's distant voice had offered explanations and advice, but his words did little to ease the sting of the empty screen.

A few feet away, Maggie, Sasha, and Jesus pause their conversation, their eyes tracking your approach. Concern creases Maggie's features as she notes your expression. "Is everything okay?" she asks cautiously.

You nod, joining them, but their expectant looks suggest they're waiting for more. As you open your mouth, preparing to craft a reassuring lie, your words are cut short as a man dressed in a dark suit, looking as if he's heading to an office, comes around the corner.

He lets out an exaggerated sigh upon seeing Maggie. "What are you still doing here? You should've been gone by now," he remarks, his tone laced with disapprove. He doesn't even glance at you when he waves his hand in your direction, "And keep away from the people here. I don't want you putting any ideas in their heads." He adds with disregards.

"Martha," he turns to address you, recoiling slightly at the sight of your bruised face. "Geez, what the hell happened to your face?" he blurts out, only to briskly shift gears, "But more importantly, I could really use a pick-me-up – bring me a slice of your delicious apple pie to my office, will you?"

You stand there dumbfounded, your eyebrows slightly raised in disbelief. Jesus steps in smoothly, "Gregory, this is not Martha," he says, his tone suggesting a hint of exasperation.

"This is Gregory, Hilltop's leader," Jesus introduces to you. "He's not good with faces... or names," he adds with a resigned sigh, before redirecting his attention to the suit-clad man. "Gregory, this is Dr. Alice, from Alexandria. The one I told you about." When Gregory gives him a blank stare, Jesus leans in closer, his voice dropping. "You know, the doctor – the one about medicine… the cure."

Gregory's eyes suddenly widen in realization, and he takes a step back, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no, no, no, no. You need to leave," he stammers, his eyes flitting nervously between you and the others before he turns to briskly stride away towards the large red brick house.

"Gregory?" Jesus calls after him, frustration evident in his tone.

Gregory pauses, turning back with an agitated look. "Get her out of here, all of them," he insists, looking visibly stressed, before continuing on his way.

"Gregory?!" Jesus takes off after him, with Maggie and Sasha exchanging a glance before following in the chase. You trail behind, caught up in the unexpected whirlwind, trying to piece together the situation unfolding before you.

As you step into the red brick house, it feels like you're transported back in time, as if stepping into the 1920s. The interior is adorned with faded floral wallpaper, grand crown molding, and an assortment of vintage décor, each piece whispering tales of history. To the left, the wooden double doors stand ajar, revealing Jesus and Gregory engaged in a fervent debate. "Maggie needs our doctor."

"She has her own doctor," Gregory counters, seated behind a mahogany desk, his gesture dismissively pointing toward you as you wander into what appears to be an office.

You meander around the room, only half-listening to their exchange. A painting on the wall captures your attention, a beautifully rendered medieval knight on horseback, and you pause to admire it.

Maggie presses her case. "I need your equipment, and your doctor is an OBGYN. He said I need to be here a bit longer so he can monitor my condition."

Jesus stands with his arms crossed over his chest. "And it's the least we can do, considering she and Sasha saved our home."

Gregory rolls his eyes, visibly annoyed. "Well, too bad. She'll have to manage with what she's got, like the rest of us," he retorts, pouring himself a drink from a bottle on his desk. He scoffs at the irritated look Jesus shoots in his direction. "Don't give me that look. The Saviors could arrive at any moment, and I never agreed to any of this. If they see them here, they'll think we colluded. And her presence," he points at you, "only draws unwanted attention. And we," he emphasizes, "by 'we,' I mean 'I,' prefer to stay under their radar." He states exasperated, as he takes a heavy sip, clearly uninterested in accommodating. "Again, if they leave now, it gives us plausible deniability for anything the Saviors might throw at us."

At that, you let out a loud, scornful laugh, your attention still partially on the painting. "'Plausible deniability,' what an interesting choice of words," you comment, turning to face the room with a faint smirk. Your gaze settles on Gregory, and you instantly discern his weakness, a man who has found himself in a position of power by chance or luck rather than merit. He appears to you as a simple pawn, one that could be easily maneuvered with just the right amount of pressure.

"You know, my father was a DA, and the law was sacred in our household. In fact, when I was a kid, he would take me to work with him, and it's there where I picked up a lot of legal terminology," you begin. "For example, are you familiar with the term 'incontrovertible evidence'?"

A confused silence envelops the room as you continue, your voice steady and clear, maintaining eye contact with Gregory as you circle his desk with the deliberate grace of a predator stalking its prey. "It's evidence so irrefutable, so undeniable, that it cannot be reasonably disputed or challenged. It is evidence that is so clear and convincing it leaves no room for doubt."

Gregory attempts to wave you off. "Well, honey, as interesting as—"

But you cut him off, your voice casual yet authoritative. "The Saviors visited Alexandria, offered us the same deal as you." you state matter-of-factly. "And for our first tribute, I gave them the antibiotics I produced – the very same ones he," you nod towards Jesus, "saw in my lab." Maggie and Sasha's expressions darken, but you continue, your smile growing. "Negan was quite impressed by what I had to offer, praising the quality of my work. In fact, he wants me to move to the Sanctuary to mass-produce for him. He's building me a lab as we speak." Your words are a calculated blend of truth and fiction, designed to unsettle Gregory and alter the power dynamics in the room.

You move gracefully around the desk, leaning casually against its polished surface. "Now, when the Saviors arrive, they gonna want to know why their most valuable asset is doing here at Hilltop." Your voice drips with mock concern, your smirk taking on a dark, almost sinister edge. "And I might just tell them how you, Gregory, after being stabbed, came crawling to us in fear, begging for our help to take out the Saviors in exchange for food and supplies. How we, unknowingly, agreed and carried out the attack on the satellite station."

"That's absurd!" Gregory snaps up from his chair, his face contorting in anger as he tries to assert dominance. "Rich came to us begging for scraps. I only agreed out of kindness because y'all said you could 'take care' of them!"

You rise, stepping deliberately into his personal space, your presence dangerously calm. Your gaze is dark and penetrating, moving slowly from his receding hairline to his graying beard. There is a pause as you wait, letting your gaze do the communication. "That may be, but who do you think Negan will believe – me or you?" you whisper, your breath fanning over his face. "Self-preservation is a powerful motivator, isn't it, Gregory?"

Gregory steps back awkwardly, clearing his throat defensively. "Are you threatening me?" he stammers, adjusting his suit collar in a feeble attempt to regain his dignity. "You don't know who you're dealing with, Hussey. I've been in this game longer than you. I'm in good standing with the Saviors because I always deliver. I'm one of their top-earning guys!"

"Perhaps. But Negan asked me to be one of his wives." you reveal, your voice oozing with insinuation as you push past him to settle into his office chair, claiming it as your own. Nonchalantly, you lift your muddy boots onto his desk with a resounding thud, crossing them with an air of authority.

Leaning back in the chair, your eyes soften, adopting a seductive quality. "And as you know, we women have this… uncanny knack for persuasion," you purr, tucking your hair behind your ear in a gesture that highlights your feminine allure, despite the bruises on your face. "So, tell me, Gregory," you continue in a whisper, "who do you think he'll believe? Who has the 'incontrovertible evidence'? Some mediocre leader of a bunch of farmers he could easily replace, or me, invaluable in this new world?"

Sasha stifles a laugh behind her hand, and Jesus struggles to maintain his composure, biting his lips and looking away.

"By the way," you add, dropping the seductive act and returning to an impassive demeanor, "the legal term for this is extortion." You state, reaching for Gregory's glass of liquor on the table. You swirl the amber liquid, inhaling the aroma of scotch before downing it in one go. You meet Gregory's bewildered gaze as he stares at you, his eye twitching. "So, this is how it's going to go—If Maggie wants a doctor, she'll get the goddamn doctor. If she wants a pie, she gets the goddamn pie. Hell, if her feet hurt, you bring those delicately soft hands of yours, and you give her a goddamn foot massage. That's the deal. We'll keep out of your hair and earn our keep while we're here. For as long as we choose to be here."

Gregory, flustered, raises his hand to interject, but his words are cut off by the sudden roar of engines outside. Everyone freezes momentarily. Gregory rushes to the window, peering through the curtains. "Saviors!" he hisses, his face paling with panic. He spins around, facing the room, his expression a mixture of fear and urgency. "Do you realize what they'll do if they find them here?" he exclaims, pushing Jesus and the others towards the door. "Go, hide them in the closet. Now!"

"Gregory?!" Maggie calls out, her voice tinged with uncertainty, standing by the door with Sasha and Jesus. She seeks confirmation about the agreement just reached, but Gregory dismisses her concerns with a wave of his hand.

"Go, we don't have time for this." He pushes, turning his focus entirely on you. "Allison, come on, you gotta go!" he urges, gesturing frantically for you to get up. "Maybe then we can all get out of this alive."

You respond with a shrug, carelessly inspecting the dirt under your nails. "Nah, I think I'll stay put," you reply, your voice laced with a casual, almost rebellious defiance. "Let them come. I'm not doing anything wrong."

Gregory's anxiety amplifies, his eyes flicking back and forth between you and the window. "Marsha, please, get your friend out of here before she dooms us all," he pleads Maggie.

Maggie, still rooted by the door with Sasha and Jesus, casts a pleading glance your way. "Alie?" her voice urgent.

"Alright, alright—fine." you relent, raising a hand as you ease yourself up from the chair. As you move towards the door, you pause, fixing Gregory with a smirk. "Before I go, let's hear that sweet magical word."

Under your intense gaze, Gregory squirms uncomfortably, his attention divided between you and the window where Simon and a group of Saviors can be seen approaching the main house of the colony. "Hurry the hell up, they're getting close," you taunt playfully.

"Please! There, are you satisfied now?" he blurts out, his hands trembling as he hastens you towards the door. "Now go and hide."

You chuckle coldly as you exit the room, breaking into a jog to catch up with Maggie, Sasha, and Jesus, who are already ascending the stairs.


From his elevated position in the watchtower, Jesus maintains a vigilant watch over the Saviors as they busily load their trucks. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, yet there's an underlying sense of relief knowing they're about to leave.

But his calm demeanor shifts abruptly as he spots an unexpected figure – Carl, unmistakable in his sheriff's hat. Jesus's mind races, wondering how and when Carl arrived. His arms unfold, his body tensing as he observes Carl stealthily moving towards one of the trucks at the forest's edge. To Jesus's growing alarm, Carl is approaching what the Saviors have been calling "the Negan truck," presumably filled with supplies destined for Negan.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jesus springs into action, swiftly descending the ladder. His mind races with the potential consequences of Carl's reckless move. The boy could get himself killed, or worse, someone else. There is a sense of responsibility in Jesus's movement; after all, it was his paths crossing with the Alexandrian's that brought all this to them.

He slips among the crowd, waiting for the perfect moment, and as the truck begins to rumble away, he makes his move. With a burst of speed, he dashes through the trees, beelining straight for the moving truck. Jesus's footsteps are light but swift, and with a practiced grace, he grabs the side handle of the truck. In one fluid motion, he hoists himself up and lands inside the vehicle, his movements seamless and precise.

Nestled among the boxes, Carl looks up, "Hi," he greets with a small, mischievous smirk playing on his lips. The truck, now carrying both of them towards an uncertain fate, rumbles away from Hilltop, leaving behind a cloud of dust and tire trail.