Hey y'all! Sorry I took so long; I really had a hard time putting words to paper. My birthday is coming up, and I'll be out of town, so the next chapter might take some time.
PS: We're getting close to the ending of this story. Probably the end of season 8 is where I'll end it. I might do one or two chapters after but for now that's the outline.
Early this morning
When you knocked upon my door
And I said hello Satan, ah
I believe it is time to go
Me and the devil walkin' side by side
Me and the devil walking side by side
Me and The Devil by Soap and Skin
Chapter 70 - The Right-hand Men
Your steps are deliberate and subdued as you exit the double doors of the school, stepping into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Just past the entryway steps, your eyes quickly find Daryl and Tara a few feet away, their backs to you as they survey the area.
It's been a day since Carl's passing, and the weight of loss hangs heavily in the air, the mood palpably somber as it reflects off the faces of your people—the shadow of moral defeat. You have been trying to hold it together, to numb everything you feel for Rick's and everyone's sake. You are what's left now to lead. And you feel it—the pressure, the weight of everyone's eyes on you, their hopes and fears pinned to your every move.
With a sigh, you cover the short distance to stand beside your husband, your gaze following theirs to drift up to Rick, who stands atop the school bus, serving as the lookout post. He paces with a restrained urgency, the rifle in his hands, his shoulders tensed with the weight of his thoughts.
"How is he?" you whisper, the scene painfully familiar. You have seen Rick like this before—broken and distant after Lori's death. Yet somehow, this time it feels distinctly different.
"He ain't doin' so hot," Daryl answers, his voice carrying a note of deep concern. At his tone, you glance at him, taking in the troubled expression etched across his features. You know he's wrestling with guilt, blaming himself for the Saviors getting out and the fall of the plan, though you suspect they would have found a way out regardless, especially if they could do it with walkers inside.
"He's been up there since we got back," Daryl continues, gesturing subtly with a military-grade, ready-to-eat meal package in his hand that you hadn't noticed before. "Ain't eaten a damn thing since."
"Where's Michonne?" you ask, hoping she might be able to talk sense into him.
"In the woods—with her sword," Tara chimes in, gesturing toward the tree line that borders the school grounds. You suspect she's not coping much better, likely venting her emotions on unsuspecting walkers.
Taking another deep breath, you stretch your hand toward Daryl. "Give it here, I'll go try." He hands you the meal, and with a nod, you make your way toward the row of buses.
Moments later, you are inside one of them, clambering onto a seat and carefully lobbing the food up to the roof before pulling yourself through the open hatch.
"Hey," you greet softly as you pull yourself up to stand. Rick turns, his eyes red and fatigued. "How are you holding up?"
Rick merely shrugs, a gesture heavy with defeat as you move closer to stand beside him. Silence envelops you as you take in the view from your elevated vantage point—the dense trees encircling the school, the scattered houses in the distance, and the open road stretching forth.
"You need to eat something," you urge gently, extending the meal package toward Rick. When he doesn't accept it, you push the meal closer. "Come on, anything could happen out here, now. We need you able and on your feet. You can't do that if you're weak."
"I can't eat right now," Rick mumbles, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
"Trust me, I know it's hard, but everyone is worried." you say, reaching for his hand and pressing the food into it. "We can't do this without you, Rick. I can't do this without you."
Rick exhales deeply and finally accepts the meal, though he makes no attempt to open it. After a moment, he speaks, "The Scavengers are gone." Your eyebrows lift in question. "After... on the way back, we swung by the heaps. The landfill was crawling with walkers. Everyone there, gone, dead—bullet wounds." His voice suggests this happened after Carl.
You had been so distraught after everything; after having to put a bullet in Carl's walker-form's head, Daryl had decided to get you and Siddiq out. He had taken Rick's van, along with Sasha, Tara, and Rosita, leaving Rick and Michonne in Alexandria to finish the burial, leaving them with the vehicle you had arrived in.
"They held me prisoner, you know, kept me overnight. But eventually I got through to them, got them to agree to join us," Rick continues, referring to the Scavengers, his voice laden with guilt. "I took 'em to the Sanctuary to see for themselves—what we did. That's how I found out the Saviors had gotten out." He glances at you, his shoulders drooping. "They saw us there, shot at us."
"They took them out, didn't they?" It makes sense; the Scavengers kept flipping sides, and the Saviors would retaliate against that. But this also means Rick has no more moves to play; without the Scavengers, there are no more fighters to even the odds. You are back to being outnumbered again. "You can't beat yourself up over it, Rick—"
"No, don't," Rick interrupts softly as he begins to pace, his hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. He pauses and turns towards you. "Did you know Carl wrote Negan a letter too?" he asks, his voice thick with emotion. "He asked him to stop, asked us to stop fighting them. I don't see how we can. I just don't."
The revelation leaves you speechless; your hand instinctively reaching for your chest pocket, where the letter addressed to you rests. You don't respond immediately, grappling for words, none sufficient to bridge the chasm of grief and responsibility Rick feels.
You sigh deeply, the weight of the conversation pulling you down as you slowly lower yourself onto the bus roof, your legs dangling over the edge. You tap the metal beside you, inviting Rick to join you.
After a moment's hesitation, Rick sits beside you, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the meal package. The silence stretches between you until he breaks it. "I spoke to him, Negan," he confesses, the words heavy. At your glance, he elaborates. "We got one of their walkies off a dead Savior. He said Carl's gone because of me. Maybe he's right. I failed the one person..."
"Rick," you interject softly.
"I did. I should've let you bomb them when we had the chance," he continues, his voice barely a whisper. "I should've been looking out for our own. To hell with anyone else. Maybe then, Carl would still be here, or maybe not. But at least it would've been over."
"It was an accident," you reassure him, trying to soften the edges of his self-reproach. "You couldn't have foreseen this. No one could. It's not fair, not after everything we've been through." You reach over and gently pull the food from his grasp, carefully tearing it open and removing the sealed spoon from its side.
"I keep going back to that story you told us, back in that barn, about your granddad during the war," you begin, the scent of curry wafting through the air. "My grandpa fought too, on the other side—Italy was allied with Germany. It's odd, thinking our grandfathers might've been enemies on the same battlefield." You let out a small, contemplative smile at the thought. "When I was at the Kingdom, I came across a book about World War II."
With the spoon inserted, you hand the meal to Rick, silently encouraging him to eat. "It talked about the concept of necessary violence, the morally justifiable," you recall the book you started while at the Kingdom, Fire and Fury: The Allied Bombing of Germany and Japan by Randall Hansen. It was this very book that had originally seeded the idea of bombing the Sanctuary in your mind.
"Do you know why we bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Scholars and historians have debated it for decades," you continue, gesturing for him to eat, hoping to shift his focus away from his current troubles. "Some say it was to end the war, to force Japan's surrender. Others argue that Japan was ready to surrender if only America would guarantee that their Emperor could remain on his throne."
Rick stirs the spoon in the package before finally bringing it to his lips. "I personally believe the bomb, as awful as it was, served as a way to end all wars. The Soviets were waiting, itching for a chance. It was never really gonna end. Not until that ultimate display of power stamped our dominance over everyone. It put us on the map, changed how we fight wars after that—the kind of retaliation never to be repeated again."
You turn toward him, one leg folded beneath you, your voice gaining a passionate edge. "That day, America told the world, 'Look what I can do. Look how big my dick is. Try me and I'll erase you from the fuckin map.'" Your words are charged, drawing desperate parallels to your own conflicted decisions.
"My intention was something similar. A show of power that no bullets from the Saviors could ever match. We needed to make it clear to our enemies—and to our allies too—the Hilltop, the Kingdom, Oceanside, or any other community that might pop up later. Fuck with us, with our families, and we'll dog walk 'em across Virginia." You sigh, your voice losing its momentum. "Or so I thought."
After all, it's from that bombing, from that terrible war, that the United Nations was built. Well, that's off the table now. You had promised Carl you wouldn't resort to such tactics, so now you must find another way.
You are checking on your patients when, for the second time in less than 48 hours, the school bus horn blares through the halls. A surge of adrenaline propels you as you sprint down the corridor, rifle in hand, bracing for an attack. However, your pace suddenly slows when you burst through the double doors.
Outside, Daryl and your core group are assembled, their attention fixed on a single car pulling up. Your eyes shift toward Rick, who sounded the alarm, as he steps out of the school bus, his expression tense.
The vehicle doors swing open and Aaron emerges, appearing both weary and pale. He raises his hand in a greeting to the group. "Hi," he calls out softly, his voice carrying a note of tired relief.
"Aaron!" you exclaim as you rush toward him, closing the distance with quick, eager steps. You pull him into a fierce hug, one that conveys deep concern and relief. He returns the embrace gently.
"I'm so sorry about Eric. Really," you mumble into his chest, the words muffled but heartfelt. Aaron's been on your mind, making you wonder how he's been coping. Daryl had mentioned the baby they found, and how he had taken it with him to Hilltop.
"Thanks," Aaron whispers back as you pull away, his voice barely audible.
You let out a heavy sigh. "How are you holding up?"
He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm hanging," he replies, his voice steady but his eyes revealing hidden struggles.
It's then that you notice Paul standing by the driver's side of the passenger door. "Jesus, hey," you greet him, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Jesus meets your gaze with his characteristic smirk as he walks around the vehicle. "Maggie sent us," he states simply.
Beside you, Aaron elaborates, "The night before, the Saviors attacked the Kingdom, caught Maggie on the road too," he explains, and a realization dawns on you—the attack on Alexandria wasn't isolated. It was a coordinated strike against all your communities, just as Rick attacked all their outposts. "They killed one of us, but we're okay." Aaron continues, "Ezekiel and everyone made it out safe too. They're staying with us now at Hilltop."
It's just as you feared. This means the Kingdom is gone, hopefully not blown up like Alexandria. "How's Ezekiel doing?" you ask softly.
"He's… shut down, but understandable, considering everything," Aaron responds, his tone equally subdued.
You glance back at Rick, who hasn't made the effort to approach, his own struggles clearly evident. "Yeah," you agree, feeling a pang of empathy.
"Maggie's asking for support," Jesus shifts your focus back to him. "We need supplies—food, bullets, fuel, whatever you can spare. We got too many mouths to feed, and we've been rationing as best we can."
"Yeah, of course," you respond readily, turning to address the gathered group, who have been watching the exchange intently. "Tobin, can you get a truck ready?" you call out to the tall man, then raise your voice for all to hear. "Hilltop needs us. Pack up half of everything we've got, and we'll need volunteers to escort."
Turning back to Aaron and Jesus, you gesture towards the school. "This way," you lead the way forward. Aaron steps up to greet his friends, exchanging hugs and soft words of condolence, while Jesus falls into step beside you. "How's Maggie and the baby?" you ask as you walk into your new home.
"She's strong, the baby's good too," Jesus remarks, his pace slowing as he surveys the inside, then glances back at you with a small smile. "Best leader we ever had."
You nod, feeling a surge of pride for Maggie and her resilience. Together, you and Jesus step into the cafeteria, where his eyebrows rise at the sight of the supplies piled in the center.
It doesn't take long for the all-hands effort to sort and divide the supplies based on the inventory chart. You lean against the hallway wall, watching as the group carries bins of food out of the cafeteria, stacking them in the bed of a beat-up truck parked in front of the school. Meanwhile, you and Jesus share in a private conversation.
You update him on the tragic events with Carl and the burning of Alexandria, while he fills you in on the recent developments at Hilltop. He tells you how, after Gregory's betrayal, Maggie had tossed him into the prison pen they'd built inside, along with the rest of the Saviors held as prisoners. He describes the tense atmosphere and how Maggie executed one of them in an eye-for-an-eye response, sending the body back to the Saviors in the same casket they had used as part of their theatrical ploys. Now, he believes there might be retaliation.
"Now that we've got ammo, I feel a bit better. Maggie's got a lookout posted every half mile. We'll see them coming, and we'll be ready for them," Jesus says, his voice low and serious.
You hum in thought, only to be interrupted when you catch Siddiq walking by with a box of canned goods.
"Siddiq!" you call, beckoning him over. His large, brown eyes, filled with hesitation, meet yours as he approaches. It's clear he's been trying to be helpful at every turn since his arrival, though a pained expression often clouds his features. He feels guilty about Carl's death, and it seems to weigh heavily on him.
"Yes?" Siddiq replies softly, his gaze flitting to the man by your side.
"I want you to meet Paul Rovia; he goes by Jesus," you say, nodding towards Jesus beside you.
Jesus steps away from the wall, offering his hand. "Hey, man."
Siddiq sets the box down to shake his hand, as you continue your introduction. "He's part of a community called Hilltop, and they've recently lost their doctor. Their leader, Maggie—she's pregnant," you elaborate, resting your hand on Siddiq's shoulder, giving him an affirming look. "She is family to us, and right now, they could really use your help."
Siddiq's eyes dart between you and Jesus, nodding his head eagerly. "Yeah, of course. I'd be glad to help."
You nod, giving Siddiq's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as you pull back. "Jesus, I've got you some precious cargo here," you announce with a small smile. "This is Siddiq, and he's a doctor. He'll be taking care of Hilltop."
"Thanks, man. You have no idea—," Jesus begins to reply but is interrupted by Daryl who approaches, wiping his hands on his small red rag.
"We're ready for y'all," Daryl announces, jerking his head towards the truck visible through the open double doors outside. "Packed some fuel in the other car, and Tobin and Ben, they gonna ride along witcha."
"Good," you nod decisively, pushing off the wall. "We need to get you home safely. We can't risk this much food and a doctor falling into the Saviors' hands…" Your train of thought trails off as you spot Rick approaching from the hallway. He's clad in his distinctive jacket with the fur collar, rifle in hand, and hatchet hooked to his belt. His expression is stern, battle-ready.
He stops when he reaches you. "I'll go too," he says, giving Jesus a nod.
You begin with a sigh, "Rick, I don't know if this is a good—"
"I want to—need to check on things out there," Rick interrupts with resolve, and you know he has made up his mind. When you don't respond, he turns and continues on his way out.
You watch his retreating figure for a moment before letting out another heavy sigh. You know he shouldn't be out there, not in his current state of mind, but you also understand his need. He might want to inform the rest of the group about what happened, to connect with those who cared about Carl.
"I can go with him, keep an eye on him," Daryl offers from beside you, his gaze lingering where Rick had exited. "He shouldn't be out there alone," he adds softly, concern etching his features.
"No, I'll do it," a voice from behind you interjects. Turning, you see Michonne approaching from the same direction Rick had come, looking somewhat disheveled, with spots of walker blood on her vest.
"He's going, right?" she asks, nodding towards Siddiq, quickly coming to the same conclusion as you.
"Yeah, they need him," you reply softly, your eyes noting the fatigue in Michonne's stance.
"I'm okay," she assures softly, as if reading the worried look on your face. Her expression hardens with determination. "Carl risked his life so he could make it, and I'm gonna make sure he gets where he needs to be."
After a moment's pause, you relent. Perhaps they both need to keep themselves busy, to do something—anything—rather than sit around and dwell on their loss. "Alright, just keep me updated."
With that, together, you head out, your steps in sync, with Siddiq carrying the last box to the truck.
Outside, a small crowd has gathered. Aaron is having a side conversation with Rosita, Sasha, and Tara, his eyes occasionally flicking to Rick. You suspect he's also sharing the devastating news. Meanwhile, Rick inspects the truck, where Tobin and Ben are securing the supplies, making sure everything is anchored properly to prevent it from spilling during the drive.
You give Siddiq a final nod of encouragement as Michonne leads him to the truck. With a reassuring touch on your shoulder, Jesus, too, heads towards Aaron and their vehicle, ready to depart.
Merle stands outside the Sanctuary, his body coiled tight as Negan's declaration echoes in his mind: "Hilltop is gonna learn to toe the line, one way or another, dead or alive… or some kinda shit in between."
The air hums with the symphony of preparation—engines roaring to life, fighters maneuvering with bloodstained weapons, the Saviors gearing up for an assault. Amidst this chaos, Merle's gaze is fixed on the crimson sheen coating his prosthetic blade—walker blood.
Merle has crossed many lines in his past and done things he regrets, but he is no longer that man. He is different, changed. Now, with Negan planning to attack Hilltop and infect a few of its residents with walker-tainted weapons, Merle feels disgusted. They will die and change, unaware of their fate.
Rumors have reached him that Alexandria is empty and abandoned. His gut suspicion tells him that his family, his true people, will be at Hilltop, seeking refuge. He knows this is where his path with the Saviors must end; staying is no longer an option. But the dread of what Negan might do if he defects looms large. Negan would surely make an example of him—a brutal spectacle.
His attention shifts as he hears the distant roar of a motorcycle. Spotting Dwight across the yard, dressed in his brother's vest and inspecting his bike, Merle strides toward him, each step heavy on the gravel, his expression hardened.
Dwight looks up as Merle stops before him, his own arrows also tainted with walker blood.
"The fuck is happenin'." Merle's voice is a harsh whisper through clenched teeth. "This is some fucked-up shit, and that's sayin' somethin' comin' from me. I used to run with a guy who wore an eyepatch and called himself the goddamn Governor."
Dwight's face mirrors Merle's tension. "I'm heading out now, try to get ahead, warn them before it's too late," he murmurs back, his tone equally fraught.
Merle nods, a fleeting sense of relief washing over him. "Good. They're tight on bullets, so I reckon they gotta get up close and personal for this to work," he advises, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to an even lower rasp. "Make sure they know what's comin'. They can't let 'em pass through that gate—"
"Fellas!" The abrupt call from Simon jolts them from their hushed strategizing. Standing by one of the vans, impatient, he waves a bloody hatchet in one hand and a rifle in the other. "The hell y'all doin'? We got shit to do. Come on!"
"I'm gonna scout ahead," Dwight suggests, gesturing toward the area beyond the Sanctuary's perimeter. "See if anything's coming our way."
"Yeah," Merle pushes, aiming to steer any plan Simon might be cooking up in another direction. "Might not be a bad idea, considerin' all the shit that's been up our creek."
Simon strides forward, an exaggerated expression of confusion on his face. "The hell for?" he blurts out. "We got scouts—scouting, duhh." He scans back and forth between the two men, standing squarely in front of them. "Come on, stop wasting time with all this jawin'. Negan said we gotta bunk up, so ándale!" he commands, making a hurrying gesture.
Merle and Dwight exchange a glance before Dwight reluctantly dismounts from his bike. Merle's fists tighten at his sides as he curses under his breath. Well, there goes their plan. He trails after the two, heading toward the van. Simon jumps into the driver's seat, and Dwight gets sandwiched between them.
The convoy roars to life as Simon takes the lead, with Negan trailing alone in his Chevy at the rear. For a moment, the drive settles into a tense quietude as Merle contemplates his very thin options, forcing his restless knees to remain still. Perhaps he could switch sides once they breach Hilltop's walls, provided he doesn't get clipped by his own people first.
"So, whatcha make of this, D?" Simon suddenly asks, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"Hah?" Dwight hums, his attention not fully engaged.
"This—our little road trip?" Simon clarifies, as if it's the most obvious topic.
"Opportunity to close, nothing wrong with that," Dwight replies, not giving much.
"Oh, come on!" Simon retorts, briefly shifting his gaze to his passengers. "Top guy to top guys, we can get candid here. Let's get weird! Ain't nobody here but us three musketeers!" When he doesn't receive the response he's fishing for, he redirects his question toward Merle. "Merle, buddy, how about you? You were one of them before…"
Merle can sense Simon is playing something shady, his tone suggests as much. Now, he wonders, did Negan really want them all cozied up like this, or was there another reason why he's in this car? His instincts tell him to tread carefully, so he plasters on his devil-may-care grin and turns, ready to engage.
You find yourself standing in a classroom that has been repurposed into a makeshift storage area. Beside you, Sasha, Rosita, and Tara sift through boxes of guns, knives, and mismatched bullets, taking stock of what remains. As the women tally, the harsh reality becomes apparent: now that you've shared your arsenal, you're a lot more depleted than you first thought. Even with the weapons scavenged from the outposts, it's uncertain how many more fights you can withstand.
Leaning against one of the classroom desks, your gaze drifts out the window, the voices of the women forming a backdrop to your swirling thoughts. From this vantage point, you have a clear view of the school's front yard, where cars and school buses are neatly aligned. Atop one of the buses, you spot your husband on watch, pacing back and forth, his back to you. A few buses down, Beatrice mirrors his actions, rifle slung over her shoulder, vigilant and alert.
However, Jesus's words linger in your mind. Maggie is bracing for retaliation from the Saviors, and with the remnants of the Kingdom's people by her side, she is not alone. Yet, this means you must be ready—to support them or to defend your position. Now that the Saviors know you're not in Alexandria, they'll undoubtedly try to find you, find Rick.
"So, if we're not taking out the Sanctuary, what's the plan?" Sasha's voice snaps you back to reality. You turn to see her leaning against the table next to you, her expression pensive.
"Hah?" you hum, turning to face the others. You had previously shared with them that blowing up the Sanctuary was off the table, a final wish from Carl that you hope to honor.
"We can't hide here forever," Sasha continues, her voice tinged with concern. "We're going to run out of bullets, and eventually, they'll find this place. We need one hell of a Hail Mary because this"—she gestures toward the boxes of supplies—"ain't much."
"They can waste all the bullets they like," Tara declares, squatting before the assortment of scavenged ammunition. In her hands, she separates a few copper bullets, scrutinizing them closely. "And they've got our bullet maker to replenish whatever they burn through."
At that, Rosita lets out a derisive tsk from where she leans against the wall across from you. "I had a word with Aaron. He said, Simon told Maggie that it's Eugene that got em out," she articulates each word with palpable frustration. "Apparently, he's the brains of their operation."
You sense her hurt and anger—after all, their history extends beyond what you know. You originally suspected Eugene was acting out of fear, merely trying to survive, but now it seems he might be more indoctrinated into their ideology than you initially thought.
"There's nothing we can do about that now," you say, your gaze sweeping across the black and white tiles like a chessboard. "We just gotta find another way." You know that's easier said than done. You need Negan to falter, to slip up and give you an opening.
You need to do what you've always done: play the game.
You remember how your father used to command a room without uttering a single word, the fear evident in people's faces at just the rise of his eyebrow. Now, with Negan thinking he's outmaneuvered you, believing he has the upper hand. It's your turn to flip the script. His demeanor always seems so relaxed, his mockery effortless. You wonder how much of that is truly a facade. You need to sow a seed of paranoia, turn up the heat under him.
Rosita pushes off from the wall. "We can get to Eugene. I'll do it—" She stops mid-sentence as the radio at your hip buzzes.
"Alie," Rick's voice crackles through the static, barely audible yet unmistakably urgent. "I see Negan and the Saviors' convoy."
Instantly, the walkie is in your hand, pressed to your lips. "Rick! What do you mean you see Negan?" The tension in the room spikes as the others watch closely.
"He's on Olivine and 29, heading toward Hilltop." Rick's report sends you into high alert, your feet already moving.
"I know whatcha thinking, but do NOT engage, you hear me?!" you yell into the walkie, yet you receive no reply. "Rick! Can you hear me?! RICK! DO NOT ENGAGE!" The other end remains ominously silent, and you know he's going to do it anyway. "Motherfucker!" you curse in frustration, grabbing your rifle from where it's propped against the doorway and sprint out of the classroom.
The others follow. "We'll come with you," Sasha says, keeping pace, with Rosita and Tara flanking your other side.
"No!" Your voice is firm as you burst through the double doors, pausing momentarily on the steps. "We can't all go; we don't know what they're up to. Rick will listen to me." You glance from Sasha to Rosita and Tara, giving them a firm nod. "Keep the place secure."
With that, you turn and shout, "Daryl!" Immediately, you have his attention, as your feet quickly move toward one of the sedans lined up. Daryl moves with speed, sliding down from the bus's roof hatch. You're already jumping into the passenger seat, keys from behind the sun visor in hand as he reaches you.
"The hell is happenin'!" Daryl calls as he rushes to the driver's seat.
"Rick's happening, come on!" You toss him the keys as he jumps into the car, his rifle tossed in the back seat. Your hand dives into the glove box to pull out a crumpled map. He turns to you, his face a mix of confusion and alert, prompting you to explain as your hands and eyes skim over the map. "Negan's been spotted heading toward Hilltop, on 29. Rick is intercepting them, alone."
"Shit! Alright, ya hang back, I'll go check it out solo," Daryl suggests as he starts the car. His face is etched with worry for his friend and even worse at the thought of you being out there.
"Are you kidding me right now? We ain't got time for this—go, go, go!"
Daryl makes a face, muttering under his breath as he hits the gas. The drive is fast and bumpy. You direct him to the intersection of 29 and Olivine, a few miles out from Hilltop. As you guide Daryl on where to turn, your knees bounce with anticipation and adrenaline. Rick is out for blood and not in the right frame of mind to make logical decisions. He could get himself killed or caught, and everything you've been fighting for will be over.
"Turn left here," you instruct as Daryl steers the car, your eyes scanning for danger as buildings start to flank the road. "They could only head this way," you say, eyeing what seems to be a small-town center, with worn-out signs still visibly hanging over stores.
Daryl instinctively slows the car, his hunter's eyes sharp, though you barely notice. "There, you see them skid marks? They're all zigzaggin'," he points, gesturing out the windshield. On the road ahead, the marks are unmistakable. "Someone got hit here; that's a fresh tire burn."
"It could be Rick," you mutter, your heart sinking as Daryl leads the car along the trail of marks. "That means they can't be far." Your mind races with possibilities. If Rick indeed encountered them here, a confrontation must have occurred, and it's highly likely he's either captured or is in deep trouble.
"We need high ground, or we could be walkin' right into trouble," Daryl asserts, scanning the surroundings. He shifts the car into reverse, backing into an empty alleyway before pointing to a building across the street. "See that? The railing up on the roof there?" You lean over to glimpse a small gray building with dark windows and a safety railing outlining the edges of the roof. "That usually means there's a way up to the rooftop."
"Yeah, okay," you nod, reaching to open the passenger door. "let's do this."
"Wait," Daryl interrupts, stopping you. "Ya stay here and be a lookout. I'll go check it out."
"Yeah, right!" You scoff, pushing yourself out of the car. "No way in hell you're going in there alone." Daryl follows suit, peering at you over the roof of the car. "I get you're worried about me, but I'm fine. I can handle myself out there, and you could use the backup. Rick needs us right now."
Daryl hesitates for a moment, then nods reluctantly. "Fine, no guns, knife only," he concedes, yet pulls his rifle from the back seat and slings it over his shoulder.
You nod in agreement, drawing your machete, ready for action. Quickly, you follow Daryl toward the building. It takes a firm jab of his knife into the latch and a heavy push with his shoulders, and the door creaks open.
"Watch your feet," Daryl warns as you follow him into the dark, moldy interior. The only light streams from the open door, carving through the dimness. You dispatch a few walkers easily enough, but for the most part, the building seems to be some sort of abandoned office. Your steps echo as you and Daryl ascend the side stairs that lead to an emergency access door.
The rooftop stretches out, a plain slab of concrete and large commercial Hvac under the open sky. You hurry to the railing, leaning over to scan the street below. Though only three floors up, it provides a good vantage point. "There," you point to a dark Chevy at the far end of the street, its position skewed as if it was rammed. Pulling your rifle to your shoulder, you peer through the scope, the smoking wreckage of the car coming into sharp focus. "Think that could be Rick? Or one of them?" you wonder aloud.
"Ain't sure," Daryl murmurs, pacing behind you to check the perimeter.
You pull your walkie from your hip, hoping Rick might be nearby to respond, or worst case, that Negan might just be there to gloat. "Rick, do you copy? Rick—" You don't finish your sentence as Daryl suddenly yanks you backwards from the railing by your collar.
A surprised yelp escapes your lips, but his hand is there to muffle you. He shushes in your ears, his breath hot on your neck, his body tense around you. When you crane your head to glance at him, he lets go, nodding toward the left and silently inches his rifle forward.
Dropping to your knees, you crawl to the edge, heart pounding as you peer down, bracing for the worst. But the sight that greets you is unexpectedly welcome—a dark chuckle escapes you, filled with cold delight, along with a familiar catchphrase. "Mother of dick."
Simon, Merle, and Dwight stroll down the street with casual indifference. Simon appears to be passionately lecturing the other two, completely oblivious to your presence overhead. As you watch Negan's lieutenants, all the worry you felt for Rick, the grief for Carl, and the tension and pressure evaporate as if they were never there. In their place is a tsunami of rage, hot and consuming. "Finally," you breathe, venom lacing your tone, "Been waiting to see this son of a bitch."
Beside you, Daryl crouches, exchanging a steely look. "Give your brother the call," you whisper, the weight of your rifle comforting as you align the sight, your eyes narrowing and your finger poised over the trigger.
Daryl brings his hands together, presses two fingers to his lips, and emits a whistle that mimics a bird call, their hunting signal. Through the scope, you observe the immediate effect—Merle's posture stiffens, his head tilting slightly as if honing in on the sound. Daryl repeats the signal, and you know he's been heard.
"Go, I've got this," you mutter urgently to your husband. "I'll give you the opening."
Daryl lets out a low growl, his body coiled tight, every muscle poised for a fight. He nods in silent acknowledgment and swiftly disappears from your side.
Your focus narrows to Simon, the rifle feeling like an extension of your wrath. You don't aim to kill, not yet. Simon is a piece to be played, not discarded. As he nears the building, you time your shot, giving Daryl a few precious seconds to reach his position, before the trigger yields under your steady pressure.
BANG!
Simon lets out a startled cry, his leg giving way as the bullet tears through his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. In the same instant, Merle reacts, kicking the rifle from Simon's grip just as Daryl bursts through the front door.
Screams and shouts echo up to you as you rise, slinging your rifle back with satisfaction. You follow after Daryl, descending the stairs with a vengeful grin. This one, you're going to enjoy—for Jamie, for Glenn, for Abraham, for Alexandria.
As you step outside, the scene that greets you is a charged standoff: Simon wounded on the ground, surrounded by Merle, Daryl, and a visibly shocked Dwight. You let out that same distinctive whistle—a mocking imitation of the Saviors' call—as you casually approach. Each step you take is deliberate, unhurried, savoring each moment.
"Hello, hello, hello," you greet, your voice dripping with smugness. "What a fine day we've got here, ain't it?" You taunt, echoing Simon's first words to you on the day of the lineup, when he ambushed you. Simon's expression twists with fury as he awkwardly tries to stand, careful not to put weight on his injured leg. You pucker your lips, "Why the long face, huh? Cat got your tongue?"
Merle's bark of laughter draws your attention, and you finally acknowledge your brother-in-law. "Hello, Merle."
He looks a bit weathered and rough around the edges, but his grin is broad and excited. "Sweet cheeks."
A soft chuckle escapes you, a wave of unexpected relief washing over you at the familiarity. Amidst the losses and uncertainties, you had resigned yourself to the possibility of never seeing him again, fearing you had led him to his death too. Stepping closer, you surprise both him and yourself by pulling him into a tight hug. Merle's distinctive, robust laughter fills the air as his good arm wraps around you, lifting you off the ground until your feet dangle. "Miss me, did ya? Who woulda thought."
"Well, ain't this a goddamn clusterfuck," Simon interjects, his tone venomous as he breaks the moment of reunion. He glances toward Dwight with a look of utter contempt. "You too, huh?" he sneers, before he suddenly lunges at Dwight, who nimbly steps aside, keeping his gun trained on Simon.
Simon pants heavily, unable to pursue with his injured leg. "Just a couple of backstabbing! nut-less! cock-sucking traitors!" he hurls the words out, seething with bitterness.
Merle snorts derisively at Simon's vitriol, the disdain dripping from his gritty voice. "Oh, shut up, ya psychopathic prick," he retorts, stepping away from you and squaring up. "Always yappin' like a rabid dog. Ain't you tired of hearin' your own bullshit?"
Simon's face blooms a deeper shade of red. "You really think you can pull this shit off; you dumb hillbilly fuck?! You think you can just waltz out of this alive?! This ain't gonna end well for you! Negan's gonna have your head, string you up by your balls!"
"Ooh, I'm shakin' in my boots," Merle mocks, the smirk on his face widening, clearly relishing in provoking Simon further. "I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees for a lunatic. And one more thing—no one drinks a goddamn gin."
"SUCK MY NUTS!" Simon roars, his rage boiling over.
You step in to curtail the brewing conflict, aware of the proximity of other Saviors lurking nearby. Your hand lands firmly on Merle's shoulder. "Merle," your tone unwavering as you give an order. "Bring me his head, for Jamie." As much as you wish it was you delivering the final blow, this act of retribution is more than just vengeance; it's a way to bring Merle back into the fold, a necessary closure.
Your eyes darken as you regard Simon with a cold, disinterest, as if he's nothing more than dirt beneath your nails. "I want you to understand something, Simon," you say, your tone icy. "I'm going to enjoy this. Every last second. And when I'm having a bad day, I'll just replay it up here"—you tap your temple—"give myself a little sunshine."
"You're gonna regret this, bitch!" Simon spits back defiantly. "Think you're smart, don't ya? All you're really doing is signing death warrants, like you did to your brother."
"Watch your FUCKIN' mouth, 'fore I gut you!" Daryl growls, his own anger simmering just below the surface. But it's Merle who advances, his prosthetic arm glinting menacingly in the light. With a flick, the Swiss knife attached springs to life, its blade smeared with dried blood.
"Come on then, hah, all this yammerin' puttin' me to sleep," Merle taunts, his voice a rough drawl. "Let's cut to the chase and dance a little."
Simon's posture is rigid with controlled aggression, reaching to his belt and pulling a knife from its sheath, a cruel smile twisting his lips. They begin to circle each other with predatory focus, the air thick with anticipation of violence. Despite limping—dragging—on a wounded leg, Simon's determination matches Merle's resolve, setting the stage for a showdown.
Simon lunges forward, frenzied and rage fueling his every move as he swings his blade wildly. You can see in his eyes that he knows this is likely his end, and he's fighting with everything he has. Merle is quick to react, dodging a vicious swing aimed at his gut. With a swift and practiced motion, he swings his metal prosthetic arm, the heavy appendage connecting with Simon's jaw with a resounding crack, staggering him back.
"Don't damage the face," you call out from the sidelines, watching the skirmish with a strategic eye. "I want Negan to recognize the artwork."
The fight is raw and brutal, a flurry of blows exchanged amidst grunts and curses. Simon is strong and methodical, even as blood trails down his leg and stains the ground. But Merle, wild and unpredictable, fights with the rough edge of a pre-apocalypse brawler. He exploits Simon's injured leg with a swift move, sweeping it from under him.
Using that brief opening, Merle lunges, his knife finding its mark with precision. It plunges deep into Simon's side, slipping between ribs with a sickening squelch. Simon gasps, shock and pain flashing in his eyes as he looks from the blade buried in his flesh to Merle's hard stare, blood pooling beneath him.
The fight ends as abruptly as it began. It's only then you notice Daryl beside you, jaw clenched tight, his body tense, almost bouncing like a trapped animal. His focus isn't on the fight but rather on Dwight across from him, who looks twitchy and nervous, his eyes darting from lifeless Simon to Daryl, perhaps fearing he might be next.
You turn to your husband, your voice low. "I know you want your shot at him for what he did to you, and everything else, but we need him," you whisper, catching the storm brewing in Daryl's eyes. He's holding back, torn by his previous actions, driving the truck into the Sanctuary, which might have allowed them to get out. He doesn't want to act on impulse here; he needs you to tell him.
You look at Dwight again, then back at Daryl and actually think on it. "Alright, you can get one shot—just one, so make it good."
Daryl doesn't hesitate; he strides forward with purpose. Dwight, anticipating the inevitable, steps back, his hands raised, his handgun loosely spinning in a gesture of surrender. "Look, w-wait, okay—okay, I know this ain't—" he starts, but his words are cut off as Daryl's fist connects with brutal force. Dwight crashes to the ground, dazed and off-balance.
Daryl breathes hard, ragged gasps escaping him as he spits on the ground next to Dwight, his dissatisfaction palpable in the tense air. Then, with a burst of unnecessary force, he grabs the collar of the winged leather vest from Dwight's back and yanks it off with a swift motion, reclaiming what's his.
You stride forward, pulling your machete from its sheath. As you pass Merle, you pause just long enough to hand him the blade, nodding towards Simon's lifeless form. Merle accepts the machete, testing its balance with a practiced hand before planting his boot firmly on Simon's chest, preparing for the grim task ahead.
Your steps bring you to Dwight, who cradles his bleeding nose, bracing for what comes next. "Alright, that's enough," you assert, gently pushing Daryl aside before squatting to meet Dwight's wary gaze. Behind you, the sickening sound of hacking fills the air as Merle brings the machete through flesh and bone.
Dwight flinches as you reach out to him, his face contorting in pain and uncertainty. "Look, it's done, okay? Now let me see," you insist, brushing his hand aside and gently lifting his head by the scarred cheek to inspect the damage. Your fingers delicately probe around his nostril and the burned flesh, his eyes darting nervously to the scene unfolding behind you.
"Lucky for you, it's not broken," you announce, finally locking eyes with him. "This is for your own good, you know. It'd look suspicious if you went back without a single scratch."
"I don't wanna go back," Dwight mutters softly, dabbing at his nose with his sleeve.
But you gloss over his reluctance. "Where is Rick?"
"He ran Negan off the road. It's just the two of them now; they should be close." Dwight answers, pointing down the street where they were originally headed before your intervention. You follow his gesture to where the tipped-over car you saw earlier. If Rick is facing Negan one-on-one, you trust he can handle himself. The best thing you can do for him is to remove yourself and clear out the remaining Saviors.
Your thoughts, however, are abruptly interrupted as Merle dumps Simon's severed head beside you with a thud. Without batting an eye, you turn back to Dwight, "We need you in there until this is over," you instruct. "Maybe Rick's already got to him, maybe not. But what we do know is there are too many Saviors close by. Take 'em home. Say you got hit in the face, got knocked out, and woke up to this—" You nod towards Simon's grim trophy. "Take it with you, a little gift for Negan... if he's still around. We wouldn't want him to miss his right-hand man, now would we?"
A dark smirk curls your lips—you want everyone to see the severed head of their right-hand man, to witness this spectacle—let the Sanctuary be abuzz with this tonight. You rise to your feet, flanked by Merle and Daryl, the Dixons officially reunited. "One more thing," you inquire, "does the Sanctuary have an intercom system?"
Dwight looks up, puzzled. "Actually, yeah, we do. Eugene just fixed it the other night."
"How wonderful," you murmur, your voice laced with dark intention. "I need you to do one more thing for me, Dwight." As the pieces fall into place, you ready yourself to play a psychological game. If Negan survives his encounter with Rick, it's time to turn up the pressure, make your move.
The moment you step into the school with Merle in tow, you sense the atmosphere shift. The air thickens with unspoken words and harsh judgments. The Alexandrians pause mid-task, their gazes sharp and wary, while a small crowd begins to form. Others, mostly the women from Oceanside, watch with a mix of confusion and curiosity.
Unfazed, Merle strides forward with his characteristic swagger. During the drive back, you briefed him about your new home, and now he lets out a low whistle as he surveys the atrium of the school, with its high-vaulted corridors. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on the array of suspicious looks—some familiar, others not.
"What?" he barks, his challenge cutting through the whispers with brazen defiance. "Y'all never seen a one-handed man before?"
Tara steps forward from the crowd, her face set hard, her voice even harder. "What is he doing here?" she demands, her eyes darting between you and Merle.
Beside you, Daryl stiffens, prepared for the tension to escalate. Merle chuckles, a rough sound filled with bravado. "Why do you think, darlin'? Same reason as any of ya," he retorts, his tone daring them to contest.
You step forward before the situation can spiral further. "Tssk!" you interject sharply, finger raised in a scolding gesture, aware that Merle's defense mechanism is to provoke further. "You—keep your mouth shut."
Merle scoffs, shooting you a look of defiance, but there's a flicker of something there too… regret or perhaps resignation. He's clearly on edge, back to being an outsider, right where he started.
Tara's frown deepens as you turn to address the crowd. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors by now—that I sent Merle to join the Saviors. It's true. We needed an insider in case there was a need for it, and he was the only one capable of playing both sides. Things happened, and that action wasn't without cost," you admit, making eye contact to underscore your sincerity. "But understand this: Merle just took out Simon for us. I was there; I saw it. I don't know about you, but that's a win. And God knows we needed a win, no matter how small. Taking out Negan's right-hand man means we are one step closer to reaching Negan himself."
The weight of your words hangs in the air, framing Merle's actions within the context of a larger strategy against Negan. "If you have something to say, you're welcome to approach me privately, but Merle's presence here is non-negotiable. We've been through a lot lately, endured many losses. And we just lost a kid." The mention of Carl casts a somber mood over the crowd, coaxing a moment of reflective silence. "Please, let's just try to find a way to move forward."
As the crowd quietly absorbs your plea, you notice Tara still looks unconvinced, arms crossed defensively. "Tara, a word," you say gently, motioning for a private conversation.
The two of you retreat from the crowd, stepping into the quieter side of the main hallway to allow for a more private discussion. Tara wastes no time in expressing her frustration. "Non-negotiable, huh?" she challenges, her words laced with hurt and disbelief. "First Dwight, now Merle. I get that he's your family, but he killed Olivia, and she was our friend. Dwight killed Denise, someone I loved, someone good and kind. Someone who idolized you." Her voice shakes, her anger palpable. "I don't know if you realize this, but none of them in there trust him, or want to be under the same roof as Merle Dixon."
You take a deep breath to steady yourself, meeting Tara's intense gaze. This conversation has been a long time coming, a culmination of all the pent-up grievances. "Merle did what he did because his life was in danger," you explain calmly. "Negan ordered him on the spot, in public. What did you expect him to do? Say no?"
You understand she feels betrayed, but you don't allow her time to interject as you press on. "As for Dwight—I don't care what you do with him afterward, but until then, we need him. He has already saved our lives countless times. We want him to feel a part of this, to keep risking his life for our cause. If you keep going after him, the moment he feels his life is truly in danger, he might change his mind."
Tara's expression tightens, her tone a harsh hiss. "I don't care. He doesn't get to keep living just because he might be useful."
"He is useful, Tara. Who knows where we would be without him. Things could have been much worse for us. We could have lost a whole lot more. We need him. Until then, he's off limits."
"So what? I'm just supposed to wait? We're all supposed to just get over Merle being here? You would never say that if it was Daryl that day instead of Denise. Dwight would've been dead long gone by now. Merle would never have set foot in this place if that was someone you cared about."
The accusation stings, the heat of anger flaring beneath your skin. "I did—get over it—that is. Don't forget you were once on the other side," you retort sharply, the intensity of your own emotions reverberating through the deserted hallway. This is a conversation you've never had with Tara, one that underpins the threads of your relationship, a lingering rift that had been overshadowed by other crises.
Initially, Tara kept her distance, aligning herself with the younger members of the group like Maggie, Glenn, and Noah. Over time, after all the trials you'd shared, it seemed unnecessary to dredge up old wounds. You had moved past it. But now, it seems unavoidable…
"Even if you didn't pull the trigger yourself, the day you stood by the Governor outside of our gates, I lost someone important to me. Someone I loved. His name was Charles." Your voice comes out harsher than you intended, the memory of that day flashing vividly in your mind. "The first time I saw you again with Abraham and his crew out there, I wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between your eyes. But I didn't. I let it go because I knew it wasn't your intention to hurt anyone. You were just caught on the wrong side."
A suffocating silence follows your words, thick with the weight of unresolved emotions. "We've all done shit we regret; God knows I've done worse," you say, your voice softer now. "But I'm really trying my best here, Tara. I'm trying to hold everything together by a thin thread, and I need you to work with me. We need to win this, to hold onto what little we have left."
Tears glisten in Tara's eyes, but her expression remains stoic as she holds your gaze. After a moment, she turns away and takes a step. "Do whatever you like, I'm outta here," she says, her voice hollow, without a backward glance.
"Tara. Tara!" You call after her, but she continues walking, exiting through the front door. From the window, you watch as she heads toward one of the cars, exchanging a few words with Cyndie who rushes to her side, her expression marked by concern. You suspect Tara will be heading to Hilltop too.
Left alone, the silence envelops you like a heavy cloak. You let out a sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration. This is a no-win situation, and you may have made it worse. But, no matter the personal feelings, no matter the cost, you have to win this war. There's no other option. You are a Hart and you do not lose.
The entire day had left Dwight feeling rattled and on edge. Yet, despite his frayed nerves, he gathers his resolve, focusing on the mission assigned by the doctor. She plans to speak to the workers using the recently repaired intercom system—should Negan return.
Dwight turns off his flashlight and slips out of the pitch-dark control room, which was once the main control room of the factory before the world fell apart—now reduced to a mere storage space. Behind him, a table is cluttered with wires and old monitors and Eugene's workstation. In the center sits the intercom system, its long microphone protruding prominently. Next to it, Merle's walkie is perched, set to the necessary frequency. Dwight had been toggling it on and off, sending prearranged bursts of static through the system, giving her the prearranged signal.
He knows she's out there, tuned in with Simon's walkie, giving him a few minutes to vacate this floor and prepare to put on the act of a lifetime.
His face is a mask of determination as he locks the door behind him, sweeping the halls with his eyes to ensure he's alone before he retrieves a pair of pliers from his pocket.
With the key still inserted in the lock, he clamps it between the pliers and applies enough force until the key snaps—intentional sabotage meant to delay any interference, giving her ample time to speak her peace. He discards the broken key and pliers into a dark corner of the hallway before quickly making his escape, his heart thudding rhythmically against his chest.
Upon his return to the Sanctuary along with the rest of the Saviors, Dwight was unsure of what to expect. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with wide eyes and audible gasps as he entered carrying Simon's severed head, leaving him to ponder if the fight was over, if Negan was dead out there.
But of course, Negan had survived.
Merely an hour after Dwight's return, their leader swaggered into the Sanctuary—bloodied and battered but perfectly fine, his bat swinging idly, his whistle cutting through the tense air.
When Negan found Simon's reanimated, decapitated head waiting in the meeting room, Dwight braced himself for the worst, expecting punishment. Surprisingly, instead of fury, Negan's face remained stoic as he listened to Dwight spin a fabricated tale of an ambush. Negan's gaze bore into the snarling walker head with disdain before he ordered it to be mounted on the main fence among the other grotesque trophies.
And then there was the doctor...
Things had been clear to Dwight ever since he chose his side, and this clarity had propelled him to take many leaps of faith throughout the war. From traveling to Alexandria to beg for pardon and offer his help, to dealing with Eugene and Merle discovering his role as a double agent.
Despite all this, a part of Dwight thought he had deciphered the enigmatic Dr. Alice Dixon. Boy was he utterly wrong. He had been so caught off guard when they were ambushed. And for a moment, he feared he might meet the same fate as Simon.
While Negan typically sported the gleeful smirk that hinted at cruel amusement, Alice's expression was starkly different—emotionless, blank yet terrifying, the kind that made him feel as if he were caught in the jaws of a predator. Her calm demeanor contrasted sharply with her chilling tone, adding a layer of ominous intention to the air.
However, the dissonance between her harsh gaze and her gentle touch left Dwight grappling with the complexities of her character. As her fingers softly caressed his scarred cheek, the warmth contrasted starkly with the cool demeanor she projected, revealing a contradiction to the woman he thought he knew.
Dwight's reflection is abruptly cut off as a piercing static noise blasts through the Sanctuary. He winces, hands flying to his ears as the noise frequency adjusts before settling.
"Hello, people of the Sanctuary," Dr. Alice's voice announces through the corridors, a calm yet authoritative tone that seems to blend seamlessly with the walls. Dwight dashes to the main hall, leaning over the railing that overlooks the workers below, who now look up at the speakers embedded in the ceiling, their faces etched with confusion and curiosity.
"What the shit is happening here?!" Negan's sudden, stern voice makes Dwight flinch, his imposing presence looming behind him.
"I'm not really sure," Dwight mumbles as the voice over the speaker continues.
"My name is Doctor Alice Dixon, and I'm one of the leaders of Alexandria. I wanted to speak to you directly to explain our actions—why we attacked, why we flooded your homes with the dead. By now, you likely have been told certain things about us, but I'm here to offer a different perspective."
Dwight steals a glance at Negan to gauge his reaction, only to see the man's face contort with fury. "The HELL are you waiting for? Find out where it's coming from!" Negan snaps.
Playing his role as the newly promoted lieutenant, Dwight barks orders at the other Saviors nearby. "You heard the boss! Move your sorry asses and shut this shit down NOW!" The Saviors immediately scatter to find the source of the broadcast.
"Imagine a world where you are forced to kneel before one man, a world where you are exploited and oppressed. A man who rules through fear and violence, coercing your women—your wives, daughters, and sisters. A man who burns the faces of those you love, makes you slave for scraps, and strips you of your identity. In his world, where you're nothing but a resource."
Negan's face pinches with thunderous anger, his grip tightening on the railing as he listens to the damning narrative.
"Now, picture a different world—a world where you live with dignity and honor, where your children grow up free from fear. Imagine a world where we all work together, trade among communities, and support one another. A world where we rebuild and find a cure for the bites that turn our loved ones into monsters."
Her voice softens as it continues to echo through the Sanctuary, imbued with fervent hope. "You deserve to know what we're fighting for, what we're willing to die for. There is a possibility for a cure, a future with some semblance of normalcy. In the early days of the outbreak, I was part of The United States military medical research team dedicated to figuring out the cause of the undead and finding a solution for the virus. No matter how hard that road has been, we've never stopped our work, only made significant strides."
This isn't the first time Dwight has heard about the supposed cure—rumors had been circulating among the Saviors for weeks. The doctor's deliberate mention of the word "cure" achieved precisely what it was meant to: it sent a wave of murmurs through the gathered workers, creating a low buzz that fills the room.
"Did she say cure?"
"Is it true?"
"What does she mean by 'cure'?"
"They're lying! It's a tactic! Don't listen to her!"
Each question and exclamation overlaps the next, creating a cacophony of hope, skepticism, and fear. The workers' reactions varied wildly, from wide-eyed hope to dismissive sneers, reflecting the deep divisions and desperation that had taken root within the walls of the Sanctuary.
"Our fight is not with you, but with the Saviors. That doesn't mean we don't understand—war brings casualties, and for that, we are deeply sorry. However, we will not stop fighting!" Her voice rises, growing with an unyielding resolve. "We will not give up! It's who we ARE, we will go down screaming, 'Give me liberty or give me death!'"
She sighs, her voice returning softer. "Perhaps, one day, this will all make sense, and our sacrifices will mean something. One day there will be a future where you will join us, where you will fight with us, where you will never have to kneel or fear for your safety. When that day comes, know our doors are open to you."
A pause follows, the silence punctuated by the distant sound of banging—Saviors attempting to break into the main control room. When the doctor speaks again, her tone is cold, almost taunting, "Now, I'm speaking to you, Negan." Negan's head tilts upwards, his gaze fixed as if he could see her through the ceiling. "Your way of living—it's over. It was only a matter of time before you met someone like me. I suppose it's inevitable, Murphy's Law, and all.
You see, I too have a proclivity for violence. It's in my blood. I. am. The conqueror," she declares, each word dripping with scorn. "You once accused me of trying to poison you, but you should know, you've never been unreachable to me. NEVER. I can touch you as easily as I'm talking to you. I'm in your home. I'm in your kitchen preparing your food. I'm in your cup of coffee, black with two sugars. I'm in your nightly bourbon, neat with light ice. Hell, I'm in your bed.
Now your people know who they're fighting—all the cards laid out nice and pretty on the table. How long before they turn against you, huh? Perhaps a bit of poison like you said, or a blade in the night—messy, sure, but damn effective."
She chuckles, a sound distinctly feminine and laden with irony, a clear provocation. Then she repeats words he had once said to her. "It sucks, doesn't it… The moment you realize you don't know shit."
As swiftly as it had begun, the broadcast cuts off, leaving a lingering silence that seems to hover menacingly in the air, words that challenge the very foundation of Negan's authority. Dwight understands the dangerous game unfolding before him. There are many who hold real grievances against Negan, like himself, many who might just act upon them to be the hero.
Despite the bulging veins on his forehead, Negan's signature smile spreads across his face as he turns to face Dwight. "Well, look at that—she whipped out her dick and brought a damn ruler to measure," Negan says mockingly, yet the underlying tension is palpable as he slowly pries his hand from the bar. "Looks like the party's back on, and the guts are on the menu. Round up the gang and fire up those engines, 'cause we're rollin' out to Hilltop. It's high time for a little genuine payback."
"Hey, slow down your roll, cowboy!" Merle calls out after his brother, his voice echoing off the rusty walls of the school bus as he slides down the open hatch. "Ain't no need to go bustin' a nut."
It's been hours since sunset, and Merle and Daryl had been on watch together, the two brothers sharing a cigarette beneath a streetlight—much like they did in the old days. Despite the wary glances from the Alexandrians, Merle reveled in the freedom of being back with his family, eagerly recounting his time at the Sanctuary. He had laughed heartily as he described Eugene's frightened antics, joking that the man was so scared, he might as well have buried his head in Negan's ass. In turn, Negan had handed Eugene his very own outpost to run, churning out bullets for the enemy.
But as the conversation turned to Negan's latest strategy involving walker-infected weapons, Daryl's mood had shifted instantly.
"Hey!" Merle calls out again, hurrying off the bus, catching up to his brother and grabbing his shoulder to stop him. Daryl shrugs him off with a quick push and a sharp exhale of frustration.
"What the hell's wrong with ya, man?!" Daryl snaps, his voice thick with irritation. Merle has only been here a few hours and already he's stirring up trouble. "You sit on that kind of info 'til now? She was just in there rilin' him up!" Merle has been feeding Alie all the info he has on the Saviors— from Negan's personal habits to where he takes his shits, to their weapons and bullet counts, yet he hasn't mentioned the tainted weapons.
"Ain't nothin' goin' down, alright? It's late. We'll head out at first light if we gotta," Merle dismisses the urgency with a nonchalant wave toward the shrouded darkness. "With Simon outta the picture and Rick rufflin' his feathers a bit, Negan's probably just holed up lickin' his wounds."
Merle doesn't know why he does the things he does; he's often a mystery to himself. Yet being here, under the judgmental and unwelcome gaze of the community he once considered his own, has triggered something in him—call it a defensive reaction, but part of him wanted to hide what he intended to do when he got to Hilltop, which could lead to more distrust and rejection.
"You don't know that," Daryl counters sharply, stepping back. "We gotta warn Maggie. Those are our people out there."
Merle lets out an exasperated sigh, "The hell am I supposed to do here, then?"
Daryl jabs his brother's chest with a stern finger. "Keep ya mouth shut and don't say shit to her, got it? I don't want her tryin' to tag along. I'll be back in a few hours, just—just keep an eye on her." With that, Daryl slings his rifle more securely over his shoulder and strides toward his bike, parked among the other vehicles. With a roar, he speeds off toward Hilltop, leaving Merle standing in the dim light, mulling over the precarious situation.
Note: Regarding the intercom system, it's a neat detail that ties this chapter. In Season 8, Episode 7, Eugene mentions wanting to fix the Saviors' intercom system.
PS: So, I don't want you guys to think it's out of character for Negan to attack the Hilltop like Simon did with the tainted weapons, because it was actually Negan who does the attack in the comic.