Hello, my lovely readers! Sorry I've been MIA for a while—it was my birthday, and I took some time off to celebrate. Plus, my bestie got married, and I was in the wedding, so it's been a whirlwind! But I'm back now and ready to get back to writing. Missed you all!
PS: this is continuing from the previous chapter, so I recommend reading it again, or at lease the last part.
please insert the bold link in youtube after the dot com part to watch how the bomb works /watch?v=xH7cTSGblao
Love, don't get in the way
Of this game I was born to play
Your feelings, they can't have a say
In this game you're either hunter or prey
Tragic by Tommee Profitt
Chapter 71 - A World Gone Mad
"We're comin' in, Rick!" Negan bellows through the bullhorn, his voice booming across the open field as he stands in front of Hilltop's gate. A twisted grin stretches across his face, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. The Saviors flank him, their weapons drawn, tension crackling in the air like a storm about to break. At Negan's feet lies the bloodied corpse of one of Hilltop's men—someone his crew ambushed during his watch. Negan hopes the sight will draw Rick out, forcing him to make a move.
"This is your last chance to hang your bare ass over that wall," Negan continues, his voice laced with mockery, "and let me climb up and slap it red for getting your man killed." His laughter echoes through the stillness, but the gate remains shut. No response. Not even a sound.
Negan's grin falters, irritation creeping into his expression. "Alright, have it your way," he mutters, snapping his fingers at his men. "Take it down!"
Before they can move, the air erupts with gunfire from behind. Bullets tear through the field, forcing Negan and his crew to dive for cover. The roar of a motorcycle cuts through the chaos as it speeds past them.
The gates of Hilltop burst open to meet the incoming support charging in, Daryl's motorcycle tearing through the opening, guns blazing.
"That's more like it!" Negan shouts, a wild glint in his eyes as his men scramble to regroup. "Let's give 'em hell, boys!"
With the gates now wide open, that's all the invitation Negan and his Saviors need.
It's early in the morning when Amanda steps out of the classroom-turned-sleeping-quarters. The corridor is quiet, offering a brief moment of peace before she spots Merle lounging against the opposite wall, his foot propped up casually. His eyes glint with mischief the moment he sees her.
"Well, if it ain't my favorite gal," he greets, voice gravelly, a sleazy smirk spreading across his face. "Been a while, ain't it? Miss me?"
Amanda groans, quickly closing the door to avoid disturbing her sleeping children. Too damn early for this. She turns away without a word, heading toward the cafeteria to start on breakfast.
Merle moves fast, cutting off her path. "Aw, come on now, darlin'," he coos, his voice dripping with playful sweetness as he blocks her way with his good arm. "Been thinkin' 'bout ya the whole damn time I was gone. Couldn't catch a wink o' sleep."
"Oh, please." Amanda's voice is sharp with sarcasm and irritation. "Just 'cause she let you come back doesn't mean all's peachy. Not after what you did. You chose them to save your skin, and now you wanna come crawling back to the winning side?" She doesn't wait for his response, pivoting sharply to continue on her way.
But Merle isn't one to give up easily. He slides in front of her again. "Now, now, put those claws away, kitten," he chides, his tone losing its playful edge. "Ain't here to fuss 'bout what I did or why I did it. I was undercover, just like she told ya. Risked my damn neck every single day for my family."
"So what! You wanna a trophy or something?" Amanda retorts, refusing to back down as she glares up at him.
Merle sighs and steps closer, invading her space. "Look, let's not argue," he suggests, his voice softening, his smirk returning with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. "Plenty better ways to work out this tension. How 'bout I make it up to ya, huh? We had ourselves a damn good time that one night, didn't we?"
That one night had indeed been singular—a moment of weakness and a craving for comfort. It was the day the wolves attacked. Amanda had been in the garden, gossiping and picking vegetables with some of the Alexandria women when the men with 'W' mark on their foreheads came charging at them with blades.
It had been the scariest moment of her life—and that's saying a lot in this walking dead world—the desperate scramble to escape, the sharp sting of the deep cut in her shoulder, the bullets whizzing past her head. All she could think about were her children, how they had no one without her, too young to survive alone.
Then the walls fell, and the herd flooded into the community, her home… She thought Alexandria was lost.
But it wasn't. Somehow, they survived.
When the dust settled, she felt a profound loneliness and a crippling fear about her own vulnerability. All she had wanted was to be comforted, to be held—that's when she ran into Merle. She'd seen his brash, hot-headed nature from afar, but also his strength, his ability to survive, and beneath it all, a surprising capacity for loyalty.
Amanda exhales sharply, pulling herself back to the present. "I'm angry with you," she states, her tone edged with a restraint as fiery as her hair. "You should've been here for everything that happened." She shakes her head in disapproval. "You didn't see just how real bad things got."
Her voice falters, her mind flashing back to that harrowing moment—pounding on the bathroom door, her voice breaking as she called for Alie, terrified of what she might find. "Alie shouldn't have been left alone. I thought she was going to... hurt herself. And the whole thing with Jamie—" Amanda pauses, her heart aching. "The look on her face when she came out of that bathroom… I don't think anyone knew she was pregnant. I had to step in. I had to clean up the blood and vomit—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Merle interjects, raising his hand to cut her off. "Who we talkin' 'bout here?" The only pregnant person he knows is Maggie.
"Are you even listening?" Amanda snaps, her patience wearing thin. With an exasperated huff, she brushes past him, determined to put some distance between them and reach the cafeteria.
It takes a moment for Merle to process what she's saying, his mind scrambling to piece together the fragments of her story. Hastily, he chase after her, his quick steps falling beside her. "Alright, alright. Why don't ya start from the beginnin', hah? Fill me in."
As the early morning sun casts a warm glow over the school steps, you sit comfortably with Judith nestled in your lap. Your breakfast—a bowl of oatmeal prepared by Amanda—balances precariously on her lap. The sounds of a waking community fill the air. Across the yard, Sasha and Cyndie keep a vigilant watch from the school bus, their eyes scanning the horizon, while Rosita and Beatrice busy themselves tinkering with one of the cars prepped for today's patrol.
You open your mouth, letting out an exaggerated "Ahh!" to coax little Judith. Her cheeks dimple into a smile as she mimics you with glee. With playful helicopter noises, you animate the spoon through the air, carefully guiding it into her waiting mouth.
Judith chews thoughtfully for a moment, then clumsily picks up her own spoon. Oatmeal spills over the edges as she holds it out toward you. "Ah," she mimics, aiming it at you with sparkling eyes. You lean forward, keeping a mock-serious expression as the oatmeal plops into your mouth. You chew loudly, exaggerating each bite, and the silly noise sends Judith into a fit of giggles.
"Num num num!" she squeals, thoroughly entertained by the game.
Down by the front yard, Merle sits in the shade of the school bus, meticulously cleaning his prosthetic knife. Every so often, you feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and lingering. Each time your eyes meet, he looks away, pretending to be engrossed in his task. You let it slide, chalking it up to the uneasy tension surrounding him.
The morning had started unusually quiet. You'd woken up alone, Daryl's side of the makeshift mattress cold and empty. Last night, you'd deliberately left him with Merle, giving them some brotherly time to catch up. This morning, though, Merle had offhandedly mentioned that Daryl had taken off for a quick trip to Hilltop to check on Rick, promising he'd be back in a few hours.
The explanation sits uneasily with you; typically, Daryl would have whispered his plans in your ear, sleep or not, his lips pressing a brief goodbye. And considering how he's been hovering over you lately, like you're an egg ready to crack under pressure, his sudden departure feels odd. Yet you know his mind has been troubled, concerned about Rick's fragility—especially with the recent escapades with Simon and Rick's pursuit of Negan.
"Ahh!" Judith's cheerful voice snaps you out of your thoughts. She opens her mouth wide, ready for another spoonful. Smiling, you refocus on her, guiding the spoon to her lips.
But the peaceful moment is shattered by a distant roar cutting through the air—a sound distinctly not a motorcycle. Your eyes snap up, locking immediately with Sasha's from her elevated vantage point. She nods once, a silent signal that sends a jolt through you. Quickly setting the bowl aside, you rise, adjusting Judith on your hip as you stride toward the school bus.
"Who is it?" you call out, your voice edged with tension.
"It's one of ours," Sasha replies, her gaze fixed on the approaching vehicle. Moments later, a familiar SUV—reinforced with scrap metal along its sides—screeches to a halt, tires spitting gravel.
For the second time in less than forty-eight hours, Aaron exits the vehicle, followed closely by Jesus. "Alie!" Aaron calls out, his voice urgent.
Instantly, you're on high alert, muscles tensing as if braced for impact. The SUV's sudden arrival draws a small crowd from inside the school, people emerging with curious, concerned expressions. "What's going on?"
"You need to come with us. Now," Aaron insists, motioning toward the car, his urgency leaving no room for argument.
But you don't move, standing firm as a storm of possibilities races through your mind. Did Negan retaliate after your last stunt? Is Rick alright? Did something happen to Maggie?
"What happened?" you demand, your voice sharp.
Aaron hesitates, his mouth opening and closing as he glances at Jesus for support. "I... ah… I think it's best if you just come. Talk to Rick," he stammers, clearly struggling.
"Aaron," you press harder, narrowing your eyes. "You need to tell me what's happening."
It's Jesus who steps forward, his expression grim as he delivers words that knock the air from your lungs. "It's Daryl. He's hurt," Paul says softly. "You need to come with us. The quicker, the better."
"What… what do you mean Daryl is hurt?" you manage to choke out. Sasha, who had climbed down from her perch on the bus, quietly takes Judith from your arms.
"We were attacked by the Saviors last night," Aaron explains softly, his voice heavy with the weight of the news.
"Last night?" Confusion collides with the rising dread in your chest. "But, Daryl left this morning." You mutter, eyes dart to Merle, who's standing a few feet away. The look on his face—shocked and drained of its usual bravado—tells you everything you need to know. Daryl hadn't left this morning like Merle had implied.
"Come on, we'll explain on the way," Aaron urges, his hand gently nudging you toward the SUV. Your feet feel like they're made of lead, each step dragging with the weight of overwhelming fear.
"I'll come too," Rosita declares firmly, stepping forward to join you. Merle, unusually silent, trails behind, his characteristic swagger nowhere in sight.
You throw a shaky glance back at Sasha, who returns it with a reassuring nod. "We've got everything handled here," she promises, stroking Judith's wispy blonde hair.
With that, you step into the SUV, the door closes behind you, sealing you inside with the sound of your quickened breath and the relentless pounding of your heart.
The drive to Hilltop feels agonizingly slow, each second stretching endlessly as your heart pounds in your chest. Daryl—always fearless in the face of conflict—had proven himself time and again. He had always come back to you. But now, as the car crawls toward Hilltop, a nagging worry gnaws at you. How bad could it be this time for you to be summoned? Is it your skills as a doctor they need, or is it as his wife?
The atmosphere inside the car is suffocating, thick with unspoken words and tense glances. Every mile that passes tightens the knot in your stomach, and it takes all your restraint not to reach over and throttle Merle. He'd finally admitted during the drive that Daryl had indeed left last night, not this morning. Apparently, Daryl had instructed him not to tell you, fearing you'd follow him into danger.
Aaron offers you a vague account of Negan's attack—how it left many wounded, some dead, and how, in the chaos, the prisoners, including Gregory, had escaped, robbing Hilltop of any leverage they might have had. His words float around you, but none of them stick. Your mind is already racing ahead, trying to prepare for what might await you.
As the car crests the hill leading to Hilltop, you spot walkers amassed at the gates, likely drawn by the noise from the previous night's battle. The gates swing open as your vehicle approaches, and a few figures rush out to clear the path. The moment the car rolls to a stop inside the gates, you fling the door open and bolt from the passenger seat in a frantic rush.
Hilltop is a flurry of activity. People from both the Kingdom and Hilltop scurry about, their movements a blur of urgency. Voices call your name, your escorts trying to keep up as you dart through the crowd, sprinting straight for the Barrington House.
Bursting through the double doors, you're greeted by the familiar floral wallpaper and old furniture in the entryway. Your footsteps echo as you dash toward the stairs, the rest of your group hot on your heels. "Bedroom to the left!" Jesus calls out, barely a step behind as you take the stairs two at a time.
You don't need directions—you know the layout of the house by now. You push into the room, flinging the door open where several of your core group members are already gathered. You shove past Rick and Michonne at the doorway, your heart thundering, bracing for the condition you might find Daryl in.
And then you see him—Daryl, sitting on the bed, looking weary but very much alive. His eyes meet yours, and you see alarm flash across his face at your panicked entrance, at the sheen of sweat on your brow. He immediately tries to reassure you. "M'fine. M'fine," he insists, jerking to move toward you—but he's abruptly yanked back by a handcuff clamped around his wrist, the chain rattling against the metal bedpost.
Behind you, there's a brief pause as the rest of the group files into the room. All eyes turn to Merle, stunned by the turn of events, but before anyone can question his presence, you blurt out, "What the hell?!"
A mix of frustration and relief surges through you as you march over to Daryl. You pull him into a fierce embrace, his free hand rubbing your back soothingly. "What happened? Why the hell are you cuffed?" you demand, pulling back just enough to look him over, your hands tracing the familiar lines of his face before gliding down to check for injuries.
"M'fine—really am. Sorry I worried ya," Daryl mutters, avoiding your gaze. That's when you notice the bloodstain on his side. Carefully, you lift his shirt, revealing a large surgical bandage. Alarmed, you look up for answers, but Daryl continues, "They cuffed me… just in case."
"In case of what?" you ask, your fingers cautiously peeling back the edge of the bandage. Relief floods through you as you examine the wound—a clean but deep cut, as if something sharp had skimmed past, carving out a chunk of his flesh.
"Thank God, it's just a flesh wound," you mutter, relief morphing into playful irritation. With a chuckle, you deliver a firm smack to his uninjured side, earning a pained grunt from him. "Seriously, what the hell man. You scared the crap outta me, you know that? Had me runnin' all the way out here—for what? So I can kiss your boo-boo or somethin'?"
But the laughter dies in your throat as the room's tense silence presses in. Daryl's somber expression, the palpable dread in the air, the way the group watches you—it's like a heavy weight settling over everything. Glancing back, you see the unease in their eyes. Something's wrong. Something big. Merle and Daryl exchange a look, one that leaves Merle visibly shaken, and a fresh wave of anxiety grips you.
"Daryl?" you whisper, turning back to him, but it's Rick who steps forward, his face haggard, eyes bloodshot, the strain of the last few hours etched in every line of his expression.
"Daryl, he—ah—he saved my life," Rick says quietly, his voice unsteady. "Negan was here—with Dwight and the Saviors. They hit us hard, and I... I wasn't thinkin' straight. Blinded by rage." His voice cracks, struggling to get the words out. "The arrow Dwight shot—it was meant for me. Daryl pushed me outta the way."
Confusion clouds your thoughts as you try to process Rick's words. Despite the visible evidence of Daryl's injury—it's just a flesh wound, he'll recover. But the way Rick speaks, the way everyone looks at you… something doesn't fit. "I don't understand..."
When Rick doesn't answer, the words spill from Daryl's lips. "Their weapons... they tainted 'em with walkers' blood," he whispers, his voice raw and strained. The revelation strikes you like a physical blow, your breath catching in your throat as the room tilts. "Merle told me their plans last night—that's why I had to come warn 'em."
"What..." You try to wrap your mind around what you've just heard, but it's like your brain refuses to process the reality. Your eyes dart back to the wound, as if you could will it to be something else. For the second time that morning, you turn to Merle, desperate for him to contradict what Daryl's just said. But when you meet his eyes, the truth slams into you all over again.
This can't be happening. It just can't.
It feels like some kind of sick joke, a nightmare ripped from some dystopian horror. But the suffocating tightness in your chest, the way the room blurs at the edges, tells you this is all too real.
"W-what're you saying, Daryl? What're you trying to tell me?" you mutter, stepping back, searching desperately for something solid—something that makes sense. Your heart pounds in your ears, drowning out everything else as you scan the faces—Rick, Michonne, Maggie, Carol, Ezekiel, Aaron, Jesus, Rosita, Merle—but it's Tara who steps forward, trembling.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's me. It's all my fault," she chokes out, her voice trembling. "I was angry, and... and Dwight was here. I didn't stop—I just kept goin'. He begged me back in Alexandria, too. Said someone saw him helpin' us, that he couldn't go back. He begged me to forgive him... to let him be one of us." Tears stream down her cheeks, hot and relentless. Her words swirl around you, but they don't connect, don't make sense. Michonne steps in gently, pulling her back and rubbing her shoulder in comfort.
A hand lands softly on your own shoulder, and you turn to find Maggie standing there, her eyes filled with painful understanding. "Alie," she whispers, her voice barely above a breath, "we've kept everyone that was hurt—everyone infected—isolated and restrained." At that, your eyes flick back to Daryl, his wrist still chained to the bedpost.
"And they all got sick," Maggie continues. "They… they all turned. We called for you so you'd be here, just in case…" Her words dissolve into a muffled hum, distant and foreign.
Tainted weapons. Walker's blood. The wound on Daryl's side. The reason for your presence here snaps into focus with a crushing clarity. You look at Daryl, his face tense, his fist clenched in the blanket as though bracing himself against the world.
"No, you're wrong," you whisper, denial sinking its claws deep into your chest. Your breath disappears as panic coils tighter around your throat. "No. It can't be."
You stumble back, colliding with a dresser. The impact is jarring but dull, drowned out by the chaos spinning inside you. Your vision blurs, each breath a jagged tear in your chest. The world tilts, the sounds around you fragmented like you're submerged underwater, drowning in waves of fear.
"Alie! Hey!" Daryl's voice cuts through the fog, sharp and desperate. "Listen to me! M'fine, alright? M'fine! Been twelve hours, ain't even got a fever. Just a flesh wound, like ya said. Alie!" His voice grows frantic as he rattles the bedpost, the handcuff clanking against the metal. "Somebody get this damn thing off me!"
But your mind spins, dragging you back to another time, another place—back to the bathtub, the water stained red, the weight of loss is heavy, the sensation of drowning all too real. But this time, there's no escape. This time, you can't pull yourself out. Your lungs fill with the cold, suffocating dread.
Carol's face swims into view, her lips moving urgently, but all you hear is the return of that familiar ringing in your ears, growing louder, more insistent, drilling through your consciousness.
"Told ya I was fine! She didn't need to be here!" Daryl snaps at Rick, his voice a harsh cut through the noise as his hand is finally released.
"We don't know that yet!" Rick counters, his tone firm. "She needs to be here, Daryl. You can't keep her outta this. I won't be able to look her in the eye if somethin' happened to you and she wasn't here. None of us could."
You press your hands to your ears, overwhelmed, as Daryl steps into your blurred vision. His touch is grounding as he cups your face, your body trembling uncontrollably. "Hey, look at me," he pleads softly. "Focus on me. Breathe, okay? Just breathe." But your body refuses to obey.
"Get her some water!" someone shouts.
"Y'all need to back off, give her some air!"
"Outside, get her outside!" another voice commands. In a swift motion, Daryl scoops you off your feet. The world lurches and spins as he moves, your surroundings blurring into a haze as he rushes down the stairs, cradling you tightly.
Outside, the harsh sunlight assaults your eyes, the encroaching darkness at the edges of your vision threatening to swallow everything. The crowd and noise from inside follows you out, as Daryl gently lowers you onto the front porch of the Barrington House. He positions himself protectively behind, his arms encircling you, his legs framing your sides, his chest a solid wall against your back.
Around you, the hum of Hilltop's daily life grinds to a halt. The usual bustle, voices and movement—it all fades into an eerie stillness. Every eye in the community seems fixed on you, stripping you bare under their collective gaze. It's as if they can see right through you—into the raw terror clawing at your very core.
Through the ringing in your ears, everything moves in slow motion. Sounds and sights are disjointed, fragmented, like you're watching the world through a cracked lens. Your vision fades in and out, and somewhere in the depths of your mind, you try to remind yourself that you're not drowning. You're not underwater, no matter how much it feels like it.
Voluntary apnea—that's what you once read in your medical books. The body's desperate attempt to avoid inhaling water while drowning, holding breath to the brink of unconsciousness. That's what this panic feels like: gasping for air that won't come, teetering on the edge of an inevitable surrender.
"Breathe," Daryl whispers, his voice calm but urgent. "Ya alright. Just breathe."
A cool breeze sweeps over the porch, cutting through the suffocating haze in your chest. The air feels clean—a lifeline amidst the darkness pressing in on you. But as the wind shifts, something catches your eye in the far corner of the yard. A white sheet, fluttering in the breeze. Beneath it, bodies are lined up for burial—a sight you had missed in your frantic rush to find Daryl earlier.
Your heart clenches as you recognize the still forms. Tobin's profile is just barely visible—pale and lifeless—alongside Bruce; their bodies laid out side by side. A fresh wave of horror surges through you. You sent them here. You sent them to this. And now they're dead. Dead because of you.
And now this world is going to take the last thing you have left. You're going to lose Daryl too. You're going to watch him fade away, and then you'll be standing over his grave.
Your breath hitches violently, the panic tightening its grip until the sobs finally break free. Tears blur your vision as they spill over, hot and uncontrollable. Your chest heaves with every jagged, painful breath.
Daryl holds you tighter, his arms firm and steady around you, his chin resting on your shoulder. He's whispering to you—soft, soothing words you can't quite make out. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Nothing does anymore.
With each shaky breath, something familiar drifts on the breeze—a faint scent of cigar smoke. Even through the tears blurring your vision, with the world spinning out of control, one figure stands out in a distance, sharper than everything else around you.
David Hart.
His presence is jarring, an apparition from a past you thought you'd left behind. From the polished Italian shoes to the well-tailored suit that fits his tall frame, he looks completely out of place against the hazy, rough backdrop of Hilltop. You haven't seen him since the day you fully embraced your destiny—the day you accepted who you were meant to be.
Your father's movements are deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he pulls a half-smoked cigar from his chest pocket. He brings it to his lips, flicking a lighter to life with a single, fluid motion. The flame glints in his eyes as he takes a deep drag, the smoke curling around him like a serpent as he exhales. His lips twist into a sinister, knowing smirk.
You know exactly what he's telling you.
Memories surge forward in a rush. "But I make you this promise," you had vowed, kneeling before Jamie's grave. "They will all pay. Negan will regret the day he ever picked up that bat. I will burn them all to ashes."You'd pressed a lit cigar into the dirt of the grave, extinguishing it with finality. Dusting off the tip, you'd tucked it back into your chest pocket, reserving it for the day you made good on that promise.
What happened to that? What happened to embracing who you were meant to be?
"Yeah, breathe in. Good, just like that," Daryl coaxes, his voice a gentle vibration against your neck. For once, he's completely oblivious to the eyes gathered around you. His open affection is unguarded, free of the usual restraint he wears in public. "Alie, sweetheart. I love ya. I ain't goin' nowhere. I'm fine. So sorry. So damn sorry I didn't tell ya I left. I'm here. Right here. And I gotchu. Just me and you, like always, alright? Just breathe for me."
His words pull you back, away from the ghostly image of your father, away from the echoes of the past. You lean into Daryl, letting his warmth and the steady rumble of his voice recalibrate your senses. And finally, you let go. You let the tears flow freely, and you breathe in and out.
You let it drown you. Again.
The stillness of the room feels like a silent witness to the exhaustion and tension that have defined the last six hours. You know because you've been keeping track. The afternoon light filters through the heavy curtains, casting a muted glow over the bed where you and Daryl lie together—the same bed you found him in earlier, cuffed to the headboard. Above you, the handcuff still dangles from the metal frame, a reminder of everything that's passed.
Daryl's fingers trace slow, gentle patterns along your back. Your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breaths, the sound of his heartbeat both soothing and grounding. But even as you lie there, your mind feels worn out, your body no better.
"How about now? Any change?" you whisper, lifting your head slightly to glance up at him. You've been checking his vitals every few hours, and so far, there's been no fever, no sign of infection, no symptoms at all.
"Nah, same as before," Daryl repeats for the sixth time. "I'm fine. I feel normal."
You let out a long sigh, slowly sitting up. Daryl follows suit, both of you now perched on the edge of the bed. The silence between you is heavy, but not uncomfortable. "I think we got lucky. The arrow must've been clean. Maybe Dwight came through for us again," you mumble as you slip your shoes back on. Enough time has passed that any infection would have set in by now. The only logical conclusion is that the arrow wasn't tainted.
A soft knock interrupts Daryl's reply, and the bedroom door creaks open. Maggie stands in the doorway, a tray in her hands, a porcelain cup resting on it. "I brought you some tea," she offers gently.
After you regained your breath, the group had given you space, allowing Daryl to handle things. Now it seems Maggie is here to check on you.
Neither of you moves. Maggie doesn't step further into the room, and you don't reach for the tea. But whatever she sees in your expression prompts a heavy sigh from her.
"I killed one of the prisoners," she admits quietly, as though the weight of the confession is dragging her down. "I sent the body to Negan, knowin' it'd bring him here. Wanted my husband's grave to be the last thing he saw. I let him through those gates because I wanted him here."
Her words hang in the air as you rise and walk toward her. "Whatever you're gonna do, think on it," she advises when you stand before her.
"Is my catapult ready?" you ask, your voice steady, though the weight of the question presses against the room.
Maggie holds your gaze, brow furrowing, a silent exchange passing between you, both knowing what's left unsaid. After a beat, she nods. "I can make sure it is."
You turn back to Daryl, who's been quietly observing the conversation. "Let's go home," you tell him, maneuvering around Maggie and walking out.
As you step outside, the weight of your decision settles over you like a lead blanket. There's no distance Negan wouldn't go, no line he wouldn't cross. Carl is dead, and you made a promise you can't keep. You've stood at the edge of hell, felt its heat. You know now: you'll never win if you keep fighting with your hands tied behind your back. If Negan wants to take it there, you'll meet him there. You'll show him what it means to cross the line.
You walk through Hilltop with Daryl at your side, your focus sharp and unwavering as you make your way back to the car, the resolve in your chest hardening with each step.
"Ay, wait up!" Merle's voice calls out from behind, with Rosita casually trailing after him.
As you slide into the passenger seat, your hand slips into your chest pocket and pulls out a letter that's been resting there. Your grip tightens around it as Daryl climbs into the driver's seat, Merle and Rosita settles in the back.
Without hesitation, you toss the letter out the window, watching it flutter and drift before it lands in the dirt—a crumpled note with messy handwriting, only a few words exposed to the world.
Take care, Alie. Find peace and be happy.
- Carl
There's always been a reason you chose a school as your new base, beyond the obvious strategic benefits and the influence of the Kingdom. Since returning here, you've been mostly silent, focused solely on the mission. The others know their roles— tasks already delegated. Now, your footsteps echo in the empty halls as you ascend to the upper level, navigating through darkened corridors until you reach a specific classroom door.
As you step inside, the musty air of abandonment greets you. Dust blankets the surfaces, scattered papers litter the floor, and broken chairs sit toppled here and there—remnants of a hurried evacuation. Rows of black-topped lab tables stretch across the center of the room, each one still equipped with gas taps for Bunsen burners and sinks meant for experiments that will never happen again.
Storage cabinets hang on the walls, still filled with dusty equipment, surrounded by educational posters—bright illustrations of the periodic table, diagrams of chemical reactions, and lab safety rules. For the most part, the chemistry classroom remains almost exactly as it was on the day everything fell apart.
Sunlight streams in through the large windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The light casts a spotlight on the chemical storage cabinet you brought with you from Alexandria, its presence sharp against the wall, untouched, waiting.
You take a deep breath, flexing your fingers in anticipation.
It's time to put that Ivy League education to work.
Across town, in stark contrast to your careful preparation, Eugene stands in his makeshift bullet factory, a large pickle jar cradled in his arms. He takes a big chomp of his salty pickle, his face contorted into what he imagines is a hard, determined expression—the look of a man in charge. The leader of an outpost. The man Negan expects him to be. A mask to convince not only those around him, but also himself.
But the truth is, he's alone now. Well, not completely alone—Gabriel sits at the far end of the workstation, coughing into a mask, half-blind, struggling to be of any real use. However, Gabriel's presence offers no comfort, only a constant reminder that Negan expects results. And Eugene knows his life depends on his ability to deliver those bullets.
Yet, amidst the mechanical process of casing and pressing said bullets, a persistent thought circles through his mind—a memory, really. Someone who once trusted him, believed in his potential not just as a thinker but as a survivor.
Alie. His friend. Perhaps his only friend capable of engaging in the intellectual conversations he so often craves. He remembers their time in that church, in that lab, reading, experimenting, researching…
"You remember those old video games you told me about?" she'd said to him once, back when the Wolves attacked Alexandria. "Think of this as one of them. Only this time, it's not pixels on a screen—it's real life. Just one sprint, Eugene. One brave act."
Eugene's grip tightens on the pickle jar as her words echo in his mind.
One brave act—that's what stands between the man he is and the man he needs to become.
One brave act.
Back in the chemistry lab, your face is shielded by a mask, goggles set firmly over your eyes, gloved hands meticulously setting up an experiment on a clean surface. Each chemical is chosen carefully, each measurement exact, each step a process toward something dangerous.
The juxtaposition of creation and destruction—skills that once built and healed are now being used to forge tools of war.
As both you and Eugene work in your respective sanctuaries of science, the paths you walk are mirrored yet divergent—both forged by necessity in a world gone mad.
A single petri dish rests gently in your gloved hand as you step out of the classroom and into the dimly lit hallway. The air is still, heavy with the quiet hum of your work. Just beyond the door, Daryl and Rosita wait patiently, though the tension in their stances betrays their anticipation.
"You got everything?" you ask.
"Yeah, one empty suitcase," Rosita replies, pushing off the wall and gesturing to a medium-sized black suitcase standing on wheels—probably scavenged from one of the Alexandrians who used it to relocate here.
"Cleaned out the janitor's closet like ya said," Daryl adds, nodding toward a large bucket brimming with bolts, nails, and screws. "This all I could find."
You nod, satisfied. "It's more than enough."
Rosita's gaze flicks to the petri dish in your hand, her expression unimpressed. "Is that it?" she asks, skepticism clear in her voice.
"Yes," you confirm, glancing down at the dish. Inside, a small, crystal-like object sits—no bigger than a quarter, resembling a chunk of salt rock. It doesn't look like much, but you know its potential. "Let's go run some quality tests."
Without waiting for a response, you turn and head down the dark hallway. Behind you, Daryl and Rosita exchange a curious glance. Daryl adjusts his grip on the bucket, while Rosita grabs the handle of the suitcase, the quiet click of its wheels breaking the silence as they fall into step behind you.
Together, you exit the school through a rear door that opens onto a vast, overgrown field. The tall grass reaches your knees as you make your way toward the athletic field.
From a distance, you spot Merle standing beside a fully subdued walker, its lower jaw and arms meticulously removed in the way Michonne often does. Next to him stands Sasha, her rifle slung over her back, arms crossed, her expression one of clear irritation—no doubt Merle's doing.
As you approach, Merle calls out with his usual rough edge, "What took y'all so damn long?!" He yanks on the rope tied around the walker's neck, presenting it like a grotesque trophy. "One not-so-dead walker, fresh and ready for whatever freak show you got planned."
Sasha, however, cuts in, her eyes narrowing at the petri dish. "Is that it?" she questions.
"Yes," you say, holding the petri dish out for all to see. "This is fulminated mercury—or at least, a modified version of it," you begin, your voice steady and clinical. "Explosions are nothing but chemical reactions; the faster they undergo change, the more violent the result. This particular compound is triggered by a change in pressure or a shock wave. All it needs is one good jolt to detonate."
Daryl, setting down the heavy bucket filled with screws and nails, looks at you with his usual quiet intensity. "What's all this for, then?" he asks, his voice low.
Your tone is distant, detached as you reveal your plan. "Before my father became the District Attorney, he was a prosecutor. There was this one famous case he worked on—high-profile, crossing multiple state jurisdictions. It was this case that gave him the notoriety to become who he was: the DA of his own district. To eventually fuel his rise in politics."
Negan's actions have shifted your original plan into something darker, something more personal. "It's like your friend Morgan said: 'It's all a circle, everything gets a return.'" Your father's voice echoes in your mind, as true now as it was back then. The conqueror gets a return. As does David Hart. History repeats itself. It's all a circle.
"They called him 'The Unabomber': Ted Kaczynski versus the United States of America." Merle's brow twitches at the name, probably the only one old enough to remember. "A mathematics professor turned domestic terrorist. Mailed out bombs all across the country through the post office. His creations were simple—batteries, wires... But what made them truly deadly was the shrapnel he added: nails, screws, bolts—the explosions tearing through flesh."
Your voice drops lower, a dark smirk pulling at the corners of your lips. "And that's exactly what we're gonna do. Negan crossed a line—a line there's no comin' back from." The smirk twists into something darker, the taste of revenge already on your tongue. "We're going to give him his return—with a little extra."
You turn to Merle and the walker hovering nearby, as if it's also part of the conversation. "Gut the walker and soak every nail and screw in that bucket," you order, gesturing to the pile of metal in front of Daryl. Your gaze is cold, calculating. "We get to see what hundreds of bolts, moving at a thousand miles an hour, coated in walker blood, could do."
A cold wind sweeps across the field, rustling the overgrown grass. Merle, for once, is silent, his expression unreadable, while Daryl, Rosita, and Sasha process your words, letting it sink in. But you don't look at them. Your eyes are fixed on the crystal in the petri dish, small and unassuming.
"All it takes is a cut, right?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper but laced with intent. "A nick, a scratch... nobody's gettin' out when this thing goes off." For the first time in a long while, you feel like you're on the right path, moving toward something inevitable, something righteous.
You think of Gabriel's words: "You can't run from it. You can't deny it. You can't pass it off. It's your call. God knew what he was doing; he knew who he was calling." Only now, you realize it wasn't God behind that door—it was the devil all along.
Lifting your gaze, you meet Daryl's eyes. His expression is hard, understanding. He knows what this means to you, how deep it goes. He doesn't say a word, but you can feel his silent approval, his unwavering support in the storm you're about to unleash.
You take a deep breath and, without hesitation, hurl the petri dish as far as your arm can throw. You brace for the outcome, facing it without flinching. The dish spins through the air before it hits the ground, and then—
BOOM!
The explosion rips through the field, the ground trembling like a detonated mine, dirt and grass erupting in a cloud of debris. Smoke rolls out in thick waves, carrying the acrid scent of burnt chemicals.
"What the fuck!" Merle stumbles back, instinctively shielding himself. "Ya walkin' around with that?!"
Rosita coughs, brushing dirt from her face and clothes, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"My God," Sasha breathes, her arm still raised where she'd shielded herself from the blast.
You casually dust off your clothes, entirely unfazed by the destruction. Turning to Sasha, you respond coolly, "There's no God here, Sasha, only me."
With that, you turn on your heel and walk back toward the school, your mind already shifting to the task ahead. You have work to do—still need to figure out how to pack walker-infected shrapnel into the suitcase alongside your crystals without accidentally detonating the whole thing.
Merle watches the open field, his eyes lingering on the scorched patch of earth where the explosion ripped through the ground. The girls are gone, already heading back to their tasks, but the smell of burnt chemicals still cling to the air, sharp and unsettling.
What a shit show.
"Well," he mutters, turning to face his brother. It's been one hell of a day, a real emotional rollercoaster, and for once, Merle ain't got a clue how to deal with it. There was a moment—just a split second—when he thought Daryl was done for. Hell, it would've been his fault too, for not speakin' up sooner, for bein' too much of a selfish son of a bitch. But, of course, his brother's a Dixon. Tough as nails, born survivors. Ain't nothin' they can't push through. Just a false alarm, that's all.
But still, what he saw today—it's shown him firsthand how deep the emotional wounds of this war run, how much his family is fraying at the edges. And Alie—hell, seein' her like that, spiraling into somethin' darker—it's been hard to shake off. It confirmed everything Amanda had warned him about. He hadn't been there for her during the lineup. Hell, he hadn't been there at all. And now, watchin' her prepare for what she's about to do, he realizes just how far she's gone… how far she's willin' to go.
Not that he has any say in it. Only one person does.
"The hell's wrong withchu?" Merle snaps, eyeing Daryl, who stands a few feet away, lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the ground. "She's gonna go copycat on some damn terrorist, and you're just standin' there like a damn mute? She tells you to jump, and you ask how high? You better grow a pair, little brother, and you better do it real fast."
That gets Daryl's attention. He scoffs, his expression hardening into a scowl as he turns to face Merle. "Me?" he spits back, his voice rough with frustration. "Oh, that's rich comin' from ya! You got some nerve runnin' your mouth when you're the one on your knees kissin' Negan's ass! You shoulda been here, keepin' an eye on her."
"The hell you know 'bout what I did, huh?" Merle fires back with a surge of defensiveness. "I promised her from day one, if she needed me, I'd step the hell up. And guess what? That's what she asked."
This interaction ignites Daryl, lighting a spark that's been waiting to catch—an outlet for everything that's been piling up. Fear. Desperation. The constant hovering, watching her every move, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The nagging, relentless feeling that she's going to get herself hurt. That she's going to slip further away, and he can't catch her, can't protect her.
"Y'know what it's like watchin' her cry day in, day out?! And not bein' able to do a damn thing 'bout it?!" Daryl snarls, his voice raw with emotion. Beneath the anger, though, there's a vulnerability that makes Merle pause. Unlike him, his baby brother's always been the sweet one, the one who feels things deeper.
"Not one damn thing! I'm sick of it! If this is what she needs, then so be it."
Of course, they both know exactly what it's like, watchin' the woman in their lives cry. They watched their momma do it for years. And now, Daryl's right back in that damn cycle—tormented, watching the woman he loves in pain, feeling helpless all over again.
"There's kids over there, man—little ones," Merle counters, sighing heavily, the frustration thick in his voice. Under his breath, he mutters, "How the hell did I end up bein' the damn moral compass 'round here?"
Dropping the rope tethered to the walker, he steps forward, squaring up with his little brother. "Ya think them tears are the worst of it?" Merle's tone shifts, more serious now. "She goes through with this, you're gonna lose her in ways ya can't even wrap your head around. And you out here bendin' over backwards, thinkin' it's gonna fix somethin'? This ain't fixin' shit. She does this, she ain't comin' back from it, brother. She'll never be the same again. Never."
Daryl's anger falters, his face hardening, but his eyes betray him. Alie has always been his weak spot, the one thing that can cracks his armor. Merle knows it—how Daryl throws everything on the line for her, how deep it really runs.
"C'mon, man," Merle pushes, seeing an opening. "She loves ya. Ain't nobody else that can reach her but you. Ain't nobody gotta say in this but you. She's hurtin'—bad. What happened with Brooklyn, and then the baby, that ain't somethin' easy to shake off. It's your job to pull her through—"
"What baby?" Daryl cuts him off, his eyes narrowing.
"Whatchu mean, 'what baby'? The baby she lost, man." Merle retorts with brashness, waving his hand like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Daryl's reaction is almost physical—his body jerks back, his eyes widening, confusion quickly shifting into something darker. Dread creeps in, tightening around his throat. He stares at Merle, stunned, waiting for this to be some kind of sick joke. "What the fuck you talkin' about?"
Merle sees it—the way Daryl reacts. "Oh, hell…" Merle mutters as he steps back, realizing he just ripped open something, something that shouldn't have been said like this. "You don't know. You don't know, do ya?"
Daryl doesn't respond, just keeps staring, like the ground is falling out from under him.
"Damn," Merle mutters again, cursing himself. "I thought… I thought ya knew, man. I thought..."
But Daryl doesn't hear him. His mind races, stuck on one thing: Alie had been carrying his baby. A baby he never knew about. A baby she lost. The dread inside him grows heavier, sinking into his bones, and all he can feel is the weight of not knowing, of not being there. Of failing her in ways he hadn't even realized.
When? How? Why wasn't he told?
Nausea builds in his chest, an overwhelming mix of betrayal, confusion, and hurt. It's all too much, all at once. In that instant, suddenly, everything starts to make sense in ways it never had before. After his escape from the Sanctuary, there had been a distance between them, a gap he couldn't close—though things had gotten better since. He remembers the silent tears she'd shed at night, the way her body curled up so protectively in her sleep, like she was shielding herself from something he couldn't reach.
His legs feel weak, and he bends over, unsure if he needs to sit or vomit.
"Hey," Merle says softly, as he places a hand on Daryl's shoulder.
"Get the fuck off me, man!" Daryl snarls, slapping Merle's hand away with more force than necessary. Merle steps back, raising his hands in surrender.
Daryl's chest heaves, his whole body wound tight like a spring about to snap, and his eyes—glossy with unshed tears—burn with raw emotion. Merle's lying. His brother always lies. "Who told you that, huh?! She say that to you?!" His voice cracks as he demands an answer.
"Amanda did," Merle answers softly.
Daryl's anger flares. "Since when you been hangin' with Amanda?!" He can't hold back the rage, hot and aimed directly at his brother. "You ain't no fuckin' reliable source!"
"Why the hell you pissed at me?!" Merle snaps back, his own temper rising. "Maybe if you pulled your head outta your ass and actually talked to folks, they'd tell you what's goin' on! But nah, look at cha—walkin' around with that damn kicked puppy look on your fac—"
Merle barely ducks in time, narrowly avoiding a hunting knife that flies past him, inches from his head.
The blade sinks into the walker's dead eyes with a sickening crunch, Daryl's fury finding its only outlet in the one thing he can control. He marches past Merle, his breath coming out hard and ragged as he yanks the knife free from the walker's slumped head.
"Fucking bastard!" Daryl spits, his voice thick with emotion as he storms off, wiping away the angry tears that finally break free, tears he'd fought so hard to hold back.
Merle stands there, watching his brother's retreating figure. He glances at the walker's lifeless corpse, then at the bucket of scraps sitting in the dirt. "Well, that went to shit fast," he mutters to himself, running a tired hand over his face.
"Tomorrow afternoon, Negan and ten men at the X. Other eleven-person teams at each of the circles. End Negan. End the rest. End this."
Dwight scribbles quickly, double-checking the map. His fingers trace over the lines and marks he's made, confirming the locations of Negan's upcoming movements.
Satisfied, he folds the map, tucking it carefully into his back pocket.
This is it.
He stands, moving out of his room with purpose, his boots thudding heavily on the floor, heading toward the common area.
Negan, of course, seems rejuvenated from the previous night's fight. Despite the casualties they suffered, it hasn't slowed him down. No, he has a new plan now—he knows that taking the fight to them is a waste of manpower, especially when they have freshly produced bullets coming soon, courtesy of Eugene.
Negan wants snipers stationed outside Hilltop 24/7, locking them inside their walls. That's his new plan.
"We'll lock 'em in their little fortress. Snipers 24/7." Negan's voice echoes in Dwight's mind. "And every time one of those assholes pokes their head out, we plink 'em. One by one. Every time. Until they've got no choice but to crawl out on their knees."
Tomorrow, Negan will personally lead a ten-man team to set up a reload station a few miles off Hilltop. Close enough to stockpile bullets, but far enough to stay out of Hilltop's reach. The other outpost leaders will do the same, surrounding Hilltop with a network of stations to slow choke the life out of the community.
Dwight knows this is their shot. Negan will never be more vulnerable than tomorrow—out in the open with only a handful of men. This is the chance he's been waiting for.
His eyes scan the room as he enters, searching the crowd of Saviors. He spots the man he's looking for, standing awkwardly near the hallway, sticking out like a sore thumb. Gregory. The former Hilltop leader looks as ridiculous as always, still in his overly formal suit—disheveled, nervous. He had escaped Hilltop during the fight, slipping away with the few Saviors who were held prisoner, retreating alongside them when they fled.
Dwight watches as Gregory fidgets, clearly uncomfortable in this dangerous new environment, hovering near the corridor that leads to Negan's quarters. He had asked for Simon, blissfully unaware of Simon's grim fate. Now, Gregory just loiters, probably aware that Negan barely tolerates him—barely even acknowledges his spineless, groveling presence.
This is it.
Dwight crosses the room with purpose, heading straight for Gregory. The man looks like a deer caught in headlights as Dwight grabs him by the lapels of his coat, yanking him forward.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dwight growls, his voice sharp with irritation.
Gregory stumbles over his words as Dwight begins dragging him along. "Ah, I—I was just—"
"You should've stayed where you belonged," Dwight hisses, his grip tightening. "Simon's dead, Gregory. You saw him on that spike, didn't you? Negan's gonna take out Hilltop next. You've heard that, right?" Dwight's tone is harsh, meant to stoke the fear already simmering in Gregory's gut. "You think you're safe here? It's gonna be your head up on a spike next. For optics. I'm sure you understand—being Hilltop's former leader and all."
Gregory's face pales. "I-I can be u-useful," he stammers, desperation creeping into his voice. "I—I am Negan. I can—I mean, there's more to me than politics—I can—"
Dwight doesn't let him finish. He shoves Gregory into an empty hallway, slamming him up against the wall.
"Listen to me carefully," Dwight says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he glances around, making sure they're alone. He grabs Gregory by the lapels, tightening the collar like a noose before backing off slightly. "I'm gonna save your life."
Gregory nods nervously, his fear palpable. Dwight reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the folded map. "This," he says, pressing it hard into Gregory's chest, "is Negan's plan. The only move you've got left."
Dwight lowers his voice as he continues. "The back gate's open, and there's a car waiting behind the coal chutes. You need to get this to Rick or the Doctor. They'll take you in. You want to live? You want to be useful? Here's your shot."
Gregory stares down at the map, wide-eyed and nodding, already connecting the dots—an escape, a way out, or certain death.
Dwight's eyes narrow, his voice edged with warning. "Can you do that, Gregory?"
"Y-yes, yes, of course," Gregory stammers, quickly stuffing the map into the inner pocket of his coat.
"Good. We don't have time to waste," Dwight mutters, giving Gregory a rough push forward. "Let's get you out of here."
They walk side by side now, Dwight keeping a close eye on the jittery man next to him, hoping Gregory can at least manage to look inconspicuous for the next few minutes.
But before they can reach the exit, a voice cuts through the air. "D!"
Dwight freezes, turning to see a familiar Savior approaching. "Negan's lookin' for you," the man reports. "Says it's ASAP."
Dwight clenches his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows what this is about. Negan wants to celebrate—share a shot of whiskey, toast to their latest victory, celebrate Dwight's new position as lieutenant. There's no getting out of it.
With no choice, Dwight gives Gregory a subtle nod. It's all he can do under the circumstances. As Gregory slips away, Dwight turns and follows the Savior.
A few turns and several hallways later, Dwight arrives at Negan's private quarters. Two guards stand rigid in front of the double doors, a new addition since the doctor's speech for coup over the intercom. A clear sign Negan isn't taking any chances anymore.
The double doors open, and Dwight is greeted by a booming voice. "D!" A grin spreads across Negan's face. "My new right-hand man! Get your ass in here, come on, come on!" He gestures grandly, like he's welcoming an old friend. He lounges on a large leather couch in the center of the room, a glass of bourbon in his hand. His harem of wives is scattered around him, draped over the furniture like decorations.
Dwight steps inside, and the guards close the doors behind him with a decisive thud. Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he scans the room—more crowded than usual. Several Saviors stand around, faces unreadable, the air thick with tension.
He keeps his face neutral, forcing his body to remain calm as he steps further into the room. He's keenly aware of the eyes on him; his instincts scream that something is wrong. But he moves forward, trying to act as if nothing is out of place.
Negan snaps his fingers, grinning wider as if he's just remembered something. "Oh! There's someone here who's dying to see you."
Dwight turns slowly at Negan's gesture, and the moment his eyes land on the person stepping out of the crowd, his blood runs cold.
Laura.
"Hey, asshole," she spits, her smirk venomous. She looks rough—her face sunburnt, eyes filled with rage—but she's very much alive. And glaring at him, a gun in her hand.
Dwight's body jolts with an instinctive urge to flee, but the Saviors behind him close in, blocking any exit. He's trapped.
"Did he do it?" Negan asks casually, his voice smooth, addressing the Savior who had escorted Dwight into the room.
"Yes," the Savior confirms. "Gregory's heading out as we speak."
It's a setup.
The realization hits Dwight like a freight train. Every muscle in his body tightens, bracing for what comes next. Laura is alive, and Negan knows. He set him up, watching, letting him play his hand.
Negan leans back on the couch, swirling his bourbon with a lazy flick of his wrist, his eyes locked on Dwight. The room feels suffocating, the tension thick enough to choke. He gestures lazily toward Laura, taking a slow sip from his glass. "Go ahead, Laura," Negan drawls, his voice calm, but his gaze razor-sharp. "Why don't you tell D what you told me?"
"That night in Alexandria, he turned on us." Laura is practically gleeful, each word dripping with satisfaction. "He killed our team. I ran, kept on running, hurt and tired. The only thing that kept me alive was the thought of getting back here and exposing you," she spits, her eyes burning with hatred. "For the scum weasel that you are."
Dwight doesn't move. Doesn't speak. There's no point. He knows what this is. He can feel the men around him closing in, like wolves circling their prey.
Negan takes another deliberate sip of his bourbon, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension coil tighter around Dwight's throat. Finally, with a slow, almost idle movement, he rises from the couch, his hand wrapping around Lucille with casual familiarity. The barbed bat rests easily in his grip, but the threat it carries is anything but subtle.
"When did you start fuckin' us over, huh?" Negan's voice is almost playful, like he's teasing Dwight. But his eyes burn with cold fury. "Sneakin' behind my back like some kinda dickless worm?"
Dwight's mouth goes dry, but he forces himself to meet Negan's gaze. There's no escape now. No clever words will save him. He's been caught, fully, completely. The noose is tightening, and every second brings him closer to the end.
Negan steps closer, dragging Lucille along the floor with a low, menacing scrape. "It all makes sense," he muses, almost to himself, though his eyes never leave Dwight. "All those screw-ups. The outposts. The dead at our door. Rick always bein' one step ahead. The fuckin' intercoms... The whole time, it was you, wasn't it, D?"
Dwight tries not to flinch as Negan steps into his personal space, bourbon-laced breath hot on his face. "Be honest with me, Dwight," Negan says, his tone dangerously soft. "I'm gonna find out one way or another... So, did you kill Daryl last night?"
"No," Dwight says, knowing there's no escaping the truth. "I didn't." He hasn't fired a single real shot. Every tainted arrow missed on purpose, aimed at nothing but the ground or walls.
Negan shakes his head slowly, lips curling into a disappointed smile. "Dwight, Dwight, Dwight," he mutters, his voice tightening with restrained anger. Dwight can see it—Negan had wanted more. He'd wanted Rick infected, at the very least Daryl, a punishment for the doctor's challenge over the intercom.
"You know what this means, don't ya?" Negan asks, stepping back, his expression cold, calculating. "Time for some good old-fashioned, top-shelf punishment."
Dwight's body stiffens as the men around Negan start to move. They've been waiting for this—primed for violence. He knows what's coming. He's seen it a hundred times before, delivered it himself too many times to count. Now, it's his turn.
"Don't worry," Negan says, eyes glinting with malicious glee. "I won't kill you. Not yet. I want you to see what I've got in store." He shifts into bragging mode, proud of himself, like he's showing off a prized accomplishment. "You see, I didn't wanna kill 'em all. Nah, that wasn't the plan. Not at first, anyway. Especially not her. But Rick? Oh, Ricky-boy—he's fair game. And you, Dwight… you made it all happen."
Negan's grin grows wider, more wicked. "I knew I could count on you to deliver my little plan to Dr. Pee-Pee Pants and her little piss patrol. My brilliant—if I do say so myself—fake-ass plan."
Dwight's stomach drops. Negan's plan—it was never about Hilltop, or snipers, or bullets. It was a trap. He was the trap.
"Yep," Negan says, savoring every word, "you're gonna bring 'em all right into the line of fire."
Before Dwight can react, the first punch slams into his back, sending him staggering forward. Pain erupts across his body as fists slam into him from every direction. His ribs scream in agony as he collapses to his knees, vision blurring, breath stolen by the relentless assault.
The last thing he hears before the darkness takes him is Negan's voice, ringing in his ears with gleeful satisfaction.
"And it's all thanks to you."
Daryl is practically blinded by anger and a swirl of emotions, barely aware of his surroundings until he finds himself pushing open the door to the chemistry classroom. The sharp, pungent scent of chemicals fills the air, the kind that clings to the back of his throat. The clutter has been cleaned, shoved into a corner, clearing some space, but what grabs his attention immediately is the tray on the black-topped lab table—more of those damn crystal things. A lot more.
His eyes flick to his wife, standing at the opposite end of the table, her back turned to him, hands busy with some concoction. She glances over her shoulder, the outline of her mask visible as she speaks. "You shouldn't be in here."
His whole body feels like it's vibrating, barely holding himself together. "When were ya gonna tell me you were pregnant?" The question slips out before he can stop it, his voice raw. He sees her stiffen, her hands stilling, the air between them suddenly heavier. "Or were ya even plannin' on tellin' me at all? Just gonna have me walkin' 'round here lookin' like a damn fool while everybody else knew?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Her head drops, and she pulls down the mask, the latex gloves crinkling as her fingers fidget. "I was going to tell you... when this is all over," she murmurs, her voice so quiet it barely reaches him. "When you're less…angry."
"Angry?!" The word explodes out of him, hot and sharp. He can feel that part of him—the reckless, angry kid he used to be—bubbling to the surface, clawing to get out. "Why?! I ain't allowed to feel nothin' now? I ain't allowed to grieve?!"
She turns then, facing him fully, and in that instant, at the sight of her face, all of his rage evaporates, like air leaking from a balloon. The events of the day crash back into him—her body trembling in his arms just hours ago as he held her tight. What he wouldn't give then, what he wouldn't do to make it right... So why he here now? To yell? To confront her? To hurt her?
"I don't want to die before I become a mother."
Her eyes are rimmed with red, tears clinging to her lashes. "Look, there's a lot to do here, and I can't think about this right now. I just... I can't." Her voice wavers, but there's a hard edge to it, like she's trying to stay in control.
Daryl clenches his jaw, biting back the flood of words that threatens to spill out. He waves a hand over the table, his voice tight and frustrated. "You ain't doin' this."
Her head tilts slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Daryl replies, his voice firm. "You ain't doin' it. We're gonna find another way."
She scoffs, the sound sharp and bitter. "Oh, I need permission now, huh? My dear husband?" She rips off her gloves with quick, angry movements, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm done waiting, and I sure as hell ain't listening to any more bright ideas." Her eyes flash with defiance, daring him to challenge her. "And let's not forget how impulsive you can be when you're hurt, so excuse me for keeping things from you."
He knows what she's doing—trying to push him away, trying to rile him up. She storms toward the door, ready to walk out. But Daryl doesn't let her go. He can't. He won't. His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back against him, desperate to stop her from running, from shutting him out.
"Let go of me!" she snaps, shoving at his chest, and his back pushes against the door, sealing them inside. "You're either with me or you're not, Daryl. Pick one."
Her words sting, but it's the sight of her tears—those silent, angry tears… She wipes them away roughly, but the pain in her eyes is undeniable. He knows he almost broke her heart this morning… if that arrow was tainted… on top of everything else he didn't know…
"I realize now that's all I want in this world, Daryl… to be a mother..."
"Don't say that. Not after everything," Daryl pleads. His girl, his wife, his sweetheart—she's been carrying so much on her own. She wanted this baby more than anything in the world, and the loss, the sacrifice—that longing—is tearing her apart in ways he can't even begin to understand.
"What about me?" she snaps, her voice bitter and raw. "After everything they've done to us?" She spits the words out, venomous. "After Denise? Glenn? Abraham? After he put a gun in my hand?!" Her voice cracks, and she chokes on the name she can't bring herself to say out loud. Jamie.
Her eyes burn with hurt, her fists clenched at her sides. "You could've been dead yesterday. I could be burying you right now."
"But I ain't dead," Daryl says quietly, his voice soft but steady. "I get it, I do. The world's shit sometimes, but we just gotta live with it."
"Live with it?!" She lets out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Don't you get it? He killed me! I'm already dead!" Her voice shatters as the dam breaks, tears streaming down her face, no longer held back. "I died when that bat came down on my head. Died again when I pulled the trigger and lost Jamie. And then… again... when I lost my baby. When I tried to drown myself..."
Daryl flinches at the new detail. She had tried to drown herself. She had been so close to the edge—closer than he ever knew.
"There's nothing left in me, Daryl," she continues, the anger draining out of her. "He chipped away at me, bit by bit, 'til everything I was is gone." Her words are stark against the sharpness of her short hair, the dark circles under those honey-colored eyes—those eyes he's always loved—once so warm and full of life, now clouded with pain. "Only thing keeping me here is you, and he almost took that from me too."
Her words are soft, but they feel like a scream. Daryl's chest tightens, his heart breaking as he realizes how close he came to losing her. Not just to Negan or the walkers, but to the darkness she's been carrying inside her.
Daryl pushes off the door, closing the distance between them in two quick steps. This time, she doesn't resist when he pulls her into his chest, his arms wrapping around her tightly, like he can hold her together, like he can bury her inside himself and keep her from slipping away
"I'm sorry, sweetheart" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when ya needed me. Shouldn't've had to go through that alone." His hand slides up to the back of her head, gently threading his fingers through her soft hair. "Nothin' can take the place of someone ya love bein' gone, but it don't mean everything that follows is gonna break your heart."
He's never been good with words, never known how to say what's in his heart, but right now, he holds her tighter and tries. He has to. "What happened, happened. We can't change it. Can't take it back."
He leans in, his voice a quiet rumble, saying what he's been wanting to say for so long. "But you ain't dead. I ain't dead either. We're still here." He pulls back just enough to look at her, to make sure she hears him, really hears him. "We ain't the walking dead."
The words hang between them, heavy and full of meaning. Daryl knows it's been her mantra throughout this whole war, the thing she's clung to when everything else fell apart. We are the walking dead.
"We get to come back," he says softly, his voice full of quiet conviction. "We ain't too far gone. We get to start over."
His gaze flickers to the table behind them, to the tray of explosive crystals. "We fight for each other. Not this." he jerks his chin toward it. "We fight for our future, not for revenge."
She looks up at him, her eyes still brimming with tears, threatening to spill over. Slowly, she leans into him, resting her forehead against his chest. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice muffled against his skin. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the baby. I was just... I wanted to protect you from it. Try'n to take some of that weight you've been carrying. I didn't want this to be something else draggin' you down. I'm sorry, and I love you too. But... I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Daryl. I need it to end... I need all this to be over."
"We'll end it, I promise. We'll figure it out," he whispers back, his forehead gently resting on hers—her scent, her warmth, a reminder that she's still here, still alive, still his. "Ain't over yet. There's gonna be somethin' after—somethin' for us—gotta be."
He lowers his head and presses his lips to hers—warm, soft, with the taste of salty tears lingering on the tip of his tongue.
Notes: In the comics, the arrow that strikes Tara in the show—when the Savior arrives with infected weapons—actually hits Rick. That's why I shared the screenshot above; it makes sense that the screenwriters chose to conclude Tara and Dwight's story this way.
I was inspired by the comics, and thought if Daryl is there, he would protect Rick. For the sake of the story, it would be Daryl who gets hit.