Chapter Text
Dalton had stood for over a decade.
Nestled in the rolling valleys of northern Wyoming, shielded by thick forests and natural ridges, the community had become a rare beacon of hope in a world that had forgotten what safety felt like. Jason had arrived there as a scrawny boy, half-starved and haunted by the Clicker that had taken his mother. Ten years later, he was one of the community’s strongest defenders — a man who knew every inch of the reinforced walls, every hidden trail through the pines, and every face that called Dalton home.
They had built something real here. Gardens that actually yielded crops. A small herd of cattle. A school for the few children born after the outbreak. Evenings spent around communal fires, trading stories instead of bullets.
All of it was burning now.
The attack had come at dusk. The "Saviors" descended like a plague — dozens of armed, disciplined raiders moving with military precision. They hit the eastern gate first, overwhelming the watchtowers with sheer numbers and suppressing fire. Jason had been on patrol when the first explosions rocked the palisade. By the time he sprinted back, the southern fields were already ablaze, and screams tore through the smoky air.
He fought like a man possessed. His rifle barked until the magazine ran dry. Then he switched to his knife and fists. He killed four Saviors in the chaos — one with a point-blank shot to the face, another by driving a blade up under the chin when the man tried to drag a screaming woman from her home. A fifth went down when Jason tackled him from behind, smashing his skull against a rock. Blood soaked his sleeves. His own blood, mixed with the enemy’s, stung his eyes.
But they were too many. A heavy rifle butt slammed into the base of his skull. The world spun, lights burst behind his eyes, and darkness swallowed him whole.
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When Jason regained consciousness, the taste of copper and ash coated his tongue. His head throbbed with vicious pain. Rough rope bit into his wrists, pulled tight behind his back. Night had claimed the valley. The only light came from the raging fires consuming everything he had ever loved.
They had gathered the survivors in the central square — what was left of them. Maybe twenty people on their knees, bloodied and broken. Jason’s heart stuttered when he spotted father a few feet away. His father’s face was a mask of bruises, one eye swollen shut, blood trickling from a split lip. But he was alive. For now.
“Dad…” Jason whispered, voice hoarse and cracking.
Their eyes met. In that brief glance, Jason saw everything: terror, fear, and a terrible resignation.
Then the crowd of Saviors parted.
A tall man in a black leather jacket stepped into the firelight like he owned the night itself. A large barbed baseball bat rested casually on his shoulder, its wires still glistening with fresh blood. His hair was slicked back neatly despite the chaos, and a wide, almost boyish grin stretched across his face. He looked like a man who had just finished a particularly satisfying meal.
Negan.
Jason had heard the name whispered by traders for months. A warlord carving an empire through fear and overwhelming force. Until tonight, he had hoped the rumors were exaggerated.
“Negan…” His dad spat, his voice thick with defiance even now.
“Well, well, well. Hello, Frank,” Negan drawled, his voice carrying that smooth, theatrical cadence. “Good to fucking see you, old man. You’re looking a little rough around the edges, but hey — we all have our bad days.”
He began to pace slowly in front of the kneeling prisoners, his infamous Lucille swinging lazily in his grip. The barbed wire caught the firelight, throwing jagged shadows across the dirt. “Let’s talk about choices, Frank. My guys came here weeks ago with a real simple offer. You give us half your shit, we keep the real monsters off your back. We were ready to offer Protection. Order. A future. But you…” Negan stopped and pointed the bat directly at Frank. “You put a bullet through one of my men’s heads. That wasn’t very neighborly. Not very fucking smart, either.”
The air grew heavier. Jason could hear the crackle of flames devouring homes in the distance, the occasional groan of collapsing timber.
Negan’s grin never faltered. He started moving again, tapping Lucille lightly against his palm.
“Now look at what you made me do.” He gestured broadly at the burning town, the corpses strewn across the ground. “All of this… this is on you. You little piggies just had to test the big bad wolf. And now that he’s here…” His voice dropped, laced with mock sorrow. “There will be no mercy.”
He began the game.
“Eeny…” The bat hovered near a young woman who had taught the children.
“Meeny…” It moved to an older man who had repaired their water system.
“Miny…” A friend of Jason’s — Marcus — who had shared his rations during last winters patrols.
“Moe…”
Jason’s pulse thundered in his ears. Time stretched, each second pregnant with dread. The prisoners trembled. Some whimpered. Others stared ahead with dead eyes, already broken.
Negan’s voice turned singsong, almost playful. “My mother… always said… pick the very best one… and you… are…”
The bat stopped directly in front of Frank.
“It.”
The world slowed.
Negan swung Lucille with horrifying power. The first impact landed with a sickening crunch. Frank’s head snapped sideways. The second blow sent blood spraying across the dirt. The third… Jason would never forget the sound. Wet. Final. Irreversible.
“NO!” The scream tore out of Jason’s throat like it was ripping his soul with it. Pure animal rage surged through him. He lunged forward, slamming his forehead into Negan’s nose with every ounce of strength he possessed. Cartilage crunched. Blood exploded across Negan’s face.
For a split second, victory flared in Jason’s chest.
Then Negan staggered back and laughed. A deep, rolling, delighted sound that chilled Jason to the bone.
“God damn!” Negan wiped at the blood streaming from his nose, still chuckling. “I like this one! Lower the guns, boys. We are not done with him yet.”
He knelt beside Jason, pressing the gore-coated end of Lucille hard against his temple. The barbs dug in, drawing fresh lines of blood down Jason’s face. The smell of death on the bat was overwhelming — copper, brain matter, and charred wood.
“Now, you have a choice to make, boy,” Negan said softly, almost intimately. “Which one of your friends is going to live? You can only pick two.”
Jason’s eyes burned with hatred as they locked onto Negan’s. “Suck my dick!”
Silence fell for half a heartbeat.
Then Negan threw his head back and roared with laughter again. “Suck my dick! Can you believe this guy?” He turned to his men, blood still dripping from his nose. “Must be hard walking around with balls that fucking heavy!”
The Saviors erupted in cruel laughter, their voices echoing off the burning buildings. The sound twisted like a knife in Jason’s gut.
Negan’s expression shifted into something colder, sharper. “Okay. You don’t want my generosity? Fine. Have it your way.”
The slaughter that followed was methodical. Deliberate. Designed to break.
Negan moved down the line with theatrical slowness, letting the terror build with every step. He stopped in front of Marcus.
Crunch
The bat rose and fell. Marcus’s body slumped forward.
Jason screamed until his voice gave out. He thrashed against the men holding him, but their grips were iron. One by one, the people he had partially grown up with, fought beside, and loved were reduced to broken meat on the blood-soaked ground. Each impact reverberated through his bones. Each wet collapse carved another scar into his mind.
He had seen Clickers tear people apart in frenzied, mindless violence. He had watched friends bleed out from gunshot wounds or succumb to infection over agonizing days. But this was different. This was human cruelty. Calculated. Savored.
Perverse.
Humiliating...
Negan hummed to himself between kills, occasionally glancing back at Jason with that same infuriating grin, as if sharing a private joke.
By the time the last survivor fell, Jason was a hollow shell. Violent tremors wracked his body. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood. His throat was raw. His mind fractured under the weight of it all, shattered beyond repair.
Negan crouched in front of him once more, pressing the dripping bat to his temple. “Hey… hey, kid. You still with me?” He slapped Jason’s face lightly, almost affectionately. “Good. Because I’ve got a little job for you.”
He leaned in close, his breath hot against Jason’s ear. “I'll give you chance to play hero. I want you to run south. All the way to your trade buddies in Jackson. You tell them we're coming. You tell them they have one chance — one — to hand over their weapons and get in line like good little piggies. Any resistance…” He gestured lazily at the field of corpses. “And this is what happens. Exactly this.”
Negan stood, slinging Lucille over his shoulder. “You’ve got one month. Convince them. Save them the trouble your friends went through.” He drew a hunting knife and sliced through Jason’s bonds, then pressed the blade into his shaking hands. “Or don’t, and we'll take everything by force. I sleep just fine either way.”
Jason rose on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. He was too devastated to attack, too empty to even feel the knife in his palm.
Negan clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing like a proud father. “You get a Ten-minute head start before we open the trucks and let our clickers pets loose. Consider it a little extra motivation.” His grin widened into something demonic in the firelight. “Now run, Forest! Run!”
Jason ran.
He crashed through the broken gates and into the dark woods, branches whipping at his face, roots threatening to trip him. Grief and terror fueled every desperate stride. Behind him, Negan’s voice carried on the wind:
“Run, Forest! Run!”