Lucien went quiet.
Part of him felt touched by what Miranda had said. Another part found it almost absurd.
He had to admit that the image he had cultivated had worked a bit too well. These good people had built him up in their minds as someone willing to sacrifice himself to save everyone else.
The reality was that he was planning to go to that factory and kill every cultist he could find. Somehow, they had all gotten the impression he was marching off to his noble death.
Still...
Her words had made him realize something important.
He was used to assessing risks and rewards with a wizard's mindset. Magic gave him options other people did not have, which made him approach problems differently. But he had overlooked what that "omnipotence" looked like from the outside.
He could not let the group get comfortable with the idea that "Lucien will show up and fix everything." If they started taking his capabilities for granted, that would be the most dangerous outcome of all.
People who relied too heavily on one person tended to fall apart when that person was not there. And despite his magic, despite his adult mind, he was still a kid in a world full of things that could kill him.
Miranda's suggestion had merit when he thought about it.
A "broken mother searching for her daughter" was an incredibly convincing cover identity. The cult seemed to prey on vulnerability, they had used it themselves. If Miranda could successfully infiltrate, she would make the perfect distraction. Eyes would be on her while Lucien operated as the ghost in the shadows.
It would also force the adults to take ownership of the plan.
With that in mind, he quietly adjusted his approach. Miranda would serve as the bait, while Sophia would act as the emotional anchor. Glenn would focus on finding reinforcements. As for himself, he would rely on the skills that had kept him alive this long. He would move unseen, strike from the shadows, and ensure the cultists paid for every life they had taken.
Hershel, meanwhile, was staring at them all like they had lost their minds.
In the span of maybe five minutes, this group of survivors had just agreed to a rescue plan that revolved around a child infiltrating a fortified cult compound. He looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and could not quite believe what he was seeing.
Hershel opened his mouth, clearly wanting to object. But what could he say? These people had already made up their minds.
Dale sighed. He reached over and patted Hershel on the shoulder, then shook his head slowly.
He turned to the others. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Miranda's face relaxed slightly. "Please watch the children for me."
"And Andrea and Amy," Lucien added. "They are both weak and need someone looking after them."
He glanced toward the window. The sky outside was fully dark now.
"Rest tonight. All plans start tomorrow during the day."
Glenn looked like he wanted to argue. "We should—"
"We should not get ourselves killed rushing in unprepared," Lucien cut him off. "We have all been through hell today."
He looked around the room at their battered group. "I want revenge as much as you do. I want to get Rick and the others out of there. But I will not throw our lives away on a suicide mission because we were too tired to think straight."
The logic was undeniable, even if it tasted bitter.
His mind was still sharp enough for strategy, but his body was reaching its limits. He could not afford to walk into that factory running on fumes and hope.
And there was another consideration, one he had been turning over in his mind since they escaped.
Everything that had happened today had gone completely off-script. The original Walking Dead storyline, whatever fragmented memories he had from watching the show in his previous life, was useless now.
Which meant he had no idea if Rick and the others still had their protagonist plot armor. No guarantee they would survive the night just because they were "main characters."
But he also could not gamble with his own life on the assumption that they would not.
"However, the fact that this Shepherd is calling for some kind of 'judgment' instead of executing them immediately... that suggests a ritual."
His lips pressed into a thin line. "We still have time."
He was not being blindly optimistic. He had spent enough time with Rick's group to understand their capabilities. They were resilient. Their weakness was not lack of strength, it was their sometimes poorly-timed compassion.
But now, facing a group of inhuman fanatics, with the thin veneer of "civilization" completely torn away...
He believed that Rick and Shane alone had enough ruthlessness to survive. They would not go down easily, not without a fight.
I will do everything I can to create the right conditions for them, he thought. But whether they can hold on until we get there... That will be up to them.
---
Merle narrowed his eyes as he watched the shambling corpse approach.
The walker still wore the tattered remains of a nun's habit, the fabric hanging in loose strips from its decaying body. A broken cross dangled from its neck, swaying gently with each unsteady step.
He forced out an ugly smile and spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the concrete. His split lip stung, but he barely felt it.
Un-fucking-believable.
Of all things, it had to be a nun.
Even in death, she was here to judge him. The universe had one hell of a sense of humor.
He knew that he was probably going to die here. His life before the apocalypse flashed through his mind.
His old man's belt cracked across his back, and the stink of cheap whiskey filled the air. The bastard had always smiled while he did it, as if the pain were some kind of lesson.
Then came the army. The sergeant whose teeth Merle had knocked out. Five of them. It would have been more if the others had not pulled him away.
After that came the drugs, the arrests, and the endless nights in holding cells and county lockup. He would sit there staring at grey cinder block walls, wondering how everything had gone so wrong.
Deep down, he had always known the truth.
He was a bastard.
A day like this had always been coming. He had known it since he was a kid.
He had imagined dying in prison, or from an overdose, or alone in some nameless ditch with a needle in his arm. Dying here, with a walker's teeth closing in on him, did not feel any different.
What was the difference, really?
The walker nun kept advancing, dragging its feet as it came straight toward him. Around them, the crowd's chanting grew louder.
"Judgment. Judgment."
They sounded almost excited, like this was some kind of show put on for their amusement.
For a brief moment, he wondered if they might actually believe it. Maybe this was a trial in their eyes. Maybe this was divine justice, or whatever lies people told themselves to make sense of the world.
He had felt it from the very beginning. He and Daryl had never truly belonged with Rick's group. Rick with his calm authority. Shane with his constant swagger. They looked at him like he was something filthy stuck to the bottom of their boots.
Even if he died right here, right now, probably nobody would give a damn. Maybe that blond kid would care a little. But the rest of them would be relieved. His death would make things easier for them.
Speaking of that kid...
Why the hell had his first instinct been to protect him?
He did not fully understand it himself. Part of it was the way the kid looked at him. There had never been disgust in those eyes.
His thoughts drifted further back, into memories he usually avoided.
He remembered standing in front of Daryl when they were young, placing himself between his brother and their father's fists. He had done it because he was the older brother, and that was what older brothers were supposed to do.
Except he had not really been a big brother, had he?
He had run from that life and joined the army, leaving Daryl alone in that house with a father who never deserved the title.
If he died here... maybe Daryl would be better off. Without his older brother dragging him down, making him look bad by association, Daryl might have a chance. People might like him.
Maybe that would not be so bad.
He closed his eyes.
The last image that flashed through his mind was Daryl's face.
"Fuck, Daryl... I really cannot watch your back this time..."
The walker was only a few steps away now.
Its fingers lifted slowly toward Merle's shoulder. Its mouth yawned open, revealing black and yellow gums where most of the teeth had rotted out. The stench of decay rolled over him in a wave.
It lunged for his neck.
"NO!!"
Daryl was still struggling against the zip ties. Blood streamed down his wrists where the plastic had cut deep into his skin.
In that critical instant, Merle's eyes snapped open.
The touch of death was cold, but it was also familiar.
His mind dragged him back to that rooftop in Atlanta. He had been handcuffed to a pipe, alone, with a horde of walkers battering the door. He had held a hacksaw in his hand, ready to cut through his own wrist if that was what it took to survive.
If God, or fate, or whatever the hell ruled this world truly wanted him dead, then why had it spared him back then?
Why had Lucien appeared out of nowhere? How had he walked into a walker-infested city and pulled him out alive when death had already closed its grip?
Fury ignited in his chest.
If he had been meant to die all along, then what had been the point of saving him?
Why give him hope? Why let him fight and claw his way forward, only for it to end like this, at the hands of these brainwashed cultists, under their so-called judgment?
He stared at the rotting face inches from his own. Then his eyes flicked up to the leader standing on his platform, wearing that expression of compassion like it was a fucking mask.
The walker's hands settled on his shoulders. Its jaws opened wide. Behind him, Daryl was still screaming his name.
And something inside Merle finally snapped.
"You motherfuckers think you are fit to judge me? GO FUCK YOURSELVES!!"