The guy with the knife for a hand was right, which is a fact Joan hates. No one with a knife for a hand should be right about anything. But if she's really honest, it's the shit-eating grin that sticks in her memory.
Which is to say, yes, she runs out of food. Being holed up in an abandoned house only works for so long. Eventually, even scavenging the local towns turns up nothing. She has to move on.
She travels the roads, aimlessly looking for a ride. There are plenty of broken down cars these days, she just has to find one with enough working parts to fix. Being a junior mechanic is a lot of fucking things, and before the turn, it was mostly the knowledge that she'd never paint her nails. Now it's life or death. The most valuable thing she has after bottled water is a toolbox stuffed with spare parts. Heavy as shit, but if she can find a car that works, who cares. She wants to get out of here.
Of course, the only car she thinks she can make work is on a long stretch of road in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Trees on both sides, no sight lines, and of fucking course she has to squirm under the fucking thing to fix it. Shit, shit, shit. Her luck isn't good enough for something easy, it never is.
She sets up some string around the car, tied to bits of junk she's managed to salvage. You have to kind of wonder how much your life is worth when a plastic bucket and Dora backpack might save it. She loops some loud shit on the string, bits of metal and tools she's not using, in the vain fucking hope that something might trip over the wire and alert her to its presence. It's the best she can do.
But the dumbest thing she does by far is offering up a little prayer before she crawls under that stupid sedan. It's pretty clear from the way things are going that nobody up there is listening.
Keeping to the road ain't much good for supplies-- most places've been picked clean, nothing left in those cars but still-buckled-in putrefying housewives snapping their jaws and pawing at cracked windows, every bug-out bag taken from its backseat, every emergency blanket long since scavenged. Now and then when he's feeling feisty he'll put them down. Cars with passengers, now and then, there's something worth finding in the glove box, though usually it's nothing. Out-of-date maps, tissues, melted cassette tapes. Best case, a granola bar and a pack of condoms. If you're real lucky you find a gun, but it's not worth the time it takes.
Still, the road's quicker for distance than the trees, even if he doesn't love being out in the open. It's not the cars that have him taking this route, it's the cold drinks waiting back home. He's got a backpack full of bits and pieces-- better than nothing-- and some notes on places that look worth exploring, maybe with more men at his back. A strip mall, a house with a veterinary practice in the basement, windows shuttered and unbroken.
Not his worst day.
He spots her trap from a ways off, though, and finds himself nodding approvingly once he makes out the shape of a leg in the shadow under the car. Can't tell what the hell they're doing under there, whoever they are, but that warning system, it's better than nothing. It's the kind of thinking that keeps you alive.
Someone worth meeting, anyway.
So he keeps quiet, getting closer, sets his pack down by the front corner and gets his gun trained on what he can see of her torso before he even thinks of making his presence known. Half of him wants to kick the cans just to see what kind of fight he'd be facing, but that seems awful aggressive for a greeting.
She realizes her mistake the second it's too late to fix it. Should have brought the gun with her under the car. Shouldn't have left it with backpack on the hood of the car. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She's gonna die, and it'll be nobody's fault but hers.
Well, she's not gonna make it easy for him, that's for sure.
Joan squirms out from under the car because she doesn't have a choice. At least it's not a surprise who finds her. She recognizes that voice, like a shit-eating grin in sound form. Still, when she's out from under the car and lying back with a sour expression on her face, the confirmation is a slap in the face. He was right, and now he's here to gloat. And then, you know, murder her.
Leaving the bag out of reach, that's a rookie mistake. But maybe, he figured, they ain't used to living people being the problem. He's not worrying much. Whoever it is, he's still pretty sure he's got the upper hand.
And it feels a little higher still when he sees that familiar face.
"Well, shit!" Despite crowing in evidently pleasant surprise, he still doesn't move his gun. "Had to get outta your tower after all, princess?"
It'd be a lot less fun if she didn't look so goddamn annoyed. Thanks, Joan, this made his day.
She's gonna get murdered by knifearm. Christ. It feels so stupid, like a plot point in one of her brothers' dumb movies. And then Knifearm gutted that stupid bitch like a fish. And she'll deserve it, as far as she's concerned. If he just kills her, she's lucky.
But fear is expensive and anger is cheap. She feels it filling her veins, building slowly, waiting for an opportunity.
Big talk for somebody lying on their back on the ground while some asshole grins at her. She sits up slowly, staring him straight, as defiant as she can muster. "Cut the smalltalk," she says. "What do you want?"
The chances of him cutting out the patronizing son of a bitch act are slim to none; it's kind of his thing. Truth is he doesn't really know what to do with her. For all his big talk before, the Woodbury folks can be a bit picky... Real question is whether she can pull her weight.
If she can, and maybe she can-- dumb mistake aside-- then maybe he's here to be the best goddamn friend she ever head. That, or he's gonna put a blade through her eye socket. One way or the other, no pressure.
"I been friendlier than anyone else you're gonna meet out here." Not untrue, that. "You catchin' some sleep under there?"
"Keep looking." This has always been her fucking problem. See someone bigger than you? Pick a fight. Stare down a guy twice your weight with a gun pointed on you, what do you do? Growl at him. Great fucking plan, Joan.
But if she's going to die today, it's not going to be after a polite apology.
She's aware, on some level, that this is a test. That she shouldn't be goaded into giving herself away. But twice he's bested her, and her pride is wounded; she wants to prove her worth, even though she knows its useless. No one like him will ever find her useful.
Even if you were born in prison, you'd miss home eventually. "I was seeing if I could fix it, genius."
She'd be a lot less interesting to him if she just rolled over, got all meek. An easier sell for the town, maybe, but not as useful in the long run. As it is, she's got that cornered animal look in her eye, her teeth bared, and it's all he can do not to laugh. He's not holding back on her account, either. It's just not the right move, not yet, to push that far.
He hasn't budged an inch, which isn't bad or good, really. He's not letting up the threat of that heavy-barreled gun, but he's not coming after her. Not even making a move to take her bag. Merle Dixon: the ultimate gentleman of the apocalypse.
And he still doesn't let up on that easy drawl, just raises his eyebrows.
The cornered animal act is getting strenuous. She's used to the person cornering her attacking by now. Nobody in her family is particularly subtle, much less patient. Why hasn't he struck her yet? What does he want?
Joan has the very real feeling that she's being played. She's going to lose, she knows, but damn her if she doesn't go down swinging.
"Yeah," she says, finally. She gets up slowly, never taking her eyes off him. "I could. Just need my bag."
The bag on the hood of the car, which, admittedly, does have the supplies she needs in there. Joan was never much for quick thinking where lies are concerned. But more importantly, it has the only gun she's got left.
It doesn't surprise him that she bolts, eventually. He figured she'd stick around a while in spite of all her protests, and in spite of how loudly he refuses to give a shit about whether she does, he's glad the Governor lets her. Merle's full of shit about nine and a half times outta ten, but he wasn't lying when he said this was a good place, probably the best she could find. Woodbury-- well, it ain't perfect, but it's hard to do better. Hard to get by alone, now.
But he's not surprised she leaves. Even makes it a little longer than he'd have guessed.
Lucky for her-- or unlucky, depending how you look at it-- Merle's a goddamn fantastic tracker. And because he's also a son of a bitch he loops around ahead of her, finds a fallen log to sit on and wait a spell til she shows up.
Joan stays a month, mostly spent making plans. Merle put enough effort into getting her here that it'd be a bad move to just bolt. And this place is a shitshow, all the bad memories of her childhood shoved into a little town high on its own fumes, but the food is free and regular if she pulls her weight. Joan doesn't know how to not pull her weight, Dad saw to that, so she does her part.
That doesn't mean she gets on with the locals. She gets shoved into the building the orphans are stuck with, and while she doesn't have to go to their little 'school', she still has to sleep and wake up there. Even without her shithead brothers looming over her reputation, she gets along with the Woodbury kids just as well as she did the kids in fucking Shivley. She gets into a few fights, spends two weeks with a black eye, and knocks out a kid's teeth. She decides to leave when she narrowly avoids getting her arm broken, and she's genuinely surprised when they just let her walk. She was planning on having to make a break for it. But they let her right out the door, and it doesn't feel earned. Puts her on edge, not feeling like she deserves the victory. Fighting for it's so much more... comfortable.
It's still a surprise when she sees someone in the clearing ahead of her, and if she squints, she can recognize the shape of his thick skull through the trees.
She should run. She doesn't. She should shoot him. She doesn't do that either.
She's a fucking idiot, and a hypocrite too. She's killed people she knew better, cared for more, than fucking Merle Dixon. Still, something stays her hand, and she doesn't examine the impulse, not wanting to find whatever the truth really is.
She does draw her pistol, keeping it up and pointed at him before she enters the clearing. "I'm not going back."
Like he said once, Merle doesn't take it terribly personally, having a gun pointed at him. He wouldn't expect any less from her, particularly under the circumstances. It'd be just as easy and probably smarter to let her be, but Merle likes getting a rise out of people and he's not passing up this chance. Besides... she's useful, and it's dumb as shit to leave over pride. Which is what it seems like to him, anyway.
"Sure you ain't," he answers mildly, shrugging. For all the world like he's out here by chance, though he's not trying to sell that story. She's not that stupid, it's not worth the effort. But coming on strong obviously doesn't convince her, even if, when pressed, she's more or less obedient. Merle doesn't really do delicate or persuasive. When it comes down to it he doesn't really have a good reason to be out here doing this.
"You drag me back, I'll fight you." He doesn't know what a threat that is. "Not like last time." Joan knows it doesn't sound like much; he's never seen her fight. And there's no guarantee she'll win. She doesn't care. A fight, for her, isn't about hurting or winning or striking down the enemy. It's about making everyone involved pay. He'll win, but it won't be fun for either of them.
She won't try to kill him, she knows. It's not about killing, for him. Go for what hurts, she thinks. Shoot off his other hand.
The thought sits uncomfortably in her mind, but more comfortably than killing him. For some reason, she can't let herself do that. She can't. If she does, maybe she can't come back. You kill too many old men, you become something else. You take on whatever they were. You inherit the sin like debt.
If it comes to it he's pretty sure he'll win a fight. He's not sure he'd manage it without her doing some damage-- he's seen enough to guess at that. Heard about what she did and had a good laugh at it-- deep and ugly, long enough to get the side-eye from the green shit who told him, but fuck that, it ain't his business and it's been a long goddamn time since anyone did something so fucked-up that it reminded him of himself when he was young.
Maybe that's why he kinda likes her, and why he kinda wants to throw her off a cliff.
"So let's quit talkin'," he ventures, slow and easy. She's had that gun on him too long, he thinks; it's not quite losing her nerve but she's not gonna shoot him unless he works for it, and that's not why he's out here.
"Maybe I just wanna stretch my legs." He grins to make sure she knows that's total bullshit, and also perfectly serious: if she's going for a walk, they're going for a walk.
He does that smile that starts the I know you know I know game, except it means he knows she's not going to shoot him in the head. She lowers the gun, but she's still holding it. Her finger is still on the trigger.
If she shoots off his hand, he'll kill her. It's be a good ending. Come full circle.
It's a very dramatic thing to think, and that appeals to the part of her that's seventeen and angry with blood on her hands. The only thing that doesn't work is the very real knowledge that it won't be fast. How could it be? He won't have any hands.
"We both know that's not why you're here." She rolls her eyes and doesn't look him in the face. Shit. She doesn't want to kill him, but if she's going to die, she wants to be taken seriously. With that same stupid dramatic interest from before, a plan forms in her mind. "Come on," she says, "I'll show you something."
She turns her back on him, and starts walking down a hill to their left.
Knowing that's not why he's here doesn't go very far toward figuring out why he is. It's a damn stupid move; this is time wasted, but fortunately, Merle Dixon has reached the point of postapocalyptic bullshit power where he's got time to waste, if he wants it.
(Sometimes. If she didn't have a knack for tuning up junkers chances are they'd all be waving from behind the walls, no question. The Governor's patience has limits, and Merle knows he's on a short leash. Resents being on one at all, but he knows the debt he owes, still, knows he's not gonna find anything better than this, knows if he crosses the wrong person he's fucked six ways from Sunday, so he'll keep in line. More or less.
"Sure thing, Princess," he answers coolly, standing and stretching theatrically like he is just here for the exercise, trailing after with the kind of easy gait that comes from years of practice walking in the woods. "Let's see what you found."
He doesn't trust her as far as he can throw her, but fortunately, he wouldn't have to throw her very far to get rid of her, if it came to that.
She's never showed anybody this, but by the time it was there, there was nobody to show. She thought she'd stick by the area, haunt the place or something grandiose like that, sleeping in the house and biding her time until she ran out of food. Once she decided to move on, this fucker stopped her.
Maybe it's a sign. God is trying to tell her something. She did a terrible thing, and when she tried to leave it, something keeps stopping her. Maybe it's meaningful.
Maybe it's not, and she'll die stupid in the woods. That works, too.
The little shack they were staying in is up ahead. It's a beaten up thing, and there are still a few cars sitting in front of it, all missing tires and engines and spare parts. The shack still has their sleeping bags in it. Most importantly, it still has the little twin mounds at the back of it.
Joan gives it a wide berth, standing on the outskirts. "You're not a complete idiot," she says. "We were staying here." She was going back to it, she realizes, going back out of blind habit before this asshole stopped her. Stopped her again. God, she's a fucking idiot sometimes.
It's fucking absolutely perfect, ending up in prison. It figures. The world kept its fucked-up sense of humor after it went to shit, and here he is: in prison, because prison's got the only thing he cares about more than his own skin. And that's doubly fucking funny-- he'd never have thought he'd be glad to see Daryl behind bars. Behind walls, at least, because his brother won't settle in a cozied-up little cell like the rest of them, and that's probably his fucking fault, but whatever. If his baby brother's safe he can sleep on the fucking roof for all that Merle cares. This is the one thing in the whole goddamn world he's softhearted about. Not that he says it. They snipe at each other and mostly Merle keeps a distance, or he's kept at one. The people here have every reason not to trust him, and only one to tolerate him. It just so happens that Daryl's a big enough reason to outweigh all the rest, so they leave him be. His brother and the churchmouse talk to him some, the bitch with the sword watches him like a hawk, the sheriff won't meet his eye.
Which means mostly for company he's stuck with Princess Joan, who has the dubious honor of having more or less led them here. She can't seem to decide whether she hates him or this place more, far as he can tell. It works out well enough and honest to God, he doesn't give a shit. He really doesn't. Sure, he misses the creature comforts and friendly faces of Woodbury, but it's too late to go back.
And not worth the price.
It gets better, after the fighting comes. He does what he has to, he picks a side, and the folks they take in know him and trust him. The rest of Daryl's people can't exactly send him packing then. But it's not over. He knows what's coming, knows it's going to be big. Bad. Better than anyone, maybe, because he knows the Governor, knows that every inch of that generosity he rolls out has a matching depth of ruthlessness. If he's not dead, this ain't over.
But when it comes, the battle still takes him by surprise. Takes all of them, all their careful plans and preparations falling apart. And all too quick, it takes everything.
There are other bodies, shadows moving through the clouds of dust and ash-- people running. People falling. He can't keep track of who's dead and who's not dead yet, so he just runs and figures if there's anyone left he'll catch up to them eventually, when none of them can run any further.
Joan doesn't like most of them. This shouldn't come as a surprise to anybody with half a brain and a quarter of an ability to read people. Joan's never been miss popularity, she only had one friend before the turn, and he's long fucking dead. She killed the man that killed him, and as far as she's concerned, that makes her even with luck and fate. God is another matter, but He's not the concern.
Joan's always had a lot of wordless, voiceless opinions about how power should be used. She could never put to sense what bothered her so much about Woodbury, bad enough to want to escape, risk her life just to wander. And she can't explain the same about why the prison sets her more at ease. Yeah, she's not on friendly terms with any of these fucks, she doesn't go to their parties or listen to them sing around the campfire, but she's the first to do her chores, and she makes it fucking clear she can be relied on. She's got skills. She's a fine mechanic, and not a terrible shot. She clears out the dead around the fences. She keeps Merle company.
Somehow, she ends up thinking about that as one of her chores.
He's like some kind of feral animal, sometimes; he needs to be distracted, or he'll scratch and scratch until the whole place comes down. Loathe as she is to admit it to himself, she likes him better, now. It's not a whole lot. She can still barely stand him. But she knows, now, for sure, that he's not liable to try and rape her. That just isn't in the cards. He might kill her, might leave her on the side of the road if he felt it benefited him, but so far, it hasn't. And so far, she thinks she deserves the company.
And he knows his bible. It's a point in his favor. He's probably seen her crossing herself over her food, praying before bed. Joan is strangely comforted in having finally found the devil that quotes scripture.
(Satan, her father once told her, isn't in hell. He's behind other people's eyes. Watch closely, and you can see Him.)
She sees the devil in Merle's eyes far less than she did in her father's. In a way, she can trust him. He's simple. Don't fuck with his brother-- a quiet man whom Joan gives the widest of berth-- and don't fuck with him, and he doesn't give a shit. Sure, he likes roiling people, but he's not softening you up for something worse. He's just picking at the scab that he sees other people as. Can't leave well enough alone.
It's a peaceful life, one she doesn't deserve. She avoids people, does her chores, hunts, scavenges, goes on runs, fixes cars, and quotes scripture with the worst man in prison. It's... fitting. She's a bad person. She's a sinner. She deserves to be around other sinners, since she can't find it within herself to regret her sins.
It all comes crashing down eventually. It always does. That asshole shows up with a fucking tank, where do you get a fucking tank in the middle of all this shit? But there he is, with his fucking tank, and he chops off Hershel's head-- a good man with the wrong ideas about God, but a good man-- and shoots into the fences. Everything is smoke and panic and death.
One thing in the Prison's favor: they let her carry weapons on her at all times, so long as they're not loaded. Joan keeps an ax at her belt at all times, one of those break in case of emergency deals she found in the bowels of this place. Her gun is kept in the armory, and when she hears the Governor roll up, she grabs it, a shotgun and a revolver. Call her old fashioned, the revolver used to be her dad's. She really ought to get some automatics, but that's a worry for another day. So she has six bullets and a few slugs and an ax, and outside she finds complete chaos, screaming madness, dead and living mingled in a horrible swath.
Instinct takes over. She runs. This place is dead. She was never loyal to one person here, except possibly Merle, out of a strange mix of guilt and self loathing. Everyone else, she was just loyal to the idea of the place, and that idea's dead. It's time to go.
She steals a car, which isn't really even stealing, because she repaired the fucking thing and optimized it for off road driving and all that fancy shit Rick used to smile over. It's her fucking car. She hotwires it (someone else had the keys, and they're probably dead anyway) and tears through the crowd as best she can. Thank Christ it's a fucking Jeep.
She doesn't believe it at first, when she thinks she sees Merle slogging through the death and the chaos. Fuck. Is she really going to- yes. She can already feel herself slowing down.
When he hears the rumbling of an engine he tries to swerve into the trees, but they're too sparse here. Which means-- fuck, what? He can keep running, try to outrun a goddamn car (not likely) or stop and take a stand (which doesn't seem much likelier to help things out, but is definitely more his style.)
Don't seem like there's much to lose, though. Which means he's about to turn and figure out how much damage he can do before he gets run down when she shouts at him.
"Well, shit."
But he clambers into the car anyway, she doesn't have to invite him twice.
He also does her the courtesy of not telling her to hurry the fuck up and go. She's a pain in the ass but she's not stupid.
If this means she gets to drive, it's a fucking blessing. Especially if he hasn't got a gun pointed at her during it. It's almost refreshing; everything is shit, complete and utter fucking shit, terror and death all around them, but for once? They both have the same goal, and she trusts him to complete it.
At least, until it becomes a choice between him or her, but they aren't there quite yet. She's still got the car.
She nods at the shotgun in the back. "Shoot whatever looks like it's about to shoot us." The Dead aren't her concern; she's mowing them down when the can't swerve and avoid them. It's not good for the car, but she likes being alive more than having an intact undercarriage.
They do at least make a good team. Merle is willing to admit that, possibly because he thinks it'd piss Joan off and he does love getting a rise out of people.
Which is to say he's already cranking the window down when she makes that suggestion, though it's his own gun in his hand. He's a pretty decent shot, even down a hand; the only reason to hold back is-- well-- in all this shit it's hard to say who's who. Not worth wasting bullets on the biters, and for all his talk about not giving a shit-- well, half the prison folk are Woodbury folk, his folk, and as for the rest, friendly fire isn't. Ain't worth risking it, not unless they get close enough to know.
They make a good team, fighting and annoying the piss out of each other. One good turn deserves another, and she cuts through whatever bullshit he's spinning. There's only one person here Merle gives a shit about enough about to actually ask after. She can't even blame him for it. In another world, she'd be the same.
"I'll keep an eye out for Daryl."
There's a rumbling, the car going over a few twitching bumps, more Dead mowed down. Joan swears-- the jeep will make it through this, but who knows how much longer, if they keep running bodies over.
Yeah, she's got his number. He just grunts, firing off a round, and watches the asshole jerk and fall in the mirror. It's not as satisfying as it ought to be. They're still running-- even if they pick off a couple along the way, even if the Governor's rotting somewhere right now, they still lost this fight.
They've got, what, maybe a couple dozen bullets? No food, no plan, not much besides whatever gas is in this thing, whatever shelter it'll provide if they can outrun the guns behind them.
Basically, they're fucked. But at least she's got her priorities straight.
He takes another shot, fails to hit anything but a tree. Swearing, he leans back in his seat. Fuck it, ain't like it's helping anyway. Instead he just glares uselessly out the window, trying to come up with anything-- any kind of plan.
Joan knows what happens when people like Joan and Merle go too long without a solid plan of action. The result is Joan ending up dead on the side of the road. Her ambition is to live as long as possible to spite her brothers and father, be the last Dority standing when the Earth takes its last shuddering breath at the end of days. It's probably why picking up Merle in the first place was a dumb move, but that's life. If you're not making dumb moves, you're probably fucking dead.
More rumbling as she goes over more bodies. They hit the forest, and that shaves off a lot of the dead swarming them; she tries to stay on the roads Rick and the others kept clear in case of having to leave on some kind of convoy. Planned for every possibility, they did. Except fucking tanks.
And she thinks.
"There are supply caches," she says. They're hers, and she hasn't told... anybody about them, because it makes them think you're liable to cut and run. Which, fair. You never fucking know. "We'll hit them, and start looking for Daryl. You're almost as good a tracker as him."
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what_wings_dare2014-10-20 06:48 pm
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Which is to say, yes, she runs out of food. Being holed up in an abandoned house only works for so long. Eventually, even scavenging the local towns turns up nothing. She has to move on.
She travels the roads, aimlessly looking for a ride. There are plenty of broken down cars these days, she just has to find one with enough working parts to fix. Being a junior mechanic is a lot of fucking things, and before the turn, it was mostly the knowledge that she'd never paint her nails. Now it's life or death. The most valuable thing she has after bottled water is a toolbox stuffed with spare parts. Heavy as shit, but if she can find a car that works, who cares. She wants to get out of here.
Of course, the only car she thinks she can make work is on a long stretch of road in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Trees on both sides, no sight lines, and of fucking course she has to squirm under the fucking thing to fix it. Shit, shit, shit. Her luck isn't good enough for something easy, it never is.
She sets up some string around the car, tied to bits of junk she's managed to salvage. You have to kind of wonder how much your life is worth when a plastic bucket and Dora backpack might save it. She loops some loud shit on the string, bits of metal and tools she's not using, in the vain fucking hope that something might trip over the wire and alert her to its presence. It's the best she can do.
But the dumbest thing she does by far is offering up a little prayer before she crawls under that stupid sedan. It's pretty clear from the way things are going that nobody up there is listening.
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Still, the road's quicker for distance than the trees, even if he doesn't love being out in the open. It's not the cars that have him taking this route, it's the cold drinks waiting back home. He's got a backpack full of bits and pieces-- better than nothing-- and some notes on places that look worth exploring, maybe with more men at his back. A strip mall, a house with a veterinary practice in the basement, windows shuttered and unbroken.
Not his worst day.
He spots her trap from a ways off, though, and finds himself nodding approvingly once he makes out the shape of a leg in the shadow under the car. Can't tell what the hell they're doing under there, whoever they are, but that warning system, it's better than nothing. It's the kind of thinking that keeps you alive.
Someone worth meeting, anyway.
So he keeps quiet, getting closer, sets his pack down by the front corner and gets his gun trained on what he can see of her torso before he even thinks of making his presence known. Half of him wants to kick the cans just to see what kind of fight he'd be facing, but that seems awful aggressive for a greeting.
"Car trouble?" he drawls instead.
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Well, she's not gonna make it easy for him, that's for sure.
Joan squirms out from under the car because she doesn't have a choice. At least it's not a surprise who finds her. She recognizes that voice, like a shit-eating grin in sound form. Still, when she's out from under the car and lying back with a sour expression on her face, the confirmation is a slap in the face. He was right, and now he's here to gloat. And then, you know, murder her.
"You've gotta be shitting me."
no subject
And it feels a little higher still when he sees that familiar face.
"Well, shit!" Despite crowing in evidently pleasant surprise, he still doesn't move his gun. "Had to get outta your tower after all, princess?"
It'd be a lot less fun if she didn't look so goddamn annoyed. Thanks, Joan, this made his day.
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But fear is expensive and anger is cheap. She feels it filling her veins, building slowly, waiting for an opportunity.
Big talk for somebody lying on their back on the ground while some asshole grins at her. She sits up slowly, staring him straight, as defiant as she can muster. "Cut the smalltalk," she says. "What do you want?"
no subject
The chances of him cutting out the patronizing son of a bitch act are slim to none; it's kind of his thing. Truth is he doesn't really know what to do with her. For all his big talk before, the Woodbury folks can be a bit picky... Real question is whether she can pull her weight.
If she can, and maybe she can-- dumb mistake aside-- then maybe he's here to be the best goddamn friend she ever head. That, or he's gonna put a blade through her eye socket. One way or the other, no pressure.
"I been friendlier than anyone else you're gonna meet out here." Not untrue, that. "You catchin' some sleep under there?"
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But if she's going to die today, it's not going to be after a polite apology.
She's aware, on some level, that this is a test. That she shouldn't be goaded into giving herself away. But twice he's bested her, and her pride is wounded; she wants to prove her worth, even though she knows its useless. No one like him will ever find her useful.
Even if you were born in prison, you'd miss home eventually. "I was seeing if I could fix it, genius."
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He hasn't budged an inch, which isn't bad or good, really. He's not letting up the threat of that heavy-barreled gun, but he's not coming after her. Not even making a move to take her bag. Merle Dixon: the ultimate gentleman of the apocalypse.
And he still doesn't let up on that easy drawl, just raises his eyebrows.
"Can you?"
Time to shine, princess.
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Joan has the very real feeling that she's being played. She's going to lose, she knows, but damn her if she doesn't go down swinging.
"Yeah," she says, finally. She gets up slowly, never taking her eyes off him. "I could. Just need my bag."
The bag on the hood of the car, which, admittedly, does have the supplies she needs in there. Joan was never much for quick thinking where lies are concerned. But more importantly, it has the only gun she's got left.
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But he's not surprised she leaves. Even makes it a little longer than he'd have guessed.
Lucky for her-- or unlucky, depending how you look at it-- Merle's a goddamn fantastic tracker. And because he's also a son of a bitch he loops around ahead of her, finds a fallen log to sit on and wait a spell til she shows up.
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That doesn't mean she gets on with the locals. She gets shoved into the building the orphans are stuck with, and while she doesn't have to go to their little 'school', she still has to sleep and wake up there. Even without her shithead brothers looming over her reputation, she gets along with the Woodbury kids just as well as she did the kids in fucking Shivley. She gets into a few fights, spends two weeks with a black eye, and knocks out a kid's teeth. She decides to leave when she narrowly avoids getting her arm broken, and she's genuinely surprised when they just let her walk. She was planning on having to make a break for it. But they let her right out the door, and it doesn't feel earned. Puts her on edge, not feeling like she deserves the victory. Fighting for it's so much more... comfortable.
It's still a surprise when she sees someone in the clearing ahead of her, and if she squints, she can recognize the shape of his thick skull through the trees.
She should run. She doesn't. She should shoot him. She doesn't do that either.
She's a fucking idiot, and a hypocrite too. She's killed people she knew better, cared for more, than fucking Merle Dixon. Still, something stays her hand, and she doesn't examine the impulse, not wanting to find whatever the truth really is.
She does draw her pistol, keeping it up and pointed at him before she enters the clearing. "I'm not going back."
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"Sure you ain't," he answers mildly, shrugging. For all the world like he's out here by chance, though he's not trying to sell that story. She's not that stupid, it's not worth the effort. But coming on strong obviously doesn't convince her, even if, when pressed, she's more or less obedient. Merle doesn't really do delicate or persuasive. When it comes down to it he doesn't really have a good reason to be out here doing this.
"So, where are you goin?"
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She won't try to kill him, she knows. It's not about killing, for him. Go for what hurts, she thinks. Shoot off his other hand.
The thought sits uncomfortably in her mind, but more comfortably than killing him. For some reason, she can't let herself do that. She can't. If she does, maybe she can't come back. You kill too many old men, you become something else. You take on whatever they were. You inherit the sin like debt.
"Away. We already talked about this."
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Maybe that's why he kinda likes her, and why he kinda wants to throw her off a cliff.
"So let's quit talkin'," he ventures, slow and easy. She's had that gun on him too long, he thinks; it's not quite losing her nerve but she's not gonna shoot him unless he works for it, and that's not why he's out here.
"Maybe I just wanna stretch my legs." He grins to make sure she knows that's total bullshit, and also perfectly serious: if she's going for a walk, they're going for a walk.
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If she shoots off his hand, he'll kill her. It's be a good ending. Come full circle.
It's a very dramatic thing to think, and that appeals to the part of her that's seventeen and angry with blood on her hands. The only thing that doesn't work is the very real knowledge that it won't be fast. How could it be? He won't have any hands.
"We both know that's not why you're here." She rolls her eyes and doesn't look him in the face. Shit. She doesn't want to kill him, but if she's going to die, she wants to be taken seriously. With that same stupid dramatic interest from before, a plan forms in her mind. "Come on," she says, "I'll show you something."
She turns her back on him, and starts walking down a hill to their left.
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(Sometimes. If she didn't have a knack for tuning up junkers chances are they'd all be waving from behind the walls, no question. The Governor's patience has limits, and Merle knows he's on a short leash. Resents being on one at all, but he knows the debt he owes, still, knows he's not gonna find anything better than this, knows if he crosses the wrong person he's fucked six ways from Sunday, so he'll keep in line. More or less.
"Sure thing, Princess," he answers coolly, standing and stretching theatrically like he is just here for the exercise, trailing after with the kind of easy gait that comes from years of practice walking in the woods. "Let's see what you found."
He doesn't trust her as far as he can throw her, but fortunately, he wouldn't have to throw her very far to get rid of her, if it came to that.
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She's never showed anybody this, but by the time it was there, there was nobody to show. She thought she'd stick by the area, haunt the place or something grandiose like that, sleeping in the house and biding her time until she ran out of food. Once she decided to move on, this fucker stopped her.
Maybe it's a sign. God is trying to tell her something. She did a terrible thing, and when she tried to leave it, something keeps stopping her. Maybe it's meaningful.
Maybe it's not, and she'll die stupid in the woods. That works, too.
The little shack they were staying in is up ahead. It's a beaten up thing, and there are still a few cars sitting in front of it, all missing tires and engines and spare parts. The shack still has their sleeping bags in it. Most importantly, it still has the little twin mounds at the back of it.
Joan gives it a wide berth, standing on the outskirts. "You're not a complete idiot," she says. "We were staying here." She was going back to it, she realizes, going back out of blind habit before this asshole stopped her. Stopped her again. God, she's a fucking idiot sometimes.
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a billion years later........
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Which means mostly for company he's stuck with Princess Joan, who has the dubious honor of having more or less led them here. She can't seem to decide whether she hates him or this place more, far as he can tell. It works out well enough and honest to God, he doesn't give a shit. He really doesn't. Sure, he misses the creature comforts and friendly faces of Woodbury, but it's too late to go back.
And not worth the price.
It gets better, after the fighting comes. He does what he has to, he picks a side, and the folks they take in know him and trust him. The rest of Daryl's people can't exactly send him packing then. But it's not over. He knows what's coming, knows it's going to be big. Bad. Better than anyone, maybe, because he knows the Governor, knows that every inch of that generosity he rolls out has a matching depth of ruthlessness. If he's not dead, this ain't over.
But when it comes, the battle still takes him by surprise. Takes all of them, all their careful plans and preparations falling apart. And all too quick, it takes everything.
There are other bodies, shadows moving through the clouds of dust and ash-- people running. People falling. He can't keep track of who's dead and who's not dead yet, so he just runs and figures if there's anyone left he'll catch up to them eventually, when none of them can run any further.
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Joan's always had a lot of wordless, voiceless opinions about how power should be used. She could never put to sense what bothered her so much about Woodbury, bad enough to want to escape, risk her life just to wander. And she can't explain the same about why the prison sets her more at ease. Yeah, she's not on friendly terms with any of these fucks, she doesn't go to their parties or listen to them sing around the campfire, but she's the first to do her chores, and she makes it fucking clear she can be relied on. She's got skills. She's a fine mechanic, and not a terrible shot. She clears out the dead around the fences. She keeps Merle company.
Somehow, she ends up thinking about that as one of her chores.
He's like some kind of feral animal, sometimes; he needs to be distracted, or he'll scratch and scratch until the whole place comes down. Loathe as she is to admit it to himself, she likes him better, now. It's not a whole lot. She can still barely stand him. But she knows, now, for sure, that he's not liable to try and rape her. That just isn't in the cards. He might kill her, might leave her on the side of the road if he felt it benefited him, but so far, it hasn't. And so far, she thinks she deserves the company.
And he knows his bible. It's a point in his favor. He's probably seen her crossing herself over her food, praying before bed. Joan is strangely comforted in having finally found the devil that quotes scripture.
(Satan, her father once told her, isn't in hell. He's behind other people's eyes. Watch closely, and you can see Him.)
She sees the devil in Merle's eyes far less than she did in her father's. In a way, she can trust him. He's simple. Don't fuck with his brother-- a quiet man whom Joan gives the widest of berth-- and don't fuck with him, and he doesn't give a shit. Sure, he likes roiling people, but he's not softening you up for something worse. He's just picking at the scab that he sees other people as. Can't leave well enough alone.
It's a peaceful life, one she doesn't deserve. She avoids people, does her chores, hunts, scavenges, goes on runs, fixes cars, and quotes scripture with the worst man in prison. It's... fitting. She's a bad person. She's a sinner. She deserves to be around other sinners, since she can't find it within herself to regret her sins.
It all comes crashing down eventually. It always does. That asshole shows up with a fucking tank, where do you get a fucking tank in the middle of all this shit? But there he is, with his fucking tank, and he chops off Hershel's head-- a good man with the wrong ideas about God, but a good man-- and shoots into the fences. Everything is smoke and panic and death.
One thing in the Prison's favor: they let her carry weapons on her at all times, so long as they're not loaded. Joan keeps an ax at her belt at all times, one of those break in case of emergency deals she found in the bowels of this place. Her gun is kept in the armory, and when she hears the Governor roll up, she grabs it, a shotgun and a revolver. Call her old fashioned, the revolver used to be her dad's. She really ought to get some automatics, but that's a worry for another day. So she has six bullets and a few slugs and an ax, and outside she finds complete chaos, screaming madness, dead and living mingled in a horrible swath.
Instinct takes over. She runs. This place is dead. She was never loyal to one person here, except possibly Merle, out of a strange mix of guilt and self loathing. Everyone else, she was just loyal to the idea of the place, and that idea's dead. It's time to go.
She steals a car, which isn't really even stealing, because she repaired the fucking thing and optimized it for off road driving and all that fancy shit Rick used to smile over. It's her fucking car. She hotwires it (someone else had the keys, and they're probably dead anyway) and tears through the crowd as best she can. Thank Christ it's a fucking Jeep.
She doesn't believe it at first, when she thinks she sees Merle slogging through the death and the chaos. Fuck. Is she really going to- yes. She can already feel herself slowing down.
Idiot.
"Get the fuck in!"
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Don't seem like there's much to lose, though. Which means he's about to turn and figure out how much damage he can do before he gets run down when she shouts at him.
"Well, shit."
But he clambers into the car anyway, she doesn't have to invite him twice.
He also does her the courtesy of not telling her to hurry the fuck up and go. She's a pain in the ass but she's not stupid.
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At least, until it becomes a choice between him or her, but they aren't there quite yet. She's still got the car.
She nods at the shotgun in the back. "Shoot whatever looks like it's about to shoot us." The Dead aren't her concern; she's mowing them down when the can't swerve and avoid them. It's not good for the car, but she likes being alive more than having an intact undercarriage.
Merle is right; as soon as he's in, she guns it.
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Which is to say he's already cranking the window down when she makes that suggestion, though it's his own gun in his hand. He's a pretty decent shot, even down a hand; the only reason to hold back is-- well-- in all this shit it's hard to say who's who. Not worth wasting bullets on the biters, and for all his talk about not giving a shit-- well, half the prison folk are Woodbury folk, his folk, and as for the rest, friendly fire isn't. Ain't worth risking it, not unless they get close enough to know.
"You seen anyone else?"
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"I'll keep an eye out for Daryl."
There's a rumbling, the car going over a few twitching bumps, more Dead mowed down. Joan swears-- the jeep will make it through this, but who knows how much longer, if they keep running bodies over.
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They've got, what, maybe a couple dozen bullets? No food, no plan, not much besides whatever gas is in this thing, whatever shelter it'll provide if they can outrun the guns behind them.
Basically, they're fucked. But at least she's got her priorities straight.
He takes another shot, fails to hit anything but a tree. Swearing, he leans back in his seat. Fuck it, ain't like it's helping anyway. Instead he just glares uselessly out the window, trying to come up with anything-- any kind of plan.
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More rumbling as she goes over more bodies. They hit the forest, and that shaves off a lot of the dead swarming them; she tries to stay on the roads Rick and the others kept clear in case of having to leave on some kind of convoy. Planned for every possibility, they did. Except fucking tanks.
And she thinks.
"There are supply caches," she says. They're hers, and she hasn't told... anybody about them, because it makes them think you're liable to cut and run. Which, fair. You never fucking know. "We'll hit them, and start looking for Daryl. You're almost as good a tracker as him."
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