The Woman at The End of The World. (Daryl Dixon)

fifty.

"No! No way in hell! That was not the deal. You people swore you could take the Saviors out, and you failed. So, any arrangement we had is now done -- null and void." Gregory scorns as he struts around the office, upset and annoyed. I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. Daryl is to my left while Tori lurks to my right. I glance over at her, expressing my burning frustration with only my face. "We aren't trade partners, we aren't friends, and we never met. We don't know each other. I owe you nothing. In fact, you owe me for taking in the refugees, at great personal risk."

We are gathered in Gregory's office, trying to knock some sense into the senile old man, without any physical altercations. Though, I've realized upon our first meeting, it's like talking to a wall. It's taking all my self-control not to smack the smug coward around just for fun. Right now, I'd take speaking to Negan over this man. At least he's somewhat entertaining to banter with. Though, the two men never know when the shut the hell up. Fucking men and their giant egos.

"Oh, you were very brave staying in here while Maggie and Sasha saved this place. Your courage was inspiring." Jesus expresses his appreciation, or lack thereof, while sarcasm drips from his voice.

"Hey, don't you work for me? Aren't we friends?"

"Gregory, we already started this." Rick growls.

"You started it."

"What are we, fucking children?" I mimic, " 'you started it!' Grow up, old man. You had your hand in this, too. You got blood on your hands, just like the rest of us."

"We did. And we're gonna win." Rick offers.

"I do not like you, Veronica. I do not want you here." Gregory snarls. Returning to Rick, "these are killers!"

Feeling is mutual, asshole. I straighten up, raising my chin, crossing my arms. He glances away from me, face twisting in disgust.

Victoria makes an amused sound at his words. "This new you likes making enemies, huh?" She whispers. I snort, shrugging. She's wearing faded light blue jeans, a white shirt, army green vest, and white tennis shoes. Her long brown hair is braided down her back. I still find myself envious with how beautiful she always appears. Even in the middle of the apocalypse, she still somehow looks as if she's still prim and proper, untouched by the darkness. The perfect, golden child.

I'm still in the clothes I wore when I met Negan personally. I haven't had a chance to change as it's been a very busy week and I was on the road seventy five percent of that time. My greasy hair is thrown into a sloppy bun behind my head with a few stray pieces framing my face. I'm dying for a shower.

Next to each other, we look like Yin and Yang. The golden child and the black sheep. Though, I'm thankful we are finally mending the bridge that had separated us all of our lives.

"So what does that make you, Greg? You sat back and agreed to the attack on his outpost!" I accuse, pointing a finger in his direction. "Every single one of us standing before you is guilty over someone dying, whether it be by their own hand or someone else's. Charles Manson never killed anyone personally, but he was still found guilty of murder. I'm pretty sure Negan will see it the same way."

"Is this how you want to live? Under their thumb, killing your people?" Rick inquires.

"S-Sometimes we don't get to choose what our life looks like. Sometimes, Ricky, you have to count the blessings you have." Gregory shakes his head.

"How many people can we spare? How many people here can fight?" Maggie questions.

"'We'? I don't even know how many people we have, Margaret. And does it even matter? I mean, what are you gonna do? Start a platoon of sorghum farmers? 'Cause that's what we got. They grow things. They're not gonna want to fight."