TWD: Awakened As Rick

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They say every dog can be trained if you beat it enough.

Merle Dixon wasn't so sure.

He lit his last cigarette, letting the flame from the match hang a little too long before snuffing it with a flick of his calloused fingers. He leaned back against the half-built scaffolding outside the workshop, one boot propped on a crate of scrap metal, watching the camp buzz like a damn anthill.

People movin' everywhere. Kids laughing. Women cooking. Farmers pulling weeds. Gun drills crackin' in the distance.

Looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

"Whole world's gone to hell," Merle muttered under his breath, "and here they are playin' house."

The Right Arm. That's what Rick called it.

Merle took a drag from the smoke and spat off the ledge.

He didn't trust Rick Grimes. Something about the man was too damn perfect. Too collected. Like he had answers to questions nobody had asked yet.

Hell, the man woke up from a coma and started buildin' a damn military compound. That didn't scream cop. That screamed killer.

Still… Merle couldn't deny the results.

They had food now. Clean water. Ammo. Patrols. Training drills. No walkers had breached the walls in over three weeks. Hell, even Merle had a bunk. His own damn bunk. With a mattress and everything.

Not that he was gettin' soft. Just observant.

He stubbed out the cigarette on the heel of his boot and stood. Time to get movin' before someone—probably Rick—came lookin' for him to "pitch in."

Merle wasn't one for orders, but the truth was… he liked fixing things. Machinery, engines, generators—it was something that made sense. Unlike people. Unlike this whole damn post-apocalyptic circus act.

As he walked toward the workshop, he passed a few of the Vatos stacking sandbags near the eastern wall. One of 'em—Antonio or Miguel, he never remembered which—nodded at him.

Merle squinted. "You don't gotta look polite, son. Ain't nobody judging you."

The guy just smirked and kept working.

Inside the workshop, Morales was elbow-deep in a busted carburetor, oil streaked across his cheek.

"'Bout time you showed up," Morales said without looking. "Thought maybe a walker dragged you off."

"Nah," Merle grunted, rolling up his sleeves. "Too scrawny. I'm all gristle."

They worked in silence for a while. The kind Merle liked—just tools, grease, and the sound of gears complainin'. After thirty minutes, they had the old generator whirring again, coughing like a smoker but functional.

Morales wiped his hands. "You ever work at a shop before?"

Merle shrugged. "Nah. Picked it up here and there. Did a stint inside once, learned a lot. Few truck stops. Some chop shops."

Morales looked at him. "You're good at it."

Merle chuckled, low and bitter. "Yeah, well, ain't much call for philosophy degrees these days, huh?"

He walked out before Morales could respond.

Later that afternoon, Rick called a meeting. Of course he did. The man loved his speeches.

Everyone gathered around the fire pit, eyes fixed on the sheriff in the middle of 'em all. Rick talked about the next scavenging run, the importance of discipline, and some plan to reach a National Guard outpost down south.

Merle leaned on a post at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, chewing a toothpick.

"Unity," Rick said. That's what keeps us alive."

Merle muttered, "That, and a loaded shotgun."

Daryl elbowed him. "Shut up, Merle."

"What?" Merle grinned. "I'm listenin'. Ain't like I threw a beer can at his head."

Rick didn't react. Man had the patience of a preacher. Or maybe just knew Merle was all bark unless pushed.

When the crowd dispersed, Rick approached.

"Need you on the fuel recon tomorrow," he said. "Joel and Morales'll be with you."

Merle raised an eyebrow. "Ain't I on perimeter duty?"

"You were. Now you're not," Rick replied evenly. "You're the only one who knows how to hotwire half the vehicles we find."

Merle scratched his chin. "So I'm useful now?"

"You've always been useful," Rick said. "Just not always reliable."

Merle stared at him for a second.

Then chuckled. "Fair enough, Sheriff."

Rick nodded once and walked away.

Merle watched him go.

Man didn't flinch. Didn't threaten. Just laid it out flat. No games.

Merle kinda respected that.

Didn't mean he trusted him.

But respect? That was new.

That night, Merle sat outside the workshop, Daryl sitting across from him, carving wood.

"You ever think we'd end up somewhere like this?" Merle asked, staring at the stars.

Daryl grunted. "Nope."

"I figured I'd die in a ditch," Merle said. "Or drunk. Maybe both."

Daryl paused. "You still could."

Merle snorted. "Yeah, well, now I got people handin' me coffee in the morning. Work to do. A place to sleep."

"You got a problem with that?"

Merle thought for a long moment.

"…No. But it sure as hell feels like I don't deserve it."

Daryl looked up. "Then earn it."

Merle met his brother's eyes, saw the firelight dancing in them.

Maybe for the first time in his whole miserable life, someone believed he could.

And maybe that was enough to make a man try.

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