Walking Dead: Level Up or Die Trying

Two days had passed since the fires consumed the last of the dead, and in that time, the prison had begun to change—not just from ruin into safety, but from a shelter into something more… something livable. Survivable.

Aiden and his group worked tirelessly, driven by the fire of purpose. Every person had a role, every tool had a place, and every hour was a step toward something better.

The first major project was the farmland. Aiden had spent part of the early morning with a folded map in his hands and a shovel in the other, walking the grounds just outside the prison's walls where the land sloped gently toward the river. That's where it would begin.

Now, the clearing echoed with the sounds of labor — dirt turning under spades, rakes scraping dried roots, and quiet conversation between those bent over the soil. They had started by digging out the dry grass and debris, exposing patches of dark, rich earth beneath. Then they began breaking the ground, loosening it with shovels and hoe heads hammered into makeshift poles.

It wasn't perfect, but it was real — rows of soil already marked for planting. Aiden had handed out the first batch of seeds he'd scavenged weeks ago: corn, beans, squash, and a handful of wild greens. Others would come later, but this would be the foundation.

A group of five or six people worked the fields under the mild morning sun, their clothes dirty and hands blistered, but their spirits high. For the first time in a while, they were doing more than surviving. They were building.

Guards were stationed nearby — not just for show, but for safety. Two stood at the edge of the farming zone, watching the treeline and the old road beyond the outer fence. Another paced along the top edge of the wall that overlooked the clearing.

Aiden had ordered it personally: "No blind spots. Ever."

He also made sure the prison's defenses were as tight as they could be. One guard had been placed in each of the five watchtowers — tall, rusting pillars of steel and cement that gave panoramic views of the surrounding land. From their perches, the guards kept binoculars close and rifles closer. One had even attached a small solar-powered fan to the window to keep cool while watching. These towers weren't just symbolic — they were eyes in every direction.

Each watchtower had been inspected by Aiden himself. He checked the stairwells, reinforced the ladders, and made sure each had a backup radio and a couple of flares, just in case. If walkers came, they'd see them coming. If survivors came — friendly or not — they'd be ready.

Meanwhile, within the prison walls, other groups worked on fortifying the interior. Makeshift barricades had been replaced by reinforced steel mesh scavenged from fences and debris. Any open or broken window was either sealed or covered with salvaged bars. The south fence, where a large gap once threatened the whole compound, had been mended with chain link, wire, and poles hammered deep into the dirt.

Inside the cell blocks, some were cleaning, others were organizing supplies into makeshift shelves. Blankets became curtains, scavenged mattresses were stitched and stuffed again, and common areas were swept and cleared.

And through it all, Aiden moved like a ghost — silent, focused, checking in on every group, helping where needed, and thinking ten steps ahead. He didn't smile often, but his presence gave people confidence. He saw the nervous glances turn into nods, the hesitant movements grow into a practiced rhythm.

This was becoming a home.

By late afternoon, the sun dipped behind the western towers, casting long shadows over the farm plots and the cleared courtyards. Aiden stood in the nearest watchtower with binoculars in hand, scanning the horizon, watching the treeline shift in the wind.

And below him, life began to settle.

The smell of fresh soil mingled with the scent of cooked rice and old canned beans. Laughter even drifted from one corner of the courtyard — tired, cautious laughter, but laughter all the same.

The undead hadn't been seen all day.

The dead had finally been cleared.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the living had a place to breathe.

The morning sun was barely overhead when the call came through the shortwave radio. Aiden, knee-deep in the soil and hammering down wooden markers for the next crop plot, paused as the static cleared.

"Tower Three to base. We've got movement. Approaching vehicle—east road, black SUV, maybe more behind it."

Aiden stood upright instantly, brushing the dirt from his gloves. His expression hardened—not in panic, but in recognition. He knew that route. He knew that kind of vehicle. And a part of him, buried deep under layers of cool calculation and exhaustion, had expected this moment eventually.

He grabbed his radio and responded, voice steady.

"Don't engage. Keep watch. Fighters with me—silent setup, now."

Within seconds, Aiden and his trained squad peeled away from their current tasks. Every movement was fluid and practiced; they had done this kind of preparation many times before. The trucks were quickly rolled back behind the ruined chapel, camouflaged with tarps and broken debris. Anyone approaching the prison from the front wouldn't see them right away.

The fighters, six of them plus Aiden, moved to positions behind broken stone pillars, makeshift barricades, and shadows inside the administrative wing. Their rifles were ready—but not raised. Aiden wasn't here to start a war. Not unless he had to.

He crouched behind the rusted gate doors, looking through the narrow slits as the first vehicle came into full view. Then he saw it.

Rick Grimes.

Hat slightly askew. His ever-serious, squinting gaze. Next to him, Daryl stepped out, crossbow slung low. Then Glenn, followed by Maggie, Carol, and T-Dog. They stood in a loose half-circle, staring ahead, not at the gate, but at the prison itself.

And why wouldn't they?

The place… didn't look like it should. Not to them.

The prison grounds were clean. Organized. The walker corpses were gone, the walls repaired, and the fence line fortified. Not a single moan of the undead echoed in the yard. Instead, there was the faint sound of hammering, wind through repaired wire, and distant voices from within the walls.

Rick took a cautious step forward, one hand on his belt. He was visibly confused. Suspicious. This wasn't the hellhole he'd come to clear out and claim. This was something else.

Something has already been taken.

Aiden stood slowly from behind cover, calm and unreadable, his M4 resting across his chest, not pointed, not raised, but visible. His fighters followed suit, stepping from the shadows, each man and woman steady, practiced, silent.

Rick and his group froze.

For a long few seconds, no one said a word.

Then Aiden took two steps forward, his boots echoing faintly on the concrete, until he stood just outside the reinforced gate. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried across the deadened yard.

"You're late."

Rick blinked, trying to place the voice. "Who the hell are you?" he finally said, slow and firm.

Aiden looked at him for a long moment—at the worn faces of the group behind him, survivors just like his own. People who'd been through just as much.

He didn't smile. He didn't need to.

"The man who made this place livable. And if you're here to take it from us... We've got a problem."

Rick's group looked at one another, silently calculating.

No one raised a weapon. Not yet.

But the tension in the air was thick as wire.

Aiden didn't move. He was giving Rick a chance. A moment to speak. A moment to decide.

Whatever happened next—peace or blood—would shape both groups forever.

Aiden's expression remained cold and unreadable, but inside his mind raced. He knew this group—every one of them. From the worn face of Rick Grimes, the hardened edge of Daryl Dixon, to the steel-nerved Maggie and cautious Glenn. He had watched them on screen in another life.

But now wasn't the time to act like he knew. That would raise too many questions.

So he decided: play dumb. Play like they were just another group rolling up, maybe looking to steal, maybe looking for help. Either way, he had to hold the line.

Without hesitation, Aiden raised his M9 and aimed it squarely at Rick's chest.

All around him, his fighters followed suit with smooth, practiced precision. Twelve men and women, some kneeling behind sandbags, some standing behind rusted pillars, rifles locked on targets. They didn't hesitate. Aiden had trained them well.

Rick immediately stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowing. He slowly raised his hands, palms out, motioning for the others behind him to stay calm. Daryl subtly moved a half step closer to Rick's side, his hand twitching near his crossbow but not raising it. Not yet.

Maggie looked tense. Glenn looked ready to shout. Carol… she was watching everything.

But two were missing.

Michonne wasn't with them.

Hershel wasn't either.

That confused Aiden. According to the show's timeline, they should both be here.

Unless something changed.

Did something already alter the timeline because of me? Or did they split up? He wondered quickly. But he didn't let the thought show on his face.

"Easy," Rick said, his voice gravelly and careful. "We're not looking for a fight."

"No one said you were," Aiden replied flatly, his aim unshifting. "But you rolled up to my front yard with guns and a look like you own the place. That usually gets people shot."

Glenn shifted uncomfortably. Daryl kept his cool, but his eyes narrowed. Rick lowered one hand slightly.

"We didn't know this place was occupied. We were here a few weeks back—it was filled with walkers. Thought it was abandoned."

Aiden tilted his head just slightly. "It was. We cleaned it. Fought for it. Buried the dead. Burned the rest. And now you're standing in front of our home."

Rick hesitated. He clearly didn't want to escalate things. "Alright. You've made that clear."

"And yet," Aiden added coldly, "you haven't lowered your weapons or turned back."

Rick glanced back at his group. "We're just lookin' for shelter. That's it. A safe place. We've got people. A kid. A baby. We're not here to take anything."

Aiden's eyes flicked briefly toward Maggie's side, where Judith was being held, quiet, bundled up.

He wasn't heartless. But he wasn't stupid either.

Aiden's voice softened slightly, just enough to sound human but still firm. "You want to talk, fine. But not out here in the open. Put your weapons down. Slowly. All of them. Then, maybe, we'll talk about what happens next."

Rick looked around again at the trained rifles aimed at his group. He knew damn well he was outgunned and out-positioned.

But the decision... was his.

Aiden gave no hint of what he'd do if Rick refused—his face remained unreadable, M9 steady, eyes sharp.

Whatever came next… would be Rick's call.

Aiden didn't say a word to Rick. He just stared, motionless, cold, unreadable. His black ballistic mask concealed every ounce of emotion on his face, but his body language was enough to speak volumes. Confident. Ready. Dangerous.

The group across from him—Rick, Maggie, Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl—stood tensely, their hands either resting near their weapons or slowly rising in cautious surrender. They hadn't expected this. Not at all. Instead of walkers, they found something far more organized. Something that looked like a fortified militia was running the prison.

Rick's eyes scanned the surrounding area, trying to gauge numbers. Spotting watchtowers with people in them, well-maintained fencing, and cleared grounds—it was too clean for an overrun location. It looked like it had been lived in… maintained. Taken. But by whom?

Aiden didn't lower his gun. His sharp eyes moved slowly to the side where Mara stood, her rifle already raised, mirroring his posture. The tension in the air was thick, heavy with unknowns. And then he broke the silence, voice steady but low enough that it almost got lost in the wind.

"They look familiar, don't they?" Aiden said, his eyes still locked on Rick. "Match the description of the group that the little girl was with."

Mara's brows furrowed beneath her hood, piecing it together. Her stance stiffened as she looked from Aiden to the strangers. "You mean… Sophia's group?"

Aiden gave a near-imperceptible nod. "Mm."

Rick's eyes flickered at the name. Subtle—but not missed.

Glenn took a small step forward, palms visible. "Wait. Sophia? You know where she is?"

Aiden didn't answer. His group didn't move. His silence was more calculated than hostile—it was a shield. He didn't trust them. Not yet. Not after what he learned from Sophia, after what he saw in her eyes. She wasn't just scared—she was abandoned. And that was something Aiden didn't forgive easily.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at Aiden. "Where is she?" he asked, tone low, but filled with a boiling mixture of concern and suspicion.

"She's safe," Aiden replied finally, his voice firm. "Something you all failed to ensure."

Rick looked like he'd been slapped. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The weight of guilt from that day in the woods still haunted him. Leaving Sophia hidden while he drew away the walkers—he thought he was protecting her. But she vanished. And by the time they realized she was truly gone… it had been too late.

"What do you want from us?" Rick finally asked, stepping slightly in front of his group.

Aiden lowered his M9 just slightly. "That depends. On your intentions. On your truth."

Rick sighed. "We came here thinking this place was still overrun. We were gonna try and clear it out… find shelter. We had no idea anyone was already here."

Aiden looked over his shoulder for a moment, gauging his fighters' stances. They hadn't lowered their weapons yet either, and neither had Mara.

"She's alive," Aiden said, directing the words not just at Rick, but at the group as a whole. "Sophia. You left her to hide in the middle of a walker-infested forest. She wandered alone. For days. Nights."

He let the silence stretch, like a blade pressing into skin.

Rick looked at the ground, hands still raised, voice quiet. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn't mean for—"

"You didn't mean to abandon her," Aiden finished the sentence for him. "But you did."

He let that sink in, then raised his voice just enough to be heard clearly. "This place is secured. You want to walk in here like you own it, after doing nothing to clean it up? After risking one of your own like that? I don't owe you anything."

Daryl stepped forward. "We didn't come here to take it. We just didn't know."

Glenn added, "We've been through hell too, man. We've lost people, too."

Aiden's voice was low, cool, but not cruel. "Then you should understand why I don't trust you yet."

There was a moment of silence. Then, slowly, he lowered his M9 fully—but didn't holster it.

"I'm not a killer of good people. But I am a protector. And until I know your place here, your role in Sophia's story, and whether or not you deserve a second chance, you'll stay outside the fence."

He turned to Mara and gave a nod. She lowered her rifle and barked orders to have a pair of guards escort Rick's group to the outer yard of the prison—a neutral space. Not a cell block. Not behind the main gate. But somewhere visible.

Rick nodded once, solemnly. He didn't argue. Deep down, part of him probably believed he did need to earn a second chance.

And as Aiden turned back toward the prison, his mind was already racing—not just about Sophia or Rick, but about what came next. Whether these newcomers would be a threat… or something more.