A/N: AU, but nothing is really mine.

Summary: Michonne Thomas and Rick Grimes are elite intergalactic warriors in charge of different Squads. After an assassination attempt on Federation President Deanna Monroe, they are both called to the Earth town of Alexandria to keep her safe. Can they work together to prevent the crash of the Federation?


Year 2063:

AWV: 2 Years…and counting

The beep sounded and the air swiftly changed from cool to warm to hot, causing Michonne to gasp in a deep breath. She scowled and hit the button to her left to unleash the stasis pod. Her legs trembled as she stepped out of the clear cocoon. She would never get used to it no matter how many restless times she'd turned to it to aid her in catching a few hours of sleep.

She blinked again and looked at the glowing clock hitched over her regular bed. It was three hours too early. She crossed her room and hit the call button.

"What's up?" It wasn't like Tara to buzz her early. They were on their way home for a sabbatical after completing a mission on Mars. Michonne wasn't exactly fond of Mars. She never liked the oxygen-gravity suits they had to wear planet side, even though they weren't bulky like they used to be. She also couldn't use her favorite weapon there either.

"Sorry. We got a special message. Was ranked a number one."

Michonne sighed. Number one messages were the highest priority and non-negotiable. She couldn't decline it.

"Want me to patch it in?" Tara continued.

Michonne grabbed a hair tie from her nightstand and put her long locs into a high ponytail. They were a lot longer since she'd last been to Earth, and far longer since the Walker Virus had infected the planet and left it a shell of itself in terms of resources and population.

"Yeah," she replied.

She yanked the wooden chair in the corner of the cramped room across the floor and plopped down on it as her screen fired up. Their ship was an older model, more rickety metal and with screens instead of holograms like the few, newer modeled ships. Morgan Jones' face shimmered in television snow then stabilized as he spoke.

"Sorry, Flame Leader Thomas, I wouldn't contact you unless it were an emergency. With you being off-planet, you may not have heard, but there was an assassination attempt on President Monroe's life last night. Unfortunately, her son, Aiden, and husband, Reg, were killed in the attack. She's safe," he paused and she could see him adjusting the camera, "for now. We've called your squad and another to make sure she and her remaining son, Spencer, stay that way. The Federation doesn't need any more leaders dying. It's fragile as is. I've sent information to you directly and had your pilot re-route your course to take you straight to Alexandria. Sorry to interrupt your vacation year before it started. If anyone needs a break it's you. Hopefully you can take one once this mission is over, with triple the credits-on us, of course. Great job on Mars by the way."

Michonne slumped over when the feed ended. She didn't know if she had the energy for another mission so soon, but she knew of the tenuous hold the Federation had right now and it needed to remain in tact. She also knew Morgan was undercutting just how bad the attempt must have been. He was on some "all life is precious" kick, and while she respected his personal philosophy, especially after the loss of his wife and child, a feeling she could relate to, she didn't respect that he sometimes wanted less punishment than some people deserved. Thankfully, he left all the bloody work to the Squads.

She touched the console several times and focused on the report that flashed before her. She had less than three hours to digest this.


Two hours into reading the Monroe Report, Michonne stood from her desk, stretched her limbs, opened her bunk doors and ascended the clanking steps to the kitchen.

Sasha, her second in command, was already there. A plate of grapes and a hunk of waxy, yellow cheese sat in front of her. Michonne was glad they'd replaced their food printer before this mission. The last one only churned out inedible brown sludge so they'd had to rely on MREs once their fresh stock had run out. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Sasha gestured to the plate with her full coffee cup. "Want some?" she said between bites.

"No," Michonne remarked. She took the seat across from Sasha. "You okay with this?"

They both knew what she meant. Sasha swallowed and stilled. She looked down at the table nailed to the floor that rested between them. "I'll be okay. We have to keep moving. We can't stop. He wouldn't want us to stop."

Michonne nodded. Sasha was the best sharpshooter in the galaxy for all Michonne knew. She was also the sister of the last Federation president killed, Tyreese. After he'd been assassinated, Sasha had spiraled into a deep depression. Rosita and Michonne had found Sasha roaming outside of the safety zones designed to keep those alive from the people who had succumbed to the Walker Virus. It had been dangerous, but what scared Michonne the most was the empty light behind Sasha's eyes for months until Michonne had insisted that if Sasha continued to carry a gun, she'd have to talk it out with Gabriel, one of the Federation's remote counselors. Sasha wasn't completely healed, but she wasn't holding the key to death's door as closely as she had been before.

"I can't pull the plug on this, but I can scale back your interaction, if you are uncomfortable."

"It's okay. I'm good," Sasha said more firmly.

Michonne nodded once more. That would be all they talked about of this. She reached over to grab a small bunch of Sasha's grapes then headed for the printer.

"Hey!" Sasha exclaimed, but there wasn't any anger lacing her voice.

Michonne grabbed a glass of sparkling water from the machine and smirked while lifting the fruit to her lips. It wasn't the delicious chocolate bar she would have preferred, but it would do nicely.


"You know anything about this other Squad?" Rosita was on the bridge with Michonne and Tara as they neared Earth's orbit. She stood next to the wall of their landing pads. She climbed the steps to the device and started hooking herself into the harness.

"Nope," Michonne answered. "Just know it goes by the name Colt and the leader's initials are R.G."

"Hmm," Rosita answered. She leaned back against the wall.

They watched Tara reach over the ship's navigation panel and hit the intercom to Sasha's room. "Strap in. We're close to descending."

Michonne and Rosita hit the adjusting buttons on their gear and felt it tighten them into place. Tara was already prepared for the landing.

Michonne bit down on the mouth guard she'd put in. She'd never been able to make a smooth landing without it and she preferred not to start this mission with a bloody mouth and stitches. The ship fluttered then violently shook as it descended. Quickly, the Earth's gravity sucked them downward. This was usually when any atmospheric accidents happened, when ships and people would get swallowed and disintegrate into nothingness. In her periphery, Michonne could vaguely make out Rosita's lips reciting a prayer. Michonne's stomach jumped into her throat. She exhaled and waited for it to pass.

When the Walker Virus descended on the Earth, it had wiped out a good portion of their newest technologies, had taken some of their most brilliant scientists and had left them starting near scratch. Capitalism had taken the rest. Even some elite government squads were using space technology from the 20th century these days.

"We're almost there," she heard in the speaker of her landing pad.

She closed her eyes and pictured a little boy with sweet curls and an infectious laugh. She pushed away the sob that threatened to overtake her and let the journey jolt her down to the surface.


Twenty minutes later, Michonne stretched her legs; the tingling in them gave way to solid footing.

She put on her vest and grabbed her weapon.

Rosita was loading up on her knives, her hands fast to work with sheathing them and placing on her customary cap.

Sasha emerged from the bowels of the ship just as Tara's console began to beep. The alarm blared and they all froze and eyed each other.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Michonne inquired. Her muscle memory caused her to place a gloved hand over her shoulder and onto the handle of her blade. Her locs were free again and they swung over her shoulder when she turned.

"I don't know, " Tara stuttered. She leaned over the screen and traced the last few moments of their travel. They'd docked just fine. Docking stations weren't like they used to be. They weren't run by humans anymore. The risk of losing someone greeting a crew who could all be infected with the Walker Virus was too great. Some ships had automatic override codes that would dock safely enough without human intervention. However, most didn't have any built in air pressurizers, which allowed infected crew to neutralize themselves in a safe manner if it were too late. Some ships could land without a single outward sign there were uninfected people aboard.

But the computer attached to the base had let them in.

"It's the proximity radar." Tara's voice wavered. Proximity radar alerts could mean only certain things: the infected, enemies, or, if they were lucky, friends, but since they weren't expecting anyone…

Michonne silenced her fears, stood still and calmly looked to her crew.

"Send out a signal," Michonne motioned to Tara. Tara nodded and buzzed through the computer.

It wouldn't send help for them in time, but it might allow someone to pick up their credits and life records if this were a group of the infected waiting to ingest them.

"You ready?"

Sasha stood with her gun mounted and aimed. Rosita stood tall with a knife in each hand. Tara had a handgun and a knife. Michonne eased her weapon from her back and watched the electric blade whiz immediately to life. It had kept her alive and it would keep her alive again.

The door to the hatch shuddered open and Michonne planted her feet, the muscles of her arms flexed to strike. Right as she was poised to swing, she came face to face with a man with stunning blue eyes aiming an old colt python at her face.

"Who the fuck are you?" A tall, burly redheaded man thundered.

Michonne and the blue-eyed man kept their eyes hard on each other. There were others in his crew, but she knew that whatever group they had met with, he was their leader. His assured stance and the way his head cocked slightly to the side told her he was in charge.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sasha asked back. They would not back down.

The tension in Michonne's arms increased when she realized they just might have to kill these men. This was a mission she had not signed up for.


A/N: Hopefully, the oddness of this works for you. Lol. I am working on the other story. I was stuck for awhile, but I think I'm in a good head space to try to tackle it again.