Rick couldn't calm down. He knew all the signs - knew that he was broken by what happened on Atlanta, knew that he deserved it for having survived when all the others didn't - but knowing the words survivor's guilt and post-traumatic stress disorder did nothing to alleviate the symptoms. Even sitting where he was, watching through a screen as birds flitted about in a forest somewhere in Georgia, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling gripping him.

With a sigh, he reached over for the remote, flicking off the screen. Luckily, he was spared from most of his introspection by the entrance of his partner, the door sliding open with another hiss. The man smiled, hastening over to sit by Rick with the hasty yet casual energy that he always seemed to possess, a file in his hands. "Sorry I'm late."

Rick nodded, but his attention was focused on the question still rotating around in his head. "Shane… Where are Carl and Lori?"

Shane shook his head, looking down again, the same expression of guilt in his eyes. "They're dead, Rick. I'm sorry." And that was all he needed to say, since everything else was expressed in body language Rick had picked up through years working together, in his dark eyes, even in the thin smile he offered despite it not reaching his eyes.

Rick must have zoned out because he started as Shane handed over a sheet from the file, running his fingers a picture of Carl. He'd grown to be a handsome-looking young man with long, dark brown hair and, shockingly, a patch over one eye, but Rick didn't even bother asking about the injury. He barely noticed that Shane was still speaking, and he definitely didn't process the words.

He could see the little boy he raised in the face of the man in the photo, but it was a stretch, and it killed him to see that. He couldn't stop himself from speaking, aware that he was interrupting Shane's condolences but not really caring either. "I promised I'd be h- home. For his birthday." His voice broke as he continued, saying, "His twelfth birthday."

"I know." Shane's voice is rough as well, but Rick hardly notices. They sit there for a while, neither speaking, until Shane breaks the silence again. "The hearing is starting to convene… We don't want to be late." Rick didn't even twitch, so he wasn't surprised to hear Shane add more words. "Let's go, man."

The elevator was too tight for comfort, and Rick found himself breathing heavily despite hardly moving. Shane seemed to recognize the behavior, shifting aside and pressing himself closer to the wall. Rick nearly cried out in relief when the doors to the elevator opened, but he didn't, trying to calm his breathing instead.

The deposition was just as infuriating as he expected, and more. His story was met with skepticism at best and outright mockery at worst, the "esteemed" members of the council barely even bothering to feign engagement. Rick mentally gave up on them after two hours, and was actively engaging himself with watching the slideshow of mugshots from his original crew after another. Each face was another dagger slicing into him, guilt shredding him. His crew was dead and what was Rick doing? He was stuck in a damn meeting.

Eventually, he couldn't ignore his annoyance anymore, snapping as he said, "We've been here three hours. My story isn't gonna change. How many more times do I gotta say it?"

He could see Shane offering him a cautionary glare, but he ignored it. He didn't speak, though, and anything he might have said was cut off by the words of a young man - the name Eugene floated through his head - with a dark mullet. He spoke awkwardly, his sentences made twice as cumbersome by his vocabulary.

"Look, Mr. Grimes, you need to consider it from our perspective. You admit of your own accord that you destroyed, detonated, and otherwise ransacked a very important piece of machinery, money-wise. The Atlanta was an M-Class star-freighter, familiar, I'm sure, to most here for its exceptional strength, durability, and speed, as well as its rather unique capabilities. There was a rather substantial fiscal attachment, here-"

A woman interrupted here, and she was even more unnerving. She was pretty enough - dark hair held in a tight bun, dark blue outfit reminiscent of that of an old cop's uniform even as her name tag read "Lieutenant Dawn Lerner" - but her eyes were hard and unforgiving. "Forty-two million in adjusted dollars, minus payload."

Eugene nodded, then continued. "Now, some elements of your rather fantastical account have been supported and corroborated by the flight recorder… We have evidence that the Atlanta set down on the then-unsurveyed LV-426 for repairs mechanical in nature before resuming its course, at which point it was set to self-destruct by you for reasons unknown."

Rick felt his exasperation rising at each sentence, a feeling only worsened by the man's elaborate speaking style, and he interjected. "Look, I told you-"

Eugene continued speaking, ignoring him. "However, none of the multitudinous and varied entries of the flight recorder feature any entries about a hostile life form you allegedly discovered." He paused, giving Rick just enough time to open his mouth to interject, but continued quickly. "The analysis team has gone over every square inch of that shuttle with a fine tooth comb and found neither hide nor hair of the creature you describe-"

Whatever long winded sentence was to follow that was cut off as Rick finally got a word in, his voice stuttering slightly from a combination of anxiety and anger. "T- that's because I blew it out the damn airlock!" He took a steadying breath, then added, "I told you that."

Eugene looked unconvinced, turning back to Dawn, her head already shaking. "It's a rock. No indigenous life."

Rick clenched his fists, his nails cutting semi-circles into the flesh there as he fought to keep his emotions in check. As it was, he allowed himself a brief mutter of frustration - "You're not gonna make it" - under his breath before continuing, stuttering a bit and gesticulating with his hands in an earnest attempt to get them to listen, "It wasn't indigenous. There was an alien spacecraft there. A- A derelict ship. We homed in on its beacon-"

Dawn shook her head, then, interjecting. "To be perfectly frank, we've surveyed over three hundred worlds and no one's ever reported a creature which, using your words..." The rustle of paper interrupted her as she shuffled to find Rick's statement. "...'gestates in a living human host' and has 'concentrated molecular acid' for blood."

Shane's face was grim as Rick regarded him, and the dread in his stomach worsened abruptly. Clumsily, he sank into his long-abandoned chair. Damn these people, they were going to get people killed. It was all he could do to keep his voice quiet as he spoke, desperation spilling into it despite attempts at control. "Look, I'm not blind, I see where this is going. You wish things weren't what they are. I survived. You… you just sit. And plan. And hesitate. You pretend like you know, but you don't."

Any semblance of control in Rick's voice was gone, and he was shouting now, but he didn't care. Shane's face held an expression of mixed approval and disappointment as Rick continued speaking. "You wish things weren't what they are. You want to live? You want to keep society standing? Your way of doing things is done. My crew member, Leon?" Flashes of his old crew flitted in front of his eyes for a second, but he shook it, clearing his mind. "He said he saw thousands of eggs on that ship. Thousands. Do you understand what that means?"

Their faces were blank, nobody even twitching towards comprehension, and he felt his face contort in a physical manifestation of the disgust he felt. "Your way of doing things is done. Your way is gonna destroy this place. It's gonna get people killed; it's already gotten people killed. Leon, Spencer, T-Dog, Dale, Blake, Herschel…" He trailed off and closed his eyes, each face flashing behind his eyelids before he opened them again. "I'm not gonna stand by and just let it happen. If you don't fight, you die, and I'm not gonna stand by-"

Eugene tried to interrupt, issuing a placating, "Thank you, Deputy Grimes, that will be all."

Rick lost it then, his final thread of self-control - and what a thin fiber it had been, too - snapping. "That's not all! If those things get back here, then that will be all. Then all of this-" He was scrabbling at the table, then, plucking papers from the table and from the hands around him, sending them flying into the air. "-that you find so important? You can kiss it all goodbye."

Shane still looks half-impressed, but Rick could tell - especially combined with the expressions of those around him and from his own reading of the room - that Shane knew how harmful Rick's outburst had been.

It was for this reason that the board's decision - "It is the finding of this board of inquiry that Deputy Sheriff Rick Grimes has acted with questionable judgement and is unfit to hold an ICC license as a commercial flight officer.", read off a formulaic paper in Eugene's monotone voice - came as no surprise. Nor did the consequence of that decision, but knowing what was coming did nothing to lessen the blow as Eugene kept reading. "Said licence is hereby suspended indefinitely. No criminal charges will be filed at this time, and you are released on your own recognizance for a six month period of psychometric probation, to include monthly review by an ICC psychiatric tech…"

Rick waited until the room started clearing out to surge to his feet. Shane was beside him in an instant, a grim smile on his face. "Well, that could have gone better, man."

Rick shrugged him aside, ignoring Shane calling his name as he hurried to catch up to those who were leaving. "Eugene!" He hastened over, trying to stop him from moving. "Why won't you just… just check out LV-426?"

Eugene tried to keep walking, muttering, "I don't have to. We've had people making quite a nice home for themselves on LV-426 for the past twenty years and not one has issued any memo, message, or complaint about a hostile organism."

Rick prevented another one of his attempts to walk past. "What people?" Eugene didn't answer at first, so he tried again. "What people?"

"Terraformers. Planet engineers responsible for setting up atmosphere processors that convert the surrounding atmosphere into genuine, breathable oxygen. It's just your average shake-and-bake colony, and they've been shaking and baking for the past twenty years."

When he tried to push past again, Rick shoved him back, slamming him - not gently, per se, but not exactly harshly either - against the wall and pinning him in place. Eugene huffed, but Rick ignored him in favor of asking, "How many-" His voice gave out before he finished, so he ducked his head and swallowed harshly before trying again. "How many colonists?"

Eugene's tone was matter-of-fact. "Sixty, seventy families." With that, he was gone, ducking under Rick's arm and scrambling away.

Rick stood there for a long time, that day, ignoring Shane's presence at his elbow, that one word - families - echoing around in his head on a loop.