Rick stirred awake, eyes taking in the lid of his open cryotube for a few minutes before remembering where he was. As soon as the memory hit, he shot upright, looking around warily at the tubes on either side. For a moment, he was stuck, trapped in his memory of the Atlanta and her cryotubes. It was shattered, however, when a crowd of unfamiliar voices sounded, reminding him that he was safely on board a different ship - the Alexandria - and not floating alone and unarmed through hostile space.

"They ain't payin' us enough for this." Rick turned, taking in the bulky figure of the man to his right. He was ginger, his red hair and mustache standing out starkly in the bright lights of the room, and Rick recognized him from the personnel files he'd seen before setting out. Abraham Ford, long-term military server, brusque and violent with a file full of medals, offset by his file of matching thickness full of reprimands.

A woman on Abraham's other side spoke up then, dark dreadlocks hanging around her face as she looked over, a teasing smile on her face. "Not enough to have to wake up to your face, Ford." It took him a minute to sift through his mental files, but Rick eventually remembered her: Michonne Hawthorne. Decorated combat record. Relatively few reprimands. Given a medal for bravery after being captured in action with her partner a few years prior, the two of them being interrogated as POWs before breaking out and killing each and every one of their captors. Rick had been looking forward to talking to her, but he found himself shivering slightly at the intensity of her gaze, at the darkness he could see within them.

Abraham scoffed. "Suck my nuts." He sat up and looked around, eyes passing over Rick to fix on someone to Rick's left. "Hey, D. You look just like I feel."

Rick ran through his memory of the files, trying to remember to whom the comment was addressed, but the name escaped him. Instead, he turned, hoping the face of this "D" would remind him, expecting to see someone reclining in the bed, especially given the lack of telltale shuffling behind him that would herald someone standing up. It was for these reasons that he was surprised to see the pod empty, the man from within it already on his feet, standing before the others even fully woke up. Rick's thoughts were still moving slowly as he came out of his chemical sleep, and he couldn't place the man, so he watched instead, observing as subtly as he could.

If Rick thought he was being subtle, that belief was shattered as soon as he looked over, the man's blue eyes piercing as they watched him beneath a fringe of brown hair - short and military like everyone else's - that managed to seem somewhat wild despite fitting regulations. He wasn't smiling or laughing like the others, but his serious expression verging on a scowl was undermined as he gave an amused snort at Abraham's comment - and, perhaps, at Rick's poor attempts at espionage - the left side of his mouth twitching upwards, beauty mark jumping slightly before the smirk disappeared.

He moved, then, walking away from his pod without saying a word, and Rick's eyes were caught on the man's back before he even thought about it. Rather than the smooth skin he'd expected, Rick could see scars stretched across the man's flesh, some thick and purple and jagged, some thin and silvery, barely able to be seen. He had expected a few - everyone had their fair share of scars after a few years in the corps, so the round scars from a bullet or similar weapon at the man's shoulder and side (nearly identical to the one that would form from Rick's own healed gunshot wound) weren't out of the ordinary - but the number and intensity of the others made Rick wince in sympathy. The worst were two x-shaped scars or brands - one at his shoulder, one near his hip - standing out in stark relief. Then, he was gone, disappearing down towards the lockers before Rick even had time to consider the bitter irony of the fact that the man's tattoo - a rather large rendition of two demons - was the least noticeable thing on his back.

The other members of the group - still chattering amongst themselves - eventually worked their way up, shuffling past in a single file line, giving Rick the ability to look at each of them in turn, the puzzle of placing them from the images in their files temporarily pushing "D" from his mind until process of elimination could help him.

There was Gregory, of course, the new Lieutenant fresh off the desk after mishandling a mission got him suspended, followed by the mission's Sergeant, Deanna Monroe. Rick had been steadily avoiding her since he recognized her last name, since he'd looked at her file and read the words "Son: Spencer, KIA during Atlanta mission to LV-426." She was pretty, business-like hair framing a pale face, and she knew what she was doing; Shane had told him of her, of mission after mission ending in success, rarely allowing a man to die under her watch, even if she was rather set in the company's old ways of peace.

Rosita Espinosa was easy to recognize, long black hair pulled into braids and ponytails behind her head, business-like as she moved. He knew she mostly worked with the larger guns and explosives, but she had relatively little in her file beyond that she worked exclusively with Abraham, with whom she was currently walking in companionable silence.

Michonne walked in silence, head low as she looked around warily, tensing slightly at some of the louder noises around her, but she held herself straight through it all.

Behind her, a young blonde woman - Rick struggled for her name… Amy? Annie? Andrea, that was it, Andrea Harrison - her hand resting on her hip as though looking for the gun that would normally occupy it. Inexperienced compared to the others, she'd only joined the unit a few years earlier, but she'd fast impressed with her gun skills - even if she did fail her firearms course the first time she took it after shooting the cardboard cutout representing her partner because she thought it an enemy - and willingness to work.

Maggie Greene, a woman with brown hair, green eyes, and a highly decorated service record as a dropship pilot despite entering into the military late in life. Rick almost looked away from her the same way he'd looked away from Deanna - the memory of Herschel still too fresh, the feelings of failure and guilt too much to bear, especially if he saw them reflected in her eyes - but she caught his eyes first, a sad smile on her face. She broke from the line as she passed, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she whispered, "It's okay" before walking away.

The next man, Rick remembered all too well, remembered the feel of the folder beneath his hand, thick with reprimands. He remembered reading through it, reading the countless instances of fighting, disobeying orders, aggression, and other warning signs filling it, wondering why the Corps would employ such a man. Of course, then he read the mission statements, read of the man's prowess with a sniper rifle, of the hundreds of missions he'd gone on successfully, and it had made sense why Merle Dixon was on the team.

Glenn Rhee walked right behind him, his eyes pinned on Maggie as she walked in front of him. It wasn't forbidden, per se, for there to be inter-ship romances, but Rick hadn't ever seen one sanctioned to this degree; according to his file, Glenn had married Maggie years earlier and they'd simply stayed on the ship. Seeing him smile as she looked back at him, Rick felt a slight pang of sadness, memories of Lori threatening to break through the door behind which he'd locked them, and he was glad when the line moved on.

Another man - Morgan, Rick remembered, Morgan Jones - walked right after, his head lowered and hands clasped before him. His file had been thin, and Rick remembered the special note he'd seen within it - "does not kill" - in red ink.

He didn't recognize the man walking right behind Morgan, but he didn't spend long considering it; he'd forgotten "D", so he'd probably forgotten the man with long brown hair and a goatee.

The final figure was a woman slipping around the edge of the room, short gray hair in a curly bob as she creeped around. Carol Peletier, he assumed. He hadn't had much of a file on her - infiltration documents were rarely put into the easy-access files for security's sake - but watching her skirt the outskirts of the room in a completely natural gait made him understand how successful she must be.

He followed, then, watching them split up to their various parts of the room, most heading to their lockers, though Rosita immediately headed to a cluster of pipes and started doing pull-ups of some kind. Rick looks back at "D" - damn him, why couldn't he remember the name - noticing incidentally as he does that Michonne's talking to the other man and he's smiling. Well, maybe not a conventional smile - definitely no teeth, nor even a sizable curl to the lips - but a smirk of some kind.

It's only when Michonne reaches into her locker, however, and her shirt hikes up to reveal an identical x-shaped brand on her back that Rick remembers the name. Daryl Dixon. Merle's brother. Michonne's partner. He was decorated, sure - he'd gotten the same medal as Michonne, as well as countless others for countless other ops - and he could fight - Rick remembered a mention of taking down a tank single-handed, though the details were lost to the fog still filling his head - but he took the support position, allowing others to take the glory missions while he fought in the background. He also had somewhat of a temper, though he didn't have nearly as many reprimands as some of the other marines in the group.

Cheerful voices rang from near where Rosita stood, and Rick glanced over, half-processing Dixon's flinch at the noise before he noticed a group of other people; Abraham had joined Rosita for her pull-ups, while the other Dixon (Merle, Rick reminded himself) watched.

Merle grinned, a wide smile splitting his face as he watched the pair. "Hey, Rosita! Ever been mistaken for a man, darlin'?"

Rosita smiled back, a threat hidden in it as she joked back. "No… have you?"

Rick half-expected a fight to break out, especially upon seeing Merle's grin cool slightly as Abraham gave Rosita a high-five, so he was surprised to see the temporary chill crack with a peel of laughter, the entire group migrating to the cafeteria as one.

He spent a little time pulling his food from the various machines - aware, as he did so, of the snickers drifting forth from behind his back - before sitting down at the one remaining space, a seat at a table with Shane, Gregory, and the only man still unnamed. There was no conversation here, so he could easily hear the conversations at the other table.

Unsurprisingly, Merle's voice was the first he heard. "Hey, Top, what's the op?"

"Rescue mission." Her voice is quiet, but everyone hears it.

Abraham chimes in, then, voice rough and loud. "There's some juicy colonists' daughters we gotta rescue from their virginity." A mutter of "Dumbass colonists" sounds immediately after, but Rick is too caught on the content of the earlier sentence, of the crassness of it, to place who says it.

Glenn speaks up then, frowning at the food he held in his hand. "What's this meant to be?"

Andrea snorts, her own dubious expression matching Glenn's. "Cornbread, I think."

Dixon - Rick, for some reason, can't bring himself to think of the man as Daryl, especially since, while everyone else used their first names, he seemed to keep his surname - grunts, shifting slightly and muttering a quiet rebuke. "Eat it." He pauses, returning to his own meal. "It's good for ya."

Andrea turns to the rest of the table, letting out a groan of frustration and saying, "Long missions suck."

The table nods as one, the mood quieting a little until Carol - quiet, up until now - plucks at her uniform and says, "I miss my Maytag."

Rosita nods, adding, "I miss coffee. Real coffee, not this-" She taps her mug with one finger, frowning at it in distaste. "-rehydrated mix shit."

Andrea nods, looking down at her food before leaning closer, voice almost conspiratorial despite being loud and rather matter-of-fact. "I miss my vibrator."

A burst of laughter spread around the table, only increased by Carol - still mousy and silent - adding, "Me too."

"I wouldn't mind getting more of that Arcturian poontang, remember that time?" Andrea was full on grinning, now, and the table laughed again, individual voices clashing in friendly banter.

Glenn turned and looked at her. "Yeah, but the one you had was female."

Andrea's grin turned into a smirk. "Doesn't matter when it's Arcturian."

Another cheer was cut off when Merle interrupted, voice louder than all the rest, addressing the man Rick still didn't recognize. "Hey, Jesus! Get yo' ass over here and do that thing with your knife. Still can't believe a-" He paused, looking "Jesus" - surely that wasn't his real name? - up and down before continuing. "Aw, forget it. Just do it." Sure enough, he had his knife out, proffering it to the other man.

Jesus seemed reluctant, but he agreed as the voices of the other marines expressed their approval of the idea. He sighed, resting the point of the knife on his hand and flipping it, the motion so fast that Rick had trouble following it and was left marvelling in wonder at it. Deanna was muttering in the background - "I don't want to see this" - but she didn't seriously push back on it either, so Rick was able to watch as Jesus put his hand flat on the table, resting the knife in the open space between thumb and index finger.

The first sign that something was wrong came in Merle's panicked, "Hey, what ya doin', man? Stop it, you crazy redheaded sumbitch, stop!" Rick looked over at him, noticing Abraham's arm around Merle's throat and Merle's hand being steadily moved closer to the knife.

Rick looked over at Dixon, expecting to see him surge to his feet and demand his brother be released, but he was merely watching calmly. He eventually spoke - "Chokeholdin's illegal." - but even then, it was calm and relaxed, as though this were a weekly occurrence.

Merle was still shouting at Abraham, voice rough as they competed for the ability to speak, but Jesus kept moving steadily, barely pausing as Merle shouted. Instead, he quickly rested his own hand over Merle's, knife clutched in one hand. He said two words - "Trust me." - before starting to move the knife. Rick found himself watching, mesmerized, as the blade blurred by, his heart in his throat as Jesus poked it safely between the overlapped fingers in a rhythmic pattern. Merle was shouting by the time he was done, but it wasn't from pain, and there was a kind of exhilaration to it that Rick could understand; his own heart was still pounding wildly.

The crowd dispersed, each person returning to their seats (if they'd gotten up) or directing their attention back to their meal. Merle's hand was shaking as he picked up his knife, glaring at Abraham and muttering, "Ain't gonna be so funny when it's you, ginger."

Jesus walked over, reclaiming his seat at Rick's side with an embarrassed smile on his face as he offered a tray of cornbread to Shane and Gregory, the motion catching the attention of the marines at the table. Each of them looked over, a mix of disinterest and animosity in their eyes as they regarded Gregory. Dixon looked over briefly, eyes sweeping over the man with a scowl before turning back to his food. In a low tone - Gregory couldn't hear, and, though Rick did, most people wouldn't have - Dixon nodded towards the table and muttered, "New lieutenant's too good fer us grunts."

Carol nodded. "He's stuck-up, that's for sure."

Shane interrupted, speaking so loudly that eavesdropping on the conversation at the other table became nearly impossible. "Thought you never missed, Jesus."

Rick looked over and his heart stopped, memories flashing into his head as he took in the sight of white liquid - not red blood - oozing from cut skin. Blake's face, eye missing and covered in white and glitching, flashed before him and Rick couldn't stop himself from actively scooting backwards, distrust and fear competing for control. He looked over at Shane, something akin to betrayal in his eyes. "You never said anything about an android being on board. Why not?"

Shane looked confused, but realization dawned quickly. "I'm sorry, man, I didn't even think about it. We always have a synthetic onboard."

Rick couldn't stop staring at Jesus, watching as the man licked - actually licked - the "blood" from his finger before speaking. "I prefer the term 'artificial person', myself." He smiled, then - somewhat strained, but friendly enough - and turned to Rick. "Is there a problem?"

Rick didn't even bother trying to answer, turning to glare at Shane. "I'm sorry, man…" He turned to Jesus. "Rick's last trip out, the, uh, the synthetic malfunctioned-"

Breaking in, Rick didn't even bother restraining his temper much at all, incredulity in his tone as he bit out, "Malfunctioned?"

Shane didn't even look over at him. "There were, uh, there were a few deaths."

"I'm shocked." The words should have come across as sarcastic, but they didn't. Instead, they came out as just… wrong. Not normal. Not necessarily disingenuous, but not fully honest either. "Was it an older model?"

Shane nodded. "Yeah, man. Governor Systems 120 A-2."

Jesus nodded, almost as though it were expected. "Well, that explains it. The A-2s always were a bit twitchy. That could never happen now with our behavioral inhibitors. It's impossible for me to harm - or, by omission of action, allow to be harmed - a human being." He shrugged, reaching for the cornbread again and offering it to Rick. "Sure you don't want some?"

Rick didn't even know he'd moved until the plate of cornbread was on the floor - he spared a second to wince at the waste - and he was shouting. "You stay away from me, understood?"

Jesus nodded, once, jerky and wrong-footed, and stood, walking away from the table. Rick could feel the eyes of the others on him, heard Andrea muttering - "Guess he didn't like the cornbread either." - felt Dixon's eyes on his back without needing to turn around. Great… This mission was gonna go great.