Taking Chances
Written by: Leeeel
STORY SUMMARY: In the new world, when it comes to survival Michonne has learned that everyone must carry their own load or risk deadly consequences. However, her encounter with the Grimes men inspires a small measure of compassion which leads to her taking chances.
A/N: I chose to rework this particular episode because to me it had the same dynamic as when they met at the prison—At a dire point in time when one is broken mentally and the other physically, both spiritually. And yet they took a chance on each other. That's the angle I tried to portray in this rewrite.
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EP 4x 9 After - New Canon Meet # 4
Sweat trickles down the length of Michonne's back and the sides of her arms. As she tiptoes across the threshold of the vacant ice cream parlor, her hands clutch her sword's hilt and sheath, and she scans the surroundings for immediate signs of danger. So far there's none. Except, for the thick dust that hangs in the air and the sweltering heat threatening to suck out the oxygen from her lungs.
Stealthily, she moves around the long bar. She searches the moldy shelves, the drawers, and the cupboards for anything of use—Food, batteries, water. In that order. To her right, there are two doors. With caution, she pushes the first one open, and, as she'd hoped, it is a pantry. After gathering the scraps left behind, she approaches the second door. This one has a chair lodged under the knob. She taps against the panel, and hears a low growl. The familiar ghoulish sound from the other side is indicative that she is not alone and, moreover, it would be safer to just walk away.
She doesn't.
She slides her sword from its covering, kicks away the wooden stool, and slowly turns the knob before easing the door open. In an instant, a walking corpse emerges and lunges for her. She doesn't think about it, she simply reacts; a swift swipe of her long blade, effectively and efficiently, removes the head of the bloodthirsty being. Michonne takes a casual step to the left as it drops like a boulder to the floor.
It's become routine—this savage way of surviving—and seriously, she's over it.
She's angry, she's in pain, but she's too strong-willed to just lay down in a shallow grave of her own making and die. Instead, she wanders aimlessly. A lost soul hardened by the horrors of this new world. A savage focused on…
Her introspection pauses as her eyes spot a familiar-looking dust-covered book under a desk.
'Eat, pray, love?'
Um, no Ma'am. Eat. Fight. Live. No one is praying and no one is loving anymore. Everyone who's still breathing knows those luxuries are a thing of the past. It's no kind of life, but it's still a life. It's her life. She's not a bloodthirsty corpse, not yet. A monster? Yes. Definitely that. One who has killed, maimed, and tortured without an ounce of compunction. She has no option. This is the end of the world and she's all alone. Ensuring her survival in this cauldron of death rests solely with her.
But again, why? Why bother? Why not just 'Curse God and die?'
'Why?'
"Because Mike," she says quietly to the ghost in her mind, "staying alive is not a decision, it just is."
At least, for her, anyway. That's how it is. Pushing forward to something—anything— better. Something she can't yet see. It's how she's wired.
Are there others, she sometimes wonders, others out there like her. Those who won't, can't, give up the fight?
She scavenges the office, takes what she needs, and moves on to the next place.
RJDRJD
Michonne almost never sleeps.
Nightly, she would startle awake. But not from loud, sudden noises, but from the bad dreams—the terrifying images linked with her haunting memories. Maybe a break from slumbering in rusty, abandoned cars was needed. Maybe if she found a bed somewhere safe, she'd easily drift off and for once get a proper rest.
This was what she thought. What she hoped for, when she crawled through a broken window of an empty ranch-style house.
But she was wrong.
Upstairs, inside a plainly decorated bedroom, Michonne tucks and fluffs her pillow for the tenth time, trying in vain to sink into sweet slumber. Thirty minutes after she finally dozes off into her fitful sleep, Michonne jerks awake to the sound of a bang. With her heart pounding, her stomach clenched, she springs upright ready to defend herself.
"Hey, shitface! Hey, asshole!"
"Hey!"
She panics. Two voices. Both male. Coming from downstairs.
"Shit!" she hisses.
In one brisk motion, her hand found her weapon and she leaped to her feet.
This is another reason why she should've stayed out there, in the woods. She'd managed not to make contact with another living soul for weeks. She prefers it that way. It's what she deserves. To be alone with the undead.
Not about to sit and wait and allow them to corner her in this room, she instead creeps out, and gingerly, she descends the stairs. From the shadows she gets a good look at them. Assessing the threat of both men. Well, not men. One is seriously younger. More like a teenage boy. The other, clearly a full adult. In any case, both look tired, injured, and weak.
They are also armed. This is not good. Despite their less than intimidating appearances, they have the means to harm her.
After a few more seconds of deliberation, she decides it's best to step out into the light to confront them.
"This place is taken," she says, her sword aimed high, pointed in their direction. "Get. Out."
Startled by her sudden presence they both whip out their weapons.
The young boy doesn't hesitate to cock his gun. "No. You get out." His hand is shaky, his widened eyes are glued to the edge of her sword, and his breath comes out in short bursts.
She takes a threatening step towards him, and he flinches. He literally huddles closer to his older companion. Ah. There it is, she thinks, only a display of bravado. This kid is scared shitless. And probably very foolish.
The man, however, moves protectively in front of him, and with a tilt of his head, he narrows his eyes at her as though she were an apparition. His gaze then darts around the house.
"Are there others?" he asks, demanding.
The inquiry straightened Michonne's spine and she keeps quiet.
"Are there any others?" he wheezes, practically dead on his feet.
"No." Michonne lowers her sword. "And you?"
"Same." He lowers his pistol. "I only got my boy here, it's just us, so please...My name is Rick Grimes. And this is Carl—"
"Dad!" the boy protests, but his father ignores him.
"We won't be any trouble now," he says, nudging his son behind him. "Just need a place to hunker down for a while. You know how it is out there. You have to reconsider."
"No," she shakes her head, "I don't have to. I was here first."
"If you turn us out you'll be responsible."
Michonne takes a deep breath, grows thoughtful. Struggling between what is right, and what is right for her. Since Andrea, and Woodbury, what's right for her is to stay away from people.
"We have skills," Rick Grimes continues, pleading his case. "You could use us. We're strong."
Michonne smirks. "You don't look strong."
He looks like actual roadkill. With his tattered shirt, that broken nose, crusted blood all over his swollen face, and his bloodshot eye which looks about ready to fall out of its socket. This man could barely harm a fly. And the boy? Well, he's just a boy.
'Exactly. He's just a boy, Michonne.'
An image of her own peanut pops into her mind and that familiar burden, that stinging pang of guilt gnaws at her chest and her stomach. She leers at the intruders contemplatively.
"Alright," she says, with a defeated sigh, "But stay here. Upstairs, it's mine. And only for tonight."
Rick nods in agreement.
Moments later, she's locked herself back inside the master bedroom. Any attempt to lay back and close her eyes now would be futile. Shit. She's on full alert.
It isn't long, however, before she hears them arguing. First about knots, then about someone named Shane, and then they can't agree on whether or not they should consume or conserve whatever little supplies they still have in their possession.
The boy, he's challenging everything his old man is saying and for a moment, her heart goes out to him—the Dad. It's obvious he's been through hell.
She sits at the top of the bed and leans against the headrest. What kind of man is he, this Rick Grimes? She wonders. And how is it possible he's kept his kid alive for so long? Where have they been hiding? From the looks of it, wherever they were, someone drove them out. And lucky for them they survived. They're survivors. Like her.
She slides down onto the mattress and turns on her side. Downstairs has gotten quiet. Good. All that arguing was getting on her goddamned nerves, and surely would've drawn the attention of the biters to their hovel. A part of her can't believe she's risked her safety by taken a chance with them. Taking chances is not something she can afford to do anymore. Not if she wants to ensure her survival in this monstrous world.
In any case, this setup was temporary. As a matter of fact, before the break of dawn, she'd be long gone. She would be…
Michonne sprang up from the bed at the sudden sound of trudging footsteps, slowly coming up the stairs. Oh my god. Did they not hear what she had said? Holding her breath, again she reaches for the sword. She gets up and unlocks the door. She opens it just enough to steal a glance.
"There's no bathroom downstairs," Rick calls out to no room in particular, as he hits the landing. His voice is strained like a sputtering engine. "Just need a few minutes and I'd be out of your way."
She releases a sigh of impatience. "Second door on your left," she says, "Don't be too long."
He nods as he drags his whistling behind towards the washroom, and Michonne eases her door shut. That man has clearly wrestled with the devil and is going to be dead in less than twenty-four hours, if so long. Again, not her problem. People die all the time these days.
But then what happens to the kid?
The kid? He's tough. Scared, but tough enough to survive in this world. They have a small bag of supplies. He'll get by.
'He's just a boy Michonne.'
"I know that Mike, but I don't want to be responsible." Not like he'll let her, Michonne's gut tells her the boy probably would've shot her on sight if not for his father. All that attitude he's been spitting. Hmph... that kid prefers to be alone.
'No. That kid is angry, and in pain, like you.'
"Excuse me?"
'You heard me.'
"So?"
'So…'
Suddenly, Rick comes knocking. "If you're hungry we have some snacks. It's not much, but we could share."
Taken aback, she stares at the door in disbelief. "No, I…" she stammers, "Thanks, but I'm fine."
Neither of them moves for an endless moment. Neither of them says anything more. Just the sound of labored breathing. Is that him or her? Michonne feels awkward. Having to share a space but pretend no one else is there? She's a little bit embarrassed.
"Okay… goodnight," he says, finally.
She releases a sigh of relief. But before he plods off, she turns, grabs her backpack, and opens the door.
"Here," she says, and hands him a bottle of water. "You probably need it more than I do."
He stares at her with such despair in his eyes.
His eyes; they send a shiver down her spine.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
She can't ignore her feelings of pity. Maybe she should stick around for at least one day.
'Or two.'
Fine! Or two. But then she is gone. Yup, definitely. Just a couple of days and she'd be long gone.