This chapter has some straight pairing (inevitably) and potentially triggery bits. The first part is set in episode 6 - Hounded - and the rest is set in episode 7 - When the Dead Come Knocking.

She watched the kids re-enacting the events of the night before – the throws of punches in the ring. The notion itself wasn't completely savage. Andrea understood the need for an outlet. God, they'd had so many outlets in the world before, some perhaps more horrific than fist-fighting in a ring of walkers.

But she couldn't ignore that feeling of wrong. If this was all humans could become when the world ended, was it really worth living for? Living with?

If the strange pastime was all that was wrong with this place though, if that was the only thing Michonne has sensed was amiss, maybe it wasn't so bad. A nagging little feeling in Andrea's head still lingered.

"You know, you can join in. They don't bite. That's kind of the whole idea of the place." The Governor chimed with a smooth smile. He was handsome enough. Charming enough. But he was like Woodbury: there was something lurking beneath that clean façade, something Andrea couldn't place.

"Seems like you also encourage people to punch each other in the face," Andrea replied. The governor's smile fell.

"The arena?" Andrea prompted.

"Didn't like that much, huh?"

"No, not so much. But I get it." She offered. Best to keep things civil. The night's rest, what little she'd had of it, had given her a bit of room to breathe and process. "Listen, I wanted to ask you something,"

"No." He said immediately.

"Okay…" she said and started to walk away. If he wasn't up for a conversation, neither was she.

"Hold on, how do you get it?" He asked as he followed her.

"I'm not gonna tell you how to run your town."

"This is our town; you stayed, you're part of this now, so tell me." He sounded desperate. She turned toward him and sighed.

"If it's an escape, I don't think it's the right one. It's brutality for fun. And I think the world's brutal enough already." She said.

"It really bothered you, huh?" He seemed to care. Or at least sometimes he seemed to. But seeming was all this place was. Just a fabric of impressions and false assumptions.

"But I do want to be here," Andrea looked him in the eye and hoped he couldn't see the truth buried beneath the words. She did want to stay, in a way. She needed her strength, she needed the rest, the comfort, at least for a while. And if she'd had to admit it, she liked the sense of belonging somewhere, to something, even if she knew it was only a temporary sense, and probably a mistaken one.

But if she was going to stay, she needed something, a plan of sorts, to keep her busy and challenged, to keep her sharp. And something else.

She needed a way to get out of the walls, if only for short spurts, to keep her firmly immersed in the reality outside of Woodbury.

"So what were you saying before I made you condemn our sadistic way of life?" He asked. Here was her opportunity.

"I wanna contribute. Everyone else does." She said.

"All right, we could use some help in food–" He began, but she cut him off before he could assign her to some bullshit "woman's work" role.

"I wanna work the wall. I'm a good shot, I wanna stay that way."

"Can you use a bow?"

"I can learn."

"Well I can get somebody to teach you." He replied.

She smiled. This was the opportunity she needed. It would be a welcome break, a distraction from her current state, which was not as clear and calm and accepting as it appeared. She missed her friend.

Without Michonne's constant discomforts and suspicions, she should have been more relaxed. Instead, she felt on-edge. There was the town itself, which itched to be revealed, but there was also the worry set deep in her stomach at the thought of Michonne running around in the wilderness alone.

The woman could take care of herself. Her capability was unquestionable. But Andrea remembered what the warrior had been like when they'd first started out together. Michonne had been cold, unfeeling, cut off completely from any sense of self, united only with her blade and a couple of jawless walkers. She'd barely spoken, barely slept. It had taken Andrea weeks to get her to relinquish the barest of details about herself.

Andrea didn't want her friend to become that again, to recede into a shell and forget what it was like to be with another person, what it felt like to really be a person.

She wasn't sure how she was going to manage it, and it would likely be slow-going, but Andrea needed to get beyond the walls not just for her own sanity, but to see if she could find some trace of Michonne. She needed validation the woman was at least alive if not also well and safe. Selfishly she wanted to hold her, have her close by, if only for a moment. She needed the person who'd kept her alive, who'd been at her back in so many too-close calls, who'd even opened up eventually, allowing a laugh here and there at the best times. She missed Michonne's laugh. The rarity of it made it all the more rewarding. She would have done anything to hear it again.

The girl on the Northeast wall, her would-be instructor in the ways of the bow, reminded her a little of her sister. It was only natural – close in age, a bit of attitude, a knowing smirk. A sharp little reminder of the last bit of blood family she'd ever have. It was okay though. She was used to it by now. Besides, this girl was living. She had lived. And that fact made Andrea a little happy even if it made her sad for her own kin.

Andrea swept her eyes out over the wall and her gaze fell on an ambling form.

"Walker." She said, a little panicked. That first moment of recognition was still terrifying, no matter how many times she spotted one.

"Cool! Watch this." The girl said as she readied her bow.

The first shot ricocheted off of the creature's frame. Andrea twitched. She watched the girl reload. Michonne was right: this wall would have been easy to take advantage of for an escape.

The girl missed again. The knife burned in Andrea's hand.

"I got it," she said casually. Part of her was still the big sister, still the one who insisted on taking care of it, of superseding the younger girl's attempts at control.

"I can do it!" The girl said defiantly. When she saw Andrea clambering away, her voice became shrill and high. "We're not supposed to go over the wall!"

Andrea leapt down, barely hearing the words.

She steadied herself with a deep breath as she walked briskly, closing the distance to the walker. She easily pushed it to the ground, throwing her arm into its chest. She plunged the knife into its head and it was done. She smiled and nearly laughed as she exhaled in triumph. It felt good.

She'd been in Woodbury long enough to forget how rewarding the feeling was. The feeling of being capable and able and strong. The makeshift walls of the town, the cosy homes and camaraderie, they did not make her feel so safe as this did. The knife in her hand and the exhilaration in her veins – it felt better, truer than any wall.

Besides, what good were walls if you couldn't defend them? She'd learned that early, but she'd learned it doubly from Michonne.

"What the hell was that?" The girl cried angrily.

"That is how it's done." Andrea replied proudly.

"I said I could do it. What is wrong with you? This isn't a game."

Andrea's smile faded. Suddenly she felt like a misbehaving child instead of a grown woman. Guess I'll have to go to the principal's office for this. She thought. Great.

Andrea woke up in the Governor's bed late at night. She sat up slowly, careful not to wake the man beside her. She folded her legs tightly to her bare chest.

She'd made the decision – the plan – in an instant. If guarding the wall was no longer an option to her, she had to find some other way of supervising the town and its inhabitants. And what better way than to be as close as she could to the person who lorded over the place?

It had been easy enough to bed him. His desire was obvious from the moment she'd been well enough to pay attention. She glanced over at his body beneath the sheet, drenched in moonlight.

Once she'd been in his bed, another aspect of the man had come to the surface. One that scared her more than the fighting ring had. He'd started softly, gently, the way he'd kissed her in the garden. But soon his mood changed; he'd barreled into her, roughly, painfully. Every move he made was filled with mounting rage until he finally reached his release.

She hadn't slept much after he'd pulled out of her. She'd turned over and over until she gave up on rest entirely. She looked down at herself and tested the sore skin with her fingers. It would probably bruise a bit.

It was not going to be a wholly pleasant plan, but she needed to find out more about what was going on here. She tried desperately to eavesdrop on his conversations, all the while feigning ignorance, bliss, and adoration. But he was quick to conceal things from her. The obvious way he'd leave a room or send her out indicated to her that he was keeping things from her, specific things, things he knew would bother her. It only served to make her more suspicious.

She pretended not to notice or care. It would be better the longer he underestimated her. Just like so many had before. Even her old group, Rick and the rest, they'd never understood just how capable she was. This time, it could be used to her advantage.

Philip was especially careful to speak to Merle out of earshot and she knew it was these conversations she needed the content of. She thought she'd heard Michonne's name mentioned once, but couldn't hear the rest. It was unsettling and added to her sleeplessness.

The only thing she held on to, the only thing that could lull her into an eventual resting state, was the thought of a different body in her bed, one that was warm and small and strong. One that had slept next to her so many nights in so many different places. She lay down, closed her eyes, and thought of Michonne.

They can't be real. Michonne thought as Rick closed the cell block door. At first when he'd had asked for her name, she'd frozen. She couldn't find words to fill her mouth as she studied the details of his face.

She shook her head. Of course they were real. It was undoubtedly Andrea's group. She'd heard enough stories of their exploits to put a name to most of them.

The boy, Carl; he was Rick's son. And the man who'd called Rick away: that was Daryl. "Madman on a motorcycle – killer with a crossbow." Andrea's voice rung through her head. It was hard to believe that anyone related to Merle could have a lick of likability or morality. She frowned. It was strange to feel like she knew these people, as though they were characters in a book she'd read.

But she didn't know them. She had to remind herself of that. Their actions were as unpredictable to her as anything. They may have been good people when Andrea was with them, but it had been a long time since then. Many things changed. People changed. Hell, she'd changed in the past year, more than she ever thought possible.

For now she'd have to wait it out in yet another prison. At least this one didn't hide behind quaint storefronts and street parties. This prison didn't pretend.

She picked herself up from the ground with some difficulty and made her way over to the bars, watching the interaction of the group. The woman with short, gray hair: that was Carol. But there were people missing. The two she'd seen captured by Merle, of course, but others too. They'd lost so many and still they had retained so much humanity, so much decency. It was encouraging.

She retreated and waited for them to return to her, to ask her the inevitable questions. She cleaned off her skin with a towel, wiping off the walker blood, the sweat, the day's damage. She grabbed a smaller towel to hold to her thigh, where the bullet had grazed her. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture curly blonde hair and bright eyes, her own personal nurse. Her eyes flicked open when she heard footsteps approaching.

"We can tend to that wound for you," Rick said as he strode into the room, Daryl and Herschel following close behind. "Give you a little food and water and then send you on your way. But you're gonna have to tell us how you found us. And why you were carrying formula."

Michonne stared darkly into his face. She wasn't sure how to start. She wasn't sure she wanted to start.

"The supplies were dropped by a young Asian guy. With the pretty girl." She said. Rick's face fell. Herschel stood up on his remaining leg.

"What happened?" Rick asked.

"Were they attacked?" Herschel added, fear in his voice.

What could she tell them and how much? She didn't know what Daryl would do if he heard his brother's name, but considering he was armed, she thought it best to leave the one-armed psychopath out of any explanation.

"They were taken." She said finally.

"Taken? By who?" Rick ventured.

"By the same son of a bitch who shot me." She replied.

"Hey, these are our people. You tell us what happened now!" Rick said as he gripped Michonne's leg wound tightly, clamping down and eliciting a cry of pain from her lips. She jumped up, swinging her arm out to hit him away.

"Don't you EVER touch me again!" She growled.

She froze as Daryl lined his crossbow up with her forehead.

"You better start talking or you're gonna have a much bigger problem than a gunshot wound." Daryl warned.

She met his eyes. He resembled Merle only slightly, but it was enough to raise some fire in her. She hated him a little for reminding her of the crazy bastard who'd chased her through the forest.

"Find him yourself." She said coldly.

Rick recognized the fearlessness and admired her for it. He didn't want things to turn out badly. They'd lost too many people and he needed to know where Glen and Maggie were.

He put his hand to Daryl's crossbow.

"Put it down," he coaxed. He lined himself up with Michonne and looked her square in the eye, breaking her gaze from Daryl. She realized how angrily she'd been looking at the bastard's brother and dropped her eyes to the floor.

"You came here for a reason," he said quietly.

She hesitated. She knew she had to give them something.

"There's a town – Woodbury – about 75 survivors. I think they were taken there." She said.

"A whole town?" Rick asked.

"It's run by this guy, calls himself the Governor," she practically spat the name. "Pretty boy, charmin' Jim-Jones type."

Rick recalled the stories, years and years ago, about the People's Temple and its demented leader. The one that convinced his parish to drink poison.

"He got muscle?" Daryl asked.

"Pair o' military wannabes. They've armed sentries on every wall." She said.

"You know a way in?" Rick asked.

"Place is secure from walkers, but we could slip our way through." She said.

Rick's eyebrows raised. We, she'd said. So quickly he almost missed it.

"How'd you know how to get here?" Rick asked in disbelief and fear. If they were so easy to find, surely the Woodbury crowd would find them first.

"They mentioned a prison, said which direction it was in, said it was a straight shot." She replied.

He knew she could be lying, that she could be from this town herself, sent to gain their trust and lure them out of safety. But for some reason, he trusted her.

"This is Herschel, father of the girl who was taken," he said and pointed to the white-haired man. "He'll take care of that."

She looked over at the doctor to validate. He was a little older than she'd imagined from Andrea's stories, but he looked kind enough.

She let the man tend to her wound as she silently hoped that they'd believe her and seek out Woodbury. She needed a chance to save Andrea from herself. And at present, it seemed her best chance would be with some capable backup.

Later that day, they headed out for the town, out towards the forest Michonne had trekked through.

They left the car at the side of the road, setting out on foot. Michonne was surprised at how easily Rick had trusted her, at how quickly he'd decided she was allowed to come along. But then, she figured they'd had little choice. They needed her as much as she needed them.

She was exerting more effort than usual just to get herself around. Her thigh hurt like a mother fucker as the pain pill that Herschel had slipped her began to wear off. She was worried about her mobility. Getting in would be hard enough. But getting out? If they had to make a speedy escape, she wasn't sure how far she'd get.

When they walked into the middle of a crowd of walkers, she tested her strength and speed. It was good enough for now, getting away from slowly ambling corpses, but she doubted her ability to outrun anyone that wasn't undead.

The true test would come soon enough.

When the Governor had told Andrea he needed her help, she hadn't expected this. He explained nothing beforehand, merely guided her to an old house near the West wall. She followed him inside and caught sight of Milton and an old man lying in a narrow bed. She wondered how the man, Mr. Coleman, had survived this long.

"You're doing us a great service," the Governor told the man before he took his leave. The words made her skin cold.

She stared blankly at Milton – Doctor Frankenstein she'd nicknamed him in her head – as he checked his watch.

"So what exactly…" she began but he cut her off quickly.

"Can you cue up the first song on the record?" He barely glanced at her.

"Sure." She said, becoming more wary by the second. She made her way to the record player and jumped when he spoke again.

"On my mark," he said.

She raised the needle and waited. Milton dragged a wooden pestle around the rim of a metal bowl, sending an eerie ringing sound throughout the room. When he was done, Andrea put the needle to the edge of the record.

"My name is Milton Mamet," the doctor began. "Please raise your right hand off the bed if you recognize any of the following statements to be true. Your name is Michael Coleman."

The old man used every bit of his strength to raise his hand just slightly.

Milton raised a picture of a woman to the man's eyes.

"You were married to Betty Coleman."

The old man raised his hand again.

"Your children were Michael Jr. and Emily."

Mr. Coleman's eyes closed in pain. He raised his hand.

"Very good." Milton said finally. He put his folder aside and Mr. Coleman reached for his hand, trying to say something. Milton put his hear closer to the man's lips.

Andrea looked on in sad suspense.

"What did he say?" She asked when Milton stood straight.

"He asked if we could keep it playing while we wait."

She didn't ask what they were waiting for. She was beginning to get the idea.

"After Mr. Coleman passes, we'll restrain him. He'll reanimate, I'll ask the questions again, record his responses – I need you to end the subject's reanimated state." Milton explained after Mr. Coleman had fallen asleep. He took a sip of his tea.

The old man's breathing was dry, shuddering. Andrea stood next to the bed and couldn't help but imagine what circumstances had parted him from his family.

"All right." She said. She didn't completely understand it, but she needed to gain trust anywhere she could. She had an odd feeling that Milton might reveal more to her than Philip ever would.

"I've been trying to determine whether trace memory and human consciousness exist after the subject has transformed," Milton explained as they sat down on either side of the bed. "But I had no baseline to work off of. Until now."

Andrea eyed the sleeping man between them.

"Prostate cancer. We didn't have the resources to treat him, so he volunteered to be the test subject. He's been very cooperative. He's a remarkable man." Milton said.

The tone of his voice irked Andrea. He sounded insincere.

"You're close?" She asked.

"We spent a lot of time together. The song, the singing bowl, the questions – we've done that a few dozen times. These are cues," he said as he gestured to the décor and various objects around the room, "that will hopefully linger in his unconscious mind even after he's died."

The answer was, no, they weren't close. Milton was as cold and methodical as a scientist could be. Completely detached and unfeeling.

Andrea thought of her last moments with Amy. She'd thought, just for a second, that even after the girl had turned, there was recognition in those clouded eyes. She'd been sure of it. And then her sister's jaw had opened, hungry and unknowing.

"There is no unconscious mind, Milton." Andrea said. "When they turn they become monsters. That's all. Whoever they once were is gone."

Milton merely nodded, as if coddling a child.

"We'll see."

She eyed him incredulously as he crossed the room.

"You haven't seen this before, have you? The transformation." Andrea asked.

Milton hesitated.

"No." He said plainly.

"No one in your family was –"

"I'm an only child. My parents died when I was young." Milton said before she could finish.

"Weren't you with anyone when everything went down?"

"I telecommuted to work. I never really–" he was cut off by a sigh from Mr. Coleman. A sigh that sounded like his last breath. Milton checked for a pulse and found none. He met Andrea's eyes and they went about restraining the old man's limbs. Andrea couldn't help but notice Milton's hands were shaking as he tried to buckle the last strap. She grabbed his hand in comfort but he shook her off.

She was beginning to wonder why the Governor had sent her here at all. Surely there were others, those he trusted, that could perform this task easily. Was her inclusion in the experimentation meant to show his trust in her or intimidate her? Or was it another method of keeping her preoccupied?

She assumed it was the latter. She'd overheard snatches of his conversation with one of the guards, something about Merle needing help with "guests," which Andrea took to mean "prisoners." When her lover had returned to the room, she'd looked a little too attentive, maybe. He'd taken her to bed immediately and asked her for this favour soon after. He must have sensed something.

After a waiting period, Andrea noticed Mr. Coleman's eyes re-open, the irises now clouded in shades of yellow and red.

"It's happening." She said. They moved quickly, re-enacting Milton's ritual – the bowl, the record, the recitation, the questions. The old man's responses were gone, his mind replaced by the monster. Milton was too blind to see it.

"I want to try again without the restraints." He demanded.

"No." Andrea said.

"We may have tethered his consciousness. We have to try!" Milton said desperately. Mr. Coleman, or what once was, snapped his teeth.

"No!" Andrea repeated. The man was losing it.

"I know what happens if the subject comes for us, that's what you're here for!" He was not going to let up. Andrea felt herself losing control of the situation. She readied her knife.

"As soon as we pull the restraints, he'll lunge." She said.

Milton ignored her and went about loosening the strap on the walker's right arm.

Andrea's knife was in Mr. Coleman's head before Milton had finished his sentence.

There was a moment of pause – the record sang out in the room, punctuated by Andrea's breathing. Milton put a hand to his throat, where the walker's fingers had gripped him. He stood suddenly.

"I think I'd like to record my findings while they're fresh." Milton said hurriedly, an obvious cue for her to leave.

"Do you need help with the body?" Andrea asked.

"I think I am perfectly capable of taking care of it, now please. Just go." He snapped at her.

She complied. She needed a drink anyway.

She poured herself one when she reached the Governor's place. It was as much to get over the events of the evening as to steel herself for what lay ahead, specifically what was to lay on top of her while she imagined she was somewhere else. He didn't seem to notice how distant she was when he fucked her. She was lucky.

She sank into his arms and closed her eyes. More than anything, she wanted to be free of this place, of his touch. But her only power here came from information, and she had none to save her yet.