Notes: I really appreciate the follows and favorites. Thank you so much ^_^. I want to be honest that this story will not be on a regular updating schedule, but I will do my best to work on it, and not to abandon it. I have come to appreciate reviews so much, so I hope you will consider doing so if you find something you respond to. One of my goals with this story is to have interactions between characters that we don't see together often. For the most part, these will be dyad vignettes. I am considering the addition of one OC during the run. So if that's something you absolutely want me to avoid, you are welcome to say so.

Disclaimer: Copyright for The Walking Dead belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.

Title: "Inventio"
Chapter: "4. Void"

If there was one thing Michonne did well, it was to face things. She didn't avoid conflict. She didn't avoid fear. She didn't procrastinate or hesitate. She took things as they came, in the order they needed to be done, and she didn't flinch. It was one thing that was constant in her before the crisis and after. So, once she had made the decision to deal with Merle, she went towards that encounter quickly and directly.

That didn't mean, of course, that she liked everything she had to face. She didn't like Merle Dixon, and his face was only part of the problem.

The thing that bothered her about Merle wasn't anything he said – which seemed to be how he kept the group edgy, and himself entertained. Even his being a killer was only a symptom of the real problem. What Michonne could not abide about Merle Dixon was that he was empty inside. When it came down to it, he didn't know who or what he was. All of the things he did that were unpredictable, all of the loud declarations of his badness, the drugs, the desperate clinging to concepts like "race" and "blood," the ease with which he'd both served The Governor and lied to him – all brought her to the same conclusion.

Not only was Merle void where it counted, he was scared to death of anybody else finding out. Ironically, he was just as desperate to have others provide proof that he existed at all, hence the attempts to gain negative attention. Michonne thought that he had probably lived long enough to have figured this out, but also lived in the pattern for so long that he'd been unable to break it, leaving him little choice but to hate himself. Her Grandma Aggie would have said that he'd never opened his inner sacred place, so he could not ever find sanctuary in it.

Before, she might have had the luxury to feel compassion or at least pity for him. Now, she simply hoped he didn't get them all dead before their time.

Carol had pointed her in the direction of equipment storage, and that's where Michonne found him. The door was propped open, so she had a chance to observe him for a few moments before he noticed her. If given the chance, she always preferred this strategy. Let him come to her, not knowing how long she'd already been engaged in the interaction.

The body armor had been sorted into piles of like pieces on the shelving with the shields stacked in standing rows against the free spaces on the walls, and the elder Dixon was examining it piece by piece. From what she could tell he'd formed two piles on the floor. The smaller of the two she presumed was useless, given the condition of several helmets that even she would have thought cracked beyond repair. The slightly larger pile held pieces that also showed damage. She surmised that he found something still salvageable in these. He was currently crouched next to a battered shield and was peering closely along its concave side near the handle. As she continued to watch, Merle stood and braced the shield against the wall, taking the handle forcefully. He then leveraged his right boot against the inside of the shield and gave a mighty tug, straining the reinforcements that secured the parts together. The shield made a groaning noise, but held. He pulled again, more harshly if possible, and the shield still held.

Shifting to balance on both feet, he let the device drop to the floor and stand on its slightly pointed tip. Holding it steady with his sheathed wrist, he moved his hand up and spun the shield 180 degrees. Next he shoved it up against the wall again, and kept it in place. Readying himself, he gave it a hard body check, testing its convex surface strength. The shield shuddered as it skidded against the wall with the partly forward motion of Merle's lunge. He gave it two more checks from various angles, and the shield seemed to pass muster, as he made a small, satisfied sound in his chest. Finally, he flipped the thing upside down so its clear section was on the concrete, and set to test where the viewer met opaque reinforcement. Holding it by the bottom in the air, he angled the shield and gave the joint a hard, fast stomp. To Michonne's surprise, it didn't break. If nothing else, she had just learned a lesson about testing equipment. The walk down the hall had been worth something.

Merle flipped the shield up and caught the handle again, moving to set it against a line of its fellows. As he did, he finally caught sight of her. The frown that formed was what she expected. He placed the piece in line and turned to wipe his sweaty brow on the shoulder of his t-shirt. His neck was shiny with perspiration, and the shirt had telltale rings on his back, chest, and under his arms. He had been giving the job his full attention, which he now focused on her.

"To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the Nubian princess?"

Michonne said nothing, and her neutral expression didn't change. Fact was she didn't give a shit about Merle's opinion of her. He could call her anything at all and she wouldn't care especially if they were alone. He wasn't creating a wrong impression with any of the kids so why bother raising her heart rate? And she sure wasn't going to provide him with an identity by rising to the bait and giving him something to play off. If he wanted to know who he was, he'd have to have the balls to figure it out for himself.

The smirk he had pasted on thinned a bit, and he rested his hand on his belt as she stayed absolutely still and silent. She wondered how long he could wait. She knew it wouldn't be as long as she could. So far, he was mirroring her, or trying. He had stayed silent, and was waiting across from her, hand on hip, stump hanging by his side. Several final beads of sweat had run down the along his hairline and dripped from his right ear to the shoulder of his shirt. She wondered if he could stay silent until the two spots dried.

His breathing was evening out from his exertion, and his facial muscles were going slack along with it. He was a fit man, but still a man in his fifties, and she noticed that he shifted ever-so-little on his feet. Probably his muscles beginning to tighten as he went from working to such a sudden stop. He'd lived a hard life to earn his scars and experience. That came with the cost of joints that aged early. She had noticed that he already had a touch of arthritis in his remaining hand that showed up when he was required to use finer motor skills. Too many punches and fine finger bone breaks untreated. He didn't realize it yet, but if he lived a long life in this world, he was going to have it harder than he even knew.

She had chosen a position for a long wait. She was leaned against the doorframe, hands resting on the hilt of her katana that was propped casually, or perhaps not so casually, in front of her. Her feet were positioned well. All it would take was a shift of weight and a two-inch adjustment of her hand and she'd have the sword out and be balanced to strike. Merle was not as lucky. He didn't have his blade on the prosthetic today, and she'd seen the gun in his back waistband. He'd have to draw to get a weapon if he wanted this to go south. He was also penned in while she had escape. She hoped he didn't do something really stupid. None of them needed that. She looked pointedly at the sword, then down to her feet, to his stump, to the room, and then slanted them over her shoulder to the door. Merle's eyes followed hers, and his jaw muscle tightened. He got her message.

She could tell he was doing his best not to show his agitation, but he began to blink more than he should. Ah, his tell. Michonne filed the tidbit away. Self-defense or poker. He'd be speaking again in three, two –

"What do you want."

"You were the one that wanted. Bygones?"

Merle huffed, and pursed his lips. "Well, today is just my lucky day. Women cannot keep themselves away from me." He turned and surveyed the room. "Luckily I'm all done in here. You've got good timing." He moved to the larger of the two piles on the floor and filled his arms with the motley group of items. "You can help me hoof this stuff out to some place useful."

"And why would I? Your bygones, not mine."

He'd turned with full arms, and was walking toward her. "'Cause women in the place want things. Bygones are gonna mean I put out for you. So, you're gonna have to be where I am to get what you want." He waited next to her at the door. "Do I have to push you over, or are you gonna let me through?"

Michonne stepped back into the hallway to let him out. He stepped into the corridor and stopped, clearly waiting. This was not what she had planned. Damn. Fine. "All of it?"

"Yep."

In two graceful steps she had grabbed two shields from the nearest pile and turned. Merle's arms might be full, but she would not be walking in front of him, and she would be increasing her defense, not compromising it.

Merle smiled at her, and shook his head. "Were you military?"

She didn't answer.

He began walking through the maze of darkened hallways back toward their common areas. "What are bygones gonna cost me then?"

"Information. Maybe recon."

"Recon? Outside the fence?" He sounded amused. "Do you really think Deputy Do-Right is gonna take well to that?" She saw him shake his head. "What information would I have that you need?"

"Governor's scouts."

Merle stopped. When he spoke his voice was hard. "I've tried this already. He wouldn't give me two fucking seconds. What makes you think you've got a chance in hell?"

"Glenn's not you."

As she watched she could see the color rising on the back of Merle's neck. Clearly, the kid was becoming as much of a sore spot to him as he was to Glenn. Merle swore creatively. She filed that as well. Third lesson from this interaction. A couple of them she'd really liked.

He started walking again, rigid and fast. A glove fell from the pile in his arms and he didn't give it a second look. He was muttering, and she made out "that fucking gook" before he went silent. They were close to the Block C entrance when he stopped, and turned to her.

"Look. I'll do whatever, but get this straight. We –," his gaze was pointed, "are all square after. Final. We back each other from then on."

She waited. Then nodded. "Fuck up again, I kill you."

"Granted. And with Glenn it's the same."

She shook her head. "Settle between yourselves."

"You said it takes me and him, and you're here, so it must take you, too."

She shrugged. "Swing dicks with him. Not my issue."

Merle narrowed his eyes at her.

"I. Can't. Do it. It has to be you, you venomous son of a bitch."

Merle growled. He honestly growled, like the bulldog he resembled. "Someone's got to get him to come half-way or else I can't make it fucking work."

Despite her self-declared Zen about Merle, she hoped Glenn made the asshole grovel.

She gave a last, curt nod.