Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.

A/n: A slight turn around...a different perspective. I have always liked Michonne, and I am going to start bringing her pov a little more into the fic. I only hope I do her justice, having only brought her once into this fic so far. But I have realized that for this story to progress (in certain areas)-I really need to have somebody else's pov...and I couldn't think of anyone so far removed from the main characters here, Merle and Carol. This chapter was a challenge, but alot of fun to write.

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They had been tracking unceasingly for the last few hours; roaming through woods and large expanses of open grassland in relative silence. Several times she had looked at him, quietly watched him as he observed the lay of the land in his own easy offhand confident manner. But as the miles stretched on-as the time stretched and ticked past them, she saw his shoulders slump, his ever increasing annoyance as his boots kicked up irritably through the long faded strips of crisp grass.

They were getting nowhere, and she was now starting to feel his simmering frustration too.

Michonne wasn't fooled at all-she knew damn well that it wouldn't be easy, and this after all was only their third run together, but they hadn't had found one single track for several miles after the burning ruins of Woodbury. The cool certain confidence that she first felt when they'd started was now trickling away, and at times she wondered if it would have been easier trying to track down the Governor by herself, alone and without the added complications that company wrought.

Daryl however, had insisted that he come along-his own need for retribution compelling him, and she couldn't deny him, not after what had happened. His brother Merle, was an ass, and she had history with him-maybe a few more reasons than most to wish him ill grace... but she understood. She sympathized with Daryl, and she found that the sympathy ran as far as to Merle now. She didn't totally understand why and what he had done at Woodbury -would never understand his reasons, but she understood why he had gone after the Governor like he had. It was the same reason that had compelled her to help him.

She knew what he was capable of. That the Governor loose and on the run was an even greater threat than before, she was under no illusion. She'd seen first hand how so easily he could zoom in and target and manipulate others. He'd had Andrea under his spell from the minute the blonde woman had set eyes on him, and Michonne was thankful that she was never the blind trusting fool. Her old life would have mocked her for that, as much as this new life would have.

Michonne just wanted to find him. To put an end to it all, finally. Then, maybe then she could allow herself time to lower her guard, relax enough to...maybe even allow others in, and mostly-the desire and fragile hope to be able to remain in one place, and maybe even call it home. She was tired of running, tired of being alone-as much as it surprised her. Being at the prison and seeing how the others related to each other, cared for one another had shown her that there could possibly be a different way to live in this new brutal world.

It surprised her that she felt this way. The need, the longing for companionship, the feel of belonging. She hadn't felt that way since before camp...not since Mike...not since Andre. She swallowed quickly at the thought of their names. She couldn't think about them, not now, not right at this minute. She couldn't and wouldn't allow the sharp spears of guilt and pain guide her thoughts down a different path.

Not now. They would have to wait.

"Do you see anything?" she asked, blinking rapidly against her thoughts. The hunter had stopped in front of her, several yards to her right, and she observed him carefully.

Daryl paused, not answering, his head cocked to one side and she watched as he knelt down to the ground. She stepped forward, stopping when he held his hand up to her, palm flat in the air. Glancing at the small flattened out area of grass, she struggled to see what had caught his attention.

"Daryl, what is it?" she frowned, her fingers lightly drumming the hilt of her katana.

He didn't answer straight away, just inspected the ground closer, lowering his head; hair dangling in his face. He huffed quietly then lowered his hand, his fingers drifting through the earth before he raised his hand holding something that she couldn't quite see tightly between his fingers. Rising to his feet, he let out a steady slow exhale, the gust from his lips blowing strands of hair from his forehead as he turned to her, his eyes squinting.

"Cigarette." He rolled it between his fingers, "Looks like a menthol tip."

Michonne stared at him, then shrugged. She let one finger uncurl around the hilt of her katana, stroking it with the pad of her fingertip, feeling the leather bindings sooth at the prickle of the corners of her mind. "It's just a discarded cigarette."

Daryl shook his head slowly, as if trying to recover a memory. "Shit, I dunno if it means anythin', 'Chonne." He hummed quietly to himself, before raising his head and looking at her, his bright blue eyes peeking and darting through his thick dark fringe. "Just I remember is all, Martinez smoked these. Might mean nothin' like I said," he sighed.

She stared, her eyes moving from his to gaze across the grassy open expanse. "Daryl, it's a small world. It could just mean than more than two people smoke menthol tips."

Daryl frowned at the remnant of the cigarette clenched between his fingers. "Maybe."

"Do you think that he could be with Martinez, after what we saw? The Governor? He slaughtered his own people, his own men."

He grunted as he looked at her for several long seconds, then he cocked his head, "See there?" he indicated a few patches of seemingly flattened dried grass, several small gouges in the thick hard earth. "Was a camp, few days ago I reckon. Maybe two-three days?" He slipped past her, pausing and looking over his shoulder at her, and Michonne followed after him. "Ye see this?"

She stood at his shoulder, looking where he indicated.

"RV, two, maybe three other vehicles. A tent. Whoever the fuck was here camped for a day...two at most. Grass ain't flattened enough fer longer, not enough indents in the ground."

Michonne frowned, "Are they headed towards the prison?"

Daryl shook his head, "No. Tracks lead other direction. Away."

She glanced quickly up as she heard a low groan drift across the still air, and she held her blade upwards, her fingers flexing tightly around the hilt. She saw with no real surprise that he already had his crossbow at the ready, his head tilted to one side.

She stepped from his side, breathing out a curt, "I got this Daryl."

He gave her a quick smirk, nothing more than a small upturn of his lips, a crinkle at his eyes as he lowered his weapon slightly, and she smiled at him suddenly, even as her hand shot out, the katana whispering dangerously. The walkers head plopped with a wet splat and rolled across the ground, and she plunged her blade through its soft pulpy skull, lifting one foot to hold it down as she pulled her katana from its ruined head.

A whoosh sped suddenly past her ear, and she looked up quickly as she shook the congealed blood from her blade. His bolt had plunged into the eye socket of another walker, and she nodded at him, watching as he quickly stepped forward and retrieved it.

"We should go."

Again, he only grunted in answer, readying another bolt to his crossbow. His eyes blazed at hers, and she met his unblinking gaze without hesitation, a smile starting to touch at her lips as he stared before dropping his eyes quickly from hers.

"C'mon," he muttered darkly. "Shit ain't happening while we stand here with our thumbs up our asses."

She hid her smile. She was getting used to his rough abrupt manner.

…

"Is this worth it?" she questioned, looking at him with a sardonic lifting of her brow.

"Ain't got much ta fuckin' lose," he said as he stood restlessly shifting the crossbow in his arms.

Michonne turned from him, glancing at the small row of houses lining across from the road. They'd parked their SUV close, and she felt an ironic thrill speed through her as she looked at it. It was the one that they'd used when they'd rescued his brother and taken him back to the prison, bleeding and stubbornly clinging onto life. And now they were using it to hunt down its original owner.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Might as fuckin' well." Daryl glanced up at the darkening sky, "'sides we gonna have to camp down fer the night. We ain't gonna get back in time, no chance."

She hummed in agreement. They were at least thirty miles from the prison, and she knew all to well the risks of being out on the open road in the dark. "One house. We don't have time for any more." She gestured one gloved hand towards the houses, "Take your pick."

Daryl took a quick appraisal, then nodded, indicating her to follow, and she did without question. It surprised her how quickly she could trust him, how quick she could trust the majority of the group from the prison.

They stepped up a small porch, their feet softly thumping at the dark stained wood. Her katana was poised in her hand, the blade pointing downwards, and she watched as Daryl edged silently, his crossbow pivoting side to side in his hands. He leaned towards the doorway, before pushing his shoulder at the door and pausing, his eyes quickly surveying the entrance. She stood slightly to his back, watching for any motion behind them.

His quick inhale of breath was audible to her in the stillness, and he shunted the door quickly open before stepping through. There was enough light filtering through that they didn't need their flashlights, and she turned at his side, stepping off into the opposite direction as he paced stealthily to her left.

It turned out that they hadn't had need to do anything. For once they'd found a place that was walker free. She helped him shift and push furniture, effectively blocking the entrance and the two large windows in the living room. Thick heavy drapes shielded the interior of the windows from outside view, shrouding the room in dense shadows that danced and flittered in the thin wan light.

"Check the kitchen, I'ma go upstairs," Daryl gave her a small brief nod as he pushed past her, one foot lifting and treading warily on the stairs.

There was nothing more threatening than the dismal paltry array of food stocks that she found in the cupboards in the kitchen. A few tin cans and some jars of fruit preserve. Anything else she discarded; packets and cartons of rancid foodstuffs swelled and blown out in its packaging, long past it's shelf life.

Michonne drifted back into the living room, placing the few tins, jars and cutlery she'd found on a low dusty coffee table. Tugging off her backpack, she unzipped it and reached for her bedroll, unfurling it onto the grimed carpet. She pulled out a second, leaving it next to hers. Her katana she lay in its sheath to the side of her bedroll, before pacing across the room, one gloved hand palming at the pistol tucked into her waistband.

"Anything?" she asked as Daryl made his way back down the stairs towards her, and she noted the blankets tucked under his armpit, his crossbow dangling loosely in one hand.

"Nah, weren't nothin'. Here," he tossed one of the blankets to her. "They ain't smellin' too good, but it's gonna be cold tonight."

"Thanks," she replied. She sniffed dubiously at the blanket; it smelt ripe, but nothing more than aged old damp and mildew. "Has to be an improvement on that blanket you gave me on our last run. I swear you gave me fleas."

"Pffft," Daryl smirked. "Weren't exactly my fault."

Michonne rolled her eyes at him. His eyes darted from hers, and he moved over to the coffee table, sitting down on the floor and picking a can up. He opened it and took a spoon, ramming it in and lifting a spoonful of beans to his mouth. He ate nosily, slurping at the bean juice and Michonne had to bite back the laugh as she took a can for herself.

"The beans are that good?" she asked, opening her own can, and seeing with no great surprise that she had the same. She ate hers more delicately, perching on the edge of the table and looking down at him.

Daryl shrugged, "Foods, food, ain't it?"

She watched as he finished his can, wiping his mouth carelessly with the back of his hand, before grabbing another tin.

"Well, there's food, and then there is food. Fine dining, fine wines and even finer clothing. I miss that at times-the parties, the social gatherings, the chance to let your hair down. Wearing nice heels and elegant dresses that don't stink to high heaven of walker guts." She looked down at her pants, even though they were black she could still see the dismal staining along her thighs.

Daryl huffed, "Ya really miss that shit?" He shook his head, spoon raised to his mouth. He paused before shoveling it in. "Wouldn't have thought that of ya," he said chewing a mouthful of beans.

"I was quite the hostess," she admitted. She remembered the trials it had been at times to try and persuade Mike to scrub up all nice and clean and presentable, to persuade him to lose his ever present friend Terry for just one night, just so that they could have the apartment to themselves and host a more civilized night that didn't consist of baseball, sweat pants, beer and weed.

"Most of my nights-when Merle was actually there, was keepin' my head low from him an' his tweaker friends. Ain't never had no fine assed dining an' crap, tho'. Merle would'a laughed himself sick over shit like that." He glanced away from her, and placed his empty can on the table, the spoon handle poking out.

She ate her food slowly, chewing it almost mechanically. There were times that Daryl would mention his past-just vague little snippets, and she knew now from old, that if she tired to persue the conversation, he would just clam up. She let the silence stretch out between them, wondering if he was going to say anything more on the subject. When he didn't offer up any thing else, she nudged a jar of the fruit preserve towards him.

Daryl looked down at it and shook his head, instead reaching into his leather vest and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled the packet open, spitting as he saw one bent cigarette and a stub of a smoke residing inside.

"Shit," he hissed. "Must'a left my other pack at the prison." He glared at the smokes, before taking out the stub and lighting it, inhaling deeply before puffing it out at her, the grey smoke spiraling lazily between them.

"Smoking is bad for your health," she chided in amusement, watching as he narrowed his eyes at her, before chuckling.

"Yeah, an' like that counts fer shit. Tell ya 'Chonne, if Im'a go out? I'll go with a fuckin' smoke in my goddamn mouth." He took another inhale, breathing the smoke out quickly, and then dropping the remnants of the cigarette into one of the empty bean cans. It fizzled slightly inside the tin, a little plume of dark smoke drifting out.

"Early start?" she asked as she paced across to her bedroll, sitting heavily on it and tugging her boots off from her feet. She looked up as she heard him move towards her.

"Yeah," he agreed, "We'll travel further down the road, mark it on the map." He sighed heavily as he unrolled his, and laid down, pulling one of the blankets across his legs. "Dunno if we gonna find fuck all in the mornin' though. It's pissing me off," he admitted.

She lay down on her bedroll, tucking her arms underneath her neck and cushioning her head. She gazed up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, feeling his same frustration. She turned her head to the side, watching as his shadow fidgeted close to her. "New morning, new start. You never know, Daryl," she said quietly.

Daryl only grunted in reply, and she closed her eyes, letting the weariness drift and carry her off to a place where the undead never roamed and her sweet little boy lay smiling up at her in her arms.

…

They didn't take long in the morning, the few meagre things that they'd found at the house packed tightly and stored safely in the vehicle. There was precious little in the nature of food items, but they had found a stack of blankets and sheets in a closet, several spare shirts, pants and a pair of boots. Michonne had found several items of toiletries-a few bars of soap, several half used bottles of shampoo and shower gel. She figured that they'd take what they'd found-with the ever increasing populace of the prison, anything that was found would be of value and use.

One of the bedrooms that they'd investigated further had once belonged to a teenage kid...a boy she assumed, judging from the posters held with thumbtack on the walls. She had smiled as she had peeled one down-a promotional poster for an X-men movie, and she'd thought at the time that maybe Carl would like it to brighten up his cell. She'd also found a few comic books-and she had carried those and packed them away into the SUV as if they were a precious cargo. She knew Carl would like those for definite, and she couldn't wait until they got back to the prison to surprise him.

…

They'd been traveling for little over an hour before they found him. He was stood in the middle of the road, an almost pathetic solitary figure, made smaller by the avenue of tall dark trees lining both sides of the pine littered asphalt.

Daryl had braked suddenly, the SUV screeching to a sudden halt; breaking her from her reverie as she had watched the endless monotonous blur of green and browns from the passenger window. She'd shifted in her seat, eyes widening as she contemplated the lone figure. Daryl was out of the car long before she was, and she'd been surprised by that-his reflexes quicker than hers, which to her was no small mean feat. She'd always prided herself on her reactions, but damned if that Dixon wasn't quicker.

As she got out of the vehicle, her hand straying towards her katana, she caught their conversation. Daryl was eyeing the stranger with an interest bordering on curiosity and contempt.

She stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder as she turned to face the stranger full on. "What's your name?" she asked curiously.

The man dragged his eyes from the hunter, glancing at her. "Bob. Bob Stookey. You people have a camp?"

Daryl looked at her quickly, biting at his lip. He lowered the crossbow in his hands marginally as he faced the stranger, "How many walkers have ya killed?"

Bob paused before answering, a frown drifting across his face, his dark brown eyes widening. "Haven't kept count. I don't know. A couple dozen."

"How many people have you killed?" Michonne intoned. These were the questions that they were to vet new people with. The council had set these questions-these rules in place. They had to be answered, and they had to be answered honestly, without hesitation. With the ever present threat of the Governor...or anyone else come to that, they couldn't just blindly accept anybody into the prison's community. Not any more.

Bob looked at the ground, before answering so quietly that Michonne had to listen intently in case she missed his answer. "Only one."

"Why?" Daryl asked, his eyes narrowing and scrutinizing the stranger stood in the middle of the road before them.

"She asked me to," Bob replied. Michonne didn't miss the sadness that tinged his voice as he answered.

Daryl took a quick glance at her, waiting for her confirmation, and when she nodded tightly to him, he turned back to Bob. "Ya want to come with us?"

Bob shuffled nervously on his feet, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other. He faced them again, his eyes downcast, but he nodded slowly in agreement. "Yes."

"Ya don't got any questions for us?"

"No. It doesn't matter who you are," Bob answered quietly.

Michonne frowned at him, "Really?"

Bob nodded, his eyes drifting towards her. He finally met her gaze, and Michonne felt saddened to see the hurt and loss in his eyes. "Yeah." He stepped forward a few paces towards them, sheathing the battered machete he bore into the belt at his waist. "It doesn't matter."

She stepped back a few paces with Daryl at her side, but she saw from the look that he gave her that the matter had already been pretty much decided. Today they wasn't going to pursue the Governor. Today, they were going to go back to the prison, and they were taking Bob Stookey with them.

...