I just want to say, I hope I don't offend anyone by anything Mere might say. It's just that I have to stay true to the character.

PS. As I said in the past, I use real science for my explanations.

Recap - Chapter 33 - Hope
"Oh, Charles," you whisper when the first thing that comes into sight is your military-standard wallet, the one that holds all your credentials, clearance, and NIH Restricted Area Badge. It's always with him for safekeeping, chastising you about how you leave it everywhere, how it's your only means to D.C., to whatever military base is left.

This fire won't go out though just a flicker it may be
Shifting through the shadows to a vision we can't see
Hold fast to one another
We will stand stranger to brother

We are one, we carry on

These burdens weigh so heavily
When our demons we must carry
Clinging to this fleeting breath
Dying for a fighting chance

We Carry On by The Phantoms

Chapter 41 - We Carry On

With a sense of relief, you finally bring the RV to a gentle stop in Columbus, North Carolina. The tires sink into the soft ground, and the rhythmic hum of the engine comes to a temporary pause. It's been a crazy few days, escaping from Atlanta, scavenging for supplies, and siphoning gas along the way. However, this is the farthest you have managed to get on your journey to DC. It's been a group effort, overcoming roadblocks by either killing Walkers or pushing cars out of the way for the RV to pass—something you haven't been able to do with just Charles and Jamie.

Glancing back at the sideview mirror, you take in the sprawling wilderness that stretches out behind you, serving as a picturesque backdrop for tonight's resting stop. Stepping out of the RV, you stretch your legs and are immediately enveloped by the crisp evening air. The faint scent of pine needles mingles with the earthy fragrance of the forest floor. The fading sunlight casts a warm golden hue over the landscape, enhancing the vibrant colors of the surrounding trees.

One by one, the others emerge from the RV, including the baby. It's a miraculous feat, almost like a clown car, how you managed to squeeze eighteen people into an eight-person RV.

"Hey, sweetheart," Daryl's voice breaks your train of thought as he touches your hand to get your attention. "I'm gonna take Merle and scout the perimeter, see if we can snag somethin' to add for dinner," he says, gently squeezing your hand.

You nod, your mind immediately focused on the dwindling supplies. "Alright, just don't go too far, okay? We have enough to eat for now," you caution him. He nods in agreement and lets out a whistle, a hunting call of sorts, perhaps a means of communication they have developed while in the woods. Merle immediately turns toward his brother at the sound, and Daryl nods his head towards the thick forest that surrounds you. With that, they both disappear into the woods.

With limited space inside the RV, the decision is made to camp outside at night, under the sprawling blanket of stars, allowing the baby and Carl to have the RV pullout bed. It's an unconventional arrangement, but one that holds a certain charm. As the group disperses, a collective effort unfolds before you.

Within just a few days, everyone seems to have figured out their duties. The strongest members of the group—Abraham, Jamie, and Tyrese—clear the area of any walkers, while Glenn and some of the younger crew set up traps, consisting mainly of cans tied to strings and placed around the trees and ground. The makeshift alarms jingle when disturbed, alerting everyone to the presence of walkers or anyone unwelcome.

Others scour the area, gathering firewood, their footsteps echoing softly against the forest floor, punctuating the silence of the night. You make your way to the back of the RV to contribute to your nightly task, opening the storage to assess your supplies and mentally take inventory.

A hand gently lands on your shoulder, and you turn to come face to face with Rick. "Hey, how are we lookin'?" he asks, his gaze falling upon the non-perishable items.

"We're okay for now, and the Dixons are doing the best they can to hunt," you reply, well aware that feeding eighteen grown mouths is no easy task. Your supplies would only be sufficient for three or four people at most to reach DC. "But we definitely need to scavenge soon."

"Noah's people are in Richmond, Virginia," Rick begins, contemplating their next move. "I think we should split once we get there. I'll take him to his home and check it out, while you guys search for supplies."

"Alright, sounds good," you nod in agreement, reaching for a few cans of beans and chickpeas to bring to Carol, the certified kitchen wizard of the group.

However, Rick halts your movement, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder once again. "Hey," he says, pausing your actions, "I've been meaning to say thank you. The list of things you've done for us keeps getting longer," he gestures toward the RV and the food laid out before you.

"There's no need to thank me, Rick. We're family now," you say softly, noting the small smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. You refrain from asking further, but from the bits of information you have heard, you can sense something traumatic has happened to him since the prison.

"No, I do," he insists, unwilling to let you brush off his gratitude. "Daryl mentioned that you left him some signs to let us know you had made it out, and we were going to come look for you when you showed up at the hospital," he speaks with a gentle voice, mirroring your own tone. "I just want you to know we weren't going to leave without you," he adds sincerely, and you nod, understanding that the man before you is no longer the optimistic man who used to plant vegetables with Charles at the prison.

"I know, Rick," you reply earnestly, aware that you have already been told as much.

"I'm so sorry about Charles. He was a great man," he says, his hand transitioning from your shoulder to your hand, his calloused grip gently holding your fingers. "But I'm also so thankful that you trusted me back then, back at that pharmacy," he continues, his eyes meeting yours. You nod, biting your lip, feeling the tightness in your grip as your hand holds onto his.

"Yeah, I'm sorry too," you state, fully aware of the friendship that had developed between Rick and Charles. Rick opens his mouth to say something else, but a cry from Judith pierces the air, drawing his attention. With a sigh, he withdraws his hand from yours, patting your shoulder before turning towards his little girl.

Taking a deep breath, you refocus on your task, bringing the supplies to Carol, who has managed to get the fire going with the help of Noah. The flames dance and flicker, bringing her makeshift kitchen to life. The aromatic scents of garlic powder and seasoning fill the air, blending with the fragrant smoke of the campfire as Carol prepares to work her culinary magic. The clinking of pots and pans creates a rhythmic symphony that tantalizes your hungry stomach.

Under the starlit sky, sheltered by the canopy of trees, you watch as each person contributes to the communal meal. Soft laughter and playful banter intertwine with the gentle crackling of the fire, creating a comforting atmosphere.

Just then, the rustling of leaves announces the return of the Dixon brothers. You are greeted with the sight of Merle's teasing face, while Daryl sports a furrowed forehead as he playfully smacks his older brother in the gut. It seems Daryl has fallen victim once again to the merciless teasing of his older brother, causing Merle to laugh even louder. With a small smile, you watch as Daryl unloads the squirrels he has hunted, hanging them on strings that he has casually tossed over his shoulder.

The crackling bonfire cast dancing shadows across the faces of your group, and you find yourself nestled between Daryl on one side and Merle on the other. Taking a moment to look around, you observe the flickering glow reflecting in the eyes of the group, illuminating their faces. Hushed conversations ensue as some members split into smaller groups.

The tantalizing aroma of Carol's hearty potato stew fills the air, permeating every corner of the campsite. The bubbling pot, suspended above the flames, releases wisps of steam carrying the fragrant scents of tender potatoes, aromatic herbs, and savory broth. It's a meal that speaks of comfort and home, a temporary escape from the harshness of the world outside.

Meanwhile, the squirrels that have been expertly caught and skinned now sizzle on skewers, rotating slowly over the fire. The small legs turning a perfect brown as they cook, offering tender scraps of meat to those who are skillful enough to pluck at them.

Before long, mismatched bowls are handed out, and the food is distributed among the group. Taking a spoonful of Carol's rich potato stew, you savor the comforting warmth as it fills your mouth. Pushing the potatoes to the side of your bowl, you direct your attention to the chickpeas and beans. On your other side, Daryl is engrossed in his own meal, his hands gripping a skewered squirrel, its grilled meat succulent and tender as he nips at the tiny legs, his fingers stained with savory juice.

You make a face as he licks his fingers clean.

"Here," you say, unloading your portion of the potatoes onto Daryl's plate. "I can't eat any more potatoes."

"You want my beans?" he asks, pointing at the small portion of stew left in his bowl.

"Nah, I'm okay," you shake your head, knowing he could use the additional portion. You pick up your squirrel meat, the cooked flesh sticking to the tiny rib bones.

"Give it here," Daryl says, setting down his bowl and taking the meat from you. "Like this, use your finger," he instructs, demonstrating how to expertly peel the tiny meat off the small bones. When he brings the bit of meat towards you, instead of taking it with your hand, you instinctively open your mouth. Without a second thought, you accept the meat from his finger, only to sense Daryl's body tensing up.

In that moment, you notice the atmosphere around you shifting, and you raise your gaze to Daryl, observing his flushed cheeks and uncomfortable twitches. All eyes seem to be fixated on you, and a peculiar silence fills the air. Merle, sitting beside you, tries to contain his laughter but receives a swift, hard kick from you, effectively quelling his attempts to stir up trouble.

Lately, it seems like everyone is interested in your relationship with Daryl. He's never been one for PDA, in fact, you don't think you ever held his hand in public—wait, that one time when you had your first date at the movies, he bought you chocolate ice cream and held your hand. However, now even something as simple as hand-holding seems to garner the attention of the group, as if they are all curious to see him with someone of the opposite sex.

A stern look from you is enough to break the spell of their curiosity, prompting some to clear their throats and return to their meals, while others pretend they haven't been watching at all.

You continue to eat in silence, your focus shifting to the tiny bone, until a movement catches your attention. Jamie's large frame plops down next to Daryl, bowl in hand.

"Yo, Alie, are you sure about the doctor? That man seems pretty smart to me," Jamie whispers not-so-quietly as he leans over Daryl to look at you. "Rosita said he's weird but very smart," he adds, glancing back at the group he had been dining with, situated between Tara and Rosita.

"Oh, Rosita said... Well, if Rosita said it, then it must be true," you tease, well aware of Jamie's not-so-subtle flirtation with Rosita. It was obvious she is with Abraham, and you aren't entirely sure how he feels about it, as he seems indifferent for the most part, either unconcerned or secure enough in his own manhood to question the younger man's advances.

"Come on, you can't blame me. I'm a red-blooded male," Jamie rubs the back of his neck. "You know she's a fuckin' babe," he says to you before turning his attention to Daryl. "Ain't she?" he eagerly asks the hunter.

"Hey, man, don't bring that shit to me. That's all you," Daryl huffs, waving his spoon dismissively, causing you to burst into laughter.

"I'm just saying, don't come crying to me when the ginger knocks your teeth out," you warn the younger soldier, a playful smile still on your face. "And as for the scientist, I'm almost 100% sure."

Over the past few days, you have been quietly observing the so-called "scientist," and with each passing day, your suspicions grow stronger. He isn't just book smart; he is cunning as well. You have noticed how he always maintains a certain distance from you and swiftly changes the subject whenever the conversation veers towards the topic of a cure or the origins of the walkers.

"What are ya sure of?" Daryl asks, his gaze shifting between you and Jamie.

"That the doctor is lying about the cure," you whisper, leaning in closer to Daryl to ensure no one else can hear.

"Are you shittin' me?" Daryl leans back, looking at your face for confirmation before glancing towards Abraham and the doctor. "Glenn said they lost, like, 8 people tryin' to get him here," he says, his voice tinged with disbelief. "That ain't right."

Just then, you observe Abraham saying something to Eugene before sharing a portion of his meal, placing a squirrel leg on Eugene's plate. The sight stirs something within you, causing your stomach to tighten as memories of Charles flood your mind. You recall how protective he had been, always making sure you ate and hovering over you. Of course, Charles had been in love with you, but even before that, he had shown an innate tendency to look out for your well-being.

"Eugene," you call out across the fire, capturing everyone's attention. "Now that we have some downtime, why don't you go ahead and tell me about your cure?" All eyes turn towards the scientist, awaiting his response.

"It's classified," Eugene quickly replies, redirecting his attention to his bowl.

"Come on, man, you already told us," Glenn chimes in, sitting between his wife and Sasha.

You decide to take a different approach. "You know what? It's fine," you state, reaching for the left zipper of your cargo pants and pulling out your black military-standard wallet, the same one that holds all your credentials. You haven't had the heart to clean it, as it still bears the dirt of the grave where Charles buried it for you, along with the other belongings outside that barn.

"You know, I actually remembered I have my badge in here," you say, hesitating for a moment, looking at the dry dirty fingerprint left by Charles before tossing the wallet across the fire. Eugene fumbles as he catches it, his eyes widening in surprise. "All my credentials are in there as well."

Eugene looks constipated as he stares at the wallet and then at you. Slowly, he sets his bowl aside and opens the magnetic latch of the case. There is a collective moment of anticipation as he examines each badge, his gaze shifting between the credentials and your face. Abraham leans over, also peering at the assortment of credentials.

"Hmm, Mmm, you sure are sweatin' like a whore in church," Merle remarks with a gleeful tone, causing Jamie to spit out his food, coughing through his laughter. Merle watches the other doctor across the fire beside you intently. "Well, go on then, tell the good doctor your plan to save the world," he adds, clearly not convinced by Eugene's claims. You try to ignore Merle's taunts, but you can't help but hear Jamie mumbling to himself, "I fuckin' love the South, man. Who comes up with shit like that?" as he wipes his chin with a chuckle.

There is a moment of hesitation as Eugene looks back and forth between you and the faces of the group. Then, his expression shifts, his shoulders straighten, and his face adopts a blank demeanor. "I was part of a 10-person team at the Human Genome Project that weaponizes diseases to fight weaponized diseases," Eugene finally reveals, his voice void of emotion. "Pathogenic microorganisms with pathogenic microorganisms. Fire with fire."

"The Human Genome Project? Weaponized diseases?" you interrupt, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. The Human Genome Project mainly work on mapping the sequence of the entire human genome to gain insights into genetic diseases such as cystic fibrosis, sickle cell anemia, and so on. It seems highly unlikely to you that they would be involved in anything related to viruses.

"Yes, in Houston, we were the last known outpost with a functional lab, as far as I knew," Eugene responds, interrupting your thoughts. "We were working on methods to combat weaponized diseases, using a process similar to CRISPR. Gene editing."

"Gene editing?" you interject again, your voice rising with surprise and disbelief.

Eugene nods, his expression serious. "Interdepartmental drinks were had, and relationships were made, and information was shared. I am keenly aware of a fail-safe delivery system designed to kill every living person on this planet. I believe with a little tweaking on the terminal in DC, we can flip the script. Take out every last dead one of them. Fire with fire," he declares confidently, locking eyes with you.

As everyone's eyes fixate on you, you return their stare, wondering how they could have believed anything that has come out of Eugene's mouth. "Where the hell did you get that idea? Video game?" you retort, your brows furrowing in disbelief. "What you're talking about is biological warfare, targeting every living person on the planet."

However, you suppose that in dark times like these, people's minds are desperately grasping at any sliver of hope, leaving little room for critical thinking.

"First of all, since 1975, all biological warfare has been outlawed by a treaty in the United States. Our government only recognizes one type of weapon of mass destruction—nuclear weapons," you state firmly, before directing your attention to Abraham. "As a soldier, you should know this," you add, and in your peripheral vision, you notice Jamie immediately diverting his gaze, pretending to find the leaves of a nearby tree far more interesting than admit that as a sergeant he, too, was unaware of this fact.

"Secondly, let's say, for the sake of argument, we do possess such a weapon capable of targeting every living person on the planet. What you're suggesting is turning biowarfare into virology?" you continue, still incredulous at the notion of weaponizing diseases like smallpox, Ebola, or even the common cold.

"You see, virology is my field of study. I specialize in infectious diseases," you inform Eugene. "And I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if you truly worked for the Human Genome Project as you claim, you would have understood a fundamental concept: the very essence of the project—mutation."

The silence is deafening as all eyes shift between you and Eugene, some with slightly gaping mouths. "Throughout human history, we have never weaponized diseases to fight other diseases," you assert, your gaze locked with Eugene's. "There have been instances where certain diseases or disease-related components have been utilized in medical research or clinical trials, but never weaponized," you state firmly. Even in those rare instances, referring to them as "weaponized diseases" would be a stretch. The only parallel you can draw is the small-scale cancer trials using modified viruses to selectively infect and destroy cancer cells.

"It's because it can mutate into something else we have no idea how to stop, or create an entirely new variant of the disease," you fire off one point after another, not giving Eugene a chance to defend his supposed cure. With each argument, you systematically dismantle the flawed foundation of his plan.

"Lastly, the biggest flaw in your 'cure' is that we are all infected," you declare, emphasizing the critical piece of information that Eugene may not be aware of. "This virus is airborne, and even if there were some sort of kill switch to release your 'fire with fire' idea, you wouldn't be able to target the virus specifically because It would end up killing everyone."

Eugene sits there, his face etched with fear and a grimace. Seeing his expression, you release a sigh, choosing to explain gently, "Once an organism dies, its cells cease to function and begin to deteriorate," you explain, your finger resting on your chin as you contemplate his entirely hypothetical theory. "So, according to your hypothesis, let's say, instead of targeting the living, the dead, or the virus, we would be focusing on degraded or undegraded DNA... But here's the catch: the science behind your theory would requires your genome coding to be incredibly precise, leaving no room for even the slightest mistake. Otherwise, you risk killing everyone all over again," you elaborate.

Besides, the Walkers, by all sense of medical definitions, are already dead. So, what exactly would weaponized diseases do to them? Give them chickenpox and the flu?

Abraham's voice abruptly interrupts your train of thought as he rises to his feet. Each word he utters is pronounced deliberately, demanding clarity. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"We don't have the science for that yet, and I doubt we ever will now," you tell Abraham, looking up at his towering figure.

"No, I meant about him," he retorts, pointing his finger towards Eugene.

"Oh," you respond, glancing at the group, some watching you in shock and others in disappointment. You slowly shift your gaze to Daryl, knowing he's not one for lies, and as expected, he gives you a confirming nod.

"He's lying to you. He's not a doctor or involved in any medical field," you disclose to Abraham, stating the truth bluntly.

Merle chimes in with his trademark humor, "Slap my ass and call me Sherlock Holmes, did I call it or what, eh? Let me tell ya, my bullshit radar can scan from here all the way to Wisconsin," he remarks, looking at the ginger soldier with a sly smirk.

Abraham's anger flares, his shoulders tensing with rage as he turns towards Eugene. "Tell me the truth! No more fuckin' charades and give it to me straight, you understand. Tell me the fuckin' truth!" he bellows, his voice filled with fury. Eugene hastily jumps to his feet, accidentally kicking his bowl of stew in the process, and retreats from the soldier.

"I swear to almighty God, I'll kick your sorry ass into yesterday if you don't spill the damn truth right now. TELL ME!" Abraham's scream sets the entire group on edge, as you swiftly rise, followed by others. Rick hands Judith to Carl and rises to his feet as well, sensing the escalating tension.

You glance toward Jamie, and you exchange a look. With a nod of agreement, he moves around you and Daryl, standing closer to Abraham.

Eugene, shaking almost comically, raises his voice, "I'm not a scientist! I lied!" he declares loudly, his voice filled with desperation. "I don't know how to stop it. I just made that stuff up."

Rosita's face scrunches up in confusion. "But you are a scientist," she protests. "I've seen the things you can do."

"I just... I know things," Eugene responds, pressing his hands against himself, shoulders scrunched, your wallet still held as he gazes at her disappointed expression. However, with that statement, he inadvertently confirms a theory you've been pondering about him during your days of observation.

Glenn's face reflects utter disbelief as he questions Eugene, "You just know things?"

Eugene, with trembling lips, tries to explain himself. "I know I'm smarter than most people, and I know I'm a very good liar. I also know that I needed to get to DC. I genuinely believe that it holds the strongest possibility of survival. And I wanted to survive," he confesses, his gaze shifting between the members of the group. "If I could deceive some people into taking me along, then I thought I would be doin' them a solid too, considering the dire state of Houston and everything else."

Rosita's voice breaks as she tries to hold back her tears. "People died trying to get you here," she accuses, her voice filled with hurt.

Eugene doesn't shy away from the truth. "I am well aware of that," he states, looking away from her piercing gaze. "As we drew closer, I lost my nerve. I took it upon myself to slow our roll, givin' me more time to finesse things. But then the doctor arrived, and I knew it was only a matter of time before y'all discovered that my words were nothin' but hot air. I was screwed either way."

Abraham stands frozen, his world crumbling before his eyes as Eugene's words sink in. It feels as if the very purpose that drove him each day has been shattered in an instant. "But then in a twist of fate, I realized I had pulled the ol' reverse Uno card, change the direction of the game so to speak." Eugene continues, his voice filled with a mixture of remorse and self-preservation. "So, I inflated the percentage of our chances of gettin' to DC if we joined forces with Dr. Dixon. I knew it was just a matter of time before you uncovered my lie. At least then, you would have her as a spare piece—reverse Uno."

You furrow your brows, taken aback by his choice of words. Did he just refer to you as a "spare piece"?

"Once again, I am smarter than you," Eugene asserts, his arrogance intact. "And you may want to leave me here—" Before he can finish his sentence, Abraham lunges at him, his fist connecting solidly with Eugene's face in a swift punch.

Chaos ensues as Daryl wraps his arms around you, yanking you out of harm's way just as the second punch lands on Eugene's face. A scream fills the air as the others step back, shocked, while Jamie swiftly intervenes, tackling Abraham to the ground in a football-like tackle. Their bodies hit the ground with a resounding thud as they wrestle, Jamie locking his legs around Abraham's body and securing his forearm tightly in a chokehold.

You can hear the growls, as the commotion attracts nearby walkers, and you tap Daryl's arm, signaling for him to let you go. Daryl swiftly moves toward the approaching walkers, with his crossbow in hand, joined by Rick, Michonne, Glenn, and Tyreese. You rush to Eugene's side, pushing Rosita aside to assess his condition. His nose doesn't appear to be broken, but he is unconscious, knocked out cold by the punch.

"Hehe, look at ya, squirming there, turnin' redder than a monkey's ass," Merle's loud voice interrupts the tense atmosphere. Glancing over, you see that Jamie still has Abraham in a chokehold, the ginger soldier's stubborn face slowly turning red but unwilling to give in. "Go on then, tap out, or Brooklyn, here, will put ya to sleep," Merle taunts, squatting by Abraham's head.

Shaking your head at the men, you turn your attention back to the unconscious Eugene as Abraham finally taps Jamie's leg, signaling his surrender.

"But he's so smart... like extremely smart. How could he know the things he knows?" Rosita murmurs, still trying to make sense of the situation.

"Of course, he's smart. He's on the autism spectrum," you explain to her, or at least you suspect he is. "Didn't you notice? It's pretty obvious if you look." You glance towards the ginger soldier, who is still rubbing his neck, trying to catch his breath.

"Ohh hoohoo, this just keeps gettin' better, huh?" Merle laughs, slapping his knees for emphasis, finding the whole situation hilarious. "You got outplayed by a retard," he taunts Abraham, further escalating the tension.

Abraham, seething with rage, yanks his body up, swiftly turning toward Jamie. In a fit of retribution for the earlier chokehold, he slams his fist into the younger soldier, who lets out an "oof" as he falls back to the ground. Abraham growls in anger, stepping into Merle's personal space, preparing for another confrontation.

"Actually, often, people who are on the autism spectrum possess unique qualities," you explain, your voice gentle yet authoritative. "While they may lack social grace or struggle with certain social interactions, they often have an incredible depth of knowledge on specific subjects. It's a result of their ability to hyperfocus and develop intense obsessions with particular topics."

"No matter how you slice it, Doc, it don't change the fact that he got played like a fiddle," Merle begins, slowly rising up and looking at the ginger challengingly. However, Daryl quickly intervenes.

"Knock it off!" he hollers at his brother, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and pulling him away.

"What? Ain't do nothin'," Merle retorts, the laughter still present on his face as he's dragged away.

"That is ENOUGH!" Rick voice cuts through the space as he steps forward, "We're attracting too many walkers to our location. Soon, it won't be safe to stay here." He scolds the group, holstering his hatchet back. "Eugene lied, and now it's over. We still have Alie, and we still have DC. This changes nothing."

Abraham stumbles away, visibly affected by everything that occurred as he takes a few unsteady steps before collapsing to the ground on his knees, his head bowed down.

It doesn't take long for everyone to settle down and find their calm again. Despite the excitement and tension, exhaustion from the long day takes its toll. As for Eugene, there isn't much you can do for him at the moment. He'll have some bruises, but nothing appears to be broken. With Maggie's help, you set him up comfortably on the ground, propping his head with one of the RV's pullout bed pillows.

"I told you not to come crying to me," you remark, lifting Jamie's chin to examine the bruise on his cheek under the flickering firelight.

"He packs a mean punch," Jamie says, licking his lips and wiping away the small trace of blood, giving you a boyish smile.

Shaking your head, you flick his forehead gently. "You'll live, soldier," you reassure him before getting up. Jamie sticks his tongue out playfully and exaggerates a salute in your direction.

Making your way toward Abraham's kneeling form, you notice that he hasn't made any effort to get up. The group seems to be giving him space to process and grieve over what has happened. As you stand before him, memories of conversations with Charles flood your mind. You recall the nights spent at Fort Meade, playing chess on your respective bunk beds, and the question you asked him about why he flew to Iraq to rescue you, knowing he could have died.

"I'm a soldier, and the mission is all I know. I needed something to do, something to hold on to, something to give me hope... one last mission," Charles had answered, his voice filled with a mix of determination and longing.

Now, as you gaze at Abraham, you can see that same broken longing and despair in his eyes. Eugene had given him a mission of a lifetime – to save the entire world. That need for one last mission had been taken from him.

Give it to him, you think to yourself. Give him hope, give him a mission, give him a purpose.

You can feel the weight of the group's gaze fixed upon you as your body language shifts. Standing tall with your legs spread, back straight, and hands folded behind your back, you mimic how Charles used to address his fellow soldiers.

"On your feet, soldier," you order firmly, projecting your voice loud and clear. "There is a Greek proverb that says, 'A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.'"

The silence hangs heavy as everyone listens attentively to your words.

"I'm not going to promise you some magical cure, but the mission is far from over; it has merely taken an unexpected turn. You still have a doctor, and you still have a destination. So, join me, Sergeant Abraham. Let's try to plant that fuckin' tree—for Judith, for Carl, and for all the little boys and girls out there." You may never make a dent in finding a solution for this virus, but it's your duty to try.

"So, stand up, soldier, and stand at attention," you command. A moment passes as Abraham holds your gaze. Slowly, his eyes lower to Charles's dog tag hanging around your neck. He closes his eyes briefly, a solemn look crossing his face and when he opens them, a determination fills his expression. He straightens his shoulders and rises to his feet.

He stands with legs spread, and instead of saying anything to you, he extends his hand for a shake, a small smirk breaking out on his face. Instead of shaking his hand, you grasp his wrist, looking up at him before giving a nod.

"Roger that," he says with a nod, his hand firmly grasping your wrist as well. Still holding his hand, you glance toward Rosita, who smiles and gives you a nod as well.