A/N Hey family! This piece is quite old, but I really wanted to share. When this episode aired my friends and I discussed at length who we thought would get to meet Lucille. I promise I had nothing against my boy, but I just saw more happening with other characters, and such a profound change if he were the one to go. This will be a for real one shot. It's not long at all just the start of what could've been. I hope you all enjoy this take. As usual I welcome all commentary just be respectful please. Now for the writing!

Michonne stood in front of the white vanity. Any other day, a wide smile would grace her smooth coffee skin. Rick. He told her he always thought of her when he'd go on runs. The first run he'd gone on after Carl's incident was no different. He'd picked it up in the garage of a housing compound he and Glenn found some miles away. He didn't know why it made him think of her. Part of him knew it wasn't this Michonne he was thinking of. It was the Michonne from before. Before the chaos. Before real loss. The Michonne he pictured in dresses, and heels designed by men who had names he couldn't pronounce. He thought of the woman he'd been graced with when they were wrapped in white sheets, limbs tangled together. When the smell of walker guts wasn't overpowering lavender and cocoa butter.

But that wasn't who stood in front of that vanity, because it hadn't been any other day.

There was no emotion on her face. Just dried blood, sweat, and tears. All emotion had left the moment she held her friend--her brother in her arms.

Negan had finally left them. His death filled cackle echoed in each and every one of their minds. Most couldn't move, frozen in terror. Frozen in heartbreak. Frozen in defeat. Sobs filled the black road. Wails of anger pierced the souls that were still there.

Michonne felt as though hers had left her body. She couldn't hear. She couldn't speak. She was terrified to look at her family, afraid to confirm her dread. It hadn't been Rick. It hadn't been Carl. The grief in her heart had lessened, but it still hurt to breathe. Her head seemed to turn slower than physically possible. An eternity later, she saw. Her heart shattered into a million pieces. The one she'd worked so hard to put back together. The one this very family had helped heal. The one he, in his silent way, had helped heal. She scrambled toward Daryl's lifeless body, not acknowledging the pool of blood and fragments of his minced flesh that had managed to fly from the infamous bat called 'Lucille".

Her hands shakily left the gravel littering the tar colored road, as she eyed what was left of him. His face was severely beaten in, almost unrecognizable if not for the shaggy hair drenched in his blood. She hovered over him afraid to defile him any more than that monster already had. Her hands finally rested on his seemingly untouched torso, where his ratty black vest covered him. She gently pulled his hands that laid limply at his sides--his right was closest, then his left which she skillfully reached over him, and pulled from the other side, to rest on his lower abdomen. She tried her very best to focus on his dirty fingers, the ones that squeezed her shoulder in reassurance too many times to count. But she found herself glancing at the face she'd never smile at anymore. The face she'd never be able to read anymore. She quickly took her own vest from her body, and laid it over that very face that would soon haunt her dreams.

She hadn't noticed the eyes on her as she cared for one of her dearest friends. She hadn't even noticed the tears that sprang from her eyes like a broken faucet. Soon her half glove covered fingers were atop of Daryl's. She could feel the last sliver of warmth in his body. Her eyes clenched closed as she thought of his body going cold. She squeezed his hands tighter, as she brought her face toward them.

"I told you I'd handle it for you, Daryl. You know I don't go back on my word. I'll handle it."

Michonne fingered the lock that had been cut in half. The tendril was puffy at the end, and slightly covered in blood. She reached for the pair of scissors on the dresser of the vanity, and brought it to nearly the root of her dreadlock. Without any hesitance at all, she chopped the hair from her head, and watched as it fell to the ground. She grabbed a fistful of locks after, repeating the jagged motion again, and again, and again--ignoring the tears that leaked down her face. She hadn't thought she'd had more to let loose, but her body told her different.

Soon she stood, surrounded by a pile of dead weight. She tossed the scissors back onto the dresser, and ran her hands through the small afro on her head, finger detangling any knotted area. Her arms dropped to her side, as she continued to stare at her reflection.

She had become accustomed to loss. In this world, it was apart of the package. She wouldn't let it consume her. She wouldn't go down that dark path she'd traveled when her beloved Andre was taken. She couldn't. Carl and Judith needed her. Rick needed her. Their family needed her. Alexandria needed her. And they'd get her. The best version of her. The fiercest version of her. That's what Daryl would have wanted. He would have told her to kick some ass and take no names. And she'd do just that. Starting with Dwight. There'd be no Dwight left when she was finished.

"I'll take care of it," she whispered wiping her face, and backed away from the mirror.

He knew it wasn't him. Not really. He had the same oily, dark brown hair that framed his strong face. Same beady blue eyes. He even wore the same tattered clothes. But that's where the similarities ended. The long blade of grass he chewed on was off for starters. Most of his teeth were probably still scattered on that cursed road. Rick blinked several times, trying to rid the hallucination before him.

"You're not here. You are not here," Rick whispered harshly.

Daryl couldn't be there. He'd watched him die. Not like Lori. He didn't have to go searching for his remains. He didn't have to slice open any walkers to be sure. Daryl was dead. He put him in the ground himself.

"Maybe not, man. Maybe you gon' crazy again," Daryl chuckled dryly.

He didn't have his crossbow glued to him. He just sat next to where Rick was turning over soil in the garden, Maggie had started before officially moving to Hilltop--twisting that damned grass in his mouth. He stared out at the chunk of field Rick had landscaped almost by himself within a matter of weeks.

Rick dug into the earth in front of him, surprised that the apparition beside him spoke. He couldn't remember Lori ever speaking. Not face to face anyway.

"Yeah, brother. This ain't like that. Tho' you shol' makin' it look that way. Back at it, huh?"

Rick clenched the bridge of his nose with his right hand, and gripped the spade he'd been using, tighter. He couldn't deal with this. Not now. Not again.

"No. You can'tâ you can't be here."

Rick clasped his free hand on to the length of the wood, and dug furiously.

"You diggin' to plant sumthin', o' maybe another grave?" Daryl chuckled again.

He turned to glance at his chosen brother. There was no squint of his slanted eyes to shield them from the sun. He looked into Rick. Bore right into his soul.

"Listen, man. This ain't like last time. You got me?"

Rick blinked the sweat from his eyes--his long lashes that hooded them, only seemed to make it worse. The sudden stinging, only ensued to piss him off even more.

"What the hell do you want from me, huh? What do you want from me?" he yelled hoarsely.

He dropped to his knees, not realizing he was being watched. By older citizens of Alexandria. More importantly, by the person who'd looked up to him the most. Carl watched on as he relived the hardest time in his life, making sure not to make eye contact with the few passerby in the town. He knew they had their 'poor kid' looks etched on their pity filled faces. He wasn't a kid anymore. And he definitely wasn't someone who wanted their pity. He didn't need it. And neither did his father.

Carl walked confidently over to his dad, who'd began sobbing to himself in the community garden.

"Get up, Dad. Get up!"

Rick looked up, not sure if he was still hallucinating. When he felt Carl's hands grip his arms and yank him from the ground, he knew the boy was real. He lowered his eyes. For some reason, he was always ashamed. Disappointed in himself for not being able to protect his family. Disgusted with himself for not being able to hold it together.

"Look at me, Dad. Look at me right now. I need you to hear me."

Rick's eyes shot up to hold Carl's blue eyed gaze. It was fierce. It was sure. He'd seen eyes like that once upon a time. Carl's grip tightened around his father's clothed arms, his nails biting the skin beneath the white long sleeve.

"You are not doing this again. You cannot do this again. You do it, and I'm leaving. I'll take Michonne and Judy with me. I swear to, God, I'll do it. Snap out of it. You have to get your shit together."

Carl's glare never faltered, and neither did his voice. It was deep, and it made Rick flinch. Not because of his tone, or the inappropriate language. The boy didn't speak to him as his son. He spoke to him like a leader. Like a man.

Carl held on to his dad, letting his words sink in better somehow. When he was sure his threat had resonated, his hands slipped to his sides, and he turned to walk the way he'd come from.

Rick blinked back tears. Or maybe it was more sweat. His head turned slightly, and he saw Daryl still sitting beside him, crunching on that damned blade of grass, and staring off into the distance.

"Ain't like last time, Rick."