Written to the score of . . . 'The Terminator Theme (Extended Version)', by Brad Fiedel
The year is 2035.
After the tragic fall of society worldwide and long years of bloody conflict among the earth's survivors, the defeat of the undead has given way to the discovery of a new technology.
The birth of artificial intelligence.
With the aid of this innovation, human survivors colonized, rebuilt, and forged a new world from the ashes of the old one. One of brilliant lights, intimidating towers, and advances in weaponry and machinery the likes of which the old world has never seen. From this knowledge, a bold, terrifying new understanding – a new command – of life itself arose.
As the world went through its rebirth, two vast territories emerged in what was once America.
The Safe Zone, and the Gates of Hell.
Today, they remain locked in a perpetual battle of wills.
The Safe Zone is a brilliant city of towers, wonders, and nouveau indulgences.
It's patrolled day and night by some of the world's most effective peacekeepers. Including the legendary Rick Grimes, his partner Michonne Snow, and his tightknit unit, which is reverently branded The Family. They are given this reverence in part because they are the last completely (mostly) human peacekeeping unit remaining in the world.
In complete contrast, The Gates of Hell may as well be straight out of Babylon.
There, the worst of humankind fight for not just survival, but dominance. Chaos and violence reign under the deranged, watchful eye of Negan - the leader of the deadliest gang in the country. The Saviors. The gang that managed to annihilate its enemies all over the South (from what was once called Arizona to what is no longer called North Carolina) and claim it as their own, virtually unchallenged among what's left of the world's leaders.
In his world, Negan is the ringmaster. Blood is shed for sport. Everyone tunes in on time.
Since the walkers have given birth to artificial intelligence, the Powers That Be allow their paranoia of another world's end to drive them in its use.
They plug this new technology into everything. So vigilant, they're rendered blind.
As the years have passed, their control of this new life they've discovered has slipped, under their very noses.
The war between man and the walking dead is over.
Tonight, the first strike in a new war begins.
The war between man and machine.
The world doesn't know it yet, but Rick Grimes will be one of its new saviors.
Rick doesn't know it yet either, but one woman – or rather, the cloned Replicant of the woman he's loved since the day they met – will become his.
But first . . . he must fall.
Tonight is like any other night at the Bottom District Peacekeepers precinct on the thirty-sixth level of Alexandria City (a.k.a. The Safe Zone).
Anyone walking into the BDP can easily spot its worn, frayed edges clinging to the nearly seamless combo of old and new tech, marking the place of its history. It's held together by a series of labyrinthine tunnels with rooms carved out for various functions – arms lockup, forensics lab, training gym, shooting range, shower and locker room, and the bullpen.
The Family helps keep the ASZ defended against threats from the Wilds and the Gates of Hell. They often respond to calls coming in from just about every level. Well, every level except the Skyscrapers protecting Top District, of course. Those are patrolled by a special force, handpicked by Ambassador Monroe. That's fine, though. The Family and its partner precincts already have their hands full protecting The Bottom District and the levels above from walkers, psychotic cybernetic hybrids, regular ole criminals and maniacs – and any number of other threats. They're so good at it, it's a well-oiled routine for them now. The Bottom District is a shithole to be sure, but it's their shithole.
The people down here quite literally get the worst of what there is to salvage from this rotten world, but it beats the Wilds and they're still good people in need of protection; someone who gives enough of a damn to fight for them. This small band of misfits gets the job done, and then some. Rick's tight-knit gang has been together, in one form or another, since they found each other out in the Wilds before they found themselves protecting this place. As far as he is concerned, they are his family. The Family. The glue that holds the ASZ together.
Tonight, things are going pretty much as expected. The calls coming in have slowed to a trickle, and the latest episode of The Grid is on the biggest holoscreen with the sound off in the bullpen, as is the night shift's way. The holoscreen shows Negan's maniacal, grinning face, followed by mute violence.
The Grid's violence is mute because Heath and Eugene have the sound of a practically ancient song blasting on the precinct-wide speakers – Thin Lizzy's 'The Boys Are Back In Town'.
The boisterous classic rock song drifts throughout the common areas as steam begins to seep into the main tunnel from the shower room several halls down from the bullpen. Inside the shower room, Abraham Ford's booming voice can be heard above the blasting music: "Goddamn, I love my job!"
Ensconced in the thick plumes of hot, sticky steam from the large shower chamber in the locker room, six of the twelve members of The Family are cleansing themselves of their latest fight.
Abraham loves his classic rock after a good old nasty, hellacious roundup. Blood, dirt, road grease, and Lord knows what else wash away down the drain as he howls the lyrics of the song at the top of his lungs.
Guess who just got back in tooowwn today
Those wide-eyed boys that've been awaaay
The boys are back in town
Yeah, the boys are back in toooww-ow-own!
The music blasts from their Companion, LIZZY's surround sound system, shrouding them in bass, treble, and upbeat, zinging guitar riffs. The hard-fighting team lets the music lift their spirits as they indulge in the high of a successful hunt and a much-needed break before the last shift change of the night.
"Turn that tone-deaf shit down, will ya?" Rick Grimes rolls his eyes, wincing tightly against the sound of Abe's terrible singing, the blasting music, and the steamy water cascading over his neck and shoulders.
He can't help a surreptitious grin at his buddy's elation, though. Rick is usually the grouch of the operation, so he's secretly grateful to Abe for keeping everyone's morale up. Even at the expense of his eardrums.
Next to him (shaking his hair out like a puppy under the rushing water) is Rick's best friend, Shane Walsh.
Next to Shane is his girlfriend, the hotheaded, blonde sharpshooter Andrea Harrison. She ignores everyone as she stands with her hair hanging behind her to rinse out her shampoo, eyes closed, gathering her peace within the blanket of steam.
Across from Andrea, Abraham Ford ignores his boss, scrubbing his broad chest with bubbles aplenty as he continues bellowing the lyrics. He's energized and anxious to meet up with his little darlin' Sasha so he can plant a sloppy kiss on her.
Next to Abe, Glenn Rhee washes his jet black hair, soap getting in his eyes, tapping his foot, and swaying his narrow hips to the beat. He, too is eager for some face time with his girl, and their team member, Maggie Greene. She's not in the stall next to him like usual, because she's out on patrol of the upper M-District with Sasha, Mike, and Rosita.
"Belay that. I like your singing, Abe. Keep it up!"
Two stalls down from their serenader, the slick, pearlescent bubbles falling across her flawless body like a frothy waterfall, stands Michonne Snow – lovingly nicknamed The Samurai for her refusal to use anything but an old (and very deadly) katana in close combat. She's mouthing the words passionately with her lovely heart-shaped lips, soaping herself as her muscles relax. Her long, dark locs hang down her back as she runs her hands through them, letting them breathe, ridding them of the soot, blood, and gunsmoke from her job. She makes sure she soaps and conditions the side of her head that's shaved down to a buzz cut as well, feeling ten times better as she massages her scalp.
Behind her, his back to her, Rick feels the music and everything else drop away as he tries and fails to ignore her.
Showering is their ritual after work, but in all seven of the years they've been partners, Rick can never bring himself to look at Michonne like that in front of people. Not the way he truly wants to. Not for longer than a few captivating seconds when no one's paying attention, anyway.
He's never uttered the words aloud, but he finds his partner to be one of the sexiest creatures alive.
Not only is she a fierce fighter and brutally efficient Peacekeeper, she is also gorgeous, with a perfect, perfect body.
She's also smart as hell and tough as fuck. She's been through a world of hurt to get to where she is, living to see thirty-five years, twelve of those surviving in the new world that rose from the ashes of the old one. Most humans from the Wilds didn't live that long. Michonne is a survivor, just like he is – like they all are. Except before she stumbled upon them, she did it all on her own. At least Rick had his family – Lori, Carl, the others, and now Judith. Michonne had no one. Not even her son anymore, when they met all those years ago. But damn, none of that could dim her beautiful, dazzling smile. After witnessing firsthand what she's capable of for seven tumultuous yet bonding years, Rick has grown to respect Michonne.
He trusts her with his life.
He's attracted to her.
No, more than that.
He's been falling in love with her all this time.
Day by day . . . slowly but surely.
That's the truth. And the truth is complicated for several reasons.
She's his partner and best friend, not his girl.
She's dating their fellow Peacekeeper, Mike.
And up until five months ago, Rick was a married man.
Granted, his marriage was falling apart like the rest of the crumbling world even before he met her outside the Safe Zone, but the truth is the truth. Despite being utterly, gut-wrenchingly in love with his best friend and partner, he is still navigating the whiplash and sadness from his divorce. So, despite years of mixed signals and missed opportunities, Rick ignores his feelings. Their situation. Her intimacy with Mike in front of him. He pretends not to be tortured by any of it.
That's been kinda workin' for years, now. Not so much anymore.
In the present, Rick grits his teeth and puts his hands against the warm, wet tile, trying to pretend now, hoping the water will wash away his disconcerting thoughts. The music echoes and crescendoes around him as he fails to stop picturing himself in here alone with Michonne. Swallowed by steam . . . fucking her slowly against the slippery walls.
"Psst – hey, Rick!" Shane nudges him with a pruney elbow. Rick forces his eyes open (abandoning the fantasy that invaded his mind) to look over at his handsome friend. Shane grins at him, running his hands through his wet hair to get the water and his thick, dark bangs out of his face. "Pencil down, there, stud. We ain't technically off the clock 'til oh-one hundred."
Rick rolls his eyes and clenches his jaw at Shane's mischievous wink. The hardened gunslinger has a poker face like the best of 'em, but he can't hide how he feels from Shane. He certainly can't hide the evidence of his developing erection, not even in the steam. It doesn't help that Shane is an asshole about it at the best of times.
"Fuck you," Rick mutters, done with his shower.
"That's my job . . . " Andrea chimes in, walking up to Shane, her pink, buoyant breasts almost fully visible within the steam. She nuzzles his shoulder and wraps her arms around his muscular torso. Rick turns away as they kiss happily, walking back out into the locker room.
Michonne can see him retreating out of the corner of her eye. She breathes a tiny sigh of relief, inhaling the scent of the cleansing solution in the water. Good. He's finally gonna put some damn clothes on and stop distracting the hell out of her. Being around Rick these days is an exercise in serious self-restraint.
She tries to pretend she isn't watching him go, or admiring his tight, dimpled ass and long, sturdy legs. That leaning, bow-legged gait of his . . . those taught muscles carved into him like he's made of marble. Those wet, thick curls at the nape of his neck and hanging in his eyes . . . that thick, perfect, swinging dick . . .
When exactly did I start falling for Rick? she muses as she finishes up her wash and rings out her hair. She can't pinpoint the moment that she started looking at him and really seeing the galaxies burning in his fierce blue eyes, but she knows exactly what this feeling is. For months, now, whenever they aren't fighting or hunting or answering to their significant others, she's been wanting to get closer to Rick. Close enough to kiss, and more.
It's all very inconvenient. And aggravating.
"Sounds like the boss needs a beer, S.T.A.T.!" Andrea calls after Rick, her sea-green eyes glinting with mischief.
Both the shower and the shit talk are part of their ritual. Now they're all thoroughly relaxed from the downtime.
The night has just started, in fact.
Andrea watches Rick ignore her as he makes his way out of the showers.
She is satisfied with her kills, relaxed, horny, and ready to get drunk. She just wishes her boss would stop being a stiff old bore and loosen the fuck up for once. Yeah, his eighteen-year marriage went down like a load of shit, he's getting older, and he's had a secret (Andrea's ass) crush on his partner for way too long. But sooner or later the dude is just gonna have to say 'fuck it', take a risk, and let the chips fall where they may. She teases him because he deserves it, being such a coward about something that's pretty goddamned simple in her eyes.
Her man says to leave it alone to work itself out, so she's doing her best. For now.
"I keep forgettin' how well you know me," Rick finally shoots back in a sarcastic drawl.
Their leader tosses a crooked, unaffected grin over his shoulder as he grabs a towel and starts drying his dick and balls, his dog tags swinging across his slightly pink, toned chest, his curls hanging wetly in his eyes.
The mighty blues in question now shift for a millisecond toward Michonne, raking over her amazing body and perfect breasts as she emerges from the steam a few paces after him. He feels his breath catch in his throat and desire punch him in the gut as their eyes meet and linger. Thinking she's caught him staring, fear whips through him like a slingshot. He gives her a dutiful nod, rolling his eyes at Abe's antics to cover before dropping his gaze.
Rick can't turn around fast enough, wrapping his towel around his waist and plucking out another one to dry off his hair.
Michonne smirks, still wringing her locs out before she steps fully out of the shower.
She definitely caught him. She hasn't quite figured out what she's going to do about it yet.
She's going to do something. She's too restless and confused these days not to, and soon.
She just doesn't know when, or what, yet. Things are complicated.
"Toss me a towel, there, boss . . . " the gorgeous 'samurai' gestures with her chin, standing in fully naked, utterly spellbinding glory behind him, unfazed by his sudden shyness.
She finds it pretty amusing that he prefers to use real towels instead of just stepping into the Dyson, but then again, Rick is probably the last Luddite left in the Western Hemisphere (except for the perpetually brooding Daryl, of course). She likes to tease him by making a show of indulging his old-fashioned ways.
Rick's neck blushes but he manages to keep his cool, his unaffected grin remaining fixed in place as he grabs a towel for her. He turns to face her again, tossing it to her with quick, deft hands. "Good work out there today, 'Chonne."
He casts about for something else to say as he towels off his salt and pepper mop. She rewards him with a radiant smile.
"You've still got some pretty good moves yourself, for an old man." Rick finds his grin spreading, becoming genuine as her smooth voice reaches his ears under the booming music. "That hand cannon needs a spit shine, though. It's rusty as hell."
She gestures to where Rick's old school Colt Python is hanging in its holster in his old green locker.
"Hey, I respect the sword – you respect the hand cannon. That gun aims better'n any high-velocity shooter ever will," Rick drawls defensively, secretly always game for her teasing him. "And that ain't rust, that's blood from my numerous kills."
Michonne has been giving him plenty of opportunities to get back into the friendly, easygoing rapport they established working together for so long. She's glad to hear him return her serve without hesitation this time.
"Sure, as soon as your kill count can even get within wind of mine. Admit it, Rick. The sword's more efficient than that brick of yours."
"Ohhh-hoho!" Glenn calls from the shower, grinning at the competitive insult as the rest of the gang hoops and hollers for Rick to jab back.
"Them's fightin' words, I do believe, boss," Shane calls over the last, long guitar medley in the song as he allows Andrea to shampoo his hair. "You g'on let her get away with that, Rick?"
"Michonne is right, though," Andrea shrugs, using her nails to scratch Shane's scalp (if he had a tail, it would be wagging). "You're slippin', old man. By my last count, you've got seven-sixty-four to 'Chonne's eight."
"Eight-oh-one," Glenn corrects, spitting water out of his mouth like a missile launcher.
Michonne's smirk grows but she remains silent, letting the praise float over her head in the thinning steam. She folds her towel over herself and waits patiently for Rick to disprove her claim.
"Oh hell yeah! Last kill o'the night, that big, gnarly fucker she took down, like a BEAST!" Abe salutes the kill by thrusting his dick at the wall obscenely.
Rick just stares at Michonne, his blue eyes sparkling, stuck for how to respond. Usually, he'd have a ready quip to toss back, but he's off his game in a big way with her these days. He's so damned attracted to her that her witty insults only serve to drive a spike of arousal through him more often than not.
Michonne knows people – she knows Rick. Maybe he isn't ready to admit why he's acting different right now, but she's getting real damn close to forcing it out of him. He needs to get his head together, pronto.
He doesn't realize that she's working so hard to maintain their status quo because she's feeling pretty much the same way.
It makes her nervous, too, how intense her attraction is to him. They've both got some shit to work out.
"Actually –Michonne's kill count is at eight-hundred and twenty-eight, including walkers, humans, and human-cybernetic hybrids."
Their Companion, LIZZY's elegant disembodied voice interrupts the fun as the music stops abruptly.
The noisy rush of water and the hiss of steam now fill their ears. Abraham's mustache twitches in a huff and he raises his hands in exasperation. "Just an F-fuckin-Y-I, that was the best-damned part, LIZZY!"
"As entertained as I always am by your infantile obsession with prehistoric rock music, Carrot Top, there's a call coming in from Maggie's patrol unit."
If LIZZY had a face, Rick imagines she'd be smirking flirtatiously.
"Besides, you are very off-key, mate. Had I ears, they'd be bleeding," she quips, then adds cheerfully before he can retort: "Patching Maggie through!"
Her voice has a way of painting a complete picture of her personality for them, as is embedded into her programming. Like with all Companion programs in this day and age, once you install them, they are with you for life, wherever you roam.
They are trackers, personal computers, encyclopedias, friends, parents, guardians, educators, and entertainers. They provide the simple pleasure of company when you need it. They are designed to age with you, growing attached to you as a best friend, coworker, or family member. People treat them as pets, therapists, and even spouses.
LIZZY's been with The Family since the beginning of the BDP. She knows them inside and out.
The ups and downs of the technological boom they've all been born into manifests in sentient beings they depend on for everything – but Rick can never completely trust them.
For a man like Rick Grimes, trusting sentient machines is not part of his hard wiring, so to speak. He was born out in the Wilds before he found the Safe Zone. He's seen many horrible, traumatizing things – and he's done some, too, to protect his family before they were finally able to make a decent home here. Before he found peacekeeping – the dead, the bad people, and the bad deeds of the Wilds were all he knew from life.
Even behind walls, the bad still threatens to outweigh the good. That's why he does what he does.
So even though he likes LIZZY alright, and she's never given him a reason to distrust her programming, every day is a small struggle for him. Despite his trust issues, they get along fine. One slip-up, though, and he'll just rip her insides out of the BDP mainframe and be done with it.
"Yeah, I love you, too, sweetheart . . . " Abe grumbles, putting up no further argument.
Seeing Maggie means seeing Sasha. They spend so much time on opposite shifts, on opposite levels, getting a glimpse of her gorgeous face any time or place is always alright with him.
"We'll take it in here, thanks LIZZY," Glenn pipes up, already slipping and sliding to side-step Abe as the holoscreen illuminates smack in the middle of the shower room amongst the billowing steam.
"Hey, it's me. We're done for the night," a tough, but kind Southern twang sounds out in the humid room. "We just need to refuel before the shift change."
Everyone crowds around the holoscreen as Maggie's pretty, though dead-tired face appears. Sasha sits next to her, and Rosita sits behind her in their fully armored prowler as it bumps and rolls along. Maggie hates flyers, preferring to do her patrolling on the solid ground where she has sure footing.
The young spitfire scans the room and finally smiles when she spots Glenn among her other naked teammates. She snorts, her cap shadowing her deep green eyes.
"I see you slowpokes ain't done gettin' ready yet. Y'all gonna get mani-pedis together next or what?"
"Hey baby, sorry no – the water's extra hot tonight," Glenn confesses.
"Yeah, and I was right in the middle of a concert," Abe complains irritably for LIZZY's benefit. Everyone ignores him.
"We're almost done, here, too, don't worry," Rick speaks up. "We'll meet you up at Rovia's in twenty minutes."
"I call dibs on the jukebox," Mike chimes in as Maggie nods her agreement with Rick's instructions.
The good-looking, charismatic peacekeeper sticks his head into the view screen from the back seat of the prowler, glaring at Abraham defiantly.
"No. No. Mike. No," Abe counters, jabbing a finger at the holoscreen.
"Yes, oh yes, big guy," Mike tosses back. "Jesus'll back me up. Give 'Chonne a kiss for me, and tell her to wear that skirt I like. See y'all in twenty."
"Oh, goodie. The music nerds are gonna rumble tonight. Can't wait," Rosita, her dark pigtails sprouting out from underneath her ubiquitous army cap, mutters sarcastically from his side. She blows a big bubble with her gum, allowing it to pop against her smirking lips as she resumes cleaning her giant, high-velocity shooter.
Maggie and Sasha shoo him away as Sasha gets in a quick air kiss to her boo.
"See ya there, boss," Maggie ends the call, her face disappearing along with the holoscreen.
Rick is grateful for the distraction and the excuse to move on, already backing up toward his locker.
"Alright, outta the pool, kids. It's drinkin' time. Let's move out," he orders, actively avoiding Michonne's gaze.
Michonne watches him go, allowing her desire to drink and dance to overpower her desire to crack Rick's head open and figure out what the hell is going on in there. She forces herself to relax. She's going to see her boyfriend soon, and she needs to not be preoccupied with Rick when she does. The well-fit warrior heads to her side of the locker room, skin glowing, brow furrowed, lips pursed.
Abraham is the last to file out of the shower chamber, fetching a fresh cigar out of the vending machine by Rick's towel rack. He ignores the towels and steps into the Dyson, his thick, freckled ass dripping, preferring to auto-air dry. "Why don't you strike my road music back up, LIZZY?" Abe calls over the warm blasts of air swirling around his beefy body. "Come on, darlin', I promise, I won't sing this time. And you can even turn it down a smidge, how 'bout that?"
After a long pause, LIZZY finally answers.
"I find these terms acceptable. Go on, get your rocks off, love. I'm starting a ten-minute timer, Rick."
Rick had no doubt she would. She knows him.
'The Boys Are Back In Town' starts up again, quieter this time. Everyone groans but Abe as they all dry off and get dressed. In ten minutes, as promised, LIZZY announces that it's time to head to their favorite dive bar, Rovia's.
Rick grabs his jacket, holsters his gun, and slams his locker shut. His entire body – now dressed in a black button-down, snug black jeans, and his trusty brown boots – feels relaxed and clean thanks to the shower.
Glenn checks his two souped-up pistols and holsters them. He rigs his wrist daggers and flips on his suspenders, an adorable yet fierce assassin.
Andrea and Shane get dressed together, joking and flirting with each other – Shane smacks her ass and Andrea pulls his head down to her level to take a kiss while he pulls on his pants. They check and load their big ass guns, holster them, sheathe their bowie knife and machete respectively, and finally, they're ready to roll.
Lastly, Abe tosses on his army-green cargo jeans and tank, kisses his dog tags, grabs his rocket launcher of a high-velocity shooter, and follows everyone out of the locker room.
Their leader dutifully tries his best to ignore Michonne's body-hugging skirt, not to mention the sight of those shapely breasts perched elegantly inside her black tank and leather biker vest. To add insult to injury, tonight she's also wearing those sexy black boots that show off her legs. He can see her toned silhouette and freshly oiled locs hanging across her exquisitely-shaped shoulders out of the corner of his eye as the gang traipses down the tunnel, out to the bullpen.
As irritating as he finds Mike these days, Rick has to give him credit for finding ways to charm 'Chonne into pulling out all the stops. Her otherworldly ass switching around in that skirt alone is making her boss and best friend's jeans uncomfortably tight, and the night hasn't even really gotten started yet. So, Rick just gives it up and surreptitiously watches her ass move and sway, watching her walk with that graceful feline stride, the guitar licks of the music echoing in his mind.
Michonne can feel Rick's eyes all over her, but she ignores him.
Eugene and Heath are out front, as usual, staring at replays of barbaric, bloody kills on The Grid.
"We're out and on call for the night. Don't party too hard, fellas," Rick drawls as the group passes by the pen.
"Yeah, no jizz on the linoleum!" Shane adds, pounding a desk with his fist on his way out. Andrea snorts from her comfy position under his other arm.
"Fuck you, caterpillar dick," Heath calls back without tearing his eyes from the holoscreen, sipping his coffee sludge.
"Caterpillars are extinct, bitch," Shane retorts, grabbing his dick absurdly. "My shit is fully loaded; bionic; super-sonic!"
"That's pretty sad, you ask me," Eugene mutters thoughtfully. "Everyone talks about butterflies, but I'm a caterpillar man. Real ones, anyway."
"You ain't never even seen a real one in person, man, shut up," Heath retorts.
"Still . . . " the eccentric programmer and ops facilitator shrugs. "It's a tragedy."
Rick and Michonne laugh simultaneously, finding themselves walking at the same pace, side-by-side, like they're used to. When their strides line up, Rick relaxes a bit more, wondering why he started to resist this so much since she and Mike started dating. Having Michonne by his side feels so natural, so easy, so good to his bones.
The gang files out of the BDP's auto-sliding metal doors, everyone heading for their respective flyers.
It's perpetual night here on the Bottom, and it's starting to rain. The rain takes ages to make it down to them because of everything that's happening above them to slow its descent. By the time the rain flow makes it down here, it's mostly a thick, damp mist that makes everything around them practically glow. Rick loves the way Michonne looks in the rain.
He has to force himself to peel his eyes off of her glistening skin as they climb into their flyer.
Shane gives Rick a fist bump on the dirty curb before letting Andrea lead him to their cargo flyer where Glenn and Abraham wait. Rick's flyer is modeled after a vintage Dodge Charger – similar to the one on The Duke's of Hazard, an old-fashioned TV show he stumbled upon in the holoscreen archives once upon a time. Except this one isn't painted with an obnoxious Confederate flag. It's a simple, matte black that has come in handy on many missions. Rick doesn't need flashy down here in the deep. It's nigh indestructible, with souped-up weapons and targeting, excellent navigation – and above all, a favorite to Michonne – the worn-in bucket seats. Michonne likes the way the springs hug her ass when she settles in and her door slides shut for her. They've put a lot of miles on and done a lot of damage with this old whip.
"Let's have some fun tonight, okay, boss?"
Michonne finally forces Rick to look directly at her as she reaches over to brush her fingers against his hand.
He grips the steering wheel in response to her touch but plays it off by starting his flight process – bringing the flyer to rumbling, illuminated life, opening the holoscreen on the windshield, and pinpointing their destination on the map.
In answer, he grins at her, wanting nothing more than to do just that. Relax. Really let go of his self-restraint and get as close to Michonne as he's been fantasizing about for years. God help me, she's beautiful.
"You just watch those shots, princess . . . " he tosses back, finding his wit as he gets them in the air and begins to ascend to level twenty-two, where Rovia's is located. "You fell flat on your ass last week."
"Ohhhh, fuck you for bringing that up!" Michonne complains, relieved that he's back to talking shit.
He chuckles as they zoom upward. The lights of the towering buildings, tunnels, bridges, and flying traffic all over Alexandria City loom large and beautiful around them. Rick's mind is forming the secret, husky reply 'please do . . . ' when:
"Actually, Michonne never made it on her arse last week, Rick."
LIZZY interrupts, apparently listening in on his comms system as they zip past a giant, building-wide billboard.
"You caught her before she hit the curb and brought her home, remember? You were watching out for her, like always."
"Thank you, LIZZY, goodnight," Rick grunts sternly, his neck flushing red as he switches to manual comms.
He speeds up, avoiding Michonne's gaze again, trying to concentrate on gunning it to Rovia's for a good, stiff drink.
Rick finds himself hoping that Michonne will get lost in the brilliant rainbow of lights and eclectic mixture of Safe Zone residents like she usually does while he drives. She faces forward, her silence and tiny little smirk quite telling.
Shit, Rick thinks. This is gonna be a weird night.
Do you love me?
(Do you love me?)
Do you loooove me?
(Do you love me?)
Nooowww that IIII can daaaance?
The classic tune blasts from Jesus' old-fashioned jukebox in the red-tinted, seedy little hole-in-the-tower dive bar – Abe's turn in a long bout of his and Mike's musical jousting.
Just about all twelve of The Family (save Daryl, who is running late as usual) are enthusiastically cruising past the two-hour mark of their much-deserved downtime at Rovia's.
The owner, Paul a.k.a. 'Jesus' Rovia (on account of his long blond hair, empathetic blue eyes, and neat beard) is a keen observer, excellent advice giver, and benevolent indulger of the infamous peacekeeper gang whenever they cross his threshold. For Abe as an example, he keeps an ancient jukebox that plays the old hits from when the world was still alive, with aid from his Companion, GREGORY's connection to the infinite cloud database.
Andrea, Shane, Rosita, and Sasha are playing pool while Glenn and Maggie canoodle in a darkened booth at the back of the dive by the jukebox. Rick is seated at the bar, listening to Abe regale Jesus with the tale of their roundup earlier this evening – a notorious ring of dirty tech dealers selling faulty, black-market cybernetic weapons with a penchant for using walkers as sentinels. Though he tries to pay attention and chime in now and then, Rick is mostly silent as Jesus listens intently.
"So, I lay down cover fire from my flyer and we lit those bastards up – in and out, clean sweep," Abe chortles. "Then Glenn slides in with those little killer fuckin' daggers of his and Michonne with that sweet-ass sword! Done deal!" He pounds his meaty fist on the bartop, rattling the glasses. "Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma'am. We scored the loot, the credit, and the guns with nothin' but a Coke and a smile."
Jesus chuckles good-naturedly and gives Abe a slow clap. "Well done. Your next shot's on me."
"I'll drink to that, amigo," Abe raises his scotch and downs it without waiting
"Yeah, it was a good night's work," Rick drawls, still nursing his beer despite Abe's rush. "We didn't even need LIZZY for much backup. Michonne hacked into the Companion they hijacked at their hideout, no problem."
"Damn skippy," Abe agrees. "Nobody fucks with The Family. Not on our turf, am I right, boys n'girls?"
He raises his empty tumbler to the bar, receiving whistles and 'amens' from the peanut gallery behind them.
Rick tries not to stare at Michonne and Mike through the holoscreen behind Jesus that doubles as a mirror (or an aquarium full of holofish, or a viewer for The Grid depending on the vibes). They're dancing together. Close.
He's trying – but he isn't doing a very good job stopping his intense blue gaze from darting toward the cruel reflection of his best friend and one of his teammates all hugged up on each other. Her shapely lips, visible even in the dim, atmospheric lighting, turn up into a girlish smile as Mike whispers something sweet into her ear and steals a kiss from her cheek. She rolls her eyes and keeps dancing, her body moving perfectly in time to the beat. Mike happily follows her lead, twisting his hips and twirling her around as they groove to the old-school, feel-good track.
Rick's heart thunders in his chest. He wants to be the one on the dance floor with Michonne. Close. Touching and squeezing her lithe body to his in a glowing red heaven as she snaps her fingers to the music and bounces her ass sensually against him.
"Incoming call for Rick. It's Lori."
GREGORY briefly turns down the music in the joint to announce matter-of-factly.
"I'll take it outside, thanks," Rick pipes up, snapping out of his fixation on Mike and Michonne to take the call from his ex-wife out in the back hallway leading to the alley behind the bar.
On the dancefloor, Michonne's eyes wander toward Rick as he stands up from his stool and saunters away. He doesn't look eager to take the call. She knows why. They've all known, for a while – the custody battle that ensued during Rick and his wife's divorce was pretty brutal. He won, but it took a big toll on him, and his children.
Deep in thought, feeling bad for Rick, she lets Mike twirl her around again as the song begins its closing crescendo.
Rick ambles out back, the red glow giving way to a cool, dim gloom that relieves him as he tries to clear his head of his desire for his partner. Lori is calling. That usually means she needs a favor. He needs a strong poker face and all of his patience.
Before they split on not-so-friendly terms, their relationship had been going downhill for years. They hung on for their children. But once Lori started working up in the Skyscrapers, things rapidly collapsed. All she did was work. All she cared about was impressing those people up there. They fought all the time until they both started working around the clock, just to avoid the cloud looming over their family. It only made things worse and put a strain on their kids. Rick has custody but it's only temporary. Lori is always looking for an excuse to drag him back up there and take them away from him.
Carl is strong, though, and so is his young sister Judith. They're like their father. Stoic, responsible, and wise beyond their years. Rick works now so he can afford their babysitter, Jessie, who's a mother herself, and pretty good with the kids. She's a tad sycophantic, but she can be trusted. A good babysitter is a needle in a haystack down here. Not least because Rick insists on having a flesh-and-blood human watching after his son and daughter.
Taking a deep breath, Rick stops in the middle of the hall under a pale, dirty illuminator floating above his head.
"Alright, put her through."
"Patching Lori through now . . . "
Lori's pale face appears on a holoscreen GREGORY projects. She's on duty at the main command center for the Skyscrapers, as she's been for almost ten hours. She's supposed to be getting off, now, but something tells him there's a change of plans. Her beleaguered, yet elegant face regards her ex-husband's with fatigued restraint. He can always tell when she's trying to be patient and not get angry at the sight of him. Tonight is one of those nights.
"Hey, Rick," she sighs, running a thin hand through her fine dark bangs. "You finally off-duty?"
"We're on a break at Rovia's. I'm on call tonight. You need somethin'?"
Lori's brow furrows testily at his words, annoyed that he always assumes she's calling to ask him to do something. She further hates that he is usually right.
"Well, since you're askin', I need you to pick up Carl and Jude tomorrow. I was tryin' to find a way to wiggle out of takin' an extra shift all day. Can't be done, though."
Rick clenches his jaw, instantly aggravated. She always does this. And she knows he won't say no.
"Alright. Fine. Anything else?"
Lori bites her lip, blinking contritely at him. "No . . . guess not."
Anxious to get back inside and settle down at the bar so he can continue secretly torturing himself watching Michonne in peace, Rick ends the call before she can start up again. "I'll see you later. End call, GREGORY."
"Goodnight, Lori. Love to the kids."
GREGORY ends the call and Lori's face disappears. Rick stalks back toward the bar's red light.
Van Morrison's 'T.B. Sheets' is now filling the red air along with the intricate plumes of Abe's cigar smoke.
Another of his classics.
The Family has claimed the booth in the back of the dive.
They sit crowded around each other, drinking, smoking, laughing, and telling stories about their best kills.
"I'll never forget that shit," Glenn muses, one arm wrapped around Maggie's shoulders as he twirls his beer on the table.
The lone illuminator above their booth breaks up the red air cloaking them in the now near-empty bar as Glenn reminisces about the last time Abraham saved his life. Maggie gazes at her husband fondly as he lifts his arm from around her neck to mimic an HV machine gun, popping off invisible rounds.
"Boom-boom-boom-BOOM! Walkers dropping like flies all around me, man. Shit was wild. I thought I was a goner."
"Yeah, didn't you pee your pants, too?" Daryl's low, scratchy drawl chimes in from the entrance as he saunters toward them, late as usual. He makes his way to their booth and dumps his bow on the table. "'Sup, mole people. How's life down here in the underground?" he growls, his slick hair hanging in his face as he shimmies his big arms out of his damp leather jacket.
"Where the hell have you been, asshole?" Rick grunts good-naturedly, leaning back in his seat.
Daryl shrugs and slumps down next to him, reaching over for one of the pitchers of beer in the center of their table. "Snuck across the border to pay a lil' family visit with my blue ass big brother."
Everyone moans and shifts around uncomfortably at Daryl's fondness for casually breaking the law to stroll over to The Gates of Hell.
"You're gonna get caught and thrown onto The Grid, you keep pulling shit like that . . . " Glenn gripes, dragging the last swig of beer from his bottle.
"Fuck you, ass licker," Daryl shoots back coolly.
"Hey. Don't knock it til you've tried it," Maggie cuts in to diffuse the tension. "Maybe if you did, you'd be able to score more than hybrid prostitutes every full moon with those hairy balls of yours."
Glenn grins triumphantly as he leans back again and wraps his arm around his woman.
"Ha! She's just referred to your inability to perform adequately during coitus to counter your point about Glenn's taste for analilingus. I believe that used to be commonly referred to as a 'wicked burn' among you humans."
GREGORY muses from out of nowhere.
After a good laughing fit, they all move on so Daryl can recover from Maggie's 'wicked burn'. Now the topic of conversation is Rick and Michonne's neverending kill competition. Shane shakes his head in disbelief, whistling around his toothpick as he sits back and lets Andrea play with his jet-black hair.
"Boy, I ain't never seen anybody handle a weapon like 'Chonne and that damn sword."
"Yeah, you're a badass, babe," a tipsy Andrea agrees, winking across the table where her friend sits cozied up with Mike.
"Oooh, do y'all remember those pet walkers she had before that shit was outlawed?" Maggie sings reverently, her bright eyes widening as big as saucers. Abe, Sasha, and Rosita pound their fists on the table, remembering the 'pets' fondly.
"Fuck, I forgot about those. Shit was bad-ass . . . " Sasha agrees, clinking shot glasses with Rosita and tipping hers back.
"Pfft. Y'all must've forgotten that time Rick's savage ass bit a dude's motherfuckin' throat out," Daryl grumbles in disagreement as Rick and Michonne's gazes find each other's. "I love you, 'Chonne, but you gotta give it up for that one, sweetheart. You were there. You remember."
"I do . . . that's how I knew his ass was crazy, " Michonne teases, bursting into radiant laughter as Rick's pink lips sprout into a crooked grin. They laugh together, and Rick is tipsy enough not to bother stopping himself from openly staring at her appreciatively, ignoring everyone else, including Mike.
The boyfriend in question sits up straight from his position leaning into Michonne, his dark eyes darting from his woman to his boss. He's starting to get more noticeably (at least, to everyone but Rick, it seems) uncomfortable, despite Michonne's attempts to soothe him with her attention whenever she can.
Jesus's observant gaze slides from Rick to Michonne and back again as he sips his scotch, having joined the group for a break of his own. "Cheers to you all. You keep this place going. You'll always have my gratitude," he raises his glass above the table. "To The Family . . . "
"To The Family!"
"Aww, thanks cupcake," Abraham reaches over and tries to wiggle Jesus' beard with his meaty fingers, but the eloquent bartender dodges his efforts easily.
"Rick, why don't you go ahead and take a fuckin' picture, huh?" Mike growls out of nowhere, bringing the amicable conversation to a screeching halt.
Michonne's heart jumps into her throat and starts pounding away as Mike's strong arm tightens around her waist, his fingers digging into her thigh. The chilled-out music suddenly doesn't seem to matter in the tense, red quiet.
All eyes turn to Rick, Mike, and Michonne.
Michonne wants to say something – anything – to stop what's about to happen, but she can't think of what. She's pinned against Mike's hard, warm (and getting warmer as he gets angrier) body, her gaze on Rick's, unable to turn away.
"Mike . . . " she manages, but he ignores her.
For his part, Rick sits back in his chair, his fingers playing idly with the dewy neck of his beer bottle. His prismatic blues glint under the pale illuminator above the table as they peel slowly away from Michonne's nervous, beautiful face to land on Mike's cold, hard one.
"Somethin' on your mind, Mike?" he drawls quietly, tilting his head at his younger teammate.
In truth, he knows exactly what Mike is getting at. This was inevitable. It's almost a relief.
Still, he waits, holding his ground.
"Shit," Andrea mutters under her breath, shrinking down in her seat, attempting to hide behind Shane's muscular arm. Shane is glued to the stand-off like it's an old-fashioned Western shoot-out.
Who the fuck is gonna score one first?
No one can say they didn't see this coming. If she thinks about it, least of all Michonne.
For months, ever since she started dating Mike, this has been brewing.
Mike isn't stupid. He definitely notices and has so far been trying to put up with his boss ogling his woman every chance he gets. Rick is the one who gets to ride around with her every shift like they're Bonnie and fuckin' Clyde. Mike thought maybe once he and 'Chonne started getting serious, the dude would take the hint, so he laid low, for her sake.
But no. Not Ricky-Dicky-Doo-Da-Fuckin-Grimes.
Well, tonight is enough. He's tired, he's just come off a long, tedious shift listening to Rosita pop gum all goddamned day, and all he wants is some quality time with Michonne. He can't even enjoy it, because his boss's eyes are all over his girlfriend, like they always have been. Sittin' there lookin' smug with that lie of a wedding ring and that hidden hard-on under the table. Mike is beyond fed up at this point.
Rick utters: "Why don't you enlighten us?"
Mike explodes, shooting up from the table like a canon, tipping Michonne off him, into Glenn.
"FUCK YOU, Rick. You know exactly what the fuck I'm talkin' about."
"Yikes . . . " Maggie hiccups, scooting over to get the hell out of the way.
"Chill, man," Daryl mutters patiently. "We're tryin' to kick back, here."
Rick is still sitting there, staring up at Mike with a half-grin on his pink lips. His eyes dart over to Michonne, who recognizes the testy look inside that crystal blue sea instantly. He throws Mike a lifeline.
"No. I don't know. So, why don't you take a seat? Quit while you're ahead . . . ?"
"Why don't you try to stop me from kickin' your ass in the back?" Mike retorts heatedly.
Rick scoffs, if only to quell the volcano of anger threatening to boil over inside him.
"Trust me, you don't want that, Mike," Daryl answers, his steel eyes observing the pissed-off man keenly, his thick, yet nimble fingers itching for his bow.
"Fuck you, too, D. Let's go, old man," Mike is now moving away from the booth, causing everyone to lift themselves out of their riveted stupor in protest. "You afraid to lose in front of Michonne, is that it? My mother fuckin' girlfriend? Or you don't wanna explain why you got your ass beat down to your kids later?"
"Fuck a duck in the summertime," Abe almost chokes on his beer, impressed that Mike has actually gone there.
"Now, hold the fuckin' phone, Mike," Shane pipes up, his nostrils flaring.
"Y'all better get him . . . " Sasha warns, having witnessed firsthand how vicious Rick can be when he's backed into a corner.
The throat jerky from a few years ago isn't even half of it. Mike is a good fighter and a loyal, supportive team member – but he's letting Rick's graying hair and unhurried ways fool him. He doesn't stand a chance.
"Alright, then," Rick nods. He stands up from his chair, his demeanor scarily calm. "Let's go."
"Jesus, I would not advise this course of action - "
GREGORY attempts to intervene.
"Mike . . . " Michonne interrupts finally, her angry voice cutting through the thick air like the fatally sharp edge of her katana. Mike stiffens, his hands balling up into fists at his sides. He rips his gaze away from Rick's to look at her. "Why don't you step outside with me for a minute? Let's go get some air . . . now."
Michonne rises gracefully from the booth, stepping out of it with one sexy black boot after the other. Her expression and body language brook no refusal. She runs a hand through her loose locs, waiting for Mike, avoiding Rick's gaze. She holds on to her annoyance, needing to set Mike straight on some shit. Needing to clear her own head and escape this room full of staring eyes – especially Rick's and the way they make her feel. It's affecting her relationship with her actual boyfriend. She needs to put a stop to it.
Finally, Mike relents, huffing out a breath and nodding harshly in her direction. He stalks out ahead of her without another word to anyone. Michonne follows. Rick watches her go, her alluring form gliding through the hazy cigar smoke.
When she's gone, it hits him. What he was just caught doing, and what almost just happened because of it.
In front of the whole damn precinct.
He slowly sits back down in his seat, reaching over to drain the last of his beer for something to do.
"Well, that was a hell of a lot more entertaining than I expected," Rosita deadpans, propping her boot-clad feet up on the table. "Who knew Mike was such a drama queen?"
"Rick, I told you, man," Shane leans forward and half-heartedly tries to whisper across the table at Rick. "You can't go dippin' your pen in the company ink. 'Specially not when it's on loan from a hothead like Mike. I mean, Michonne's hot, and all, but . . . "
"Shut the fuck up, would ya, babe?" Andrea groans, feeling kinda bad for Rick.
"What?" Shane doesn't get it. "I'm just givin' him the advice he needs!"
"Listen to your girlfriend," Daryl replies raspily, putting the kibosh on it so Rick doesn't have to.
Though the bossman knows, deep down, his childhood friend is right. So is Andrea.
He has no business eyeballing someone else's girlfriend all night, where anyone could catch him. Michonne's his partner, his second in command, his right hand. Not his property or his wet dream.
He has to straighten the fuck up and act like he has some sense.
Michonne has no idea how Rick feels about her. It isn't her fault or her problem.
He wants her, badly, but he cannot have her.
He keeps telling himself this as he tries not to stare at the door every chance he gets for any sign of her.
The minutes tick by, and the conversation slowly gets going again without her.
"GREGORY," Jesus calls, watching Rick with empathy and concern from his end of the table.
"What can I do for you, my Lord and Savior?"
"Dial your sarcasm down a bit, first. Then play something for us. Something funky," Jesus answers, still watching his most valued regular (and friend) sit there in a stupor, pensively waiting for Michonne.
"Roger that. I believe the next song was Michonne's choice. In the mood for another round on the house?"
GREGORY sounds much more professional, now. Though still a tad bitchy.
Jesus sees that Rick Grimes is in love with his partner Michonne Snow.
Everyone does. But Jesus can also plainly see that working overtime to hide it is taking its toll on Rick.
The man is poised to snap. Any moment.
The least Jesus can do, while his doors are still open, is make sure his friend has plenty of alcohol to drown his sorrows and soothe his pining heart.
"Absolutely. And keep them coming."