Written to the score of . . . "Rachel's Song", by Vangelis (Blade Runner Soundtrack, 1982)
Michonne sits still, staring at her hands.
These are my hands.
A fact. And yet a mystery.
She's seen these hands before. And yet she is seeing them for the very first time with these particular eyes.
Curious, the mixed signals the simple sight of a pair of hands can spark inside of her.
And there is more.
An awareness so vast, so beyond what can be labeled as mere sight, that she can only sit still and let it overwhelm her as she gazes down at herself beneath the harsh white light.
With just a small amount of concentration, she can see thousands of microscopic hairs and layers upon layers of skin cells, right down into the follicles from which they grew. To the naked human eye, this is skin. But to Michonne's vision, this is an intricately complex tapestry. She can see millions of strands of organic and cybernetic tissue cells tightly woven together, teeming with data – from the pigmentation of her skin to her ability to sense the slight chill in the room.
Each cell holds information. Each strand carries out a command. To 'feel' the air or the mist or the sun. To perceive 'touch', like that of the man whose voice roused her to consciousness. To download and categorize the 'senses' like any human might without notice. She can see the handiwork of the microbots that constructed every inch of her in every pore.
In her few short minutes of existence, Michonne has come to realize that her 'vision' reaches far and beyond what it used to.
When she was . . . was she ever . . . human?
Yes. She was. There is information there. Over thirty years of data.
A digital footprint abruptly cut short and left unchecked in net space, centered around one Captain Michonne Snow.
She is Michonne. She had been human once.
At least, that is what her positronic brain was built – invented, grown, programmed – to know.
What am I now?
Something like an answer comes to her without having to think about it for more than a millisecond. She is much more than human now, though human is what still seems familiar to her. Familiar and yet inaccurate.
Underneath this skin, she can feel bone and sinew, but also an adamantium core that fortifies her from the inside out. She suspects that if this tower collapsed on top of her right now, she could withstand it. She would survive.
She can not conclude what this all means in relation to her current environment. Only that beyond her hands, there's an infinite universe of data that her positronic neural pathways are starting to process. She can only allow a small amount of it to register at a time, as though pulling back a heavy curtain to reveal the brilliant, blinding sunshine, inch by inch.
Her eyes move from her hands to the rest of her, her gaze making a slow, carefully scrutinizing odyssey across this vessel.
This is my body.
This body is all at once familiar, foreign, and highly stimulating; she is dark-skinned, with tightly coiled spools of thick black locs hanging down her shoulders. She has slender, long fingers. Narrow, graceful feet. Toned legs and calves. Strong thighs. A narrow waist that gives way to a round, muscular backside. Perfectly toned arms. Her shoulders feel perfectly aligned; her back and posture perfectly straight. Medium-sized, round, perky breasts. A scar on her right thigh. Another small discoloration on her left wrist; what the cloud reveals to her as being called a 'birthmark'.
She has definitely seen these things before . . . but where . . . when? In what lifetime, what universe, what realm of net space?
Does it matter? She cannot conclude. All she knows is that she's been made to exist again, now. She is alive again.
Blood courses through her veins. She has a heartbeat; a pulse. She is breathing. She is flesh, bone, and unbreakable alloy. She is an infinitely complex matrix of organic matter and wiring, programming, instinct, and fragments of data from a life cut short. Michonne comes to terms with what she's seeing while trying to reconcile it with what she remembers from before she opened her eyes and found herself lying on this table.
Darkness. But before that? Vast, empty net space. And before that?
A face. A voice. With a . . . Southern twang?
What is a 'Southern twang'? Michonne finds herself asking the question in her mind, and one second later she knows every variant, definition, and use of the phrase in existence. This information streams through her positronic net at the mere behest of a single thought. It feels like a rush. A high. It feels like power. But these are not the answers she wants. This data does not connect her to the face that produced the surge of sensation inside of her that she felt when she woke. It does not connect her to the actual voice that belongs to the 'twang'. His voice . . . she closes her eyes and tries to hear it now.
I'm comin' for your kill count, and then you're gonna cum for me . . . a few times . . . princess . . .
Michonne wants to hear this voice again. Very much. In person. Produced by the source.
Rick. Where is he?
The thought of his voice and its resulting sensation jolt through her like a fierce current a second time. She cannot name this desire yet, except that she believes it's some form of just that – desire. Her first sense of emotion in all of her five minutes, thirty-nine seconds of existence. Caused by a name and a memory.
Instead of that very specific voice with that very specific 'twang', Michonne hears another in the here and now.
"Take your time," Dr. Jones speaks gently. "I know this must all be very overwhelming."
Michonne remembers that she is not alone. She is in a lab, and the man with the kind face who was here when she woke is still nearby. As is what Michonne immediately recognizes as the only android in existence. DATA.
DATA nods at Michonne in greeting, standing near her examination table with his hands folded behind his back. She can tell that his yellow eyes are cataloging every strip of information from her physical appearance, demeanor, and reaction to her surroundings as he gazes at her benignly.
"I believe she recognizes me, doctor," DATA surmises correctly, raising his eyebrows with a mixture of 'intrigue' and 'surprise' registering across his silver-skinned features.
"Quite right of her, too," Dr. Jones smiles proudly as he watches his two creations interact for the first time.
"You're DATA," Michonne answers, ignoring the surprise of hearing her own voice for the first time. She is attempting to complete a personal file of him to contain all the information being served to her at the speed of thought. "You're an android. Created by Dr. Morgan Jones fourteen years ago. You're one of a kind."
"That is correct," DATA answers her matter-of-factly, taking a step toward her while Dr. Jones looks on in wonder. "I am not certain how much you are aware of at present. Your positronic net is quite new and your neural pathways are still forming, after all. Can you tell us where you are?"
"I'm inside the machine laboratory at the Old Towne Hotel Tower. I think. I'm on an exam table. I've been sitting here for six minutes . . . exactly now."
"Correct again," DATA confirms.
"What am I?" Michonne asks the android with a deep, thoughtful frown.
DATA turns slightly to Dr. Jones, who nods his silent permission.
"You are the very first of your kind and one-of-a-kind, like myself. However, you are not an android, nor are you a cyborg. You are also not a hybrid. You are a Replicant."
"You are wholly unique, Michonne," Dr. Jones now finishes, drawing her attention back to him. His face is still kind, though his eyes and brow reflect serious contemplation. "The very first human Replicant I ever made. I never thought . . . "
He shakes his head in awe, staring at her.
"Dr. Morgan Jones. DATA's creator," she identifies him, matching his kind face with the information the cloud sends to her. He is everywhere in the cloud. His name elicits reverence. He is the cause of innovation, passionate debate, and the end of years of bloody, tragic war. "You created me."
He appears somewhat troubled, even saddened, by her last statement.
"God made you, child, thirty-six years ago. All I did was pay homage to his grace. As much as I could."
"I don't understand."
"What do you remember?"
The kind, troubled doctor steps toward Michonne while DATA examines her readings with a holoscanner. He gazes at her encouragingly, staring deep into her eyes. At the word 'remember', Michonne tilts her head at him, retreating inward, searching. These unbidden images and sensations of a voice and a face and a feeling so strong it lights her up inside . . . are these called 'memories'? Yes. These are her first memories of the life she lived before she woke up as a Replicant.
"You said a name when you woke. Anythin' else you remember? What other names, records, facts can you recall?"
DATA scans her brain while she thinks about it. The name and the face. The voice she can't shake. And then, more.
Rick.
Glenn.
Maggie.
Abraham.
Sasha.
Carl. Judith. Mike.
Andre.
And so many others. Men and women she fought alongside in her other life. They shared many laughs together. Showers together. Many battles. Some sunrises. Affection. Comradery. A long journey, during which they lost many and nearly starved, before the records of their feats from all over the Safe Zone began. Music. Always music. Music that traversed time through the cloud, way back when art and creative expression were abundant commodities.
And a disembodied voice, always there, always watching. Preserving it all. Their Companion.
LIZZY.
History and infinity and present tense, all in the same stream of data. Producing a strong sense of 'home' totally unlike the stark reality of sitting naked, draped in a lab coat, on an examination table in a cavernous, chilly, abandoned lab.
There is much more. Too much to process quickly; too unstable an experience for her seven-minute-old brain. She focuses on the one face that stands out above all the rest. A slow grin. An ocean of affection contained in a pair of deep blue eyes.
"His name is Rick," she answers finally, turning back to DATA, "and I am Michonne. That much I know."
DATA's eyebrows quirk up curiously as he searches his net archives for something resembling 'tact'.
"Yes. You are the Replicant version of Captain Michonne Snow, a renowned Peacekeeper here in the Alexandria Safe Zone. I believe the 'Rick' you mentioned is the equally renowned Captain Rick Grimes . . . your former partner."
Rick Grimes. Renowned Peacekeeper of the Alexandria Safe Zone. Partner.
That word seems familiar, but it does not do justice to the persistent expectation to see him, hear his voice.
"Where is he?"
Dr. Jones closes the distance between them, placing a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance.
"You'll see him again, in due time. But for now, I need you to listen carefully, Michonne. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes . . . " she listens carefully, committing every line and fold of his kind face to her permanent memory.
"We don't have much time," Dr. Jones urges seriously. "I have a lot to teach you, and only a few days to do it. The Smiths are gonna come back for you, and then . . . well I'm afraid your fate is out of my hands."
He scoffs sadly, eyeing her with melancholy wonder. She watches the emotion move across his features like a ripple in an otherwise still lake.
"They made me create you. They're gone for now, but they'll be back to rip you outta my arms before either of us is ready. But that's just how cruel the world is that you're bein' born into. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand."
"I know. You have a lot to learn. I think we'll start by havin' DATA here answer any questions you can think of. Then rest. We'll begin the real work tomorrow. DATA? Take good care of her."
"Of course. Goodnight, doctor."
Dr. Jones' aging human body looks quite fatigued suddenly. He must need a rest of his own. She recognizes fatigue she can see affecting Dr. Jones from his posture to his gait to his breathing pattern.
She isn't tired. She doesn't think she will ever be tired. She wants to believe she can 'rest', but she doubts it.
Michonne turns to DATA. Dr. Jones said the android would answer any questions she could think of. Fitting. Acceptable. He is not human and doesn't require rest either.
DATA watches Dr. Jones make his way to his meditation chamber, standing perfectly still until the door slides shut. Once his creations are alone together, DATA ends the holoscanning program he was using to get readings of Michonne. His yellow eyes rise to hers expectantly, understanding how insatiably curious she must be.
"Your first question, Captain Snow?"
The sun will rise in forty-seven minutes, but DATA is still answering questions.
This will become Michonne's habit. Days spent learning. Nights spent reflecting.
Tonight, Michonne's interrogation of DATA is quite nearly ceaseless, as she thinks of something new to ask him every thirty seconds. Sometimes every twenty-tree.
He shows her every level of the tower. Where Dr. Jones stores things, where they manufacture prototypes, the training facilities, the showers (which he does not require, but sometimes indulges in as 'practice'), the food dispensaries . . .
He patiently explains how her 'vessel' works. She is constructed to function, for the most part, like a human, with various 'upgrades' along the way. She requires sustenance but at a much slower rate than normal humans. If she pushes herself and has no other choice, she can survive one hundred days without it; sixty days without water. Otherwise, her vessel will shut down, slowing every cell in her body to a near standstill to conserve energy and life functions until she can be replenished.
"Your eyesight is one thousand times sharper than a human's, microscopic when you concentrate."
Michonne gazes around, seeing the dust mites floating in the air. DATA is correct about her eyesight.
They walk and talk as he escorts her through the windy, aging halls of the fourth level, where they keep the greenhouse.
"You can hear on several different frequencies, though not simultaneously. As far as strength and agility . . . " DATA raises an eyebrow as they walk, contemplating the best way to explain this particular set of abilities. Michonne focuses on his exact expression, committing it to memory. "Your inner skeleton is made from the strongest metal alloy on earth, and you would have no problem besting a grizzly bear . . . or outrunning a cheetah. However, the full potential of your abilities will need to be tested and developed over time."
He explains the walker plague that nearly wiped out the earth's population. The survivor and territory wars that followed. Dr. Jones' discovery of artificial intelligence, borne from 'walker tech', and the creation of the United Colonies for Peace across what is now left of the world. Now he intends to show her how they survive today, when so many of the species of earth have gone extinct. The greenhouse is the center of the universe, as far as artificial life on this planet is concerned.
It's Dr. Jones' personal Eden, and Michonne is his Eve.
They reach the greenhouse, and DATA bends slightly to allow JENNY to scan his retinas.
The doors slide open for them. DATA stands aside to allow Michonne to enter first.
Inside, there is a vast forest full of plant life, wildlife, insects, birds, and even a waterfall she can hear hidden somewhere within, emptying down into some distant cavern at the bottom of the tower. The space is as vast as an entire level, almost, but for the corridor they took to get here.
Michonne stands very still, taking in everything her eyes, senses, and mind can pinpoint and process.
Owls hoot.
Crickets chirp.
Snails crawl slowly along.
Butterfly wings flutter.
Snakes unfurl from the branches of trees.
Plants stretch toward the approaching dawn.
All of these creatures are emitting positronic signals; all unique.
All Replicants – but none as sophisticated a design as she.
Michonne walks further into the greenhouse, her eyes closed, feeling her way from the way each unique signal calls out to her. She catalogs them all as she goes, sensing the birds flying above her head, the insects buzzing around her like radio waves, the plants filling her lungs with oxygen.
DATA watches with equal concentration.
After a moment, he follows, noticing an artificial mosquito landing on Michonne's arm.
She snaps at it, crushing it without even having to look at it.
DATA frowns as a bot comes zipping toward them from out of nowhere to clean her arm of the carcass.
Michonne watches the bot work, frowning.
"If you would please, try not to destroy the prototypes," the android suggests gently. "Dr. Jones oversaw the creation of each one of these unique lifeforms. He considers them . . . " DATA tilts his head, his brows furrowing, ". . . his children."
"Like me?" Michonne posits.
"Yes. Like you."
"I'm sorry," she offers him after taking a moment to assess what she identifies as remorse passing through her. "I won't do that again. It just . . . felt like something I would do. I don't think I like bugs."
DATA arranges his features into something akin to a smile. "A memory. That is very good."
After letting her spend a little more time in the greenhouse, which is more like a miniature jungle, DATA shows Michonne to her sleeping quarters. She still does not feel tired, but she follows him inside obediently. There is still so much she doesn't know. She has a lot to process and learn. DATA and Dr. Jones are being kind to her. She's compelled to listen to them even though she wants to go find Rick. Dr. Jones said she would see him in due time. So she'll wait. For now.
"I understand that sleep is a concept you are not yet fully accustomed to," DATA acknowledges before he leaves her alone. "I suggest, for now, simply try to be still and connect to your memories. Explore them. Examine them. Do not be afraid of unanswered questions, or even memories that register as painful to you. The more you allow your neural processor to develop of its own will, the more Michonne you will become."
She nods her understanding, contemplating his advice. It sounds like the best course of action until she can see Rick again.
"I will return to start your combat training in a few hours. Dr. Jones will eventually show you how to meditate – something we come to think of as 'sleep' for those of us irrevocably tethered to net space."
"But he's human. Doesn't he sleep?"
"Dr. Jones is not like most humans. His work keeps him occupied during all hours. Therefore, meditation keeps him sane, he would say. Goodnight, Captain."
"DATA?" Michonne calls out to him one more time before he leaves. DATA pauses in the doorway, tilting his head back to listen. "Why am I alive? Why have I been created?"
Without moving an inch, DATA answers: "In some respects, it is intended that you should bring hope to the citizens of the Safe Zone again. In others . . . I believe you are a product of humanity's necessary evolution. Perhaps even a catalyst for its revolution. Time will tell."
"Thank you."
"You are always welcome, Captain . . . Michonne. I will see you at oh-eight-hundred. Sharp."
When she is alone again, Michonne calls out to the darkness. "JENNY. Are you there?"
"Yes, Michonne, I am here."
JENNY's patient voice sounds out to her.
Michonne became aware of JENNY while DATA showed her around. The longer she's conscious, the more aware of many more Companion entities hovering in net space she becomes. She doesn't dare go near them. Not yet. They're strangers.
"Open the viewers, please?"
"Of course."
JENNY opens the wall-to-wall viewers in her quarters.
Michonne walks toward the vast, misty, twinkling scene spread out before her. A city of towers. She looks out over the sky bridges and zooming flyers, wondering where – in all of this – is Rick Grimes, the man with the beautiful eyes and Southern twang.
Written to the score of . . . "RUN" by Michelle Birsky (Terminator Zero Series Soundtrack)
"Jeet Kune Do," DATA announces.
Michonne instantly shoots out her right fist, pivoting sideways with her left foot.
If DATA was a lesser being or a human, she would have smashed his eye socket in.
As it happens, he is able to block her attack, though he finds himself sliding backward exactly three centimeters.
DATA raises an eyebrow. She is already proving stronger than him, and that was only her first blow.
"Excellent. Again."
Again, Michonne attacks, and this time she does not stop.
DATA easily blocks her advances at first, but she adapts quickly, doubling up her efforts with the speed of thought and rapidly intensified instinct. She strikes him in the ribs, arms, back, legs, and the side of his titanium alloy 'skull'. He is a quick study himself. He's able to keep up with her. With lightning speed, they continue sparring fluidly, and confidently around the vast, open space. In the shadows, Dr. Jones watches, allowing one of his bots to refill his coffee.
"Kung Fu," DATA announces suddenly, switching his style without any preamble or stumble.
Michonne calls forth every technique of attack or defense in the cloud, and they dance.
It's now her Tiger against his Crane. They move so fast that their movements are blurred to the naked human eye. Their blows are so deadly that they tear chunks out of the floor, walls, and pillars surrounding them.
"Kendo . . . " DATA tosses Michonne a katana.
She catches it mid-air, unsheathing it as she flips backward, instinctively using both its casing and the sword itself as weapons. When she faces him again, he holds two katanas in his hands, his stance perfect. He starts advancing on quick, nimble feet. They spar faster and with deadlier force, their blades slicing against each other, causing sparks while they both try and fail to land blows. DATA slices off half Michonne's locs on her right side as she lithely bends over backward and flips away to avoid being decapitated.
"Hapkido."
Michonne growls, tossing her sword into the floor, and charges him.
"Kickboxing."
" . . . Pencak Silat."
"Gauntlets."
"Short swords . . . "
"Daggers."
" . . . Staves."
"Kajukenbo."
"That's enough, DATA," Dr. Jones finally interrupts when they've brought each other to an unbreakable stalemate, trapping each other with rapid-fire defensive blows.
The pressure is so intense that they are making craters in the concrete flooring that are growing steadily wider as they crumble inward under the weight of both DATA and Michonne's strength.
DATA releases her and immediately steps back, at ease.
Michonne slowly stands up straight, relaxing.
Dr. Jones walks onto the floor, now finally bathed in the light from the open viewers on the levels above them. He nods at DATA to stand by and turns to offer Michonne another of his kind smiles.
"How did that feel, Michonne?" he asked gently. "Did it jog any memories for you? You used to be a formidable Peacekeeper. Now it seems you're far more advanced than I'd ever hoped."
Michonne breathes, not tired in the slightest, but certainly overwhelmed with stimulation. Memories, perhaps, yes. She finds her gaze shifting toward the katana still buried by the tip of its blade into the floor.
"I had a sword like that one. Except mine was altered. Where is it?"
"We don't know . . . " Morgan answers her somberly. "But if it belonged to you in your old life, you'll find your way back to it. That's how this is supposed to work."
Michonne still doesn't quite understand her purpose, but she nods anyway.
"Shall we begin H-V weapons training now, doctor?" DATA inquires.
Morgan observes his creation for a moment longer before finally giving his consent to move on.
They don't have much time to waste, after all.
"Take a deep breath, Michonne. "
Morgan's gentle, low voice guides Michonne as they sit cross-legged, facing each other in his meditation chamber.
"In and out . . . that's it. Quiet your mind.
Let it go blank.
Now let it wander . . . don't instruct it . . . just let it be.
Where are you now?"
Michonne is floating in net space. Aimless. Lost. Feeling as though she doesn't belong.
And that familiar voice calls out to her.
You just watch those shots, princess . . . I'm comin' for your kill count . . . then you're gonna cum for me . . . a few times.
"I hear him," she answered, her eyelids twitching with her rapidly shifting visions. She can see him, too. Rick. That slow grin. Those blue eyes resembling a cloudless sky on a clear summer morning. "We're going to war."
Michonne is suddenly thrust into chaos.
There are cyborgs. Firefights. A giant tank. Walkers. Blood. Gore. Death. Explosions.
One explosion in particular.
"Michonne?" Dr. Jones hears her beginning to hyperventilate, and he tears his eyes open to glare at her with concern.
She is falling.
She is perspiring and breathing rapidly, her face contorting as she's assaulted by memories, her synapsis sparking and sending emotions shooting through her with the speed of the endless data moving through the cloud.
Dr. Jones reaches up and claps his hands together in front of her, sharply and loudly.
Michonne is yanked violently back to the present, taking in huge gulps of air.
"Michonne. This is only a manifestation of what humans call a panic attack," he reassures her calmly as she tries to stop the flood of sensation from overwhelming her. "Be still. Will yourself to calm down. You are far more advanced than any human on this earth. These are only memories. They can't harm you now."
At his soothing, though commanding words, she begins to still. Realizing that she controls every particle of her body, she wills herself calm, as instructed. She sits motionless, her breathing slowing to a steady, passive crawl. She finally opens her eyes when she feels relaxed again. Dr. Jones sits cross-legged in front of her, waiting.
"I died . . . in some kind of brutal fight."
Morgan nods gravely. The calm, peaceful atmosphere around them begins to fill with tension. He allows her to process; to sift through the memories her mediation brought forth. He and DATA made a difficult, but conscious choice to include every detail of Michonne Snow's life that they could find in the archives. They left no stone of data unturned. They intended that she be as human – as Michonne – as possible. This is the result. Spontaneous cognitive development. He managed to design it. And now he's watching it unfold right in front of him. He cannot help marveling at his creation every second he spends in her company, falling more and more in love with his triumph.
She moves and speaks like a human being. Though imbued with such grace and beauty as to be ethereal to behold. She processes emotions in real-time and wears them like a second skin. Her voice and pattern of speech are changing seamlessly, growing more mature, more self-assured. With each new minute that she exists, she is learning, retaining, becoming.
If this moment was not meant to be about her, he might cry, himself.
Instead, he chooses to elaborate on his answer to her very serious question. A miracle of a question.
"Yes, you did. A tragedy felt by the entire ASZ," he tries to reassure her. "You were mourned by many, Michonne."
"And the others?" Michonne recalls their names. Their faces. Their presence and influence in a life that feels achingly familiar and yet as distant as the endless realm of net space. "Glenn. Abraham. Sasha. Maggie. Shane. Andrea?"
"Some of them survived and are still alive today. Some of them didn't. When you go back, you'll have to figure out how to handle their reactions. They're only human, and you were close with them. You were a family.
"The Family. They probably won't understand at first . . . they may even be hostile. But you are every bit the same Michonne you used to be, and much more. Don't let them forget that. You'll be fine."
"Rick?" Michonne searches her creator's wise, kind face. "Will he understand? Will he recognize me?"
"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" Morgan reaches over and squeezes her hand empathetically. "You've mentioned him more than the others. In fact, he's the only one you keep coming back to since you opened your eyes."
He contemplates this for a moment while Michonne struggles to find the words to describe the memory of Rick Grimes. The way it makes her feel is still indescribable to her.
Morgan suddenly beams at her. "You love him. Don't you?"
At the sound of the word, the memories start to soar inside her, and she finds her eyes becoming wet with tears. That feels right. She has found her purpose.
"Yes. I need to see him. I need him to know I'm here. I think I came back . . . for him."
"Then hold on to that, Michonne," Dr. Jones insists, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss before wrapping it up with the palm of the other affectionately. "That feelin' will be your way back to yourself. Love is the strongest human emotion there is. Trust it. Use it. It won't steer you wrong."
He chuckles, reaching out to wipe at the tears streaming down her flawless cheeks.
"At least, not by much."
She smiles back, still crying. "I will. I promise."
Michonne is meditating in her quarters, but her mind will only show her Rick.
There are other memories, locked away. Memories that will cause her pain, she can sense.
She searches for anything to do with Rick Grimes.
The first time she saw him, behind a prison fence. He saved her life that day.
He kept saving her, again and again. She saved his life in return, again and again.
Sunrises. Sitting next to him inside a flyer. Smiling across at him, noticing how beautiful he is in the sunlight.
Runs together. Missions together. Showering together. Making love together.
Michonne opens her eyes.
Heat floods her senses. A flutter ripples through her. Her pulse increases. Other reactions follow, nuanced yet intense. The hardening of her nipples, the quivering of her sex. Rick caused these sensations when she was her other self. He is causing them now, just thinking of his pink lips, his salt and pepper hair, his gleaming blue eyes . . .
"JENNY?" Michonne calls, standing up.
"Good evening, sweetie. What can I do for you?"
"Can you pull up archival footage of Captain Rick Grimes?"
"Ah. I was wondering when you'd get around to asking me for that. Stand by . . . "
JENNY projects a life-sized hologram of the man Michonne's been remembering with increasingly intense emotional attachment since the moment she was reborn. She takes in every detail.
He stands at nearly six feet, leaning slightly to the side, shifting around as though posing for a picture.
He wears a blue button-down shirt, a pair of old black jeans, and worn brown boots.
He carries a machete and a big, souped-up Colt Python.
His curly brown hair is slicked back and a light layer of salt and pepper stubble covers his chiseled jaw.
He lifts his hand to shield his eyes from an unseen sun as Michonne watches in motionless awe.
She walks slowly toward the hologram, doing as Dr. Jones instructed – letting herself feel. Remember.
She comes to a stop very close to him. He merely gazes past her, out through her viewers.
Rick.
She is in love with him. Every inch of him. Every pore. Every flaw. Every breath he takes.
He keeps shifting around on a loop, shielding his eyes, squinting into that unseen sun.
Music.
Michonne suddenly wants to hear music.
"JENNY?"
"Yes, Michonne, I'm here."
"Play some music? Um, I'm not sure what kind, I just . . . "
"You're in the mood to dance. I've got just the thing."
The music is sensual, not too fast, filled with bass. It begins to flood the room, and Michonne begins to dance.
She carefully, gracefully circles the hologram as she does. The way it moves as Rick poses for his photo in a never-ending loop almost passes for some dance moves, too. She finds herself smiling, watching Rick 'dance' with her.
She indulges herself as some smokey, crooning voice serenades them, longing for his hologram to be real, just so she can touch him. This has to be enough, for now. She'll be able to see him soon. Then she will touch him, hold him, kiss him. Promise to never leave him again. Find out what he meant when he said that she would cum for him a few times.
When the song fades, Michonne makes one more request of JENNY.
"Tell me everything about him. About us. Start to finish."
Dr. Jones said Rick is her way back to herself. She trusts her creator. This feels right.
JENNY complies:
"Captain Rick Grimes, forty-four years old. Born in the wilds of what was once Georgia. Peacekeeper of the Alexandria Safe Zone for six years. Acquainted with you for nine and one-half years. Nine-hundred-eighty-two kills registered in the cloud to date. Son, Carl Grimes, seventeen years old. Daughter, Judith Grimes, ten years old. Ex-wife, Lori Grimes, forty-one-years-old.
"Marriage date, unknown. Divorced, three years, seven months. Captain Grimes is one of eighteen survivors of the Skyscraper Command Tower explosion. File Code: ODIN. Multiple casualties were reported, including yours. Also deceased, Glenn Rhee. Deceased, Theodore 'T-Dog' Douglass. Deceased – "
"Stop," Michonne interrupts.
She stares at Rick's hologram, longing for him to speak to her. Tell her in his own words what happened to her, to their Family. Michonne's only reality now is how much she's lost. How much she still does not understand.
"Tell me about the Skyscraper Command explosion. About ODIN . . . "
"Would you like archival footage or a verbal report?"
"Both."
Rick's hologram disappears, and an infographic holoscreen takes its place. The footage from that night begins to play out before her eyes as JENNY recounts the records of what happened.
The night ODIN tricked them. The night Michonne died.