If you don't love me now

You will never love me again

I can still hear you saying

you would never break the chain

The chaaaaaiin will keep us together!

– Fleetwood Mac, "The Chain"

"Rick? Wake up, now . . . please? RICK!"

Rick flinches awake at the sound of VAL's urgent voice.

He was dreaming of Michonne. The last time he saw her. Jumping from Tyreese's flyer.

The image of her gliding through the air like a human sword plunging into the heart of the Skyscraper Tower Nine atrium clings to the backs of his eyelids as he drags himself out of a well of deep slumber.

"What, VAL?" the depressed Peacekeeper growls, rubbing his eyes and turning over on his back.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his muscular chest rising and falling hard as he tries to calm his temper at being jolted awake. That, along with his dread at the image still stuck in his mind's eye. It was just a dream. Just a dream. . .

He's in his den. Not in the flyer. It's three years later and Michonne is still dead.

When he finally opens his eyes, it's pitch black. He forgot that he keeps his viewers closed pretty much all the time down here. He lies on his back in the darkness, still alive, still empty.

"My itinerary indicates that you're supposed to be off duty today, but I'm afraid you're being called in."

VAL answers somewhat contritely.

"Carl and Judith are already up, with breakfast."

There's a pause as it washes over him that he is going to have to drag his old, tired ass back into the BDP for a shift that probably won't end for another twelve hours. Whomever it was calling out sick, he's gonna make sure they suffer for it.

Still, deep down he doesn't mind all that much. He's tired, but work distracts him from . . . this.

"Jessie stopped by an hour ago to retrieve Sam and Ronald. She asked me not to wake you."

Rick grunts and scratches his balls, willing everything to go back to sleep for just ten more minutes.

"What's the damn emergency?" he barks again, ignoring the news about Jessie. He'll deal with her later.

"File Code: Restricted, I'm afraid. Only an urgent summons from Chief Thorne. Shall I put you through to her?"

"Christ. No . . . I'm butt-ass naked. Tell her I'll see her when I get there. Get out, would ya?"

"Yep. Pissing off, now. Your coffee's on, by the way."

Before she leaves, VAL activates the wall-to-wall viewers, automatically acting on a programmed hunch that he isn't going to get up until the sunlight forces him to. The weak, early morning light strains against the rush hour fog, spilling into the room to illuminate his lonely existence.

And VAL is gone again, disappeared to another part of the townhouse, probably to tend to the kids.

It occurs to him that he'll probably need to go ahead and let go of his resistance to letting a Companion watch his kids if he can't find a replacement for Jessie.

Rick wants to let Jessie go. He has to. It isn't fair to keep her hanging around in hope while he uses her up. He knows it as well as she knows it probably. If she sticks around, her hope might never die. She'd start to resent him. Who knows what all that tension will do to the kids?

Carl is seventeen, now; not a little kid anymore. His smart, compassionate son can take care of himself; has been for a long time, anyway. Jessie is mostly here for Judith (and Rick's peace of mind), but his little girl is no dummy, either. Rick figures he can stop being such an old, overprotective grouch just this once, for their sake.

"VAL? Thank you . . . " he calls out after thinking about it.

"Of course, Rick. That's what I'm here for."

She replies after a beat, omnipresent as ever.

Like LIZZY used to be. Part of Rick hopes Judith or Eugene really will manage to find LIZZY and the others out there in net space one of these days.

Turning over on his side, he stares at the now empty spot in his bed where Michonne's hologram was projected next to him last night. VAL must have deactivated it while he slept.

There's nothing there now, not even a dent where a real body would have been. He tries not to let the beast of his grief claw up his insides too much as he finally crawls out of bed.

It's time, yet again, to go to work. Alone.

Carl shoves Marshmallow Chocolate Cheerios into his mouth and chomps, milk dripping from his lips and chin as he stares absentmindedly at the holoscreen in the kitchen.

His dark brown hair hangs in his eyes, as usual, covered in a dirty old sheriff's hat he found on one of his adventures when he was a little tike. Ever since he found this hat, he's had nothing but good luck whenever he ends up in trouble, in a fight, up against walkers, anything.

He was wearing it one of the first times Michonne saved his life. The day she and his dad finally started to trust each other. It's his good luck charm. He wears it always. Even in the shower.

He and Jude are watching reruns from the archives of the old 'Avatar: The Legend of Korra' anime. Not speaking. Just the two of them and Nostradamus, who is nibbling at the food in his bowl, automatically dispensed by VAL.

Rick's extra strong black coffee has been done brewing for almost ten minutes. It'll burn if their dad doesn't hurry up.

Knowing him, he'll be another ten minutes, still unshaven, still unfocused due to lack of sleep, kind of a dead man walking until he has that first cup. It's business as usual when they stay with the reclusive elder Grimes half the days out of the year.

Judith laughs at something her favorite character Boomie says to his big brother Tenzin in the show.

"You're like Tenzin, Carl," the bespectacled little smartass quips. "Boring and mean."

Most kids these days have lasers for eyes if they're born with bad sight, but not Jude. Their old-fashioned father went to the trouble of teaching Jude how to throat-punch bullies rather than turning her into a hybrid before she reached puberty. Carl has to admit, though, it made his little sister pretty thick-skinned.

"Yeah, well at least I'm old enough to pilot. You'll be eighty before Dad lets you behind the wheel," Carl mutters as a halfhearted comeback. "If I'm like Tenzin, who's Dad like?"

Judith frowns at the holoscreen for a beat, but it doesn't take either of them long to come up with an answer. The big brother and little sister turn to exchange looks with each other just as the character in question appears, scowling as usual.

"Chief Beifong," they agreed in unison.

Their father may not go off on people as much as Chief Beifong's character in their favorite anime, but he certainly possesses a volcano of bitterness inside that rivals hers. It's all because he misses Michonne. So does Carl.

Judith doesn't remember her much, but Carl does. He remembers her bringing him real, paper comics wherever she went on runs before they found this place, back when they didn't have many luxuries. He remembers being able to tell her stuff he couldn't tell his parents. She never judged. She just listened. He remembers her making his dad laugh all the time. He remembers his mom hating her guts, but that part was always amusing to him more than anything.

Carl remembers all that, and he feels sad about it sometimes, but his dad is a different story.

Sometimes Carl worries all his dad ever does is brood over the past. Sure, he's always there for them when they really need him. But other than that he works, sleeps, and keeps quiet with a stiff upper lip, crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and a beard that covers most of his face. Their 'uncle' Shane and 'auntie' Andrea don't even come around that much anymore.

They love their father but a chatterbox he is not. Not after Michonne died. They've learned to leave him be.

When they aren't in school, they pretty much keep themselves entertained exploring with their gang of street urchins from around the B-District, tinkering, hacking, or zoning out in front of the holoscreens watching anything they can think of from before the world went to shit. The Grid is forbidden, of course. Still, Carl, Ron, and Noah managed to hack a secret streaming channel that lets them watch without breaching VAL's parental control firewall.

If their father ever finds out that sometimes Carl lets Judith watch Negan bashing walkers with Lucille, he'll be skinned alive. He isn't too worried. His dad never punishes them too harshly. The sentence always fits the crime. He expects them to think about things, make smart, informed choices, live with the consequences of their actions, and be honest with him because honesty is safer than anything.

"Hey, time for the news. I wanna see what's goin' on with the riots today."

"Aw maaaan, no fair! Five more minutes, come on, Carl," Judith complains, her dark brown ponytail swinging and her glasses slipping down on the bridge of her nose.

"Nope. Time's up, loser."

"Dickwad!"

Carl ignores her foul mouth and irritated huffing, spooning himself another serving of cereal.

"Channel eight," he commands the holoscreen around a load of crunchy, sweet breakfast confection.

The holoscreen switches from Avatar Korra's enraged face to the local city-wide news for Carl, the political news junkie.

Judith rolls her eyes and rests her tiny chin on her hand, bored stiff already.

"Judith . . . "

They hear their father's low, serious voice and freeze as he saunters up the stairs from the den and around to face them, freshly showered and changed for work. His stern eyes latch onto hers as he makes his way into the kitchen, headed straight for the coffee.

"What'd we say about swearin' at your brother?"

Jude gulps guiltily and pushes her glasses up on her nose. "Shit. Sorry, Daddy."

Rick raises a forbidding eyebrow at her. She is cute, but it's early and he hasn't had his coffee yet.

"Just try to watch the language, sweetheart. Let it out when someone deserves it. No one likes an asshole so early in the mornin' . . . trust me . . . " Their grizzly father blows gently on his hot coffee, attempting a joke for the first time in maybe months, "I know from experience."

"Okay, I promise, Daddy," Judith giggles when he winks at her, putty in his hands no matter how grouchy he gets. She's still his (very smart, very sassy) little girl. "I wouldn't have cussed at him, but he turned off Korra right at the good part!"

"You've seen that episode a million times. The news is on, shush," Carl dismisses her, shoving more cereal into his mouth.

He watches the news about more riots breaking out at The Gates of Hell while his father sips his coffee and tries to return to the land of the living. He divides his attention during the commercial break, speaking up about something on his mind.

"Jessie took Ron and Sam home super early this mornin'. Thought they were gonna hang out today. What's that about?"

Even Judith pauses watching the commercials to listen for their father's response.

Rick sighs hard, putting his coffee down and coming around the kitchen island into the living room to block the hollow screen. He reaches out to ruffle Judith's head on his way. He looks as if he is about to make an awkward speech.

Crap. Something's up.

"I think . . ." he clears his throat and shifts on his feet. "Well, I think Jessie's gonna find another job, and we're gonna have VAL watch you guys for a spell. You'll still get to see your friends, just not quite as much as usual. How's that sound?"

Carl frowns at his father from under his hat and halo of wavy brown hair. His keen blue eyes narrow inward as he processes this new information. Judith makes several faces in rapid succession as her feelings on the matter ping-pong from confused to intrigued to enthusiastic.

"Sounds like a wise choice, Father," she agrees in far too mature a voice, sounding like a ten-year-old going on thirty.

"Thanks, Squirt. What about you, sheriff?" Rick ruffles Judith's hair again, referring to his nickname for Carl when he was Jude's age. His steel blue eyes now meet his teenage son's identical ones. Judith has Lori's eyes, Carl his father's.

Carl shrugs. He's had a feeling there's a whole lot more to the story (like why Jessie was crying when she woke them up to pull her sons out of bed), but he knows pressing his father is futile.

"Sure. It's not like Judith ever listens to her anyway."

Judith sticks her tongue out at him. "I do, too. You're the one givin' her lip all the time."

"Do not," Carl sinks to her level, returning her stink face, his cheeks flushed at being called out.

"That's enough," their father silences their bickering with a stern command. "I don't ever wanna hear either of you talkin' back to Jessie, ever, you got that? She's done more than asked of her and she deserves your respect."

"Yes sir," they answer him obediently.

"Good," Rick shifts on his feet and rubs the bridge of his nose. He sighs and starts hunting around the living room for his watch. "I gotta go in today, I'm sorry. You guys can occupy yourselves with VAL until I get a break. She will be watchin', so don't try anythin' illegal, or it ain't gonna be pretty – got it, Squirt?"

He eyes Judith until she nods vigorously. Carl nods, too, knowing the drill.

"Does it have to do with those riots across the border?" his stoic teenager asks while Rick searches, now watching the news again. Images of droves of hybrids, cyborgs, chained-up walkers, and all kinds of horrible 'citizens' from across the border are being depicted as a Safe Zone City reporter sums up the latest developments in Negan's bid for power.

"What . . . ?" Rick mutters, distracted as he picks up couch cushions and shoves aside a pile of Carl's comics.

"You being on call today. Is it 'cause of the riots?"

Rick can't find his damn watch. "I think you should give the news a rest for a while, son."

Carl tears his eyes away from the holoscreen at his father's dismissive tone, momentarily annoyed. If Michonne was here, they'd both be concerned about the mounting unrest in The Gates of Hell. They'd want answers from President Monroe and the new Mayor, that asshole Bob Stookey. They wouldn't just be sitting back watching those creepy Smith clones hoard all the power and shake down everyone but the real bad guys – Negan's so-called Saviors.

Fed up watching his father struggle to find his watch (all the while ignoring the fact that they live in a post-walker tech world), he calls out to VAL.

"VAL, locate Dad's watch."

Rick turns to raise an unimpressed eyebrow at the attitude in his son's deep voice.

"Rick, your watch is on your desk downstairs. And I'm sorry, but Shane is calling for you again."

VAL answers a second later.

"You should go, Dad. You're gonna be late."

Father and son glare at each other for a beat, both of them concerned for each other in different ways.

"I'll take Shane's call in my flyer," Rick grunts to VAL.

He saunters out of the living room and back downstairs to his den, where he spends most of his time these days . . . watching old reruns of his life with Michonne. He doesn't think anyone knows about that, but his son does. Carl sometimes wonders how much worse this would be if his father admitted he was in love with his partner a long time ago.

He wishes he could talk to his dad about it. But he can't. So he doesn't.

A few minutes later, Rick is headed for the front door.

"Call me if it's an emergency. Love you both."

Then he's gone.

"Way to hurt Daddy's feelings, dickwad," Jude rolls her eyes, totally ignoring her father's earlier request. "You know he forgets stuff."

"Not some stuff . . . " Carl mutters, playing with his now soggy cereal. "And quit sayin' 'dickwad'. You sound dumb."

"Nuh-ungh!"

"Yuh-huh . . . "

Once again, Rick rides the elevator down to the garage in silence.

One of his neighbors, a hybrid teenager with a lot of tattoos and a metal arm almost comparable to Abraham's, gets on at one point, but she disappears again a couple of levels down.

Of course, as soon as Rick powers up his flyer and makes it out of the garage, their new Companion JACK announces himself in his very annoying sardonic timbre.

"Greetings, Rick, how's the chronic depression? Oh, and by the way, you've missed about thirty urgent calls from Chief Thorne and Captain Walsh."

Rick rolls his eyes, switching to manual comms without wasting his breath. He hates this new asshole that came with Thorne when she was banished to the BDP. He often regrets complaining about LIZZY's at least bearable personality.

JACK is a sarcastic know-it-all at the best of times, so Rick tries to ignore him as much as possible. For something to listen to as he hits traffic making his way down to the Bottom District Precinct, he accesses the radio stream in the cloud archive, tuning it to his favorite classic rock station.

He doesn't know when it happened after Michonne died, but Rick's attitude about Abraham's taste in music has softened somewhat considerably over the years. Fleetwood Mac's 'The Chain' booms through the surround sound as he pilots his flyer into the rush hour melee on one of the sky bridges, headed for the BDP.

Rick takes his time getting to work. He has no desire to speed up how long it will take until he's forced to deal with his current reality, or whatever political fire he'll be assigned to put out today.

He even stops for more coffee at one of the sky carts.

Shane interrupts his first sip, causing the hot stuff to drip into his beard when his childhood friend's sweaty face appears on the holoscreen in his windshield.

"Yo! Boss! I've been callin' you all mornin'! You gotta get down here. A-FUCKIN'-SAP."

Rick wipes at his beard, placing his coffee cup in a holster so he can use both hands to maneuver his flyer away from the cart and back into traffic. He doesn't like the jittery look in Shane's eyes. That look tells Rick something big is happening.

Something that just might make him angry.

He also doesn't like that it appears as though Shane has snuck out back down one of the service tunnels where the laundry rooms steam all their shit to make this call.

"What's going on down there, Shane?" Rick drawls, his frown folding his entire face down into his beard as he switches digitized lanes and exits the sky bridge.

Shane takes a deep breath, now actively sweating. He looks completely taken aback . . . dumbfounded . . . scared.

"Listen, man," Rick's best friend mutters carefully. "There's someone here. Someone . . . Jesus Christ, brother, you're not gonna believe this shit. I can hardly believe it myself. You just gotta get down here. Fast. Alright? That's all I can tell ya."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Shane?"

"It's a goddamned miracle. Or a complete mess. Just know . . . whatever happens now, me and 'Drea are backin' you up."

Rick scowls. What the fuck is wrong with everyone today? He is officially in a sour mood now, fed up with this cryptic bullshit already. "Spit it the fuck out."

"Haven't you been watchin' the news, asshole?" Shane snaps back, still looking bewildered and unsteady. "This place is swarmin' with the press. It's ugly man."

"Shane!" Someone – sounds like Andrea – calls for him off-screen. His eyes leave Rick's for a moment as he lifts his head to regard his wife out of view. "She's coming out of Thorne's office, headed this way! Hurry the fuck up. Come on!"

Shane looks torn. He turns back to Rick. "Shit, I gotta go. Look, just call me as soon as you land. Do yourself a favor . . . don't come in until I come and get you, okay man?"

Shane ends the call, his face disappearing from the holoscreen.

Rick's scowl only deepens, his chest tightening with annoyance. What the hell is going on? There are swarms of press at the BDP? Is Monroe or that crackpot Bob Stookey up to some more sneaky political bullshit? Great. Just great.

And thanks to Thorne's old ties to Skyscraper Command, she and the BDP will no doubt be used as pawns in Monroe's political game of chess. None of this is good. He can't believe he's been summoned there for this shit on his day off.

Thorne better come up with a damn good plan to resist whatever it is Monroe and Stookey have up their sleeves.

The moody, intense classic rock song pounds in his ears as Rick eases his flyer down, closing in on the BDP level.

Holy shit. Shane wasn't bullshitting. There is a media circus outside headquarters, blocking his goddamned parking spot.

Rick huffs angrily through his nostrils as he zooms past the crowd of hysterical reporters. They swarm like frantic bees, crawling over each other, trying to spot anyone important to lob questions at like H-V machine gun rounds.

He zips past the BDP entrance and turns down an alleyway that will lead him to a side tunnel. He can enter from the side of the building. Dread mounts within him the further he makes it down the alley.

Rick parks and powers down, climbing out of the flyer without a backward glance at his holoscreen.

There is no way he's gonna stand around in the side alley like a jackass while Shane tries to cover up some major fuckup.

He can only imagine what Monroe's gotten his precinct into now. Irritated, he strides inside, his brow furrowed and his bearded jaw set into a hard line. As soon as he steps inside, he hears commotion.

And he sees steam, creeping down the gray tunnel toward him. Echoes of fused sounds drift toward him with it. It sounds like music and voices all talking at once, like there's a damn party going on down there.

What the ever-lovin' fuck . . . ?

Rick runs a hand through his still-damp, longish hair, stalking along the winding tunnels leading him toward the main rooms. Laundry. Examination room. Gym. Weapons lockup. Showers.

There's a crowd blocking off the locker room. His entire unit is huddled at the door with their backs to him. They're all craning their necks to get a look at whatever is going on inside. Rick recognizes the song he was just listening to, blasting over the surround sound as he comes to a slow, hesitant halt just down the tunnel from the crowd. His first thought is that maybe Abe is in there drunk again, listening to the same radio station. But that doesn't explain Shane's frantic call, Thorne's absence from the crowd, or the press blockading the BDP entrance outside.

"Wow . . . it looks just like her . . . " someone murmurs in awe.

"What's it made of?"

"Fuck if I know. She looks human. She's definitely not a hybrid."

"Actually, she's made of an adamantium skeleton and a positronic brain encased in living organic tissue. All the standard human stuff, with extra oomph."

JACK informs them.

"And she's virtually indestructible, I might add."

"What the hell is goin' on in my precinct?" Rick drawls, causing the crowd to hush and part for him.

Shane. Andrea. Sasha. Rosita. Eugene. Heath. Abe. Starbuck and Bishop. They're all there, save Thorne. He has a hunch that wherever she is, President Monroe, Mayor Stookey, and the Smiths are with her.

"Rick, man . . . " Shane is as pale as a ghost. He looks as if he wants to tackle Rick and drag him back out through the tunnels. They all do. Instead of answering him, they just stand there, staring at him with expressions on their mute faces that range from shock to fear to pity. "I told you to let me come get you."

His friend takes a step forward through the riveted crowd. Steam and music surrounded them.

Rick tilts his head at Shane, his leg bouncing impatiently, his trigger fingers itching. "You didn't answer my question."

"Maybe he should just see for himself, baby," Andrea speaks up next to Shane. There is intense sympathy flashing in her crystal eyes. This confuses and annoys Rick even more. "Go on, Rick. She's, um . . . she's pretty anxious to meet you."

Everyone just stands there, stiff as boards. Rick glares at them. They aren't gonna talk. He's going to have to see for himself. And then he's going to get some damned answers, come hell or high water.

Rick sighs and rubs his beard, stepping forward to cut through the crowd. He ignores all of their tense, anticipatory expressions as he crosses into the steamy locker room to find out what he's in store for.

His threadbare brown t-shirt is instantly dampened by the humidity from the hot water as he walks inside, squinting through the mist enveloping the shower chamber.

Some stranger is inside, engulfed in steam and cascading water.

The music is loud; the intense electric guitar chords vibrate across his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms.

Rick comes to a halt in the middle of the locker room.

He stands still, watching the figure he can barely make out as 'she' showers alone. Through the steam, he can only just make out the shape of her body as she lathers soap across her arms and shoulders. She's showering with her back to him as if completely unaware (or uncaring) of the audience gathered around to watch her.

Finally, the steam gives way a bit, and he can see her more clearly.

She's Black. Her pronounced, curvaceous backside serves as the cherry on top of her toned, attractive body. She has long, shining ebony locs. When she tilts her head to let the water cleanse the soap from her neck, he can see that the side of it is shaved down to a stylish buzz cut. The glint of a thin, gold chain flashes at him through the water cascading down her body, taking the last remnants of slippery soap bubbles with it. That soap smells familiar . . . too familiar.

Something like vertigo hits Rick like a punch to the gut.

And then, as if she senses his presence behind her, watching her, she turns around to face the room.

He recognizes a small 'M' charm attached to the gold chain, resting against her slippery skin.

A charm he never thought he would ever see again.

Rick's eyes rise to her face.

His heart stops dead in his chest.

A hopeful smile slowly spreads across her beautifully thick lips.

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this.

He has to be dreaming. Or hallucinating. Has he finally lost his mind . . . ?

Michonne is standing before him, gazing at him with the hopeful awe of a princess greeting a fairytale prince from a dream. Her large, gorgeous brown eyes sparkle as she abandons the shower and begins making her way toward him.

Her gait and posture ooze with confidence. The sway of her hips is as familiar to him as breathing. He knows that walk. He's watched her walking so many times over the years, he instantly recognizes the sight.

Rick blinks back the tears sprouting in his wide, disbelieving eyes as she gets closer and closer. The room starts to spin and tunnel vision strikes him hard as this . . . walking dream, this . . . mirage keeps advancing.

This isn't Michonne. It can't be. Except this looks, walks, smiles, and even smells just like the love of his life.

How can she be here?

Rick staggers backward, but she is so close to him by now that he can smell the pleasant scent of Michonne's favorite soap wafting off of her glistening, steaming skin.

This isn't real. Is it? Michonne is dead, my baby is dead, his mind screams at him as the beautiful, naked creature who looks exactly – perfectly – like his love closes the distance between them. Her eyes never leave his as she gazes up at him with adoration and wonder. He glares down at her, his crystal blues blazing, in complete denial of what he is seeing.

Finally, she's upon him. Wet and hot and pliant, she melts against him and raises her arms to wrap around his neck.

Rick can't move or speak. He can only stare at an illusion that feels too real. His mind is hardly able to process what he's experiencing. His heart pounds in his chest.

Every eyelash, every pore, every curve tells him this is Michonne. Her heavy, dewdrop breasts, the dip in her spine, her long, cool fingers combing through his hair. Rick is lulled, hypnotized, horrified, and aroused beyond belief.

"Rick," she breathes, and her voice is Michonne's too. She is studying him, searching his face. This close to him, her eyes resemble a burning brown galaxy comprised of billions of brilliant stars. "It's me . . . it's Michonne. I came back for you."

He almost loses it, exhaling roughly through his nostrils even while his arms find their way around her wet, exquisite body.

Unable to speak, Rick closes his eyes and leans into her, giving in to the illusion, succumbing to his despair and searing hope. She feels so real. So alive. So warm. So soft. So ready for the taking.

Michonne. God, I've missed you so much . . . he thinks, just before she kisses him.

Rick crushes the beautiful illusion in his arms against him, claiming her soft mouth for his with a tortured groan. She licks at his fuzzy bottom lip and he opens for her without hesitation, bowing her over as he tries to devour her right there in the middle of the locker room, surrounded by steam. She tastes divine.

The music crescendoes around them and Rick lets it all go. He no longer cares if he's dead or alive, dreaming or awake and hallucinating. Michonne is in his arms again. It's been so long since he held her. He's been starving for her.

They kiss as though they're exchanging souls; glued to each other, hands roaming, tongues dancing.

Rick feels his dick start to come alive against her naked hip and he squeezes her tighter. She's real. She's Michonne.

But she can't be.

The steam, the music. Their audience. Those are all real things. Things he can feel.

Michonne is dead. So how can he feel her?

Rick stops kissing the illusion in his arms and leans back to look down at her.

She is Michonne, staring up at him, her brown eyes full of love. But she can't be. A hideous sense of betrayal and confusion begins to settle over him like a sticky spider web. The illusion with Michonne's face continues to gaze up at him lovingly.

Rick steps away from her, horrified. He starts remembering what JACK just told them.

Positronic brain. Indestructible adamantium skeleton. Organic tissue.

"What are you?" he breathes, his heart still pounding, his stomach turning. "What is this . . . ?"

He backs up still more, turning to face the peanut gallery behind him, tearing his eyes away from whatever the hell it is he was kissing. He looks to his friends for answers. They just watch him.

Shane looks guilty, torn up inside. "I tried to warn you, Rick."

"Rick?" The illusion behind him speaks again. "What's wrong?"

Rick bristles, closing his eyes at the sound of that voice. A dagger to his heart. A voice he should not be hearing right now. He feels as if the floor will drop away and he'll be catapulted into space for a quick, merciless death.

He doesn't turn to acknowledge her. He just can't. Instead, his laser-sharp gaze zeroes in on Eugene, who looks like he might shit his pants right then and there. "Where the fuck is Thorne?"

"In her office with Mayor Stookey and President Monroe, boss," Eugene squeaks.

Rick stalks out of the locker room and through the crowd without another word, headed for Thorne's office.