Separation
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Separated from Daryl and Carol by crisis, Maggie must refocus her efforts to return to the others.

Georgian Woods

"So. You're sayin' this is a trap."

Sweat and blood stick under Maggie's nose, smothering her breath and senses with a musky nausea that leaves only her eyes to process the frenzied tumble that takes her friend Carol and a strange towns-person over the edge of the ravine.

Panic sets into the two remaining figures, fragments of their shouting making it to the compact system of overgrown underbrush keeping Maggie and her kidnapper from sight. The expended gunshot still seems to mutter over the shadow-ridden landscape in grim forewarning to its own heralding shout: things, people and otherwise, have ears. Still, it's silence beside Maggie as the hand against her mouth slips off, allowing the dark-skinned Michonne to slide forward, eagle eyes on the distant arguing targets as her fingers stretch to the sheathed sword across her back, gripping the hilt in readiness— to sidle left, away from the ravine, with no apparent intention to address what's unfolded in front of them.

Startled, Maggie struggles against the hand pressed against her mouth and the arm that attempts to stop her from moving forward. When the hand lifts and Michonne's features resolve themselves, the woman does not move to follow. "What're you doin'? We were lookin' for you before! Where've you been?" Her face looks over her shoulder toward the ravine where Daryl and Carol disappeared. "And where d'ya think you're goin'? Carol and Daryl are over there. We gotta go check on 'em."

At the first sound of Maggie's voice, Michonne turns her head sharply, looking down the length of tense shoulder to stare the other woman down. Eyes made more intense by the incredible whites against her dark skin dart to the small break in the leaves by which they can see the remaining two Woodburians arguing, checking over the deep, dark pit of the ravine. Michonne looks back at Maggie, raising one eyebrow, before turning to continue sneaking stealthily along her picked path — almost; the tiniest hitch in her step starts to give.

Maggie looks at the two Woodbury people arguing, then at the ravine and then back at Michonne. She hesitates, not wanting to desert her friends, but doubting she can take on those from Woodbury by herself. Carefully, she follows Michonne. Softly, she hisses, "We're not goin' too far. Let's see what those Woodbury folk do. If they leave soon, we can go see what happened to the others." The fact that Michonne has yet to verbally argue with her does not phase her.

Between the breaks in the trees where moonlight seems loathe to go, Michonne leads Maggie, ever a soft limp in her step that chips away at her swift mannerisms. After a few yards, they break into a curve, coming until a new division in the bushes shows a sideways view of the Woodburians. A bearded man aims his rifle down into the ravine but looks unclear as to target. Far further positioned, Michonne more comfortably releases the hilt of her sword, crouching and turning to address her companion. "Lost you in Woodbury," she recalls in a crisp hush, "Been trailing their hunting parties ever since to catch your trail. There's more. We couldn't risk being overrun if they came to check the gunfire." With a sword and a knife between them. And, unspoken, but gently glanced at, the blood on Michonne's leg.

As they continue their walk, Maggie's eyes are drawn to the limp and the blood. For a bit, she remains silent, watching the Woodburians as well as her newly found companion. She acknowledges the story with a few nods. "We were worried." After a moment, she asks, still watching the pair with weapons near the ravine, "What happened?" Since she already knows how Michonne found her, it's more likely that she's now asking about the wound in her leg.

Even in the near pitch of the moonless night, Michonne's face can be seen to darken, becoming more a barrier than an expression. "Governor." After a pause, a touch of the hardness in her face relents. "Your man Hershel saw to it but it came loose ducking that fence in town." Wrapped under layers of darkness in her skin, the night's shadow, and a pair of fitted grey pants, the injury's seriousness is difficult to decipher but for the dampness of new bleeding.

No priority does it get from Michonne, herself, when the two Woodburians are heard to distantly shout, "There!" from the woman and the man's reply of, "I can't see anything!" Her fervor inspires him still to lower his gun, reinforce his grip several times, and then fire into the hellish ravine's depths.

Maggie's own face darkens at the mention of the Governor, though she can't help but give a laugh when her father is described as 'her man'. "My father is good at patching people up. Did you see Glenn? Was he alright?" The answers to those questions, though, can wait as she can't help but stare at the blood seeping through the grey cloth. "I've helped my father some, Let me take a look at it? It might just be the bandaging." That, at least, she can manage to fix. "If we're gonna be travelin', you shouldn't be bleedin' all over the place."

Crouching closer to Michonne, Maggie won't take no for an answer, but she does get distracted by the gunshots. Every muscle in her body tenses and she has to restrain herself from standing bolt straight. Her head snaps toward the ravine, staring at it in horror.

Michonne's gaze, too, cracks to the pinpoint of the smoking muzzle as fast the gunshot itself; too, as hardened as the metal ball it fired, but at what. A steadying hand touches Maggie's arm, meaning to the ground the other woman even as Michonne leans forward with a bent pose of coiled muscles ready for the tightest spring.

"Watch it," the Woodburian woman from afar cautions, "No, the biter, there!" A stabbing finger leads the bearded man's weapon as he looks, less sure, down. "That one!"

"Are you sure? I can't—- where's its head? The head's blocked by 'im!"

Indecisive seconds between the two lead to a few muffled, meaty, noises rising from below alongside the gurgle of running water and then, shuffling forward, the bearded man fires again — bam!, he swears, then aims, but the ground beneath his foot shifts and his second firing goes haywire. He swears again, scampering backwards off the uncertain precipice.

Then, in the distance: "Stacy! Michael!" Echoed by other voices.

"Shit," the woman, this Stacy, swears hard, looking down the ravine one last time before grabbing onto the sleeve of Michael with a harsh pull of all her weight, "We gotta go. We gotta go— biters got George, we didn't see anything!" Gnawing indecisively on his lip, his head and weight shifting maniacally, Michael relents, allowing himself to be dragged into the dark coverage of trees in the opposite direction of the two women's hiding place.

The steadying hand placed on Maggie's arm is enough to keep the woman crouched. Though, much like her companion, she is coiled and ready to spring. The restraining hand is an anchor to remind Maggie that she should not dash forward at the gunshots and shouting to aid her friends. Though she would like to, it is certainly a suicide mission.

As the Woodburians retreat, Maggie gives Michonne a pleading look. They have to check on the ravine to see what happened to Carol and Daryl.

While initially warning off, Michonne's eyeing of hers is equally appreciative to be asked. Dark fingers coil around Maggie's shoulder as the warrior woman stares forward, counting — sensing. A tell in the forest subtle, missed, or born merely of the more built woman's paranoia ticks by and she releases her clasp. Instead, her hand darts to her sword, perpetually ready, as she briskly dashes forward to meet the nearest edge of the ravine — and put her arm out as border for Maggie to stop sooner than the distressed footprints of the former occupants.

A lean shows a crumpled and destroyed landscape, even in the dark; what's hard to pick out is details, any defining characteristic of shoes, a branch sticking oddly straight up out of the ground, stray movement by a breeze or a twist of a foot. Besides the greedy gushing of water, nothing's telltale.

Darting her eyes back and forth, Michonne's mouth thins to a grim determination, allowing of Maggie's certain unhappiness but no leeway. "We won't be able to tell what happened until it gets lighter."

Quick to fall into step alongside Michonne, Maggie follows. Her eyes quickly searching the ravine and its surroundings for any sign of her friends. It's clear that Michonne is right, but the young woman hisses, "Carol! Daryl!" down at the ravine. It is not loud enough to carry, for fear that the Woodburians would hear, so it's unclear why she thinks the others might hear her.

Disapproval strikes Michonne's quick look over to the calling Maggie; no reprimand, rather, she holds on the woman a second then looks away, prowling the edges of their tiny ravine-side clearing for the suggestion of returning foes. Seconds pass and the night holds onto its silence. Quiet as if she came from the darkness itself, Michonne returns to Maggie's side, watching out into the woods. "We should camp out of sight."

Maggie does not care about Michonne's disapproval. She can't just stay and look without attempting to make sure that they are out of earshot. She does not call out again, though and gives Michonne a nod at her suggestion. "And I can get a look at that leg." Even if it's dark. They may not be able to search for Carol and Daryl, but she should be able to do a quick check up and possibly re-wrap Michonne's leg.

Short any kind of supplies except ones meant for swift raiding means their camp's rudimentary at best, with only a couple of dry, easily snapped, branches arranged around for a perimeter alarm. Fire's out of the question with Woodburians patrolling the area, casting no sense of warmth to the purpose. It feels very much as though they just sat down and gave up. Maggie's head and heart know better, but the woman who keeps her stoic company shows indifference except a stiff practicality when finally settling to a position where Maggie can check on the leg. Once, it might've been treated, but it's split afresh now, too heavily exercised in the melee. While its extent can't be discerned in the dark, it's at least bleeding and that should be stopped.

Despite the invading darkness and the disheartening loss of Carol and Daryl, Maggie takes her place in the depressing makeshift camp. Attempting to focus on the task in front of her rather than what awaits them in the morning, she kneels down by Michonne's leg to see what she can do. It's difficult in the dark, but she can certainly tell that it's bleeding and that the bandages have soaked through. Doing the best she can, she rips part of her shirt and tightly ties it about the bleeding area to help stop the bleeding and to catch what she can of the blood. "You should be keepin' off of this," she tells the other woman, knowing that the warning will fall on deaf ears.

Unreadable eyes mark each of Maggie's tasks, hawk-like watching of a huntress even as the injury's deliberately handled, and well. Only a slight narrow of her eyebrows as Maggie's shirt rips betrays any complex of thoughts behind that smooth, chiseled, expression. As she's advised, Michonne carries through with a few practice shifts of her leg, a hand slinging behind her to adjust the hang of her sword till it comes around to rest beside her. She skates slightly backwards— and then relaxes her abdomen, settling neatly into a spot up against a tree's sloped roots. "Guess you got first watch," she murmurs, nice and low, with but a subtle rumble of—- what; was that, could it be a joke.

"Guess so," Maggie tells the woman with something of a smile. It's hard to tell in the dark. Allowing Michonne to rest back against a tree, she restlessly stands. It's best if she keeps moving to make sure that she's awake and because she has more pent up energy that she needs to expend.

Despite the fact that she has 'first watch' Maggie does not move to wake Michonne as the evening brightens to morning. She's injured and needs her rest. Maggie wouldn't be able to sleep if she wanted to. As the dawn pinkens across the sky, she doesn't move to shake her, instead hissing her name, "Michonne. Dawn." Time to see if they can find Daryl and Carol.

The cloak of Michonne's dark eyelids lifts, revealing a gaze not watered down by glaze, sleepiness; evidence she's been awake for longer, but how much becomes unclear. With a calm, clear, purpose, she tests the flex and pull of her leg before choosing to stretch for an overhanging tree branch attached to her nature's bed. A good grip on the wood lets her rise, chiseled arm muscles deeply defined as she works them to get to her feet, settling on a less pleased leg. In the brightness of the promise of morning, details flush out. The woman's dark skin's become chalkier, allowing a hint of the bruising at her temple, of the blood loss endured tracking the trio thus far.

Maggie can almost hear her father's voice, echoing against prison walls as he limps alongside Rick, scolding, "She's not ready to be on her feet."

But there was ordered a rescue.

Holding firmly to that clause, Michonne passes her hand from branch to trunk, shuffling her first step then falling into a careful but timely gait. Lifting her foot slightly higher to avoid crunching on their bare-minimum twig noise traps, she progresses to that the edge of that fatefully crumbling ravine.

Light paints a strange aftermath; a crime scene, patterned in the discard of mud and once-human remains. The narrow ledge of dirt next to the rush of water's been chiseled down by struggle and current, leaving but a small off-shoot on which an unfortunate walker's been pinned, a tree branch nailing her through the eye-socket with her back arced in a full bridge except where sagging legs twist, break without preservation. Another, further down, lies in a heap without a recognizable head left after being hammered into the mud by a boot. Two pairs of dead-white eyes lock on from below: a soggy-ponytailed male in ripped hiking shorts, far longer decayed than the Woodburian whose neck he removed. George, head barely attached by bits of his throat, gurgles, groping at an impossible slope.

Despite waking Michonne, Maggie is wary to make the woman stand so early. In the bright light of day, it is easy to see that the woman looks pale and injured. If she keeps pushing herself like this, she will die. She stands and looks into the ravine. There is a pinned Walker and more, but nothing looks like Carol or Daryl. Of course, the unrecognizable head could be either of them, but she refuses to believe it. "They're not there," she says, stating the obvious. She glances over at her companion. "And you should stay off your leg."

A thin-pressed mouth analyzes the conviction of Maggie's differing priorities. With a push off from the destroyed mud of the incline, Michonne exercises her wounded side with strict practicality, charting each stretch with barely a flex of her mouth to indicate the related pain. "Musta gotten dragged with the current. If they didn't choose to take their chances." If, the next one she doesn't say, but implies: "We're quick," if, "we can find where it dumped 'em out." Separated from the one of them she ever had any questionable loyalty towards, the dark woman's intentions— reasons for staying— are difficult to ascertain; she appears, however, dedicated to the now.

With a worried glance, Maggie watches her movements with the eye of someone used to assisting her father in his Veterinarian practice and then with people. At the comment, the woman's eyes follow the the ravine further toward the horizon, where the current must have taken Daryl and Carol. "Okay," she replies to Michonne softly. Her gaze is quickly, and with concern, back on the swordswoman. "Can you handle that? I wanna find Carol and Daryl as much as anyone else, but I won't risk you getting hurt more. It may be safer to just all meet up back at the prison."

Stoicism long practiced against equal or greater stubbornness remains firm. Michonne nods briskly; she can, she gets it. Checking the sword on her back, she demonstrates a few steady paces back and forth, spreading her arms at the finish with a wry lift of her eyebrow. That'll do. She starts off through the thickened forestry, branches letting up in patches against the rage of the incline. When Maggie meets her gait as she ducks a low, fat overhang, Michonne mentions, "Your friend— Daryl," a short pause, "He's in a bad way." It's half a question and half a call-to-arms; they can't be sure that, wherever they are, Daryl and Carol are capable of reaching the prison.

Despite not knowing Michonne very well, Maggie is not about to lie to her. Not when she stuck her neck out for her. "He's… he's worried about his brother," she tells Michonne. Without hesitating, she is matching the other woman's pace. As much as she is optimistic, she hopes that all will work out in the end. But, her voice is worried and tells a different tale. "He's lookin' for 'im." She looks back over to the banks of the ravine. "Carol'n I came after him to try'n help. But, I don't know if he'll stop till he finds him. But, he may. Specially since it's just him'n Carol now."

Narrowed features on Michonne portray either disregard for Daryl's mission of choice or a natural state of slight discontent. Little changes on her face as they fish for a path through the mesh of nature; once or twice, Michonne releases her katana from her back and hacks into the obstruction, but not often. Each time, she inspects the blade for flaws or dangerous dullness then quietly re-sheathes it, again on the move. So it's been moving, muggy, minutes before she returns Maggie's favor— apparently having taken this time to decide whether or not to: "Heard 'em talkin' about it once in a while." The Woodburians she'd been tailing. "How Governor took a trophy off the older, sent him this way." Her eyes cast across the ravine— the way Daryl had been leading them— then flick over to Maggie with her stoic version of apprehension. Her gaze drops, lifts, turns ahead to the matter of their route. "How he wants the younger alive."

"So. You're sayin' this is a trap." Maggie's back, despite crouching, turns rigid. Her dirty face turns pale. "That they're attemptin' to lead Daryl into some sorta ambush." The thought of meeting them back in the prison evaporates. She knows how much Daryl will go through to get to his brother. And if at the end of that road he meets the Governor? Well, she was put through his hell and she knows Daryl was put through some it as well. She won't allow him to go back. "We gotta find him. Warn him." Her eyes drift to Michonne's wounded side. "You sure you're alright? We still gotta look after you, Michonne."

"Are you?" Michonne counters, thinned by that same vague sense of a potential joke. Besides, the turnaround suggests: Maggie said it plain as day. Gotta find him. What's aright here anymore, anyway. There's barely a one of them left without a meeting with the Governor— not a one of them prettier for it. Michonne's just happens to show on the split on her leg, which she dutifully ignores, pushing them further on. "Fall might've put 'em off," she states as pure fact, nothing attached. "It's the brother I don't trust."

Maggie's answer to Michonne is merely a smirk as to if she is alright. She is certainly physically better off than Michonne at the moment. Mentally? Well, who is mentally stable these days? There is no more arguing. With Daryl and Carol in trouble and Michonne willing to push herself, there is little else to say on that account. Instead, she focuses on the problem at hand. "Don't know the brother," she says simply. "I know Daryl's willin' to chase through this whole forest t'find him." And Daryl is not someone to argue with when it comes to loyalties. She moves on. "Might've," she agrees. "I guess we'll find out."

"That's what concerns me," murmurs Michonne after a break filled only with their quiet, steady footsteps. "If they've turned the brother, your friend," she looks over at Maggie with a grim breath, "He's gonna walk himself eagerly right into it." Spring; trap set.

It's the disquieting truth on which they travel; they may well be headed towards two people whose goal is to be unwittingly captured. Daryl's unflagging loyalty the noose by which he'll be delivered to the Governor, whose hospitality both women are intimately familiar with.

Some of this spurns a faster progress— Michonne, already no slouch, pursues the path no less aggressively for her leg. She surrenders in small breaks, long enough for Maggie to check the bandages. Always aware, the swordsman stands with Maggie crouched by her, eyes out on the wooded world surrounding them.

Distant, perturbed, animal noises stick out of the dim afternoon during their most recent stop. Hobbling to brace one hand against a tree so Maggie can attend her, Michonne's already antsy; they've had to break from the ravine due to treacherous landscape and the rush of water's distant enough to be off-putting. She scowls into the underbrush. Stiffens when it rustles back. A pause. Then her leg jerks, bucking Maggie as gently as possible amidst aggression. There's no movement from either her or the leaves— and then Michonne hauls forward, her sword coming free with a shiiiink met by the throaty shout of the man who breaks out of the trees to meet her.

With an edgy thunk, sword meets wood, driving in with the curse gritted between Michonne's teeth. Dark eyes stare back at their like. She's faced off with an impressively muscular African American man, his beanie cap and jacket almost endearingly 'woodsman' if not for the ferocious effort as he attempts to overpower Michonne.

The brush separates a second time, pushing out another dark-skinned woman, her hair a frizz of a bun near the top of her head, her sweater torn in near two. She comes up short from helping her companion when she spots Maggie, readjusting a grip on a hammer that's seen better decades.

That loyalty is the reason Maggie feels so strongly that they must find and stop Daryl before he's given back to the Governor. And that loyalty to Michonne is also why even though she sees the other woman with the hammer, she immediately goes after the woodsman.

Instead, of outright attacking, she fumbles into her belt for the gun she stashed there, unused for fear of noise. However, hopefully, she will not have to shoot him. As soon as it is free of her clothing, it is pointed straight at the man's head. "You get offa her," she tells him, words edged with hurt and anger. Her eyes flick toward the woman in the brush. "And you stay right where you are."

Ripples of tension and half-movements— the frizzy-haired woman's grip on the hammer adjusts— but, even so, aggression wanes out of the woodsman's eyes and the flex of his muscle shifts not offensively but only to maintain balance. Cautiously, he loosens one hand to try and fend back his companion but has to immediately replace it when Michonne's push almost topples him. "Whoa, whoa— !" he exclaims, fighting back adrenaline that says otherwise, "Look— no. We don't want to fight."

"We don't know they're not one of them— !" counters the woman, bouncing the hammer's handle against her palm beside jittery footsteps and a quick glance behind from where they came.

"Let's take this one step at a time," offers the man, trying to read Michonne's unflinching hold, "We will back off, if you do."

"One'a who?" Maggie readjusts the grip on her gun, still pointed directly at the woodsman. Because, as far as she knows, these two could be a part of Woodsbury. Though her gun does not lower, she doesn't take an forward movement to escalate the stand off.

"We don't wanna fight, either, we're just lookin' for some'a ours that got attacked." She looks to Michonne as she speaks. Slowly, reluctantly, she lowers her gun. "We'll step away if you do," she tells him, eyes moving from Michonne to the woman with the hammer. She's the one that seems to need the most convincing.

Defiance burns from Michonne's eyes into the muscles that keep her poised on attack. A subtle clench of her jaw, tightening, reacts to Maggie's slow de-arming but then— finally— after a prolonged moment that tests the dark-skinned woman's patience and her companion's faith, the warrior shoves not-so-gently backward. The sword remains out of sheath.

Hurriedly, the woodsman backs up several paces of his own, creating a no-man's land between the two wavering groups. "The place we just come from," he offers, briskly cutting his hand in the air near his thigh in a gesture asking his sister to back down. For every increment the hammer lowers, the woman's face becomes stonier. It's almost a good enough shield for the fear in her eyes. "We got attacked. I ain't— seen nothing like it," the haunting seems so wrong on a man of his size; it stronger imparts its point in that way. "Lost two of our own. Barely got out, ourselves."

"Tyreese…" hisses his friend, low and warning.

"It's okay, Sasha," Tyreese replies, not looking at her but nodding at Maggie with the slightest, warier, eye for Michonne's statuesque impression of a bodyguard. "You said you got attacked." Camaraderie assumed. "You were at the prison, too, then? You escaped?"

"The prison?" Maggie is suddenly desperate. "No, we've just come from Woodbury. What dy'a mean the prison got attacked?!" Despite the no man's land, the woman quickly tucks her gun into her belt and moves toward Tyreese and Sasha. There's a wild and terrified look in her eye. "My family's there. My father, sister…" Glenn. "Who attacked it? What happened?!"

"Family?" Gentling in the eyes, Tyreese extends a hair towards Maggie's shoulder as she approaches. Michonne's foot drives her forward a step and the large man rethinks his action. His arms drop to his side, palms scraping against his thighs; branch, useless.

"You're not understanding," bites out his own family, Sasha, as she advances her own several inches forward to counter Michonne. "Nobody attacked it," she clarifies, cold and narrow-eyed, "It attacked us."

The expectation of silence which defines Michonne, a woman with no particular loyalties— nor reason to have them— is broken with her poignantly low declaration: "Any folk from that prison attack you, they got good reason."

"Oh yeah?" again, Sasha, "How about being tired? Hungry? Dragging the dying body of our friend's wife through the rubble, pursued by a dozen of those things, and just wanting shelter? Are those your good reasons?"

This doesn't make sense. Maggie looks between Tyrese and Sasha, then gives a long look to Michonne. Between trusting two strangers that attacked them in the woods and sticking by Michonne, the short haired woman is going to stick with Michonne.

"They wouldn't do that," she says firmly. "My father's there. He's a doctor. If he'd've seen your friend was hurt, he'd've helped." It's not just suspicion in her voice now, there's confusion. What they're saying doesn't make sense. The pair in front of them don't seem to be a bad sort, but Hershel and Glenn would never have attacked them if they didn't try something first. Nor would they, really, be in any shape to harm them.

"These people at the prison. The ones that attacked you. What'd they look like?"

A need for disbelief born of fear drives argumentative lines across Sasha's face but her physical shifting never becomes fully aggressive. She peers at Maggie while she speaks, steadily. When the question's posed, her gaze drops like an anchor.

"We don't know," answers Tyreese first. At Michonne's sharply attentive eyebrow, he raises a pausing hand. "They had some kind of masks. Hoses," he cups his fingers in front of his mouth, "and covered eyes. Like those gas masks you might see in a horror movie or somethin'." The antique-seeming reference earns a scoffing noise from Sasha and Tyreese's subtle facial twitch reveals something of familiarity; their relationship, their closeness, seems much easier to name.

"They stormed in, like they were trained," Sasha adds after a lull. "They had Alan— his son— before we really knew what was happening." Dark eyes flash to her brother, "If you had people there…" and then land on Maggie with a tight flick of her tongue inside her lower lip as she measures her words that never come.

There's immediate horror on her face as Sasha explains what happened at the prison. Gas masks. There was a man at Woodbury with a gas mask. They saw him through the smoke and flames. If there were more of them and they attacked the prison…

"Michonne, we gotta go." Maggie has lost all interest in fighting Tyreese and Sasha. All thoughts are on her family, left behind at the prison. For the moment even Daryl and Carol are forgotten as mental images of the prison on fire with Hershel, Glenn, Beth and Judith still inside. "We gotta go find them…" her voice starts to devolve into barely restrained panic.

A flicker of foreign emotion dashes across Michonne's gaze as it watches Maggie's meltdown with an ounce less stoicism, the ice queen's presence slipping out as she side-steps to touch the other woman's shoulder at the curve. "Maggie." And it's five sentences and it's only her name— it's a command, calming, a question. But she becomes distinctly uncomfortable, and her fingers leap off, the static-electricity of potential closeness causing her to turn towards strangers instead. "Where did you come from?" She asks of Tyreese, sharply, again, when he doesn't answer fast enough, "Where did you get in?"

"South— south— east," he says, gesturing, then reaching up to adjust his woodsman's cap. "There was… a collapsed wall. This big pile a'rumble. Led right into the place."

Michonne's scowl calculates; she's not familiar with the prison, not like Maggie is. She casts a look towards her companion, gauging, except when a rumbled word from Tyreese calls her back. "We can take— " Sasha emits a noise as if to interrupt; Tyreese raises his voice incrementally, "You and show you where."

Her own name is not enough to stop the rising panic that Maggie feels. This is a world of sorrow and mayhem and it is not hard for her to imagine the worst happening to her family while they were out here. It does, however, manage to stop her from all out running in whatever direction she thinks the prison may be in immediately. There's an unrestrained energy, unmistakable in its ferocity as her eyes flick between those gathered before her despite barely registering their own expressions or meanings.

"You'll take us?" she asks Tyrese with a breath of hope. "That place they're talkin' about," she tells Michonne. "It's 'round back of the prison. There could still be time. We could warn 'em. It might still be okay." It's a fool's hope, but one she has to cling to.

All of Michonne's dark features remain tight, but not necessarily disagreeable. What storm brews behind her brow's tense crinkle remains private. She only nods, adjusting her sword for the first time in a less aggressive fashion. It chafes against her leg's stiff pants; she rolls inconspicuously from putting weight on the wound.

As she looks over at Maggie, Sasha takes a couple of staggered paces quickly to her brother's side, grasping him at the shoulder and pulling him aside to mutter indistinctly but with obvious heat. Ignoring them for the most part, Michonne continues her eyes' path from the ground up to her partner's face. "Your other friends. With the brother." She's not arguing. She's just making sure they're on the same page. On the grand scale of importance, Daryl and Carol have scored too low for their lives, even as vulnerably as they travel.

"Daryl and Carol." Maggie looks through the foliage toward where they were attempting to follow the river. "They'll go back to the prison. It's the one place we all know," she tells Michonne firmly. But, there's a bit of indecision here. They think she's alone in the woods. But, at the same time, she can't just leave her family and the baby all by themselves when an attack is coming right for them. They may be in need of help as they deliberate.

"The river follows the same route as the prison. We'll stay with it for as long as we can."

"All right." She may be independently minded, but Michonne acknowledges Maggie's decision without a flinch; they're of an accord. With the siblings seemingly in their own argument, she spares a second to shift her wounded leg away from their side and rub it consciously with the palm of her hand. "We don't know that these two weren't followed out," she mutters lowly, glancing with shielded eyes in the others' direction; they're fully absorbed in their own bickering. "Could be somethin' on their tail even they don't know about."

"— their people are GONE—"

It's being said to a marching Tyreese's back. He's turned on Sasha, hands gripped tightly around the straps of his backpack as he cuts towards the stranger two women, nodding and heading back the way he'd sprung from. "Let's go, then."

"If that's true," Maggie replies with a frown, "then maybe we can lure'm out and figure out why they attacked the prison and who the hell they are." And, if the worst has happened, where they have taken the others. If they have taken the others. If the very worst has come to pass, it means they will have people to take revenge on. "I guess we just keep our eyes open." Taking her own advice, she glances at the trees and then at the approaching Tyreese.

At Sasha's retort, she frowns. "If you didn't see my father there, then there's no way you know if they're gone or not." Either way, she's going to see for herself. "Thank you," she says softly to Tyrese before she follows him, waiting only for Michonne. She'll keep pace with the other woman without doing much to reveal that she's wounded. If they really are being followed, keeping up appearances is essential.

A scowl takes up resident at the corner of Sasha's mouth as she joins their stride with a bustle of her slightly over-sized green jacket. "I saw how these people operate," she remarks. Her darkened look at Maggie, Michonne, turns into a frustrated sniff at her brother's unswerving back. There's a flicker on her face that Maggie recognizes too well; she's feeling it as strongly, that obstinate concern for a loved one.

Her look back onto Maggie afterward is almost pitying, but too sharp at the edges. Her eyes burn, and it's obvious she isn't the kind to easily panic. "You didn't."

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