#Judge and Executioner || Post Apocalypse Era

[deputygonebye]

@luposcainus asked: “get away please! get out!”

Inbox Starters!

Back hunched over and arms pulled close to his chest, as if to keep at bay claws that wished desperately to extend, Caspian was a man greatly pained. Carved deep into his features - brown eyes usually so full of warmth, the sure sign of a gentleman made true - his mouth twisted into scowl. Accompanied by only Shane and woodland trees, the change from pleasant camp surveillance to sudden torture was quick. A pin dropped into the quiet of afternoon; disturbed the few animals who still called the forest their home, the way the winds blew, groans from within the belly and words spoken from between clenched teeth. Starved and tired, the shift would've seemed like madness to anyone else outside of the camp, to anyone other than Shane. Insanity that finally got the upper hand - captured what little Caspian had left, the marbles not rolled about in his head, the screws not yet completely loose. Violated by means unseen, the shotgun that Shane held was gripped tight, brought to the shoulder and rested, aimed and pointed but with finger not placed onto the trigger.

Breath inhaled through the nose, slow and steady, Shane took into view the sight before him. Caspian replaced by someone else - fearful, agony able to flush out the color of his cheeks, a beastly thing that had waited too long to strike. Chomped at the bit in all the days that had passed them by, gnawed at the bones, the meaningless dinners that would never wholly satisfy. Substance that would never cease the hunger; the curse that was cast onto Caspian, the very bane that had made Shane so weary in the first place. An unanswered question ever still, a thousand thoughts pooled into his mind, the choices that Shane would, that Shane could, make. Exhale lazy and cool - underneath the surface a bubbled anxiety - stance straight and posed, knees bent and ready.

"Caspian. Hey, dude. Just take it easy, alright?" Shane cooed, delicately. "Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen, you hear me?"

"Caspian, listen to me, man. Everythin' is gonna be okay. Just take it easy, nice and slow. You've made it this far - don't let that Halfbie shit take you down now. I know we've had our differences - shoot, I wasn't the most kind to you - but we've found an understandin'. I ain't gonna hurt you. You ain't gonna hurt me. Ain't gonna hurt nobody in our camp, either. I'm not leavin' you out here in these woods like this, Caspian."

Shane began, attention focused, a hawk. "Listen here, dude. I'm gonna lower my gun. You take a second. Gather yourself. Then, you tell me what's goin' on, what hurts or what's botherin' you. We'll go nice and easy, do it together, okay? You and me, Cas. Just us."

[deputygonebye]

@florrentine asked: are you… laughing at me?

Pride and Prejudice (2005) Prompts.

Sterile, unusually pure, uncontaminated by the decayed touch of Walkers. Alexandria was the world before the outbreak. Homes nestled all in a row, painted fences and warm fireplaces that smelled of smoke. Tablecloths upon tables and silverware placed nicely, fresh cooked meals and cold drinks served with ice. Televisions that could catch a signal - static but nonetheless a picture to witness - radios and phones able to receive and work as intended. It was as though the entire fall of the world hadn't happened. Was merely a dream, a fantasy that had haunted Shane for years, a cruel game that his mind had dared to play. But the pain to his hands was too real. Stiffened joints so sore - bones felt as if they could break on command, scars across skin dug too deep - the crushing truth. Alexandria was safe; protection that was too strange to bear without worry. Shane was uncomfortable.

Stalking the premises like an animal in a cage, an unnatural home, Shane watched those around him, the residents of the Zone. Pretended to play a part assigned to him; just as was asked of by Rick, as was done likewise by everyone else of their family. Fiction brought to life, like an actor upon a silver screen, polite and kind, genuine but with the inner workings kept under lock. Situated on top of sidewalk path, Shane stood like a statute and observed. A little home just on the corner, brown hair styled in waves, green eyes trained on the task of her hand. Bound to Britain; an isle so far, seeped into her person as near as the soul, an air about her that was not like the others. Different, clever and loyal, stubborn and impulsive: Emilia.

Shane was uncertain. Questioned, found little in answer, merely watched her more, an almost intense stare. His mouth raised to a slight smirk, a laugh parted from his lips; there was humor in the entire scene. Alexandria was uncanny.

"No. No, ma'am." Shane answered, his mind returned to him, his role of normal commenced, not a survivor but deputy. "Just curious as to what you're workin' on."

Shane explained, "Deanna mentioned how you're into art, creative things. I was walkin' around the neighborhood, noticed you were in the middle of somethin'. May I ask what that somethin' is? Ain't ever been much of an artist myself, I'll tell you that much. Can sketch a mean stick-figure, though."

[dreddedwheat]

Back to the Dredd-tomes: Judgement Day

Okay, so-!

Brief introduction: I used to have a previous blog that focused on my youthful fanboyism of the 2000AD and Judge Dredd universe. A few misstimed clicks a year or so back and that all got nuked, and it basically killed my enthusiasm for writing stuff up, since I lost a metric ton of amateur analysis, fan-mixes and other stuff that most people would usually forget.

There was a lot of back and forth with good folks like @judgeanon (who I credit with helping support what is a vanishingly small online discussion around Dredd and 2000ad in general), which is now sadly mostly lost. Usually for the better with my more immature antics, hence the fresh start and fresh name to go with it.

However, after a Christmas filled with a sudden surge of - probably ill-informed - Dredd buys, I decided to get back into things. That means actually talking about the comic that was formative for me as a fan of both comic-books and fiction in general...

JUDGE DREDD

And where better to start than the biggest, the meanest, and the best/baddest (depending on who you ask) Dredd epic, JUDGEMENT DAY. (Spoiler warnings, images courtesy of the 2000AD site and Google Search.)

So, let's get into a basic overview of this contentious Dredd epic...

The Story so far: Judge Dredd is a law-enforcer in Mega-City One, a massive post-apocalyptic metropolis. As a Judge he's authorised to deliver instant sentencing on the spot, no jury or court necessary. He's judge, jury and executioner, and he is the law, but you probably already knew that.

Johnny Alpha is a Strontium Dog, a mutant bounty-hunter that wants to break free of life on an increasingly anti-mutant Earth. Taking on the bounties no-one else will touch, he utilises his unique 'Alpha Eyes' to see through walls, sense other people's intentions and more. He always gets his man.

Alright, now that introductions are out of the way, let's get into it. For the uninitiated, a Dredd 'epic' is a pretty standard description for a big summer storyline. This all started with the "Apocalypse War" back in the eighties, a storyline which defined not only Judge Dredd but also British Boy's comics.

For American fans, and British comic readers of a certain age (like me) it's hard to imagine a time when most British comics were simply lukewarm re-treads of the same adventure stories you'd read in the fifties, sixties and seventies. Of course, not all of these were bad - far from it - but like many things in Britain during the eighties they were a victim of a stuffy, uptight and squeamish society.

2000AD proved to be a seminal title in many ways, mostly in introducing borderline graphic violence, mature storylines, cynical themes and more complicated heroes. Judge Dredd, a tyrannical authoritarian supercop who nonetheless has strong principles and heroic intentions is the most emblematic of that.

However, for most of his lifetime Dredd had been a relatively straightforward and heroic figure. And although a direct criticism of this was not far away - in the form of the Democracy Now storyline - the Apocalypse War was perhaps the first time we saw Dredd on a firm backfoot.

The lantern-jawed hero was put thoroughly on the defensive when the Sovs, a pastiche of Soviet-era Russia, attacked and destroyed a large portion of Mega-City One. It was a grand war story depicting the Judges of the city waging guerilla warfare and culminating with a particularly chilling page where Dredd retaliates using the Sov's own nukes, obliterating hundreds of millions of people.

Yee-ikes, even nowadays this is vicious stuff. Now imagine this in a mag that's being sold next to "The Beano" on shelves and you can imagine why this was considered such a definitive storyline.

But, okay, why am I telling you this? Well, put simple, Judgement Day is a result of the inherent love that writer Garth Ennis, best-known now for titles like The Boys and Punisher Max, had for this storyline. At least that's the prevailing thesis put forwards by people like JA, God knows that online discussion of Dredd is hard to come by no matter what.

Regardless, this should set the stage. By now, Mega-City One has fazed many crises and successive near-extinction events. Most recently - at the time - Necropolis, where the Dark Judges (we'll get into them) invaded and took control of the city's Judges, attempting to carry out their campaign of omnnicide before being narrowly halted by Judge Dredd, McGruder, Cadet Giant and the everlovin' Psi-Judge Anderson.

So, stage-set, where does that lead us?

Judgement Day is, in simple terms, Dredd vs Zombies. Pretty cliché now, but back in the 90s this was still a fresh and rather bloody concept. And regardless of what one thinks of Ennis' writing, the art is stunning and graphic, with Dredd mainstay Carlos Ezquerra taking center-stage. Although I'd argue that Dean Ormston is at least second-best if not better, with some mouthwatering - pardon the pun - depictions of flesh-eating zombies cribbing from giallo films.

Judge Dredd - and the rest of his post-nuclear world - suddenly face an overwhelming undead assault from the necromagus Sabbat. Resurrecting billions of corpses, Sabbat wages all-out war on the Mega-Cities, and all seems lost until the arrival of Johnny Alpha...

Alpha and Dredd had already met in the story "Top Dogs" where Johnny and his partner, the time-displaced viking Wulf Sternhammer, narrowly escaped capture by the lawman. Naturally, they don't get on too well.

Regardless, Alpha proves instrumental in helping Dredd - and a coalition of international Judges - finding and destroying (or near-enough) Sabbat in a bloody showdown in the Radlands of Ji, a part of post-nuclear China.

In-between we have lavish set-pieces of Dredd and his fellow Judges fending off hordes of the undead, flashes to other parts of the globe and other judges playing their part, as well as fantastic art throughout.

So, what's the problem?

Well, the main issue is that, as JA pointed out in his own posts on the storyline, Judgement Day is very much a 'blockbuster' event. And sadly, it's as close as 2000AD has ever gotten to emulating the American comics ideal of the big crossover event. And NOT in a good way. Although you couldn't criticise it for being slow-paced and overwrought, it has many issues that mark it out for fans.

For one, the storyline - as I only recently found out - ran consecutively in both 2000AD and the Judge Dredd Megazine, the latter a solely Dreddverse-focused publication. Now, obviously, the issues with asking people to buy two magazines, monthly and weekly, aside this also meant that the fairly fast-paced movie-style storyline was constantly being broken up.

Add onto that the ridiculous stakes ("Billions of people are dying! Planet Earth is on the brink!"), an at-times-confusing tone (Sabbat's zombies performing a Disney-esque musical number during the climactic showdown), the destruction of various international Mega-cities - few of which we'd even had the chance to know - and the borderline fanservicey pairing of Dredd and Alpha, and we have a recipe for...not a disaster, but something that's a bit of a messy moment in the Dredd saga.

Because, yes, Dredd's story has been continuous, and while not concrete generally the broad-strokes have always been pretty solid (usually a tweak to a character's origin or what they said and did here, but stuff like the Apocalypse War is almost untouched). Judgement Day really feels like a moment where a lot of potential areas of the world like Brasilia, Mega-City Two and others were, quite literally, nuked off the face of the Earth. We also saw some interesting side-characters gored under the zombie hordes, such as Oz Judge Bruce and Judge Dekker.

Basically, Judgement Day slammed the door shut on potential plotlines, was shaky in terms of the publishing angle and overall had more of an overwrought Hollywood blockbuster than intense action-thriller. It also came hot on the heels of Necropolis, and arguably was part of a quick-succession of world-shaking crises such as Inferno which, as far as I can tell, numbed readership going into the 2000s.

Sabbat also stands as quite a weak villain. He rarely appears until the finale, and his backstory - a downtrodden teacher's pet turned murderous necromancer - may be an amusing reference to the aforementioned "Beano" but it's also a bit of a silly one for someone who's meant to be our big, brutal bad-guy, and not in a good way. He's not a bore to read, but sometimes his moments of simpering arrogance can undercut what is essentially an apocalyptic moment for the world of Dredd.

However, even more frustratingly, Judgement Day is also a massive stepping-stone in terms of the-then current Dredd plotline, making it very hard to ignore. It effectively marked Chief Judge McGruder's last major heroic moment, the first time we saw Judge Hershey take up the mantle of Chief Judge and perhaps the most definitive Alpha/Dredd crossover.

I think it's a testament to the overall high-quality of major Dredd storylines that Judgement Day holds up as well as it does. But it also bears all the hallmarks of something that would work well in a vacuum, but which has a messy place in continuity. I'd loved to have seen a non-canon take on this, perhaps allowing us to bring in characters like Wulf Sternhammer - who was sadly offed before this storyline was written - into the zombie battle royale.

There's also some usual holdovers of poorly-aged stuff that was endemic to British comics at the time. Hondo-City, Ciudad Barranquilla and other areas get equal billing but some traces of their stereotypical origins remain. This storyline did go some way to fleshing out the wider world - as much as it obliterated it - of Dredd.

Yet I can't deny that, in the moment of reading, Judgement Day is enthralling. It's pure, gorey action and fanservice. I just wish it didn't cast such a shadow across later stories, and that it hadn't taken so many interesting places and people with it in the process.

Picking this story up, you know what you're getting, and if you're along for the ride...you'll have a hell of a time.

As it stands, Judgement Day is a weaker entry writing-wise but still well-worth picking up for the art and general premise alone. If you're a new Dredd fan and want something a bit lighter than the commonly-cited "America" storyline, this is a fine way to get into the fast-paced and more action-focused content of 2000AD without needing much forward knowledge.

FIN

[i-left-my-room-tidy]

i saw you are a naruto shifter and wanted to ask about the violence??? how do you deal with trauma and death ?

[thanks for this ask!]

first off, i want to say that I'm somewhat surprised at being asked this question just now. as someone who's been shifting on and off to the elemental nations for over a year now, it just came as a belated realisation.

it's simple but you did not hesitate to pull a punch with that question holy shit

- - -

[TW: talk about death and violence]

note that the only things i fully scripted for this DR (I'm assuming you meant my warring clans era one) are aspects of life that directly relate to me. i hardly interfered with anything from canon save a few key events, nor have i scripted out anything that relates to the world at large (societies, traditions, cultures, and et cetera). everything else is a result of kishimoto's writing and worldbuilding.

one of my oldest posts in the main blog addresses half of this issue. from what i can remember of it, i talked about the trauma naruto shifters can experience while shifting to the elemental nations. when you have people like danzō and orochimaru, for instance, many contingencies need to be made. when you have people like sai and kakashi, therapy is very much a requirement. DR trauma is a very real thing, and my experiences with my warring clans era DR are no exception to that.

if you're referring to the violence in my DR—no, i did not script it out. call me blunt for this, but what's the point of wanting to become a ninja without actually experiencing the essence of being one? the world of naruto, in itself, is ugly by social standards. i can accept the fact that it's not perfect.

i can script certain things out, i know. why have child soldiers? why have human experiments? why have poverty in the world?

say that i do script those kinds of things out. what replaces them, then? I'm not a god—not in the way it counts—I'm a regular person who can make mistakes and miscalculate even the smallest details. how do i reassure myself that what comes after my scripting is the best course of action to happen? everyone likes to talk about snapping things into place, but what about what comes after? and after? and after that?

there's a reason i don't like playing judge/jury/executioner when it comes to moralities. everyone lives different lives, born into different families—what i know and was taught to know is not always going to coincide with what you do. so, i leave the world at large alone. unless i plan to do active worldbuilding for a DR, i won't change much of its story's premises to begin with.

i know what you're probably thinking: have i ever killed in my DR?

and it's a reasonable question. the answer?

yes, i have, but not when I'm actively shifting. I've alluded to it when i posted about my DR script in the main blog. i chose to belong to a clan, to one of its upper branches, to become a shinobi. nearly everyone in my immediate family in that DR has been raised to become a soldier for the clan. it's as simple as that.

however, i haven't gone on missions that involve fighting while I'm shifting. a few diplomatic talks outside the compound, but that's it. there haven't been any major altercations in my DR lately either, from what I'm aware of. it doesn't make it any better, though that's more on the objectivity of it than anything else.

you have to understand that some shifters out there also shift to dystopias and apocalypses, like The Hunger Games or The Walking Dead, or even horror worlds like IT. when you find media you like, you realise it's because you attach meaning to characters and their lives, or to the structures of the worlds that they are living in. and when you're planning to shift to their realities, while you can script things out, you still need to remember what brought the appeal to go there on in the first place.

that doesn't justify killing—i think we can all agree on that—but it's less to do with conscience and more of convenience. feel free to disagree with me on that, but I'm settled with what i am now.

if it's about trauma and death; I've already scripted beforehand that nothing carries over to my CR. I'm of the idea that things that happen in other realities should stay in those realities. I'm not a god, even if i have a developing god complex because of shifting. i know that there are stuff that, despite my initial thoughts of overcoming them, would actually leave their mark. whatever happens to me in my naruto DR will stay there—i don't need to bring it back here.

- - -

apologies if i was blunt about it, or even if it sounds apathetic. i just want you to know that I'm not justifying nor glorifying anything, only stating the situation as is.

[mozgoderina]

Yue Minjun: behind the painted smile (The Financial Times)

One of the art world’s most bankable stars, the Chinese artist talks about capitalism, democracy and the legacy of Tiananmen.

Pale and weary from an exhausting promotional campaign in Hong Kong, Yue Minjun looks nothing like the “laughing man” of his celebrated paintings. As he works his way through signing a stack of catalogues in the fiercely air-conditioned boardroom of his sponsor, it is hard to imagine him breaking into the guffaw of his pink-skinned caricature, eyes tight shut and white teeth bared, which he has described as both a self-portrait and an alter ego. But there is often bitterness behind the Pagliacci smile, and his character is portrayed as the fool who, for better or worse, has become inured to Yue’s bleak version of the modern world.

“My work is to do with the fundamental agony of being human and the sense of confusion that comes with living in our society,” he says, speaking in September at the start of his first solo show in Hong Kong, “The Tao of Laughter”. It is rather a weighty message for visitors to the crowded shopping mall where the exhibition is being staged. But Harbour City – the vast collection of luxury waterfront outlets frequented by mainland Chinese tourists on shopping trips to the tax-free haven – makes, he thinks, a perfect backdrop. “The shopping centre is the heart of human activities in today’s world,” he says. “I want people to look at my art and then pause for reflection as they look for luxury handbags.”

The 50-year-old former electrician is among the biggest stars in Chinese contemporary art today. He belongs to a generation of artists who grew up during the cultural revolution and have taken the world by storm as they track their country’s radical transformation, escaping the limits of socialist realism under which most of them were trained and coming up with their own distinct styles. Yue’s repeated use of the same motif since the early 1990s and his prolific output – there are several hundred paintings featuring the “laughing man” – make his work highly recognisable and now highly desirable to international collectors and curators.

Yue has become a fixture in any survey of contemporary Chinese art, such as the inaugural show at the new Saatchi Gallery in London in 2008, which attracted more than half-a-million visitors. The previous year “The Execution”, probably his most famous painting, sold at Sotheby’s in London for £2.9m, roughly the same price as Cézanne’s “Maisons dans la verdure” sold for in New York a month later.

“The Execution”, which Yue finished in 1995, is widely seen as his most political work. A row of men is lined up against a scarlet wall, laughing, but also looking vulnerable in nothing but grubby briefs. A number of fully clothed men are about to shoot them with imaginary rifles and they, too, think the whole thing is a game, judging by the expression of the one executioner who faces the viewer. It is difficult not to associate this image with the 1989 massacre in Beijing: the wall in the picture is a similar colour to the real Tiananmen Gate and those who died in the military crackdown on a peaceful demonstration were mostly unarmed young students and workers. It also has obvious art-historical references to Manet’s “The Execution of Maximilian” (1868-69), and Goya’s “The Third of May 1808”, both paintings made in response to the political events of their times.

Li Xianting, a well-known Chinese art critic, counts Yue, along with other artists such as the painter Fang Lijun, as members of the “cynical realism” movement, formed partly in reaction to the trauma of 1989. But Yue refuses to be labelled and has always avoided making direct comments on politics. The closest he ever came to saying something negative about the Tiananmen massacre was in an interview with Richard Bernstein of The New York Times in 2007. “My mood changed at that time,” he commented. “I was very down. I realised the gap between reality and the ideal.”

Speaking about the subject in Hong Kong, he remains elusive. “There are many people who want Chinese artists to speak out for them,” he says. “They always have this need to look at my art through a political lens. It’s restricting.”

He ventures a little further: “I think all conflicts are not one-sided but a reflection of current conditions. I’m not saying [Tiananmen] was not important but the main thing is for the two sides to move beyond the conflict and find resolution.”

Compromise, however, does not sit well with the convention that artists speak up for justice and freedom of expression, particularly when there are plenty in China who do exactly this, such as Ai Weiwei, persecuted for his criticism of China’s authoritarian rule, and the jailed Nobel peace laureate Liu Xiaobo, who inspired many around the world with his courage. But Yue remains unapologetic. “I paint about the universal experience. Why do I have to be explicit all the time?”

. . .

Born in 1962 to two oilfield workers in north-eastern China, Yue was a child during the cultural revolution, but grew up in a country where Chairman Mao was still idolised. He studied at the fine arts department of Hebei Normal University, and was inspired by the works of another Chinese painter, Geng Jianyi, whose faces are more grimacing than laughing, representing a deep, internal anguish. In the early 1990s, soon after graduating, Yue moved to Beijing when the country relaxed its rules on internal migration, and shared a studio in a derelict farmhouse with other poor artists including Yang Shaobin. Today, he has two full-time assistants working for him in a custom-built studio and lives in a luxurious Beijing mansion.

There is no doubt that Yue and his fellow artists have done well out of the art market’s China fever in a way that their Russian counterparts never did. The changes to Yue’s personal circumstance parallel the nation’s own transformation.

“To me, capitalism can mean democracy, fairness,” he says. “It’s not all bad. At the same time, it has become the new God. Instead of going to temples, people in China pay their tribute to Mammon in the shopping mall. Religion has been replaced by this vacant materialism.”

Hong Kong, one of the most capitalist cities in the world, is, for Yue, the new China. His show of a dozen paintings, all featuring the laughing man in a variety of situations, is hung in a room tucked away between the luxury outlets. Each work is accompanied by a poem, mostly despondent in tone. “All these fools will probably perish trodden down, pulverised by an unspeakable and awesome apocalypse of which menace they are not even aware,” reads one. But what most visitors see are the five giant bronze versions of “the fool” on display in the mall forecourt. These might be viewed as a post-modernist deconstruction of the classical statue but they also form a cutesy backdrop for holiday snaps. The sunny, cartoon-like appearance of the laughing man also makes him perfect for an accessory line. The shopping mall is offering limited-edition Yue Minjun umbrellas and make-up pouches to those who spend over a certain amount, and he has also produced teapot sets in partnership with two galleries in Taiwan and Beijing.

Yue says his ultimate goal is to make the laughing man a household icon. Critics have said that it’s a clever way of debunking the tradition of Communist party mythologising. He says he just wants to spur the unthinking crowd into adopting a more philosophical approach to life. If commercialisation is what it takes, then bring it on. “Some artists are totally market-driven. Others are so supercilious they don’t want anything to do with it. I am somewhere in the middle,” he says.

Yue’s painting portfolio is more diverse than many art critics give him credit for. A recent retrospective at China’s Chengdu Contemporary Art Centre showed works which hark back to the Chinese ink landscape tradition, and a range of other pieces will be on show at the Fondation Cartier in Paris, where his first major European retrospective opens this month. Marcello Kwan, a specialist in Asian contemporary art at Christie’s, puts Yue’s importance partly down to his arrival in the early 1990s “when Chinese artists wanted to bring in a new era which challenges the rigidity left behind by the previous decades. His laughing man is his answer to Mao Zedong, who used to be the idol. Using himself as the basis for a new idol is a very interesting subversion,” he says.

Yue comes closest to saying something subversive when he describes the role of laughter in his works. “If you are faced with a situation you cannot change, then laughter may be the only possible reaction,” he says. “But if many people start laughing, it can become a proactive force for change.” His creature might lack the wit and wisdom of a Shakespearean fool, and any wry comment on the human condition is hidden behind the laughter. But maybe that’s the point in a country whose critics are silenced.

  Source: The Financial Times / Enid Tsui. Published: November 2, 2012. Link: Yue Minjun: behind the painted smile Illustration: Yue Minjun [China] (b 1962). 'Welcome', 2005. Oil on canvas (170 x 140 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER.

[deputygonebye]

@divinityrisen || Continued from here.

Born from a breakfast of stale pizza, what was once frozen inside of a grocery fridge and then discovered within an abandoned homestead, barely warmed when left over muted flame, the vomit that Glenn spilled was unnatural. Diluted from the few sips of water he was able to drink - a communal container that was less than a gallon, not enough to go around the camp - a mangled mess of white and red, flecks of green and globs of brown. Drenched in sweat, little comfort was found in the cushion of grass beneath the knees, Glenn hunched over nearest the weeds, an empty stomach made more so. Shaking, skin turned to an odd shade of pale, eyes watered and dark. A vision that brought about thoughts so terrible; the phantom of death, the fight that couldn't be beaten. Modern medicine and miracles damned, stock was nothing more than the promise of Aspirin and burn cream, stashed in the only cabinet of Dale's RV not hung to the wall by hopes and used duct tape. Small relief, modest to the agony so felt by Glenn, last seen covered head to toe in spare blankets, his lawn chair before the firepit a mediocre throne, Shane couldn't stand it.

Blade and gun carried, favored pistol holstered to his hip, he went off in search. For the sake of Glenn and the others, the need of their stock to be replenished and the promise of having more than not. A supply run that would be done alone - a burden carried unattended, sacrifice from the soldier onto his people, the family and friends who depended upon him. An entire world and more placed on tired shoulders. Better to have he than they, the rest of the group who survived Atlanta considered safe. Sheltered from the misery, if only for the bit of daylight that remained, the Walkers at rest for their hunt. Lost in the sleep that didn't need for the eyes to shut; the slow limp from span of time into the next, the endless cycle that was life forever. Storms within their irises, colors once so bright now dull, only those that didn't travel in packs would be found. Lone wolves; corpses without their hordes, snapping and biting into the open air, the flies that buzzed about or the birds that fluttered too close, banished even in demise.

Familiar road walked along, Shane continued until he came to face the carcass of a once thriving town. A skeleton that stood unmoved - doors and glass windows caved in - wood splintered, concrete busted, flower pots turned over and the beautiful buds trampled, petals scattered and ripped. Where kinfolk used to abide, cuddled close beside the fireplace in the living room, the grocery store just around the corner or the library only a block away. Heart and soul nestled beyond the city lights, the glamour and the frills, before a small market did Shane end. Fliers still plastered to the front door - opening and closing hours, special deals and coupons - tarnished by the elements, the faint sign of hands and nails that fought to get inside, dried blood and grime stained. Fingers to the handle about to pull, the sound of a crash stopped Shane in an instant, made him noiseless, breath stalled from the nose and released in stiff stream. All senses attuned, voices overheard gave cause for the quickness of his feet. A dash toward a used car lot, across the street from the quaint and humble market, behind the bumper of an old Jeep Patriot, billet silver in the body, total black in the tires.

Pistol taken into hold, a blur of blonde hair and scared expression captured Shane's attention the second it passed him. Waves of gold that moved to the strength of the wind, the thump of feet onto pavement and desire to be unseen. Panicked, annoyance outlined in the lines of her features, young but made older due to circumstance, her own weapon grabbed for with intention so well understood. Unprepared to welcome final moments, stubborn to accept fate, the hand not stationed to his gun was raised by Shane. Palm brought up, to the skies and all the angels above, defensive and in the tone of surrender. A flag of white waved in the breeze. Under the oath of his own choosing, vow that was far from what was so screamed by others, men of elder and youth alike.

Shane whispered, pitched at the end, the silence so loud. "Am I right to assume you ain't with them?"

Startled from the echo of gunshots, the reverb of slugs, the grind of jagged shale underfoot, Shane steadied himself, propped his stance.

"Listen to me, I ain't gonna hurt you, okay? But if you wanna make it out alive, you're gonna have to trust me. Start comin' to me this way, real slow. Keep your weight even - don't run. Come to the other side of me and stay down until I say so. I'll cover you. Bastards, they must've flanked every exit of this damn lot!"

Shane encouraged, a command rather than something sweeter, tender but roughly shared, "hey! Come on. Get over here!"

[deputygonebye]

@rickgrimesdoingrickthings asked: "Why do you have to make everyone hate you?"

Dark and Angsty Sentence Starters

Charred firewood filled the evening air that cooled Hershel's farm and those upon it. Smoke that rose until it reached the stars above, bright and bold in silver. Flame that burned in orange and red, blood and passion and whatever else was lost to the world presently known, had it not been for Rick, the silence between he and Shane would've stayed. Partnered perfectly with the chirps of crickets, leaves blown from their hold on tree branches, a quietness that was every ounce unnatural. Shane was dubious that any sort of change would've happened. All else within the farm's lines static - invariable to all things except for Shane himself. None viewed him as they once did. Never considered him as they used to; beloved dog dragged to the doghouse and left to wither underneath a leaking roof. Fear was held for Shane in every choice he made. Curious glances, confused faces, not the same that was given onto Rick for he and his decisions. Quite simply, love had turned to hate.

Tossing another stick into the campfire, a loose piece that had fallen from the pile collected earlier by Daryl, an insignificant addition, Shane shook his head. Distrust from the others was not something that he strived for. Never was his personal safety risked for such cause, only ever had he wished for the opposite. But tides had turned for the worse of the two. Loath bloomed where it shouldn't have - soil rich with tears and sweat - gratitude more like dead weeds. But if hate was what was gotten for sacrifice, Shane would not try to sway opinion in his favor. See his ways and welcome life, ignore him and choose death. It was only a matter of picking. And Shane would show everyone, Hershel's family and those that had become family from the Atlanta camp, the realities that they were so clearly blind to. A shepherd for lost sheep.

"I don't make nobody do anythin', brother." Shane said, eyes concentrated on the fire before him, watchful as the wood cracked and crumbled further into the pit. "They just don't like what I have to say. Better yet, they hate that what I have to say is right. Some of these people, Rick, they're clueless. They got no idea what life is really like out here. They think Walkers are still people. They think that the world is just gonna go back to how it was. That world's dead, Rick. It's long gone. Only world to look for now is the one right in front of our eyes. The one we're livin' in today. But these folks, they don't see that."

"They just see me as the asshole who talks too much. The guy that they can hate on when everythin' else around them gets bad. All I've ever tried to do was keep everybody safe. It's what I've done since this thing started. But they don't want me doin' that. They want you."

[deputygonebye]

@florrentine asked: ❛ you’re welcome to stay, if you want. ❜

Walls of white decorated in floral, blues and ivories, anthers colored to the brightest of yellows, a field of flowers and almost rustic sensibilities, Emilia's home was cozy. Hung picture frames displayed sketches behind their glass; pencilwork in black, watercolors in orange, from their canvases in an attention grabbing spectacle. Wooden stools centered around a kitchen island, a pot on the stovetop about to whistle, the signal that tea had been finished. Water in small cup, bronze around the top in delicate trim, pastel peach from handle to base. Shane's portion of the homemade brew. Warm to the touch - somewhat bitter to the taste without the addition of sugar or honey - a delicacy come straight from the isle, held within the hands of the enemy, an American satisfied in thirst. Unlike the coolness he was used to - tea on Sunday afternoons, filled to the top of the pitcher with ice and lemon - comforted, nonetheless.

Dressed in his best, jeans that were stained only around the calves, button down cuffed at the elbow, the first three buttons left undone, Shane meant nothing by his visit to Emilia. A simple get-together between neighbors - the soles of his brown combat boots dug into the floorboards, the hardwood of darkened craft, unlikely to move - the hour that Shane was allowed between fatherhood and Alexandria responsibility. Judith watched over by the others of his group, the strangers that grew to extended family, true family, it was meant only to be tea and nothing more. A quick break from the hustle and bustle; the pleasure of hot tea and biscuits, cookies, that smelled as good as they looked. Bound to be gobbled up as soon as they went from pan to plate, Emilia a dedicated hostess, her invitation an unexpected surprise. Sudden, but welcomed, irises of copper melted into puddles, made softer and tender.

"Aw, Em. That's real kind of you. I'd love to, but the boss has got me workin' overtime today. Somethin' about the kids - worried they've been messin' around the fence or somethin'. Gotta go check on it, maybe lay the law down, too." Shane smiled, closed mouth but with a boyish air, youthful and almost mischievous.

"Alright... just a few more minutes, then I really have to hit the road. Hey, thank you. This, it's been nice. I haven't had much of a chance to sit down and relax in, well, honest to God, forever. Tea's real good, too. Ain't never had it warm before - always had it chilled. Guess I've been missin' out, huh? You best come by my place this week, I'll make us some dinner. A little token of my appreciation, if you will, for bein' so nice to me. My little girl, she's a picky eater, so we might end up havin' pasta and sauce, again, but I promise, Ms. Emilia, it'll be worth the walk across the sidewalk. Shoot, I'll even make a dessert. I'll have Carol lend a hand - she's good in the kitchen - that way, it'll be guaranteed delicious."

[deputygonebye]

@luposcainus asked: are you… laughing at me?

Pride and Prejudice (2005) Prompts.

Little was there actual joke in the act, but nonetheless, the sight alone gave rise to a smirk upon Shane's lips. Rise of the corners, color born onto tanned cheeks, the mark of pink across what the sun had not already burned red. Leaned back in his lawn chair, a throne of teal-tinted plastic almost bleached white by the skies above, the brisk winds of Georgia able to provide relief from one of the hotter days. Cloudless for all of the morning and afternoon, chores done for the sake of the camp had been finished with less than enthusiastic draw. Shane beaten down from the effort - the repetitive nature, the lack of peace, little food to look forward to come supper. Canned corn and frog legs; the taste of outdoor temperature water for dessert. Survival found but at such heavy cost, entertainment contained to the outskirts of camp, the antics of the youngest Dixon brother that would lead to his possible demise or the flies that landed on skin, threatened to bite, for they were starved also.

Watchful of the green that fenced around, the trees and whatever else could be comfortable within its boarders, Shane could hardly keep his eyes away from Caspian. Seated next to him in the space - hunched somewhat and distracted by the decided meal - the look of disgust that all the others had shared while they, too, chewed and swallowed. It was an image that couldn't be forgotten easily. Warm brown eyes locked in concentration, stubble grown along the jaw, stained lightly in the juices of frog, brows close together and mouth pinned downward. It was food - better than nothing, worse than anything. Punishment for crimes that none in the camp committed, Caspian the most innocent though he gorged himself as if he were otherwise. Shane couldn't withhold his amusement.

"No." Shane tried, only to fail as a laugh passed his lips. "Alright, I am. But I ain't laughin' at you, Caspian. I swear on my own life, I ain't! It's just... I ain't ever seen a man get so serious over eatin' frog legs before. They never made some of that where you're from? I mean, hell. You English folks gotta eat some weird stuff from time to time, don't you? My grandfather, he was English. From what I've been told, he could eat those damn Scotch Eggs like they were goin' out of style. Loved himself some black puddin', too. Don't think I've got the stomach for either, I'll tell you what."

Sighing at the end, offering the last good napkin, a small pile that had been stashed away during his own eating, Shane smiled. "Here, dude. Better get yourself cleaned up or else the bugs will come after you. Had half the mind to just wipe your face myself, but with the way your attackin' that frog leg there, I didn't wanna risk losin' a finger. Or my whole hand. Next time, I'll make them real good for you. Hell, I know Dale did his best this go around. But you can only do so much to poor old Kermit before he just ends up tastin' like, well, frog."

[deputygonebye]

@xgoldxnhour asked: “are you out of your senses? i thought you hated the man.”

Pride and Prejudice (2005) Prompts.

Arguments were otiose, served little purpose and offered likewise useless effect. Bitter on the tongue; scorched the fire inside of Shane effortlessly, burned him far greater than the sun that shined on his naked torso, made red the skin there. Sweat pooled around the hemline of his jean, where fabric met hipbone, the back of his neck and nearest his ears. Around his scalp, buzzed short and protected less, frustration over the uncontrollable about to burst at the seam. Starved still though he just ate, the mere slices of peaches and canned beans did little to settle his nerves, that afternoon choice of lunch. Bottled water warmed to the temperature of the Georgia heat - his drink provided little comfort, stood proud on the ground next to Shane's work, piles of chopped logs and rusted axe.

Muscles tired and sore, a chore started since the rise of the sun and not stopped, Shane had worked like a dog. Obeyed his master, did as was told and begged for no scrap, wood for his family and Hershel's. Lumber split down the middle by blade edge, the swing of Shane's arms, a crazed gleam within his brown stare. Chest raised and fallen to the pace of his task; as if body remained where soul, where mind, wasn't. Wandered the halls of an abandoned school, peered into the dismal look of those undead. Listened to the scream of someone who didn't return, the picture of his family ever clear despite. Eloise and Roan; true love found, true love made, the keepers to Shane's heart. So beautiful, he survived for them. Came back for their sakes and Carl's. Wounded and pained, a child who was like a second son, reminded Shane of the sweet little boy he and Eloise lost. Bailey; a little body buried in little box, wood carved, beneath a makeshift stone, what the Walkers generously allowed them time for, grief all too short and the ambush all too quick.

Halves crashed to the dirt in careless thud, after another successful chop of the axe to the stand, Shane chose a new log to cut. Another round, two more pieces added to the pile, the mountain that rested on the grass beside. Almost up to his waist in height, the palms to his hand rubbed to the bone, on the cusp to bleed and break open. Void of the emotions that would've once plagued his heart, Eloise's concerns spoke to deaf ears, the echo of her voice just that. Distant - heard but unanswered - the worry of a wife to her husband, faithful and true. Worked himself beyond sane reason, for Hershel was the gritted out response. Old man of white hair, it made little sense. Their relationship tense and prone to bicker; unshared sins made up for, the truth that Shane had told to none. There had been no other option. Couldn't have been - he had fought with the reanimated and won, the fingers to his curls that yanked for the sake of their own survival, the legs that kicked and fists that scratched skin. All done for the betterment of others, Carl was alive and safe. Just as was always promised, as Shane swore and gave his life to, himself reunited with his Eloise and Roan, embraced them and kissed them until sleep overcame them each.

Fresh scar on his head sharpened by sudden pain, the ghost of a hand to his hair, a growl was born from Shane's dry throat. Eyes shut, blocked out both the sun and Eloise, the cold sound of another chunk of timber sectioned into two.

"Eloise, don't. Just don't." Shane grumbled, the corners of his mouth twisted into an unfamiliar frown, as if someone else dared to take his shape.

Back of the hand raised to wipe sweat from his brow, handling of the elderly axe resumed thereafter, Shane demanded, attention unfocused on Eloise, as if she weren't there. "Look, just... don't you mind this. What's goin' on between me and Hershel, that's between me and Hershel. It ain't your place. You should be with our son, anyhow. You just let me finish here. Let me finish, and I'll... I'll be with you when I'm done. Go on."

[deputygonebye]

Quietness broken, chirps from crickets finally silenced, out into the woods did Shane hear them, too. Faint to his own ears - as soft as the wings of a butterfly - barely noticeable had Caspian said nothing. From behind the trees that stood around the quarry, Walkers were well on their way toward the small group. Number unknown but still just as dangerous as if there were a thousand; Shane stood from his kneel and took aim of his shotgun. Pointed it into the darkness that he couldn't see through, shine from the sun unable to penetrate, motioned for the others to find shelter. Whatever meal that Caspian had been welcomed to was more than finished. Cold and bland, scraps for the wild foxes and animals of the area.

Attention focused upon the green, never once strayed from the sight of bushes and pines and oaks, Shane licked his lips in anticipation. Fear swirled within his belly - the creep that always wandered along his spine - goosebumps and shaken breath. Listening to the others as they drew their own guns, Rick and Daryl and anyone else who could make good on their aim, only did Shane's voice turn to Caspian.

"How many?" Shane asked in low tone, a deputy awaiting for further indication and order. "How close are they?"

Shane swallowed hard. "Caspian? Get ready."

Caspian felt a tingle when the other seemed to raise his voice. The halfbie bites the inside of his cheek.

He almost wanted to aggressively hiss or push the man back , but then again what else can he do? He didn’t want to get killed . If he can get killed. He felt a heart in his hole. It was .. empty. Then again — he understood the importance of this. He didn’t have family or at least — he knew now.

Caspian bites the inside of his cheek. “ I .. I understand. I promise I am not here to harm you or your family.. if you need me to leave then I’ll go and never bother you lot again.” He says.

Caspian looked at Shane and he stopped eating. His hearing did pick up sounds of growling. Immediately stood up and he sniffed. His nostrils flared. Fresh .. one. Two.. four.. ten?! Caspian’s eyes widened. “ I can smell them.”

[deputygonebye]

@florrentine asked: my brother gave it to me. he shouldn't have.

Pride and Prejudice (2005) Prompts.

Porch steps turned into seats, a space for audiences before them to take sight of the view, together did Shane and Emilia take comfort in a day without work. A weekend unlike any other, when time all together didn't blur into one, married and joined completely. It was akin to the days of old. When King County was more than a grave come to life; diner lights bright with their neon, music playing from the small clubs on the corner, football stadium packed to its limits with fans cheering on the high school team. A memory that felt more dreamlike than once-real, the resentment in Shane for the happiness of the thought was sour and cruel. Another stab to heart; the blade twisted and yanked, the reminder of all that the outbreak had caused him to lose. His sanity, his loved ones, his home and sense of peace; the frown on his lips was quick to rid itself once reality pushed forward, the wind upon his reddened cheeks, the color to his neck.

Scene set and to be directed, he was the role of a deputy. Survivor no more, a man who carried his pride on his sleave, his convictions on the glisten of his badge. A player that could master the costume to perfection, it was almost gross in how good he could do so. Natural - for it was once to Shane - as if it were always meant to be, what was supposed to be. Emilia part of the plot, her own part not yet cast, their relationship was on the foundations of friendly. Not close to be more than, not so distant or tension filled, but comfortable in the presence of one another. Able to speak free and without restraint, able to see one another, perhaps, deeper than was truly meant to. Shane's leg touching hers, his uniform to her more common garb, he watched as she worked something within her hands. Unseen, unable to be identified from shape alone, a mystery as great as she. Shane desperate to figure out the clues, he adjusted is posture, stared at the street in front of them, allowed his mind to contemplate and consider.

"Never knew you had one." Shane said, interested and attentive, browns glanced in Emilia's direction, the movement of her hands. "Mind if I ask what exactly he gave you? Ain't never had no sister myself, but if I did, I know just what I'd gift her. Probably one of them bastards with eight legs and thirty eyeballs, hairy all over."

Hand gone between his shirt collar and skin, a silver chain was pulled out and shown. Dazzling in the Georgia sun - more precious than true gemstone - a charm of #22 dressed in wear and time but nonetheless beautiful. Shane's most prized possession.

"My grandma gave me this when I joined the football team in high school." Shane shared, smile on his lips fast to be drawn, an honest and true one. "She was so proud of me, said I always looked like a football player. Real wide in the shoulders, thick in the legs. Probably a little dense in the head, too, now that I think about it. I used to wear it under my uniform. Always had it on for all my games. Never took it off, it was my good luck charm. Only nice piece of jewelry I ever had. My grandma Jean and I, we didn't have a lot of money growin' up. Was never poor or starvin', but life wasn't always easy. Sure did give that woman a hard time, sometimes. But God, did I adore her somethin' awful. She always took care of me. Made me feel loved. Guess that's why I still wear her necklace. She's always with me."

Shane added, tucking his chain back into place below his clothes, "truthfully, Emilia, I'm glad she ain't here to see the world turn to hell like this. Cancer got her. Took that poor woman down before she could even put up a fight. I used to be so pissed off about that, but now, now I'm a little glad for it. She would've been so brokenhearted to see what happened here. It would've crushed her."

[deputygonebye]

@xgoldxnhour asked: Against the wall + reverse

Send me “Against The Wall” to slam my muse up against a wall and kiss them. || Send + reverse to reverse the roles.

Bountiful and vast in number, the gardens that the prison nurtured were about endless in their harvest. A deadland reworked for the benefit of life, rotted roots and overgrown weeds torn away from the soils, crops and produce actually able to be tasted. Devoured, savored on tongues that had gone so long without, almost numb to the sensation of true food. Forced to become accustomed to stale canned containments and small rations of lake fish; the flavors of the past, substance that Shane never again wished to recall. Starvation in so many words, days without, watching as the weight slipped down his bones and thinned his muscles. Converted his beloved Eloise into a caricature - bones around her wrists more pronounced, cheeks distinct in their sharpness, beyond the expected, the bump of her belly so modest. Stunted, truly, their baby to be named Roan dealt the heaviest of hands though only so tiny, all chances put against him. Poor boy and his brother alike, one son born, the other taken. Bailey; precious, body fragile and lean, buried so far from the gardens, the place that could have saved him entire.

Knees deep in the dirt, jeans of blue turned to patches of brown, Shane worked his share of the carrots, a box that homed the sprouts so orange and green. Fingers and nails cracked and caked in soil, the sleeves of his hoodie folded to the elbow, the haunting memory of his youngest boy played before him like a movie never to end. Hands that could fit into just his one, toes so round and little, the shape of Eloise's, a death that neither mother nor father could properly mourn. Not truly, for always until the prison did they and their group run, the pattern of the others in their new community copying Shane, digging and plucking out the best in their veggie crops. Brow glossed in light sweat, when his eyes rose from carrot tops to above, did he spot his heart's desire. Blonde hair styled into a messy bun, the efforts of her own labors proven in the garden load she carried via wicker basket, smudges of mud onto her chin and cheek. Next to their eldest who, after brief goodbye, ran off to play with the other children, a child of years age rather than just months. A boy who considered himself a man; looked so much like his mother, a mirror of his father, the best of his grandfather and namesake. Shane's entire world found in them, Roan and Eloise, their lost Bailey, the unnamed baby that filled her shirt by the belly. A miracle conceived after so much time unsure, scared and utterly terrified.

What the Governor had threatened to steal away.

Wandering after her shadow, never minding the crops he left behind, Shane followed Eloise around the prison garden. Wordlessly, as if he were a man caught in a trance, waited until she got nearest the wall on the prison's internal side. An entrance door nearest them, leading into the cellblock, his hands on her waist in firm grip. Fingertips to her hipbones, the outline on her overalls, Eloise spun around and pressed against the wall, her collection dropped to the ground and left to roll about helplessly. Gentle in his hold upon her, whatever sound of surprise she dared to express was swallowed whole by Shane. His mouth onto hers, their lips pressed together, his frame a delicate burden against her, keeping Eloise steady.

Kissing her softly until she recognized the man she called husband, Shane purred deep within his throat, a satisfied sound, Eloise's lips the sweetest and most perfect that he had ever come to know.

"It's me, baby. It's me." Shane reassured, his kisses slow and drawn out, deliberate.

Speaking between kisses, he offered his apologies. "Didn't mean to scare you. Sorry, Sunshine. I'm sorry! Just been missin' you. Ain't seen you or our little man all day. Been needin' your kisses bad, I'll tell you what."

Another caress between them, Shane asked with boyish arrogance, a smirk, chasing yet another. "You miss me, too?"

[deputygonebye]

@florrentine asked: ❛ i was worried something happened to you. ❜

Lavender and cobalt splotches dispersed across skin, the span of sunburn and bronze, better did Shane feel than he appeared. Barely wounded - carmine to the bridge of the nose hardly pained him - jaw sore but nothing that couldn't be tended to. Beneath the glare of a midnight moon, guided by only the glow of porchlights and backyard fires in pits, the confrontation with Aiden was finished. Sacred son knocked down; the notches he fell resulted in brutal crash, a second lesson learned by the courtesy of those from outside of Alexandria. Original, born and raised in the world of the undead, feral and more like beasts than the persons they masked as. Glenn's fist strong, but not enough for Aiden to grasp the facts put forth before him, from the dark was Shane forced to reteach. A battle of power - a blindsided ambush - deputy patrol interrupted by the unkind, the wild children who felt as though there was something more to prove. Aiden was vicious.

Depraved, his feet-work worse than the strikes of his hands, the soles of his shoes left a devastating crunch all over Shane's face, an echo to the ears. Pounced from behind within the dark, Shane wasn't overtaken for long. An arm twisted around the back, wrist locked tight by firm hand, forearm dug into the base of Aiden's throat and wrapped around. A defensive move; trained so many times over, the sergeant's screams so clear in the memory, when an academy stood proud. Aiden gasping for breath, silent in his pleas, only was he released for the sake of the group. Not those in Alexandria - family and friends longer known and trusted - unbreakable in the bond. For the sake of his daughter, her life and all of their friends, the faint picture of someone else, also. Brown hair so soft, eyes that spoke to the stories thousands of years in the making, endless and with still so much left to say and do. Nicer to he than deserved, certainly, Shane had promised Emilia he would see her come the end of his duties. Promised, and would stand by that, he let Aiden go, a puddle to the gravel road and a spit of blood by his head, mangled tresses.

Her entrance way approached, boots over wooden steps, when the door opened not with frenzy but with calm, Shane relaxed his shoulders, the world lifted from them.

"Shoot, Em. Sorry about that." Shane apologized, eyes gone from her, to the base of her porch, back to her, wide and puppy-like. "Didn't mean to worry you. Got a little caught up with somethin' is all. A dumbass, more like. Don't think he'll be pullin' a stunt like that for a long while. His mama might chew me out come tomorrow, though. Damn."

Shane sighed in confession, a headache begun in the back, flanking the middle. "Aiden... anyways, thank you for watchin' Judy while I went out. I appreciate it, Em. I really do. Hope she was a good girl for you. I'll come in, take her home. Just give me a minute or so to clean up, okay? Don't want her seein' me like this. She knows her daddy's rough and ugly, but she don't need to see me bloody, too."

[deputygonebye]

Straight to the heart had Shane been pierced. Lanced all the way to the base of his soul, Rick's pleading strong enough as to halt the steps of combat boots. Broke the barrier that had been in effort constructed, emotions shut down and survival the first and only thought. From his place near the boarder of Hershel's farm - an uneven circle of trees and overgrown weeds - Shane was frozen. Stood as if he were a statue, rigid and unaffected; as cold as granite and just as rough to the touch, scarred and battered. Nothing could ensnare him better. Neither capture his attentions as quickly nor as consistent, hearing Rick in pain was like causing hurt onto his own self. A shared misery between brothers - inescapable and so visceral.

Shane didn't turn around, he didn't need to. Unable to see but still able to know, Rick's face was pictured before him clearly. Blue eyes wet from unshed tears, a lip that trembled from the pressures placed onto already tired shoulders, a frown almost upon chapped, dry lips. It was a sight that he had seen a handful of times before. Beneath the safety of an undamaged roof, no holes nor caved in foundation, in the oath of family and into the ears of none else but they. When times became as so, always was it Shane who tried his best to comfort Rick. Used his fingertips to wipe away tears, looped an arm around shoulders that needed such an embrace, whispered sweet-nothings and encouragements that sounded so gentle. So tender against the shell of pale ears, their tips reddened from blush and understandable embarrassment, it was affection returned for all of the times that Rick had done the same for Shane. Was just what brothers, devoted family, did for each other.

When Grandma Jean died, Rick was there. When lovers came and went, when a lonely heart was all that Shane could count on, Rick was there. Around just when he was needed most, every time, all the times, the accusation of codependency had befallen the two deputies on several occasions. An addiction that couldn't be cured - nearly deadly for any who attempted to separate or harm - attachment that made life bearable, a happy thing. Shane had made enemies over the years in his promise to take care of Rick, found himself almost hogtied and dragged to the closest principal's office or sergeant's staff room for disciplinary action. Body a little bruised in the aftermath, but his pride standing as mighty as a mountain, for Rick, it was worth the slaps on the wrist, the detentions, the punishment of cleaning the bathrooms at the Academy with nothing more than a dingy toothbrush. None would hurt Rick while Shane was around, and after awhile, after many noses were turned bloody, after certain pretty-boy faces were beaten to a pulp, the warning finally stuck. Never liked nor enjoyed the hurting of others, much rather preferred good times and good drink, a couple cans of iced cold beer shared amongst friends, Shane was not above becoming an unsavory beast for the sake of his greatest friend, his best friend. A wild mutt who beared its teeth; rabid and crazed and practically deranged.

But in times other than the protection of Rick had that beast come forward. Crawled from out of the shadows, claws extended and eyes wide with the glint of a killer. Darkened around the irises, drunk from the taste of blood that wasn't its own, the sounds of screams peaceful. More so like a nightmare come true, whatever wasn't beastly within Shane was still very much human, was there when Otis lost his life. Gnashed between teeth that had gone rotten in the mouth - ruthless fingers that tugged and ripped and pulled without mercy - was feasted on by the very creatures that he and Shane tried to escape. Guilt was a noose that tightened viciously around Shane's neck. Shame and unspoken remorse, choked him and knocked the air from his lungs, haunted the thoughts of both day and night. A baby to be born very much on his mind, too, a dream come true had the Lord above been kinder in circumstance. The babe that grew in Lori's belly was his. Couldn't be anyone else's, was made in love and would be brought into love without question, but ever still a crime committed by one brother to another. Lori wasn't Shane's. Might've been one day, in another world, in another lifetime, but not then. She belonged to Rick. She would always belong to Rick.

Lori, all of those within the group that had survived out of the camp back in Atlanta, they held their loyalties to Rick. Adored him, looked toward he for guidance and hope, the little miracles that they believed couldn't be had with Shane. Like Lucifer to Michael, two opposites of a very similar coin, gray clouds versus sunlight, authority had shifted. Shane no longer was total leader. Demoted to second provider, the person to whom all others went to when Rick wasn't around. It was a punch to the gut. A stab to the heart; tossed out onto the curb and left to be alone. Shane hated being alone. Looked for warmth in the good places, found it in the bad sometimes, too, was always searching for a forever family. There was no kin to wander back to, then. No Grandma Jean to hug. No mother nor father to talk to when none else could understand. There was only Shane. Shane, himself and he, a companion for a man without somebody.

There was Rick, always Rick, but as the days turned colder, the Walkers more restless and hungry, he, too, would be taken away. Stolen from Shane like everyone else he dared to love deeply, a loss that the former deputy couldn't bear to wait to happen. He wouldn't be able to take it. Better was it for he to just go. Sooner rather than later, when goodbyes wouldn't hold him back.

Feeling the heat that radiated off of Rick, distance between them but not as far as it once was, woe washed over Shane like a brutal wave. Palm ran over a shaved head, rubbed the skin there in nervous tick, was brought back down to his side in just as fast of a flash. On his heels did Shane suddenly turn, finally facing Rick, brown eyes wide with tears, lined along the lower lid, a venom in the very base of his voice.

"Oh, hell, Rick!" Shane spat, hand reached forward as if he tempted to touch. "It is like that! They don't love me. Those people back at the farmhouse, they don't care about me. Hershel wants me off his land. Dale thinks I'm the biggest asshole in the country. Lori... she'd rather believe a lie than any sort of truth that might be connected to me. Face it, Rick. Nobody wants me around. Andrea, ha! She thinks like me alright, but she doesn't get it. Not really. Woman's still grieving for a sister who tried to kill her. A Walker, Rick. She's lost her mind to somethin' that ain't alive no more!"

Shane whimpered, a wounded animal who looked so frightened. "It can't be like how it was before, man! Don't you get that? I... I can't come back from this! I can't come back from what I've done! The group... they think I'm dangerous. Carl... You should see how he looks at me, man. It's like he's scared of me. It's like he don't even know who I am. I was here, Rick. I fought for it. I fought for them! But that don't matter. It ain't worth nothin'!"

"It'd be quick." Shane cried, tears down his cheeks, feet stepping back and started in slow retreat, sanity gone. "I could leave right here, right now, and none of y'all would ever have to worry about me again. Ain't that what'd the group would like best? For me to be gone, forever? I'll tell you what, man, I bet they wish I was dead. Probably think I deserve it, too. It'd be easy to forget about me. Nothin' more than a body. Lori and Carl, they'd get over it. You'd get over it. I got my pistol on my waist. I could just raise my gun. Save you the energy, save you the time. You got no idea what I can live with, Rick! What I live with! You got no clue on just what I can do. You wanna talk about goin', Rick? How about you go? Turn yourself around, go back to your little family. Go back to our friends! Just keep on walkin'. And don't you stop until you reach that old bastard's porch!"

"You can't help me, Rick. I can't... I can't stay here! I can't stay like this! I can't... I just can't..."

Crumbling to his knees, the grass a soft cushion beneath jeans marred by dirt, Shane sobbed. Cried from the depths of his spirit, mourned for all that he lost. Onto his hands, clenching the Earth, the soil that clung to the underside of his fingernails.

"Just go. Just go and leave me be! Just leave, Rick! Just go away..."

No. Shane couldn't go. Not like that. Fear hit Rick. Deep fear. Suddenly more than half of the safety Rick felt went to shit. Just like that. It had been something his logic still hadn't caught up until then. As if someone who feels safe at the sea by the beach, just realizing they were in deeper waters they imagined- with a strong current ready to pull- if Shane was gone, their chances of survival would decrease abruptly. Rick was scared. Finally his mind had weighted things properly for once. Shane decisions that Rick considered immoral or wrong or...losing his friend? Losing real solid chances of survival? Never seeing Shane again... His heart was beating faster, due to running after the deputy as he saw his silhouette leaving the farm and due to the racing thoughts in his mind. "Wait."

Rick tried to say it calmly, all the anger and the frustration, all the animosity against Shane falling to zero- the dread was way greater- leading alone- having to make the hard decisions alone. It was a story Rick knew- since school- Shane always had been there. Even when they argued, Shane always kept an eye, Shane always went to his aid- the time Rick's assignment group simply ignored all the duties and Rick had to do all the homework by himself- it was Shane who stayed up until 4am helping him finish so he wouldn't lose grades- or when Rick played the hero against some bullies and the guys corned him at the showers after PE- he would have been so fucked if Shane hadn't shown up to beat the crap of those delinquents. Even at the academy, when he ended up fainting or wasn't able to eat the gross food- it was Shane who kept him something he could eat, it was Shane to shook him and dragged him until he recovered. Always. This time...Shane would be gone for good. "Don't go. Shane." The deputy's brain was still processing- how he should approach? Should he allow himself to look scared? Should he fake a confidence that he didn't have at the moment? He was shaking...his hands were cold...the night was cold- for his thin body at least. "Let's talk. Talk this through. You don't have to go." Please don't go. His voice wanted to say. "It doesn't need to be like this." Please don't leave me alone. His eyes were pleading, in shame.

Rick felt like a coward. The stakes were high. "Shane...it's not like that. I don't want you to go, I'm sure Lori also doesn't want, much less Carl. Andrea, she thinks like you, doesn't she? You're definitely not alone in this, I'm with you Shane." His voice was clearly nervous. He was trying to persuade, but he was also being honest- he was dead scared to be left alone. "Shane, listen. Please. We can work together. To protect Lori and Carl...that's what we want the most, isn't? If you go, who will cover our back?" Rick's heart begun beating faster....he was getting desperate very fast. "I know...I know I was unfair. I know. Please, we can start this over." He didn't see the other as a threat- he only saw Shane as his friend- the one who had making his leadership work- the one that was making sure Rick's mistakes didn't weight as they could have weighted. "They don't hate you. It's just a very difficult time for everyone, okay? Things can be as they were, okay? I'll do my best to help you, like we always did, alright? Please just...don't go...don't go like this...don't do this to me...Shane..." Rick was shaking due to cold, due to fear, anxiety, guilt, insecurity- "What you did for Carl...at the school...I would have done the same. I would. I would have done anything for Carl, we would do anything for him...so please...please stay" He would use all he could to have Shane stay- it as life or death- anxiety too high, he didn't have time to think. "Alright...alright." Rick paused, getting closer to his friend. "Lori's baby...the baby is yours...alright? It's yours. I won't...I won't deny that. It's yours. Lori will need us. Us both. And the baby, the baby will need us too. I won't...I won't deny you that. I promise. Just...please don't leave us like this." Don't leave me like this.

@deputygonebye

[deputygonebye]

@florrentine asked: ❛ i don’t think i’ve ever seen you smile. ❜

On the cusp of fusty, rigidly old fashioned with all the trimmings of classic suburbia, cream colored walls and a fridge covered in artwork made by the community children, stuck in place with magnets and clips decorated in ribbon: Deanna's house was the jewel of Alexandria. Untouched from the world that had gone to hell on the outside, pristine on the inside with its lit candles and delicious scents, baked goods and bubbled wine. Snacks stacked on platters scattered across every counter space available - tortilla chips and cheese for dipping, hot stuffed peppers, popcorn tossed in salted butter. Laughter and smiles upon the faces of all who attended her party, the call to welcome the newcomers who decided to join the ranks. Bellies never so full, not since before the end, beneath the surface weary wanderers who were not yet entirely comfortable. Shane's lips covered in salsa, his chip almost devoured completely, his other hand occupied with a cold beer. Golden label wet from condensation; down his knuckles in careless droplets, the taste a desired burn, just enough to calm nerves, the feeling of being watched and eyed like an animal in a cage.

Post found in the kitchen, the space between the food and the living room, Shane fell into the merriment with ease. Smiled, joked with the best, drank his bottle and sampled some more, fingers dusted in the aftermath of an attack on both the bean dip bowl and the onion dip. Celery and potato chips alike stuffed into his mouth, teeth bared in grin and the itch of aggression. An iced shiver that dared to cross his spine - the cruel hand of reality, the ambition to snap the dreamlike state away forever. Wonder that sparkled Deanna's eyes - so certain in her ways, so sure that what she had done for her community was right. So foolish, nevertheless, brown eyes darted between her and the door, red hue on tanned skin from emotion that was anything but the influence of chilled drink.

Laughing at the tease that passed between he and Pete, a doctor who walked on ice that was too thin, cracked and splintered, unaware of dangers that were toyed with, a stumble from one room into the next, the jest from Em was fresh air. Sweet to the sense, the jolt of excitement that needed to be, the reason for another sip from a near empty bottle, mouth gone suddenly dry.

"Hey, don't get used to it, girl." Shane replied, an attempt to suppress the mentioned expression a failure, the corners of his mouth quick to lift again. "Offer me a drink or two, and you're bound to get a smile on my face, let me tell you."

Shane asked, body turned to Emilia's direction, attention danced between she and the others, the happy, unexpecting family, "where you been? For a little while, I didn't think you'd show up. Deanna, she don't mess around with these things, does she? Like New Years in this place. Never seen so many smilin' faces. Y'all even got Abe to loosen up - tough bastard."