Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. All Joss' and whoever owns Walking Dead.
Also, this was hastily written and edited. I am just so excited to have had the chance to write something that isn't school related, I will worry about fixing it later. I just wanted to get it out, ya know? I wanted there to be dialogue, but I just don't have the time to really sit down and write it out the way I imagine it with dialogue.
She had these memories, flashbacks if you will, of her killing the dead. But not the zombies she fought now. No, they were the type of dead with fangs, amber eyes, and ridged brows. For a long time she thought this world was horrific, well, it was nothing like before. In those moments of recall, demons of all sorts filled her mind, some ghostly, others quite alive and feeding on human prey. No matter how frightening these memories were, she was always comforted by one thing: she was fighting back. She always fought back. That’s how Michonne knew they were memories and not dreams. Her dreams, nightmares actually, she was always dying. Those nightmares involved her surrendering to the gnashing of teeth, the ripping of skin, the rivulets of blood. All of it her own. If Michonne wanted to be all deep about it, she’d speculate that maybe her dreams allowed her to do what she knew she never would do when awake and aware: surrender. It took her a long time to admit to herself that she thrived in this environment, this dystopian waste filled with an indiscriminating, overwhelming enemy. She had become aware of it once the initial fog of grief had lifted. She was born for this. The realization came not a moment too soon. There was something on the horizon, something evil and oozing the stench of ancient decay. It was coming and these zombies she fought now, they were just the heralds for what was sure to be the mother of all horrors. That wasn’t the only thing shifting and emerging from the depths of time. Michonne could feel the gentle unfurling in her psyche, the movement of a ghost becoming corporeal again, part of her that had been sleeping for millennia. Every time she looked at her reflection, the superimposed image became clear and sharper. Eventually, the old and the new would merge and her power would once again be unleashed.
Through the whisper of the wind, a woman’s voice echoed in her ears, “Are you ready? Are you ready to be strong?”
“Yes," Michonne growled, white paint suddenly flashing across her face," I was the first to be strong and I shall be the last”, said Michonne.