"Nat, you're so slow!"

"Well, it's kind of hard to shimmy up a tree. WHICH, by the way, could TOTALLY BE DEAD AND DECAYING AND COULD CRUSH US BY ITS FALL." He had shouted. His voice was kind of pitchy, yet on the precipice of being a post-puberty tone.

"Then I'll just jump onto the hay loft!"

"Again, there's some unstable roof where this tree has punched a HOLE THROUGH by its slow, gradual growth."

"Again, I'll just jump."

"From how many feet up from the good, gracious ground?" Nat fired back, still hugging the gray, coarse tree trunk with his arms and legs, not yet even three feet above the ground.

"I read how to land correctly--either roll-land or this other strategy where you put one foot out in front and then bring down the other...the former is probably better and my knees and less prone to injury, though..."

Nat grasped a leafless branch with his right hand, then shifted his left hand next to it. He heaved himself over and was hugging the thick branch instead of the trunk. "Great. Great. But I don't know how to do that, Aviva!"

"Get good, Nat," Aviva said after a smug chortle. Though Nat couldn't see her, his eyes trained on the next sturdy branch that Aviva had climbed onto, he could hear the smirk on her face. "Good thing you're so scrawny. If you were heavier than me, you'd pose more of a risk than me. Plus, it's not dead."

Nat clenched his teeth, grabbing for the branch, pulling himself onto it and sitting upright on it, straddling the branch between his legs, his arms tingling from the exercise. He shook them out. He realized, to his disdain, that they did look scrawny. But the thickness of his winter coat hid it.

"What is it then, if it's not dead?" Nat tested. "Undead?"

"It's early spring, dummy."

"I know that, dummy." Nat took in a deep breath, then proceeded to the next branch. He looked up, seeing the little girl with hair of the darkest of brown in a dark violet puffy winter coat sitting on one of the topmost branches, her legs swinging with hyper energy.

"Yeah, well, last autumn there were leaves on it. So it's living. It was really pretty in the fall light, to be honest." Aviva said, almost wistfully. Nat sympathized with her wish for some color to finally retake the trees. Everything looked so dead and dull and boring without the leaves to accentuate the environment.

It is no doubt that Spring is a nuisance of a season that is less than not necessary. Nat had thought. It's winter with an illusion, with up-and-down temperatures. First, it's 60 degrees then it's 20, then it's storming with tornado warnings, then you wake up two days later and it's snowing lightly. Don't get me started on the worthless tradition of groundhog day.

Nat bit his lip. "Please don't say the word fall right now..." Nat whined, getting closer to the top of the tree.

"For Pete's sake, Nat, you're not going to fall," Aviva assured him.

"I just told you not to say that word!"

"Fine, you're not going to plummet to your death."

"Curse your unnervingly vast range of vocabulary." That made Nat's best friend laugh, so Nat, in turn, smiled, climbing higher and higher. Talking with Aviva, Nat found, distracted him from the height. Of course, that thought alone made him aware of the distance between him and the ground all over again. But fortunately, Aviva was still talking. Nat clung to her commentary.

"You're almost there." Aviva reminded him. And it was true. Her voice was getting closer and less distant.

Finally, Nat reached the branch Aviva sat at, which gave the two twelve-year-olds a view out the hole in the barn roof. The property that wasn't far from their houses wasn't abandoned, but the barn sort of was--home only to the occasional sleeping raccoon. The fields were small, with scattered cows daring to go outside in the chilly weather. The tree line is not at all far from the barn. The sky was overcast like it always was when winter came. The gloom of winter was what Nat hated the most about the season. Secondly, the cold.

Aviva's lips were a pressed together in a thin line until she spoke, saying, "It's way cooler when the weather is nicer. But you just came to town last year and I thought it's about time you know the hideout my friends and I go to."

"It's great...just a little treacherous," Nat admitted. "Don't you and your friends get in trouble for this?"

Aviva smiled at him knowingly. "Oh, I'll have to tell you once you reach the ground again. Or you'll probably...I'll tell you later."

Nat knew it had something to do with a friend falling. He just knew.

"Well, that's the thing about sight-seeing," Aviva said, grinning. "It's absolutely boring after one minute of gazing. Let's go to my house and get some hot chocolate. Edith said she was making some for herself, and I told her to get some ready for us too!"

Nat smiled. Great, I love hot chocolate.

Aviva motioned for him to go back down the tree. "Welcome to the friend group, Nat. From what I've gathered from your intelligence, we're going to be decent friends."

-------------------

Nat glances at the finger again, feeling queasy. Do they really have to keep that out? It's like the centerpiece of the table. The table being the table the council talked over. Figuring out what it meant.

The theorist's tired of their chirping, though. Abruptly, he stands for the first time since the start of the council meeting he was invited to, slamming his first into the table. "Don't you see? Why in hell would Aviva send her finger to us? I'm pretty sure all of us prefer to keep our appendages attached to our bodies. It's blatantly obvious she is a hostage, and possibly Kyler as well."

Sunna Kjort tilts her head. Lark seems taken aback. Edith as well. This is unlike Nat. But we all get pissed at the stupidity of humanity. It's only inevitable. "But of whom?" Sunna asks, letting the question seep into the minds of those present at the table before continuing. "...They gave us no evidence of Kyler's captivity--whoever they are. It is possible, that despite not experiencing the behavioral abnormalities of Aviva, that he is the killer and has taken Aviva hostage."

Nat sits back down. He leans forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, his knuckle tapping it. Kyler loves his sisters, however. That's the common denominator that rules the Mercers out in suspecting any of them. But they said in response that love for power usually squanders any love for who is in their way. That's something Nat can't argue with. Historically, it's usually an accurate fact.

Nat is bored, though. He gave all the help he could offer. "May I leave?" Nat asks as Lark and Yolanna argue, wanting to be productive and search. Sunna smacks her forehead with her hand, looking absolutely annoyed. Edith nods to Nat, looking sorry.

She ought to elect new members. Nat thought. But not me, though. I have better things to do with my time, despite being a contender for one of the spots on council.

Like finding his best friend.

------------------

The group surrounds Rick, Carl, and Michonne, holding the barrels of their guns to the heads of two of those three. Carl cried out as punches and kicks were landed on him. Rick shakes with fury, his face contorting. Michonne bit her lip, tears gathering in her eyes. Daryl was pinned against a beat-up van with faded paint.

The approaching figure, with the bottom half of their face hidden behind a bandana tied around his head and his eyes shadowed by the hoodie's hood, grasped something in his hand, emerging from the woods that run along both sides of the paved forest road.

Rick yelled something, but the figure didn't both to hear. His sights were on the man that's closest to him, that stands a little farther away from the rest of his group. Crossing his arms, he looked on at the scene before him, a satisfied smile. The figure's eyes narrowed. His feet were bare, so the man didn't hear the quick slapping of shoe soles against the pavement when the attacker walked closer and closer.

And closer. And closer. Quietly.

The figure is shorter in stature than the man that stands with his back turned to him. Good. The figure thought. I'm more or less hidden depending on the angle others stand at. The figure readjusted his grip on the hilt of the knife he held. Seeing the metal's glint in the moonlight glare in his eyes, Daryl peered behind the broad-shouldered man that pinned him to the car and made eye contact with the piercing half-hidden eyes of the figure. With his free hand, he brings up his pointer finger to his lips. Quiet. Gauze wraps around the hand and over its knuckles, Daryl notices vaguely. Quiet.

Despite seeming to be taking all of the time in the world, the figure whips up the knife and covers the mouth of the man in front of him with the gauze-wrapped hand. The blade traverses across the throat of the man, leaving a long, deep canyon in its wake. The canyon turned to a red chasm that erupted not only from the carved-out sliver but from the man's mouth as well.

In a flourish, the figure moves to the man pinning Daryl down. The blade only seems to brush across his neck but leaves him choking on his blood. Daryl didn't think it enough, though, slamming the head against the car, destroying the brain. Idiot! Do kill the dead again once you've killed them all once! The figure seethed. Surprised, the group's eyes glue to the figure and Daryl, who had achieved freedom. Helping out these people will be more haphazard than I previously had thought.

Rick bats away the gun that was held at his temple. The bullet goes off. To the stranger, it's like the kick-off to a race. The reddened blade found the artery of the next man, who barely had the time to lift his gun. The stranger withdrew his knife, blood spurting from the puncture like a geyser of crimson. The stranger grabs the gun from the limp hand that only holds onto it by a finger slowly uncurling from the trigger's frame. Another gang member sees him and holds the gun with two hands, pointing it at the person. He fires, but the stranger pulls the corpse in front of him as a shield of meat and the bullet is lodged in the dead man's stomach. Struggling with a grip on the gun, the stranger points it at the man, who keeps shooting at the corpse but to no avail.

The accuracy with one-hand is going to be terrible. The stranger thinks sourly, biting his lip. I need to end him quickly. Or one of his bullets will find their way through this corpse to be. The sound of Stranger's gun is an assault to his own ears. He had abandoned the notion of getting a clean headshot in and instead aimed for the larger target: the body. On his second shot, the bullet found its target true. The main fell, grasping his chest. Blood gurgled in his throat until he choked on the blood flooding his lungs.

The stranger let the dead body fall away from him. He looks to his right, pleased to see the scenario unfolded well, with the enemies, save for one, dead. Michonne cradles Carl, who is bruised and bloody. Rick marches up to the man who had beat his son.

"No...No, No--PLEASE---" Rick's teeth clamp down around his throat, cutting off the man with the red beard's pleas. The stranger gasps. Maybe I killed the wrong people. What if I misjudged the situation, and these people deserved what was coming to them? I did hear the shouting, "you killed Joe!" but didn't know which one shouted it. But looking back, it might've been the voice of a man I had killed...Still, though, they were beating a child to death.

Dying, the man falls to the ground. The stranger tightens his grip on the gun, ready. Daryl turns his attention to him. "You could've gotten us killed."

"It seems as though whatever you people have done could've gotten you all killed." The stranger retorts, hating how her voice quivers. It reminds her of when she used to present in school or when she tried out for a violin solo in the 8th grade, her knees were shaking and her arms started to tremble with the anxiety she had easily suppressed leading up to the highly anticipated event.

"I'm here to accept thanks in food." She says. "Do you have any?"

Rick and Daryl aren't looking too willing to share what little food they have with a seemingly reckless stranger.

Rick, still shaking with fury, starts, "Now listen--"

"Only for one more favor." Michonne interrupts, shooting Rick a sharp look. "Tell us your name, so we can thank you fully."

The stranger pulls back her hoodie hood, her face splotched with wet blood from the corpse shield. She tugs at the purple bandana and it falls around her neck. The girl always loved it when teachers asked for all-about-me talks or slideshows. She always had so much to say with her elaborate words, establishing herself as the alpha of the English classroom. But she reminds herself that she must hold back on some things. "Well..." She says slowly, her thumb tracing circles on the handle of the gun anxiously. "My name is Aviva Mercer. I'm from a large group, called..." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rick kneeling on the ground, staring down. Beyond him, though, a shrub shifts, its leaves brushing against each other and the twiggy branches clapping together to create a shushing sound. Quiet.

Her finger twitches over the trigger. Before realizing that her hair is sweeping over her face due to the night breeze. Calm down. Aviva claws at her hair, tucking it into submission behind her ear with her bandaged hand.

"It's large?" Carl questions, hopeful. Aviva nods. "Is there anyone there named Glenn, Maggie, Jacks, Ember, Zaylee, Lizzie, Mica, Ty..." He lists quite a few people. Aviva can't keep track of them. Except for one.

"I know her!" Aviva blurts out. "Ember, I mean. I know one. I know an Ember!"

He gives a pained smile. Yes, at least one of us is still alive.

The shrub shushes again.

But there's no wind. Even Rick takes notice, jerking his head up to see something poke out from the bush. Aviva registers the object faster than everyone else, though, barely managing to sidestep. The bullet breaks the silence--with the sound of the gun firing and with Aviva's screams of pain.

Quiet.