Walter managed to defuse the argument, ushering the group inside the lodge with weary hospitality. The tension didn't vanish, but it simmered low enough for now.
Lee and Clementine immediately went to Kenny, who stood stiffly near the fireplace. Micah watched from the corner of his eye, amused. Still pissed Lee chose me over him, huh?
Meanwhile, he followed Charles to a secluded corner of the lodge, where the air felt thick with unspoken history.
They stood in silence, sizing each other up.
Charles looked older—harder, his face lined with years Micah hadn't lived to see. And Micah? Well, time hadn't been kind either.
"You're alive," Charles said finally, voice flat.
"Yep," Micah confirmed, popping the 'p.'
Charles' fist clenched. "John killed you."
"Sure did," Micah said, grinning. "Then I woke up here. In this shithole future."
A beat.
"What about you?" Micah asked. "How'd the great Charles Smith bite it?"
Charles didn't answer.
Micah rolled his eyes. "Come on, what's the harm in tellin' me? Ain't like I can kill you twice."
Charles exhaled through his nose. "Canada. Cholera." He shrugged.
Micah laughed—loud, sharp, mocking. "That's embarrassing. Arthur croaked like that too. Me? At least I died with a gun in my hand."
Charles didn't react. Just stared. "How do you know Kenny?" he asked instead.
"Ran with him for a bit," Micah said, waving a hand. "Left 'cause he didn't like me. Where's his wife and kid?"
Charles blinked. "...He had a wife and kid?"
Micah's smirk widened. "Told him if he didn't stick with me, they'd die. Guess I was right." He tilted his head. "Just like Carley."
Charles' jaw tightened. "Why's a black man and a little girl in your group?" He glanced toward the others—Rebecca, Carlos, Luke. "You don't think of them as yours. But those two?"
Micah shrugged. "Dunno."
"You hate black folks. Hate kids."
Micah started walking away. Charles followed.
"Like I said," Micah muttered, "dunno."
Lie.
Deep down, he knew. Clementine had wormed her way into his rotten heart, and Lee? Lee was useful. That was all.
Charles grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. "Why didn't I kill you the second I saw you?"
Micah turned, eyebrow raised.
"Because I hate you," Charles said, voice low, "but I need you. This world's worse than anything we've seen. And you? You're a bastard, but you're good at surviving."
Micah paused.
He thought about it—about the Van der Linde gang, about how he'd clung to them for survival, not loyalty. About how, even now, he'd built another makeshift crew just to stay alive.
Same game. Different era.
His smirk returned, slow and sharp. He held out his hand.
His smirk returned, slow and sharp. He held out his hand.
"Well then, partner," he drawled, voice dripping with false charm. "Hope this new partnership works out real nice."
Charles stared at his outstretched hand like it was a snake.
But after a moment, he took it.
And the deal was struck.
******
Walter had managed to scrape together a decent meal—some canned vegetables, a bit of salted meat, and stale bread toasted over the fire. It wasn't much, but after days on the road, it might as well have been a feast.
The groups had naturally split at the tables. The cabin crew—Carlos, Sarah, Rebecca, Luke, Nick, and Alvin—sat at one, while the ski lodge survivors—Kenny, Sarita, Charles, and Walter—took the other.
Micah, too hungry to deal with Kenny's inevitable bullshit, plopped down with the cabin group, shoveling food into his mouth like a man who hadn't eaten in weeks. Lee, surprisingly, had made up with Kenny enough to sit with him, the two talking in low tones.
But Clementine? She slid into the seat right across from Micah, watching him with those sharp eyes of hers.
After a few bites, she spoke up.
"Micah."
"What."
"I saw you talking with… what's his name? Charles."
"So?"
"Do you know him?"
Micah snorted. "Obviously."
She hesitated, then leaned in a little. "What'd you talk about?"
To her surprise, he answered honestly—mostly. "Old times. Nothin' important."
Clementine frowned. "How do you know him?"
Micah took a swig of whiskey before answering. "Ran in a gang together for a few months."
Her eyes widened. "You—what?"
She knew Micah was a criminal, of course. Over the last two years, he'd regaled her (and Lee) with plenty of stories about robberies, shootouts, and general lawlessness. But Charles? Charles was quiet, steady—nothing like the loud, violent outlaws Micah usually described.
"He doesn't seem the type," she said carefully.
Micah smirked. "Yeah, well. People surprise you." He pointed his spoon at her. "Eat your damn food."
Clementine poked at her plate, still thinking.
Across the room, Charles glanced their way, his expression unreadable.
With dinner finished, the group dispersed. Clementine lingered near the fireplace, her eyes drifting toward Charles. He stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out into the darkness.
Gathering her courage, she walked over.
"Hey," she said.
Charles glanced down at her, his expression unreadable. "Hey."
A beat of silence. Then his gaze flicked to the Glock holstered at her side.
"You know how to use that?" he asked.
Clementine straightened a little. "Yeah. Micah taught me."
Charles' brow furrowed slightly. "Micah… taught you."
"Yep." She patted the gun. "Quick draw, aiming, everything."
"Huh." He studied her for a moment. "How old are you?"
"Eleven."
Another pause. Charles exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Of course he did."
Clementine tilted her head. "What's that mean?"
"Nothing." He crossed his arms again. "Just… Micah's not exactly the teaching type."
"He is when he wants to be," she countered.
Charles almost smiled. Almost. "Guess so."
Silence settled between them again, less awkward this time. Clementine rocked on her heels, then blurted out the question that had been nagging her.
"Were you really in a gang with him?"
Charles' jaw tightened. "For a little while."
"What was he like back then?"
"Same as he is now," Charles said dryly. "Just younger. And even more of an asshole."
Clementine giggled—then caught herself, clearing her throat. "He's not that bad."
Charles gave her a long look. "You're defending him?"
She shrugged. "He keeps me alive."
Something flickered in Charles' eyes—something between disbelief and reluctant understanding. "Yeah. He's good at that."
Another silence. Then:
"You trust him?" Charles asked quietly.
Clementine didn't answer right away. "...I trust him to survive."
Charles nodded, as if that was answer enough. "Smart kid."
She grinned. "Micah says that too. Sometimes."
"I bet." Charles sighed, pushing off the wall. "Get some rest."
Clementine watched him walk away, her hand resting on her Glock.
For some reason, she felt like she'd just passed a test.