The Universe's Mixer

Michonne was doing what she could to keep her mind off of things. As good as the city was when it came to food and being clean, it was missing one significant thing. There was one face that she wished that she could see, and she hadn't been able to find him. That had been the first thing she'd done, scour the city looking for signs of him. Anything. All she had was the pillow that smelled like him. Not even a picture. Of course, there hadn't been a way to get a picture, had there? But the City seemed to supply everything else, why not that?

It wasn't as weird as it might have been, being dumped in this place. At least she'd gotten used to being stationary in die Festung. Now she just had to get used to having a shower every day, and not having to scavenge for food all the time. Admittedly, Michonne had begun to hoard food, all of her cupboards and her fridge were completely full, and there was a closet in the hall of the apartment that was absolutely filled with things like candles and supplies. It couldn't hurt to be ready.

People were doing things that she hadn't seen people do since the walkers began to rise. They were playing in parks, going to normal jobs, laughing. Watching television. Michonne had spent about 72 hours plopped in front of the television in what she'd come to realize was truly her apartment. She'd eaten ice cream and all kinds of candy, had soda, made a big pot of spaghetti, had a burrito.

Then she'd spent the next 72 hours being highly active to shed all the calories.

Every day she left the apartment and wandered, unsure. Every day she came back to the emptiness, hoping that she would find him there, smiling. Then she could yell at him, fight with him. Kiss him. Hold him.

One thing that Michonne was incapable of letting go of was her sword. She wore it everywhere she went. Nobody seemed to mind much. She supposed they'd seen stranger things. She unslung it from her shoulders now, as she entered the apartment after another day of aimlessness. She placed it in the holder the city had provided, the artsy display made it easy to get to the sword.

Tired, sad, the warrior started to move toward the kitchen when something caught her eye. It hadn't been there when she'd left. A cat. An ugly, multicolored cat figurine. Michonne sank to her knees on the soft carpet, looking at the thing sitting on the coffee table. She knew that Dean hadn't put it there. He wouldn't have done that and then just disappeared again. He was a jerk sometimes, but he wasn't a complete asshole. She reached out to touch it, her movements slow, worried that it might disappear on her somehow. But her fingers brushed the ear and felt that it was solid, and she snatched it up quickly, bringing it to her chest and cradling it there.

The cat was better and worse than the pillow.

Michonne sat there on the carpet, garish figure in her arms, while the sun set outside of her window.

The crone stared out the window high in the castle, a small stool beneath. She didn't need a physical item to fly anymore, but she did like it; it was a strange comfort, magic focused as it was. She watched the night sky, knowing that they were closer to stars than some might realize. She watched the night creatures in the park, wondering if they understood there were things more dangerous in the daytime than they would ever be. She watched her Viking king, the one who belonged to and with her, walk her cabin; it had thankfully not trampled the vampire when he returned.

Eric probably knew she was watching, and he even looked to the window she sat at, no wave, no goodbye kiss, just a slight nod of his head before he went to work. He was a fair king, mostly, and he did not expect anything from his vampires that he wouldn't do himself. She watched him speed off to Purgatory, a hint of a smile on her lips at how that played in her head. With that done, she lowered the stool and set off in search of the other one. Hers, yet not hers.

There was something in the air, and instinct said it had something to do with multiples - twins were often genetic mistakes or miracles. Humans weren't meant to whelp in multiples. Reality couldn't allow for mistakes, yet they weren't in a normal reality, not even in a fabled one. So, she felt the need to talk to a possible mistake, or miracle. It depended on the beholder.

That or the crone was simply curious to see what the man who came from little and had fought for what he had, ruling with a very sharp fang and strong hands, what he thought of the City now that he had been here for a while. The City, the castle, her Viking king and his kingdom.

"Hello." She hadn't asked permission to enter the other king's quarters, finding him in one of the two places she'd expect from knowing her own king. She wore a dress that some might think indecent to wear around a man with whom she was not intimate; it wasn't quite sheer. A leather bound book in her arms as she stood there.