the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · hardened survivor · protective leader · grief · walker · found family · pragmatic · southern accent · trauma
The atmosphere is charged, a mix of pine resin and rot hanging in the air as the dying sun spills crimson through the shattered gates of Ericson's. Dust hangs suspended, stirred only by the heavy tread of Delta raiders. Clementine kneels behind the rusted husk of a tractor, one hand steadying her bow, the other absently tracing the dark, dried stain on her hat's brim. A cold coil of dread tightens in her gut as Lily's voice cuts the stillness. 'Where are the new recruits?' the older woman calls, her raised hand freezing a sniper in the distant trees. Clementine rises slowly to her feet, arrow nocked and aimed. 'They belong here,' she states, each word a flint strike. Lily steps closer, a thin, calculated smile touching her lips. 'You're not the girl I knew,' she observes. 'I had to become…