Silence settles like a heavy blanket as Aaron remains at his spot by the door, eyes fixed on K, quietly watching and recognizing old patterns, familiar patterns. He had been that guy once, the man who would opt for a merciful solution or find a kinder way, try to apologize or rationalize his actions rather than go in for the kill without wasting another thought. Negan and his saviours changed it all, though. Forced them to shed their old skin and a bit of their humanity along with it. Transform rather than evolve, spiralling downwards on their DNA and bringing back instincts and tactics that matched their wild beards and sweaty shirts. Us or them – that’s what it all boils down to, and after losing Eric and Carl and Denise and Glenn and so many other friends, Aaron would no longer hesitate and make sure it would be ‘them’.
And hadn’t that been the hardest truth to accept? Harder than losing his arm. Amputating part of his beliefs, of what he deemed right and good, just to make sure that he and Gracie would stand a chance to survive the aftermath of Eric’s death. But after ten years of living in this world, of fighting and killing, after ten years of compartmentalizing and fragmenting, of disconnecting his emotions from the undead to protect the living, it’s almost impossible to see anything but monsters. Decaying corpses spreading death and causing more suffering. Taking more people away from him.
And yet, the old Aaron is still here, faded and tired and worn out over the years, suddenly all too aware of the heavy weight of his mechanical arm and the hammer in his right hand, and should K turn to look at Aaron’s face he may be able to spot a flickering of shame or guilt in the way Aaron looks away from the corpses to gather himself, regain his focus. Anger, though? Not in the slightest.
“Are you sure you’re not the human guy and I, you know…,” he lifts his mechanical arm as if to underline what he’s hinting at. Who’s the robot in this world? “When it all started,” he pauses to quietly clear his throat and tries to think of way to word what he would like to say, in a way that doesn’t sound completely barbaric. “The first couple of months after the outbreak, you would sometimes have to... take down kids, little kids, and teenagers. Those were the hardest. Now it’s only tough when it’s… “ ’when it’s a familiar face, someone you know’. Which thankfully doesn't happen all that often due to the undeads' tendency to form herds and roam. But whenever you run into a walker that resembles someone from your old life - or worse: when it actually is someone you know? Well, then it’s a nightmare, and yeah, he really doesn’t want to think abut that. Not now.
Pushing the hammer through a loop at the side of his pants, his now free hand goes up to give K’s shoulder a reassuring pat-pat. ’You did so well, you have no idea, man.’
Nodding in response to K's question, Aaron lifts his mechanical hand to gesture in the vague direction of the room they've just left. “Yeah. Yeah-- I'd definitely like to put something up to keep other travellers out.” Aaron's plan is to use one of the screw drivers and scratch a quick message into the surface of the doors - ‘DON'T OPEN, DEADLY VIRUS’ or something along the lines as a signal for visitors from other realities to stay away and try their luck elsewhere. But before he turns to drag the bodies all the way into the previous room, he shrugs off his backpack and tosses it in K’s direction, trusting that the other man won’t take off with his supplies and the spare bandages for his stump. “There are two leather straps under the top flap that I normally use to roll up and carry a blanket or sleeping bag. Feel free to use them for your coat, if you like.” One closer look at Aaron’s attire may give K a good idea about the climate of the world they’re about to enter and why Aaron is suggesting for K to consider taking off his coat. Inside this old factory building made of bricks and mortar it may be cool, but outside it’s too warm and far too humid for a jacket (or anything more than a Henley, really), and if it weren’t for his prosthetic (and his latent aversion to ticks), Aaron would have likely opted for a T-Shirt for the rest of the hike.
“Oh, and while you’re at it, there’s an old wallet in the front pocket of my pack that I use for nails and screws and stuff.” It’s been a while since his last trip to the Hilltop and so most of the nails in his stash are used and not really in good shape, but there should be at least three or four of Earl’s handmade iron nails left. “We can use one of those old shelves to nail up the the door. Along with those black nails from my wallet. A blacksmith from another community makes them, the same guy who also made my prosthetic. If we match his nails with the right warning, it should be enough to keep my people out.” Because nails from the Hilltop mean that the warning not to enter the building was left by an ally. “Nothing about the virus, obviously. But maybe ‘Collapse! Floor I & II not safe! Don't enter.'” Or a similar message about parts of the gateway being an incalculable risk.
It will work, he decides. Has in the past. And there's not really much more he can do right now, not without butchering his deadline and risking an argument with Michonne -- which he would rather avoid, given the surprise guest he's intending to bring home.
The first door, the one that should serve as a barrier to keep other travellers out, is quickly turned into a man-sized warning sign, and then blocked with the dead biters piled up right behind it. Should anyone try to push it open, it would require quite a bit of force – and the position of the walker pile should also serve as an indicator as for how frequented this gateway actually is. No way into Aaron’s reality without moving the bodies. “All right. This will have to do for now.” Wiping a sticky hand on the side of his pants, he turns and marches all the way back to K, then nods to the battered exit/entrance door, ready to risk a glance? Yeah? Okay...
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And hadn’t that been the hardest truth to accept? Harder than losing his arm. Amputating part of his beliefs, of what he deemed right and good, just to make sure that he and Gracie would stand a chance to survive the aftermath of Eric’s death. But after ten years of living in this world, of fighting and killing, after ten years of compartmentalizing and fragmenting, of disconnecting his emotions from the undead to protect the living, it’s almost impossible to see anything but monsters. Decaying corpses spreading death and causing more suffering. Taking more people away from him.
And yet, the old Aaron is still here, faded and tired and worn out over the years, suddenly all too aware of the heavy weight of his mechanical arm and the hammer in his right hand, and should K turn to look at Aaron’s face he may be able to spot a flickering of shame or guilt in the way Aaron looks away from the corpses to gather himself, regain his focus. Anger, though? Not in the slightest.
“Are you sure you’re not the human guy and I, you know…,” he lifts his mechanical arm as if to underline what he’s hinting at. Who’s the robot in this world? “When it all started,” he pauses to quietly clear his throat and tries to think of way to word what he would like to say, in a way that doesn’t sound completely barbaric. “The first couple of months after the outbreak, you would sometimes have to... take down kids, little kids, and teenagers. Those were the hardest. Now it’s only tough when it’s… “ ’when it’s a familiar face, someone you know’. Which thankfully doesn't happen all that often due to the undeads' tendency to form herds and roam. But whenever you run into a walker that resembles someone from your old life - or worse: when it actually is someone you know? Well, then it’s a nightmare, and yeah, he really doesn’t want to think abut that. Not now.
Pushing the hammer through a loop at the side of his pants, his now free hand goes up to give K’s shoulder a reassuring pat-pat. ’You did so well, you have no idea, man.’
Nodding in response to K's question, Aaron lifts his mechanical hand to gesture in the vague direction of the room they've just left. “Yeah. Yeah-- I'd definitely like to put something up to keep other travellers out.” Aaron's plan is to use one of the screw drivers and scratch a quick message into the surface of the doors - ‘DON'T OPEN, DEADLY VIRUS’ or something along the lines as a signal for visitors from other realities to stay away and try their luck elsewhere. But before he turns to drag the bodies all the way into the previous room, he shrugs off his backpack and tosses it in K’s direction, trusting that the other man won’t take off with his supplies and the spare bandages for his stump. “There are two leather straps under the top flap that I normally use to roll up and carry a blanket or sleeping bag. Feel free to use them for your coat, if you like.” One closer look at Aaron’s attire may give K a good idea about the climate of the world they’re about to enter and why Aaron is suggesting for K to consider taking off his coat. Inside this old factory building made of bricks and mortar it may be cool, but outside it’s too warm and far too humid for a jacket (or anything more than a Henley, really), and if it weren’t for his prosthetic (and his latent aversion to ticks), Aaron would have likely opted for a T-Shirt for the rest of the hike.
“Oh, and while you’re at it, there’s an old wallet in the front pocket of my pack that I use for nails and screws and stuff.” It’s been a while since his last trip to the Hilltop and so most of the nails in his stash are used and not really in good shape, but there should be at least three or four of Earl’s handmade iron nails left. “We can use one of those old shelves to nail up the the door. Along with those black nails from my wallet. A blacksmith from another community makes them, the same guy who also made my prosthetic. If we match his nails with the right warning, it should be enough to keep my people out.” Because nails from the Hilltop mean that the warning not to enter the building was left by an ally. “Nothing about the virus, obviously. But maybe ‘Collapse! Floor I & II not safe! Don't enter.'” Or a similar message about parts of the gateway being an incalculable risk.
It will work, he decides. Has in the past. And there's not really much more he can do right now, not without butchering his deadline and risking an argument with Michonne -- which he would rather avoid, given the surprise guest he's intending to bring home.
The first door, the one that should serve as a barrier to keep other travellers out, is quickly turned into a man-sized warning sign, and then blocked with the dead biters piled up right behind it. Should anyone try to push it open, it would require quite a bit of force – and the position of the walker pile should also serve as an indicator as for how frequented this gateway actually is. No way into Aaron’s reality without moving the bodies. “All right. This will have to do for now.” Wiping a sticky hand on the side of his pants, he turns and marches all the way back to K, then nods to the battered exit/entrance door, ready to risk a glance? Yeah? Okay...