Author's Note: Hey, guys! Just finished Season One of The Walking Dead Game and, briefly put, I'm in pieces! So much so, I decided to write select scenes of TWDG from the point of view of everyone's favorite TWD-verse reporter Carley.

This is not an AU and therefore I'm writing within the boundaries of the game's canon. But to keep things fresh, there will be headcanons involved and additional conversations for the sake of artistic interpretation, mainly to flesh out characters and develop side plots. This will be written chronologically, and as such, is not a collection of drabbles.

It's been a while since I've posted fic, so I hope I've improved since my last foray into the fanfiction world. Enjoy!

The Reporter

Chapter One

"Battery."

She had seen him before. She was sure of it.

The moment was a precious one, where time was of the essence. In her off-the-wall agreement with Glenn to save some hopeless band of strangers outside, her concern in that moment was not in the blind hope she could save someone she knew. The feeling that nagged her suggesting she knew this man—a black man in the group of five they'd saved—was not for some subconscious need for relief nor for comfort. It was purely coincidental. In the seconds leading up to their rescue, all she knew was that there were people out there that needed help. And she needed to help them.

The familiar man gave her a warm smile. It was a smile genuine enough to reach the corners of his eyes, one that seemed to flicker with a kind of knowing jest. His name was Lee and he was toying with her.

"Batteries," she heard him mutter to himself as he walked away. He chuckled, shaking his head.

No doubt he must have thought her foolish. Maybe he thought he was helping her with this little broken radio quest she had put him up to. He was eager to help; it was the least he could do after she saved his neck.

As Lee walked away from her, the little girl in his group named Clementine leapt from the box she perched herself on. She took his hand and Lee told her he was going into the office.

"Can I come with you?" the girl asked.

"Sure thing, sweet pea," the man replied. His smile grew far warmer, the corners of his lips only turned up slightly but it was the gentleness in his eyes that softened his smile for the little girl. "Stay close to me, okay?"

"I will."

She would have thought Clementine was his daughter the way Lee looked after her, but a conversation she overheard between Lee and the lanky outdoorsman with the handlebar mustache—Kenny—suggested otherwise. It was obvious they avoided calling Clementine his daughter while Kenny referred to his son and family in every other sentence.

She exhaled as both Lee and Clementine disappeared behind the office door. She looked down at the radio she clutched in her hands.

Batteries, Lee had said.

Of course she knew how batteries worked. What simpleton in this exponentially advancing age of technology didn't? What kind of punch to her self-esteem was that when she failed to check a radio for batteries? She knew how radios worked, how batteries worked.

Carley was a journalist and she took great pride in that. She worked—worked being the operative word—for a National Public Radio affiliated radio station, WABE. She had experience in video and audio production, in studio and in the field, and all her gear was useless without electricity, whether it be powered by electrical outlets or batteries. Hell, when she ventured into the field to cover stories, she always made sure to carry a pack of double-A Duracells in her purse.

Still, it's not as if her journalistic skills amount to much at world's end. She humored the idea of a documentary. The apocalypse would make for an interesting investigative piece to say the least and it would be even better as a video log or voice diary. Again, not that any of that would be useful right now.

The only things that have kept her alive thus far were that guy Doug over there keeping watch at the pharmacy front door and her handgun. God bless America and God bless the south for their love for concealed handgun licenses.

Funny how that worked out. Before all this, gun control was becoming one of the greatest issues in federal legislation. Increase gun control, impose federal regulation of gun purchases and limits on certain calibers of ammunition, and hold stricter and more detailed and comprehensive background checks. Even when she was embedded in Iraq and Egypt, protected by American soldiers and their assault rifles, she supported domestic movements for gun control.

Movements for gun control.

"You moved for the gun," the district attorney yelled in the courtroom. "You lost control."

Batteries, Lee had said minutes earlier, chuckling.

"A grand jury has elevated charges against the man suspected of killing Georgia State Senator Samuel Coleson to first-degree murder. The suspect, 37-year-old University of Georgia history professor Lee Everett could potentially face the death penalty. According to hospital officials, Coleson died less than an hour after being admitted to St. Mary's Hospital due to injuries sustained during the battery. As a result, grand jurors elevated Everett's initial charge of aggravated battery to felony murder."

The radio Carley stared at seemed to blur as the familiarity of Lee Everett sharpened into focus. The radio's distinct metallic edges faded into the haze of the marble counter as the room around her began to tilt. The edges of her vision were fading in black. Holding tight to the radio with one hand and the counter with the other was all she could do to steady herself.

If laughs were called for, she would have said she was grateful to have refused the energy bar Lee had offered her. Now was not an opportune moment for vomiting.

She was in a pharmacy that belonged to the parents of murderer.

She was holed up in this pharmacy with that murderer.

She saved that murderer and let him into this pharmacy.

And he was alone with a little girl at this very moment.

Carley swallowed the vertigo fighting against her and stared at the office door Lee and Clementine were behind. Stealing herself, she walked heavy-footed to the back room. Around her, no one seemed to take notice. Kenny and his wife were caught up in cleaning up their boy, Lilly was trying to soothe her father's stress levels with nostalgic stories and Doug—well, Doug had just turned around from his watch of the drugstore doors and was looking right at Carley.

She smiled at him and he smiled back before going back to his post.

Carley exhaled. God, but Lee was an alright guy... right? He seemed like it, she told herself. He certainly had the much-needed guts to stand up to Lilly and, even more impressively, mouth off to Larry. Not that instigating a chronic heart condition in the geezer was any more welcoming than the hot air that steamed from Larry's blowhole, but Carley would be lying to herself if she failed to admit Lee's arrival was a foil she very much liked. He seemed like a natural leader—or, more accurately put, a reluctant leader. At the very least, he had the guts to stand his ground.

Then again it took guts to kill a state senator.

But who cared if he was murderer? It was the end of the world for all they knew. Frankly, with the collapse of human society—or so it seemed—having a guy on their team who could hold his own could be quite advantageous if push came to shove. It would be good to have Lee around, provided he wasn't a danger to the group. He seemed level-headed, logical and good-natured as evidenced by their group spat when Carley and Glenn rescued his group, so unless Lee was a particularly adept sociopath, there was nothing to worry about. If worse came to worst, they could just kick him out.

But the girl, Clementine . . . . Carley had little experience with children but it didn't take a mother to know Clementine liked Lee. Trusted Lee. While shy, she looked at him with admiration, a stranger who saved her life. And it didn't take a lot to see Lee cared for the girl too.

With a record like his, Carley couldn't be too careful.

Whatever Lee was up to, whatever moral compass he abided by, Carley knew that girl—that young, innocent girl—did not need to be exposed to any more examples of the vileness of humanity than she'd already seen.

Carley wrapped her hand around the knob of the office door. She slowly turned it, pressing her weight against the door just enough for her to slide through into the office. The room was quiet and dimly lit. In her peripheral vision, she saw pallets and tables pressed against both a back exit door and the pharmacy door. On the floor laid a bloodied mattress.

Clementine was looking at her, the girl standing quietly next to the door Carley had just come from. Carley brought a finger close to her lips, requesting the girl keep silent. She nodded bashfully.

Lee's back was turned toward her. He was holding something she couldn't quite make out. Whatever it was, he tore it in half. It sounded like paper. Maybe a photo.

"Find anything?" Carley called out.

She felt a glimpse of satisfaction course through her as Lee jumped, startled by her sudden arrival. He turned toward her, letting one half of the torn artifact fall to the ground. Unluckily for him, it fell face up. The discarded piece was a photo of Lee.

Carley turned to glance at him before he could tell the photo landed face up. He seemed adamant to withhold the truth from her.

"It's a photo of the family who owned this place," he said optimistically. "It might help us track down the keys to the office."

There it was again—that gentle smile. His students at UGA must have thought him something paternal. It wouldn't work on her though. Not after what she knew.

"I know who you are," she said plainly.

Lee's demeanor instantly changed. His smile, a frown. His refined, yet energetic posture, defensive. The calm in his eyes were shadowed and muddled with pain.

"You're Lee Everett," Carley continued. "You're a professor at Athens who killed a state senator who was sleeping with your wife. This is your parents' store; folks around town know the owner's son got himself a life sentence, but I'm a reporter for WABE in Atlanta. I paid attention to that trial."

Lee crossed his arms.

"Maybe you're a murderer," Carley added. "But I don't really care. Frankly that's a skill that might come in handy."

Judging by the frown, crossed arms, and the subtle murderous glare turned desperate plea, she knew Lee didn't believe her. Carley wasn't sure which bit he didn't believe: whether or not she cared about him being a murderer or if being a murderer would be a handy bullet point for his impending-apocalypse resume.

The plan was to confront him, go in guns blazing, but she didn't—couldn't. Even with his defiant demeanor, there was something likable about him, something that encouraged second chances. Maybe Lee was innocent. He seemed like too good a guy to have murdered a state senator but even as she followed the trial, the evidence stacked against him was too much.

Murderer or not, at the rate she directed this conversation, Lee would maybe trust her. He'd be thinking of her as an ally.

And that wasn't a bad thing.

"Did you tell anyone out there who you were, or that you were tied to this place?" Carley asked hastily.

"What's it to you?"

"To me? I'm not the one with a felony record," Carley retorted quickly. "Look, if you don't think people will find any reason to turn on you, especially when shit hits the fan, you're insane."

"Shit's already hit the fan, lady!"

"So did you tell anyone?"

Lee chewed on his answer before responding. "Not outright," he said. "I've been sticking to first names for a reason."

" 'Not outright,'?"

Lee unfolded his arms and leaned back as if assessing her. Finally, he exhaled and folded his arms over his chest once again.

"Kenny and his family know I'm from Macon," he started. "They wanted to know if we should go looking for my family. I declined. Lilly asked if I knew anyone who worked in this pharmacy. I told her the owners and I were close."

The next question would have been "where would your family be then, if they owned this place?" but the bloodied mattress inches to her left was enough of an indicator. There was enough salt in his wounds as it were.

"You're awfully honest," Carley said.

"It's not about me," he responded. "And given what you know, I don't have much else going for me. As for the rest of them-" Lee gestured past the door- "I have to do what's best for Clementine."

Lee exhaled. He was exhausted. And while his eyes darted briefly to Clementine and then around the room—a sign she read as nervousness—he curled his lips in that well-meaning smile. And for some reason, it pained Carley to see it.

"You seem like an okay guy," Carley said. "And the last thing we need is drama out there. You've got this little girl to take care of and-" she shook her head, "look, don't make me wrong on this."

He stepped forward, lessening the gap between them. Her step back and admission to tone it down was fuel for a quick offense for him, a show of grit. The way he hovered over her covered the ceiling light behind him, casting him in a silhouette and keeping her in shadow.

"I don't plan to," he said.

"Good. Because if this lasts longer than a few days and you're a detriment to the group, then we'd have a problem."

"I hear you."

His glare and the gruffness of his voice bordered threatening. He knew the stakes, just how much he was risking. He didn't need anyone to tell him what he could lose.

"I'll just keep it to myself," Carley settled.

"How can I trust you?"

"You can't, I suppose. But you don't have many other options." She turned her back to him, moving to return to the pharmacy floor. She glanced once more over her shoulder with a knowing smile—a jesting smile, brief and crafted well enough for him to see she was reflecting the look he gave her minutes ago on her battery dilemma.

"Wait," Lee called out as she reached for the doorknob.

Carley stopped.

"Thanks," he said, his voice soft and even.

She looked away, hiding her own grin from him. She liked that—appreciated that he was grateful and felt warm knowing he seemed to trust her, however reluctant a trust it was.

"Don't worry about it," she finally said.

But once on the other side of that door, her smile faded. She rested her back against the door, sliding slowly to the floor in a physical depiction of a drawn-out sigh.

Every bit of logic told her to stay away from this guy. He's a convicted felon, a convicted murderer. To boot, she didn't want to think he was a predator either. The investigative journalist in her wanted to uncover this and the humanity in her wanted to make sure this little girl was safe.

But her gut told her she could trust him. She wanted to trust him.

And if it came down putting Lee on a meter of whether or not she liked him being in their group, she would have to say she did. She liked him. For now.