Charles was used to camp life by now, having rode with the Van Der Linde Gang for a few months at the least. He was a capable worker, pulling his weight and completing tasks and chores without, or minimal, complaint. He got along with most people too.

Exept one man. Micah. That rat could drown and he couldn't care; wouldn't bat an eye.

Charles came from a Native American mother and a dark-skinned father, leading to Charles to have dark skin himself. His mother was herded off with other Natives and he never saw her again. His father was an alcoholic after that and Charles ran away at 15. And Micah was oh so incredibly racist.

"Get me something to eat, Redskin" The man's grimy voice irritated Charles to no end. He was just trying to relax, to eat too, metal bowl of stew steaming in front of him. "I said get me something to eat, Redskin"

Micah just ticked him off to no end. He stood up, taller than the grinning man by a few inches. A swift grab and a harsh throw left Micah on his back, looking up at a certain scowling man "Eat that." Charles growled, picking up his food, intending to go elsewhere.