This is the first time in twenty years that Joel has seen urban civilisation. Civilisation, that is, that isn't overrun by martial law, isn't secured into quarantine zones, isn't surrounded by militia, by the constant threat of Hunters, by decayed ruin and despair. By Infected.

He doesn't trust any of it. As he's walking through the crowded market place, stepping out of people's way here, squeezing through clusters of crowds there, he keeps glancing over his shoulder in paranoia. A few times, he's stopped by a haggler, which he's quick to shove out of his way, hand itching to whip his gun out at the slightest sense of alarm.

It's almost all too much. Too overwhelming. Too much noise, too many smells, too much stimulation. He's grown so used to the dead silence of a world torn apart by chaos and sickness and terror that a thriving civilisation like the one he's wandering lost through is completely foreign to him now.

As he's pushing past another small bottleneck of people, he catches a snippet of conversation in amongst the throng of noise. A familiar voice; female, tough, no bullshit. He glances in direction it's coming from - and finds himself looking at a woman he recognises only all too well stepping away from a stall into the crowd.

It can't be. It fucking can't be.

Realising he's come to a stock still, he starts forward again, this time shoving past people, muscling his way through the crowd, a look of incredulous apprehension on his weather-beaten face as he keeps his gaze fixed on the back of the woman's head over the top of the crowd.

As he catches up with her, he reaches out to grab her arm.