Negan - Still Breathing (Part 1)

Burning for Answers

"Why were you on my grounds?"
Negan spoke softly. His voice, its smooth tone and mellow timbre, calmed you. Gradually, your body stopped shaking. Gaining control of your fingers, you brought the cigarette to your lips before you answered.

"There's an orchard roughly a mile from here. I was passing through and I stopped to grab whatever was left. I was planning on turning in for the night when your men found me." Your voice didn't waver. Flicking the ashes into the tray, you waited patiently for his next question.

Negan swallowed the vision of you in his dark, amber eyes. He gently picked up Lucille, which caused your eyes to widen. "So you're on your own? No communities that you answer to?" He stood up as he inquired and walked to his desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a shiny, new ring of barbed wire.

"None," you said as you studied his movements. "I'm tied to no one, and I work only for me."

Returning to the sofa, Negan unwrapped the rusty wire from the bat with his gloved hand. "Who gave you the gun, then?"

Speculating the way he gingerly replaced the wires, you suspected he was fishing for a flaw in your claim. "It wasn't given to me," you corrected him. "I stole it."

"Swipe it from anyone you know?" He fastened his eyes on yours as his hands continued to work. "Swipe it from someone who knows who you are?"

In this moment, his stare was hard and cold like prison walls. This wasn't the same charismatic man you met in the doorway. He meant business. But you responded honestly, "I was hiking through a camp...poor excuse for a camp, really. Just a bunch of tents and RV's. The man standing guard had the gun...the one your men took."

You remembered that humid Summer night  (about a year ago) when you spotted the look-out: a portly man in overalls, taking swigs out of a metallic flask. Spotting the weapon in his bloated, sweaty hand, you pounced. It was hardly a struggle. Staying low to the long wisps of field grass, you crawled to the entrance, sliced his Achilles' tendon with a razor blade, straddled the guard before he had a chance to scream, and slit his throat...out poured blood as thick as ink and small gushes of a caramel fluid. Smelled like whiskey. Good thing he was mid-swallow, otherwise he would've shrieked like a bitch. Quickly grabbing the .44 caliber, you bolted--light as feathers on your feet.
"Guess he didn't know what hit him. He was pretty drunk," you concluded; your eyes were fixated on the flickering tip of your cig. It shrunk significantly as the interrogation went on.

Negan must've noticed the distant look in your eyes. "How many people have you killed, exactly?"

You shrugged, trying to recall your body-count. "I couldn't tell you an exact number. But if I were to estimate..." Glancing at him, you were ensnared by his intense gaze. The vision of him, broad-shouldered, gruff, and powerful--it engulfed you in a sensation of heat. Every nerve in your body electrified and your cheeks were like boiling kettles. "About fifty."
Holy shit, fifty? Is it really that much? you thought, surprised at yourself. You hadn't given it much consideration...fighting for survival is a damn good distraction from what's right and wrong. Moral codes had no place in the new world.

Spiraling the new wires around Lucille's crown, Negan seemed to contemplate what you'd just said. "Hmm...fucking high roller, for a baby-doll like you. Quite a black widow, aren't we..." he commented, and his tone rumbled. "How many men did you fuck before you knocked them off and took their shit?"

This accusation was far more demeaning than anything you'd ever heard. His slimy words made your skin crawl and your blood boil. You could handle being called a liar, a thief, a manipulative bitch. But this man just called you a deadly whore.
"Listen here. I didn't have to spread my legs for any of those bastards to get what I needed." Your voice was like a venomous dagger as you glared at him.