Vanessa Taylor, a sassy blue haired, tattooed cosmetologist with a mouth of a sailor was born and raised in Ohio. One summer while she was visiting her sick father, her connecting flight ends in the city getting shut down, leaving her stranded in th...
"Oh, Metallica? Metal isn't my forte, but..." I cock my head as his fingers begin to dance along the strings, echoing the well known intro. I'l admit it, he's good. I keep my face neutral as he continues to play one of my favorites. After a few moments, his eyes meet mine, silence descending between us. "That's all I got, I'm sorry." He winces, spotting my expression.
"Not bad," I offer, "I heard better."
His face falls in disappointment, but quickly relaxes upon realizing I'm teasing the plump man. I smirk as it dawns on the optimistic survivor, winking playfully. I spin on my heels, needing to get to the work awaiting me in Maggie's office. I have a few more things to attend to that need my attention.
"Hey, that wasn't funny," he calls out. "I told you, metal isn't my forte. You know, you have a good poker face! I thought you were serious!""
I peer over my shoulder, smiling, tossing a peace sign towards Luke. My blue eyes land on Magna coming to stand behind him, sending glares in my direction while crossing her arms. Her hair billowing around her, creating an image that reminds me of a hot fire blazing in the moonlight. What the hell crawled up her ass? Ignoring the woman, I return to my mission at hand, waving down Yumiko, informing her of a few tasks I need her assistance with, in which she complies.
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I rub my face, eyes starting to cross from all the paperwork. I've been at this for about two hours now. How the hell aren't we low on paper yet? We are almost a decade into this shit hole. Why did I agree to Tara's request? Oh right, because I thought she wouldn't go down so fucking quickly. At least, I'm getting the hang of this new title six months later. Though my soul yearns for the freedom of taking on runs with my husband at my side. It's been too long since I've outside the gates.
At least, we all are safe from the fucking skins that are out there, somewhere, just waiting to strike. I just hope we are ready. Fuck hope, I know I will be ready. I'm always ready for a fight.
I glance up at the sounds of the door swinging open, revealing Magna. I signal for her to sit across from me. She glares, but complies. She crosses her arms when her butt hits the chair. Well, aren't we charming, I muse inwardly.
"Glad you got my message," I begin. She raises her chin in defiance, waiting for me to continue. I force myself not to bite on the annoyance stirring in my soul. Sighing, "nice to know you're doing well," I murmur. "Right to business, I respect that. I heard of your history -"
"What about it?" She snarls, interrupting my request.
I let out a irritated chuckle before I could stop myself. My chair slides across the floor, filling the air with a loud, ear splitting creak. I stalk in front of my desk, stopping directly in front of her. I lean against the wood, crossing my arms, peering down at her. "Let me get one thing straight. I'm not Michonne. I could give a shit less what you did that landed you in prison. We all have a story from before. Some darker than others. But we are all here for a reason. I need survivors that are willing to work as a community, and not betray us. So far, you seem to understand that."
