After your world fell into black putrefaction, you soon realize that walkers are the least of your worries. Tragedy and loss has led you to fear attachment more so than the undead. You thought hiking the trail of survival was best accomplished alone...
"How're your hands, doll? Hope you've been taking good care of 'em. Tomorrow's your big fucking day, after all." Negan loomed over you as you sat on the interrogation couch in his office--the same one you trembled upon after you were captured.
Déjà fucking vu, you thought. Only this time, Negan appeared to be more relaxed. His leather jacket was unzipped, and his muscled chest flexed beneath his white T-shirt. His scarf, which he'd retrieved from the wive's lounge after your outburst, hung on the arm of his desk chair. He'd removed his bulky gun holster and his cargo pants sagged slightly. In this way, his demeanor was casual and more gentle than ever before. "They're fine. But I doubt this is a check up or a physical or some shit," you grumbled. Flash bulbs of Mark's punishment strobed in your brain--the sound of the sizzling consumed your every thought. Fury drowned your fear.
"Believe me, darlin,' I wish this was a physical," Negan crooned. His innuendo invoked a familiar craving within you. But now wasn't the time to succumb to your body's desires. Placing Lucille on top of the clutter on his desk, he started to pace in front of you. "So, I've heard you're Little Miss Popular, now. Gotta fucking admit, I didn't see that coming. Hell, my men can't wipe those silly fucking smiles off their faces when you're around."
You fiddled with your hands, eyes glued to the floor. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises," you replied, coldly. You anxiously pulled out a cigarette, hoping to ease your anger.
"Where'd you get those?" Negan asked, cocking his head toward the box of Camels. "You couldn't have earned enough points to buy those fucking things in only a few days."
The point system Negan spoke of dictated that cigarettes were expensive. Typically, his men would have to perform two weeks of work or join a supply run before they could buy a carton. He knew they were in high demand and used it as a means of increasing productivity. Negan must've been a salesman prior to all this apocalyptic shit, you thought. "A friend gave them to me."
Pausing his steps, Negan smiled slyly. "I have a feeling I know who that fucking friend is." You rolled your eyes when he made exaggerated air-quotes as he said "friend." He slowly approached you, barely able to maintain a poker face. "So, you won't live in the lap of luxury, but you'll fuck around with my men for a few puffs off a Camel fucking Blue?"
Remaining poised and composed, you chuckled, "Negan, I told you before. Fucking my way to the top is not my style. None of your cronies touched me and I didn't touch them. Maybe you've forgotten that there are a few kind-hearted people left in this world."
He laughed in response and placed a condescending hand on your head. "Don't be so fucking naïve, kid. You don't think those slimy fucks would want their heads between your legs? Doesn't matter if you think you're one of them. They're still gonna butter you the fuck up 'til they get what they want...and I'm assuming you're smart enough to know what that is."
"Ha!" You raised your head and took another drag. "Not everyone is like you. Those men expect nothing from me but my contribution to this compound."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
