No Sanctuary For Old Men [18+] |Negan| ✔️ Complete

IV • Points for Puppies

Life at the Sanctuary was definitely interesting. Daphne watched and listened, soaking up as much information as she could. If she wanted to make a name for herself here, she had to be useful, and she felt that knowledge was power in a place like this.

She avoided her fellow recruits, the morose motherfuckers seemingly depressed by this situation. She didn't know how long they would last, and she hadn't seen the crying guy since Scarface had dragged him away that first day.

She desperately wanted to meet Negan. Even just catch a glimpse of him. People talked about him like he was a god that they respected and feared. For the most part, the inhabitants that worked and lived in the Sanctuary seemed to be appreciative of him. There were those that didn't really speak either way, and Daphne thought that maybe they weren't as happy about their lives, but didn't say anything for fear of retribution.

The bartering system was pretty straightforward. Everyone worked for points, and then those points were used as currency. The recruits were given just enough for three meals a day, and while the food was delicious, she wanted more.

First on her list was cigarettes. She knew she'd need to acquire more points or give up some food, and she wasn't willing to do that. So she needed to find somewhere to work.

Daphne wandered through the marketplace, easily the biggest area in the compound. There were stands for essentials, like toiletries and over the counter medication. There were a few women selling herbal remedies, and fresh herbs and oils, which meant there was a distilling station somewhere, perhaps an apothecary.

There were even artisans. A large corner slot in the marketplace featured a middle aged couple with a carpentry set up, making furniture but also wooden art pieces.

Daphne picked up a little wooden dog and smiled. It looked just like the beagle she'd had in her past life.

"Do you like dogs?" a young male asked, and she looked up into a pair of chocolate eyes. The boy couldn't be older than twelve.

"I do," she replied with a smile. "I used to have a little hound. Her name was Josie."

"I've always wanted one." The boy picked up a carving of a large wolf. "I got a book from the library with all the breeds so I can make one of each."

"You made this?" Daphne raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He blushed. "I'm still learning to make the big stuff. My parents let me do cutting boards by myself but I like carving."

She glanced at the couple, who were busy clamping a table together. "Are there other kids here?" she asked.

"Uh huh." The boy nodded, pointing to the double doors behind her. "There's a whole kids wing down that way. We kinda do school, but only a couple classes a day."

"I guess the apocalypse has no need for advanced calculus." Daphne set the carving back down. "Once I earn some points I'm coming back for this. Set it aside for me, yeah?"

The boy grinned widely. "Really?" He immediately pocketed the little dog, and then extended his hand. "I'm Byron."

"Daphne," she said, and shook his small hand. "Keep at it, little artist." She gave him a little salute and continued on her way. The kid reminded her of a little brother she'd had and lost, long before the apocalypse.

She stopped at the sight of a long table covered in neatly folded clothes, flanked by a disheveled looking red haired woman pinning a long length of silky black fabric. Daphne poked at the garments for sale, noting only functional gear like khaki shorts and tank tops.

"Bugger," the woman cursed and shoved a finger in her mouth, having stabbed herself from rushing her work.

"Need a hand?" Daphne asked, appraising the multitude of sewing machines set up with quite a bit of workspace.

"Of course I need a hand, I always need ten fucking hands," came the irritated reply, in a thick accent that sounded like she'd just gotten off the boat from England.

"Ooh, you have a working overlock machine?" The recruit couldn't help herself and strode around the table to examine the old serger on the back work bench. "Singers really do last forever."

"If you keep them tuned up." The seamstress looked on curiously, having forgotten about her finger. "You know your way around a sewing machine?"

"I know a thing or two." Daphne turned to her.

"Why haven't you been bloody assigned to me then?" The redhead put her hands on her hips.

"I'm still on probation."

"Of fucking course you are." The seamstress waved her off and turned back to her pinning. "Get out of my workspace."

"Look, I need points." Daphne leaned against the table. "And I'll go nuts without something to do while I wait out my probation."

"If you're still on probation they won't give you points," she huffed. "You can't just walk up to any old person and ask for a fucking job."

"Then pay me some of yours," the blonde insisted. "I don't need much, just enough for cigarettes. I was hoping to buy some clothes but if I'm working for you I can make my own."

"You want me to sublet my points?"

"You're fucking stubborn." Daphne pursed her lips. "Give me something to work on, I'll prove my usefulness."

"I'm fucking stubborn, she says," the seamstress motioned to a pile of garments on the workbench. "Those need repairing. Get them done and I'll think about it."