White light flooded your vision as your eyelids were being pulled open gently by a calloused finger. Every stretch of sinew in your body was sore, as if you'd tumbled violently in a washing machine. The sudden exposure to light made you squint, and your legs bucked. Bouncing slightly as you kicked, you felt a mattress cradling your back. Sheets tangled around your feet. Clenching your fists, you realized they'd been tautly wrapped in bandages. Your vision was muddled. Trying to recognize faces and shapes was like playing I Spy in a sandstorm.
I spy with my little eye... you thought wearily as sharp pains squeezed your brain. Something skinny and pale...straw hair and a pinkish, wrinkled face... You always played this game to keep your mind sharp as a tack, especially in situations like these. Wrinkled? Maybe not wrinkled. More like...burnt. You knew who it was.
"Hello...anybody in there?" the figure snickered as he turned the small flashlight on and off repeatedly. "How's it going, No-Name?" The bright strobing made your head scream in agony. "That was a damn hard fall, sweetie. You were out stone cold for almost a whole day." It was Dwight. Of course it was! The last thing you desired was to wake up with that obnoxious prick toying with you like you were a defenseless frog in science class.
"You motherfucker..." you attempted to exclaim, but your voice was so raspy, the words squeaked out pitifully.
"Awwwww, look at ya. How cute!" he taunted. "Like a caged butterfly." Mimicking the fluttering of the creature, he flapped his arms and laughed. "Well we're gonna have to clip those wings." He grabbed one of your bandaged hands and crushed it in his grip. And holy SHIT, it hurt like an eighteen wheeler was slowly driving over it.
"Let go, you asshole!" you yelled and your voice cracked. You sounded weak. Even your vocal chords winced in discomfort.
"Oh I'm the asshole? At least I didn't cut up your neck with glass or blast your foot off, you piece of shit."
His glacial eyes pierced you as he tightened his fist around your palm. Dwight was clearly referring to the guard you threatened outside the factory and the vested man that chased you near the fence. What if those beasts were in this make-shift hospital, as well? That encounter would be awkward. What would you say? Hey, sorry for fucking you guys up like that. I was just having a psychotic episode. We all get a little wild sometimes, am I right? you mused as you imagined running into them.
"I don't want to cause any more trouble, Dwight." Your eyes flitted around the area as you spoke. The paint-peeled walls surrounded you like iron bars in your cot. Your section was marked by a white curtain that ran from the door of the musty room to the window behind you--nailed shut with wooden boards. Trapped, once again. You took a deep breath in though your nose. "I just want to leave."
"Doesn't matter what you want," Dwight hissed and threw down your hand. The rush of blood from his firm grip darkened your bandages, but the intense pain was relieved. "Only Negan can decide. Everything around here is his...or will be." Each time Dwight mentioned Negan, darkness clouded his eyes. Though he seemed to be his lieutenant, he definitely held some grave grudge against him.
In the knowledge that Dwight didn't have the power to harm you in any major way, you decided to test him. "So, how does it feel to belong to Negan?"
He grit his teeth. "I don't belong to him. I follow him."
"But if he's unjust in any way, you still can't leave, can you..."
"I chose to stay. Negan always gives his people a choice."
"The choices must be limited, otherwise you would've fled or retaliated."
He stood up vehemently and circled your bed like a shark. "This Sanctuary is the lone power that commands every community from Arlington to Roanoke. And it's growing. Either you're a part of the empire or you're the sorry-fuck that'll be conquered. No one wants to be a sorry-fuck."
You shrugged. "Sure, I understand. But what do you do if you don't like the way things are running? Why not blaze the trail alone?"
"Because it's a rough trail out there crawling with walkers and thugs. There's safety in numbers."
"I managed on my own, 'til you found me," you mentioned. He paused his pacing and stood at the foot of the bed, listening intently. "It wasn't easy, and it sure as hell was frightening. But I'd rather be living by my own rules than dying under someone else's."
Dwight stared over your shoulder into the distance, as if he was considering his every decision up to this point. He ran his fingers through his scraggly mess of blonde hair and sighed harshly. "Negan's rules are fair, but he takes advantage of people's dumb-ass mistakes. Makes examples out of 'em." He slid his hand over his scars before stroking the light fuzz on his chin.
It's all starting to fall into place, you thought as your eyes dissected the mangled tissue of his face. "What did he do to you, Dwight?" you asked, gently.
The mean veil on Dwight's face was lifted. He looked vulnerable, and he opened his mouth, preparing to speak. But before he had a chance to tell his unfortunate tale, the door of the infirmary opened and revealed a tall, shadowy frame with a baseball bat clutched in his massive fist. "Sorry to interrupt your chit-chat," a gravelly voice rang through the room. "It's fucking nearly past dinner time, D. Go ahead and chow down."
Dwight gave you a half-smile that didn't quite lighten his eyes as he bowed his head. "Yes, sir," he uttered, obediently. He sheepishly looked back at you once more before he left.
The soft, golden light of the hallway accentuated the figure's chiseled features. His slicked-back, dark hair caught the light in glowing specks of espresso brown and grey. Taking slow, thudding steps into the hospital room, he kicked the door shut behind him. Your mouth was agape as your eyes ran along the length of the bat wrapped in barbed wire. So, I have two visitors, you thought. Lucille and goddamn fucking Negan.
"Well if it isn't Sleeping Beauty," he murmured and a toothy grin lit his smug disposition. "How's your head? Hurts like hell, doesn't it..." His arrogant stance--Lucille swaying in his hand--it made you suppress a spiteful growl.
You bit your lip and averted your gaze. Crossing your arms, you silently refused to watch his victory march around the bed. Feeling the rumbling anger build in your stomach, you sat a little straighter in the sheets and challenged his stare. "It's hardly worse than a hangover. I'm not fucking hurting," you barked in a raspy timbre.
"Calm down, hon. We both know how you get when you're fired up," he laughed and leaned Lucille against the wall. Stepping away from the grisly bat with his arms raised, he spoke as soft as rain, "Just wanted to check up on the feisty, little patient."
You thought I was feisty before? Oh you've seen nothing yet. "I'm absolutely fine. Peaches and cream. And since I'm sure your residents believe I've overstayed my welcome, I will courteously leave." You swung your legs over the edge of the bed before Negan pressed his hand against your knee. Heat lightening shot through you as he made contact, and your heart quickened. His grip was firm and warm, but more commanding than suggestive.
"You didn't think you were just going to fucking skip away without being punished, now did you?" The thunder in his voice made you shiver. Even your mangled hands were shaking.
"P-punished?" you stuttered. Your eyes shot over to Lucille and back to him. He could see them pleading for mercy, but would he really go easy on you after the havoc you caused?
"Oh yeah...you're so going to regret crossing me in a few minutes," he murmured. His tone didn't sound grave or harsh. Rather, it sounded mischievous. "You may have hurt my men, but you didn't kill any of 'em. So, if you're thinking that I'd kill you for what you did, you can fucking cross out that possibility."
Oh fantastic, you thought. Here comes a fate worse than death.
He inched closer to you as he spoke, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small, bronze flask. "Here," he said, holding the flask to your lips. "Drink this."
"What's this? You gonna make me drink Mercury or something to make me more docile?" you snapped and gawked at him in disbelief.
He chuckled and its resonance tickled your ears. Taking a quick sip from the flask himself, he licked his lips. He leaned in dangerously close to your face, and your lips began to swell. Your hips swiveled on the mattress, causing the springs to creak. A warm tingling erupted in your gut, and your face grew overwhelmingly hot. The musky smell of him...the soft sound of his breathing...
"Smell that?" he whispered. "It's vodka." He pulled away and traced the opening of the flask gingerly against your sensitive lips. "You can thank the two men you fucking maimed for the lack of pain killers. This'll have to do, for now."
"Business first, drink later," you demanded, steadfastly. You weren't going to budge under the force of his cool voice and handsome charm. No way in hell!
His smile widened at your conviction. "Suit yourself, sweet thing." Placing the flask down on the nightstand next to the cot, he began his lecture. "This...all of this..." he said waving his hand in an arc over his head, "This is the New World Order. Those who wander in willingly or unwillingly have to obey that order. Those we stumble upon have to obey that order. They fucking think they can hide behind their doors? We own those doors. If we knock," he gently rapped on the headboard as he explained, "...they let us in. If they resist, we'll knock it the fuck down."
You gulped, processing the information. This man wasn't just some big bad bully with a rough, biker-posse. He was an emperor. A totalitarian. He was absolute power.
"Now you don't have any doors to hide behind. You have no shit to give me. Those communities I own serve me by giving me half of all their shit. I bet you're wondering how someone like you would serve me."
Your eyes narrowed. "By being your toy?" you sassed.
"By being my wife," he corrected you. "Those lovely little minxes you met last night? They're my wives. They don't have to work for, kill for, buy, borrow, or steal any of the shit that they want. I take care of all of that."
"In return for sex and dressing up like a playboy bunny?" The thought made you nauseous.
"Sounds like a fucking awesome deal, right?" He knew you were about to raise your voice against the idea, so he spoke before you could interrupt. "But if for some unbelievable, goddamn fucking reason you don't want that, then you have one other option." Anticipation hung heavy in the air. He paused, teasing you with his arrogant eyes and gauging your reactions. You looked at him expectantly as he revealed door number two. "You can make, find, or steal your own shit and earn your place here with the rest of my men. But it's going to be a lot of slaving the fuck away and dealing with all those nasty fuckers who were running you down yesterday. And I'm guessing, after that fucking stunt you pulled, they aren't going to welcome you with open-fucking-arms and a fruit basket. Your choice."
Nodding as you mulled over your only two options, you started to realize just how incredibly fucked you were. A vision of Dwight's monstrous face flashed in your mind as you considered how Negan must treat his men. Were you willing to be subjected to a future consequence similar to Dwight's? "Before I choose, I have to ask..."
"Hit me," Negan responded.
Oh trust me, I wish I could fucking hit you.
You braced yourself, completely aware that your question may cross personal boundaries. "What did you do to Dwight?"
Negan's eyebrow raised. "The little shit broke one of my rules. So I ironed his face." He stated this matter-of-factly with no signs of remorse.
Your whole body stiffened. "And would you do the same to me if I broke the rules?" It was difficult to bury the fear in your voice.
"Doll, each crime has a specific consequence." Noticing your puzzled expression, he elaborated. "Sherry, my first wife, was Dwight's girl before the outbreak. So, I took what I wanted and laid out the rules for D, clear as fucking crystal, I might add. If he slept with her, I'd burn half his face off. The mark of shame." A look of annoyance flooded his face and he rubbed the trim bristles of his beard. "But the fucker went right ahead and did it anyway. Not cool."
Surprisingly, part of your heart pitied Dwight. These mafia tactics left him mutilated--a living, breathing display of Negan's wrath. Concerned, you inquired, "What about Sherry? Did you..."
"Did I what?"
"Did you beat--I mean--punish her?"
He leaned in slowly, placing his hands on either side of your body. Growing dark and ardent, his eyes fixed on yours. You could feel his hot breath lick your skin. "Is that what you think I am, hon? A fucking woman beater?" he attacked your words in a low whisper. "My methods may be fucking brutal. But I'm not a mindless-goddamn animal. I wouldn't lay a fucking finger on my girls in that way."
Bet you didn't see that coming, you thought. You can't deny the fact that he's a gentleman.
He backed away, and for a moment, you missed the feel of his heat. His dominance wasn't scary as much as it was...enticing to you. The sight of him alone made you tingle. For some ungodly reason, your body craved his closeness. You shivered as a rush of chills tore through the plains of your skin. What the hell is wrong with you?!
Rising from the bed, he picked up Lucille and swung at nothing but air. He did so as if it were a demonstration of how he executed those who crossed him. "No one messes with the law, anymore. Not after Dwight's dumb-as-dicks move and a couple of sacrifices to my lady Lucille." Staring down at you, he grabbed the flask of vodka from the nightstand and placed it in your hand. The feel of his fingers lingering on yours made your heart pound erratically.
"So what's my punishment?" you asked.
"That depends on whether you choose door number one or door number two. Once you make your decision, we'll drink on it. When we drink on it, it's fucking binding." The tangy, delicious smell of him was even more overpowering than the alcohol, and it sent your head spinning into oblivion. "So what's it gonna be? Luxury or survival?"
Don't you fucking dare give in. He's not going to win this round! you seethed.
You composed yourself, and stabbed him with a cold glare. Bringing the flask to your lips, you toasted, "To survival." Taking a swig of the pungent liquid, you winced and sputtered. Roughly handing Negan the flask, you raised your head in defiance and relished the small victory.
His brows shot to his scalp, and he shrugged. "Your fucking loss, sweetheart. Can't say I didn't warn you. Cheers, No-Name."
That was the second time you'd been addressed in that way. You figured Negan and his men already nicknamed you. No-Name? Well, maybe this label will keep them from prying.
Negan knocked back the flask and swallowed a large glug of vodka as if it were water. "Looks like it's career day!" Stretching out his arm, once again, to help you up, he sighed. "It's a goddamn shame. You looked like fucking Venus in all that lace."
When he made that devilishly sexy remark, you noticed your clothes had been changed--a new pair of jeans and a fresh tank-top. "Did you fucking undress me?!" you yelled abruptly.
"Hush, now..." he murmured and placed his hand on your shoulder. "I had Nicole play nurse, don't worry. She's the one who bandaged you up like a fucking mummy."
"Oh...I'll have to thank her later." Refusing his help, once more, you jumped to your feet and stood firmly in front of him. "So...the punishment?"
Negan guffawed when you inquired, holding the edge of the bed as though to steady himself in his laughter. "Let me just say, door number one would've given you fucking immunity!" He continued to laugh as you clenched your fists. "If you wanna be one of my men, you're gonna have to fight one of my men. Hand-to-hand, no weapons. You have a week to heal up and prepare. And don't you ever pull any of that running away shit again. I will shut that shit down, no exceptions."
You glowered at him, beating the snot out of him with your eyes as he groped you with his. What the fuck did I just sign up for...
"Welcome to the New World Order," Negan announced, charismatically.