"Keep your eyes on the prize if you want it all,
You and I, the spider and the fly, will meet where the shadows fall..."
"Grimes, Rick. Age 42..."The overweight man wearing a black pinstripe and very expensive business suit leans forward with interest in the leather (and equally expensive) armchair, causing the two middle buttons of his jacket to come undone and a third to pop right off. But the overweight man isn't concerned with his jacket buttons right now, all he's concerned about the interesting man behind the glass...
"... Ethnicity: White, native of the Southern Valleys. Species: Human. Occupation: Rancher..."
A substantially more physically fit and younger man in the private booth next door to his overweight neighbour, who still hasn't noticed the missing button on his now defective jacket, adjusts his earphones through which the information about the man on the other side of the one way glass is being fed in his native Russian mother tongue.
He takes a sip of his vodka and lime, being careful to place the delicate crystal glass back on the coaster and not the small table itself next to his own leather chair.
This man doesn't have a typical rancher look about him observes the Russian. This man looks hardened and mean. His face is worn and weary, yet there is still strength in it. His chiselled jawline is steely and gives his mouth a determined grimace, a grimace that if transformed by anger would no doubt strike fear into the heart of any man, the Russian has no doubt about that. But what is most troubling, no, terrifying, about this man are those piercing blue eyes, those eyes that are like blue fire, one that will consume and destroy anything that dares to cross their path.
Yes, this man could be of great use to him, oh yes, great use indeed...
"... Full comprehensive medical exam taken place three days ago. No physical problems or external injuries, no internal issues, no sexually transmitted diseases or infections, multiple bodily scars and some facial scars but none that will cause impairment, physically fit and in good shape..."
The deeply tanned, middle aged American man two doors down from the younger Russian one, who is now working on his second vodka lime, can clearly see that the man called Rick is in good shape, more than just good shape in fact. His faded blue button down shirt hugs the contours of his sinewy arm muscles and clings to every upper body detail. The well worn black jeans he wears are just as comfortably fitting as the shirt, highlighting his narrow waist but straining tightly against his obviously strong thighs. Now if he would just turn around for a second...
Mister American runs a hand through his grey but full head of hair with one hand and takes a long drag on his cigar with the other, never taking his eyes off the man in the ten sided room behind the glass. He needs to calm himself for when it starts, which should be any moment now. He puts his cigar in the crystal ashtray on his side table and hovers his hand over the button device next to it...
"... No apparent psychological or mental issues, overall a very good piece of property, can be used for whatever purposes you wish. Full in depth medical list will be provided to owner after business has commenced. Bidding will begin in three minutes..."
Rick stares at the multiple reflections of himself, noting how tired he looks... How utterly tired.
The bright overhead lighting bounces off of the ten projections that surround him in the decagonal pen, hurting his sensitive eyes and making him squint slightly. He can't help but wonder what kind of people - No, not people... What kind of scum are dwelling behind those no doubt reinforced shiny barriers, watching him like a caged animal in a zoo exhibit.
He resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably. Even though he can't see their scrutiny, he knows what people like him are brought here for and it sickens him to even try to imagine the thoughts running through those twisted spectators heads. He hates to be looked at like an insect through a microscope by even just one person, so this is akin to something straight out of a nightmare.
His right index finger twitches, seconds later followed by his left one and he aches longingly for his Sun and Moon. He aches to have them hanging on each hip, feeling utterly naked and too light of load without their heavy yet comforting weight.
He knows that the one way glass is no doubt bullet proof, but he is willing to bet every coin he has that it wouldn't hold up against his silver Moon and gold Sun revolvers. If he had them he would fire and the glass would shatter, of that he is certain.
But he doesn't have them, because if he did he wouldn't be here. He never would have been allowed to get this far and getting this far is half the battle.
He tries to push the visualizations of blowing all of the anonymous viewers to hell and smattering their brains all over the probably very cushy viewing rooms they were definitely very comfortable in out of his head. He needs to focus on the second half of the battle and he can't do that with all of this violent imagery swimming around in his brain. It was likely to bring on another one of his headaches, and the headaches would bring the fever, the fever would lead to the shakes and the shakes would... No! He would not succumb to it, damn it he wouldn't!
Rick takes a few deep breaths to steady his mind and remembers the main reason why he is here, and why he must make this work.
He waits patiently and pulls the part of himself he knows is the true part out of the dark abyss and shoves it to the forefront of his mind. Yes, he is calm now and clear headed. His breathing and heart beat are steady and as one. His objective is in front of him and he will not dwell on anything else except that.
Everything now is out of his hands. All he can do is wait until it begins, and hope against all hope that the right person gets him. If they don't, well, he will make it work, or die trying...
"The bidding will begin in sixty seconds. Please press the button to your right should you wish to participate. Each press of the button equates to 5,000 gold coins, you may press this only once each time you bid. Double, triple or multiple button pressing during any one bid will result in immediate dismissal. You will be kept informed in real time via your earphones of your position in the process so please take note of your number next to your button. Bidding will end when there are no more presses from any participating buyer. Highest bidder will get the property. Good luck, we will begin in 29, 28, 27..."
Nine bidders in nine separate booths behind the looking glass, each in their own private wonderlands wait eagerly for the end of the countdown. A few who are here for younger men and women, and one who is here for a much older woman, want this particular property to be gone quickly so they can move on to the next one and hopefully get what they came here for. They have no intention of bidding their hard earned (and in some cases, easily inherited) gold on something they have no use for.
But most of the clients like what they see very much, and most of them are on the edge of their seats. Suit buttons, vodkas and cigars are long forgotten and all that matters now are the buttons to their right...
… But we are, however, forgetting one room are we not? Ten reflections of the man waiting patiently for his fate to be decided inside that room, but only nine bidders? Ah, yes, there is but a tenth room behind that tenth reflection, but inside that room a bidder does not dwell. Something else is watching, has been watching ever since the property stepped into the pen under the glare of those harsh, almost blinding lights.
The watcher in the tenth room stands inches away from his side of the glass, his nose almost touching it. He fights to keep his hands clasped behind his back, because putting his palms on the glass in front of him, which he wanted to do as soon as the man on the other side of it was presented into the viewing room via a platform in the middle of the wooden floor, would no doubt demonstrate a slight loss of control. And to demonstrate such a loss to one of the two men he trusts the most to follow his orders without question, who is now standing a few steps behind him half obscured by the shadows, would be dangerously unacceptable.
He clasps his right black gloved hand over his bare left one, painfully so, to distract him from the almost overwhelming desire to smash his fists right through the glass, which he could do with ease, and to reach out for the one called Rick and take him. Because he knew as soon as he set eyes upon him, that this man was meant to be his.
He studies Rick intensely with his dark brown, almost ebony eyes. There is no question that physically, the man is a work of art to look at. The dark greying stubble that covers his jaw only serves to highlight its sharpness and strength, matching perfectly with the rest of his angular facial features. His dark brown hair is messy and tousled but that only adds to his ruggedly handsome look. The scars that run across his face are just another addition to his character and the watcher doesn't believe for one second that this man is a mere rancher. One glance at those pale blue eyes told him that from the very first second.
Those eyes. Those are the eyes of a man that has seen everything and missed nothing. Eyes of ice, eyes that know no mercy, eyes that know only death.
But there is something else, something more, much more that just physicality of why the man with the black hand must have the man with the blue eyes. Only, he isn't sure what it is yet. Something feels familiar about him. This man has something, something even he doesn't know about... Yet, it keeps slipping away from the watcher, eluding him like a fading dream upon waking.
No matter though, because he is going to find out what it is himself. He will tread very carefully as he will not let this mysterious, bordering on consuming, desire to claim this man make him stupid and blind. No, he will first find out everything about this stranger, firstly starting out with why he has lied about being a rancher... Who is he really?
"Negan, the bidding has started Sir."
His right hand man, Asano Tadeshi, startles Negan, also known to many as Black Hand, out of his thoughts. Had it not been for the smell of smoke coming from the former Yakuzas constant lighting of cigarette after cigarette, Negan would have forgotten he was there entirely.
"And it's going up fast," he continues in a soft tone, taking out one earphone as he does, "So if you wish to step in, I would do it now Sir."
Asano's grasp of the English language is perfect and the still apparent hint of Japanese that peppers it is very pleasing to the ear.
Negan chuckles, a deep throaty one that to those who don't know him well, makes icy fingers run up their spine all the way to the base of the neck. Asano knows Negan well however, and returns the chuckle with a smile.
"Make the call my bat-shit crazy friend."
Asano picks up the receiver of the telephone that is on the table in place of a bidding button. This is the executive room, and the occupant of this room does not bid. If he wants the property that's being bid on, he gets it, no questions asked and tough sorry shit to the clients who did want the property. They would just have to go and piss their gold away elsewhere.
Asano mutters something down the phone in Japanese and within seconds the lights in the viewing room go out, coating it in perfect darkness. Negan has no problem seeing just as well as usual, if not better, in dark conditions and his eyes immediately go back to Rick.
He watches as one of the mirrors swing inwards, the occupant of the room (the fat business man, if one is to be specific) ordered to vacate when the bidding stopped.
Rick is manhandled forcefully out of the pen and through the booth to the exiting door at the back by a Saviour that Negan makes a special effort to remember so he can backhand the little shit next time he sees him. Just to make a point that an insignificant insect such as him is never to touch his property like that again unless he wants a lot more than just a backhand if he even dares to be so stupid a second time.
"Do you want me to put this one in the holding cell until..."
"That won't be necessary Asano, this one belongs to me," replies Negan with a smile.
He turns away from the glass, still never quite being able to get used to not having a reflection, even though it's been many, many years now.
Asano, who has now stopped smoking, but probably only for a few minutes Negan guesses, holds out Negans beloved baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire with a tattooed hand.
"Lucielle, my girl," Negan says lovingly, taking the bat gently with his gloved hand. "Let's go see if we can't get the new blue eyed boy to share some of his secrets with the big bad wolf, hmm?"
Both men step out into the corridor leaving the executive room in darkness. A small shaft of light creeps beneath the crack in the door, just enough to make the shadows visible, and for a split second they seem to move and shift, as if restless at the loss of their master.