"I hear you were quite the musician before the world fell," Doctor Carson offered, an attempt at small-talk as he re-bandaged the bullet wound in her thigh.

Pretense it was then. When he'd entered the stark infirmary to find her awake Lu could see the excitement in his eyes. "I played a few stages in my time," she shrugged, trying to determine just how much he'd "heard" about her having been a musician before the world fell.

The aged, balding man almost looked offended but quickly covered the expression, a professional at keeping his thoughts from his face; though whether that was due to just being a doctor or a manipulative shit was still up for debate. She'd have to be very careful around him, she noted, him and everyone else here in…wherever the hell she fucking was. This wasn't her territory and none of them could be trusted as far as she was concerned.

"Come now, don't be modest," he insisted with careful hands gently maneuvering the gauze around her thigh. "I recognized you as soon as Simon carried you in here, bleeding out and half dead. Metal wasn't even entirely to my taste, but Death and Taxes wasn't a small-time band by half."

He knew exactly who she was to the world from before, he hadn't fucking heard anything, and he was trying to stroke her goddamn ego. Lu would have laughed if it wasn't just so fucking sad. They were in the midst of Romero's burning fucking apocalypse and here was a doctor playing fanboy to her former rockstar. But she managed to coax a grin to the corner of her mouth; she'd have to play along for a while if she wanted to get the hell out of here. To hell with Negan and his goddamn apologies.

"Bet you were a big-time hair-band rocker in the 70's and 80's, doc."

The balding man blushed at the tips of his ears as he tied together the ends of the gauze. "British rock, to be accurate. Lift your shirt please," he instructed, pressing cold, latex covered fingertips to the bullet wound that pierced her side.

"Queen, Iron Maiden, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles" Lu offered, grimacing as pain ran quick-shot beneath her skin, spiderwebbing all along her nerve endings.

"Once upon a time I had hair and Brian May was who I wanted to be," he confided with a light laugh, fingertips still running ram shod around the wound. "How bad is that?"

"Maybe a seven," she lied as he peeled back the medical tape to remove the bandage. Eleven, motherfucker, mine goes up to eleven. To Lu's eyes her side looked rather like ground beef, torn and gnarled and irritated. "The Red Special was an amazing guitar for its day," she affirmed, shaking off the shock of seeing her side gaping, just short of gushing and irritated.

He gave her a surprised glance before returning his attention to the redness of what was very likely infection around the through and through hole in her flesh. "You know, you're very lucky that bullet didn't hit anything vital on its way through here. This is a bad portion of the abdomen to be shot…"

Lu snorted, "I didn't exactly ask to be shot, doc. I didn't even know about these guys until…well…the night they dragged me into this." She knew Carson likely didn't care, it wasn't his job to care, his job was just to keep her alive for that insurmountable asshole. More Wolves or Claimers but worse than the both of them combined. So she set that anger aside, better to save it for someone who deserved it. "I was a guitarist, doc; once I'd seen Highlander I was hooked on Queen. 'Who Wants to Live Forever' was one of my all-time favorites for years."

"Highlander?" the man stood to grab a syringe and what she could only assume was penicillin from an equipment cabinet.

"1986 cult fantasy movie, Chris Lambert and Sean Connery?" At the blank look he gave her as he injected her infected wound, she raised one arm aloft, "You know, 'There can be only one!'"

"I know the song but I'm unfamiliar with the film." He turned back to the supply cabinet and as he retrieved what Lu could barely see to be more bandages she knew if he was comfortable enough to turn his back to her then he didn't consider her to be a threat. He'd turned completely away from her and hadn't bothered making sure she wasn't making moves to sneak up on him and why not, who stabbed someone when they'd reminisced about classic rock bands? Of course he wouldn't, no one stabbed someone after reminiscing about Freddie Mercury and Brian May...although... Momma, just killed a man. She might be able to use that to her advantage…

"I remember that Bohemian Rhapsody was part of that film with Michael Myers and Dana Carvey, although Ballroom Blitz certainly played a larger part." Carson turned with a genuinely giddy smile, hands full of supplies and good intentions as he inspected the tunnel shot through her side once more.

"Go figure," she laughed tightly, but the pain from tensing her abdomen cutting her short. "He knows Wayne's World but not Highlander. That movie was every guy's wet dream for over half a dozen awesome songs: Time Machine, Hot and Bothered, Feed My Frankenstein…"

"Now let's not forget Foxy Lady," he offered with a smile, pushing a vial of penicillin into the skin around the wound before taping a bandage to her side with care.

A sly grin settled on Lu's face. "Doc, are you flirting with me?" she prodded saucily, hoping to absolutely shatter his calm façade, to see just what his intentions were exactly.

"Oh, n-no, I would never…I meant-" Carson began stuttering out hastily, backing away quickly with his hands up, that professional mask failing entirely in light of the pure, unadulterated panic running through him.

How interesting...

"The Hendrix song, I know," she assuaged him, laughing as she pushed herself up to sit instead of continuing to lie on the too-firm mattress. "I'm just giving you a hard time, doc, I promise. No need to jump out of your skin just yet."

The older man said nothing for a moment before shaking his head, trying to clear the panic from his system and force a smile, but he was clearly rattled. Such an over-the-top reaction for something so small, just what in the fresh, shining hell was going on here?

"My apologies, Negan just…he's rather overbearing with such things concerning people whom belong to him," he attempted to explain, gathering another item from the supply cabinet.

When he turned back to her a cold chill shot through her chest. Well shit, he was going to draw her blood or inject her with a mind-numbing painkiller and she needed her wits for what came next. Lu had to think fast, trying to keep her expression calm as he approached her with a loaded syringe. "I don't belong to Negan," she insisted firmly, leaving no room for rebuttal.

"Well Negan seemed particularly insistent that you not die when he had you brought here, in spite of the fact you were very nearly dead," Carson recalled for her, tapping on her arm to find a suitable vein. "He's usually only that overbearing when it comes to his wi-" he began to explain as the needle slipped into her skin.

Lu brought the heel of her left palm up into his nose lightning quick, soundly breaking it with an audible crack and sending Carson tumbling backwards into a medical cart with a tray full of surgical steel equipment. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed as he doubled over, clutching the bleeding mess of his face, she stood as quickly as she was able, doing her level best to ignore the fire roiling along her nerves. Striding over to him, she buried her knee into his gut, sending the aged man sprawling to the ground but not before she landed a solid hit to his temple.

"Doc?" came a masculine voice from just outside the closed door. "Everything okay in there?"

It was one of Negan's lackeys; he'd had someone watch the door because he knew she'd try to collect her things and escape. That son of a bitch, he was trying to fucking cage her. If that shitsack on the other side of the door caught her before she could take him out, he would absolutely fucking tattle to Negan and that motherfucker would put her in a goddamned box. From their exchange earlier, she knew he'd never leave her alone again, even if it meant locking her in a closet. She had to move quick if she was going to get the drop on the shitsack outside the door.

"Doc, if you don't answer I'm gonna have to come in there and I don't give a fuck about your doctor-patient what-the-fuck-ever."

Door opens to the right.

Crouch behind the steel door, Carson's on the other side of the thing not suitable to be called a bed.

He'd have to come in the room in order to actually see Carson where she'd left him bleeding from the face and unconscious on the floor.

If he didn't have any kind of training, he hopefully wouldn't check behind the door for her.

So Lu grabbed the tray from the cart and crouched against the wall, waiting for the windowless door to open. Asshole had left her with only her tank and underwear, banking on the fact she might not try anything without proper clothes; things from here on could get a little tricky… Then the door swung open, a shadow and footsteps announced the shitsack that'd been standing just outside. Smaller than she'd expected, certainly not a bad thing.

"Doc?" he called stepping further into the room and the door swung closed behind him.

Lu soundlessly rushed up behind him on bare feet, tray raised high, and she brought it down with every ounce of strength she could muster. Low and behold the man fell like…well like a sack of shit, collapsing bonelessly to the cold linoleum floor. No training to speak of, obviously, so he was just some guy that might have been good with a gun and Negan, ever the fucking coach, had voted him onto his team. She rolled him over, taking stock of both clothes and weapons; the boots would certainly be too big, but big boots were better than no boots. With nimble fingers she unlaced the boots, pulling them from his feet before stripping him of his pants, jacket, knife and handgun.

Lu cast cautious glances at the door as she dressed quickly, the hallway was quiet but beyond that she had no idea of where or what this place was. Once her boots were strapped on, she dragged the shitsack towards the duplicitous doctor, grimacing at the burning pull in her side, then headed for the door. She pulled it open a crack, looking and listening for anyone who might be wandering through the poorly-lit, industrial gray hallway. Not finding any signs of life, she slid out of the infirmary and along the wall to her left, the stolen handgun at the ready as she cleared every corner for another guard or sentries, but there was no one

Before long she reached a set of double doors flanked with windows that allowed the natural sunlight to spill in and break up the sickly fluorescent glow of the lights above. Even without peeking she could tell there were a decent amount of people out there, they were making a goodly amount of noise. So that meant this place was some kind of walled-off compound if they weren't concerned about the amount of noise drawing the dead to them. Wasn't that just ducky. She adjusted her hair beneath her shirt and pulled the hood of her stolen jacket up over her head, hunched her shoulders a bit, and pushed the door open slowly.

Don't run, Lu remembered from her time with the Marines she'd survived with for the first months. Don't run and don't sneak. If you're going to be some place you're not supposed to be and you don't want to get caught you gotta look like you belong there. Don't walk with a purpose, you'll draw attention to yourself, just walk like you're headed to chow and it's the last meal of the day and you're starving but tired.

So Lu walked, a slow-ish kind of drawl of the weary and tired, taking note of her surroundings. Chain link fence, industrial manufacturing-type buildings on the other side, asphalt and parking spaces. People every-fucking-where, guard towers, the dead tied up to the fence and impaled on great damn stakes just outside it like guard dogs. People securing the dead to the fence with chains. What the fuck kind of place had Negan brought her to?

A pronounced limp cut into her stride and her side was on fire once she reached the larger building, to add to her current collection of maladies a sharp pain cut through her head and she could feel a stream of wetness begin to slide down her back. Lu pulled the heavy door open, setting the veritable cornucopia of aches and pains aside to make her way inside to be met with the chatter of dozens of people. The room, some kind of production floor from the look of it, was full of people and tables, steal-able necessities and food. All of it laid out below a metal walkway that ran around and over the floor below; hopefully his nibs wouldn't have anyone out and about looking for her just yet, but she'd have to be quick all the same.

In her head "You gotta look like you belong" warred with long-ingrained animal instinct to slink out of the open and hide, pick off those in her way then get somewhere a safe distance from here. But she made her way further into the fray of people, keeping a wary eye out for anyone that might recognize her: Shitbird, Wafflestain, or that bastard, son of a bitch. The tables had various things laid out on them she noted, making her way through a few of them, people standing at them most likely selling the items. Most of it was junk, remnants from the world before for those trapped in the past that would be little more than fodder for the wild beyond the boundaries of their fence.

"You have any boots?" Lu asked the lady just across a table laden with shoes. "Found these a while back 'cause mine wore down but they're big and blisters will be abundant if I don't find any that fit."

The grizzled, dirty old woman took barely a glance at her, "What size'r you?"

Lu grinned a bit, "Seven if you have it."

The woman pulled a pair of black boots from beneath the table and set them down atop it with a thud. "That'll be eighty points," she announced, a slight southern drawl coating her speech.

"Take these in trade?" Lu asked. "Laces are solid, still got great tread, no wear in the soles." She bent down to take took the boots off with a grimace and a gasp around the shock of pain from the stitches tearing. She stood after a steadying breath, bare feet on a far colder concrete floor and set the boots beside the woman's on the table with an answering thud.

The woman pushed a lock of gray hair behind one ear before picking up the boots to inspect them closely. "This's a good pair and a common size among the men. I'll give you my boots and twenty points fer trade if you'll have it."

The grin grew on Lu's face as she picked up the new-to-her boots, "Nah. I'll just be happy to have a pair that fit right, been wearing those for weeks now. I get my points pretty regular and don't need for much, you keep them."

A strange expression crossed the woman's face and she looked ready to object or cry foul but a commotion from across the shop floor stole both their attention. A fight of some kind, four men very openly beating the other two to death in the sight of anyone who cared to look. Alarms went off in Lu's head and she quickly pulled her boots on, not bothering to lace them, a chill running down her spine and the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end.

"What's goin' on there?" she asked the woman, tilting her chin at the commotion as she adjusted the hood over her head, scanning the walkway again for faces.

"That's Savior business, girl, best you not get involved," she answered, very quickly diverting her attention back to the goods on her table.

Lu snorted, "What a bunch of dickweeds."

"Careful, girl, talk like that'll get ya hurt, 'specially if one of 'em hears you say it," the woman warned. "And I'd say you likely can't take much more from the look of ya," nodding to the bandage at her temple and the blood seeping through her grey camisole.

So Lu grimaced and forced a look of acceptance, putting pressure against her side as the woman took stock of trade. "You never know, some people can take a hell of a beating when it's worthwhile."

Then something caught her eye, a shock of blonde hair and a huge burn scar. Well, well, well, if it wasn't the Wafflestain. From the look of things though, he didn't know she was missing from the infirmary in the other building, which meant Carson and Shitsack were still down for the count and, as of yet, undiscovered. But he wasn't watching the fight, at least not anymore if he'd ever had eyes on that beatdown at all. No, he was casting mooneyes up at a brunette woman in a little black dress across the room from him. Now there was certainly something to that; a woman all trussed up and clean in a cocktail dress and heels while everyone else, on the work floor at least, was less than passable.

"And him?" Lu gestured loosely to Wafflestain, "He a 'Savior,' too? Or do those guys not even police their own?"

The old woman sighed and looked back up from her table to Lu. "Look here, girl, because I'm sure you're new to this place. The Saviors are Negan's men, his fighters, and Dwight there, well he made a right mess of things for a while. He and Sherry, that woman ya' seen him lookin' at, they made off with a bunch 'a medicine with another gal. That's why he's got that big 'ol burn. Negan and his Saviors don't take kindly to people makin' a fuss, so you best be mindin' your own, ya' hear?"

Something was off, wrong, nothing about that made sense. If Wafflestain and his Sherry just ran off with a bunch of medicine, why in the holy hell would Negan, the Negan she certainly didn't know now, just let them waltz back in? Burning the guy's face off was just downright cruel, but there had to be something else at play, something she wasn't seeing.

"So he just let them off? Guess he's a nicer guy than I thought," she prodded with a huffed laugh, making as to walk away from the old woman.

"Negan didn't just 'let them off,' girl. He let them back in o'course, but he burned half 'a Dwight's face off with the iron and took Sherry who was married to Dwight as one of his wives."

Shock gave way to fury gave way to rage and Lu's knuckles were bone white with how tightly her fists clenched against her side, her nails digging crescent cuts into her palms. Cold ran through her and honestly, she knew she shouldn't have been surprised, he'd buried her and forsaken every oath he'd made to her when he knew she was alive. What the fuck could she think he'd do when he thought she'd actually been well and truly dead? Had he even tried to find her after she left or had he just been happy to keep the woman he'd invited into their bed and bang on? Of course, he fucking would.

"That bastard son of a whore."


"Hey, Boss," Simon called to Negan from just down the concrete and cinderblock hallway. "It's all taken care of."

Ah, the two sorry shits who'd shot up Lucille's truck the other night, fuckin' good. "No shit? When'd that go down?" Cause wasn't that something he'd have loved to see. But, no, best not to let on to the unwashed, writhing masses that something was out of place...

The mustached man, his right fuckin' hand and go-to guy, smiled that geeked out, full-faced grin that was all straight, white teeth as he stopped just in front of him. "Ten minutes or so ago; smooth as clockwork, no muss, no fuss."

"Out-fuckin'-standing," he grinned right back, clapping his second in command on the shoulder as he continued on down the monotone hallway. "This is why you're my right-hand man: no complaints, no second guessing me, just re-fuckin'-sults and damn if that doesn't just make my damn day."

They walked on for a moment, past the cells and that stupid fuckin' song that'd drive anyone pure out-of-their-skull crazy before Simon finally asked the question Negan knew had to have been rolling over in his head since that night he'd put the fear of god in Rick-the-Prick. "What's the deal with her, Boss? You never get so unhinged over a woman, certainly not one you just picked outta a lineup like that."

"We were something before all this," he told Simon, content in that moment to say nothing more but then, like it was only a moment ago, the memory of the first time he'd ever seen her bubbled up in his chest and out of his mouth before he could stop the words from slipping out. "She was one of those lost kids, you know? Ran away from home real young and just grew up somewhere else; wild and take-no-shit, a survivor right down to her fucking soul, you know? Had a way with a guitar and words and making people just fuckin' feel shit; she'd wind 'em up, wring 'em out, and swagger off a stage like it wasn't anything."

During that first show, the one she'd played with her ragged band at the bar that was renowned for never letting live bands play. She'd been all fire and fury and passion and everything he'd never known how to put words to. She dug up all his anger and frustration, gave it an outlet until he'd been left feeling raw and out of his mind with just wanting her to speak to him. Lucille had this way of controlling a room, a stage, an arena...it was effortless; she was always master of her stage, no matter how large or small, and when he'd caught her eyes that night he lost himself in her.

"So, what happened?" Simon asked, pulling Negan from his reminiscence.

I happened, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that. Everything else from before might be dead and gone, but Lucille was alive and to hell with everything else. He was going to make abso-fuckin'-lutely certain she stayed where he could take care of her. The way he should have before. The way Rick-the-Prick and his gang of fucking do-gooders didn't. He wasn't going to lose her again, not now that she was safe in the Sanctuary, now that he had a chance to make it right, to make her see...

"The world fuckin' burned," he growled more to himself than Simon.

Negan knew his right-hand wanted to ask more, he had to just be a-burnin' with curiosity, but he knew well enough to leave it alone; yet another reason why he was more suited for the job than any of these other motherfuckers. No, the rest of them would nag and ask and never shut-the-fuck-up about it so he'd have to make an example of one of them… Yessir-y, Simon was the man for the job, between the two of them nobody would be asking stupid questions about his Lost Girl and just who she was. Not until he was ready for it.

"Well, doc, how's our patient do-" he began as he pushed open the door to the medical ward, then he stopped in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. Or, more accurately, what was not there to greet him.

"Damn her eyes…" he muttered to himself, noting the mess of equipment on the floor and the dent in a metal tray that lie on the gurney.

He walked around the very obviously empty bed and there was the doc and Mike, Carson with a bloodied face and both men with large, dark bruises blooming at their temples. He stepped over the doc and very nearly naked Mike dressed only in his socks, tighty-whities, and black tee. She'd knocked them out; she'd broken doc's face and knocked both of them out. She was gone. Which meant…she was going to run again.

"Boss," he heard Simon walk in just a few paces behind, likely trying to give him some space, just himself and Lucille... "Oh, holy shit." Then a few long seconds later, Simon having obviously taken stock of what one small, wounded woman had done, "What do you want us to do?"

They'd only just finished their latest tumble through the sheets, his and Lucille's. Gray, just like her eyes, because he wanted every part of his life to match her. She'd laughed, joked, and called him "obsessive" but he loved how that fluid quicksilver had darkened to steel had darkened further to gunmetal when he pressed his lips just there against her skin or ran his tongue along a certain dark line of ink.

But the woman in his arms wasn't her, she was in a room too small for the life she'd lived, in a bed that made her positively tiny. Wasting away and she wouldn't let him see her. Made fucking sure he didn't by using everyone against him. She was dying, fading, that wildness trapped like dying fireflies in a jar.

"Damn," the blonde woman beside him sighed against his chest, sweat beginning to cool on their skin. "Why didn't we ever do this before?"

Because I didn't need you to feel alive. Because you only exist to me right now.

"Because I was married."

The bedroom door swung open slowly, the Lucille kind of slow; like she did when she thought he was asleep and wanted to crawl into bed and curl up against his side once her writing bender was all worked out of her system. His gaze shot over and there she was. Alive. More alive than she'd been since this whole mess with the cancer had started.

"Lucille! Doll, what are you doing home?"

Quicksilver darkened to gunmetal like a cloud hiding the sun as joy gave way to shock, then finally to anger. There was her wildness.

"Who is this?" and that cigar-room voice wasn't gasping or exhausted anymore.

"Doll it's not what it looks like," but he didn't bother to push the body away from him until Lucille had swung around and slammed the door so hard every picture had fallen off the wall and the doorframe splintered.

Then he was moving, pulling on his jeans to the sound of her truck firing up and flinging the door open to run after her. But by the time he got to the front door it was already open and she was gone, that old truck gone with her in it, the burned rubber on the driveway and the broken doorframe telling the tale of her having been there at all. What had he done? Shitfuck, shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

"LUCILLE!"

"Who was that?" called out the woman, now dressed from the room he'd violated with her presence.

"Get out," he raced for his phone. He might still be able to get ahold of her, just call and explain…something; make her just fuckin' listen so she'd come back.

"Ex-cuse me? Just who do you think you are-" she demanded, grabbing ahold of his bicep.

Negan rounded on her, "I said get the fuck out, you dumb cunt."

Then the woman was gone, and he called Lucille, Jack, Matt, Damian, Brian, the studio, the producer a million and one times and no one would answer him.

That night the world burned all around him as he drove every place he could think to just searching for her. He looked into every dead face praying it wasn't hers he'd find staring sightlessly back at him.

"Fuckin' find her!" Negan roared at Simon before storming out of the infirmary.

Within minutes every single one of his Saviors were searching high and low for a woman that didn't belong, the one that he'd ordered brought back to the Sanctuary bleeding out, unconscious, delirious, and half dead. But she was fucking alive and she'd escaped medical, clearly strong enough to take out the Doc and a Savior, Mike, who'd been with them for nearly a year. After who knew how long on her own, all that wild that he'd loved about her to begin with had taken over, grown like ivy in her soul; it was choking out the need to belong somewhere, with someone.

Negan prowled through the factory proper until he finally came to the manufacturing floor with the trade tables and camped out point-workers. He looked out over them, the bat, Lucille, Lucille, Lucille, in hand as they knelt in a wave before him, like a king or a god.

"When you're on that stage, you're not just yourself anymore; when I'm up there I'm not just Lucille. You control them, everything they feel and the energy that comes with those emotions. To them, your audience, you're a god."

Then just like that, amidst the dozens of people, he spotted the flash of a white bandage and a lone braided strand hanging out from beneath the hood of a grease-covered jacket. As he descended the stairs, each footfall thudding on the steel, his heart jackhammered in his chest, ticking away the seconds until he once again squatted down in front of the woman he'd always be lost in. Beating her name. She'd run last time and he'd lost her for years in a flood of death and brutality; she was so good at running. Lost girl. But this time, this time he'd found her.

Negan brought a hand to her face again, no glove to bar the feel of her skin against his fingertips, and lifted her chin slowly. "Come on, doll. Show me those eyes."

Cold, gunmetal gray eyes glared up at him from beneath the hood of a stolen jacket and he smirked in light of the absolute rage he knew was boiling just beneath her skin.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my Lost Girl."