AN: Thanks so much for the reviews! I very much appreciate the feedback. I'm on the look out for a beta reader for this story, so if you think you'd be interested, let me know in a review.

Recently Re-Edited: 4/11/21

Disclaimer: I don't own the Walking Dead.

What Goes Around, Comes Around, or, "Sam doesn't believe in karma, but coincidences can be brutal."

~O~

"What do you mean it's short again?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I took inventory three times."

"Well take it again, and then keep taking it until you get it right."

"I've been coming up with consistent numbers, sir, it isn't a miscount, the supplies aren't there."

"So you're saying that you suck at your job?"

"I..."

"Because isn't it your job to make sure that nobody cheats the point system and takes more than they're owed? This is the third time this has happened in the past month. If we're still coming up short, that must mean that someone's been helping themselves to a five finger discount, and that's a major problem, isn't it?"

"Please, sir, I don't know-"

"Negan isn't going to like this. Not one bit."

Sam sat hidden inside the marketplace vent, listening to Simon interrogate the workers.

Static cut through the air; she heard him mumble under his breath, leaving to radio in. When the doors shut, the man in charge of the market let out a shaky breath, the trepidation in his voice audible even from where she hid. Through the grate of the vent, she could see him collapse at his desk. He placed his clipboard down and buried his face in his hands, hunched over with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, his distress obvious. Sam looked down at her lap.

A month and two weeks, people were finally starting to notice that things were going missing. And not just the stray pack of chips or bars of soap here and there. They were taking stock and the numbers weren't adding up in a significant way.

It wasn't something that she hadn't expected to happen eventually, but she hadn't really prepared herself for the repercussions of it, mainly because they weren't happening to her. Other people were beginning to suffer because of her thieving and that was a lot harder to swallow than she thought it would be.

It was getting more difficult to reconcile her position here, to explain away with claims of necessity how much wrong she was doing by hiding in the vents. They say a conscience had no place in this new world, but empathy wasn't something one could turn off and on like a switch. Though Sam wasn't a humanitarian by any means, she still felt guilt. She only wanted to make her life safer - not make others' more dangerous.

The saviors were slow on the uptake, and were only just recently noticing anything suspicious. The workers had started noticing weeks ago, possibly even since Sam had first showed up. The saviors would like to think that they were on top of everything, and that the workers were just mindless drones, too overworked to think beyond how they were going to pay for their next meal, but that was a severe underestimation. The workers were closer to the ground, so to speak. Nothing went on in the lower levels of the Sanctuary that the workers didn't know about.

Word spread like the goblin virus and rumors of possible theft had surfaced long before then. It was just that nobody was saying or doing anything about it. Perhaps the workers who were directly affected by the stealing tried to figure out who it was, because Sam had noticed an increase in security around the marketplace, but they hadn't been successful.

In their defense, a thief using the vents wasn't something that would occur to most people, because things like that only happened in action movies. That was what made the concept of the vents so ingenious. How often do people notice air vents? Whether in the dentist's office, or at the mall, or even in their own homes? Like smoke detectors and circuit boxes, ventilation shafts only gained human acknowledgement when something went wrong. Otherwise, they were virtually invisible.

Eventually though, no matter how smart the idea, someone would catch on and Sam had yet to figure out what she would do when that happened. She would probably leave the Sanctuary and go back to living on the road until she came across another group. It wasn't appealing, but it was better than being killed. How she planned to get out of the Sanctuary was still up in the air, but that would have to be a bridge she would cross when she came to it.

Sam exhaled through her nose as she untangled her legs. She gave the marketplace worker one last sympathetic (useless) look through the grate before crawling back down the shaft. Simon would be back to collect the man and she didn't want to see it when it happened. Hopefully, he would be given the chance to plead his case, but if not, the man would take a punishment that rightfully belonged to Sam.

It was only a matter of time before things came to a head. She tried not to think about the form it would take as she crawled through the vent, having an inkling that it would be a baseball bat wrapped in barbwire.

~O~

The familiar atmosphere of her sanctuary inside The Sanctuary greeted her as she dropped down into the maintenance room.

It had evolved over the past month. It retained its same setup, with her sleeping bag placed behind the empty water barrels and piles of abandoned clutter littering the room, but now it had a presence. Sam had left her mark, filling the boarded off junk room with her collection of things.

Her inner pack-rat had the room mimicking a conspirator's den. The walls were decorated with loose leaf paper, notes scribbled in chicken scratch and pencil sketches of machinery. The walls acted as her own personal journal; every idea, every new piece of knowledge, every random stray thought, found a place to live on her hideaway collage.

Her influence had even started extending past the room, staking claim on the entire hall. She had learned every inch it, traced it with both her hands and her feet more times than she could count. For all intents and purposes, it was hers. She had taken what had been abandoned and re-purposed it into something useful, a place where she could rest easy, and every precaution was taken to ensure that it was safe.

She had rigged the hall with trip wires, made out of common items that she had scavenged around the Sanctuary. Her room was the fourth down and on the left; each room before it was rigged with an explosive trip wire, made out of matches, firecrackers, book bag vices, sandpaper, fishing line and electrical tape. They weren't lethal like the name suggested. They were only meant to deter anyone from snooping around and to wake her up if someone came into the hall while she was asleep.

It was a small device with fishing wire attached to it, placed in the doorway of a room, close to the ground. When the wire was tripped, it would pull out of the device causing the matches wrapped around it to strike the sandpaper and the firecrackers sandwiched in the middle to ignite. Inside the enclosed area, the firecrackers would go off with a bang and a flash that would wake her up and startle the intruder. She placed them by the front of the hall so that it would give her time to escape through the vent in her room.

Her booby traps were nonlethal. She didn't want to hurt anybody, not even the saviors. The most dangerous traps she had were the planks of wood with nails sticking out of them, placed just inside her room, waiting to be stepped on by an unsuspecting intruder as a last-ditch measure.

Sam wasn't a violent person, but she would fight for her life if she had to.

When she had first learned all of this, she had no idea that she would one day actually use it. Learning these skills had been mostly a joke, done for fun and interest. Her dad had been friends with a survivalist and every time they visited him on the reservation, they would throw a BBQ and he would teach her something new.

They were mostly harmless things, like how to create a fire signal, how to tell which way North was without navigational gear, and how to collect rainwater to drink. But occasionally, he would teach her something a little less orthodox.

There was that stereotype out there that all Native Americans were noble trackers, who lived in harmony with the natural world and were unspoiled by all modern vices, and while that couldn't be accurately generalized (her dad had been hopeless - frequently regarding GPS as gospel), stereotypes tended to have a ring of truth to them, whether people wanted to acknowledge it or not. A lot of her dad's friends, both Native or otherwise, were wildly resourceful people.

She benefited from what they had taught her more than she ever could have imagined. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that all those lessons were the sole reason she was still alive. Most people in the new world knew how to do these things as well, but they had learned after the fact. Sam had a head start, having been taught back when she was just a girl.

Were booby traps overkill? Maybe, but they were effective. Her main method of defense was hiding because it was her only method.

Sam couldn't fight in the slightest. She had once taken a self-defense class the summer before her freshman year of college, but it had been bare basics like crotch-kicking and grip-breaking. She couldn't throw a punch. She couldn't take one. She was a solid 5'7, but slim with not a lot of muscle, easy to overpower in a fight for someone of just about any stature if they knew what they were doing. Her dad had taught her how to shoot. She was a decent shot, and had even won a trophy once in a rinky-dink shooting competition at a country fair, but her aim had only gotten worse since she had lost her glasses.

If she could get her hands on a gun she would, but the armory was locked up tight with a metal rifle cabinet covering the only air vent. Not even a wife could get in there.

Sam looked up at the windows of the maintenance room, taking in the light of dusk that filtered through the dirty glass. It was getting late, but she still had plans to take a trip to the workshop before the day ended. It was supposed to storm tonight; she would rather get it done before the halls got too crowded with saviors battening down the main building.

She stepped towards the shelf where she kept her costume.

Despite the enormous risk, taking the dress had been the best thing that could have happened. It made moving around the Sanctuary infinitely easier, so much so that her usage of the vents were becoming far and few between. Being one of Negan's wives meant having the keys to the kingdom. She could go just about anywhere now and not be questioned for it by anyone, not even the saviors. In fact, the saviors gave her a wide berth when they saw her coming. It was fantastic.

But posing as a wife didn't come without its problems.

In order to really pull it off, she had to develop a new kind of confidence, different from just having a reason to be in a certain place at a certain time. She had to walk as if she was the hottest thing around, and that she deserved everything her heart desired.

Sam was given respect from the other Sanctuary inhabitants because of it, respect that she in no way deserved. But then again, how much respect did Negan's actual wives deserve? They weren't contributing to the community beyond having sex with the boss.

She had to keep a close eye out in case one of the real wives saw her and realized she wasn't one of them. Luckily, it was rare that they left the top floor for anything except food, and even then they could have trays brought to them. Anything they wanted, it was brought straight to their door, which was why sometimes Sam got weird looks from saviors and workers when she insisted on doing things herself. She supposed she looked very odd walking around the workshops and garages.

Getting things became easier. When it came to bathroom products and food, she no longer had to steal them as long as she wore the dress. She was given the golden ticket to the marketplace and all its old world treasures. And if she wanted to go somewhere or get something that wasn't typically meant for a wife, like duct tape or fishing line, all she had to say was: "I'm getting something for Negan", and access was granted, no questions asked.

She had initially planned to only use the excuse for emergencies, not wanting to try her luck, but everything had been so hard up until that point, it was too tempting not to take the easier route now that she had finally gained access to it.

And admittedly, it gave her a sense of power using it, which she wasn't proud of but felt regardless. The saviors were so terrified of angering Negan that they would bend over backwards to get her what she wanted, especially if she claimed it was for the big man himself.

However, despite how well it worked, it wasn't perfect.

Because what would happen if she said "I'm getting something for Negan", to Negan?

She would be hard pressed for a new excuse then, wouldn't she?

Sam stripped herself of her regular clothes and took the dress from the shelf.

She had grabbed a dress that was more modest than what the other wives wore. One that had a wider, longer skirt that didn't cling to her thighs; it made moving around in the vents easier. The style resembled attire one would wear to a funeral rather than a saucy cocktail party. Granted, it showed off a little more cleavage than what would be appropriate for great grandma's viewing, but there was simply no getting around that if she wanted to pull off a successful performance as one of Negan's wives.

The heels took getting used to again, but after walking up and down the maintenance hall a few times, she was able to fall back into practice. She kept her hair free. It was a little longer than shoulder length with a wisp of bangs that brushed her eyelashes. It was the nicest style she could achieve without any products or accessories, and it required very little upkeep. Vanity wasn't one of her follies, so the less time she had to spend primping, the better.

Dressed and ready to go with her satchel, Sam made her way out of her hall, taking care to step over her trip wires. She headed for the main workshop of the Sanctuary. That was where the bulk of the industrial machinery was located, and where most of the mechanical workers were stationed. People parted like the Red Sea as she walked by them, the clicking of her heels ringing like a bell through the halls. They kept their eyes downcast while Sam kept hers ahead, walking with conviction.

There was a silent understanding between the Sanctuary inhabitants and the wives: if you don't mess with me, Negan won't mess with you.

The air inside the main workshop was almost humid, a stark contrast to the dropping temperature outside. The deafening sounds of running machinery and metal hitting metal assaulted her ears, but it was a cacophony that was pleasing to her, like some obscure type of music that only people of the machines could appreciate.

A few of the workers looked up as she navigated the floor, but none batted an eye at her presence. She was a familiar face in this neck of the woods now, and she didn't mind. There wasn't any real danger of her field trips reaching Negan's ears. With workers like these, their stations were in the very bowels of the Sanctuary, far away from the hierarchy of the upper levels, so there was little chance that they would even know how many wives Negan had, let alone know their faces.

As she made her way towards the back where the equipment was stored, Sam noticed a savior standing with a female janitorial worker mopping the floor. As she passed, she watched as he gave the worker a smile and she giggled.

The person manning the supply counter looked up from his book as she approached, her heels taking his attention away from the pages of Chuck Palahniuk's Damned. He smiled at her, his eyes shining with mirth. His name was Ian, one of the few workers in the workshop with any formal education in engineering. He was a skinny guy in his early thirties with a quirky sense of humor and a scratchy, high-pitched voice.

"Hey, look who's back already. How are things going up in the penthouse, play bunny?"

"Swimmingly," she replied in a dry tone as she reached into her satchel and pulled out her current project. She placed it on the counter. "I need a battery, three resistors and a tube of compound B. Preferably all unused, if you have it."

Ian looked at the device on the counter with a curious eye, his hand coming up to grab it, but Sam slid it back towards her. She gave him an unimpressed look and he smiled in return, holding his hand up in surrender. He reached under the counter and pulled out a little white tube of what looked like itching cream, sliding it over to her.

"Nice grocery list."

Sam picked up the compound B and put it in her satchel, absently letting out a hum in response.

"Let me see what else I've got in stock."

On the outside, their exchange would have seemed strange. One would assume the worker was putting on a front of nonchalance to avoid trouble with his boss' wife, but they would be surprised to find out that his playful responses were very much genuine, and that this was something that happened often when Sam came in while he was on duty.

Ian was the only person the dark-haired woman was on good terms with. He didn't seem to mind her blunt and sometimes insensitive nature. She had a very practical way of thinking and a very frank way of talking and it sometimes made her come off as callous. Ian seemed to recognize this and knew not to take any of her more brusque comments as a personal attack. He was very laidback and friendly.

She believed that behind his carefree disposition, he was a perceptive person, but she hadn't known him long enough to draw a definitive conclusion. She did find it suspicious, though, that he had never once asked why one of Negan's wives would need electrical equipment.

At any rate, he was the most civil person that she spoke to on a semi-regular basis. She had stepped on quite a few toes since she had started interacting with people more, mostly by accident, but since she was a wife, nobody confronted her.

Sam made horrible first impressions. Her nickname back in school wasn't "heinous bitch" among her peers because she was a joy to be around. She crafted thoughts with facts more than opinions and took action with tactical intentions more than emotional ones. That was why she wasn't called "tough girl", instead. She wasn't the woman with the sassy attitude or badass scowl who could put men in their place. She was very unassuming and underestimated, which was why she blended in so well with the image of the submissive wives.

As she waited for Ian to return, she looked down at the rectangular device in her hands, smiling softly at it as she realized that these were the last pieces she needed to finish it. It was an ohmmeter and it had become her most prized possession.

An ohmmeter was an instrument that measured electrical resistance; a handheld device that ran on a battery. It was very old with an analog, but she knew she could fix it up with the right parts. It would allow her to work on the Sanctuary's electrical system without hindrance from her color-deficiency.

Resistors were color-coded to identify their values, but the ohmmeter would measure the amount of resistance for her, making it easier than using the color-coding. Up until she found the ohmmeter, she had been using a numbering system that she had learned back in school to help with her projects. It was a silly mnemonic, like Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain for the colors of the rainbow, except more complex (there was no mnemonic for the sequence BBROYGBVGW that wasn't a mouthful), but it was better than nothing.

Wires were easier, because unlike resistors there was no color-coding value to them. Wires were typically every color out there, with no "cut the red wire to disarm the bomb" clichés to speak of.

Ohmmeters were used for electrical engineering, not mechanical, but she felt she was rehearsed enough in the area to at least be able to fiddle with the Sanctuary's lights if need be. She couldn't believe her luck when she came across the busted device in one of the lesser used workshops. It was laying on a shelf caked with grime and dust, the plastic protecting the needle cracked and the dial missing. The battery was deader than a goblin and she could barely read the number scale it was so faded, but it was still an excellent find. When she wiped it off and saw what it was, she could have sworn she heard Strauss' "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" playing somewhere in the background.

Oh yes, pretending to be a wife gave her access to all sorts of new toys. She even almost got her hands on a handheld blow torch. She could have used it to melt locks and cut through locked cases of manual mechanisms. It would have been her second prized possession if she hadn't been scared off by the sudden appearance of Dwight walking into the garage, on his way out of the Sanctuary for a supply run.

Ian came back to the counter, carrying the things she asked for in his arms. He deposited them on the counter, smirking at the way she pounced on them.

"Weren't you just in here the other day looking for a crap load of other stuff like copper wire and probes? You're going to clean me out at this rate."

"This'll be the last of it, I promise," she said, her hands coming out to snatch up her new battery with barely masked eagerness.

"Until you get your hands on a new project," he replied with amusement, scratching at the patchy facial hair on his jaw. He crossed his arms over the top of the counter and leaned against it, giving Sam a thoughtful look as she examined the materials. "You know, you should really talk to Negan about getting yourself a job down here. You seem to have more experience and passion for the machines than any of these yahoos, and I'm sure the boss won't mind having a working girl in his collection. Might even be a turn on."

She gave him another unimpressed look before going back to her device. "I'll think about it."

He chuckled, resting his chin in his folded arms, watching her work. "The resistors are new, straight from a Walmart supply run, but the battery isn't, so it's going to be a crude fit. Be careful, it might fry the second you turn it on."

She gave a grunt of acknowledgement as she turned over her device and pulled off the back. She took the battery Ian had given her and tried putting it in, only to find it was slightly too big. Despite her better judgment, she forced it in until she was able to put the covering back on. She turned it back around and turned it on, watching as the needle danced back and forth as the device buzzed to life.

Just as she was about to test the analog, a spark emanated from the back, startling both her and Ian. The ohmmeter slipped from her hands and hit the counter. Smoke started wafting from it. Ian grabbed it and yanked off the back, pulling out the fried battery with careful fingers before dropping it like a hot coal. They listened to its death-hiss as they waved away the smoke.

"See, what did I tell you?" Ian coughed.

Sam glared at the battery in disappointment. "Where I can get a better one?"

"Batteries are a hot commodity around here. Whatever goes to the marketplace is gone in seconds, people using them for their junk - old walkmans, MP3's, vibrators and the like. The workshop in the west wing might have something, but if not, you could try the basement. The saviors are always throwing crap down there that they don't know the use for. You can find just about anything if you look hard enough."

"Thank you, Ian."

"Better hurry, it's getting late. You'll miss giving Negan his welcome home martini and slippers."

"Wouldn't that be a shame."

Ian chuckled again, pushing off the counter and reaching for the ring of keys on his belt. "I've got to start locking up now. See ya later?"

"See you later."

They parted ways from their own sides of the counter. Sam looked down at her ohmmeter as she walked back through the workshop.

Halfway out, her heel came in contact with something, halting her departure. She looked down to see a tool belt that belonged to the savior from earlier. Glancing around, she spotted him still talking with the same worker girl, both distracted with each other. He must have stripped it off when he went to go flirt with her. Sam eyed the belt with devious curiosity, one of her slim eyebrows arching. The savior had his holster clipped to the belt, his handgun inside it.

Cool as a cucumber, she plucked the firearm from the holster like it was a lucky penny on the street before slipping it into her satchel.

The skirt of her dress swished around her thighs and her hair bounced with each step. She was out in the common areas now so she had to look the part, walking with confidence. The workers in her path stepped out of the way and kept their eyes down as she entered the main room of the factory, where the Sanctuary's incinerator was. People milled about the ground floor talking and working while saviors above walked along the catwalks.

From the corner of her eye, on top of the upper landing that overlooked the entire room, she saw a blur of blonde, recognizing it to be Dwight. Not changing her stride, Sam used her hair as a curtain. She noted with relief that he was talking with someone and hadn't noticed her, even with the sound of her heels cutting through the chatter of the room.

She picked up her pace to make it across before she drew someone's eye. It was rare to see a wife after dark. They were all usually up in their pallor by then, waiting obediently for their "husband" to come "home", and do God knows what to each other.

The young woman took out her ohmmeter and looked down at it in an attempt at being too busy to approach. Just as she left the room, the man talking to Dwight looked in her direction, catching a glimpse of her dress as she disappeared around the corner, but she didn't notice. It wasn't until she cleared the room that she allowed herself to slow down. Her feet were beginning to ache because of the heels and she couldn't wait to get her battery and return to her hideout where she could strip them off.

The west wing workshop wasn't as impressive as the main workshop, but getting materials was easier. She didn't have to consult a worker. Whatever wasn't used in the main workshop found a home here, the saviors practically dumping it into whatever available space they could find in the back rooms. She could see how laymen like the saviors might look at the dismembered parts of a machine and think it junk, but she lamented the perfectly good materials left to collect dust in forgotten rooms. Ian told her that it was his job to pick through incoming supplies and take out what was useful, but there was always a lot to sort through and the saviors weren't always patient enough to let him check everything.

The workshop wasn't really a workshop, only in name. It was just another maintenance hall with a series of storage rooms that she imagined would someday suffer the same fate as her hideaway. She took a linear approach to searching, since the workshop wasn't organized with a storage system, and picked the first door. She groaned when she saw the chaotic state the room was in.

Piles. Nothing but derelict piles of cords, wires, gears, and literal garbage.

The next hour was spent meticulously picking through storage room after storage room, all to find a measly, common household battery for her device. It was a crime, really, and if Sam had actually been a wife, she would have brought this catastrophe straight to Negan and demand something be done about it. He would have probably laughed in her face, but she would be damned if she sat by and let the Sanctuary waste good supplies just because his men were lazy.

After picking through the final storage room, the woman gave up her search, exhaling through her nose as she reached up to run a hand through her hair. There was nothing here that would work. She was going to have to go to the basement to find the part she needed.

She turned around to leave, only to jump with a gasp when she saw the figure standing in the doorway. Her heart slammed against her ribcage and the small of her back connected painfully with the workshop table behind her.

"Jesus!" she breathed, slapping a hand over her pounding heart. "Don't sneak up on a person like that! What is wrong with you?"

It was a man - a savior. He was an older gentlemen with dark hair swept back from his forehead. The bottom half of his face was decorated with a salt and pepper beard and the corner of his eyes crinkled, betraying his seasoned age. He stood tall and lanky, taking up almost the full length of the doorway as he leaned his shoulder against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a white t-shirt with a grey pair of pants and black boots.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a red flag sprang up in vague recognition, but Sam was surprised to find that she couldn't place him.

The man smiled, slow and wide, and if it wasn't for the incongruity of the situation, she would have thought it lit up the room, which it sort of did, but with a foreboding light, like the headlights of a speeding car barreling straight at you.

"Sorry, Darlin'," he said, amusement evident in his dark eyes. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Sam pulled her hand from her chest, shaking her head. "Don't do that with somebody who's armed, or else they'll ruin your day a lot worse than I could."

The man let out a laugh at that.

Without waiting for a response she turned away from the savior, dismissing him with her back, and looked over the workshop table, running her hands over the stray parts like they held great interest to her. She was stalling, but the savior standing in the doorway took up the whole space and she didn't want to squeeze past him to get by.

After about thirty seconds, she glanced over her shoulder to see if he was still there, and he was, still leaning against the door with a smirk. She looked away again, pretending to be unbothered, but she could feel his eyes on her, looking her up and down, studying her intently, and it was getting on her nerves. It took about a minute until she lost her patience and turned to face him again.

"Don't you have a job you're supposed to be doing right now?"

"Oh, I've got plenty to do, Sweetheart. I was just wondering what in the hell you were doing."

"I'm getting something for Negan."

She expected the man to back down then, to balk and bow out like everyone else at the sound of their leader's name. There was silence as he looked at her in surprise, his eyebrows raising up towards his hairline.

"Is that so?" he drawled, pushing off the doorway and stepping into the room. "I wasn't aware he needed anything."

"Well," Sam breathed, thrown by his reaction, "he does and he's expecting it soon, so if you'll excuse me."

She tried moved around the man, but he stuck up an arm to block her.

If he noticed her annoyance, he wasn't bothered by it. Being this close to him, she realized how much he towered over her. Her forehead was in perfect alignment with his nose, but that was only because of her heels. If she wasn't wearing them, then he would probably be a whole head taller than her. She didn't like that.

"What are you getting for Negan?" he asked, his tone light with genuine curiosity.

"Some parts for a radio. It broke and I'm fixing it for him."

"Aww," he cooed, patronizing her. "Isn't that sweet, such a good little helper. Do you even know how to work a radio, darlin'? Because fixing one isn't like spraying Windex on a dirty CD. You'll need to know how to hold a fucking screwdriver."

Anger shot through her, too strong for her to stifle. Her nose curled up and her lips pressed into a tight line. Her hand tightened on the strap of her satchel, making her knuckles pale. The man's eyes flickered down at them, his eyebrow cocking.

"I think I can manage," she bit out.

His smile widened and he chuckled, making Sam wondered if her status as a wife would allow her to get away with using a power drill to lobotomize him.

A loud roll of thunder could be heard from outside. The gust of wind that accompanied it shook the building and made the old metal groan. The interruption doused her anger enough to remind her that she had something more important to do than get talked down to by someone who probably couldn't identify half of the equipment in the room, let alone fix a radio.

"Look, I'd rather get this done before it starts storming and I need to go down to the basement, so if you'll let me pass, I'd appreciate it."

"The basement?" he echoed. "What a fucking coincidence, that's just where I was heading!"

She put a hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes. "No it wasn't."

"You're right, it wasn't," he admitted, "but it is now. I think I'll come with you, lend a hand."

"I don't need any help."

"I insist, sweetheart."

"And I insist you don't."

The man continued to watch her with that annoying, gleeful look on his face, keeping himself placed between her and the door. Sam's hand slipped from her hip. They reached a stalemate, apparently, and neither occupant in the room seemed willing to back down. She squared her feet as she gripped the strap of her satchel again, arching a brow at him as if to say, 'what now?'.

Getting the message, he rubbed his chin, his tongue coming out to run across his teeth. She could hear the skin of his fingers scrapping against the coarse hairs even from where she stood, reminding her just how empty and sectioned off the west wing workshop was. A twinge of unease twisted in her stomach.

This savior was different from the others. Not only was he being more persistent than what she was used to, but he projected a strong presence. He seemed to fill the entire room, making her want to physically back up to give herself more space. He had a very animated way of moving, she noticed, tending to throw his whole body into the simplest gestures. On anyone else, it would have been flashy and obnoxious, but it seemed to come as natural as breathing to him.

"How about this," he proposed, releasing his chin, "think of it as you helping me out."

"And how's that?"

"Well, as I'm sure you know, Negan is very protective of his wives. If you go down there in the dark and trip and scrap your knee, he won't be fucking happy about it. And if he finds out that I was the stupid asshole who let you go down there by yourself, then it's my lily white ass on the line, see?"

She crossed her arms. "Do all his wives get their own personal escort?"

He smiled. "Nope, just you, sweetheart. You're special."

"Really?" she asked, "and why am I so special?"

She watched bemused as the man glanced over both shoulders, looking furtively around before turning back to her.

"Come here," he said in a hushed tone, gesturing with his hand and leaning in as if he was about to tell her a big secret. Sam decided to humor him and took a step closer, brushing her hair back behind her ear and leaning in to meet him halfway. "You didn't hear this from me, but word around the water cooler says that you're Negan's favorite."

She stepped back, her eyes widening. "Me?"

The man nodded with a comically hopeless look, holding out his arms. "Yeah, you are, so you finally see the fucking pickle I'm in, right?"

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing again. She didn't know what game he was playing, but he was certainly braver than any of his brethren. Sam wasn't Negan's favorite because he didn't know she existed, and this man had no idea the lengths she had gone to make it that way.

"Is this a come on?" she finally asked, "because I can't stress enough how much you're barking up the wrong tree."

He gave her a pout. "Aww, don't be like that, Darlin'. Don't you want to at least know my name before you reject me?"

"Can't imagine why it would matter."

"Fucking ouch, sweetheart," he chuckled. "I can see why Negan likes you so much."

"What's your name?" she asked with a sigh.

"Haven't you heard?" he held out his arms in a 'ta-da' fashion, smiling big, "I'm Negan."

The annoyance on Sam's face fell and panic gripped her heart like vice for a split second before -

"I'm Negan, you're Negan - we're all Negan!"

The man laughed, dropping his arms and almost doubling over as if he had just told the funniest joke. Never before had Sam felt so unimpressed with someone. Her face dropped like a brick and the man laughed even harder. Her fear dissipated and she crossed her arms again, rolling her eyes.

"Right," she huffed.

She heard about this little name game that Negan liked to play with his followers. It was very Charles Manson-esque and she found it disturbing. Destabilizing individual identity for a single unified one - classic cult grooming behavior.

"Can I know your name?" he asked, once he sobered up.

"No."

"Why the fuck not?"

She let out another sigh, gripping the bridge of her nose. "I'm really not getting rid of you, am I?"

"Wouldn't fucking count on it, no."

Sam pursed her lips, weighing her options. This man had knocked her off guard with his behavior and for once she was at a lost on how she was going to weasel her way out. Dealing with the Sanctuary pecking order must have made her lose her edge. It had been so easy to manipulate the workers and other saviors into leaving her alone, but this guy was sticking to her like glue.

She could hear the rain begin to come down outside, hitting the factory windows in a heavy sheet. Exhaling through her nose, she gave in.

"Alright, you can come with me," she said, "but just please -"

Just please, what? Be quiet? Don't attract attention to yourself? That didn't sound suspicious.

"Keep up," she settled on.

Smiling his most dazzling smile yet, the man finally stepped out of the way with an exaggerated bow for her to pass.

"Lead the way, Darlin'."

AN: It was a slow build up, but we're finally getting the ball rolling. Thanks so much for your patience. Feedback is very much appreciated it!

~Scorpiofreak~