Title: "The Savior's Spoil" In the peculiar and twisted world where Negan's crew, the Saviors, had emerged victorious in the grim dance of war against Alexandria, Hilltop, and the Kingdom, bizarre scenes had become the new norm. None more jarring, perhaps, than the sight of Carl Grimes, hatless for once and fresh-faced as ever, and a rugged yet disarmingly charming Savior named Gruff, both au naturel beneath a tangled mess of sheets that had seen better days. The room they lounged in was a peculiar mishmash of opulence and apocalypse--a king-sized bed, one of Negan's spoils, with a lumpy mattress that had played host to more springs than a desert oasis, and walls adorned with what one could only assume was pre-apocalyptic 'art', typically hideous motel-style depictions of bowlfuls of fruit. Carl and Gruff were each sprawled out in their own post-battle denouement, a feast of scavenged items such as a box of ancient Twinkies, cans of beans (a rare find that hadn't been pummeled into oblivion during the war), and a dusty bottle of cabernet sauvignon--because why not? Their spoons clashed like exhausted swords as they jousted for the last dollops of equally ancient canned peach cobbler, the syrupy sweetness acting as a bizarre comfort in a world gone sour. "So, kid," Gruff's voice rumbled, a chuckle on the brink of bursting forth, his wild beard a crumb repository, "what's the deal with the eye-patch? Trying to be a pirate or just a half-baked nod to Odin?" Carl shot him a glare that had lost its intimidation factor ever since he'd started using a piece of gingham-pattern tablecloth as his new accessory, preferring it to the grim leather of old war-wounds. "You know, for someone who's half-eaten by walkers, you look almighty concerned about fashion." Carl popped the last piece of peach into his mouth with a victory smirk. Between guffaws, Gruff retorted, "Fashion's the only thing we got left that the dead ain't interested in, boy." Their laughter diffused into silence as they contemplated the truth of that statement. But the moment was fleeting, for Gruff's stomach growled louder than Negan's beloved Lucille ever had, reminding them that cozy moments were rare and that even the victors of this new world faced the most mundane of problems--hunger. Suddenly, the bizarre tableau was interrupted by the entrance of Negan himself, haloed in the doorway by the setting sun--a dramatic effect ruined by the polka-dot bathrobe he wore, its origins and former owner lost to the annals of suburban housewives. "Well, if it isn't the Prince of Hilltop and the Jack of Jerky!" he bellowed, his grin splitting the room in two. "Hope you saved some of that cobbler for your old man!" Carl and Gruff looked at each other, the unspoken agreement in their shared glance; in a world turned upside down, they'd find their mirth and merriment between battles and beans. As they turned to the self-proclaimed 'old man' of the apocalypse, a rickety camaraderie formed over plates heaped with post-apocalyptic spoils. And so, in an age where the dead walked and smirks were as rare as working toasters, Carl and the unlikely Savior named Gruff found themselves an absurd pocket of laughter amidst the ruins of the world. With each snide jibe and contest over confections, they wove a story that, though it would never find its place in the history books, would become the stuff of legend in this weird, walker-nibbled chapter of what was once humanity.