The weeks following the death of Immortan Joe were the strangest days that most in the citadel had ever experienced. It wasn't long before management needed to step in- the people could not be left to do as they pleased. Imperator Furiosa took up the task of organizing the people, along with the help of the Wives. It wasn't easy.

Joe had ruled the citadel with a mixture of drugs, religious fervor, militaristic dictatorship, and of course – a monopoly on food and water. The war boys that had been left behind when he stormed out to capture his wives had never known anything other than his rule. Valhalla occupied their minds, and Immortan was the key to getting them there. Only now, he was gone.

The wretched thought for a short period of time that the water would run free forever, and the milk mothers up top even made an attempt at ensuring that it would. Unfortunately, it became blatantly clear that one of the many reasons Joe rationed it so securely was because it had a habit of running low. Too much pouring out on the people meant that the plants didn't get their share before the reservoir had a chance to fill up again- leading to wilted plants and less food.

It was around this time, with Furiosa and the wives working hard at figuring out how to provide better water rationing while preserving the stores, all while trying to keep the war boys in check, that he came stumbling in.

The wretched hardly even stared as he limped through their thronging masses towards the giant lift. On foot, exhausted, malnourished and parched with thirst, it was astonishing that he had been able to make it this far. It was likely more muscle memory than anything else at this point. If you didn't die, what did you do? You went home. He'd thought he was dead. He was sure of it even. He even lay there in the wreckage of the truck extra long, just to make sure the Gods hadn't made a mistake. Eventually, he realized that even if they were running late in collecting him, he had lost any chance at dying historic. When it got to the point that it would have been more along the lines of dying pathetic, he dragged his arse out of the wreckage and started walking.

A familiar woman was standing on the lift, arguing with someone. Through the haze of heat and delirium of exhaustion, it took a while for their chatter to start to make sense. He slowly limped forward. One foot, other foot, one foot, other foot,

"Why not just come up?"

"Im not lookin' for that."

"Looking for what? Look, we have food, we have water. We have space for you. You've earned it."

"Didn't earn anthin'. Im not comin."

"Max. We could really use you up here. Its not been easy. The war boys"

"Yeah, look… huh."

The man had turned and looked over. Max? Max… so he had lived. They were nearly in focus now, but swimming a bit in his vision. The woman looked over. Imperator Furiosa. He was surprised for a moment that he hadn't recognized her at first. The arm was hard to miss. They were both staring at him now, eyes wide and eyebrows up. Like they couldn't believe what they were seeing.

Furiosa took a step towards him, and he stopped his limping shuffle. He wondered for a moment, if she was the new Immortan. Or would she call herself that? She killed his God, did that make her God? Fuzzy thoughts swum through his mind and he wavered and fell to his knees. She was right in front of him now. He glanced over her shoulder and saw Max take his chance to disappear back into the throng of the Wretched while he had the chance.

Blood bag sure was a strange one.

He was snapped back by a hand on his shoulder and Furiosas' voice. "Nux? How did you make it back? We were certain you had died."

His lips were so dry he had to lick them several times before he spoke, and still his voice rasped. He coughed and gazed up at her drunkenly, blearily. Only one thing came to mind to say.

"I guess it was my manifest destiny not to."

His lip cracked and dribbled blood down his chin as he smiled manically.

After that, everything went black.