Author's note: I made this one to mess around, so don't expect it to be a masterpiece or to be longer than 5 chapters. I mixed the Mad Max canon timeline with the non-canon videogame just 'cause it made sense for the most part. Hope you enjoy it and if not: WITNESS HOW THIS SHITTY FANFIC GOES TO VALHALLA, SHINY AND CHROMED!

'ERE WE GO!

Disclaimer: All rights to the characters and source material belong to Kennedy Miller Productions, George Miller and Games Workshop. This is a story made for fans by fans.

Mad Max: Road of the Sunz.

by Lewis II.

Chapter 1: Dawn of the Thunder

My name is Furiosa… and my world is one of war and speed. I am a Great Imperator and ruler of the Citadel.

My clan is Swaddle Dog, and through my veins runs their blood, along with one of a lone warrior. One that came to us as a slave, but left us as a hero. Max, The Road Warrior.

For years I have preserved his memory in my mind and thought him gone, only recently I discovered that he is still alive. I write this as an account to his tales from his former travel companion and sworn enemy, The Black Martyr, through the hand of Piston Paul, my loyal scribe. For his stories are beyond the Citadel, beyond the Badlands, and beyond the reality of this dead world. He was a man of family, a lawbringer who lost everything when the world died.

It was at the end of the Rock rider Pass, beyond the Wall of Nux, where Max left the Citadel to bury what remained of our ancient hero, in his way to Valhalla as the Tainted Chrome. He then ventured into the Rock Riders dominion and stole a bike to ride south towards Gastown , in search for his long gone War machine. He confronted the ruler of Gastown and son of Inmortan Joe, Scabrous Scrotus. He liberated the wasteland from his stain, along with those who followed him: The Apostles of Awful. Still, the prize for it was whatever sanity had made his engine run, for he destroyed the life's work of a humble scavenger, the Magnum Opus, and made him one with petrol.

It was only at the mercy of Wasteland inhabitants and the Rock riders that the Black Martyr could conceal and cauterize his wounds while venturing into the sealed pass. His hands were not fit to drive but to repair,so was how he found a Saint in the Road Warrior and safe passage amongst the Riders, even if the burns could barely allow him to use them. The stories of travelers guided him towards the caretakers of The Bog. There, as he claims, a figure sitting over the fallen white tree expected him and pointed the road towards his new future. His name was Griffa and alleged to know the Road Warrior himself.

At the Bog, a young trader joined the Martyr in a quest to find a war machine, which could help him find his long gone family. They joined forces.

The Bog encased some of the War machines that pursued our War rig during our glorious uprise against Inmortan Joe. The Martyr and his new servant took the skeleton of a rotten vehicle, the parts of many War bikes, the gasoline spared by the Bog people and created their own Spirit of Vengeance. Upon its completion, the Martyr sang a new oath and made a blood pact with his new champion, Smokebullet:

"In His blood I shall write my name. On the dead land I shall spread his brains. He will fall and we shall rise. Our future is his demise."

They embarked into The Great dunes in search for the Road Warrior. He had parted south towards a new passage between the mountains, went through the wasteland and crossed the great dunes along the edge of the Plains of Silence in search not for a people to save but to forget.

They followed the tracks of the mighty v8 into the flats and chased its lonely roar. The unworthy contraption spent many units, but its pace was constant. They followed it constantly under little suspicion of the Road Warriors with the sand as their cover.

On the third day, the warrior lifted his pace. The chase had begun.

The Martyr fired makeshift arrows from a turret, failing all of them. He changed to a rifle and Smokebullet fired his handgun. The Road warrior drifted left and entered the salt flats, from where he fired his gun. As the erratic shots were exchanged, a swift wind silenced the air and carried dust, sand and light with it. The Plains of silence resounded with the sounds of storm, and while he slowly distanced from his pursuers, the Road warior found himself in another sandstorm, such as the one I entered so long ago in an attempt to lose Inmortan Joe.

The Martyr saw it from afar as the chromed war machine came out of the storm followed by a bolt of lightning, as if the world itself was trying to reach for the Road Warrior and destroy it. The sandstorm then brought a cloak of flash with a deafening sound. From it, a War Rig emerged.

However, it was like nothing seen in this world.

It was big and clumsy, yet heavily armed War Machine. A rig full of green creatures. Creatures in all sizes that had pointed ears, dirted claws and massive jaws with sharp yellow fangs. They rode away from the storm and into the sands of the Plains of Silence, they sang their only warcry as one: Waaaagh!

"Behind them, hundreds of War machines emerged, thundering and spitting glorious fire, as if to bless the land with a spectacle of rage." The Martyr recalls.

Their tongue was primitive yet precise enough for the Martyr to evoque. The leader, a massive green behemoth fusioned with scrap metal and machine, climbed on top on the rig and spoke while his followers spat flames through their weapons:

"Oi ya gitz, dis Shiney boy finks he can run from uz. Wiyu look at dat? he'z go'a frend. Send in da Boosta Blastas and the Scrapjets, The Warbikez and the Buggyz go fo' the otha. Ei wantz doze oomie pieces of scrap krumped un full'a holes."

A toned and scarred being of their kind carried smaller creatures on its back and jumped from the back of the rig to the side of one of the moving machines. The critters climbed down its back, sporting belt of ammunition and tanks of gasoline. He yelled while climbing on top:

"You heard bozz, ya grots. Ull togetha Red Sunz. Le'z krump thiz wun good boyz ! GO FASTAH!"

The convoy divided. a river of War Bikes and War Machines flowed towards the Spirit of Vengeance while a screen of smoke advanced towards the mighty v8, revealing 2 vehicles with masive turrets and fangs on their front. The other two were made around massive engines which produced eering whistles, as of a thousand blades cutting through thin air. Both groups were approaching The Martyr and the Road Warrior. The Martyr readied some gasoline juggs and Thunderstick, then readied the turret.

The Road Warrior simply unholstered his pistol and reloaded his shotgun.