I do not own Mad Max:Fury Road.
But I think that's already been established.
Honor of a War Boy
If you knew you it was going to happen, that there was no escape for you, how would you choose to die?
Alone and weak and lonely, lying forgotten and pitied by those still drawing breath?
Or strong and powerful and mighty with people shouting your name in glorious victory?
Some of the softer ones, the sheltered ones, they didn't know, didn't understand.
Couldn't, really.
They thought the death of a war boy on the Fury Road was brutal, harsh, unjust.
But The Ace, he knew better.
These boys, these half-lives had nothing to look forward to but diminished, ailing bodies running on empty. They could die quietly in the dim caverns of the Citadel, serving no purpose, having tasted only dust and defeat.
Or they could fight, rage, and die in battle against their enemies, feeling the freedom and power of The Witness.
The Immortan said if they died right and not mediocre, they would ride eternal, shiny and chrome, in Valhalla. Feast with the Heroes, walk with the Immortan.
Some of the boys, most of the boys, bought it. Hook, line and sinker.
It wasn't that The Ace didn't have faith. He just didn't entirely have faith in the Immortan or the V-8 itself.
But he clearly understood and had faith in the concept behind it.
The Immortan was smart. As was The Ace. He knew the boys under his command were not long for this rock. That the Wasteland around them was desolate, without hope.
Look at it too long and it swallows you up, consumes you.
Kills you faster.
So the Immortan had found something to keep them going.
V-8.
Worship of the Shiny and Chrome.
The only thing that endured in the Wasteland was metal. Everything else crumbled, blew away.
Only the metal stayed.
So you take the metal, work it, shape it, shine it.
Takes a long time. Takes focus, takes energy. Especially if you do it right.
And then out of the emptiness around you, something new emerges.
Something you created, with your own hands.
Something powerful and strong. Something not subject to sickness and disease.
Something to outlast you.
And if it got blown up, torn apart, well, you just gathered up the pieces and started again.
The war boys needed it, could believe in it.
It wasn't much to live for but it was better than nothing.
The Ace was the oldest war boy of his company. He'd fought and survived longer than any of the others.
He had the half life tumors as well but he was still stronger than they. And no night fevers dared to visit him. Not yet anyway.
Some of the war boys actively sought the Gates of Valhalla, pursued them at every turn, every battle.
He did not.
He wasn't a coward, did not hold back in a fight.
He would die in his own time as did they all.
But the longer he survived, the longer he fought, the more battles he could help win. The more war boys he could lead.
And then when he did die, he would know he'd gone on as long as he could.
And whatever was waiting for him would still be there.
So for the time being, he was The Ace, their leader, second only to the Imperator Furiosa.
So when the Immortan bade them to honor V-8, The Ace interlaced his hands over his head in gesture.
When a war boy sprayed his face all shiny and chrome in preparation to approach the Gates of Valhalla upon an honorable death fighting against his enemy, he took notice.
When a war boy cried out "Witness me!", he did.
And then when that war boy died, he gestured the V-8 to remind the remaining boys of their belief, their faith.
Their reason and purpose.
And then he moved on, turned away, and kept going.
Because he did care. But not too much.
Because out here in the Wasteland, he couldn't afford to.
'Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage, against the dying of the light.'
-Dylan Thomas
Okay, I'm not saying it's right, I'm saying it's a consideration.
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