This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Mad Max universe, which was created by George Miller and Byron Kennedy and trademarked by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc., a subsidiary of Time Warner. This work also includes several original characters all of which belong to me and may not be used without my explicit written permission (so don't be shady.) I am not profiting fiscally by publishing this work.

This disclaimer applies to this and all subsequent chapters.

Is that alright? Please don't sue me, I'm a poor college student and my lawyer is my cousin and he would definitely charge me.

Anyway, this work is rated M for a reason. It contains graphic descriptions of violence, strong language, sexual content, verbal abuse, and mentions of rape which may be triggering to some. Tread lightly my interweb friends. There be monsters here.

I have to get away.

This was a thought that Max Rockatansky had often. Too often. Mostly it was a thought applied to the constant visions of the people he failed to save. Right now, the notion was applied to his current situation.

He had been captured, dragged behind his own vehicle, drugged, stripped down, examined (thoroughly), redressed, and chained down to a table – where he was now being tattooed and – by the look of that red-hot iron – imminently branded.

Again, back to the thought: I have to get away.

Fast-forward about a minute and he had somehow escaped the grasp of those white-painted, shirtless kamakrazee thugs and was now running away from them through what seemed to be a maze of stone tunnels. He got to a strange section of hallway, with a sunken floor filled with water. Water. And a ceiling of bars that filtered in unholy sunlight through webs of what couldn't have been… green? Keep running. He trudged into the water only to see more of those pale demons pushing towards him from the other end. He scaled the side of the wall with the pipes and grabbed onto the bars. But through the bars someone long-dead peered back at him with childish blue eyes.

"Max? Is that you?"

Max lost his grip on the bars and plummeted into the water only to see that face again before being hauled up by the mob. He wasn't sure exactly how he wrestled away from them but he did. He kept running, hall after hall, the dead squaring off with him all the way.

"HELP US!"

"SAVE ME!"

"HE MADE US DIE!" they screamed at him.

He ran through the apparitions but their cries felt solid as they hit his heart. Because they were so, so right. He didn't help them, he didn't save them.

He made them die.

No wonder he was crazy. Finally he saw a pair of doors, windowed with slits in the metal that let slivers of light shine through. An exit. Max felt hope for a moment as he burst through them, only to be reminded that hope was a mistake. The doors led nowhere, to a sheer drop on a Cliffside. Below there were hordes of people milling aimlessly, and above there were cliffs topped with green, as well as some kind of construction crane that held a chain connected to a large hook. And behind me is a swarm of fucking demons. Max looked behind for a moment before leaping onto the hook that hung from that contraption above the door. His irons caught on it and his weight swung him forward… only to swing him back into the arms of the hoard.

Fuck.

He was hauled back and his face was covered with a wet, dirty cloth as the doors slammed shut. As he was blindly dragged back, his captors suddenly jolted to a halt and went silent.

"We caught him, Mother. This full-life bloodbag tried to get away but we got him, we got him," one panted to this new arrived "Mother" person that Max couldn't see. But he heard Mother stomping forward, closer to him. He flinched as he felt his shirt being wrenched up.

"O-neg. High octane," the "Mother" read from his newly tattooed back. Her voice surprised him. It was younger than he thought it would be. She roughly tugged the shirt back down. He heard her step back.

"Let me look at him," the feminine voice commanded with utter surety.

The fabric was removed with many whitened, muscled fingers, all rushing to do the bidding of their Mother. They were eager to please this woman. She was important to these demon dogs – it made Max think of hurting her if he got the chance.

Max was pushed relatively close to the ground, so when his sight was unobstructed, the first thing he could see was her boots. Heavy, buckled, dark. But relatively small. His mind changed when his gaze rose to her face; she was obviously the type of woman who hurt him more if he hurt her first.

The woman wasn't far from a girl – no, there were no girls in this world anymore, never mind. Childhood didn't exist in this world, not anymore – a fact proven by the young boys attending to the man who marked him. But there was something there. Something soft, maybe in her eyes that hardened as she made eye-contact. This "Mother" was maybe in her late 20s, or maybe she was younger and just world-hard. She was probably a full-life, she had time. But she was a fierce thing, strong jaw, deep eyes ringed with black grease that was stretched on each side, invading her sun-dark skin. He hair was long and ragged, braided against the sides of her head keeping it all away from her face. She didn't look like a mother. She looked like a soldier.

"High-octane, indeed," she muttered, all stony in her voice but something awful sad in her face. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that. With pity. He didn't like it, so he snarled at her. Feral like. Real high-octane. She sneered at him for it, the pity melting right off of her. The suddenly she smiled again, a vicious smile with shiny white teeth and sharp canines. She stood up from her kneel and looked at the white painted skull-men that called her mother. "High-octane, crazy blood for my War Boys!" she barked at her "War Boys", who cheered and shook him. She took one more look at Max and nodded at one of the War Boys. "Follow the instructions Organic put on his back. Put a muzzle on this full-life. Or else he'll make your half-lives that much shorter." With that she stalked away like a goddamn predator hunting for her next meal.

One of them tugged the fabric over his face again and began to drag him, all the while chanting something very peculiar:

"WAR BITCH! WAR BITCH! WAR BITCH!"

Max decided it was a fitting name.

One chapter down. I love writing in Max's POV but the "War Bitch" is next – don't get me wrong. I adore her and all of her boss ass bitchiness (and I hope you will too.) Be sure to review even if it's brief – but hell, here are some review prompts:

What do you think the War Bitch's role is in the Citadel? Why is a full-life woman not a wife? Where do you think this story is going and how do you like the writing style thus far?