BOOM. BOOM.
The drums beat in rhythm as Proper, one of Immortan Joe's wives, cradled her newest son. Soon he would be taken to be raised with the other War Pups. This was the worst part of being a wife of Joe's - not even the awful carnal act compared to having the only good, beautiful part of it ripped away from her. She shed a single tear, trying to enjoy holding her child to her breast.
She reflected on those women who weren't wives of Joe. Not only those who were under Joe's rule but others trying to eke out a living somewhere. Certainly, Proper was relatively well fed, given plenty of Aqua Cola, but she paid for it in freedom. Moreover, she'd never been given a choice about her lot. However they were living, it had to be better than this. Was it like this, years ago? She closed her eyes and imagined...
BOOM. BOOM.
Coma clutched his mother's head in his hands. He could barely make out her features as his vision blurred and his eyes seared with pain from what was mostly likely a festering, three-day old infection. He was going blind and he had an awful fever.
BOOM. BOOM.
The attackers had come, injured him and his mother, then drug her off. Coma had been unconscious for a while and when he awoke, desperately began searching outside. But his vision had already been deteriorating at that point, he was dehydrated, and dare not make a sound in case the attackers were still nearby.
He had retreated back inside and groped around for a drink, filling a glass by dipping it into their reservoir. After drinking, he groped around again and found his mother's acoustic guitar. Well-sighted or not, he could play it, and he played his mother's favorite hymn as a tribute to her.
BOOM. BOOM.
A day or so later someone - the attackers again, perhaps? - had come in and dropped his mother's head in his lap. He didn't even cry: his eyes hurt too much and he had already assumed his mother was dead.
"You're a trooper, kid. I've half a mind to take you under my wing." The faceless figure had said. Coma's eyesight was pretty bad at this point, but he thought he made out the figure trying to snap his fingers in front of Coma's face. "But you seem right blind. 's no good to me. Sorry kid, you're on your own." And with that they had left.
BOOM. BOOM.
Coma looked down at his mother's head. All of a sudden his vision cleared and he could see her face sharply. "Coma, my son. I was killed by wretched men," his mother's head told him. "You must get revenge. Swear it. Swear upon me that you won't stop until you have gotten vengeance for my death. When you find them, skin them alive. Poke them with hot pokers. Salt their wounds. Then drown them in their own blood." His mother's countenance grew frighteningly angry, but Coma merely nodded. "Good, my son. Good."
Coma's vision faded again and suddenly he was jolted awake by the sound of his mother's guitar. He gasped slightly, then wished he hadn't given away the fact that he was still here and alive.
"Is this yours?" someone said, strumming the guitar. Coma merely nodded. "A fine piece, hand crafted. Family heirloom, I take it?"
Coma nodded again.
"Not much of a speaker," the man said. Coma was completely unable to see by now, but that was fine. He didn't care to. He heard the man come closer.
"Blind, are you?"
Coma nodded again.
"Hmm…" The man began shuffling around. "I suppose you wonder what I want."
Coma shrugged. It didn't really matter what this stranger wanted - Coma was in no position to prevent him from taking it.
The stranger chuckled. "The question is, what do you want, my boy?"
Coma paused. His mother's head was still in his lap and he ran his hands over it, trying to recognize her by feeling her features. When he spoke, it was in a small whisper:
"Revenge."
Joe began laughing - the laugh of a cold, violent tyrant about to give a man what he most desires.