Knightmare on the Fury Road
Bruce burst awake with a yell. Sweat streamed down his face. There was no light. Where- He breathed hard. In, out; in, out. Bruce's eyes, hardened by years of darkness, quickly acclimatised. He was trapped in a small cave, its walls carved from rock. After a few moments, Bruce's mind shook off the fog of sleep. Not trapped. Bruce pushed his ragged blankets aside and he rose from his bed. This is where I live now. Slowly, his heart beat returned to normal. He sat up slowly, running one hand through his short salt and pepper hair. He turned to sit on the side of his bed. On a stool were two glasses of fluid. Bruce poured one into the other, and upon contact, the mixture glowed a soft white colour. He looked up to see Alfred, his loyal assistant, standing in the doorway. Bruce grimaced sheepishly.
"Sorry, my friend," he said quietly. "Did I wake you?" Alfred made no reply. Bruce saw Alfred was carrying a tray with a jug of water and a clean rag. "What would I do without you?" Bruce took the rag and rubbed the sweat of his face and bare chest. He threw it onto a pile of similar such rags. Next, Bruce took the jug and drank straight from it, gulping the water deeply. When he had finished, he carefully replaced the jug on the tray. Bruce began to strip his nightclothes, commenting as he did so; "No sense in wasting time then, my friend." Alfred remained silent. "I can tell you disagree," Bruce quipped. "I've spent enough time with you to know how you think." Bruce paused momentarily, slipping his undershirt over his head. He continued speaking, cutting off Alfred.
"I will sleep extra today, to make up for what I have lost over the week." Alfred regarded Bruce silently. Bruce frowned, pulling on his heavy-duty trousers. "Don't give me that look! I know what I'm doing." Bruce stalked from the room.
Jason Todd barely noticed the collapse of society. Before it came, he was living on the margins, stealing food, water and sleep wherever he could. When the oil wars came, and the water wars, Jason thrived. Now the whole world had to learn to live with nothing, as he had.
Jason lived on a motorcycle, stealing food, water and sleep wherever he could. Jason felt hunger curl in his stomach. He hadn't eaten in several days, instead drinking several litres of water each day. He was running low. He needed a proper meal, and to renew his supply of precious water.
Jason had been roaming the wasteland for long enough that he knew where most of the major tribes and cults lived. Immortan Joe and his lunatic war-boys lived in the citadel-spires that rose from the middle of flatlands. The Buzzards scurried about in the midlands, hiding behind hills and in deceptively deep depressions. The Rock Riders charge about the craggy highlands. Each had a use for lone wanderers like Jason, none of them pleasant.
Jason skirted these regions, instead looking for loners like himself. Jason had spotted one such loner yesterday. The sun had been just about to rise, orange light glowing on the horizon. The sight was beautiful, and one Jason enjoyed often. However this particular morning, a plume of dust had filtered the sun's first light. Jason had watched the source of the dust streak across the dirt; a fast vehicle.
Jason had followed the vehicle, keeping far enough away to avoid attention. Eventually the vehicle began to slow, approaching a cliff. Jason had peeled off, driving his motorcycle up to the top of the cliff. The route had been long and circuitous. By the time Jason had reached the top of the cliff, the vehicle was hidden and its driver disappeared.
So now Jason was waiting. If the driver returned from his excursion in the morning, Jason reasoned, he would leave again in the evening. Jason slept a few hours, his fingers wrapped around an aluminium baseball bat.
Bruce stepped from his bedroom into a low corridor. He had discovered this warren a few weeks ago, and made it his home. The caves were buried deep enough into the rock to stay cool, despite the furious attempts of the sun outside. There was also plenty of room for Bruce to store all of his equipment.
Bruce ducked into another chamber a few paces down the corridor. In front of Bruce was a wardrobe. There was a time when Bruce owned the finest furniture, ornately carved from old, expensive wood. Those times were long past. What stood in front of Bruce was a simple affair, but deceptive. Bruce had built it himself. Light, but strong. Locked securely. Bruce wore the key around his neck, hanging from a simple leather band. He held the key almost reverently, and slowly unlocked the heavy padlock.
There were only a few items in the wardrobe, but they were Bruce's most treasured possessions. Bruce pulled each item from the wardrobe, one by one, donning them ritualistically. First, a ballistics vest. The vest was old, and had been shot more than once. Bruce had glued strips of cloth to the surface, which had turned almost black with grime. Next, heavy combat boots. To his right thigh, he strapped a handgun holster, carrying a Glock 9mm. Before the collapse, the Glock had a reputation for infallible reliability. That reputation had proven true, even in the harsh wasteland. Bruce checked the load and action. Finding the pistol in working order, he replaced the magazine and racked the slide. No sense in carrying a firearm if it was not ready to fire.
Bruce next put on the most distinctive part of his equipment. He pulled on his mask, made of black rubber. The mask covered his face down to his nose, and a cowl flowed down over the back of his neck and shoulders. Sitting just above his eyes were old motorcycling goggles. To protect his mouth and throat, he wore grey scarf wrapped around his neck.
Bruce wrapped a utility belt around his waist. In another time, this belt had carried all kinds of high-tech gadgets. Now, though, it carried pouches, filled with items suited to a life in the wasteland; hydration packets, vitamin pills, adrenaline, among other things.
Bruce then pulled on a heavy trench-coat. Lastly, Bruce pulled on a pair of gauntlets. Bruce had pushed nails through the inside of the gauntlets so that they stuck out the outside, another weapon in Bruce's arsenal. Bruce cut a fearsome figure, dressed as he was.
Bruce walked slowly to the entrance to his cave. He was about halfway up a sheer cliff face. Before him was an incredible vista. Once, the land had been covered with trees, with buildings. Not anymore. Now, there was only sand, for as far as Bruce could see. Bruce slid his goggles down over his eyes.
Jason's eyes widened. Closer now that he was yesterday, he could clearly make out the features of the figure. Two spikes, short and narrow, jutted out of the top of the figure's mask. Jason had heard rumours of a man who cruised the wasteland, wearing the skin of a bat and bringing destruction wherever he drove. The people who told such stories were weak, timid, easily scared, but Jason could tell there was an element of truth to these tails. The man below him was heavily muscled; this was obvious even through the brown coat he wore. The man jumped from the cliff, arms outstretched. His coat flared, and for a moment, Jason believed the man would fly.