The sun pounds down on Nux, its liquid rays filling him from the inside out. It seems to have penetrated his protective layer of body paint, scouring him until he's purified. Beads of sweat carelessly evaporate on his skin, causing steam to rise. Shade! Frantically Nux looks about, but there's no sign of the Citadel's massive fortress, or even a vehicle in the shadow of which he could stand. He's all alone, trapped in a vast desert, with no way to stop the sun from tearing right through him…
Nux's eyes snapped open as the blinding brightness of his dream transformed into a shadowy room. Relief flowed into him. He was safe and sound in the Citadel, under the protection of the Immortan and surrounded by his fellow War Boys. But the physical sensation of fire consuming his skin hadn't abated. Groggy from sleep, Nux shoved away an arm that seemed to have crept around him overnight. Such contact didn't normally bother him- War Boys habitually cushioned their sleep with each other's bodies, in lieu of proper beds- but now his company unpleasantly resembled a load of freshly-raked coals. Growling slightly without waking, the other boy rolled over, arching his back against Nux's spine. Nux in turn rolled onto the stone surface beneath his flattened mattress, hoping for its coolness to soak into him and douse the internal flames.
It wasn't until shivers seized Nux that he recognized the heat for what it was. His teeth chattered so loudly that he was surprised no one around him roused. Another fever. Well, at least it wasn't Larry and Barry this time. At least Nux hadn't woken gasping for air, clawing at his throat and trying to breathe deeply enough to call for help. But a fever was still an ignoble way to go. Over the years, he'd become used to the pain, but flashes of existential fear still ignited him.
No one will witness me if I die like this. A soft death would serve no one, least of all Immortan Joe. Instead of a hero, Nux would only be remembered as a pathetic half-life who gave up the ghost in a pitiful overnight struggle.
How long would it take to be forgotten? Days? Hours? Minutes?
Sweating now from the anxious knot in his stomach as much as his sickness, Nux attempted to return to his mattress, only to find that the War Boy he'd elbowed had claimed it. His own mattress must have been empty, but Nux didn't feel up to searching around for it in the dark. Instead he hugged his knees to his chest, squeezing himself into as tight a ball as he could manage. He felt like an overheating engine, on the verge of meltdown. Sleep would be a long time in coming, which was the worst aspect of having stupid night fevers. There was nothing to do when awake but feel sorry for himself.
Why was I born a fleshbag? Surely it was a high honor to drive and attend to the Citadel's vehicles, but all too often Nux wished he could become one. Something powerful and formidable, like the War Rig that the Imperators took turns driving. Or maybe something small yet elegant, like a motorbike. Something powered by a purring engine, not a heart, that pumped guzzoline instead of blood. When its parts wore out, they'd be replaced with ones that worked good as new. Not like a half-life, whose deformities would never be erased, doomed to grow increasingly decrepit before finally sputtering out…
In the corner of Nux's vision, a figure stirred in the darkness. "Hey…" a familiar voice rasped. "What's the matter with you?"
Ugh. Of all the War Boys who had to wake up, it was Slit. It wasn't that Nux hated him or anything- Slit was Nux's lancer and Nux was Slit's driver, after all- but on nights like this, he could be unbearable. Sure enough, when Slit's query was met only with shivering, Slit grinned evilly, the scars on his face distending his mouth into a monstrous shape.
"Havin' another fever? Sucks for Nux. Guess you're not gonna die historic after all."
"Shut up, Slit," Nux barked, and immediately wished he hadn't. Saliva welled in his mouth, and his stomach clenched tighter. No… he couldn't let the nausea win, what a waste of food…
"What's the problem?" Slit hissed, as if he genuinely had no idea. "Poor Nuxy's upset cause he's not going to Valhalla?"
"Shut up!" For a second Nux had half a mind to get up and smack Slit, but he knew he couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to. He'd probably get dizzy and fall down, or hurl all over Slit… which sounded like payback, actually, but he didn't want to wake tomorrow with an empty belly. And Slit would get angry. A punch in the face was warranted, but anything further and Slit'd be out for blood.
He's just toughening me up. Or so Nux liked to think. There was no point to Slit's idiotic behavior otherwise, though he was far from the first Way Boy to act that way. Even Nux had joined in once, hurling taunts at a sickly new recruit- "No one's gonna want you in Valhalla! You're gonna die soft and shriveled and WEAK!" It was a way to keep each other on their toes, prepared to go the distance no matter how far. But as Nux grew sicker, and his mates began to drop like flies, the nightly taunting came across as more mean-spirited than anything. Slit was the only one who still kept it up, long after the joke had worn off.
"Your head hurt, Nuxy?" Slit moaned, adopting a cloyingly sympathetic tone. "Are you gonna be sick? Why don't you go whimper to the Organic about it? He'll fix you right up… unless, of course, you don't live to see tomorrow."
Rather than respond, Nux grabbed his rolled-up clothing from his mattress, which had served as a makeshift pillow, and shoved it over his head. Slit's obnoxious, goonish teasing came through muffled, nothing more than a pesky insect buzzing near Nux's ears. It wasn't ideal sleeping conditions, but really, when was it ever? At least he had a place to sleep, and a roof over his head, which was a whole lot more than the pitiful wretched who lived outside the Citadel had to their name.
Nux had almost succeeded in reaching the threshold of sleep when his ears picked up the word- Mediocre.
"What?" Abandoning his pillow-turned-earplugs, Nux forced himself to raise his head to address Slit, even though doing so made the room spin wildly around him. Slit stared back, still wearing that sickly grin.
"I said you're gonna die mediocre, Nux. If you make it on the road at all. You don't want to end up like that wrinkly-faced lancer who works on the War Rig, do ya?" Slit adopted a dangerous sing-song voice. "Denied by the Immorta and unworthy of even a soft death. You better watch out, Nuxy, 'cause one day that could be you."
Ordinarily, horror filled Nux at the thought of ending up like the old crewman. Speculation ran rampant as to why he hadn't achieved a glorious death in his youth, much of which induced nightmares. But Slit's prior comment left him boiling. Why did Slit insist on spilling such shit night after night, for only his own amusement? He's lucky he never says this to me during the day. If he had, he'd be flat on his ass in an instant.
"What are you saying?" Nux protested. "My death won't be mediocre!" His stomach churned as if filled with writhing, smoldering steel. Yes, yes! That'd show Slit who's boss!
"I'm gonna die historic! Do you hear me?! Historic! The Immorta will summon me to the gates of Valhalla!"
Nux wanted to say more, but suddenly the churning in his stomach rose to his throat and he doubled over, coughing up what little he'd consumed during the day. At first he was angry that the sickness had gotten to him, but when he had finished, he felt as if the anger had been wrung out of him, along with his strength. The defiance to prove Slit wrong still burned hot in his chest, though.
I'll show him. I'll show ALL of them… Nux's heartbeat slowed, and a shiver ran through him. His eyes fluttered shut.
After a while, images began to move against Nux's closed eyelids, so vibrant that he might as well have been wide awake. All things considered, the dreams that accompanied night fevers weren't so bad. If they had been the only symptom, Nux would have gladly taken it.
Once again, Nux's body heat transformed into the searing sun on his flesh. But this time… This time he feels a breeze through the wide-open windows of his car. He has no idea what car it is- his name isn't inscribed on the brake. But that doesn't matter, as long as it can move. He's gunning it, pedal to the metal, leading an entire fleet of War Boys into long-awaited battle. An aggressive guitar riff from the Doof-Wagon drifts past his ears, spiking his adrenaline. Filling his lungs without any hindrance, Nux lets out an exuberant yell. Onwards! To glorious Valhalla!
As he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, the dream changes, or rather jumps ahead. The heat intensifies as the flaming wreckage of a car sails right over Nux's vehicle. He wants to leap out of the driver's seat in a frenzy. SLIT! Did you see that?! Hopefully Slit hasn't been knocked off the rear lancer's perch, at least not without being witnessed. The air rings with shouting and gunshots.
A monstrous form stretches up ahead on the right-hand side, and Nux gapes openly. It's a massive dome-shaped vehicle, outfitted with treaded wheels and studded with little holes through which its crew can peer. Snipers hang off the sides, rifles at the ready, prepared to fire at anyone who dares to claim their property. But they won't touch Nux. Not me! He grabs his bottle of chrome substance and sprays it in his face, inhaling its lovely scent as his heartbeat accelerates. Death to those who defy the Immortan! And death to Nux as well, in the process. He's never been readier for it.
Nux veers over, ramming the mountainous vehicle hard in the side. It crumbles beneath him like flesh penetrated by a bullet. For a second he's screaming, half giddy and half terrified, before the flames overtake him and his body collapses into ash. But it's all right, because the enemy vehicle is in ashes as well. The cries of the War Boys fill his ears- WITNESSED!
Finally, the dream takes Nux to a landscape he's pictured too many times to count- the shining, chrome domain of Valhalla. Fallen War Boys flock to the gates as they open for him, and he staggers to his knees in awe. All of history's greatest heroes are there, towering above him like giants, and at the head of it all is Immortan Joe himself, radiating pure love and approval. He extends a hand, and they walk through the gates side by side.
The indulgent fantasy was hardly original. Nux suspected it rattled around the heads of every War Boy in existence. But he depended on it to put a fire in his belly, spurring him on as much as it comforted.
Who cared about his sweaty, trembling body and its constant needs, from fresh blood to precious water? I won't have to bother with that when I reach Valhalla. And that was really the only reason to feel glad about being half-life. Sure, full-lives were given more time to fight and worship. Only full-lives were made Imperators and assigned to drive the War Rig. But they had nothing like Valhalla to look forward to. In a way, it was only fair. They've got all the time in the world. They don't need more of it after death.
On and on Nux's fantasy number rolled, until the fever subsided early in the morning, and he praised his gods for sparing him. Another day was dawning, and maybe this time, it would be his day.