Author's Note: So the plot bunnies have returned, ravenous as ever. This time, they have drawn inspiration from Mad Max: Fury Road and created this idea. It is set in the same universe as Fury Road, but it begins before the film and gradually builds to those events. Nothing sudden, but gradual. There is a connection I wish to build here between these characters (whom you are about to meet); and, since this is the Wasteland and we are dealing with Max, friendship and trust won't be an immediate given. Have patience, and you shall see...
A huge thank you to anyone who has decided to give my story a chance, and I promise to give you a wild ride. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mad Max franchise whatsoever. Any original characters or scenes not seen in the series are rightfully my creations, and they are the only elements I claim ownership to.
Chapter I:
Unlikely Allies
"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough." –Frank Crane
In the Wasteland, Asher avoided all other life. She did not create acquaintances, she did not nurture friendships and she certainly did not allow her feelings to dictate her actions. Those were mistakes that would kill her. She could trust no one but herself. The world had become a greedy, desperate place that would backstab anyone who would relax for even a second. It was a sad reality, but Asher had stop mourning what was lost. She had to focus on surviving—only on surviving.
Therefore, when she crested the sandy slope she had been ascending and saw the armored muscle car parked on the flat top, she stopped dead in her tracks. Through her tinted goggles, she surveyed the layout of the area, one eye locked on the vehicle. No one was nearby; the car was seemingly abandoned.
Abandoned. She laughed inwardly. No one leaves a beauty like this unless they're out of gasoline and have no other way to haul it with them.
She ran her hand along the side of her boot, grasping the hilt of her dagger and removing it from its sheath. The blade was dull, but its reflective surface refracted the blazing sun's bright rays with utter brilliance. She kept the weapon partly concealed, the steel hidden behind her thigh as she sauntered toward the muscle car. When she reached the back bumper, she placed a hand on the trunk. The metal was hot, its heat radiating through her gloves. She retracted her appendage.
Slowly, she approached the passenger door. She reached her free palm toward the handle, prepared to open it and inspect its interior. Her fingers barely brushed the steaming handle when, in a flash of color and movement, the passenger door flew open and knocked her off her feet.
Asher rolled, lay sprawled on the ground for a half-second, then sprung upwards to challenge the new threat. A great force slammed into her and plowed her into the sand, the heavy weight compressing her ribs. She grimaced, slashed upwards with her armed hand and felt her blade come into contact with cloth—heard the rip of fabric as her blunt blade hacked at its unidentified target. There was a grunt—gruff, easily male—and the weight shifted to her left side. She followed through with her momentum and pushed her body upwards, throwing the being off-kilter. She collapsed onto a body, knee ramming into the sternum of a broad chest and her dagger poised centimeters above the head of her attacker.
For those precious few moments of stillness, Asher seized the opportunity to study her opponent. The face was sharply angled, with a heavy brow, a strong jawline and a straight nose. Streaks of grime added contrast to his definite features, while creases along his forehead and dark circles under his eyes hinted at weeks of unrest. His grey gaze was intent and alert, and Asher could not discern whether the man was acutely aware or borderline insane.
She was not willing to take risks today.
Jaw clenched and mind set, she raised her dagger a fraction and prepared to drive the weapon into his pretty grey eyeball; and, in that split-second of an opening, he struck. A powerful blow met her throat, and Asher suddenly could not inhale or exhale. Panic settled; she had made a fatal misconception.
She attempted to follow through with her original plan and plant the dagger into her target. He dodged, though, swiveling his head away. The dagger sunk into the ground, sand spraying into the air. A fist to her ribs weakened her; a braced forearm across the face forced her to flop onto her back beside her attacker. The sand warm and surprisingly soft. Since when had the sand become so luxurious?
Asher's lungs struggled to recover lost oxygen, her windpipe shuddering with every breath. The discomfort did not improve when she felt the dull edge of a blade against her working throat. She pried her eyes open—she had not realized she had closed them—and stared evenly at the man looming over her, the sun blocked by his head. Ironically, Asher wanted to laugh, for she just now noticed the long, matted locks that hung around the man's face. With death a slash away, her final thoughts were centered on the unkempt style of her killer.
A minute passed without much change. They both were regaining control of their breathing, slow and measured—cautious. Asher had expected death by now. How long would he make her wait?
You have an opportunity here, Ash, her inner voice practically sang. Asher grinned, relieved to know her killer could not see her expression due to the scarf wrapped around her head and the lower half of her face.
"I have water on me, you know," she rasped. Her voice was hoarse from lack of use. She never had anyone to talk to. "I'll share if you let me off. Want me to show you proof?"
She slipped a hand under the small of back, reaching. The blade dug into her flesh, threatening to delve into her skin if she dared to swallow. If the edge had been sharper, it probably would have.
"I never wanted to hurt nobody," she said. The dagger made speaking uncomfortable. "I honestly thought the car was scrap."
Her killer grunted. His eyes never wavered from her shielded ones—never looked at the car at its mention. Asher realized he was smarter than his disheveled appearance portrayed. She cursed at the disadvantage.
"Look," she groused. "Do you want the water or not?"
"Why negotiate when I can kill you and take it?"
Deep, tinted with a foreign accent. Interesting.
She smirked beneath her scarf. "'Cause as soon as that blade starts applying to much pressure, I'm gonna pop the cap off the canteen and let the water drain. You're gonna be drivin' for a while to find the next source."
There was a tense pause. Then: "Show me."
Asher unhooked the canteen and slowly dragged it out from beneath her. She waved it in the air, giving her attacker a clear view. He stared at the canteen; then, with his free hand, he reached for it, hand lashing out like a striking viper. Asher jerked it out of his reach, grimacing when the dagger pressed uncomfortably against her throat.
"Let me up, then I'll give."
"Give it to me now, and I'll let you live."
Asher flipped the canteen over and pressed her thumb under the lip of the cap. "That's not our deal, buddy. I'm not playing games."
Another moment of contemplation passed before the stranger finally withdrew, rising to his feet. He kept the dagger raised, wary as he watched Asher regain her footing. She mimicked the action, glaring at him behind her tinted goggles. Once they were facing each other, standing properly like a civilized people—minus the dagger between them—the man extended a hand and beckoned for the canteen. Asher tossed the aforementioned object toward him, reluctant, but willing to live another day. He caught it easily and swiftly popped open the top and guzzled down the liquid.
Asher frowned, unsatisfied. She dared to take a step forward. "I said share, not steal my entire supply," she bit. He stopped after that spiteful, warning comment, lowering the canteen from his lips, a drop of water rolling down his chin. He closed the cap and passed the canteen back to her. She caught it, shook it. A shallow slosh of water answered her. She knew where her next destination should be—if she could make it that far.
She nodded to her dagger. "Can I have that back?"
He stared at her. He motioned behind her: A silent order for her to backup. She huffed, latching the canteen back into its retainer before gliding backwards. After at least ten paces, the man held his hand up in a 'stop' gesture. He proceeded to toss the blunt dagger, the weapon landing two paces in front, spinning mildly in the loose sand.
He jerked his head in a random direction. "I'm lettin' you off. Now get going."
Asher probably should have walked away. She was not one for company, especially if that company had been willing to kill her and take her supplies. She could easily leave him to die, rotting in his muscle car and suffering through the extreme heat of the Wasteland. Gladly, she would allow fate to do whatever it pleased with the man. Yet, something stopped her. Curiosity, she thinks.
Curiosity killed the cat, a buried memory recited to her. She could not remember the second half of the phrase. Her childhood was a patchy mess.
"You outa gasoline?" she asked, watching the stranger with one eye and admiring the muscle car with the other.
He grunted.
She shook her head. "Well, if you're lookin' for a full tank, I know of a little place. Better chances than Gas Town, or random luck—if you believe in such a thing."
He did not speak a word. He did not move an inch.
Asher released an exasperated sigh. "Fine. You're on your own," she remarked, scooping her dagger out of the sand and slipping it back into its sheath. She trekked back down the slope, fully intending to reach the base and simply circle around the swell of land to continue on her forward journey. She half-expected the man to stop her and indulge upon her deal; however, instead, she heard a car door slam shut and an engine roar to life. She whirled around and watched the muscle car's wheels rotate wildly before propelling the vehicle forward and down the slope.
She snorted. Never actually needed you, anyway.
Following the vehicle's course—for it had taken off in her original direction—she trudged onward, depleted of precious water resources and no faster way of travel. Another day in the place she called home.
Asher was still walking steadily forward when night descended. She had pulled the goggles away from her eyes and onto her forehead, and she had loosened the scarf wound around her head, allowing the cool evening air to brush over her sweaty skin. Miles of open land stretched beyond her line of sight, seemingly leading to the edge of the world, as if she would fall into oblivion once she reached the horizon. She knew that theory was lie, though. She had tried far too many times to reach that unknown destination; and each time, she had been met with endless quantities of sand and rocks. If she was fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on the situation and place—she would find a settlement. Otherwise, she was alone—a wandering traveler with no objective but to survive whatever trials the trail may bring.
It was not until she reached a rather large boulder that she finally decided to rest. She leaned against the weather-worn rock and slid to the ground. She unhooked her canteen and took two sips, heart dropping when she finally realized how low her water supply truly was. She had been too afraid to check until now; apparently, she had had a reason to be.
You should have never tampered with the car, Ash, her inner voice chided. Like it had not been interested in the vehicle, either.
She folded her legs and propped her arms on her thighs, hands clasped together. She stared out into the vast unknown, her eyes betraying her as they created false mirages of people, cars and trucks, and patches of water. She merely blinked them away, unfazed. Those were common occurrences. They were much worse in the daylight.
At some point, she may have slipped into dreamless slumber, for the next time she could clearly distinguish the plain before her, she saw a distant form on the horizon. She blinked, convinced her imagination was frayed once more. But the object did not disappear. It remained, and it was drawing closer.
Asher squinted, features screwed into a worried scowl. Someone—or something—was coming.
She rose to her feet, wrapped the scarf tightly around her head once more and slipped the dagger from its sheath. Granted, she could have ran, or attempted to skirt around the boulder until the roamer had passed. The former was futile, since the speed of the approaching danger hinted at vehicular travel; and the latter was dumb-luck cowardice. She might as well face whatever opponent that may come her way. She was not going to last long with her poor water supply, anyhow. Too much distance to cover to the next refill.
A handful of minutes passed before the vehicle reached her. Asher half-hoped, half-expected the car to whiz past her; however, she was disappointed to notice the vehicle decrease its speed until it came to a gradual halt ten feet away from her. The night was too dark for her to see the interior or how many persons inhabited the car. Its body was familiar, though. A recent memory. A bane to her existence.
It was the muscle car.
She cursed her ludicrous courage. She should have ran when she had the chance.
The driver's door opened, and the man emerged from the car. He stared at her for the longest time, never saying a word, as if he wanted her to understand him telepathically. Too bad for him, she could not read minds. Did he believe her to be some mystical being from a child's fairytale?
"What do ya want, buddy?" she asked, voice tight and scratchy. She was thirsty.
He did not move. He did not answer. He did absolutely nothing. Asher hated the situation.
"Are you gonna stand there like an idiot, or you gonna say somethin'?" she drawled. She readjusted her grip on the hilt of her dagger. If Asher had not known how terrible her aim was, she would have thrown the dagger in an attempt to nail him in the forehead. She nearly did anyway, the imaginary target alluring.
He leaned on the door's frame. "You mentioned fuel. Earlier."
She quirked an eyebrow—an impossible task, considering the position of her overly tight goggles. Remembering her proffered deal, she barked a laugh. "Sorry, that offer expired the moment you kicked up sand in my face. You're on your own. You wasted your precious gasoline backtracking to this place." Suddenly, she frowned. She pointed her dagger at him, not caring that he saw she was armed. "How'd you even know I'd be coming this way?"
"I didn't."
She snorted. "You really are an idiot."
He watched her. She could not see his grey eyes clearly, but she could picture the calculating haze that was shadowing them. Finally, in markedly snide words, he asked, "How far are you planning on going?"
Her body tensed. Her upper lip twitched. "Places."
"I asked, 'how far.'"
She exhaled sharply. "Until I get somewhere, or I'm dead in the sand." She glared at him. "You should know that. You knew the moment you practically drained my canteen."
"Yeah, I do know. That's why we're gonna work out a deal."
"Oh are we?"
"You're gonna show me where I can get this gasoline, and I'll take you wherever you need to go."
Do you hear that? Wherever you want to go. That's a golden ticket, Ash. Asher was beginning to detest her inner voice more and more with every accurate point made. Hence, in retaliation, she decided to ignore it.
"I think I would rather let you suffer, even if I have to, too. I'll worry about myself." She turned her back to him—a mistake that the nagging voice in her head would forever berate her for.
Quicker and quieter than Asher thought the stranger possessed, he was behind her and gripping her shoulder. She spun back around, lips curled in a snarl as she held her dagger aloft, prepared to plunge the neglected blade into the man's heart. He never flinched, staring her in the eye unflinchingly. There was a sliver of clarity and of madness in his gaze, warring for dominance. It was different compared to the rare souls Asher had encountered. A frightening factor, for she could not judge what his next move would be.
"Look, I don't want anything from you," Asher snapped, a growl to her tone. "You can keep your freebee ride for another fool. Really, I don't know a fuel source. I lied. I was hoping to travel a distance before making my grand exit. And, like the idiot you are, you fell for it—"
He seized the collar of her jacket, bringing her to her tip-toes as he brought her face-to-face with him. She responded instinctively, pressing the blade of her dagger to his throat. He did not seem to even acknowledge the dagger's presence. The madness in his gaze flared to life.
"Then you better figure something out, because—"
"Because what?" she sneered. "What're you gonna do if I don't get in the car? Kill me? Like that's a good threat to me, at the moment."
He paused. Clarity returned. He was contemplating. "So you just gonna lie down and die like a dog?"
She shrugged lightly. "At least I can take control of my own fate. With you, anything could happen—none of them pleasant, I assure you."
He frowned. He let go of her jacket and took a step back. Asher did not relax the slightest bit, the tension still present—still tangible.
"When I get in that car, and you're still standing here," he said, voice low, borderline threatening, "then I'm gonna leave you be. You can walk for miles and miles without seeing a drop of water. Won't be my problem. So you think about that as I walk back over there. You have about five seconds."
He left her standing there as he strode toward his vehicle confidently. He did not glance over his shoulder or slow his pace; he kept walking, determined to follow through with his self-given orders.
Asher was strongly tempted to let him walk to his car, turn around, find her unmoving and drive away. If he lived up to his word—a word Asher could never, ever trust—he would never bother her again. He would leave forever, and she could figure out her own plan and route. If she was careful, hasty and conservative, she could probably last for a time in the Wasteland—hopefully until she found a reliable source of water. And, even if she did not make it that far, at least she could die knowing she had not placed her life in the hands of a stranger who had attempted to kill her hours earlier—along with the fact that that same stranger would be cursed to plow through miles of empty land in search of fuel and supplies. He could suffer the same doom as her. She could accept those terms.
But her inner voice would not have that. It never did learn to shut up.
And if he finds fuel? He's gonna be one lucky man, and he ain't gonna come find you again and save you. If you don't go, you're as good as dead. Do you really want that, Ash? Be honest with yourself.
In the safety of her mind, she cursed in every language she knew.
The stranger had just reached the open driver's door when Asher decided to ask a decisive question: "How far can you go with the gasoline you already have?"
He paused, halted his steps. After a handful of seconds, he answered, "About thirty days, maybe thirty-five."
Asher was glad that the stranger had not faced her, for she did not want him to notice the light that entered her eyes. Thirty or thirty-five days was a one-way trip to paradise for her, for she knew of a rich source that would provide her with the materials she would need to survive for quite some time in the Wasteland. She could stock up and resume her lonesome, wayward journey once more. Granted, she would be brushing the thirty-five days mark; but a car ride would be less challenging than walking the distance. Then she would not need this stranger; then, she could be rid of him. She only needed to endure his presence for a short while.
"All right," she said at last. His continued hesitance did not go unnoticed by her, and she realized that he had been giving her some extra time to think the deal over. She could not say whether she appreciated the opportunity or not. A part of her—a bone-chilling feeling in her gut—warned her she was making the wrong decision here. She was making a mistake that was worse than death. It was undeniably daunting.
"All right, what?" he asked. He swiveled his head slightly, looking at her from the corner of his eye.
"I'll join you. I may know a place that has some gasoline handy. It'll take all you got to get there, though. And since I haven't been down that way for some time, I can't say the road is too friendly anymore."
He finally turned around. He jerked his head toward the passenger door: A command to hurry up and get in if she was truly committed.
Asher sheathed her dagger and ambled toward the designated door, eyeing the stranger—her temporary partner now—warily before entering the car. He joined her moments later, not saying a word as he fired up the engine.
Asher pointed west. "Start driving," she said. "The sooner we get there, the better—for the both of us."
He grunted half-heartedly, but complied. Soon, Asher began to feel the adrenaline rush of speeding across the terrain in a powerful vehicle, the seats vibrating, the engine rumbling and the sand flying up behind them in a great cloud. It had been a while since she had experienced the sensation, and she was beginning to realize how much she had been missing. Walking suddenly sounded dated.
Still, Asher had to ask herself: What happened to working alone? What happened to no acquaintances, no friends and no close partnerships? Granted, she doubted this stranger could ever become more than that: A stranger. But this was not her way. She had a system; a code. She was breaking a law. She knew this, yet she was proceeding anyway. There was going to be consequences.
She pretended not to notice the sawed-off, double barrel shotgun lying across the stranger's lap.