He was flying over the desert, the sand ripping past at top speed, a blur of orange and yellow, faster, faster, until the Earth itself beneath him seemed to arch away. He couldn't tell if he was flying or driving, but was there really a difference between the two? Suddenly, the world erupted in a massive crash, water thundering down around him, filling up the air, a massive spout hanging in the sky, filling up the sandy dunes until the puddle grew up into the clouds… he couldn't breath. Water, filling his lungs, dragging him to a halt, and he clawed frantically, struggling to climb his way up to the surface where the sun shimmered, broken by the waves above him…
Nux stirred in his sleep, his hammock creaking, swaying with the effort of tossing and turning, his breath coming in ragged, hoarse bursts. Drowning, he was drowning, and he couldn't call out, couldn't yell for help, the water had filled his throat…
"Oy!" Slit growled from beneath him, sprawled out on an old, dusty cot mattress that had long ago lost most of its comfort. It was those nightmares again, the kind that took force to wake the younger boy from, the kind that wrapped phantom hands around his throat and strangled him, and meanwhile kept Slit from a full night of rest.
He crawled out from under Nux's hammock and rubbed away the sand crusting at the corners of his eyes, bending over his fellow half-life to give his cheek a few rough slaps. "Wake up 'n shut up, Nux!"
Nux's eyes suddenly flew open, dilated to terrified pinpoints as he continued to gasp and wheeze, a hand suddenly flying out to grab Slit's wrist, the other clawing at his neck. The dream had evaporated like steam by the second slap, but the drowning sensation continued long after the water had rushed away. He couldn't breath- No, maybe he could. A tiny bit. A drizzle of air as he hiccupped and sucked like a beached fish, had either of them ever seen a fish at all to think of that sort of analogy.
Slit tensed at the grab, and watched as Nux's eyes grew wet and watery, and the tendons in his neck flex as he struggled for air. The anger in the teenage War Pup's mangled face quickly twisted into concern. His Brother drowning in imagined aqua-cola, face going red with strain, Slit feared the Soft Death that Nux became increasingly terrified of.
He hauled up to his feet, and yanked Nux along with him, pushing him down into the cot belly-first. "Alright, cough it up! You're not dyin' soft in bed! I will not Witness! Hear me, Below Boy?!"
Slit hit him hard across the back, gripping his shoulders to jostle him, to jog loose the invisible hands that reached for him from the great Nothing beyond Walhalla, where the mediocre burned to ash, their souls refined for the guzzoline of its vast and splendid War Rigs, ultimately forgotten, used, and discarded.
The pressure on his back and chest only resulted in a thin choked noise, but Nux was in no position to fight back. "S'jus…. Larry!" He wheezed with what little breath he could choke, hand trembling as it first swatted at the other War Boy before curling up to claw at his neck.
Slit scowled and lurched away from Nux, snatching up his toolbox to retrieve his sharpest blade.
"Gonna cut 'em off! Clean an' quick! Then no more choking, no more sickness!" It seemed sound enough logic in the panic of the moment as Slit descended on Nux again, grabbing at his hand to try and expose the uneven lumps nestled at the base of his neck.
That proclamation did nothing to help settle Nux's racing heart. With another choked croak, he rolled quickly out of the way, head spinning as he attempted to crawl away down the row of sleeping Brothers. "Not… slit… my… throat!"
"Nux!" Slit tucked the knife into one of many holsters sewn to his pants, and scrambled after him. He wouldn't be helpless. Not like when they were small pups, unable to defend himself against the brutes that carved his face. He wouldn't sit by and do nothing while his Brother faded. They were Awaited and Destined for something great. They had drank Mother's Milk, the nectar of the gods. And one day soon, Slit would be a Driver, and no War Boy was fitter to be his Lancer than Nux.
He grabbed the boy by the arm, eyes wide and wild with a mixture of fear and determination. "Stay! ...Stay...I won't slice 'em! Jus' tell me what you need, Brother...tell me how to get them hands off yer throat!"
Nux didn't answer, propping himself up on his elbows on the sand and stone floor, letting his head hang toward his chest. Little breaths. He just needed to relax. As his senses slowly returned to him, he could remember. If he calmed down, they'd let go. Rowdy. Maybe they knew he was dreaming something bad? Just trying to help. That was very nice of them, he figured. Now it was just a matter of getting them to relax.
After a few moments, he was able to swallow, breathing in slowly through his nose. How deep their feet must be, his head was still swimming, to reach so deep into his throat? "Not… dead." Once he could keep his shallow breathing regularly, he gingerly sat upright to crawl back to Slit's bed. He didn't think he was ready to stand to get back into his own just yet. "They were… trying to help…" He reported, giving a light-headed smile.
"Who was?" Slit rasped, confused and frustrated, but relieved that his Brother could at least breathe. "You're talkin' kami-crazy…Shoulda let me slice 'em…"
He sat down heavily beside Nux, unsheathing his blade to carefully pick a bit of dirt out from under his fingernails. There'd be no getting back to sleep now, and a few other War Pups were stirring and grumbling over being woken by the ruckus.
"Larry… and Barry…" The wheezing young man gave a snort and an asthmatic giggle before pointing to the lumps on his neck. They had grown considerably since he had been smaller, with friends to join them. "Me... mates! Have to… cut deeper than… shoulder. Axel's broken. Alignment off. They just… block the intake… knew I was-" He cut himself off, smile fading immediately before sitting forward stiffly, pretending to concentrate on his breathing as he stared at a scuff of oily sand by his feet.
"Pff!" Slit scoffed. But what else did he expect from his young Brother, who always found water in the desert of their lives. He always struck oil, no matter how broken the rig was. It was a talent far beyond Slit's comprehension, but one that had pulled him up out of dark places more than once.
But at Nux's pause, Slit looked over his shoulder, and waited for more words that never came. "Knew you was what?"
"Nothin'!" He drew in a deep breath before carefully attempting to haul himself to his feet, gripping the canvas tarp hammock for support as he did so. "Bad dream. That's all. Passing already." Steadying himself on his feet, he glanced down the row of quietly stirring War Boys in their various ranks. Today was the day. Like hell he'd let on how nervous he was. Nevermind these tests were often fatal, but what wasn't usually fatal, anyway? Even breathing sometimes could be fatal, especially when one is trying to do it near a tail pipe. No, today was the day Decisions were made.
Their judgement would determine their seats in the Great Banquet. Perhaps not literally, not with place cards or anything, but with a Wheel in your hand, it might as well have been. After this, they could leave the Citadel. Could fly across the sands, see the wonders of the Bullet Farm, the power of Gas Town. To die in battle defending the Roads, defending the Machine. No greater honor. Die mundane, be demoted, or join the canon fodder that brought them to their greatness… The pressure of the possibilities seemed to upset his so-called 'friends', and their anxious grip tightened on his windpipe again. "How… how long until Sun Rise?" But was Nux nervous? Of course not. War Boys were never nervous.
"Few hours," Slit said, the air still cold and the sky still dark. And if they stayed here talking, there'd be more grumbling from the other young men, and Pups scattered amongst them. Today was It. And if he wasn't going to get all the rest he wanted, then he would at least let the others get theirs.
"Come on. Too stuffed in here. We'll get you air for your pipes, clean an' cold." He stood with a grunt and pushed his jaw with the heel of his hand, to snap out the stiffness in his neck with a series of satisfying pops.
Nux grunted in agreement, still breathing short and shallow as he ghosted his way down the rows of young men. Outside Air sounded good, real good. Freeze off the sweat until they're broiled that afternoon once the sun burnt at full capacity.
Slit lead the way through winding corridors, past the Garage, and out, finally, into cool, clear air breathing in through one of many large burrowed holes in the side of the mountain. He gestured at Nux to join him as he eased down to sit on the ledge, legs dangling off the cliff-face and the long, deadly drop to the Below.
The vast stretch of desert dunes were dark and blue beneath a haggard moon, the black oil sky dotted with stars. Beautiful. Quiet. At peace. It was a far cry from the hot and horrible day, from its flaming sands and unforgiving roads. Here, high on the Citadel, looking out toward the billowing smoke of Gas Town, Slit felt embraced, and the closest he'd ever know to the calm a Mother's arms might bring. Fat and swollen in the sky, the moon illuminated her weary sons, and made them shine in the darkness.
"They're gonna chant our names, Brother...it'll be so Chrome. Gas Town'll remember our names after it's done." Slit pointed to the dark stain on the horizon and grinned as he imagined the roar of engines and the crash of twisting metal that awaited them there in the Arena, moonlight glinting off the staples in his cheek.
Nux had been to Gas Town only once before, last year to watch Slit compete for his Wheel. It had been an exciting experience- the only time he had ever left the Citidel's walls. He certainly was never first pick for Lancer. This year, though… this year it would be different. He wondered if he should tell him.
Maybe not so close to the edge of the Wall.
Instead, he leaned on the side of the tunnel, allowing his throat to relax, willing himself to breath properly. If his mates got too excited during the event… Better keep his mind off of it. "It'll be a Historic day, for sure, Brother," He managed to smile meekly.
"I'll get my Wheel this time. I been practicing. This time, no mistakes. My Racer's gonna shred all the others!" Slit laughed as his voice echoed against the twin mountain across from them, and leaned back on his elbows to peer up at the sky. "You been practicin', too. I know you have. Disappearin' all the time, missin' Suppers. Bet you're real good, now. Real Crosshairs Crazy Fuck… Can't wait to see you blow the rabbits."
Nux scowled up toward the green leaves on the adjacent hilltop, setting his jaw. Those ruddy rabbits. No, he hadn't been practicing his aim- well, he had, just a bit, but it was no use. It wasn't necessarily his aim that was the problem. He just wasn't built for Lancing. He was wired to Fly, he knew it. He felt it. He dreamed it. But how could he tell Slit? He'd have to eventually. Especially if they'd be facing off in just a few short hours. "I don't want to die just a Black Thumb," He murmured, warily glancing Slit's way. He had been busy busy busy, that was for sure. Spent all of his Credits. How he had kept it secret for so long, he wasn't sure, but impressed even himself.
Slit's face screwed as he looked over at Nux, brow furrowed down in an almost dangerous frown. One of them had to Drive, and it was going to be him. Much as he cared for Nux, no Below Boy was going to Outshine him. He turned his face back up to Mother Moon, and ran his tongue over his teeth in the tense quiet that followed, lips pursed in thought.
"Black Thumb's not so bad. Lancers is the protectors. Real Kami-Crazy War Boys...Real Shine. I been Lancing since last year. Once you taste it for real, you'll feel different. Blowin' up for real ain't like the rabbits. All that metal and meat flyin'...You'll see."
"I'm sure I'll see," And Slit would see. And all of them would see. Slit would notice when he wasn't riding with him, but for now, he'd keep the peace, just for a little while longer. "Tell me again about the Bullet Farm?"
Slit had told him the story countless times over the year, and was always eager to tell it again. With a deep breath, he began, telling about the Badger Boys, rogue and vicious younglings that set traps and dug holes by the roadside, crazy rabid with extra limbs and skin painted black. He told of how swift they were, how quick and clever and insane, and how they'd dragged War Boys straight off the Immortan's Rig and disappeared with them into the sand.
He told of the men and women draped in chainmail made of bullet casings at the Bullet Farm, of how the air was filled with the sound of gentle metal clinking, like a chorus on the wind. There'd been a girl there, and the color of her eyes changed every time Slit recalled her, and she'd been beautiful. Hardly any lumps. Almost as perfect as Immortan Joe's most prized possessions. And the extent of what happened with the girl also changed with each retelling. Sometimes a kiss. Sometimes whispered words. And sometimes she snuck away with him, high into a Sentinal's Canopy, and swore to be his Wife.
"Think the Immortan's Boys get Wives?" he asked with a grin, interrupting his own story.
To that, Nux snorted, laughing honestly this time, "Live long enough to find a wife, I am sure no one would stop you. Unless they want to take her. Eyes on the road," He playfully gave his friend a light shove.
Slit snickered and laid his head back onto his palms, fingers knitted as his grey-blue eyes scanned the stars like a book, as if trying to find his place again. He continued through the last hours of the night, told how bullets were made, and how they punched holes through flesh, so hard they even sometimes came out the other end. With a sense of wonder, he described The Bullet Farmer, carried aloft by stationed War Boys, in the hollowed out hull of a decorated Racer, a legendary vehicle that had carried him through the Gas and Water Wars. Never once did he see the man touch a foot to the ground, and his voice was like thunder as he barked orders to his men. A real Warlord.
By the time he finished, the sky was a gradient of color, billowing up from the horizon with the sun. It was time. Deep within the Citadel, the War Drums began to beat, to wake the War Dogs and send them off to their Racers, lovingly crafted by their own hands to compete in the Arena. Slit bolted up to his feet and offered a hand to Nux, his twisted smile wide with excitement.
"Come, Brother! We ride to Walhalla!"
Nux had been happily lulled by the story, imagining the shining city and explosive excitement, but as Slit made to pull him back inside, he stepped back, nearly teetering off the edge of the tube as he did so. He regained his balance, fists tightening in resolve. It was now or never. Brothers were Up Front.
First, he side stepped further away from the edge just in case.
"Slit… what if I were to get my Wheel?"
Another tense silence fell between them, while the War Drums sent a quake through the rock, a subtle vibration beneath their feet. Voices began to echo within the Citadel as War Boys roused, and ran off for a fast breakfast of gruel, and a little taste of Mother's Milk to inspire and invigorate them, a gift from the High Immortan.
It wasn't as simple as the two of them both being Drivers. No, they'd been paired long ago, Fated. Brothers. So that their bond, fostered between them as children, would strengthen them both on the Fury Road. Only one of them could earn the Wheel. And that Nux would even think of trying set a rage boiling in Slit's stomach.
"You're gonna be my Lancer…We agreed!"
"I am not even MEDIOCRE with a lance!" Nux groaned, "You've seen! Everyone knows you could hit a crow's eye!" His face lit up, his voice an excited growl as he continued, "I was BORN to drive! I'm part of the machine! An engine looking for wheels! You know it! You could be MY Lancer and we'd be UNSTOPPABLE!"
Slit's lips tightened as he pulled a furious breath through his nostrils, and threw a threatening, accusatory finger in Nux's face.
"You won't dare! You know I've wanted this! If you practiced, you'd learn! You've known! You've known I wanted the Wheel! I will grind you to dust in the Arena if I have to! You won't take it from me!"
"You have been MEDIOCRE for YEARS, Slit! I will shine if you do not!" Nux roared back, hackles raised, even as Slit seemed to dismiss him.
Seething, Slit turned his back on his Brother and hurried away, back through the corridors, his heart slamming to the beat of the War Drums, flustered and angry...and terrified. Because if Nux hadn't been practicing the Lance, it meant he'd been building a car. And Nux was a better driver, even if Slit would never admit it out loud.
He swung himself into the seat of his Racer when he reached the bottom chasm of the Citadel, and revved up with the other War Boys, joining furiously in the chant that echoed through the mountains as they drove out onto the open sand where the War Rig waited.
Nux had taken a few extra minutes to regulate his breathing, but whatever anxiety attack had taken hold of his neck-mates had passed. Well, he had warned him. It was the least he could do. He wouldn't die of choking in his sleep. He wouldn't die of a fumbled lance, or mediocre driving under him. If he was to die, he would die flying over the sand, knuckles strapped to the wheel of a racer as they tore through his Immortan's enemies. A valuable cog in the machine. One to be missed, to be told about by the History Men. To be remembered forever, and welcomed eagerly in the Feast Beyond.
His place was not in a Lancer's Post.