My name is Max.
At least that's what I think. Sometimes I'm not sure I have a name at all. Some time ago a friend asked me about it and I told her, but it all seems like just another one of my hallucinations.
Must have really been knocked out good to have a dream like the one I got. A brutal tyrant, an army of brainwashed slaves, and a tough-as-nails woman driving a nitro-boosted war machine to take on them all with a just bunch of misfits.
Quite the dream. Fighting side by side with someone every inch the road warrior you are.
But in the dream, they took everything from me. My blood, my weapons, my car which was then crushed like a tin can with a screaming low-life behind the wheel. It felt very real. As was the pain of someone tattooing my entire medical history on my back, putting a nuzzle on me and draining my blood to feed a brainwashed boy who only wanted to die fighting because he knew nothing better.
Then again, how do I go from falling asleep in a cozy place with green gardens to waking up again in the desert, half-buried in sand?
It was all a dream, that's how. Which gets proven by what I see not half a klik before me.
My car, standing on the road.
The car jolts, then folds in on itself and turns into a giant metal man.
And then I no longer know what's a dream and what isn't.