I own nothing but the insanity in my head.


Not Alone

He shouldn't stop. There's no reason to.

Though he's gone through most of his water, the aquacola he took from the only supply within hundreds of miles, it doesn't worry him. And he isn't riding on fumes, not yet. But it's the first real thing he's seen in this wasteland and wonders if he'll even be able to find anything once he is out of water and out of gas. It's wise to take supplies if they're presented to him. And they are.

The dark blob is a car.

A buggy, really. Nothing more than a metal frame with glass and sheet plating. It's a tiny insect compared to the monstrosities made in the Citadel, but looks sturdy enough. Basic necessity. A way out of trouble.

From a shallow dune nearby he scans the camp, cheek rubbing against the rough stock of the rifle that sits heavy in his hands. There's a pack and blanket splayed over the ground, but no sign of the driver.

Warm metal presses against the base of his skull. A hammer snaps back with a CLACK.

No wonder.

He tightens his grip on the rough metal beneath his fingers.

"Move and lose your head."

The voice is deep. Wheezing and full of gravel.

The sound brings Immorten Joe's face in a flash before his eyes. The chelsea grin and ghostly skin a haunting image that batters at the dusty contents of his brain. It's the same noise. A harsh mechanical voice, hiding weakness through the guise of false power.

Endless desert returns to his vision as the gun nudges his head. It presses more insistently when he doesn't move, so he leaves the rifle on the ground and finds his feet. Another nudge has his arms aloft.

His anger begins a slow burn in the pit of his stomach.

A hand digs into his jacket, rummaging beneath the sand-buffed leather while the gun rests against his skull. One barrel. Feels like a rifle. He could take it, but it's just high enough he'll have to be quick to beat the bullet in its chamber. He's never been too quick, not outside his V8, and not when he's been running without end for so long.

So he stills as the hand emerges with his sawed off, tossing it into the sands at their feet. It continues to dig, working toward the set of guns on his back. He can't help but glance down and watch as it deprives him of his weapons.

Ragged wrappings leave only fingers exposed to his view. They're tanned, calloused and scarred. On it's third pass it goes for the gun in his holster and he glimpses rough letters etched onto each knuckle. They spell "SOUL," in faded ink. If he tried, cared, he'd ask what it's supposed to mean. All he does is simmer in his anger.

Something else about the hand rubs like harsh sand against his mind. It's small. Delicate. He hopes it doesn't belong to a woman.

He's had his fill with trouble-making women.

The hand ceases its search. A nudge of sun-warmed metal has him stumbling forward.

"Walk."

The command brings the Citadel to the center arena of his brain. Strung up like an animal, drained of his blood, his because it's the only thing he could truly claim anymore. Forced to be an unwilling pawn in the endless chase over property that shouldn't be property. The nonsense of it all and the base instinct that got him through. Survive.

"Walk, monster."

Hot anger boils over.

He drops low and pitches back.

His arm catches the barrel of the rifle and sends its cargo of death into the air with a CRACK.

He and its owner are already halfway down the dune by the time the echo fades.

The world looses its sharpness as he descends into anger. It fills him like nothing's filled him in the months since Fury Road, finding every empty pocket inside his frayed mind and turning the world red and blurry.

Sand flies as they both struggle for the higher ground.

He wins it, fights hard to keep it.

He grabs a fistful of stiff, dusty fabric and pounds at a blurred face.

Over.

And over.

The skin of his knuckles split on metal and leather before they ever reach skin and bone.

He howls.

Arms wind around his neck.

Yank his head down.

His back hits sand and suddenly the blurriness goes sharp.

All he can see is the mask.

Dark, empty eyes - no, goggles - hover over a pair of deformed metallic lips. Lips that scream through silenced terror and crude stitching.

It's horrific.

Inhuman.

And then it's the blue-eyed girl who howls over him. Her face a flicker of skin and skull.

You promised to help us.

Why, Max?

No

Why didn't you help us?

Stop

Why didn't you fight for us?

His head snaps to the side and the vision fades.

Pain replaces it.

There's a gun against his temple and he wraps his hand around the wrist wielding it, wrenches it away.

A bullet buries itself in the sand behind his head.

Something cracks under his palm.

The mask screams and synthesized gravel fills his ears. It gets louder when he tightens his grip.

The gun drops.

He rolls them away from the dangerous metal and has the urge to see. See beyond the monster of stitching and blackness. See beyond this thing that sounds like a false god. He claws at the leather straps on the side of the mask, wrenching and tearing.

It thrashes beneath him.

He pounds a fist into its side. The thrashing stops.

Finally, leather straps surrender and the mask goes flying.

Pain erupts in his shoulder.

His hand flies to find a knife embedded to its hilt.

He pulls it.

Something hard hits his stomach and the world goes wrong side up.

When the dust in the air and his brain settles, there's a heel grinding into his bloodied shoulder and a blade pressed against his throat.

And finally he sees.


I want to thank everyone who left a review on the piddly first chapter I posted for this story. You are all wonderful for seeing something in the nothing I gave as an introduction to the impending insanity! I'm glad you like it. Hopefully I can do my job and it will continue to not suck.

Anyway, another brief bit. Feel free to leave any feedback because my narcissism loves it. Don't worry it doesn't get fed very often.