Author's Note: I am very happy to have Chapter 8 written and posted now. I apologize for the wait: I have been a little preoccupied with some Comp writing and I had to put my stories to the side for a bit. But, I am back and I am hoping to get some updates out. Also, I'll admit that I really enjoyed writing this Chapter. Asher and Max actually get some progress (in other words, no punches were thrown). There is hope yet. Maybe they can make amends. We shall see.

Also, I have drawn some influence from the Mad Max video game. No big spoilers here, and there probably won't be for several more Chapters (if there will be, I will be sure to mark the beginning of the Chapter with a warning). No, I do not intend to throw these two into the plot of the game; however, it will have a background effect for later. Much later. Don't worry, you will see what I mean; but not until the time has come. So the worst you will see is a few name references. Good? Excellent.

As always, thank you to every follower, favorite and reviewer for your support and feedback. You have no idea how much it means to me, and I appreciate every email I get in my inbox. Thank you all! Enjoy Chapter 8!

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 VIII:

One Word Too Many

"The two words 'information' and 'communication' are often used interchangeably, but they signify quite different things. Information is giving out; communication is getting through." –Sydney J. Harris


"You've been awake this whole time, Buddy?"

The question drew Max from his listless staring at the brightening eastern horizon to Spitfire sitting a foot away from his left. He met her gaze—noting the exhaustion still tugging at her eyelids—and grunted half-heartedly. She nodded, accepting the answer; however, the sourness that twisted her features expressed her displeasure. Already beginning with an impertinent attitude. Max was less than thrilled.

Spitfire tugged her jacket off her legs and set it to the side. Then, using her left hand to grip the edge of the counter and her right hand to awkwardly cradle her wound, she slowly rose to her feet. Why she was eager to move around, Max could never guess; however, he did not favor the idea, especially with her freshly cauterized wound. Immediately, he stood and locked Spitfire's elbow in a steel grip before she could wander away. Her suppressed grimace morphed into an outraged glare as she whipped her head in his direction.

"I'm fine," she gritted. "Let me walk."

"All you're gonna do is hurt yourself more."

"I've got a handle on this. Just let me do what I need to do."

His mind urged him to deny her request; but instead, he released her. He was not her caretaker, and she obviously did not want him to be one. She could experiment. She could see how far she could go—how much she could accomplish. If she damaged her injury further, that would be her problem. He warned her, she refused, and now he was going to sit back and watch.

With shuffling steps, Spitfire traveled the length of the counter, keeping her back to Max and a hand on the counter's surface. When she reached the end, she gently pushed off and adopted a careful gait, gliding toward some undiscernible destination. Her journey was cut short, however, when her right leg wavered, making her stumble into a crumbling wall. She muttered under her breath, pressing her shoulder into her new support and peering down at her injury, an accusing glint in her eyes.

Sighing, Max rejoined her. He lifted her shirt up, pulled the scarf-binding away and checked the wound for himself. The skin was certainly not healed, retaining its charred appearance; but the wound was still closed. It just hurt, like he had predicted. Spitfire knew he was correct, too; she was just too prideful to admit to defeat. Oddly enough, Max understood that feeling; and likewise, he would never admit to that empathy.

"You need to rest this," he restated, worded more blatantly.

"I did," she retorted, yanking down her shirt. She seemed to regret the sharp movement, if her wince spoke any measures.

Max frowned disapprovingly. "You're not gonna heal overnight."

"And sittin' around won't get us much progress. Wouldn't you rather be on the road or something? We both have places to be, don't we?" He could not deny the truth to that statement; therefore, he remained quiet. She knew she had caught him. "Good. Now move so I can try again."

She went to shove him out of the way, but he caught her by the forearm and kept her stationary. "If you're going anywhere, you're going to the car. Otherwise, you can sit."

She rolled her eyes in a flippant gesture, but the twitch of her upper lip spoke of her inner ire. "What? You a doctor now? You know, I've managed just fine without you hovering by my side."

"Agitating wounds is 'managing fine'? Getting stabbed is 'managing fine'?" he returned coolly. There was a truth to his words, too; but, again, Spitfire was resilient.

"You have got to be kidding me," she growled under her breath. Then, louder, she said, "You're the one who wanted to face those raiders, hand-to-hand. And you know what? You got yourself poisoned, and I had no idea what to do. You, Buddy, were very close to death—whether I left you or kept you."

"And I contemplated driving off when you fired that bullet. Do you know that?"

"Yeah, I do. I expected you to."

He studied her, eyes squinted. "Then why risk it?"

"I already told you. We needed a solid, covered place to stay, and you were still knocked up on that poison."

"No, why did you warn me when you expected me to leave you at the first sign of trouble?"

Her lips twisted in a variety of deformities, as if she had eaten something sour. She gave a jerky shrug with her left shoulder, now mindful of her injured right side. "I don't know."

Max shook his head. "That's not good enough."

With a scowl, she tugged at her trapped arm. Max had forgotten he had had a hold on her, and he promptly released her. Absently, she rubbed her forearm, staring distantly off to the west. "What do you want, then?" she asked bitterly. "Some heartfelt confession? That I believed you would come barging in anyway, like some fairytale knight saving the damsel in distress? If that's the case, then I'm gonna have to burst your bubble: When I came in here, I did not rely on you. In here, I was alone again, falling back into the wanderer routine I've had for the past few years. When I was caught, I knew no one was going to come and help me, because you would have no idea what was going on and I doubted you would poke your head in here. So I sent you off. I gave you a good reason to leave, with no guilt to hold you back. At least one of us would make it out fine." She shrugged again, and leaned back until she was reclining against the wall. "Don't know what you would have done about fuel then, especially if you don't know the land. But you've come this far. I'm sure you could have managed."

She tore her gaze from the west and met his eyes. Max did not flinch; he just stared right back, even and calm. In the back of his mind, like a whisper riding the wind, he could hear the ghosts chanting their questions and screaming their desperation. He did not have to hear their exact words to know they were rioting against him—that Spitfire's explanation struck a familiar ache. He was tempted to slip away, not wishing to confront the issue and give his failures an open invitation into his mind; however, he feared that the seclusion would serve as a welcoming beacon, too. There was no chance for him to escape this. He might as well finish what he started.

"But then I appeared," he remarked, blinking away the phantoms that encroached his vision.

"Yeah, you did." She snorted lightly, shaking her head. "And you know what? I kinda hate you for it."

He did verbally respond. He just scrunched his brow and waited for a follow-up reason.

Spitfire did not disappoint. "It's not often that someone has my back, and I don't know how to pay you back for what you did." She pursed her lips, ducked her head briefly, then looked back up at him. "So, just, thank you. That's the best I got."

Max nodded, shifting his weight and letting his eyes rove around the building. Seemed like a long time since he had heard those two words. Even Spitfire's muttered 'thanks' from the previous night was more for his respect for her privacy. Now, she was thanking him for helping her in a time of need—for not leaving her behind. He told himself that his decision to come to her aid had been a remittance for her saving his life; however, for a moment, he let himself believe he had done something good—something right after so many wrongs.

"No. That's good," he said at last, his head still bobbing faintly. "Very good."

Her shoulders visibly dropped, as if she had been tense the entire time—and maybe she had been, preparing for a brawl. He, too, had been defensive, well aware that Spitfire could lash out at any given moment; although, a part of him doubted she would, considering her state. The fight was gone now. They could put away their weapons.

"Sit down," he said, "and we can…talk."

She consented this time, nodding. She glided forward to reclaim her seat, and Max instinctually clasped her arm again and supported her all the way to the counter. There was no shoving, no cursing, no glares—just a short walk and a muted atmosphere.

Spitfire sat down just as slowly as she had stood up, favoring her right side. Once she was settled, Max returned to his own spot and sat, legs bent and his good arm slung across his knees. He let the air clear between them for a few minutes before asking a pressing question—a question he had retained since last night, and now had the courage to bring up.

"Is someone after you?"

She did not even bat an eye or ask what he meant. She seemed to have expected this conversation, sooner or later. "Not that I know of. I'm not important, if that's what you're worried about. Just a wanderer with a botched history," she replied, prodding a broken desk leg with the toe of her boot. "And even if someone was sniffing me out, they would have a very hard time finding where I went."

"Been to a lot of places?"

"More than you probably."

"Doubt it."

She smirked and laughed. Then, falling back into solemnity, she reasserted, "Yes, a lot of places and lot of names. Everyone knows me as someone else, and that makes tracking me a real doozy. So, no, I think I'm in a good position."

He gave a light grunt, filing away that piece of information. Spitfire was how he would remember her; anyone else would give a different name. Seemed easier to not give any identification. Certainly not as messy that way. "Then why are you so eager to leave?" he asked.

"The Wasteland doesn't care about any of us. It's not gonna wait for our wounds to heal. If you get knocked down, then you can either get back up or lay down." She looked at him pointedly. "And die like a dog."

"I'm not the Wasteland," he remarked. "I don't set expectations."

She sighed and shook her head. "You need to stop acting like you're my friend, Buddy. You can't be that."

"Maybe not. But I'm not your enemy, either."

"No, you're not," she admitted, staring unseeingly forward, as if mesmerized. "Grouchy, yes, but you're not aiming to take anything from me. Just bartering. Haven't killed me yet, either." She gave a thoughtful pause, then added wryly, "Of course, we're not counting our first meeting."

He snorted, somewhat amused. He had no doubts that Spitfire heard the little noise, but she did not make an effort to comment. She kept her lips sealed, and a comfortable silence settled between them. Max enjoyed the long pause, using the time to retreat into his thoughts.

Spitfire was not being chased; therefore, imminent capture was not a concern he should have on his mind. Even more beneficial, she had set herself up to be untraceable. To some, that fact alone would be suspicious, especially if she did not have to worry about a threat hunting her down; however, Max understood her unspoken motives. She kept all relations distant and impersonal. Just now, she had reinforced her rule to confiscate the title of friend from him. When the time came to separate, she did not to be attached to him; or, worse, if he did not survive the journey, she did not want to cope with loss (above all else, he could relate to the latter). Hence, he did have many doubts about her truthfulness on the subject.

Her fretfulness sparked curiosity, though. Spitfire was a wild, spiteful, confident woman who believed herself to be in control of every situation. Surely the Wasteland did not intimidate her as much as she had alluded. If she was the wanderer she proclaimed herself to be, then the desolate world she traversed was a lifestyle that she should be accustomed to. No, her feelings had to be connected to her scars—her tally markings.

He was tempted to probe further—once again, like Spitfire had expected him to do—but he refrained. Her scars concerned only her. Him pressing her for answers would merely result in conflict, he knew—a repeat of Spitfire using Jessie's name as a weapon, just reversed positions. He did not want that outcome; therefore, he decided to leave the topic untouched. Spitfire would tell him if she ever wished to share her scars' stories.

"So you mentioned you wanted to talk," Spitfire hummed, drawing Max's attention to the present. He looked to her, watching as she carefully pulled on her jacket. "Wanna get to that now, Buddy?"

Max let his previous thoughts drift away, focusing on this new shift in direction. What did he want to discuss? He knew where they were going—west, until Spitfire said otherwise—their supplies were replenished and they were not being hunted. They were ready to cut through the Wasteland and reach their wanted destination. What else could possibly be left on his mind?

Apparently there was one particular question—a newly developed inquiry that spawned randomly and left his lips unintentionally. "Where you gonna want to go after I get my fuel?"

Spitfire tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips. Max wondered if he had caught her by surprise for once. "Haven't decided," she responded, shrugging her left shoulder. "I might just stay there and let you go on. I don't think anyone there would object."

"Does this guy owe you a lot of favors?"

"Well," she drawled, rubbing the back of her neck. "If you really want to know the truth, it's not favors I'm spending. Just kindness. The guy would do a lot for me, charge-free."

Max arched an eyebrow, looking at Spitfire disbelievingly. "Did you save his life or somethin'?" he asked. He did not know a single soul who would be kind without some form of repayment. The Wasteland had a give-and-take system, and hardly anyone deviated from that custom—unless, of course, it was to simply take.

"No, I don't do a lot savin'. Consider yourself a lucky exception." She swiveled her head to look at him, frown pulling the corners of lips down. "This guy calls himself Abrahamus, and he's a real odd one. He thinks that the world will go back to normal someday. You know, the end of thirst, the end of war, the end of sand and salt—optimistic gibberish. And his solution to bring about this healing? Give everyone second chances and keep his people under this wrap of 'sanity.' I don't know how he keeps the place so grand without coming under fire, especially when his defenses are lackluster."

Max pondered the details for a long time. He attempted to imagine the hopeful scene, but nothing formed. His mind went blank. Most clans did not look back to the Old World; they merely waded through the Ruined World.

Spitfire seemed to understand his dilemma. She laughed softly. "Yeah, I know. It's pretty crazy, even for a torn world like this one and a muddled mind like mine. But I took shelter there for a while—longer than any other place since the people were so willingly to provide for outsiders. I saw what the place had to offer and the people that lived there and the man that led them through the horrors. It was real, and it was abnormal. I wasn't fond of the aura that hung in the air. Very strange indeed."

Max, despite his lack of knowledge or experience, found himself agreeing. "If you don't like the place, then why go back?" he pressed, brow furrowed with uneasy curiosity.

Her frown deepened. "Look, I know it doesn't sound like the greatest plan, but I have my reasons. I may not care for the place, but Abrahamus and the others cared about me—in their own, second-chances view. I was free to ask for anything, as long as it was within reason."

"But then you left," Max pointed out. "Can't imagine that went well for you."

"Actually, no," Spitfire mused, raising her eyebrows and staring off into the distance, as if she were reliving the moment. "Abrahamus was disappointed I wanted to leave, but he did not try to stop me. He just told me to return whenever I felt safe enough to trust him." She huffed, shaking her head. "I guess he saw right through my acting. I never believed what he said. I just smiled and nodded and spoke a few praiseful words. Everyone else was convinced. No one else saw the dystopia his clan was becoming; they couldn't see past the illusionary utopia."

"No one?"

"Well, there were a few stragglers, but what are they gonna do? Abrahamus has many loyal followers that, whether he knows it or not, have a bloodlust. If he is struck down, then they will gladly hunt down the culprit." Spitfire interlaced her fingers and, uncharacteristically, twiddled her thumbs. "Someone would have to have an influential way with words to turn the people's hungry eyes on their leader."

Max hummed. "And I'm supposed to get my gasoline from this mess?"

"Sure. Just smile and nod your head."

"Like you did?"

She crossed her arms then, a disgruntled note entering her tone. "Look, I wasn't in the best condition when I stumbled into his territory. I had to do the best I could to survive." She narrowed her eyes. "You can't tell me you wouldn't do the same. When you're on your own and low on resources, you become desperate. You're fortunate because you have a car to get you places faster. I have two feet and bar of stamina."

"Maybe." He shifted and ran a hand through his beard. "But you don't want to lose yourself in desperation. That'll take you places you don't want to go."

"Too late for that. I have twenty-eight years in me, and a lot of it is speckled with regret," she mumbled. She looked down at her feet. "Besides, aren't you a bit desperate, too? You need gasoline and you're placing your hopes on my word. You don't know a lot about me, Buddy. From your standpoint, you're risking a lot by trusting me."

"You plan to go back on your word or something?"

"If I was, I wouldn't tell you." Her mood became solemn again. "But honestly, betraying you isn't in my best interest. Unless you give me a sound reason not to trust you, then I'm willing to cooperate." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Are you?"

Conversation lulled as Max mulled over Spitfire's question. They had spoken enough—especially Spitfire, who had given a considerable chunk of information about where she was guiding them and even about herself. He was not ungrateful, but he was left wondering why. Spitfire did not share unless she was exchanging hateful words or sarcastic comments; however, at the moment, she seemed to have dulled around the edges. Maybe their respective injuries had humbled her; or maybe his willingness to help her had changed her perspective. Truly, there was no guaranteed reason. Spitfire was unpredictable; and he had to decide whether to trust her or not.

For the hundredth time, Max wondered what—and who—he had become involved with; and he wondered if he would regret everything, just like so many times before. He had to gamble.

"I can work with that," he said.

Spitfire nodded, one corner of her lips turned up. "For better or for worse."

Max could not agree more.


Soon after their exchange, they were ready to depart. Max offered Spitfire his assistance, and she accepted the help with a jerked nod, propping an arm on his shoulder and following him out of the fallen building. The muscle car sat in the blazing morning sun, its rugged appearance a welcome sight to Max. He would always appreciate a good car over any fortress. He felt at ease in the driver's seat, protected by the metal exterior and able to make a quick getaway if necessary. He could not live without it.

He guided Spitfire to the passenger side. She opened the door and entered his car, grumbling unintelligible words under her breath. Max decidedly ignored the babble, figuring she only spoke in pained curses. Unfortunately, she would have to endure the agony until the wound could mend itself; and, if she wanted a smooth recovery, she would have to take extra precaution to keep from agitating the injury or, worse, deriving an infection. Seems he would be playing nurse for a while. The role did not excite him whatsoever.

Rounding the front of the car, he went to his usual seat, reclining into the cushion with warm familiarity. He replaced the shotgun in his lap (double barrels pointed away from Spitfire), curled a hand around the top of the wheel and started the engine.

"Anything else you need to do?" he asked casually, relishing in the rumble of his vehicle.

Spitfire snorted. "No." She gave him a sly glance. "I'll let you know when something comes to mind, though."

"Mm."

He pulled away from the building and drove beside it, eyes set at its obliterated peak. Once at his destination, he swung wide, directing his car west and applying gradual pressure to the gas pedal. The sand sprayed up from the wheels and the wind whipped around the body. Already, Max could feel the tension ebbing from his stiff frame, and his head seemed to clear with every mile that passed under the wheels. Even if his ghosts were to arise at that moment, Max would not care. When he drove, he could keep them at bay. He could focus on the present rather than the past. He could indulge in a little slice of peace—and even more so now that he and Spitfire had settled their differences. He did not have to wait for an imminent argument or test-of-strength. Everything was abnormally calm.

When the fallen building had disappeared from his rearview mirror, Max decided to voice a deliberating question: "How well do you know the lands around Abrahamus' clan?"

Spitfire made a little humming sound, keeping her eyes glued to the passenger window. "Decently. There are a few landmarks that'll tell me if we're close or if we passed it. Also, it's on flatlands, so there won't be much to obstruct it from view."

"And we're on course?"

"If we're going west, then yes. Eventually, we will have to go a bit south, since I started moving north when I went east."

Max processed that knowledge, dwelling on the latter part of Spitfire's answer. She had traveled east. "Why leave an area you knew?"

He heard her sigh and saw her recline her head against the headrest. She was still watching the dunes roll by and avoiding his gaze entirely. "I thought I would find something better in the east—something other than salt and ruin. I guess I wasted my time." She paused; but before Max could speak, she continued, asking, "What're you gonna do when you get your fuel?"

Returning his earlier query, he realized. Was he willing to share as much as she had? A part of him gave a firmly-rooted 'no'; another part of him wondered if telling her mattered; and a miniscule part of him questioned whether he knew where he was going.

"I'm going to the Plains of Silence," was what left his mouth.

Spitfire whipped her head around, eyes wide and features blanched. "You're what?"

Max shifted in his seat. "You heard me."

"That's suicide if you go out there. You know that, right? No one comes back, whether he's on foot, in a car or on a bike." She shook her head furiously, either rattled by his statement or pissed about his decision. "Why would you want to go there? There is nothing out there. It's called the Plains of Silence for a reason."

"Have you ever been out there?" he challenged.

"Me?" She laughed bitterly. "I would die in less than a week."

"Then you don't know what's out there."

"I can't believe this—I can't believe you," she snapped. So much for peace. "You criticize me to being desperate, and now you're saying you're gonna drive out into the Plains of Silence. I don't care how much fuel you can con out of Abrahamus; it won't be enough to get you across that stretch of Wasteland."

"Doesn't matter," he retorted mildly. "I've been plannin' to cross it for a while now."

"You mean you're plannin' to die out there." She stared at him, jaw set and face taut. "Is that really what you want to do? Is that all I'm helping you do?"

"Does it really concern you?" he shot back, tearing his gaze from the road to meet her conflicted hazel eyes. "You'll be off somewhere else. You're not coming with me."

Her lips formed a thin line, and she turned her attention to the sand stretched out before them. After a few tense moments, she said, "I guess not." She crossed her arms over her chest. "But you better find something out there, Buddy. Something real good."

Max was not sure whether to take her words as a mockery or an encouragement; and, honestly, the tone did not matter to him. What struck him as odd was her reaction to his plans—the care that hid behind her objections. What had happened to being impersonal? What had happened to maintaining the distance between them?

He would not contemplate it. They still had several days to go before they finally separated. This was just a flux. They had let too many words pass between them, like they were the companions they were not supposed to be. It did not matter that Spitfire housed herself in a borderline-cult, or that he traveled to the Plains of Silence. When the time arrived, neither of them would care. That was the plan.

Max would never admit to the problem, but inwardly, he knew that plan had already begun to derail.

Maybe Spitfire's eagerness to leave had not been because of her scars; rather, she knew their steely partnership was softening—and she was afraid of that. Max supposed he was, too. He had failed too many people to include anyone else in his life. And despite all the frustrations Spitfire had given him, he had no desire to see her dead.

Their professional strategy was crumbling; and they had no control over it.

Max nearly flattened the gas pedal as he urged his muscle car to go faster.


To the Reviewers:

Oddmosis: Thank you! I hope you liked Chapter 8.

rachel101448: Asher's scars will be a little mystery; but, yes, we will eventually discover their origin and purpose (and there may be hints every here and there...). As for the kid: I supposed it seemed more...effective, I should say? Not everyone in the Wasteland is insane and is out-to-kill-every-living-thing; some are just trying to get by without conflict - and, even more deliberating, some of them are young and never chose to be enwrapped in the chaos. Max probably didn't make that kid's life any better by taking his knife, but you're right: The Wasteland isn't a kind place, and you can't turn your back on people. You're asking for punishment if you do.

And yes, Asher did get the rest she needed; but she's not one to linger longer than necessary. In her mind, her wound's not gonna heal fast enough before they should leave, so she believes hitting the road now won't be much different. Whether that is a smart decision is questionable; but again, she's the restless type. So is Max, though probably in different ways.

Thank you for reviewing!

Radio Free Death: I appreciate the feedback, and I'll be sure to watch my use of semicolons (I do tend to be partial to them). As for Asher: She has an attitude for sure. She will mellow, though, and she will learn from her mistakes. She still has a long road ahead of her. Thank you very much for the review!

DieselCrane: I'm truly flattered! Asher does have a bold personality (mingled with a bit of her own insanity), but I never want it to go completely unchecked. Besides, I doubt Max would let her get away with it. He can only put up with it for so long. Hence, their tense relationship. They will learn and adapt though; this Chapter was just a stepping stone. We shall see where it goes... But thank you so much for the review! I'm super glad you are enjoying the story so far, and I hope not to disappoint.

reddevil47: Step by step, they are learning to cope with each other. As for the Fury Road plot: we still have quite a ways to go before we reach that point. Asher and Max's journey has only just begun. Thank you for reviewing!

thebrontide: Thank you! Hope you enjoyed the newest update!