At some point, they pulled away from each other - if not for the unbearable heat of two close bodies, then for the need for room to breathe. It was comforting, and it had been cathartic, but it was exhausting, enough so that he feared drifting off and being jolted awake by the slamming open of the door. Then again, was maintaining the suspense worth it? Well, it was if Furiosa wanted something else - anything else. It wasn't as though dying tired would make any difference.

They ended up leaning against what he guessed was the back wall, shoulders pressed tight together, his hand in hers, their knees tapping against each other. He was half-tempted to return to her lap again and take in as much of her warmth as he could but it was… the moment had passed. Their minds turned to other things. There was no escaping the fact that they were waiting for the men outside to make their move. Max had found himself absorbed in the anxiety that they could come at any moment and they wouldn't know when. He knew there'd be no steeling himself.

"What happens now?" Furiosa asked him. What was he supposed to say, "We wait"? "We go out there and let them kill us"? Of course not, but Max felt like that was exactly what he was doing. What else was there to do?

"There's people from the Hold out there. Good people. I remember them but they don't remember me. They think we're part of whoever's attacking them."

"Well, you know we aren't."

"I know, but they don't."

"Why not try to explain to them?"

"Because they're out for blood." He'd seen it before, even in the Old World. When people were being harassed and attacked, they wanted justice, and if they couldn't get justice, then they were either provided a scapegoat or took what they could get. Max had seen the aftermath of lynchings and mob justice coming out of towns that had once been peaceful. People suddenly had guns, suddenly became well-versed in the deconstruction of a human being. Churchgoers became executioners. There were some guilty people, yes, but the vast majority of the victims of this so-called justice were very much innocent. "They want to feel like they finally got one up on them."

"Well, do you want to let them? Do you want to let it happen or do you want to try to run?"

"And risk getting someone hurt that doesn't deserve it?"

"You don't deserve it."

Max could argue against that. Max knew many people who could argue against that. If he decided to listen to him, they'd be telling him right now. It was still easy enough to think of all the reasons why. He could tell Furiosa, but he didn't need to burden her with all of that knowledge in these brief few hours they had left. Hell, it might take even longer than that to tell the full story. With a sigh, he conceded, and decided not to fight.

"So what happens when we get out? And they have all the guns, and we can't get the car? Hop out the wall? They found us the first time, they'll find us again. If not, their attackers could pick us up instead." Max huffed, only thinking of more reasons why escaping would hardly mean they were free. "No weapons, no supplies, no way to get anywhere…"

He could tell Furiosa was fuming beside him; she was feeling with her elbow right where to jam him in the ribs. There was no blaming her. Max had come to terms with the fact that he'd die, and he knew that there'd be no way out. Stating the facts out loud only made it seem like he was trying to convince her of the same. Should she be? Should she fall in line and let whatever happen, or should she try to escape? There'd be no stopping her, he decided, but should he help? Furiosa was without her prosthetic and at a serious disadvantage…

He hoped that they killed him first.

Max wasn't sure what he could tell her. The words would be meaningless and worthless. There would be no boosting their morale. Gallows humor had always failed him, and that wouldn't change now. How else were they supposed to comfort themselves, with each other? He had disgusted her with his resignation, and she'd be the source of all of his worries until he was finally dead. Back to square one.

Furiosa shifted against him, and her fingers went limp in his hand. After a moment, she pulled her hand away and tucked into herself. He could hear her breathing pick up and break down. A sniffle was all he needed as confirmation of what she was doing. "So what am I supposed to do? Huh?This is it, is this all there is?" Her voice was unsteady, and it made him very, very uncomfortable because he had no idea what to do.

What was he supposed to say? "Yes, this is it"? "It'll be alright"? Offer up some worthless platitude that was supposed to make her feel better? And what should he do? Delivering physical comfort was a foreign concept after so many years of lacking and avoiding human interaction. Did she even want it? - that was an even better question that made Max keep his hands to himself. He was terrified to try anything that wouldn't help at all, but if there was something she wanted, he would do his best to give it to her.

He felt for her. Furiosa had told him all about her many escape attempts, knew how catastrophically her last attempt failed, knew that things were getting worse for the women she had tried to help. For all the good she had tried to do, this was her reward. For all that could have been, this is what is and what will be. Death, for her, had been a "what if" for a long time, but never before had she had to consider it as imminent. She didn't deserve it at all.

When she fell against his shoulder, his arm found its way around her. With no response, he assumed it was welcome - at least tolerated. A few awkward circles were rubbed into her back, and that was all he gave her. Nothing else came naturally. There was nothing else he was prepared to say or do but wait, and waiting was hell. It was torture. A watched pot never boils, the old saying went. If the saying held any weight for the situation, then that door might never open - and it was very nearly preferable to get it over with.

He could hear the voices outside. There were three of them, real and tangible, words indecipherable but tones clear - stern, prying, curious, unsure. The volumes varied as he listened to them go along the perimeter of their cell. It was the only thing of the outside that he had heard all night, and as much as it shouldn't, it scared him. If hearing nothing was normal, hearing something was never a good sign. The observation proved right as the three stopped at the entrance and worked to open the door.

"No, no, no," Max whispered, pleaded to whoever was listening - he'd take it back, he'd take back wanting to get it over with. He'd wait - oh, how he'd wait for years if it meant he got to live. The feeling of resignation completely dissolved as he realized how absolutely unready he was.

Max could feel Furiosa tense up beside him and hook her arm around his leg as if to anchor herself. It wasn't hard to imagine what was going through her head; fight-or-flight was the response to nearly everything in the Wasteland, and this was certainly no exception. What were they to do? There were bars between them and the doors, which meant they couldn't storm out. There were lights, which meant they couldn't hide. There were gunmen, who certainly would not have made it so far without being crack shots. It was almost quicker to say what wasn't between them and their freedom.

The bar was lifted off the door, the lock was keyed open, and when the door finally swung in, three men stepped into the small space outside of the cell and closed the door behind them. Somewhere, a switch turned on the harsh fluorescent light; it was blinding enough for Max to shut his eyes and rub his palms over the sockets, all while ignoring the continued conversation that the men were having. When he had enough sense to see, the men stopped talking and looked at him. One of them, he was half-surprised to see, was the same man that had come down from the sniper's nest.

"So he's him?" asked the oldest one, gruff and white-haired and covered in sunspots. He was wrapped more in cloth than proper clothes, but the two others who were more well-dressed didn't seem to mind.

"That's what I'm thinking," replied the familiar man, youngest of the three who still had to be as old as Max. The voice was distinctly American, about as plain in tone as Furiosa's. The hard black boots and tattered BDU trousers that he wore were enough to pique his curiosity, though there wouldn't be any reason to know his story any time soon.

"There's no thinking, you either know or you don't know." The white-haired man was keen on making sure that the younger was sure of himself. It wasn't hard for Max to figure out what he was to be sure of.

"Oh, so do you know?" The third man - another American - spoke up to ask the elder in an accusatory tone, which earned him pause. His bald head and wrinkled skin reminded Max of the Wretched he had seen wandering the wastes, though he knew the man wasn't of the same breed. The garb he wore was plain, same as he'd see on any other scav, though it seemed much less worse for wear.

"Doesn't matter if I'm wrong - if you're wrong, the consequences could be grave."

"Could be," the youngest repeated the words as if to make them heard again. "Could be nothing, if our defence is what it's supposed to be and if our guns are locked up tight like they should be. If you're wrong, that's two innocents dead, and however many others there are that we find with no one to vouch for them. Hell, let's take their meat while we're at it and call it a day."

The elder had grown irate, and was very prepared to verbally berate the pepper-haired man until his companion stepped in and blocked the interaction. "Gunner, you're here for them, you can talk about everyone else, later, now make your god damn…"

Gunner, if that was his name, nodded and shook off the man, and righted himself to properly address Max. "You, man. Get up and come here, keep your distance from the bars." Max stared at him blankly, wondering if he should even comply. None of the men before them had been a part of the group that brought them in, which meant that word of their capture had spread through the compound. The people in front of them were either the ones faced with the duty of being executioners, or had an urgent interest in who they - no, who he was.

"Who do you think I'm talking to, her?" Gunner pointed to Furiosa, whose demeanor was apprehensive, angry, but otherwise unreadable. "You, man, come here, what's the fucking trouble if you don't?" There was no reason not to comply, no harm in seeing where this would go if he were to die anyways. Max stood from the cramped pile he had formed with Furiosa and slowly made his way towards the bars. He could hear Furiosa stand behind him, but Gunner was quick to interrupt. "Woman, stay against the wall. Nothing for you to do, it's all on him."

It's all on him. The words were enough to refresh the taste of bile in his throat and put the shiver back in his spine that told him that she was his responsibility, no matter how well-off they may be or wherever they may go. It would naturally be the world's decision to remind him of that dependency, and it wouldn't be his place to question it, especially now.

"Alright. In case you haven't already guessed, you're here to be killed. We have reason to suspect that you are part of the group that has besieged us and attacked us multiple times in multiple areas, though there's no knowing for sure," he paused and gave the white-haired man a sideways glance before continuing. "This process, of course, is all being done to err on the side of caution, because if the wrong people were to go free, then the enemy wins its soldier's back or worse. That being said, this is what's being done to everyone we encounter or see within our territory because we're unable to take any more risks. As much as we'd like to preserve human life, we can't risk what we have over people we don't know.

"However - I do believe I know you. At the very least I remember you, and I don't think you're of the same stock of men that's besieging us. If you had remembered me, you would have spoken up before, but since you haven't then that's enough for me to know you don't. Of course, to ensure that you are who and what I think you are, I'll have to ask you about things only a familiar would know, and it would be particularly cruel if you have forgotten or not cared, and would have been able to answer otherwise - though if you never knew, then I guess this would work out exactly as it meant to. Do you understand?"

Max nodded, if not to demonstrate his understanding, then to hurry up and get the process over with. While it was entirely possible that the two met - whether it be at the Hold or on the road - he had completely forgotten if he had. It had been made his goal to make human life so unremarkable and forgettable; faces seen one day turn into blurs the next and erode into nothing but vague impressions in a matter of weeks. He had no doubt that any meeting he had with Gunner would have met the same fate, but if there had been any such meeting, he'd have to dig as deep as he could to remember.