A/N: I hate writing action scenes. My forte is dialogue, so this was difficult for me. I hope this fit with the movie well enough to not be jarring. Once again, thanks for all the reviews, follows and favourites. I live for that stuff. I just finished the first draft of the last chapter, so I should be updating every other day until it's done. If you want them faster, leave a review. I am not above being bribed.
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Max is tired.
Tired of running. Tired of fighting. Tired of being afraid.
He is tired of turning away from the place and the people who make him feel alive. No matter how far he goes, how long he stays away, he always feels the pull.
And so he has made his decision: he is coming back home.
To stay.
He's not sure when he started to think of the Citadel in that term, but it is the one place on this godforsaken earth where he feels safe, and welcome.
If that isn't home, what is?
He resolved to go back two days ago, while surrounded by the carnage that was yet another group of seemingly good people he couldn't save.
Instead, he had avenged them.
Now he sits behind the wheel of an old Mach 1 Mustang, streaking across the desert on his way back to the stronghold.
It feels good to be driving a car again. He still misses his Interceptor. For a long time, it was one of few constants in his life.
But the Mach 1 is a good car. Sturdy, strong and fast. It is not enough, weighed against the lives lost to obtain it, but he is practical enough to take it despite his guilt. And the bastards who drove it will never hurt anyone again. Max saw to that.
He crests the last ridge before he'll see it, far away on the horizon, and his heart speeds up.
Almost there.
His heart skips a beat as he sees it.
A plume of black smoke rises from the stronghold.
He may already be too late.
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It takes lifetimes to cross that plain, even driving so fast he can barely maintain control. As he draws closer, the picture of what is happening becomes clearer.
Vehicles circle outside the wall, and those on board are hurling explosives inside.
Max assumes there are people on the wall shooting back, but he is still too far away to see.
Smoke and flames rise from the Citadel, and dust roils up from beneath the wheels of the vehicles outside, partially obscuring Max's view of the battle.
Closer, he sees that the walls are still standing. The gates have not been breeched. The assailants are doing damage, but they have not penetrated into the Citadel.
He decides he'll do more damage on foot, and alters his course, coming up next to the towering rock pillar and abandoning the car in the shade there. He takes the distributor cap, ensuring it is useless to anyone else.
Thanks to the rage-induced vengeance that earned him the car two days earlier, he has plenty of weapons.
He throws them into a bag, tosses the distributor cap in on top, and slings the bag over his shoulder.
The dust they're kicking up is the perfect cover, for both them and himself. The wall is long, and depending on the spot, between twenty and thirty feet high. It is manned only sporadically at this end, and the assailants are taking advantage.
Max makes quick work of the first three trying to scramble up the uneven barricade, killing each silently and quickly with a knife. He grabs the foot of a fourth, pulling the man down on top of him. They tumble in the dust, rolling and punching until Max pulls the handgun from his lower back and ends the tussle with a single shot to the man's chin.
He picks up the bag, having lost it in the scramble, and starts to make his way towards the moving vehicles.
Shots ring out here, and engines whine and rumble. Both the attackers in the vehicles and the defenders on the walls are shouting in their battle frenzy. Their cries echo off the walls.
The attack seems to be focused on the area around the gates. They are only ten feet tall, and the obvious weak point.
The defenders seem denser there. He can see people atop the wall, firing on the cars, but in the smoke and dust nothing beyond that is distinct.
He moves low to the ground, waiting for one of the vehicles to drive close enough for him to hop on. The dust is thick, and he can hear the rumble of an engine approaching. He barely has time to dodge to the side and dive onto the roof, wrapping his hand around the opening in the passenger window to hang on. The car fishtails from side to side as the driver tries to shake him, and three bullets narrowly miss him as they come through the roof. He slides his feet over the side and into the driver's open window, kicking the driver in the face and nailing him hard with an elbow to the jaw on the way in.
It gives him just enough time to grab the drivers's handgun, turning it against the man. It blows the top of his head off and coats half Max's face in blood.
Max kicks the man's foot off the gas pedal and steers them away from the wall before opening the driver's door and pushing him out onto the ground.
He pulls off the bag of guns and sets them in the passenger seat, riffling through one-handed. He pulls out three flares and wedges them into the space between the cushions and quickly grabs three handguns, ensuring that the clips are full. He puts two in the pocket in the door, grabs the third in his right hand, and puts the car in gear.
The other vehicles are driving back and forth along the wall, or turning continuous erratic circles by the gate.
Two cars are sitting idle, but there are over a dozen more, and between kicking up dust and launching smoke bombs, they are making it nearly impossible to see.
Max turns his car to follow a truck with a mounted gun and three men standing in the box. They are firing at random and shouting. He matches its speed, just off the passenger-side flank. Three precise shots just below the gas cap, and he sees fluid leaking down.
Perfect. He waits for the truck to turn away from the wall before lighting one of the flares and tossing it into the vapour trail. He pulls away from the vehicle as it lights on fire, and seconds later explodes.
It adds even more smoke to the chaos.
He manages to pull a similar maneuver with another car before they start to catch on. Three vehicles break away from the siege and are now in pursuit of him.
Good. Take the heat off. That's what he's here for.
Except that now there are bullets flying, and they're aimed at him. He slings the bag back over his shoulder and throws the two guns back in. He still has three shots in the one in his hand. Deliberately driving through the black smoke that rises from one of his previous victims, he swings the car around hard, driving it into one of his pursuers and wedging it between the burning car and the one he's driving. He fires a single shot through his own back seat and into the gas tank, hearing the hiss of gas releasing. Popping the last flare, he leaves it on the driver's seat.
He runs for one of the inert cars, diving across the roof and curling into a ball behind the driver's front wheel. The ground shakes as the car he'd been driving goes up, and two more explosions follow within a few seconds.
He takes a deep breath. His ears are ringing and his throat and lungs and eyes burn from the smoke. One vehicle is indistinguishable from the next as it billows black across the landscape. He staggers further from the chaos, desperate to take a breath of clean air.
The haze clears in front of him and he takes that precious breath.
And realizes that he's missed the true danger.
A massive armoured big rig thunders out from behind the plateau. It has an enormous cow catcher on the front, coming out to a sharp, axelike point. It is a giant, lethal battering ram. Then it turns.
A string of expletives trail through Max's head as he sees that the back of the rig is worse than the front. It is a giant ramp, starting behind the rear wheels, and raising up over the cab. If it can even get wedged in the gate, the other vehicles simply have to drive up the back to get inside the Citadel's walls.
He staggers back to the truck that was his protection in the blast, pulling the driver from the seat. Whoever on the wall that hit him was a damn good shot. Right through the temple.
The dark rig is turning wide to line up for the gate. The smoke and dust are so heavy that it's likely no one on the walls have spotted it.
There's not much they could do if they did, anyways. The windows on the rig have been replaced with sheets of metal with thin openings to see through. Only a very lucky shot could stop them.
Or a fast enough vehicle, aimed just right.
Max buckles his seatbelt, pulling hard on the band to ensure it is tight.
The rig is coming straight on towards the wall, picking up speed. Max shifts the truck into drive and turns it around hard, spinning the dual set of rear wheels.
He aims for just behind the front wheel. If he can jam the truck up there, he should be able to roll it at best, render it un-driveable at worst.
Either way, this is going to hurt.
He pins the gas pedal to the floor, and at the last second wraps his arms overtop the steering wheel, pressing his head down.
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The sound of the crash is deafening, and the smoke is so thick that those on the wall can't even tell what's happening until the semi comes to rest upright with its door against the wall, its trailer rolled on its side, now useless.
Dammit, Furiosa thinks from her perch above the wreckage. She hadn't even seen it coming.
The assault had come out of nowhere. They must have approached under the cover of the storm the previous night and hidden around the other side of the towering rocks, because the Citadel had no warning. One second everything was fine, the next there were grenades and smoke bombs coming over the wall.
Inside, they'd armed everyone willing to hold a gun.
In truth, they could simply have retreated to the upper level and left their attackers howling in impotent rage, but there was simply no time to evacuate everyone. She was not willing to give up one inch of her home to these savages.
They'd been holding up. There were casualties, but the wall still stood. She knew that the gate was the key, so they'd put most of the defenders there and rolled some of the derelict vehicles to prop up the gate from within.
Aside from taking out a few vehicles, they hadn't made much headway.
Then the explosions. Furiosa was ashamed to admit that she had no fucking clue what was happening out there. It was all smoke and dust and explosions and the sound of her own people's guns. Not that they could get any clear shots in all that.
And last, a mobile battering ram appeared, already incapacitated by the time it reached the walls. She hadn't even seen it.
If it had succeeded, they would be overrun right now.
Someone out there was watching out for them.
The smoke starts to clear, and the assholes that have tried to take her home are stunned enough by the destruction of their spearhead vehicle that they are taken down quickly. Furiosa orders those gathered inside the wall to drag back the vehicles that are blocking the gate, just enough to fit people through. Those armed with guns swarm out, and make quick work of the assaulting force.
There are over a dozen vehicles smoldering or sitting silent beyond the wall. Her people throw smoke bombs into the rig, and three men come pouring out. They are subdued, face down on the ground, and their hands are tied behind them. A dozen of her people stand over them, guns trained.
It is only then that she notices the wreckage of a brown-and beige truck with its front end wedged under the fender of the rig.
Someone had literally been watching over them.
The passenger side of the roof is caved in, but there is enough of the driver's side left that it is possible that whoever it is that saved them, survived.
The door is crumpled and she has difficulty prying it open. Finally it gives, separating entirely from the vehicle and crashing to the ground. A moan sounds from inside. "Hang on," she says.
She peers in, and he is slumped over the wheel. His face is caked with blood, but she would know this man anywhere.
"Max?"
She pulls one of her knives, cutting the seatbelt. He doesn't seem pinned by anything. She reaches in and cups his cheek. "Come on. Wake up. We won."
He groans again and his eyes snap open. "Fuck," he says with passion.
"C'mon. Let's get you out of there."
Between them both, they manage to get him clumsily out of the truck.
Once clear of the wreckage, he stands, and winces.
"Are you alright?" she asks, wondering if the crash didn't do serious damage.
He nods. "Seatbelt."
She understands. It is both the reason he is alright, and the reason he is not. He will have vicious bruises later from the impact.
She looks at him, suddenly realising that he's back, and throws her arms around his neck, giving him a welcome but painful hug.
"Missed you too," he says softly, awkwardly patting her back.
Neither of them hears the young man crawl out of the back of the rig. Neither sees the danger.
They both hear the shot.
Fury's eyes go wide and she blinks hard. Her body jerks against his and her breath leaves her in a whoosh. Max catches her as she turns to dead weight in his arms, and all hell breaks loose.
Gunfire sounds all around, as Furiosa's warriors unleash their anger and shock on the prisoners on the ground. The one who fired the shot, hidden in the incapacitated semi, dies with seven bullets in him.
Toast's voice rings out. "Search the vehicles! Make sure there are no more of them!"
About half of those gathered follow the order. The others stare on in shock.
Max's pulls his hand away from her back, and it comes off warm and sticky.
And red.
He stares down at her. She is already growing pale and he struggles not to be lost in a memory. All sound around them is lost as he stares in horror. He yells her name, and shakes her. "Come on, Fury! Wake up!"
Her eyes are wide and unseeing. Her muscles have gone slack. Her weight pulls him to his knees in the sand, and he bends over her. He holds her by the shoulders and is now whispering into her cheek. "Come on, stay with us. Stay with me, Fury. Don't you dare leave me like this. Hold on." He is all but begging now.
There are others crowded around him now. "Doctor," he hears through the rushing in his brain, and he latches on to that hope. He shifts Furiosa's weight and stands, carrying her in his arms.
The pain from the accident is gone in the adrenaline rush. Toast is in front of him. She nods and runs on ahead, shouting.
Sound recedes once more. He carefully maneuvers her through the partly-opened gates before breaking into a run. The crowd he passes presses in behind him, looking on at their beloved leader in shock.
Her head lolls and his sleeve is soaked. The doctor meets them at the entry to the infirmary, and his eyes flash with recognition and concern. He beckons Max to one of the operating rooms, where Max lays her out on the table. Addams hands him a thick towel and instructs him to press it to the wound on her back. A woman is there with them, and she unbuckles the belts around Fury's waist that hold her arm on, removing it and tossing it onto a table by the wall.
The doctor pulls the towel away from the wound, briefly inspecting it and mumbling something about a subclavian vein. "Son," he says to Max, "I'm going to need you to leave."
Max shakes his head. "I can give her blood," he says, choking on the last word. "Universal donor."
"He's injured," Toast says from the door.
"Sorry, son. I can't let you. We have plenty of others who can though, so don't worry." He flashes a look at Toast and turns back to his patient.
"No. I need to stay. I need to do something!" he snarls, staring down at his own shaking hands in impotent fear and rage.
"We'll just be in the way," Toast says gently as she takes Max by the arm and leads him out. "We need to give them space to heal her." His eyes linger on the still form on the table as he lets the woman guide his feet.
Three people rush in past them as they make their way outside.
A crowd has already gathered, and one War Boy stands near the front with tears in his eyes. "She must be Witnessed!" he says desperately.
Max is going to throw up, and leans heavily on the wall, sucking gulps of air as his shoulders heave.
Toast lets go of Max's arm to take the hand of the Boy. "She is not alone. If she is to go, she will be Witnessed by many. She is Awaited." The Boy nods and swallows. She pats him on the arm.
"I need to do something,"growls Max after the panic recedes enough to speak.
"You're injured," she reminds him.
His eyes bore into hers, and she sees the edge of madness there. "Fine. Come to the wall. There will be plenty to do."
His hands twitch as they walk, and he is breathing harshly through his nose. His eyes are wild, and Toast watches him carefully from the corner of her eye.
The scene when they arrive is organised chaos. People are milling around. The injured and dying groan atop and behind the wall. Beyond, the vehicles are being picked over and War Boys are arguing over who gets to keep what.
Toast abandons him to climb to the top of the wall by the gate. "Everyone! We have work to do!"
"What about Furiosa?" someone asks from the crowd. Max winces at the sound of her name.
"Furiosa is in surgery, but alive. We won't know anything for a while." She is remarkably stoic. Or maybe she's just really good at compartmentalising. "She's not going to want to wake up to this mess, so it's our job to get it cleaned up." She spots Capable in the crowd. "Can you organise the wounded?" she asks. The redhead nods.
Capable speaks up. "Anyone who wishes to help the injured, or Witness the dying, with me." A handful of people gravitate to her.
"Anyone who can give blood, get your ass to the infirmary!" Toast yells out after her sister is done. Another group rushes off inside the gates.
"Loud!" she says, pointing to a senior War Boy.
He scurries to stand at the base of the wall beneath her. "Get the tow truck out here and drag the cars inside the Citadel. Any War Boys not helping you can make repairs to the walls."
"Kelly!" This time she points to a hard-looking woman who looks to be in her thirties. She is carrying a rifle like she knows how to use it. "If there are any left alive, I want them to remain alive. Do you understand?"
The woman nods, and her flaxen ponytail bobs. "If there are any, put them in isolation and guard them yourself. No further harm unless Furiosa orders it."
"You have my word," the woman replies.
The crowd disperses to do their assigned tasks, and the older of the two surviving Vuvalini appears before Toast as she climbs down off the wall. "Tessa, can you round up all the weapons and make sure they're properly catalogued and stored?"
The woman nods, turning to Max, who's been staring off into space through Toast's speech. "Take Max." The two women's eyes meet, and Toast silently tells Tessa to keep an eye on him, and keep him busy and out of the way.
Tessa knows he's been injured. He's probably in shock and needs supervision. At least this task should keep busy without any heavy lifting.
They pause as they approach the gates, which have been unblocked and are standing open.
Just inside the wall, Capable is kneeling at the side of a white-painted War Boy who is laying on his back with shrapnel protruding obscenely from his side. She has his hand in hers, and is speaking in low tones, stroking his fingers. Her face is a picture of serenity and love as she gazes into the eyes of the dying man.
Something about the sight drives out the image of so-pale Fury on the operating table for a moment, and he feels as though he is witness to something achingly intimate.
"You are Awaited," Capable promises the man, and a peaceful smile spreads across his face. "You have served well, and valiantly. You are brave, and the heroes of old await you in the halls of Vallhalla. Can you hear them?" she asks. "They are calling to you."
The man's eyes drift closed, and his hand goes slack. Capable doesn't let go, even as she reaches to the space above his now-dead body, grasps the air there and pulls it to her heart.
After long moments of stillness, she releases his hand and stands up, wiping tears from her cheeks. She meets Max's eyes with a smile, and he sees in her face peace, and joy, and sadness, and compassion. He doesn't know where she finds room for all that inside.
All he can feel right now is stunned grief, and the panic clawing at his chest.
She leans in and kisses Max on the cheek. "Whatever happens, it will be okay," she assures him.
He shudders. He doesn't want to hear that. He wants to hear that the earth itself will crumble beneath them, should she fall. He feels as though it already has.
"C'mon," Tessa interjects. "We have work to do."
He buries himself in the labor. They search the vehicles, and he is very good at finding hidden weapons. They check the rounds for each, and lay them out side by side next to the gate. When they reach the mangled truck wedged in the wheel well of the rig, he reaches in and draws out the bag full of weapons he left there, spying the distributor cap.
"Care for a walk?" he asks, suddenly desperate to just be away from all this. Tessa nods, the light of curiosity in her eyes, and assigns a nearby War Boy to watch over the weapons they've recovered. She knows the engine part, and wonders what he has in store.
It takes a few minutes to get to where he stowed the car, and his bruised chest is aching by the time they get there.
Finding it difficult to draw breath after the exertion, he leans on the rear fender.
"Nice haul," she says, admiring the car. She takes the distributor cap from him, pops the hood herself and reinstalls it. Coming back around to face him, she grabs the hem of his shirt. "May I?" she asks. He nods.
She raises it to find a wide diagonal band of purple across his chest, and gives him a reproving look. "Back to the infirmary for you. I'm driving."
Max stares at the ground. "I don't want to go back there," he admits after a long silence.
"Well, you're injured, so you're going," she informs him. He walks around and slides into the passenger seat, slumping and leaning his head back.
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He jerks awake as the car shudders to a stop. They are outside the infirmary, and he stares at the dark doorway like it's his tomb.
He doesn't know how long they've been. If she's already…
He can't even finish the thought.
The car door opens and Tessa offers him a hand up. He stares at it for a moment before taking it, letting her pull him creakily to his feet.
She gives him a little push towards the door before climbing back in his car and driving away.
The crowd is thick. There are dozens of injured inside, and easily over a hundred here breathlessly awaiting news on their loved ones.
Cheedo is at the door, acting as both triage and bouncer.
"Max," she says, surprised. "When did you get here?"
"Before… or during… all that," he replies with a vague wave behind him.
"During… That was you, blowing all those cars up."
He nods. "Saw the smoke. Came to help." He's looking down at his feet, and is throat bobs up and down.
"Are you here about Furiosa, or are you injured?" she asks.
He pulls his shirt up enough for her to see the bottom edge of the bruise. She whistles. "Not sure if there's much the Doc can do for that. You're being able to walk is a good sign. But we'll have someone take a look. Go on in."
He pauses in the doorway, grasping her arm. "Is… is she…?" He can't meet her eyes as he asks. He's almost rather not know.
"Hanging in there. It could still go either way, but she's still with us."
He grips the doorway as relief turns his legs to jelly. "Come on," says Cheedo, "I'll find you a place to sit."
There are no beds available. Every space is occupied by people groaning in pain, or attending to the wounded.
He shouldn't be here, he realises. He isn't hurt enough to be.
A waiflike blonde woman steps through the opening to the operating rooms and her eyes light up as she spots him. "Max!" she says, striding across the room and wrapping him in a hug.
He grunts in pain.
"You hurt?" she asks.
He nods.
"Bad?"
He shakes his head. "Bruised from the seatbelt."
She cocks her head, staring at him. He sees the precise moment she connects the dots, and her pupils widen. "You're the one who stopped the truck."
"Yeah."
"You promise you're not hurt too bad?" she asks him.
"Promise."
"Good. Come with me."
He is left trailing after her towards the operating rooms.
She leads him past the room where he left Fury earlier and into the second of the three operating rooms.
And there she is. So, so pale. They've modified the table to hold her upper body up at an angle, and laid a thin mattress beneath her. A bandage is wrapped around her left shoulder, the center stained with blood. There is bruising in the crook of both her elbows, and he sees puncture marks there. She is breathing in short, shallow breaths.
But she is breathing. Once again relief threatens to swamp him. Dag grabs him by the arm and half-drags him to the chair by Fury's side. "You can stay here with her. Rest. Relax. That way she's not alone and I can go help with the wounded."
He sits.
"Oh, and since you're here anyways, you can keep an eye on Verdant." She points to a wooden box in the corner. "You don't need to do anything," she adds when she sees the look of panic on his face, "Just come and get me if she cries. I'll be just out there in the infirmary."
She leaves the room before he can protest.
He looks around, anywhere but at its other two occupants, who are in their own different ways making him supremely uncomfortable.
He touches Fury's arm, tentatively. Her skin is cold and clammy. His fingers play over the inside of her wrist, resting there when they feel the steady beat of her blood beneath her skin. It steadies him, and he allows himself to breathe.
She doesn't look like herself. She looks pale, sickly. Weak. It is the one word he would never have used to describe her. Ever.
And yet, there she is.
There is nothing for him to do but wait, and hope.
But the source of all his hope lies on the table next to him, barely clinging to life. He doesn't know how to find it without her. Tears sting the back of his eyes, and his chest aches from more than the bruises.
It is the infant who saves him from succumbing to grief.
Something rustles in the corner, and he raises stiffly from his chair to peer into the box there. A pair of blue eyes stare up at him from a tiny bald head. He strokes her cheek, leaving a dark smudge of dirt. Looking down, he realises his hands are filthy. His left hand and sleeve are almost black with blood. Hers.
His everything is filthy.
He takes off the jacket first, then decides his shirt is no better off, caked with dirt and blood and who-knows-what else. He moves to the sink in the corner, peeling off his shirt and dumping it and the jacket on the floor by the wall. He takes a few minutes to clean his hands, and face, and chest with the clean water, drying with one of the towels. He looks over at Fury every so often, to ensure she is still breathing.
She is.
Verdant is making noises from her makeshift bassinet, but she doesn't sound upset, so he doesn't go to her until he is clean(ish) and dry.
By the time he is ready to attend to her, she is cooing and squirming.
He leans over and slides his hands under the child, relieved that he is not leaving streaks on the white cloth, and picks her up.
She smiles and it breaks his heart, in the best way. He holds her out in front of him, and she wiggles her arms and legs. "Hello, Verdant," he says before pulling her into his chest, resting her head over his heart, and stroking her hair gently.
It is the perfect balm for his battered soul.
Some minutes later, Dag returns to find him sitting in the chair by Furiosa's side, holding her sleeping baby to his bare chest.
She is struck dumb for a moment, then smiles. The sight of this strong man, whom she has seen kill without a second's hesitation, holding her baby so gently, does funny things to her insides. Damn. Too bad he's taken.
His eyes are watching her as she stares, and his hand rubs slowly over Verdant's back. Dag notes that he has ugly bruises forming on his forearms to match the one on his chest. "How is she?" Dag asks.
"Which one?" he replies.
She nods to the table. Her baby is obviously doing fine.
"Hanging in there."
"She's a fighter," Dag says.
He stays there all night, even after the Dag takes Verdant from him and goes off to get some rest. He is exhausted, but he does not sleep. If Fury goes in the night, he wants to be there.
Even more than he doesn't want her to die, he doesn't want her to die alone.