A/N: Whatever muse was whispering in George Miller's ear when he wrote Fury Road, stick with him. He's produced something even better than gold.
Disclaimer: Everything Mad Max was, is and will be, belongs to George Miller. I'm just playing in his Wasteland.
Manifest Destiny: Part 1
"So, um..."
The Fool clears his throat with hesitation, glancing over at Furiosa.
"...Where is this...this Green Place?"
She quietly strokes Cheedo's hair, the younger girl's sobs having lessened now to the odd sniffle.
Furiosa finishes tightening the bolts on her metal knuckles and looks at him. "It's a long night's run, heading east."
She hears the Fool and Furiosa speak without listening.
It's all too raw, too close to the surface to do anything other than to feel her heart break, to keep her eyes averted from the empty space where Angharad had curled up less than half a day before, arms crossed over her swollen belly, her glare never lessening for a moment whenever she stared at the Fool.
"We need inventory." The older woman reaches down and hauls up the leather bag of bullets from beside her feet.
"I want you to match every gun with its bullets."
It sounds like a general order, but they know it's one meant for Toast. Miss Giddy once said that she had a photographic memory. Proudly, like it was a good thing.
Miss Giddy probably didn't mean for that memory to be used this way, but out here, they need all the good things they can get.
The former Imperator slings her toolkit and harness over her shoulder and nods at the Fool. "I'm gonna go down and do some repairs."
The Fool never takes his eyes off the Wasteland ahead. "We need someone down the back."
Finally, an escape.
She quickly sits up, dislodging Cheedo's head from its resting place against her shoulder. "I'll go."
"No." Furiosa's head whips round. "I want you to stay together."
She grabs the ancient set of binoculars and wraps the wrist strap around her hand. "I can do it."
The Dag quietly slides her legs back down onto the floor of the cab as she scrambles out of the door, grey-blue eyes seeing everything and nothing.
The monotony of the passing Wasteland soothes her pain slightly. She leans against the warm metal of the rear lookout, the desert winds wicking away any tears as soon as they fall from her eyes.
She hopes it was quick.
If there's any kind of mercy out here, Angharad's death would have been quick. The baby too, poor little thing. It didn't deserve that kind of end, but it was the best it could have, under the circumstances.
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead as the Immortan's Wife.
That's the way of the War Boys. Live as one, bring the glory to yourself and pass on by His Hand to Valhalla. But you can bring both glory and shame. You'll be the only one to answer for it.
And he'll be the one to answer for what the blood-bag did.
He was driving, and he crushed her under the wheels of the War Rig like she was a dead dog filled with maggots.
Her body didn't burst, but no way could she survive that, or the child.
But either way, she's dead, and Immortan Joe will have his payment.
No path to Valhalla for him.
No road to glory for the half-life War Boy curled up like an old bag of bones in the pit of the rear lookout.
Mediocre. He will die, without glory, and mediocre.
Footsteps and a flash of white jolt him out of his descent into madness.
One of the Wives kneels just a short reach away from him, her bright red head bowed low over her arms.
He raises his head. His heart beats quicker.
It'd be easy, he thinks. Just grab her, drag her down to the cab and demand control of the War Rig. Four Wives, the Imperator, and the blood-bag.
Barry takes this moment to squeeze against his throat. Not for you, War Boy.
His head drops back against an oil rag and he groans as he shivers.
Who is he fooling?
Even if he was capable of it, even if he managed to overpower the women and the blood-bag, he'd still be dead as soon as the Immortan had the War Rig in his sights.
He'd still be mediocre.
The groan doesn't sound metal. It sounds human.
She turns to the right, then the left, and gasps.
"What are you doing here?"
For there he is. The skinny little War Boy who came so close to capturing them, his teeth shiny and chrome, white and black war paint long since erased by the sand and sweat, eyes unfocussed and filled with tears.
"He saw it. He saw it all. My own blood-bag driving the Rig that killed her."
Her eyes trace over his frame, grief supplanted by concern.
War Boys don't feel grief. They get taught quicksmart not to feel anything except for rage and glee.
This one feels something else.
And he doesn't know what to do with it.
He can feel her watching him, like he's worthy of the gaze of one of the Immortan's Wives.
He deserves her anger, her hate. His blood-bag killed one of her own. He's failed the Immortan.
Useless little War Boy. Couldn't succeed. Couldn't even die properly with all the chances he had.
He scrunches his eyes closed and bangs the side of his head against the metal floor.
It doesn't hurt as much as his chest hurts, not as much as Larry and Barry.
A gentle touch against his forehead breaks through the pain. "Stop doing that."
He keeps going.
The Wife doesn't take her hand away. "Shhhhhh..."
He doesn't stop until she presses hard against his head. "Stop."
The tears come faster. He can't stop them. Not in the face of...whatever this is.
Why isn't she hating him? Why isn't she stabbing him, spitting at him, cursing him?
He knows what to do with hate.
Whatever this is, he can't fight it.
He turns his head to look up at her.
She sits back and pulls her scarf around her shoulders, but she doesn't move away. There's no hate in her eyes. Nothing but...
He thinks he knows what it is. Mama looked at him in the same way. So did Dada, before he went away.
The silences stretches out, and he realises he wants to fill it. She needs to know what a pathetic thing he is, how he could never be worthy of that kind of look.
"...Three times the gates were open to me."
She frowns. "What gates?"
How could she not know? How does she not know of Valhalla, and how the Immortan will escort his War Boys to the gates to ride eternal with him?
He presses on. "I was awaited in Valhalla. They were calling my name."
Understanding fills her face.
He stares at a patch of rust. "I should be walking with the Immortan, feasting with the heroes of all time."
The Wife takes a breath, calmly rearranges her clothes, and lies down next to him on the dirty floor. The shock of this alone jolts him away from tears and grief.
"I'd say it was your manifest destiny not to."
Pretty words. Different. Far better than a War Boy deserves to hear.
But...she is sharing them. These new words.
He must share his. Nothing like as pretty, but he hopes they will do.
"I thought I was being spared for something great."
She listens.
"I got to...drive a pursuit vehicle."
The last of the V8 Interceptors, he almost says.
"For a while even Larry and Barry stopped chewing on my windpipe."
Odd. Is he speaking in metaphor?
"Who are Larry and Barry?"
He flashes a weak smile, just a fraction of a smile as he turns his head...and gestures to the two grotesque lumps at the side of his neck.
"My mates; Larry," tapping the larger growth, "and Barry", tapping the smaller tumour below.
She can't think of anything to say.
"If they don't get me, the night fevers will."
And suddenly it makes painful sense. Half-life isn't just a name, but an acknowledged truth for so many of the War Boys.
To do all that he's done so far, just for a chance to pass away on what he thinks are his own terms...
She stretches out a tentative hand and gently traces the scarring on his lips with a finger.
He can't move. Doesn't want to move.
If he moves, this will all be over. She'll realise that she should never touch a sick little runt like him, not she who was chosen by the Immortan himself.
But how long has it been since anyone touched him without inflicting pain or insults? The War Boys beat any softness out of the Pups early on, and the Organic Mechanic never bothered with any kindness when treating the sick and injured.
One of his hands reaches up, skinny and scarred fingers trembling as they gently close around her wrist.
She stills her movements, but she doesn't move away.
He tucks his fingers around hers so that they are protected from the dirt and rust under their bodies.
"Nux."
She blinks. Her eyes are green, he notices. Green like plants.
"Back in the Citadel, they called me Nux."
She smiles. "They called me Capable."
Capable. Another pretty word, and she's shared it with him.
He studies her properly.
Bright red curls, like fire. Those plant-green eyes. White teeth. No scars.
There's more there than just looks, no matter how pretty those looks are.
His eyes are blue, like the sky or fresh water.
The scars on his lips and cheeks are meant to intimate enemies, but they feel soft and warm to her touch. The scars on his chest show he's a Rev Head, a driver. A good one too, if he managed to keep up with the War Rig and not get killed.
He's not skinny, but lean.
She feels his gaze travel upward, then pause as he reaches her forehead.
He chokes out a soft laugh.
"Wondered where I dropped those."
"Oh...!"
Her free hand pats at the aviator goggles perched above her eyebrows. She had found them on the floor of the cab while she was crying, and had slipped them on to hold her hair out of her face. Furiosa had given her a brief look when she saw her wearing them, but had quickly turned away.
They're comfortable, the leather soft and worn. They're snug, but don't pinch.
But if they belong to him...
She reaches round to pull them off her head, but Nux's hand on hers makes her pause.
"No. You keep 'em."
She looks at him like she's not sure if he's lying.
He hitches his left shoulder, Larry and Barry gnawing away at his muscles.
"They never fitted me right. Look right on you though."
The smile she gives him somehow makes everything hurt less.
His face lights up like a lantern.
There are real thoughts in his eyes now, no longer the frightened, delirious look of a dog desperate to please an ill-tempered master.
She wonders how long he can hide back here, if he could come to the Green Place as well. Live out the remains of his short life in peace.
She sits back up and grabs the forgotten binoculars to scan the horizon. A little shuffle of limbs and boots, and Nux sits up behind her, resting his back against hers, arms against his kneecaps, watching the sun set in the west.
The night grows colder.
The stars come out overhead.
But Capable and Nux both stay warm.
TBC