Chapter Text
Time died with the old world. The days are no longer parsed in concrete hours, minutes, and seconds, but rather decay in tumbling pillars, and the survivors leapfrog from one moment to the next. Even the ground is malleable, sand always moving and shifting. Makes it hard to run from them, so the ones who run die, and the ones who drive the cars live. Max is always afraid, always driving, never daring to sleep, a mistake because now movies play when he closes his eyes. Just flashes. His wife. His daughter’s face. Hallucinations, but they feel real.
Sometimes he reaches for his daughter’s hand and grabs air.
How long have they been dead? Hard to say. His hair is long now, beard tangled and thick. Enemy tribes razed their clan and killed all omegas and the children. They enslaved the alphas, all except Max, who escaped into the desert. For a while, he thought death would take him because the pain of losing his mate and child was so great, but his physical body refused to succumb. He’s numb. When he talks out loud, the buzzards and lizards ignore him. Maybe he did die but the brain won’t agree to its new terms. Maybe he’s a ghost.
He steals gasoline and canteens of water from various tribes, forced to kill only when another alpha tries to take his life. Max moves forward, driving deeper into the desert, unsure of where he’s going, but knowing if he stops, he’ll die. And he cannot die because he cannot face the judgment in his daughter’s eyes as he burns forever in fire: You did this. You let us die.
Afraid to sleep, he sprawls on the hood of his car and looks at the stars. Engines rumble on the horizon, and he listens, waiting for them to come and take him.
They don’t until they do. The chase is short: a frantic sprint through the brown wasteland until he loses control of the car and it flips. He wakes up too late. The white faces of the War Boys flood his vision, mouths twisted in hysterical glory. They have him. They have him and now he is no longer Max. He is a body, a village of resources to be plundered and exploited. They hack off his hair and beard to make clothes and keep him as a blood bag, strung up because he has the burden of being a universal donor, one that can be hooked up to anyone, but they give him to a War Pup, a child. One of the War Boys calls him Nux, and he has an image of a car’s engine tattooed into his chest, a reminder that he is not free, but a possession of Immortan Joe.
All things belong to the desert king.
Max is strapped upside down to increase the blood flow, and for the first time he wishes they had killed him. He doesn’t want to live his final days like this, slowly being depleted of his life force. They’ve taken his jacket and his blood. What else can they take? Better to go out with a bang. He would swing forward and maul Nux’s face with his teeth, but they have wisely suited his crown with an iron shield. “I’m gonna die historic,” Nux announces, but he doesn’t know what the boy means. Something has happened. All the War Boys are kicking up a fuss. Something about Immortan Joe, his omegas, and someone named Furiosa.
Toast is smart and good with numbers so she keeps a calendar on the wall of her room. She stole a bit of chalk from the War Boys and ticks off the days, crossing off a group at five. Capable once asks her how long it’s been, and she frowns at the wall for a long time before saying, “Long time. Many days. More than three hundred.” Long enough for a few of the omegas to get pregnant courtesy of the Immortan, after the abductions, after stripping them of their names and identities.
He took Arthur’s name the night he came into his room and slapped him for refusing to submit. So Arthur clawed his face, nearly took out his eye, but Joe hit him again, and again, until he laid still and let it happen. That’s the day he became Larrikin, a backhanded sort of compliment, fond and cruel as is the Immortan’s style. Splended, the king’s favorite, asked him why he fought. Larrikin shrugged and said, “It’s all I have.”
Splended smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it. “Yes,” she agreed, dangerous with urgency, making him think of storm clouds building on the horizon.
At night, when the Immortan visits, and the cries and soft wails fill the vault, Larrikin lays in bed and stares at the grey ceiling. Beyond the locked door, the milking machines make their whishwhishwhish metallic churning noises. He knows they will be kept here, bred until they’re too old to provide children, and occasionally strapped to the machines to supply the War Boys with milk. Then he’ll be thrown away like trash.
All the omega wives have been thinking the words for some time, but it took Splended to articulate them aloud. They convened one afternoon in The Dag’s quarters, all the wives gathered on her bed, warily watching Splendid, whose belly is now swollen with Immortan’s child. She and The Dag are the only ones to conceive so far. Larrikin thanks the universe every day he wakes up within a body that has refused the tyrant’s seed.
Of all the wives, Splendid is the most stunning: tall, golden hair, and olive skin. She crosses her arms and announces: “We are not things.” Yes, he agrees to himself, but no one has told the Immortan that. “Furiosa says she’ll help us. Sneak us out in her War Rig. Far away where he can’t get us.”
The Dag is giddy, grinning toothily, “Immortan’s gonna pop his top.”
The other male omega, Conch, frowns and rubs his bare arms. They’re almost sticks, the muscles deprived of protein, elbows jagged bones pressing against sallow skin. “Where will we go? Nothing is out there, Splendid. Just desert, and after that, more sand.”
“Furiosa’s gonna take us to her people. They can help us,” she says, rubbing her stomach through sheer linens.
Conch is unconvinced, face marred with worry, but he won’t spill the secret. Arms loop his shoulders and sweet Capable presses a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll look after each other.”
He’s not alone in his doubt. Cheedo has been quiet the whole time, but finally pipes up: “He’ll find us. Immortan won’t just let us go. He’ll catch us and make us sorry we ever left.”
There’s the great fear, articulated, painted large and ugly as the Citadel itself. If they run, and the War Boys catch them, Immortan will make them pay. He may not kill his breeders, but he’ll torture them to teach a never-to-be-forgotten lesson.
“If we’re going to do it, it has to be now. He’s low on resources and manpower. He’s weak,” Toast says, drumming her knuckles against the wall. “Plus, we’ll have Furiosa.”
A one-woman army driving the most feared vehicle in Immortan’s entire fleet. Not a bad situation to be in, if they’re planning an escape, which they are. It’s clear Splendid, The Dag, Capable, and Toast are on the same page. They want to make a run for it. That leaves Cheedo, Conch, and himself who need to vote. Technically, the omegas have their majority, but they prefer to make decisions unanimously. Larrikin stands and walks towards his sister, who defiantly lifts her chin as if challenging any lingering doubt festering in his brain. He grips the back of her neck and tilts her crown, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m with you.”
“Me too,” Conch softly whispers, going along with the plan as soon as Larrikin expresses his agreement, as is his custom.
All eyes fall upon Cheedo, who gravely sighs. She believes they will die in the desert, and yet it’s better to die with her omega kin than alone in a tomb. Her weak nod is acquiescence.
The War Boys are chanting into the night, their shouts a garbled amalgam. Most likely, they’ve abducted more blood bags. Larrikin lays in bed, arms folded behind his head, and listens until the vault’s main door grinds open and Immortan’s heavy boots drag along the hallway. He schools his features into a blank mask the closer the steps come until his door opens and the king’s shadow falls across the floor. Even then, Larrikin refuses to look at him, nor does he make a sound when the alpha grabs him and rips off the linens. Immortan prefers him on all fours, flipping him onto his stomach, and Larrikin curses himself when a pained whimper escapes his mouth during the first thrust. His teeth sink into his forearm to stifle further noises, not wanting to give the tyrant any satisfaction.
“My dark philly,” Immortan pants against his neck, and Larrikin turns away from his foul breath. He doesn’t know why the man calls him that. Flesh-wise, Toast is darker than him, and Conch is also a brunette. Maybe the man means his soul. Larrikin has been a difficult breeder since the first days: fighting, biting, and spitting when the War Boys tried to rape him in his former village. Immortan likes his spirit, but there is a darkness that lives inside him.
He imagines Immortan’s head on a pike during the last painful thrusts. Larrikin wishes he could record the pathetic noise the king makes as he trembles across his back, spilling his seed deep inside. Behold, your mighty leader. After Immortan leaves, he squats in the corner of his room and scoops the seed from his depths with his fingers, a desperate last resort to prevent pregnancy. So far, he’s been lucky, but time is running out. Sooner or later, he will get pregnant, and then he’ll be bound to Immortan and this place forever.
There’s a grand piano in the middle of the vault’s main seating area. Conch sits on the bench and taps the middle key, delighting in the way the tone ricochets off the cathedral ceiling. He’s so immersed that he doesn’t hear the Immortan, and practically leaps into the air when a cold hand touches his shoulder. “I didn’t, I wasn’t—“ he sputters, head bowed deferentially. He’s not supposed to play unless the king is present to enjoy the music. Most people can’t eat or drink water, and a luxury such as music is reserved only for the chosen one.
His nose tells him the king has recently visited Larrikin’s room. He didn’t hear any unusual noises, but then again, Larrikin is stubborn and wouldn’t cry. Conch can’t help it when he does because Immortan frightens him. The alpha grips his chin, squeezing until it hurts and he has to look up, but instead of looking angry, the tyrant chuckles and flashes yellow teeth. “Play for me, little dove.”
He’s not very good, but obliges nonetheless, making it up as he goes along. Frequently, Conch’s fingers strike sour notes, but Immortan never expresses displeasure. It’s enough to hear something besides car engines and the agonized cries of the starving masses. When he’s played enough, Immortan touches his shoulder again, and he stops, fingers slipping off the ivory keys. Conch folds his hands across his lap, head bowed as he focuses on repressing the shiver traveling up his spine. It’s not the tumors across Immortan’s back, nor his wild hair or rotting teeth, that upset Conch. It’s how relentlessly cold he is, despite their location in the middle of the desert.
“You’re so good. You’ve always been so good. Always my favorite,” Immortan encourages, stroking his thick hair. Conch closes his eyes, for a split second genuinely enjoying the praise even though he knows the words are a lie. Splendid is his beloved, but Conch is aware he’s one of the better behaved omegas, obedient even if he does cry sometimes during their rutting. He knows Immortan values his submissiveness. The cold paw strokes his cheek, traveling south until strong fingers circle his throat and squeeze, just enough to make a point. The alpha could snap his neck if he wished. “Always so sweet, so honest.”
The meeting with the other omegas flashes in his mind, but the secret stays buried deep. The love for his sisters and brother outweighs fear of Immortan. The king suspects something, but Conch stays quiet, and he eventually accepts that as proof nothing is going on. No great conspiracy to be uncovered. The cold hand departs from his throat and the alpha exits the vault soon after, door locking behind him, leaving Conch alone to delicately press the middle key again and again as he decides to tell Splendid about their conversation. Immortan knows they’re planning something.
They have to leave soon.
It’s almost time for the watering, and in anticipation the War Boys are whipped up in a frenzy, driving deep into the dunes on raids and terrorizing any stragglers they encounter. In the meantime, Immortan Joe is distracted with ruling matters and negotiations with Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Everyone has something the others need: water, gasoline, or ammunition. The question is: who gets what and for what in exchange? The heads of each clan are male alphas, of course, which means the rest are treated as accessories or resources to be exploited.
Furiosa taps her metal claw against the dashboard, using morse code to communicate with Dagger, one of the War Boys who rides up top on runs. “Boss wants to know when we’re off!” he barks to one of their underlings. Her gaze remains fixed on the lip of the Citadel’s balcony, where Immortan is scheduled to appear soon, once he’s locked inside a medical suit and oxygen mask painted to look like an animal’s snarl, a resources-rich attempt to delay the inevitable consequences of radiation exposure. Immortan and his bastard children are dying from birth defects, malnutrition, and the byproducts of living in a nuclear wasteland, but he’s too vain to accept reality. In his last meager days, he plans to rape and pillage, depriving the masses of access to water.
She waits and quietly watches.
The War Boys and War Pups mill about, oblivious to the fact that Immortan’s omegas are nestled in the belly of the War Rig. She’s only shared a handful of words with Splendid, the architect of the escape. Furiosa’s main contact is an old woman, Miss Giddy, whose job is watcher of the omegas. Giddy was standing beside the War Rig one night, and seized Furiosa’s flesh arm with surprising strength as she relayed a woebegone tail of imprisonment and violence. And while she is no stranger to the ugly nature of the world they live in, Furiosa will not tolerate, under any circumstances, violence against omegas.
“They are not things,” the Giddy gasped.
That’s where she and Immortan have always disagreed. He views the War Boys and omegas as objects to exploit — the boys are agents of chaos, used at his discretion in warfare, and the omegas are baby incubators and occasional bovines to milk. But the old woman is right. They are not Immortan’s things. They are living, breathing people with hopes and desires, and Furiosa has recently decided she will no longer help Immortan kill what remains of the world.
She tells Giddy to inform Immortan’s omegas that they will escape to the Green Place, her childhood home, a rare patch of vibrant land where the free people live. The woman’s wide gaze is disbelieving, but Furiosa assures her it’s true. She’s seen the place with her own eyes, and her people will welcome the omegas with open arms.
Last night, she waited by the War Rig, and under cover of darkness the omegas ran from the Citadel, freed from their prison inside the vault by the old woman. They are half-naked, draped only in crudely tailored sheets, but they have all their teeth, unblemished skin, and Furiosa’s alpha brain must silently acknowledge they are each stunningly beautiful (from what she can discern in the flashes of their faces before stuffing them below deck). One of the omegas, a fair female with red hair, grabs her hand before she can close the hatch door, kissing the flesh knuckles, “Thank you. Thank you, merciful Furiosa.” She doesn’t know what to say in return, but her throat feels tight as she closes the door.
She stares up at the balcony as Immortan’s white head appears and he roars down to the desperate masses. From the vantage point, she can see many of them are elderly, or too skinny, ribs pressing against burnt and discolored torsos. An old man and woman at the front hold up their baskets in anticipation, agonizing as they wait for just a few drops of water. Furiosa knows the omegas have had access to Immortan’s Aqua Cola. They probably bathed in the stuff, luxuriating in the underground pools, swimming for leisure whenever Immortan allowed it. But she doesn’t feel bitter or resentful. That is one of very few perks his omegas get to enjoy.
Outside, the War Boys walk back and forth, checking on the rig, and she waits for a whisper or cough to alert them to the precious cargo. Miraculously, only silence answers back, and suddenly the crowd erupts. When she looks up, all heads are turned in her direction, and though he’s far aware, she feels the weight of the Immortan’s gaze. He has called her by name for she is his greatest warrior, charged with a run to Gas Town. The crowd chants her name and Furiosa’s grip tightens on the wheel. Just let me leave. Once I’m out there, I can survive.
“They love you, boss! Truly, they do!” Dagger howls.
She doesn’t answer.
Furoisa hates that the sight of water raining down moves her so. Nostalgia is a clawing, desperate animal. The temporary waterfall reminds her of the old world, when there was still time to make right all the wrongs. But just as soon as it begins, the War Pups turn the gears and close the dam once more, leaving just the unforgiving, stark nothingness of desert rock. The tribe buries their faces in the baskets and bowls, drinking too fast, vomiting up the water and then lapping that up too.
Surviving is not the same as living.
She punches in the sequences to start the War Rig, and when its mighty engine roars to life, the people cheer. She leans her head out the open window and barks: “Drive!” And the War Boys deliriously scream, overcome by the intoxicating lie that they serve a deity and not a greedy, aging man. Only a handful of boys will accompany her as escorts, so she’ll be able to deal with them when the time comes. She drives across the flatlands, occasionally glancing in a mirror to watch the Citadel grow smaller and smaller, and though it’s the last time she will see the place that has been her home for thousands of days, she feels no sadness in her heart.
Every mile away from the Citadel is a mile closer to home.
The boys aren’t a bright bunch, but even they notice when she veers away from the path that leads to Gas Town. “Boss, boss!” Dagger cries, leaning down from the roof, his baffled face filling the window, “Gas Town is that way!” he informs, pointing back towards the path.
“New plan,” she curtly responds, and he relays the order without question because the boy trusts her.
She tries not to feel sick about it.
Furiosa imagines the Immortan’s chamber at the top of the Citadel, the leader carefully watching her through a telescope, no doubt having noticed she’s veered off course—Ah, yes, there they are. Trails of smoke fill the mirrors, tiny cars tearing through the desert, growing larger in the dirt-covered glass. War Boys sent to rein her in. “Boss!” Dagger cries, still wanting to believe this is all a mistake. That she’s made a tiny miscalculation. No harm, no fuss. All can be made right again.
Her boot jams the gas, picking up speed, War Rig aimed at the wall of a sand storm. She glances to the side and sees one of the War Boys hugging her flank, a blood bag strapped to the front of his car. Poor bastard. Another casualty of war. Furiosa increases the speed, rolling up her window before the sand pelts the windshield. The rig wants to bear right, so she compensates, pulling the wheel to the left. She hears Dagger’s body tumble across the roof before it’s sucked into the air. The whole carriage tilts, threatening to tip, but she keeps the needle steady. Inside the brown cyclone, she glances out the window. A flurry of movement. The blood bag is loose. Never underestimate the desire to live. The War Boy spills some kind of liquid — fuel, she dimly registers. He’s on a suicide mission. His silver lips flap wildly, screaming something. She can’t hear him, but knows the word, “Witness!”
He’s going to kill them all. The great Furiosa, a charred corpse in the desert. The boy sparks a flare and for a split second, she sees his face: unlined, bright eyes. Too young.
The blood bag smashes his way into the car, and Furiosa has to look away because she’s reached the wall’s end. She needs to focus on driving. Blood bag dives onto the War Boy, wrestling the flare away from him. Saving them. No, she scolds, saving himself. That’s all it is.
There is no love or compassion, only survival.
He’s dead, buried deep in the desert. Death is heavy darkness. No, not dead. How’d you be thinking this stuff if you were dead? Max slowly picks up his head, a curtain of sand rolling off him. The storm is over. War Boy’s car is a twisted corpse of steel. Run. Max jumps to his feet, but his arm is anchored in place by something. The chain, fuck wit. They’re chained together and the boy is dead to the world. With trembling hands, he removes the blood line and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath. My blood is mine. He sits on his heels and surveys the landscape before spotting the butt of a gun jutting out from the sand. Any port in a storm. Aims the barrel at the boy’s hand. A shotgun blast at this range will blow the hand clean off. Then we’ll be square. He pulls the trigger and the gun powder sparks with a disappointing little sigh. Busted. Only one way out, then. Max heaves the boy across his shoulders and starts walking, trudging really, across the plain.
Not long before he spots the War Rig and experiences a dangerous thing: a surge of hope. He’ll hijack the vehicle. Imagine that. Max Rockatansky driving Immortan’s War Rig. No one will fuck with him then. He rounds the vehicle and temporarily forgets the plan when he sees Immortan’s omegas, half-naked, washing off with a hose. They freeze upon seeing him, and he freezes upon seeing them seeing him. Tales of their beauty haven’t prepared him for witnessing them himself. They are pale, unburnt by the sun, skin unmarred by war. There’s a male omega with dark hair. Max is still looking at him when Furiosa barks and he remembers the plan.
He aims the gun at her and demands the hose. “You,” he says, pointing to the young man. There’s another male standing just behind him, but he’s shaking so hard Max is a little afraid he’ll faint if called out. The other male has a calm face, even as he slowly approaches and lifts the hose. Max throws down the War Boy and drinks greedily, as best he can, through the bloody mask. He’s gotta get this thing off. When he looks over to the omega, the male is still watching him curiously. “What?” he grunts.
“Are you a pirate?” he inquires. His eyes are like desert amber. Max hasn’t been this close to an omega in a while and the young man’s scent is doing funny things to his head. He waves the gun threateningly at him. “Go,” he grunts, nodding to the rest of the omegas. The young man shrugs and retreats back to the group. He’s still watching the gentle sway of the omega’s hips when Furiosa slams into him like a shit ton of bricks.
Air rushes out of him and a pathetic grunt spills out in the time it takes the other alpha to mount him, wrestle the gun away, point the barrel at his head and pull the trigger. He recognizes the disappointment in her face. I thought it would work too. Max growls and sweeps her off, diving down to attack, but something whips him backwards. The buggering omegas have his chain and they’re pulling him away from their captain. Crazy Furiosa charges again, this time armed with a wrench, and he stumbles backwards, barely avoiding the sweep of her arm.
All the commotion wakes the boy, who yanks on the chain and trips Furiosa. War makes the most unlikely allies.
Furiosa hits the ground with an outraged cry, but recovers in a flash and charges to the side of the War Rig, and it takes Max too long to figure out why. A hidden gun. She’s going to blow out his brains all across the desert. The War Boy suddenly tackles her and he doesn’t hesitate to join in, wrestling the gun away from foaming-at-the-mouth Furiosa. The two of them are barely a match for her, and a different time, a different place, he might have paused in awe of her strength.
She keeps fighting, rallying again to pin him against War Rig and eject the loaded clip. He grunts in surprise when it plops to the sand. The boy sees the clip and grabs it, but just then a frigid blast slams into his face. The hose. The buggering omegas again. He walks through the wall for the sake of grabbing Furiosa and pinning her to the ground. Enough, dammit. The boy jams the clip back into the gun and Max fires four shots into the ground, kissing distance from Furiosa’s ear. That takes the fight out of her. He looks up, snarling through the mask, and the omegas lower the hose, the apparatus timidly drizzling by the brunette omega’s side.
He barks orders: you, cut this, and the brunette returns with a large pair of bolt cutters. He strains for a moment, but eventually frees Max from his connection to the War Boy. Max looks at his pale face, and for a split second, considers taking him. It’s his right. He won this battle. No one would stop him. Maybe Furiosa would try, but he’ll win again eventually. Perhaps reading his mind (omegas can do that, y’know), the youth speaks: “We’re not going back.”
Reality pieces together in the relative peace. He notices the blonde omega’s swollen stomach. Pregnant. The memory of his own pregnant mate sobers him. He remembers the War Boys storming the village, raping the omegas. I’m not them. Max pushes past the young man and climbs into the War Rig, ignoring Furiosa’s objections and the boy begging to come along. He thinks their temporary truce makes them partners. “No,” he grunts, starting the engine, and pulling away. He only makes it a few yards before the engine dies, and just as he’s begun to swear and inspect the dashboard, Furiosa scales the side and smugly stares at him through the window.
“Kill switch. I’m the only one who knows the code,” she explains. Max shows his teeth in a snarl. He could torture the information from her, but something tells him Furiosa doesn’t spill secrets easy. “You wanna get out here? What’s your name?” Max stares blankly at her, aggressively uncooperative. Furiosa pivots, attempting a different course: “You want that thing off your face?” The woman knows how to barter. He stares at her, allowing the fatigue to show. In the mirror, the War Boy is a white dot against the sand, charging in the general direction of the Citadel. He’ll return to Immortan and tell him everything. Reserves are on the way. They don’t have much time. Max grunts and opens the door so Furiosa can climb inside. “I’m not leaving without them,” she insists.
He sighs and looks out at the barely-dressed omegas. They’re a liability, but he’s not in a position to negotiate. Max tries not to watch as they cut the chastity belts off their waists, and he has to suppress a smile that threatens his lips when one of them, a female with white hair, viciously kicks at the apparatus and spits at it.
If you survive as long as she has, you develop something of a sixth sense for people. Furiosa doesn’t know the man’s name, but she believes they are safe in his company. Her alpha brain can detect the omegas’ anxiety and she tries to calm them with her steady gaze and half-smiles. I won’t let him hurt you. She can tell the only one who fully believes her is Splendid, whose cherubic face reflects her absolute trust. The gaze warms Furiosa, but she swiftly squashes the sensation. Remaining focused is essential, so she tells the omegas to hide in the belly of the rig.
The meeting is within a narrow canyon, the deal struck with a local biker gang. Gasoline for a safe passage. A fair business transaction. “I need you. You may need to drive the rig,” she tells the man. He grunts, responding in his verbally minimalistic way, before descending into the hatch, submerging until only his face and the barrel of the gun point out. She parks between the high rock walls and alights, announcing to the desert air that the tanker is here, filled to the brim with precious petrol. In the distance, engines roar. Immortan’s boys. The bikers aren’t stupid, and they appear at the top of the canyon, shouting accusations of sabotage. After all, she’s brought the full wrath of Immortan Joe to their front door. Furiosa can see the whole plan unravel seconds before the bikers detonate the entrance to the canyon, an earth-shaking wallop as she scrambles back into the rig.
All she can think about is how frightened the omegas must be, but they climb out of the hatch a moment later, explaining they can’t breathe in the cramped space, surrounded by the rig’s gas fumes. Furiosa shouts, telling them to take cover, but they refuse to go back down below.
She speeds through the canyon, beelining for the gap in rock that will be their exit, but the bikers pursue them, enraged by Furiosa’s failure to uphold her end of the deal. Their leader aims a rifle her way, but the other alpha shoots him, and he tumbles off the bike. When she glances at him, a pleased smirk hangs on his lips. Immortan has circumvented the canyon, avoiding the blast, and his War Boys descend upon them the second they tear out of the canyon. “I’ll go,” he volunteers, and Furiosa slaps a pick into his hand to remove the mask. He gazes at it and nods once in thanks.
Furiosa glances to the side and sees Immortan inside his car, and the War Boy from before. As predicted, he returned to the Citadel and ratted on them. A gleam of recognition, perhaps respect, in Immortan’s gaze before he raises the gun and points it at her. The rig’s door flies open, and Furiosa barely has time to make sense of what’s happening before Splendid leans out of the rig, her pregnant body shielding Furiosa from the tyrant’s wrath. Her golden hair whips in the wind, chin proudly raised. The Immortan slowly lowers his weapon, deep voice bellowing, “That’s my property!”
Bootfalls across the roof. When Furiosa glances in the mirror, she sees the man, newly liberated from the mask, fighting the War Boys and tossing them off the rig. He returns to the car and takes over driving so Furiosa can ride shotgun, fetching one of her hidden guns and picking off the War Boys one-by-one. The rig jars suddenly and Splendid slips out of the truck, a scream tearing from Toast’s mouth when she disappears. “Where is she?” Furiosa screams, imagining the worst.
The other alpha leans to the side, looking out his window, and smiles thinly, offering a thumbs up, and Furiosa sees Splendid gripping the side of the truck. The defiant gleam still in her eyes. A relieved laugh escapes, affection and pride swelling in her chest a second before the War Boys ram them from behind and Splendid slips and falls, this time truly disappearing. Furiosa looks away to hide her face, taking a moment to violently drown the desire to sob. “Splendid!” Conch cries, almost climbing out the window before Larrikin grabs his arm to stop him.
“You have to stop!” Capable demands.
“She’s gone,” the man grunts.
The omegas look to her, silently commanding Furiosa to stop him. She swallows and asks, “Did she go under the wheels?” The man doesn’t answer, but she presses: “Did you see her?”
He’s quiet for a few beats. “I saw her,” he finally says.
Furiosa nods, “We keep driving.” She folds up the last image of Splendid’s proud face and hides it somewhere deep inside her heart.
She tells him the plan. They’re going to the Green Place, the home of her youth. There, they will meet her people, and find a safe community to live. The man offers an expression that means he thinks she’s spinning fairytales, but Furiosa doesn’t care. She knows the Green Place is real. That’s all that matters.
Someone needs to check the rig’s fuel tank, and Capable volunteers, flashing a smile when Furiosa offers a concerned look. Now that Splendid is gone, their alpha guide feels extra protective of the rest of them. “I’m okay,” she reassures and slips from the carriage. She finds the War Boy stowed away in one of the compartments, curled up in a meager attempt to hide. He must have boarded the War Rig during the fight.
Capable lays down beside him and watches his wet face for a few moments.
“I was gonna die historic,” he whispers. If she reports his presence to Furiosa, the alpha may kill him, a shame because the boy is young, no more than eighteen years in age, and when she asks his name, he responds Nux. “Your hair looks like fire,” he notes approvingly when he stops crying. She tentatively touches his mouth, sprayed silver to resemble a chrome machine, their custom preceding ritual suicide. Except Nux is not dead, which means he botched the mission and cannot return to the Citadel.
“It’s not your fault. You’re not his property,” she whispers.
“She died ‘cause of me, baby too. Immortan’s property.”
Capable shakes her head and grips Nux’s face so she can look into his eyes. He’s afraid. “None of us are his property.”
She can tell no one has spoken to him this way before. Confusion washes across his space, followed by the dawn of realization. Capable knows that feeling well. Concepts like autonomy and freedom used to be foreign to her too, but now she can’t imagine living without them.
Night bathes the desert in haunting blues and shadows. The rig gets stuck in a field of mud and he and Furiosa alight to inspect the situation. Max casts a wary gaze along the horizon as Furiosa squats and tries to dig out the wheel by hand, shoveling handfuls of wet mud. He doesn’t like this. They’re too exposed and the moonlight is playing tricks on his eyes. A little girl races on the horizon. No. A dog. One of the desert beasts.
He listens for engines but only hears the wind. “We make camp for tonight.” The morning sun may dry the mud, making escape easier, and Immortan’s boys will wait for light to hunt them.
Furiosa throws a nasty look his way. “We keep moving.” He shakes his head, showing this time he aims to stick to his guns. It’s foolish to rush into unknown lands in darkness. They could be ambushed. She sighs, looking away, then back to buried wheel, and finally stands, wiping hands across her pants. “Fine, but we’ll rotate watch. I’ll go first.”
Max sleeps fitfully in the passenger seat of the rig, tucked beneath his jacket, recently reacquired during the fight with Immortan’s boys. His wife made the jacket for him from cow hide, and the memory plants her face in his mind, the seed blossoming into a nightmare about the final moments they were together before the raid. He awakes when a hand touches his arm, and Max swiftly draws a blade from the holster on his thigh, and presses the metal to the omega’s throat.
The male stares at him with calm eyes. Gradually, reality comes back to him and Max sheathes the blades, still breathing hard.
“Your turn to watch,” the omega says.
Max is in a sour mood and mumbles a string of profanity before climbing out to relieve Furiosa of her duty. He leans against the rig, alternating between watching the horizon and revisiting the dream: his wife’s dark hair and eyes, and then he thinks about Furiosa’s omega. He isn’t surprised when the young man appears at his side. Max stares at him, miserable and heavy with a fatigue that rests like concrete inside his bones. Their eyes are the same, hair color too.
“What’s your name?” he asks quietly. Larrikin. Max shakes his head. “No, I mean before. What was your name before?” I don’t want to know what Immortan called you.
The youth hesitates, brow slightly furrowed as he considers the strange request. How many days has Immortan held him hostage? “Arthur,” he finally replies.
He tests the name on his tongue as the omega shifts weight onto the opposite leg, fingers rubbing his bare arms, and even though the moonlight is dim, he can see the flush of his cheeks. He taps his chest, “Max.”
Arthur nods, flashing a wary smile. Even the dimples are the same. Max can’t stop staring at him and of course the omega notices. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
He’s not sure how to begin explaining himself. You look exactly like my dead wife. No, that won’t do. The second I saw you, I wanted to run away with you. Max rubs the back of his neck, sighing in frustration. Inarticulateness makes him moody and he wants to tell Arthur to go away because it hurts to look at him. He hasn’t been touched by an omega in years. A traitorous part of his brain wonders what would happen if he stepped forward and yanked up the sheet. Would Arthur lean into him? Wrap his legs around his waist? Let Max press inside the wetness between his legs?
He swallows thickly and rasps: “I have to watch.”
Max hopes Arthur will go away, but he doesn’t. “You saved us,” he whispers and Max doesn’t know what to say in answer. The omega sounds like he’s awed by Max’s actions.
“Furiosa saved you.” It’s the truth, anyway. Max is just trying to survive and Furiosa and the omegas are means to an end. He needed a ride and someone to free him from the mask, and as soon as they get to the Green Place, they’ll part ways again.
“But you could have left by now and you didn’t. Why?” Arthur steps closer to him and his sweet scent floods Max’s nostrils again. He blinks and sees a ripe peach, waiting for Max to sink his teeth into its soft flesh. He can taste the grainy juice on his tongue even though he hasn’t eaten one since he was a very young pup.
Max looks at his pale face. He exhales through his nose, defeated. Dark thoughts creep across his brain like a spreading pool of oil. Immortan Joe has had Arthur. He’s laid atop him and pressed his cock inside. Max wonders if Arthur cried. Probably not. Arthur is steady and proud. He wouldn’t want to show any weakness. Should have gutted him when I had the chance. He’s angry with himself for failing Arthur, and swears to kill Immortan before this thing is done.
“Are you with child?” he asks. Arthur looks surprised but eventually shakes his head. One small mercy, anyway. He glances at the rig, checking to make sure Furiosa or one of the other omegas isn’t eavesdropping. “We could leave, you and me.”
It’d be easier to travel, just the two of them, even without the aid of the rig. Max has managed to survive in the desert without transportation before, and he could do it again, especially with the added motivation of a mate to care for.
Arthur hesitates, which Max actually finds encouraging. The omega is considering his proposal. He’s proven himself capable of protecting omegas. Arthur eventually shakes his head, voice barely above a whisper, “I can’t. Conch is pregnant. We just found out. He’s been throwing up and Toast says he’s with child.” The smaller male omega. Max winces. He can’t imagine how an omega with such narrow hips could carry a child. The birth won’t be easy, if Conch can survive it at all. Most omegas die unless they can deliver the baby through traditional means. Successful cesareans are a luxury of the old world. “Furiosa says the women in the Green Place know how to cut the baby out so the omega won’t die.”
He nods slowly. The mythical Green Place again. Max doesn’t want to extinguish the hopeful gleam in Arthur’s eyes. “Then you should stay with him.”
“And you’ll come with us,” Arthur prompts, young and earnest. Max wants to cup his face and kiss his brow.
Instead, he clears his throat and nods. Of course.
Commotion on the other side of the rig. Max sprints around the truck, gun already drawn and aimed at the intruder. A War Boy — the War Boy who used him as a blood bag. Max snarls and clicks back the hammer, but the red-headed omega throws herself in front of him. “No!” she screams, “Please, don’t! He’s just a boy! He’s a boy!” Her shrieks draw the attention of the others, and soon Furiosa and the rest are gathered beside the truck. The boy is terrified, huddled behind Capable, who shields him in her arms. “His name is Nux. Immortan used him. Just like us,” she pleads to Furiosa.
The other alpha frowns, sharing Max’s trepidation. But luck is on Nux’s side because just then engines roar on the horizon. Immortan has caught up to them at last. He shares an alarmed look with Furiosa and Nux says, “I can help!” pointing at the sunken rig. They don’t have a choice. They need all the hands they can get. Max nods and grabs the chains tossed to him by Furiosa and they secure one end to the rig and wrap the other end around a nearby tree.
Max walks back to the truck and takes Arthur by the arm, walking him to the rig, “You hide with the others.”
“I’m a good shot,” Arthur insists, freeing his arm.
His lips curl slightly, Max’s chest swelling with affection, “I’m sure you are. But not today.”
Arthur is still scowling as he climbs into the War Rig. Furiosa guns the engine and the heavy rig nearly uproots the tree, so Max runs over and braces against it, attempting to force the roots back into the earth. The wheels spin helplessly in the muck as the Bullet Farmer and his cronies grow larger on the horizon. Nux pushes at the back of the rig, trying to add a bit of heft to free them, and just when it seems hopeless the rig jolts forward, wheels finally finding purchase. Nux cries out victoriously, pumping fists into the air, for the first time looking his eighteen years of age. Max laughs, amazed that they might actually get away and unhooks the chain.
Maybe they can make it to the Green Place. Maybe he and Arthur can be together.
He snatches a rifle from the rig and takes a knee beside the vehicle, carefully aiming the scope at the center of the Bullet Farmer’s head. They’re too close for Furiosa to make a clean getaway. He fires, missing the Bullet Farmer. Max aims again and shoots, blasting out the front headlight of the farmer’s car. He swears beneath his breath, aware of how precious their ammunition is and how wasteful missed shots are. A hand touches his shoulder, and when he looks up, Furiosa is patiently gazing down at him.
He sighs and reluctantly hands her the rifle. The alpha steadies it on his shoulder with her mechanical hand, carefully taking aim. “Don’t breathe,” she instructs as her finger squeezes the trigger. The explosion is immediately followed by the Bullet Farmer’s agonized cry as he claws at his face. Retaliation is swift in the form of machine gun fire, peppering the back of the War Rig.
“Go!” Max shouts to Furiosa, who tries to stop him, but he’s already marching determinately into a wall of dust to finish the job.
The omegas are huddled together in the hatch, but when bullets begin to ricochet off the rig, Arthur opens the door. “Don’t,” Cheedo gasps, clutching his arm, but he shakes her off and climbs into the cabin. No one is there so he jumps out of the rig. Furiosa is not pleased when she sees him outside, “Get back in there!” she shouts, roughly grabbing him and shoving him backwards.
“Where is he?” Arthur gasps, looking around. He can’t see Max anywhere.
“Now, Larrikin,” she growls, practically picking him up by the front of his tunic.
An explosion silences them both, Arthur’s eyes wide in horror as he imagines Max in the middle of the blaze. He’s dead. Their protector is dead. Even Furiosa is stunned into paralysis, watching flames lick the sky. A silhouette appears on the horizon and Furiosa aims the rifle at it. It could be the Bullet Farmer. It could be a War Boy. It could be Immortan Joe.
At last, the curtain of smoke parts to reveal Max. Arthur races away from the rig and throws his arms around the alpha’s shoulders as he winces and chuckles, gently patting his back because his hands are weighed down with items: a bag and a string of ammunition. When he sets them down and unzips the bag, he reveals a pile of guns to Furiosa. “For the journey,” he explains.
Max is going to ride with them until the end.
The journey is miserable for Conch, who sometimes has to lean out the window and vomit when morning sickness overwhelms him. He slumps dejectedly against Larrikin, resting his head against the other omega’s shoulder. Larrikin’s hand is cool on his brow, stroking back the damp mat of his hair. The male alpha keeps looking back at him in concern. “Fever?” he asks and Conch can feel when the other omega nods in confirmation.
“I had a fever too when I first found out. It passes,” The Dag encourages, lacing her fingers with Conch’s and squeezing his hand. He tries to smile in gratitude but another wave of nausea inspires him to instead bury his face into Larrikin’s arm.
He’s afraid, but knows the other omegas and Furiosa will take care of him. “You’ll say a prayer for me?” he asks and The Dag smiles, immediately pressing her hands together and whispering to whoever she prays to — as she put it herself one time — anyone who will listen.
“Tell me about the Green Place again,” he pleads and Larrikin repeats what Furiosa has told them: it’s a place where food grows from the earth, ripe and juicy fruits you can eat right off the vine. And pools of fresh water from which tribes drink and bathe. There is cattle and sheep that graze and they can slaughter for meat and use their hide for clothing. There are huts to protect them from the brutal sun and there is no war in the Green Place. Most importantly, the people vote on decisions and most of the tribe is comprised of other omegas just like them. The Green Place means peace and freedom.
Larrikin says all of this, and when Conch opens his eyes, the male alpha is looking back at them. No, not them, at Larrikin, but his gaze is funny. Like he just woke up from a dream.
A naked woman is screaming from a cage suspended high in a tree. Furiosa parks the car and they all strain to see her. “Does she need help?” he asks.
“That’s bait,” the male alpha gruffly responds.
Conch shrinks behind Larrikin, cautiously surveying the landscape. It doesn’t seem like an ambush, but then again, Conch isn’t an experienced War Boy. He doesn’t really know what a trap looks like.
Furiosa climbs out of the truck before any of them can intervene and announces to the dunes her clan alliance. A threatening silence follows before two bikers rip over the hills and speed towards her. In a flash, the woman inside the cage climbs down and slips into a robe, rushing towards Furiosa. Conch leans forward, afraid there’s going to be a fight, but instead the women embrace like old friends.
When they join her outside the rig, Furiosa introduces the women: cage lady is called The Valkyrie, and with clothes on she gives off the air of a regal desert queen. There are older ladies too: Keeper of the Seeds and a group of biker matriarchs collectively referred to as The Vuvalini. White hair and clad in leather, the women find the omegas fascinating, examining their differently colored hair and healthy teeth. One of the old women touches his stomach, “Baby?” she asks, and he nods, smiling when her eyes sparkle.
All the women are alphas, but Conch isn’t threatened by them.
The Dag is taken with the Keeper of the Seeds, examining the contents of the old woman’s bag, which contains all the tools to start a new harvest once she finds fertile soil. While the Vuvalini welcome the omegas, they consider the male alphas warily until Furiosa vouches for him and Nux. Even then, they look unsure, but at least they don’t shoot them dead right then and there. Furiosa announces they’re on their way to the Green Place, but for some reason the women look distressed, exchanging hesitant looks until The Valkyrie speaks:
“But…if you came from the west, you passed the Green Place, sister.”
Cold fingers travel up his spine as he realizes what that means. There is no Green Place. The only thing they saw on their way was swamp land with strange men scaling through the marsh on tall wooden stilts. Might that have been what’s left of the fertile lands of Furiosa’s youth? No plants could grow in such a place. “The water turned stagnate,” Keeper of the Seeds explains, “We had to keep moving.”
Furiosa doesn’t listen to the rest. She staggers away from them and collapses into the sand, face twisted in agony as she screams, a terrible noise that steals the breath from Conch’s lungs. He covers his ears, bent at the waist until someone touches his back. It’s Toast and he buries his face against her shortly cropped hair. He can tell from the quaking of her shoulders that she’s crying, but is still strong enough to hold him.
The end of the road. There is no Green Place. There is no salvation for them. No where to hide from Immortan Joe.
“We’ll ride east. Maybe we can find healthy land somewhere along the way,” one of the Vuvalini suggests. “But not until tomorrow. You can make camp here tonight.”
They can’t outrun the Immortan forever, and the odds are stacked heavily against them. Chances are, they will run out of water and die in the desert, or be hunted down by the tyrant and taken back to the Citadel for their punishment. “We should go back,” Cheedo says, articulating a weak thought they have all experienced at least once during their journey. “Maybe if we go back and say we’re sorry, Immortan Joe will forgive us.”
The Dag sneers. “He’ll whip us for insolence. We’re not going back.” Keeper of Seeds nods gravely in agreement. Retreat is not an option.
Furiosa collects herself and returns to the group. “We’ll camp here. Just for the night. Then we drive.”
The alphas supply sand-colored tents that blend seamlessly into the surrounding dunes so that even if Immortan Joe and the War Boys drive by the camp, they probably won’t see them. Max sets up his tent apart from the group, though not so far away that he loses sight of the others. He’s not used to sleeping with a clan and the sound of murmuring and shifting bodies will keep him awake. He splays across the bedding, staring at the canvas fabric, and briefly entertaining the idea of sleeping outside so he can see the stars as has been his tradition all these years.
Rustling outside captures Max’s attention and he casually cocks his gun and aims it at the flaps as they part, revealing Arthur’s face. The sight is not a total surprise and he uncocks the pistol, setting it aside. They don’t speak, but rather stare at each other until Max sighs and beckons him inside. Much has been left unsaid between them, and Max knew the omega wouldn’t let this thing between them die without analysis. Something like fondness bubbles in his chest when Arthur looks pleased at the invitation and sits on the bedding beside him.
Max sprawls on his back, arms folded behind his head. He’s aware Arthur is watching him, but he’s afraid to look back until the omega gives a little shiver. “Cold?” he asks, already knowing the answer. The desert freezes at night. Arthur nods with a shy smile, and Max slides out of his jacket, draping it across the omega’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, wrapping the jacket around him and flashing another dimpled smile. Max grunts and lays back down. Silence follows and for a second he thinks maybe they’ll just sleep like this side-by-side, but suddenly Arthur speaks: “Why do you look at me that way?”
Max sighs, still afraid to look at the omega. He doesn’t want to talk about how Arthur reminds him of his dead mate — about how it’s his fault his wife and child were murdered by the War Boys — and now memories of them haunt his every waking moment. On the other hand, Arthur is here right now, and the longer he’s in the tent, the more Max doesn’t want him to go. He has to say something or the omega will assume he’s never going to explain what’s going on.
“You look…like someone I knew,” he rasps.
Arthur leans closer to watch his face and Max winces. He hates how openly the omega looks at him, without judgment or fear. It makes Max feel raw and exposed. “Dead?” he asks and Max’s throat nearly closes, but he nods to answer. Dead. Stacked with the rest of the corpses and set ablaze by the howling War Boys. “I’m sorry,” Arthur says, gently cupping and turning his cheek so he has no choice but to gaze back at him. The omega’s hand is soft and lovely, his fingertips delicately tracing the stubble of his jaw.
Holding his breath, Max watches Arthur descend and tentatively kiss his mouth. It’s tender and amateurish in its timidity, but then it occurs to him that the omega has probably never kissed anyone before. Immortan Joe most certainly does not bother to waste time with such trivialities. The thought angers him, eyes slipping shut as he grips Arthur’s arms and surges up to properly kiss him, turning them so he can drape atop the youth.
His tongue parts the omega’s lips, coaxing a sweet, startled moan from him, and Max swallows the noise. Arthur squirms out of the jacket to wrap his arms around Max’s shoulders, a warm embrace that temporarily allows him to forget about all the death and violence. In the midst of such chaos, this singular moments feels good. Max can’t remember the last time he felt good, and he wants more, so he grips the sheet and pushes it up around Arthur’s waist. Without the chastity belt, he’s naked underneath, and Max grips between his thighs, stroking just under his sac where Arthur is already wet.
The omega gasps, spine arched and head tilted back. A tremble travels through his body and Max looks down where a small pool of moisture has wet the bedding. “Sorry…I didn’t…I never…” he pants, cheeks flushing a lovely shade of pink. He chuckles and runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, pushing the fringe off his brow. Orgasms are foreign to him. Maybe he didn’t even get wet when he was with Immortan. The omega’s cock is rock hard and leaking against his stomach by the time Max unfastens his trousers and shoves them aside to press the head between Arthur’s gleaming cheeks.
The omega greets him enthusiastically, shapely pale legs wrapping around Max’s waist. He watches Arthur’s face on the first push, pausing when his brow furrows in a pained expression. “Hurts?” he grunts, voice surprisingly steady despite the frantic hammering of his heart. He’s partly worried Furiosa will hear them and drag him out by his dick. Arthur stubbornly shakes his head and he smirks, closing the few more inches until his hips are flush to the omega’s rear. It’s divine, a vise-like grip so tight that he feels Arthur’s heartbeat. Max’s jaw locks, refusing to release any wounded or pathetic noises. He can’t thrust yet or he’ll come.
Arthur’s breathing is already ragged, grip desperate as he seeks to strip Max of his clothing, nearly tearing his shirt in the process. He swears and swats at the omega’s hands. The clothing may be soiled, but it’s all he’s got. He grabs the fabric, pulling instead of tearing until his torso is bare and the omega can touch his skin. Max has to admit it’s much, much better with their naked, wet skin writhing together as he thrusts between the omega’s thighs.
A sob escapes Arthur’s throat, but the youth immediately sinks his teeth into Max’s shoulder to quiet himself. Sucking in a deep breath, he bows his head and ruts the omega, the wet push of his cock and slap of hips loud in the night. Surely, someone is going to hear them. One of the female alphas will catch him rutting an omega and castrate him right then and there. When Arthur reaches down and grips his bare ass, coherent thought sails from his skull, and Max thrusts with abandon.
“Oh..” Arthur gasps, eyes shut, and brow furrowed. Max kisses his agape lips, sucking out the hungry, desperate moans. He’s dizzy from the wetness and the scent that is so sweet it makes him hungry. Not hungry. The tightening disturbance is lower. Between his legs. He’s going to come. He hasn’t come in ages. Max knows he should pull out and spill his seed in the sand. What he should absolutely not do is spend himself inside Furiosa’s omega. Arthur kicks his flanks with his heels, like he’s a stubborn steed in need of taming. “Do it, do it,” he demands, arching and undulating his hips, demanding Max finish inside him.
He swears, bows his head, and pistons his hips until Arthur is quiet, biting his knuckles to stop from screaming. The omega shakes again as he comes and Max is not far behind, racing across the finish line with three ragged thrusts and a muffled, “Fuuuck,” the knot growing thick and heavy inside Arthur before he collapses atop the youth. The world goes dark until he feels Arthur stroking his hair, pressing tender kisses to his jaw and neck. When Max leans back, the dark eyes curiously watch him. “We shouldn’t have…” he mumbles, climbing off him to tuck away his soft cock and find the shirt. Arthur is a mess: sweaty, breathless, seed drying on his stomach, a puddle beneath the pert swell of his ass. Just looking at him makes Max wants to dive between his thighs and lick him clean.
The omega props up onto his elbows. “We wanted to, so why not?”
“Furiosa wouldn’t like it,” he mutters, yanking the shirt over his head.
He’s going to have to wake early and pack the tent before any of the female alphas get a whiff of the bedding. Otherwise, they’ll instantly know Max rutted an omega. Arthur tranquilly watches him in that insufferable way of his. “I look like your dead mate.”
Max heads snaps up and he stares at him. “Shut up,” he growls. He won’t let anyone talk about his family. Not even Arthur.
But the young man is loopy and determined post-coitus, leaning forward and running his fingertips along the nap of Max’s neck. “It’s okay if you like that I look like them,” he whispers.
He snarls, grabbing Arthur by the neck and pinning him to the bedding. Enough. Max bares his teeth and squeezes the omega’s throat to remind him of his place. “Shut up,” he repeats, shaking him a little. Just to make his point. Now that he’s tasted Arthur, he wants more, and if they had time, he would unfasten his pants again and shut him up that way, fucking him until the omega was too exhausted for interrogation. Infuriatingly, Arthur doesn’t look afraid. His beautiful eyes remain placid lakes of amber. Max grunts and releases him, gesturing to the flaps. “Go.” If Arthur stays, he’ll rut him again, and Furiosa will hear them.
Arthur doesn’t fight him this time, instead using the sheet to tidy up, and then straightens it around his waist. He shouldn’t look, but he does when Arthur bends over and exits the tent, his rear a tempting peach beneath the white fabric. Max feels miserable by the time Arthur turns to poke his dark head into the tent again. He sighs, almost a pitying noise, as he considers the alpha. “Don’t hate yourself forever. You deserve something nice and shiny.”
It takes him a second to realize the omega is teasing him. He smirks, shaking his head. “You don’t want a life with me, beauty.”
Arthur flashes his dimples. “Yes, I do.”
The plan is to escort the females east, across the most brutal desert plains where there are not even dunes to provide shade and protection from the wind and sun. The earth is so desolate and parched that it splits into dusty scales, stretched before them in cruel, unending miles. The War Rig is low on fuel and on her structural last legs, so they take bikes as a backup mode of transportation. Furiosa pauses at one point, and climbs from the rig so she can consult with some of the other females about navigation.
Max stays out of the debate, not wanting to overstep his place with the clan (one of them, but not one of them). He examines the handle bar of his bike, then pretends the speedometer is terribly interesting and worthy of his attention. When he looks up, all the females plus Conch are still speaking or listening to the speakers. Only Arthur looks away from the group, directly at him. He sighs, slightly annoyed the omega is being so overt. A little discretion, please, my beauty. The youth’s mouth curls slightly, a blossoming smirk. Dammit. Max rolls his eyes and smirks, looking away as if terribly annoyed at the display, but the warmth spreading across his neck is a warning.
Heat waves emanate on the horizon and Max knows only death resides in the east. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have minded that certainty because it might have meant reuniting with his mate and child. But Arthur has now complicated his life. Death no longer holds the same allure. It doesn’t escape his attention when Capable also glances away from the group, towards a bike where Nux straddles the seat, anxiously staring back at her. Maybe they all found a new purpose out in the desert. Maybe they shouldn’t be in such a rush to die.
Max kicks down the stand and climbs off his bike, approaching the group. The females stop talking and eye him suspiciously, but Max has an idea and he wants to share it with Furiosa. He proposes they return to the Citadel, which is chock full of water and supplies. Immortan Joe is an aging alpha, most of his soldiers are children, and their resources are dangerously low. He’s vulnerable. Highly susceptible to attack.
Furiosa first looks at him like he’s lost his mind, then deflates momentarily in a moment of fatigue that he understands. It will mean backtracking, undoing all the progress (if it can be called that) they’ve made, and for what? More fighting. More bloodshed. But also a glimmer of hope on the horizon. He glances at Arthur, the warmth spreading to the rest of his face when he sees a proud gleam in the omega’s eyes. He offers his hand to Furiosa.
She stares at his hand, sighs, and claps their hands together. Until the end of the road.
The plan is for Furiosa to drive back through the canyon with the Vuvalini riding as support, luring Immortan and his dwindling band of War Boys into a final showdown. Max volunteers his bike back to one of the women so he can ride inside the War Rig because he wants to lend Furiosa a hand, but also because Arthur is riding inside the truck and he wants to be able to protect him if need be. The omega’s face expresses that he suspected as much the moment Max lays eyes on him. He smirks, watching Arthur’s grinning face disappear into the hatch. Furiosa catches him looking and quirks an unimpressed brow that instantly sobers him and Max squints into the summer sun. “Good day for a fight,” he remarks.
“Oh yeah, but be careful, all types of pretty distractions.”
Max face resentfully burns as Furiosa chuckles.
If nothing else, Immortan Joe, like most alphas, is predictable. He is murderously angry over Furiosa’s betrayal, and considers the omegas (and their babies) his property, so he will secure them by any means necessary, including following them into the narrow space of the canyon. Nux rides on the back of the rig, howling when he catches sight of his former brothers. “They came for a fight!” he cries, cackling when the men open fire. Max hums and leans out the window, returning fire. Soon enough, the hatch flies open and the omegas scramble out, choking on the War Rig’s fumes, and this time Furiosa doesn’t chastise them. Max stops shooting long enough to look back at Arthur, just to make sure he’s all right, and then focuses on the war cars zipping at their flank. Pole-cats wave through the air, zipping close to the War Rig to toss grenades and smoke bombs inside as the omegas screech in fear. He and Furiosa take turns fielding the intrusions, tossing them back into the air or into nearby war cars to detonate.
The pole-cats dip closer and closer to the rig until Arthur suddenly cries out, and before Max understands what’s happening, he looks up to see the white linen of the omega’s tunic fluttering in the wind. “Max!” he screams, desperately reaching for him, but it’s too late. The pole-cat delivers him into Immortan Joe’s vehicle.
“I’m going!” Max barks, jumping out of the War Rig before Furiosa can stop him.
Immortan pulls in front of the rig, slowing down, trying to force them to a stop. He leaps onto the elevated bed where the tyrant’s beast of a son, Rictus Erectus, waits. The alpha is a mountain, towering over Max as he cries, “You killed my brother! My baby brother! He was perfect in every way!” Max’s brain plays tricks on him again, supplying a movie of Splendid slipping off the rig and disappearing under the wheels of Immortan Joe’s car. He comes back to reality just in time to duck out of the way of a fist the size of a small boulder. Rictus swings again, this time punching Max square in the gut and he stumbles backwards, collapsing to his knee, sputtering and coughing. He’s close enough to the car to see through the window. Arthur is trying to shove Immortan’s hand away, his sticky paw drifting between the omega’s legs. Glass is thick, engine loud, and still he hears the tyrant’s voice: “My dark philly. How I missed you.”
Anger surges through him and Max charges the mountain, bellowing as he tackles Immortan’s son, who shouts in surprise. He’s no match for the alpha, but the goal is to distract him as Furiosa runs past them and leaps into Immortan Joe’s car. They roll across the bed, exchanging punches, and he looks up just in time to see Furiosa wrap the chord of Immortan’s oxygen mask around the wheels, tearing it (and half the warlord’s face) off. A trail of blood sprays across the sand and everyone freezes, staring in disbelief at the dead king.
“You killed him!” Rictus screams, charging the rig and leaping onto the side. Perhaps he means to destroy Furiosa’s vehicle then hunt them down one-by-one and murder them in the desert.
“He killed the world!” Max looks up and sees one of the Vuvalini driving a vehicle hijacked from a War Boy. Capable’s red head sticks out of the car where the rest of the omegas stare through windows. Max looks back and sees Nux driving the rig. The young man is wide-eyed, filled with purpose, and Max understands what he plans to do.
“Drive!” he shouts to Furiosa, who shoves aside Immortan’s corpse just enough to commandeer the car. They surge ahead of the other car, which slows down, nearing the rig, perhaps hoping to pick up Nux, but Max already knows the young man has chosen another way. Capable’s eyes are wet as she watches him, and the youth looks calm when he calls to her: Witness.
They speed out of the canyon just as Nux jerks the wheel sideways, flipping the rig into a fireball that consumes him, Immortan Joe’s only healthy legacy, and the evidence of the great canyon battle.
The Dag sobs, clutching the bag to her chest. The Keeper of Seeds fought bravely, but died in the battle along with The Valkyrie and many sisters, but before she died the Keeper entrusted her mission with the omega. “She chose you ‘cause you’re special,” Conch notes and Toast nods in agreement. The Dag sniffles, popping open the bag to eye its contents: all the ingredients to begin the world again.
“I’m gonna make her proud-like,” she whispers.
Capable is quiet in the back seat, staring straight ahead, face carved with silent tears.
Cheedo’s dark hair whips in the wind, serious as she gazes in the mirror and watches Furiosa slow Immortan Joe’s car until it stops completely. “Stop the car. Something’s wrong.”
Furiosa’s been stabbed and she’s bleeding profusely. It’s bad, bad enough that she’ll probably die, and Max has no idea how she fought like she did with such an injury. “Stubborn old bird,” he jokes, flashing a weak smile, and to his great surprise, the alpha laughs. Arthur knows how to dress wounds and he does the best he can with their minimal supplies, but ultimately shakes his head, looking pointedly (and gravely) at Max.
Furiosa is going to die unless drastic measures are taken.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Get a line,” he mutters, rolling up his sleeve, and they press a needle into his wrist, the other end into Furiosa’s flesh, and for the second time in a week Max gives his blood. But this time, he’s glad for it. He sits beside the warrior, watching her eyes slip shut, and strokes the oil-slicked brow to keep her conscious. “Max,” he whispers, “That’s my name.”
They pull a sheet off Immortan Joe’s corpse, revealing his dead body to the starving masses and the War Boys high above in the Citadel. The crowd erupts in cheers and Max stares up at the balcony until the boys lower the platform for the omegas and Furiosa to board. Arthur lingers at his side, gazing at Max’s profile, but he’s afraid to look at the young man. Arthur will be safe in the Citadel, but he knows the omega wants to stay with him. “You go with your sisters and brother,” he says, attempting a casual approach. By the time he looks at Arthur, the omega has leveled an unimpressed look at him. “Go on now,” Max adds, a bit firmer.
“I’m no War Boy. Don’t bark at me,” Arthur replies, chin lifted. He’s so beautiful Max has to look away. Unfortunately, his gaze pivots right to Furiosa, who smirks at him as though she knows exactly what’s happening. Smug, even though the alpha is weak, her arm draped across Conch’s shoulders for support.
“What did I say about…all the pretty distractions?” she calls, wheezing for breath.
Max smirks thinly.
“Larrikin?” Conch calls, frowning in concern, and for the first time the omega looks uncertain about his decision.
He hurries to the platform, tilting Conch’s forehead against his own. “I gotta. I told you. It’s like in my dream.”
Conch’s eyes are wet when he glances at Max. “He’s the one?” When Arthur nods, the omega’s brow wrinkles in consideration before he nods slowly. “Then you best go now, before the sun sets.” Arthur kisses his cheek, and the cheek of each sister. He saves Furiosa for last, who pulls him close with her metallic arm and whispers into his ear. He nods and steps back, the gears above whirring as they’re pulled upwards by the War Boys.
Max warily watches Arthur approach. “Not too late. You can join them.”
The omega shakes his head, eyes sparkling with all types of brilliant mischief. “Let’s go, Max.”
They weave through the crowd, and he looks back one last time to the balcony where the omegas stand, and Furiosa in the middle, gazing down — not at the crowd — but specifically at him. You and I are the same, he thinks, but doesn’t know how to express it, or say thank you, so he simply nods.
A sign of respect. It’s enough.
They get Arthur real clothes: undergarments, a shirt, slacks, socks, boots, and a leather jacket that is nicer than Max’s, but worth it because he looks beautiful and strong wearing it. He barters with some boys at Gas Town for two motorcycles, and Max makes some adjustments to the engines before they head out. Where, he’s not sure. Somewhere in the west, maybe. Perhaps there’s a green patch somewhere in the wasteland.
He’s crouched, turning a wrench, when he looks up and sees Arthur watching him. “What dream?” he asks, referring to a conversation between him and Conch from days ago, but judging by the smile stretched across the omega’s face, Arthur knows exactly what he’s talking about.
“I’m walking in the desert, lost, for a long time. It’s dark. The sand is wet beneath my feet. I’m terrified…” he sighs, gazing out at the land, back in the direction of the Citadel, “And then I hear panting and something soft touches my fingertips. It’s a wolf’s head.”
Max stops turning the wrench and stares at him. “Am I the wolf?”
Arthur’s smiles is white and brilliant. “Would you feel better if I told you it’s an alpha wolf?” Max grunts noncommittally. “I follow him, and as we walk together, the sun finally rises.”
He shakes his head, putting away the wrench and straddling the bike to kick his heel and start the engine. Max has learned never to discount the power of dreams. He turns off the bike, not ready to depart just yet. After all, for once no one is chasing them, and he has unfinished business with a certain omega. “What did Furiosa say to you?”
Arthur bites his lips, pretending like he might not tell Max the truth, wandering close to his bike. The alpha watches him, hypnotized by the display, not for the first time reminded that omegas possess a power as equal, if very different, than alphas. Arthur pauses beside him, his touch tender in his hair, fingers running through the stands. All at once, Max feels a wave of serenity wash over him, something he has not felt in many years. The omega’s lips are soft on his brow as he whispers: “She said I am not built to bear warlords.”
His eyelids are heavy, nearly shutting. He could sleep right here for many days, as long as Arthur stays with him. “What are you built for?”
The hand slides around, palms cupping his cheeks. “Your children,” he replies, leaning down to kiss him, pillowy lips coaxing a sigh from Max’s mouth. Furiosa knew exactly what she was doing by allowing Arthur to go with him. They will build a clan in the west as Furiosa and the omegas repopulate the Citadel. Perhaps one day in the future they will meet again, and together the two clans will rebuild the world.
Maybe the other alpha knew Max was falling in love the whole time. She probably knew about their night in the tent. She might have known from the first moment Max laid eyes upon Arthur.
He smirks, shaking his head as he watches Arthur walk to his bike and straddle it, revving the engine with a firm thrust of his boot heel. “Who follows who?” he cries over the engine.
The alpha laughs, shaking his head because the answer is so obvious, hanging bright and enormous like the sun. I’ll follow you, my beauty. Arthur grins, reading his mind (because omegas can do that, y’know) and zips off into the west, the loyal alpha chasing at his heels.