Chapter Text
Dementus shouts: “Take my beauties for a run! They’re getting bored!” And his bikies hoot and holler and part to make a path for the one towing Jack to exit the circle. Off they go: the bike’s engine roaring, Jack dragging behind, and the dogs trailing after, spittle flying from their muzzles.
Between the dust and the bikes, he cannot see Furiosa.
Jack counts this as a mercy. He does not want to see her face as she watches him die.
Max is driving along the edge of cannibal territory when the scavengers come across him.
It’s a small gang. Two cars, three bikes, the cars covered every kind of skull (animal or human) mounted to every inch of exterior space. This seems like a waste, to Max. Bad for drag. His car - one of the more salvageable vehicles from Immortan Joe’s war party, containing the engine that was the heart of his old Interceptor - is better than anything in their gang, and therefore a prime target.
The bikes go down first. They leave a few bullet holes in his car’s side, but that’s alright - there are always bullet holes, and they didn’t hit anything important. The cars are trickier. The one taking point has three riders. The vehicle in the back is a van with three in the front, two in the back, and one lone man in the last row of seats - but a quick glance behind him before ducking his head to avoid a shot that passes through the open driver-side window shows the latter has his hands cuffed together and his arms tied to his sides, and therefore won’t be anyone to worry about. Probably.
The driver of the first car is shit at shooting and driving at the same time (who let him behind the wheel?) - Max shoots him in the head and his brains splatter against the windshield and torn leather seats, leaving the man in the passenger seat to scramble over his body and take the wheel. Meanwhile, a woman in the middle row of the van sticks her torso out of the window wielding a pistol in one hand and a buzz-saw in the other in a show of brashness, the motor whirring as the van’s engine revs. Someone has crawled on top of the car in front and lights the fuse of a Molotov cocktail - Max jerks his wheel to the right and it bounces off his side to explode into the dust. He shoots the buzz-saw woman in the chest and she jerks back into the van’s cabin, dropping the buzz-saw and clutching at her chest.
He trades shots with them for a few more meters before the van begins to swerve wildly and the head of the guy on top of the sedan explodes into red pulp.
Max didn’t shoot him.
He grunts and looks back - the prisoner in the back has a pistol now, the chain of his cuffs have been sawed in half, and two more of the van’s occupants are dead. Alright, Max will take opportunities when he can get them. He takes down the remaining driver of the sedan and one in the van; the ex-prisoner takes the other. Absent a driver the sedan careens through the desert for a few kilometers before slowing to a stop, while his temporary ally stumbles to the front of the van and hits the brakes. It takes him longer than it should.
When Max exits his own vehicle and walks over, boomstick in hand, he sees why - his right leg is missing below the knee. He’s also bleeding from a nasty cut in his side and is still holding the pistol he took off the buzz-saw woman, which is pointed directly at Max.
They eye each other warily.
“Suppose I owe you,” says the man. “I won’t shoot if you don’t.” There’s a scar cutting through his lip on the right side of his face, but the left is worse - his cheek and jaw are scarred roughly from what Max thought might have been bad road rash.
Max grunts, considering. “Hands where I can see.” The words come out like gravel, his throat unused to speech. The other wastelander drops his gun. Max wrenches the door open and gives him a pat down. Unlike the others, his clothes are unembellished and in worse condition - a slave, probably.
“I’m a black thumb,” he says. “Anything you need fixing, I can take care of. Just leave me with a tank of guzzaline or drop me off at the next settlement.”
“Don’t need a mechanic.” No use for a slave either, but the wastelander doesn’t need to know that. He eyes the cut on his shoulder.
“It’s not deep but it’ll get infected,” the wastelander says without prompting. “They’d stick their knives in every rotten carcass they’d come across.”
Max considers.
He’s out of meds.
(Out of the corner of his eye, Glory loops up at him, her face fritting between flesh and blood and yellowed skull.)
(Why didn’t you save us Max.)
He blinks and Glory is gone.
Max does need more meds. Grub, too. And maybe Furiosa can use a decent mechanic.
“Know where you can get that treated,” he says finally. “Prosthetic, too. A few days ride.” Five, but the wastelander doesn’t need to know that either.
“What’ll it cost me?” The other man looks suspicious of the offer.
“Nothing, if you’re with me.” Max says. It’s probably even true, especially if he’s as good as a mechanic as he says. “Without me, they won’t let you through the gates. Understand?” This he is less certain of.
“Understood.” He holds out his hand.
It takes a moment before Max remembers he’s supposed to shake it. He does, the movement awkward. That decided on, he walks back to his car to grab his tools, thinking he’s exactly the fool Furiosa named him.
His temporary companion calls after him, “My name’s Jack. What do I call you?”
Max lets the question hang and gets to work.
The vehicles are in better condition than most in the Wasteland, so Jack probably wasn’t lying. Jack moves about with a crutch made of fused spare auto parts, wrapped with cloth in various places. He pulls some kind of alcohol from the raider’s other car and pours it on his wound, wincing, then dresses the cut with bandages. Between the two of them they spend the next few hours stripping the vehicles of anything valuable from guzzaline to spare wiring. When Max asks, “No prosthetic?” It’s barely a question.
Jack snorts. “Kept trying to run. Last batch of slavers didn’t give me one and told this group to do the same. That was a few months back.”
Max pretends not to notice when Jack stuffs some of the gang’s rations into his pockets, but stops him when he tries to pocket a knife. He takes all of the weapons, or things that could become weapons, from the back of his car and stashes them out of Jack’s reach. He does allow Jack a med kit so he can stitch himself up, with instructions not to do anything stupid. He drives for a few hours through dry cracked earth in tense silence before stopping for the night.
At which point he kicks Jack out of the car and ties his arms together, because he’s not a complete idiot.
Jack only sighs, as if he expected this.
The next morning he unties Jack and they do it all again. They pass a few other vehicles, but none of them make trouble for Max, so they stay out of each other’s way. “Do you always ride alone?” Jack asks him.
“Yes.” Furiosa, he tells himself, does not count. He has been back five times since Joe died, and the longest he’s stayed was nine days.
“These people that owe you a favor - who are they?”
If Max tells them where they’re going there’s still a chance Jack will knife him in the back and steal the car when he’s not looking. So the only answer he gives is, “Better than most.” He glances behind him. “Not slavers.”
“That’s not much information.”
“It’s not.”
Over the next few hours Jack makes a few more attempts at asking for information before resigning himself to the fact that Max isn’t going to tell him anything of value. The drive itself is slow going. This region of the wasteland is sandier than Max would like, and though his new vehicle can handle most terrain he drives carefully. When they stop for the night Jack checks his bandages and true to his prediction the wound is turning red and puffy.
Max still ties him up though, just in case.
He also cuts his own hair, and shaves his beard, because he’ll have to stay at least long enough to tell someone where Jack came from, and on the last visit the Dag had asked why there was a dead rodent on his face. In the ensuing chuckles from the other girls even Furiosa’s lips had twitched in a smile. He pretends it has nothing to do with the Dag’s new daughter, and the fact she’ll be more used to clean-shaven faces.
The last time he’d parked in the Citadel, it had been close to Dag’s due date. Though the Sisters all seemed to know he was there in case something went wrong and his blood was needed, none of them gave voice to the fact. It was as if none of them wanted to speak it into existence. When Furiosa found him on the eighth day to tell him the Dag had gone into labor, it was with an expression like she was going into battle.
Thankfully, his blood wasn’t needed. Furiosa came back sixteen hours later, bringing news that Dag had given birth to a girl, who had a few malformed fingers on one hand, but was otherwise perfectly healthy. “She says you can come see her, if you like.”
Max had hesitated. There were few things he would have liked to do less than enter that room.
“I’ll make an excuse for you,” Furiosa had said. He left her with a list of names from Before to pass along and had the Citadel in his rear-view mirror less than half an hour later. Between the look in Furiosa’s eyes and the bottle of home-distilled liquor he found in his passenger seat he knew that she had understood him perfectly.
On the third day driving with Jack, they find bodies.
Max has been driving for three hours when he spots the smoking wreck of a VW van - a nearly unmodded VW van, not fit for any war - and the remains of a campsite up ahead.
Though he shouldn’t, though he knows what he’s going to find, Max stops. The van is trashed. Ransacked. Everything considered of value has been stripped away, and other belongings of the unfortunate owner have been tossed out the sides, discarded. Clothing, seat cushions, a bag full of yarn and knitting supplies, two bobble-heads, a board game.
The bodies of a man and woman lay among the heap with the rest of the trash. They look young - maybe early twenties, if that. Though the crows have started on them the matching green ribbons tied around the pinky fingers of their left hands remain untouched. Wrong finger, thinks Max, but he guesses it’s the thought that counts.
It strikes him that the woman looks a little like Cheedo, or might have, before the crows got to her face.
Jack limps up next to him on his crutch and surveys the scene with a look that holds resignation but no surprise. “Shit.”
“Bodies’re less than a week old.” He toes one. They smell terrible. “Five days, tops.” Why didn’t you save us, Max?
“Well we can rule out the cannibal clans,” mutters Jack. “The tire tracks go north.”
“We’re going east.”
“Let’s hope we don’t run into them, then,” Jack says, before giving the bodies one last look with a shake of his head. “Stupid kids,” he says, but the words sound more sad than accusatory.
The Citadel is east. Max puts the yarn and the board game in a bag, thinking if the Sisters don’t use it maybe some of the other women might, and they get moving again.
The wreck leaves him on edge for the rest of the day. His ghosts are back and louder than usual, and even when they don’t speak, discomfort worms its way under his skin like he can feel them watching him, unseen. His guest, meanwhile, stares out the passenger window, looking at nothing, retreating into himself.
They stop before dusk in the shelter of some low, rocky hills. Jack uses the fading light to check his wound. Wincing, he takes off his shirt and unwraps the bandages. It’s gotten worse. The wound is leaking pus and red streaks emanate from the site across his skin. Jack wads up the soiled bandages and puts on new ones, wincing again, before taking the crow jerky Max holds out to him.
“Thanks.”
“The, uh,” Max tries to find an appropriate word and gestures vaguely. “The people that had you. They ever come this way?”
Jack shakes his head. “This is the farthest east I’ve been in thousands of days. I’ve heard of the Black Adders and the Convict King’s gangs coming out this way, but I’ve never seen their territories on a map. If you’re asking because you’re curious about who killed those kids, though, it doesn’t matter. It could have been anyone. Trying to run off on their own - they never stood a chance.” His voice is full of bitterness.
Max says nothing, because Jack is right.
“Would you have killed them?” Jack asks suddenly.
“Huh?”
“You let me live,” Jack says. “If you’d come across them instead, two kids in the desert with a vehicle too slow to outrun you and barely any weapons to speak of, what would you have done?”
“Nothing.” Max would have kept his distance, wishing them the best but expecting the worst. “You?”
Jack is quiet for so long Max thinks he won’t answer. “I tried to run once. We were more prepared but maybe just as stupid. You can see how it ended.” He nods at his right leg. “I don’t regret trying, though.”
Max doesn’t insult him by asking what happened to the other person he was running with, or what they were to him. It doesn’t matter, really. What mattered was that they were gone.
He doesn’t tie Jack up that night.
Nor does he on the night that follows, but by then he can justify it by the fact that Jack had announced he was running a fever sometime in the afternoon. Jack had seemed more relaxed around him after the previous night, and would offer up snippets of one-sided conversation as if accustomed to speaking to people who rarely spoke back or only gave one or two-word answers when they did. Max, meanwhile, had only initiated one conversation.
As the day had worn on Max had caught Jack’s eyes lingering on the low mountains in the distance and various landmarks with an expression that was almost thoughtful. “You said you hadn’t been this far east in thousands of days,” he had said, the rest of his question unspoken.
“I’m from further north,” Jack answered, after a long pause. Max was not sure if he believed him.
He was more withdrawn after that, but maybe that was only because the infection was leaving him too tired to answer.
By the morning of the fifth and last day, Jack looks well and truly ill. He’s pallid, sweaty, and though Max can tell he’s trying to suppress it, shivering slightly. This is especially concerning, as the day is hot one. He only looks more miserable as the hours go by, visibly fighting exhaustion. Max thinks the only reason he’s still awake is because they’re both probably too wary still to sleep while the other isn’t.
They’re maybe half a day out from the Citadel when a red flare goes up on the horizon.
“That’s the signal for Immortan Joe’s war party,” says Jack. So he did know where they were.
Max hums. “Not Immortan Joe’s.” Then he turns the wheel to the right, hard, on course to intercept.
His passenger frowns. “What do you mean, not Immortan Joe’s.”
Max shrugs. “Joe’s dead.” They crest a hill. There’s a war rig in the distance, and a convoy, pursued by four vehicles. The debris of another three lie in its wake, scattered along the stretch of road. An explosion rocks one of the trucks in the War Rig’s convoy, and War Boys scramble like ants to put out the flames. “Furiosa and the Mothers run the Citadel now.”
“What did you say?”
But Max isn’t paying attention anymore. The rig’s horn blares and a cheer goes up - they’ve spotted Max. So have the pursuers. Max rolls down the window and shoots the tire of a bike and a feather-cloaked scavenger riding in the truck-bed of another, before dodging bullets sent his own way. Furiosa is at the wheel, with Toast at her side picking off scavengers with a shot-gun. He revs the engine, pulls even with the cab.
“Nice to see you!” yells Furiosa. Then she spots the man he has in the back.
Furiosa freezes.
Furiosa freezes. Only for a second, only for a moment, but an expression of shock crosses her face.
(In the back-seat, out of his line of sight, Jack breathes out a name.)
Furiosa shakes herself out of it. “We’ll talk when the scavs are dead,” she says, but she looks paler than before. Max files it away for when they’re not being shot at, nods, brakes to fall behind. There’s another round of whooping from the war boys, like his presence is a good omen. It grates. He does not like being known by so many people. It chafes against the instinct that never lets him stay in one place.
And yet he keeps coming back. He’s not sure what that means.
This batch of raiders is not incompetent. Their cars are in better repair. There are pairs of raiders ready with bolt-cutters and saws attempting to crawl onto the rig, probably aiming to get underneath it and cut at its innards, while the others lay down covering fire. They’re no match for Furiosa and Toast, though, especially with Max falling into sync with Furiosa like they have since the start. Between the two of them and the war boys, another vehicle goes down in less than thirty seconds.
“Give me a gun!” Jack yells. Max ignores him and shoots a raider hanging off the rig’s undercarriage.
Then Jack lunges forward and grabs a shotgun.
“Hey-“
But he only shoots one of the beaked-helmet figures that was poised to toss a grenade at one of the convoy vehicles, and that’s alright, so Max decides he can keep the gun as long as he’s shooting the right people. For now.
Jack is almost irritatingly good with that gun, too, for someone who spent the past several hours slumped against the window in fevered exhaustion. Several raiders that turn their sights towards them go down before Max has a chance to shoot them. There’s a near familiarity in the way he picks his targets, covering Max’s blind spots, that almost has Max falling into a rhythm and letting his guard down, and the realization of this sets him on edge.
Coming back is making him too trusting.
Perhaps another few kilometers go by before the last of the scavengers’ cars goes up in a fiery explosion. All of the Citadel’s vehicles are still capable of driving, though they’ve lost one or two war boys. Less than they would have taken in Immortan Joe’s day. Kamikrazy suicide runs are now discouraged.
The signal goes out for a halt. The rig slows to a stop and Max pulls up alongside it, uneasy. They should not be stopping.
Before the car has even stopped moving, Jack and Max are moving simultaneously - Jack towards the door, and Max to shove the barrel of his boomstick against the back of Jack’s skull.
The sound of the safety releasing seems loud in the otherwise silent car.
With his free hand, Max shifts into park. Jack drops his stolen shotgun. “Easy.”
Max’s voice is hard. “How do you know her.”
Jack swallows. “I’m not a threat to her.”
“You rattled her,” Max barks. She’d covered her reaction well, but Max knows Furiosa. “Why.” Furiosa does not get shocked. Furiosa does not rattle. But she’d been alarmed by Jack. And Jack knows of the Citadel. He fights with the ease of someone who would have crawled through the ranks of Joe’s army. An idea is forming in Max’s mind, and he isn’t liking what he’s seeing.
“Max! Drop the gun!”
Max drops the gun.
Furiosa and Toast have gotten out of the cab. He exits his own car, still holding the pistol, and waits for them to approach, but Furiosa seems rooted to the spot, her entire body tense. Toast has also noticed something is off, and there’s a concerned look on her face. She gives Max a questioning look, but he can only shrug as if to indicate no, not a clue.
The back door opens. Jack struggles to his feet - foot - leaning heavily on the crutch. He’s drenched in sweat. Max is almost surprised he was able to stand. Jack pays no mind to the rig, or the other observers - his eyes are only on Furiosa.
Furiosa’s expression is unreadable. In slow, measured steps she walks forward, until she’s close enough for Max to realize she’s trembling slightly, and stops in front of Jack.
(Both Max and Toast’s hands shift to their holsters.)
In a small, quiet voice that sounds broken and alien coming from her mouth, Furiosa says, “Jack?”
“Furi,” says Jack.
With a gasp Furiosa closes the distance, reaching forward and pressing their foreheads together, cradling the back of his skull in an embrace so unexpectedly intimate that is almost unbearable to witness.
What the hell?
“You were dead,” says Furiosa.“You were dead.”
“Nearly,” says Jack, his voice shaking with emotion. “Slavers got us both. ” He puts an arm around Furiosa’s shoulders, returning the embrace. “I thought you might -“
Furiosa makes a noise that was almost a sob and squeezes her eyes shut. They stand there for a few moments, lost in their own world, while Max and Toast look on bewildered and the War Boy’s whispers grow louder. Finally, Furiosa takes a few deep breaths, and, likely thinking of the dozen War Boys all craning to watch, gathers herself. She pulls away enough for Jack to shift his weight back to the crutch, and turns to Toast.
“You’re driving the rig back,” she tells her. “Tell everyone the Praetorian Jack has been returned to us, and I have much to discuss with him.
“A Praetorian?”
“I trust him,” says Furiosa. And then, more quietly: “He was the only one I trusted.”
Toast stares. “Alright then.” She heads back to the rig, but not before giving Jack a suspicious look. He doesn’t seem to notice. Furiosa is helping him into the back of Max’s car, and Max is getting back in the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
“What’s wrong with him?” Furiosa asks him.
“Wound got infected,” Max says. Jack lifts up his shirt to show her. “Got it in a fight taking scavengers off my back. Figured you might be able to treat him.” He pauses. “Didn’t know he knew you.”
Furiosa felt his forehead and inspected the yellowing bandages, her concerned expression deepening.
“I’ll be fine,” says Jack. “I’ve had worse.”
Furiosa ignores him and tells Max to go ahead of the convoy. He obeys. The citadel is still hours away.
In the back, Furiosa is cradling Jack in her arms. “Jack,” she repeats. “My Jack.”
“My Fury.”
Alright. So it’s like that then, Max thinks, and he picks up speed, taking them home.