MY NAME IS MAX. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pursuitspecial) wrote2024-07-02 03:00 am
pursuitspecial) wrote2024-07-02 03:00 am
psl; imperatour • the princess biker & her dog bride
somewhere in the wasteland, west of the salt flats...
[ A black police cruiser slides across the sand, careening right into the side of a cliff wall.
He was stupid. It was bad luck. He got lazy. Bound to happen.
The explanations trip through his mind like a rock tumbling down a mountain. They're of no use to him, overall -- otherwise Max would spend so much of his time wallowing in the past, when the only things that really mattered anymore were what was happening now and what would be happening soon.
And the awful, sad, bitter truth of it all was simply that things happen.
That's it. There's no other reason Max is finally caught, driven into a canyon by a pack of frenzied bikers. He knows the area well, leads some on a chase around the canyon floor, and right into some newly-fallen rocks. Armored riders go flying, bikes colliding into a heap as he whips the car around a 90 degree angle. It's not that Max is stupid or unprepared or fated to have his tires skid out, sending the car sideways into a rock face. It's just that things happened, all the time, stupidly and senselessly, and it was finally Max's turn for his car to slam against the rock at speed and trap him inside.
He's pulled out through the other door by his legs before his vision swims back into focus. He manages a swift heel kick to someone's jaw, and gets a shotgun blast off on another man's shoulder, though he suspects he mostly misses if the too-small spritz of blood is any indication. More hands scrabble at him, locking his legs together; when an arm circles his jaw, Max opens his mouth and bites as hard as he can. Bodies pile on him until he has no choice but to submit, chains circling his limbs and body as more and more bikes arrive.
Max doesn't release the arm from between his teeth until he's pulled forcefully off, blood filling his mouth. His own probably joins it shortly after as a gun whips his cheek, sending him to the ground.
A man with a voice booming over a speaker arrives when the shackles do, and Max is rolled onto his back with a booted foot to greet him. A head leans slowly into view.
"Hallo," says a huge bearded man in a black and red cape, said like they're simply sitting down for supper. There's something warm and jovial to him, now that he's lowered the microphone. The man gives a little shimmy of pleasure and instantly Max feels himself wanting to panic. "Whew! Now aren't you a dogged little fighter!"
There's more clamoring and shouting, reports of what Max has done, the men who are injured (dead?), and the state of his car. Men begin to climb over and inside it, digging into his things. Someone clad in leathers takes his shotgun, turning it in his hands to inspect it. The biker fires a shot, very close to Max's head, whooping with laughter when he jumps in response.
The sight of his only belongings being torn to shreds is the last thing Max sees before darkness envelops him.
***
When Max comes to, he is being pulled somewhere else.
Not just that he's now strung up by a crane on the back of what seems like a monster truck, but judging by the look of the landscape as they drive at speed, Max is also in another part of the Wasteland entirely.
And the pull is the corner of his pant leg, caught in a machine churning beneath him. No, not a machine. Deep barks pierce the roar of engines, and with a start, Max realizes he's hanging atop a cage of dogs, teased by the prospect of a fresh, bloody meal hanging just above them. He pulls his legs closer, out of the immediate reach of jaws, relieved to find his calves intact.
Then there's the smell. A strong, pervasive odor of something poisonous. It's gas, he realizes, and not just from exhaust.
Not good. ]
[ A black police cruiser slides across the sand, careening right into the side of a cliff wall.
He was stupid. It was bad luck. He got lazy. Bound to happen.
The explanations trip through his mind like a rock tumbling down a mountain. They're of no use to him, overall -- otherwise Max would spend so much of his time wallowing in the past, when the only things that really mattered anymore were what was happening now and what would be happening soon.
And the awful, sad, bitter truth of it all was simply that things happen.
That's it. There's no other reason Max is finally caught, driven into a canyon by a pack of frenzied bikers. He knows the area well, leads some on a chase around the canyon floor, and right into some newly-fallen rocks. Armored riders go flying, bikes colliding into a heap as he whips the car around a 90 degree angle. It's not that Max is stupid or unprepared or fated to have his tires skid out, sending the car sideways into a rock face. It's just that things happened, all the time, stupidly and senselessly, and it was finally Max's turn for his car to slam against the rock at speed and trap him inside.
He's pulled out through the other door by his legs before his vision swims back into focus. He manages a swift heel kick to someone's jaw, and gets a shotgun blast off on another man's shoulder, though he suspects he mostly misses if the too-small spritz of blood is any indication. More hands scrabble at him, locking his legs together; when an arm circles his jaw, Max opens his mouth and bites as hard as he can. Bodies pile on him until he has no choice but to submit, chains circling his limbs and body as more and more bikes arrive.
Max doesn't release the arm from between his teeth until he's pulled forcefully off, blood filling his mouth. His own probably joins it shortly after as a gun whips his cheek, sending him to the ground.
A man with a voice booming over a speaker arrives when the shackles do, and Max is rolled onto his back with a booted foot to greet him. A head leans slowly into view.
"Hallo," says a huge bearded man in a black and red cape, said like they're simply sitting down for supper. There's something warm and jovial to him, now that he's lowered the microphone. The man gives a little shimmy of pleasure and instantly Max feels himself wanting to panic. "Whew! Now aren't you a dogged little fighter!"
There's more clamoring and shouting, reports of what Max has done, the men who are injured (dead?), and the state of his car. Men begin to climb over and inside it, digging into his things. Someone clad in leathers takes his shotgun, turning it in his hands to inspect it. The biker fires a shot, very close to Max's head, whooping with laughter when he jumps in response.
The sight of his only belongings being torn to shreds is the last thing Max sees before darkness envelops him.
When Max comes to, he is being pulled somewhere else.
Not just that he's now strung up by a crane on the back of what seems like a monster truck, but judging by the look of the landscape as they drive at speed, Max is also in another part of the Wasteland entirely.
And the pull is the corner of his pant leg, caught in a machine churning beneath him. No, not a machine. Deep barks pierce the roar of engines, and with a start, Max realizes he's hanging atop a cage of dogs, teased by the prospect of a fresh, bloody meal hanging just above them. He pulls his legs closer, out of the immediate reach of jaws, relieved to find his calves intact.
Then there's the smell. A strong, pervasive odor of something poisonous. It's gas, he realizes, and not just from exhaust.
Not good. ]
no subject
[ She has to talk about the dog because this is so fucking stupid and I just wanted a car fall to deaf ears and Scully needs all the favor she can win right now. The bite on her father's arm looks infected, not that Dementus would really listen to anyone trying to help him. At least the laceration, high on her cheek from where she jumped to shield Scully from her father swinging the butt of his pistol in retaliation, seems to be healing better.
Then, he'd cooed an apology, something overly saccharine to be genuine, not that "Dee" believed him to be capable of genuine remorse, while Mr. Harley stitched up them both. He slapped his hands on her shoulders and told her to Just wait, princess.
Now, he grins stupidly. Practically giddy. Something in her stomach churns unpleasantly when he winks at her. She squints her eyes, skeptical from her perch on her bike. She'd be lucky to salvage anything from the car they chased down, and that's all she wanted. She could scout farther, she'd argued. Escort a party on their own runs to the Citadel. Freedom, but she didn't dare say that part out loud.
Her mind is there, thinking of the half-smashed interceptor, wondering if any of it is salvageable. This won't be the first or last time she watches her dog eat a man. It's a stupid distraction to try and quell some of the thirst of the unlucky Gastown citizens and loosely held-together gangs that make up the Horde.
"Citizens of Gastown!" he bellows into the mic, "Today marks a momentous occasion for Dementus. You see, my daughter, Little Dee—" he puts on an exaggerated affect, miming like he's wiping a tear from his eyes (distantly, she's sure he's never cried in his life), "—isn't quite so little any more."
The crowd hoots and cheers, and she can feel a thousand pairs of eyes on the back of her head right now. She clenches her jaw, focuses on the places her teeth are gnashing together between tightly sealed lips to keep the rest of her body from moving.
"Which is why!" He throws his hand up, shushing the crowd, "we've gathered here to celebrate. To find out which of you will earn her hand—"
He's not, is he...?
"—which one of you has the testicular fortitude, the gall, the balls to be the bride of my perfect sweetheart. We have one challenger," the poor soul strung up on the end of the Six Foot. "Which five more will stand and fight for my precious beauty?"
If her facial expression is any indication, this is also the first she's hearing about it. ]
What the fucking— [ Although her barrage of curses is mostly drowned out by the roaring crowd. ]
no subject
It takes the time until they're through a series of heavy steel gates and barbed wire before Max realizes he knows where he is, distantly if not definitely familiar. A gas refinery and a city built around it, smack in the middle of the Wasteland. He'd scouted it some time back, but decided quickly it was not a place to approach, much less bother with. Sometimes a place was too armed, fortified, and well-guarded to approach, no matter the circumstance.
When the convoy slows, bodies begin to filter out of every nook and crevice — people with blackened fingers and broken hard hats, looking hungry and angry and desperate. There's that voice again, breaking through the noise over speakers just behind where Max is tied. It echoes off the concrete floor and metal tanks and towers, grabbing everyone's attention.
"Citizens of Gastown!" the man begins, and the people seem to pay attention, slowing their advance to give the truck a wide berth. Around them, the bikes drive in, clearing everyone out to create a circle with a motorcycle perimeter. As this man waxes on, Max feels his body begin to tense even if he's barely comprehending what he's hearing before the next crazy thing comes booming over loudspeakers.
"—which one of you has the testicular fortitude, the gall, the balls to be the bride of my perfect sweetheart?"
If Max didn't have cause to worry before, the rest of the monologue certainly strikes it in him now, head whipping back and forth to take in all the information he can. Bikes, riders, ground, weapons, people—
"We have one challenger."
—but it might not be enough for what Max will be dropped into.
"Which five more will stand and fight for my precious beauty?"
...Shit.
Before he knows it, the crane holding him captive extends, lifting Max away from the truck before lowering him down until the toes of his boots touch the ground, releasing some pressure off the shackles clamped over his aching wrists. Several Gastown citizens have made it into the circle, but when Max counts only three, he hears a great, hollow thud of metal and turns to see the bearded man, Dementus, standing over the top of the cab, one arm extended towards the crowd.
"Do my eyes deceive me? I count three!" Dementus bellows, angrier now. "Are none of you clean enough, worthy enough to do battle, in the name of holy matri-moe-nee?!"
Around him, Dementus' dutiful cronies watch on, some wading through a retreating audience until two more are unwillingly plucked from their place, and cast into the circle. Then come the weapons, tossed in haphazardly some paces between Max and the five volunteers.
There's something to all of these foot soldiers of Dementus' that unites them: glittering, wild eyes and vicious smiles, a nervous energy Max recognizes sympathetically as adrenaline. They wear armor and cruelty and a look of safety, all of them expect one: a woman in leathers with long, brown hair, tucked away just outside of the gathered circle.
Her eyes flash at him, brimming with what feels like hatred. For a second, Max thinks they lock eyes, head swimming.
Is this a trusted right hand? Or is it the princess, looking for her bride? ]
no subject
A gang boss that Dementus is too self-involved to realize has his ambitions set on a coup, and as much as she hates her father and his power plays she stands a hell of a lot more to lose with someone else at the helm— ]
Stop— Stop!
[ Furiosa yells uselessly as she hops off her bike, gracelessly. No one pays regard to her voice when her father is talking, least of all him. Especially when he gets to listen to himself on a loudspeaker, baiting two more men and they assemble dutifully. Furiosa makes a break for the edge, her eyes catching the feral scavengers just before one of his biggest lackeys wraps his arms around her, picking her up off the ground. She kicks, a futile exercise. She bites at his forearm, but those that have been around long enough still wear arm guards from before she had the muzzle put on for years.
She heaves heavily, arms pressing into her lungs. Desperate, she tries to catch the scavenger's eyes again. A hell of a fight he put up in the wasteland. Maybe he's as feral and crazy as she needs him to be. Three times she looks to him and then pointedly, frantically darts her eyes to the man all the way to the left. Not the biggest or the tallest, but the most dangerous one. She knows.
And then Scully can finish the fight. ]
cw: canon-typical violence and gore; cw: animal death (non-descriptive)
When his mouth twitches, he feels the blood he'd gotten off the biker earlier, dried and caked on over his chin and beard.
Her eyes on him again in the next moment, and this time he can feel it, the connection jolting something in the dense blackness of his brain. And then she practically speaks to him, gazes locking before hers darts over his shoulder. Max's head whips around to land on one of the challengers, a man in bits of cobbled-together armor but unremarkable otherwise.
By the time Max looks back, the woman is pulled outside his view.
Not that it matters.
"Now! Show me the stuff you're made of!" roars Dementus. "Ready!"
Max is out of time.
"Steady! Aaaand go!"
And then just like that, the crane releases him, Max dropping to his feet with a great clatter of metal on metal. Electricity floods his body as he gets his bearings, feet and legs tingling with solid ground underfoot again. Though his wrists are still bound, Max makes a dive for the nearest weapon, bits of a buzzsaw blade welded onto the head of a wood-chopping axe. A man with blackened and missing teeth advances on him, lifting a hammer, but before he can close in, Max takes a step and one enormous swing. It connects with the corner of the man's jaw, sending him backwards with spurt of blood and a loud, guttural scream.
Around him, the others fight, one leaping onto another with short knives, jabbing the blades in and out of the torso in quick succession like supercharged pistons in an engine. The armored man pointed out to him earlier, he realizes with ice gripping his innards. As quickly as the knife wielder was on his victim, he's back on his feet, rounding on Max with knees bent, weapons at the ready. Adjusting himself, Max takes smaller, quicker swipes, hitting nothing but air until a metallic clatter sends one of the knives flying. Before he can draw back again, a tug on his wrists pulls Max backwards, sending him to ground. Someone else has got hold of the end of his chains, and all he can do is kick frantically, but not enough to prevent a wild, twitching body from straddling his middle and plunging the other knife into Max's chest.
Pain radiates across his body. They're not on the ground long before Max gets his arms between their bodies, shoving the metal shackles and chains into a face to knock them both sideways. Using the momentum, Max rolls back onto his feet and wraps the chains around the knife user's neck. He makes one loop and tightens, hard, just in time for another yank on his bindings to help pull the chain taught enough into flesh to spurt blood and crush the man's windpipe. Then Max is moving backwards by the wrists again, him and the knife user both, still flailing weakly, until Max is lifted from behind by the shoulders of his jacket, almost to his feet. The slack in the chain lets the nearly dead man fall back to the ground, and allows Max the opportunity to pull the knife still buried in his own chest to stab backwards behind him, once, twice and more times until he's released. The body falls backwards from his knife, and Max along with it.
There's shouting behind Max as he stands again, unwinding the bindings. When he turns to face the last survivor holding his chain, the man is reaching into his waistband to pull something from behind his back. But before he can produce a weapon, the man pitches forward violently with a scream and a roar — a roar not from engines, but from an enormous black mastiff, its drooling jaws clamped deep around one thigh. Something heavy lands at Max's feet - a gun - and he stoops to recover it, pointing the muzzle directly at the man on the ground.
But Max needn't shoot, not when the dog is doing his work for him, tearing at clothes and flesh with equal ease. There's a certain barbarism in dying this way; Max freezes to watch, the helplessness of man against beast a sight of magnificent brutality right up until the moment the man grips his ankle. Then Max's body gives him no choice but to pull the trigger, slug unloading into the man's body to relieve him of any remaining horror.
For a moment, the dog doesn't stop tearing, even if the man no longer moves. But eventually it loses interest, lifting its massive head to stare down Max with keen eyes and blood dripping from its jowls. Its body tenses, and suddenly it leaps over the body, giving Max just barely enough time to react.
He lifts the weapon and fires.
The gunshot echoes between the refinery buildings and steel walls then subsides. Where there was shouting and cheering from the gathered crowd, now there is a stunned silence, the air punctuated only by the sound of idling engines and distant work still being conducted. And there in the circle, between the weapons and the concrete and still-warm bodies stands Max: bloodied, victorious, and utterly doomed. ]
rip babygirl scully too good for this world (this made me cry, lol)
The scavenger doesn't know even Gastown has a few rules that are never breached.
Never touch Dementus.
Never touch Little Dee (unless at the behest of Dementus).
And fight dirty with the men, but never, ever, ever with the dogs.
The first human noise to pierce the eerie silence is a scream, anguished and furious. Mr. Harley drops her to the ground, not to add to the cruelty. Rather, it's to not hold her back any longer than necessary. She collapses onto the ground, landing on scrambling hands and knees, bits of gravel and rock piercing her palms. She can't feel the places where the sharp bits pricked her to bleed. She's numb.
On the edge of the circle, Dementus sucks his teeth and has the rare moment of clarity, holding the mic far enough away that what he says next isn't broadcasted to the entire horde. "Never cared for that dog anyway. Vicious bitch," he sniffs, tapping the dirty, yellowed bandage on his forearm.
Furiosa shoulders and shoves her way through the crowd, sprinting into the circle past dead bodies, dropping to her knees and skidding the last few feet across the hard scrabble of the makeshift arena. ]
No no no no, no, no—
[ Her arms and torso curl around Scully's large head, men's blood dripping from her teeth onto Furiosa's sleeves. She knows exactly how many days it's been since she cried, and despite herself, she feels them now searing hot and leaving burning tracts down her cheeks. She makes little shushing noises, soothing noises as she lifts a shaky hand to pet Scully, but her hand is trembling and she's breaking into full-body sobs as her thumb brushes the edge of the bullet wound.
Scully was dead before she hit the ground.
Time seems to pass in agonizing minutes. Slowly, Furiosa sits back on her knees. Gently, she places Scully's head on the ground. She pushes herself up, leather dripping with the blood of the challengers and her dog mixed together. Furiosa squares herself in front of Max, teeth chattering behind closed lips and eyes wide with blinding rage. She reaches for the knife she has on a belt loop, and that's when her father who was watching with piqued interest has his second moment of clarity in the hour (a record, really) in doing some mental calculation that if this scavenger, still holding a gun, shot a dog leaping for him, surely he will also shoot his daughter ready to stab him. He whistles sharply quickly to summon approximately 15 men to herd his daughter and the scavenger to the front of the Six Foot, more than enough hands to keep both of them in place no matter how much fight is left in either.
"Winner! We have a win-ner," Dementus slaps Max in an obnoxiously congratulatory manner, painful enough to almost bruise. ]
Killed my dog, [ she heaves on a snarled breath, looking over at the scavenger. ] Can be my dog.
and max a poor substitute for a good good girl who bites dementus 😔
Everyone watches in unison at the sight of such open grief, Max along with them. His body straightens, still twitching and overcranked from adrenaline, as the horror of realization settles over him.
Not a right hand man at all. That's the bride. His bride.
And Max just killed her dog.
The bride stands and is on him in seconds: he can see the whites of her eyes, red and shining with angry tears, and as time seems to drag by in this last moment, he has one lone idiotic thought.
Life must be better in the Wasteland as their dog.
Before he can raise the gun again, he's surrounded, and squeezes the trigger anyway just to hear the dull click of a full chamber - a misfire. Which is just as well, because he's being dragged back to the same truck by many hands, one tremendous palm clapping him on the back hard enough that he nearly stumbles, even held up as he is. His head whips around with a snarl, in time to see his bride restrained too, throwing in a proposal that makes Dementus pause, several expressions fluttering over his face. Thoughtfulness? Max can't know. Dementus' lips purse, swinging the microphone around as he thinks.
And then the mic stops, Dementus yanking it back into his hand before clapping it heavily to the chest of an old man in white robes.
"Fine," he says, in a tone that suggests otherwise, "since you cared for that dog more than anything else, you can be married to a dog, darling, if it makes ya happy! Suits ya." He takes a step back with a wave of one hand as Max gets pushed down hard to the ground, a booted foot making sure he stays there.
There's more scuffling behind him, and he can hear men shouting and motorcycles starting at Dementus' behest, an old man's voice announcing that the show was indeed over and there was nothing more to see.
As the crowd gets pushed back, Max is lifted up to his knees, jacket pulled from his shoulders. He can feel something else slipping over his head, ties or straps tightening around his chest and ribcage, just barely missing the wound he feels leaking a slow stream of blood onto his shirt.
Dementus walks around him, and Max can hear him give one final warning as he climbs aboard his truck: "You want my advice, you keep a muzzle on that one. Bit of a feral animal, ain't he? Just ask... eh, whoever that is!"
And then the truck engine roars to life, just as a metal and leather cage get fitted to Max's face and locked around his head. One last push to the ground and then he's let go, the end of his chains thrown at the bride's feet along with one more thing - a small bronze key.
Lifting himself to his hands and knees, Max chances a look at his new captor, body shuddering with heavy breaths. ]
no subject
Hard eyes examine him as she circles around him, surveying the damage. He's bleeding. She'll have to stitch him up. She's tempted to make him gamble with infection, but a sickly dog does her about as much good as a dead one. Furiosa picks up his discarded jacket, and lays it over Scully's corpse.
She winds the chain around her palm, hand and pulling her new pet towards her with a rough tug, whistling sharply. She was nicer to her last dog. ]
Pick her up. [ And even a second of hesitation has her yanking on his chain, growling. ] Come, dog.
no subject
His bride. The one who holds the end of his lead, and the key to his freedom, glinting in the light as it hangs off the chain against her skin.
She circles him, getting a good look, her eyes hard. Maybe she'll put him to work instead of slit his throat. He'd prefer it while he gets his bearings and figures out what to do next.
His jacket goes over the dog's body and then he's tugged forward hard, stumbling to his feet with a grimace. Multiple somethings hurt, but at least he'll have something else to do instead of trying to diagnose himself. Stooping by the dog, Max lifts the body in his arms with more care than he'd given it when it was alive and follows. He moves quicker, until he's just a step behind his bride, eyes darting to her face to see what he can glean from appearance alone. ]
no subject
She doesn't look at him. Keeps her eyes forward and her jaw locked, her lips tightly closed. The tears she had shed have evaporated, but they left tracks where they cut through the layer of grime and dust on her face.
Gastown workers move out of her, and by extension, her new dog's path, murmuring and casting glances as they part. Furiosa almost wishes someone would stand in her way, provoke a fight. Her fists are curled so tightly around the chain that she thinks it might cut her palms.
She leads them to the center of Gastown, where a tall structure towers over the rest of the city. A group of wretched-looking residents stand at large pulley, and Furiosa's first noise in however many minutes it's taken to walk over here is a whistle for their attention. The foreman shouts something indistinct back, and Furiosa yanks on his chain to get him to stand in the proper center of the platform. It lifts into the air with a worrying wobble, but Furiosa has the advantage of experience to brace herself in anticipation.
It's a long way up and the steppers are slow. The lift sways gently with the breeze, carrying a gust of a foul odor with it. Finally, she looks over her shoulder to her new dog.
Something about the muzzle on his face makes her throat feel tight and she's quickly to cast her eyes forward again. ]
Do you speak?
no subject
Which kind was Max in the hands of now?
He goes over what he knows as he follows his bride between a twisted array of pipes and refineries, until they get to a metal platform that lifts them up off the ground. Max stumbles as it moves, his left knee buckling under him with the extra weight of the dog's body, hitting the platform with a dull thud. Wincing, Max sucks in a breath, holding it before he forces himself back to his feet, the dog never leaving his arms.
There's sweat on his brow when she finally turns to look at him again, he can feel it rolling down his temple now. He looks at her a long moment, even when she turns away. He sorts through his options, then simply nods. ]
Sorry to disappoint.
[ Or not, but it doesn't much matter, how much Max makes use of his ability to speak. ]
no subject
Could've spared everyone a lot of trouble.
[ But the way she mumbles it, low and the edge of angered, feels like maybe it wasn't actually meant for him. Bold enough to mutter about how she wishes he and Scully switched places right about now, still too raw to look him in the eyes. It makes sense to want to survive, but making sense doesn't make her hate him any less and doesn't make her dog any less dead.
The platform heaves the rest of the way to the top, and Furiosa gives him only a cursory glance that he's following. Her eyes slide along his forehead, wet with sweat. Scully was— is— was, an impressive beast, and keeping balance on the platform isn't easy, but it makes her wonders what other injuries she'll find underneath his road leathers that are sapping his energy.
The tower was apparently once a water tower, scaffolding and additional structures built up all around it hiding the characteristic silhouette, but it's obvious now. The large round storage tank has a door. Furiosa pulls a key from the ring on her waist, pressing it open. Inside, it's been converted to quarters. On one side, a large bed with an ornately carved frame next to a half-finished and half-vandalized mural. Chaos and disorder. Across the "room" is another spot, belongings organized slightly more neatly but barely so. A metal water bowl with "Scully" written in red paint is next to a smaller mattress and a large cushion.
She walks over to the bed, angrily ripping off a white sheet and lays it out on the floor since she and her father are apparently making decisions for each other now. She snaps her fingers pointing at it. ] Her, there.
[ And then as soon as he lays Scully down, she shoves a med kit into his stomach. When he opens it, he'll find it partly used, sutures the same color as the neat stitches across her cheek. ]
no subject
She's angry, he knows that much. Cared for this dog more than people, valued it more than a human life. Max can understand that, in a way: dogs are a rare sight in the Wasteland now. And skags like Max are commonplace.
Once the platform stops, he trails just behind, taking in the sights as much as he can in case it's useful later. They stop outside an old water tower, converted now into living quarters. For one, he thinks, judging by the bed and personal effects. Just her, all alone in her tower like a fairy tale princess.
A clean sheet gets laid out on the floor, order issued with a snap of her fingers. He obeys, gingerly kneeling down to lay the dog in the center. Max folds the edges over, until the body is fully covered, taking care not to let the sheet touch the wound, if he can help it.
Before he can stand, the girl pushes a medkit into his hands. For who? He hesitates for a moment, eyes on her face, trailing down her neck. On her shirt, there's a blossom of discoloration - dried blood, he knows from experience. It's dry and old, but judging by the look of it, maybe not older than several days, or a week, maybe. His eyes narrow, and he gives a little grunt, taking a step forward to indicate her shoulder with one hand. ]
Show me. [ His voice is soft when he asks, eyes on hers, and waves the medkit in his hand. ] Let me see.
no subject
It probably does need stitches. She had tried to rub an adhesive onto it, grimacing as the solvent stung in the wound and she had pressed her hand blindly over her shoulder to try and hold the cut skin together while it cured. The wound had almost immediately peeled back most of the way open, making her yelp. Worse is the part that did stick together took hours to separate the rest of the way, pulling with each movement until it finally ripped all the way back open worse than it had been before. And sure enough at the end of every day, she can feel it rubbing raw, layers of blood blooming near her neck.
But like hell she's going to turn her back to him with something sharp in his hand. Almost immediately, when he takes a step forward, she takes one back. She keeps the distance between them, her hair following the shake of her head.
Her tone is gruff, not unlike she's issuing a correction to a dog, ] No.
[ She wraps her hand around his wrist, the hand that's holding the med kit, repeats pushing it back into his stomach where his own wound is. Firmer now. Some dogs need a stronger hand to learn. ]
Do you need to be told to do everything? Stitch yourself up.
we're gonna pretend i put him in a collar instead of a harness lol
Then she gives him that sharp command - and it is a command, he knows. He's the one on the end of a leash.
No. Bad dog.
She even gives him the correction, indicating what she wants instead, like he'll understand the motion rather than the words. Max takes a second to stare at her, then the medkit, then his wound, which is bleeding prettily into his shirt. It's not easy to see anymore, the color of his shirt being what it is, but he can feel the wetness of the stain against his chest, getting tacky at the edges.
Hesitating for just a second, he opens the kit, finding mostly tools rather than supplies. An angled needle is all he'll really need, but there's a couple of forceps, a pair of shears, and mercifully, miraculously, some actual sutures, still in their pack. He flicks a look up. Why would she share such a precious resource? But he knows not to ask questions, instead taking a seat on the floor away from the dog. He lifts his shirt, as much as it'll go before restricted by the collar and leash, letting it bunch around his neck and touches fingertips to his pec.
The wound seems deep. Looking at it makes the reality of the injury hurt worse, setting the tone for what he's about to do. He grimaces. Preparing the needle, Max pinches the skin together, then, with trembling hands - the adrenaline leaving his body, finally - presses the bladed end into the top layer of skin and tugs it through with only his fingers. ]
we're gonna pretend like gmail SENT ME A NOTIF
These are all the ways Dementus taught her to survey a new addition to the pack, so it's fine that she looks. Looking is the least she should be doing, her gaze tracing up over his skin out of the corner of her eye. Well-muscled. Good tone. No tumors as far as she can tell, but really she needs to get her hands on him to tell properly. Maybe she'll steal one more look up as she collapses onto the floor mattress, casual as she glances through half-lidded eyes.
That wound is ugly. She'll have to watch it too. She turns her head, looking away before he can catch her staring, not sure what about it she finds embarrassing. He's just a man. It's not like it's the first time she's seen a man.
(First time she's seen one in awhile that looked half appealing. That has her forcing herself to look up at the ceiling while he finishes stitching himself up.
Their uneasy peace is short-lived, Furiosa groaning when she hears the platform moving again. ]
That'll be the boss.
[ As if on cue, Dementus bursts in. He gives this scene a quick survey, wolf-whistling, "Little Dee!" Somehow he draws it out into twice as many syllables as it should be, faking scandal. "Can't even keep your clothes on around my girl," he shoos Max out of his way, cursing as he trips over Scully's corpse.
Furiosa shoots up, protective of Scully even now, folding her body over Scully's which keeps Dementus from kicking the dog with a heavy booted foot, disaster only only very closely averted as he hops his weight between his feet.
"You know what her problem was," Dementus turns, wagging his finger at Furiosa before he turns to Max too in the sort of you should hear this too invitation to a conversation, "Never let me breed her. Bitch always calms down after a couple pups." ]
She was perfect, [ she spits, shooting to her elbows, and Dementus throws his palms up in an appeasing motion, except her words are anything but: "And now she's dead."
It's a warning. A threat. Furiosa hears it loud and clear. ]
biphobia in action smh
But it's not altogether off-putting, either.
He's most of the way through the job when he feels a low rumble through the floor, signalling the arrival of a new visitor.
The boss. And just when Max was keen to start watching the girl, start figuring things out. What did he call her, again?
Dementus enters the room like he owns the place, and it strikes Max suddenly that maybe this is also his dwelling, too. Max moves quickly out of the man's way when he starts strutting around, Dementus narrowly avoiding tripping over the body of a dog the size of a human being, only because the girl puts herself between them.
Clearly the dog was the only being of import to her. Little Dee, he'd said. Max and Dementus' eyes meet for only a brief second before he turns back to admonish either the dog or his own daughter, Max can't rightly tell. It's all painting a clear enough picture to Max about the character of these people he's in the hands of - some bearded, bloodthirsty lunatic and a girl who's more comfortable around animals than people.
Dementus pauses for a moment, expression shifting to something friendlier, even as his mood maintains that air of threat.
"You know," Dementus begins, drawling out the last syllable, "not so different, are they? People and dogs. You put 'em in a collar and suddenly they start listening. You show 'em who's got the food, they start trusting. You get 'em mounted, they start behaving themselves." He rounds on Max, seemingly giving no thought to the supplies at Max's feet, to the fact that Max might very well be hiding the medical shears from the medkit in the sleeve of his jacket as Dementus approaches him with narrowed eyes. "So what's it gonna be then, eh, dog? You gonna man up, put some pups in my dam? Or are we gonna have to put you down?"
This is what they wanted him for. This is why he's held captive in this place, bloodied and beaten and muzzled and chained.
He's not just meant to wed her.
He's here to breed her.
All at once, Max feels the floor drop out underneath him.
Reeling, Max's tight grip on the shears loosens in the moment before Dementus breaks into a smile, towering over where Max is still seated on the ground. Turning, Dementus faces Little Dee again, hands on his hips as he leans down in her direction, his tone chiding like he's asking her to clean up her room instead of letting herself be fucked and bred like a farm animal. "It'll calm you down too, love, if you'd just let it happen. Admit it." Dementus nudges one booted foot against Max's knee to indicate. "Your old man didn't pick out a half bad sire for you, did he?" ]
no subject
It would almost be enough to distract her. She's long practiced tuning out Dementus who could talk for hours, seemingly enchanted with the sound of his own voice. A periodic grunt of agreement is enough to keep him going for long swaths of time, literally no matter what the topic is. She almost falls into that habit now. Yeah, yeah. People are dogs. She knows this one, he'd said it before. Her muzzle was suede and leather rather than the metal cage her new pet wears, but she doesn't doubt Dementus still has it if she took up the habit of crushing people's fingers between her teeth again. Maybe she should, if he's so convinced she's domesticated.
But then he keeps going, and Furiosa snaps to attention, Dementus' revelation apparently news to her as it was to her dog, her mouth feels dry as a sickening, sour feeling crawls up from her stomach and across her skin. She can't even manage to peel her eyes away from Dementus to look at her dog, her face twisting into a reviled expression. Each one of the hairs on the back of stands up at painful attention, and her skin feels white hot, radiating from her belly like she swallowed a hot coal. ]
I'll bite off his cock and any other filthy scag you try to—
[ And maybe she should be more careful with her words because those specifically could invite the muzzle, but it doesn't matter because Dementus isn't tolerating her backtalk any longer. His large hand threads through her hair, and she yelps in pain as he drags her up to her feet to shove her against the curved wall of their quarters.
"Listen to me girl," he spits, crowding into her face. Her head lolls to the side and he wrenches her back up straight by her scalp. "You can have a stud I pick for you, or I can send you down the road and you can learn what happens to girls who don't listen to their father. Do you want that?"
The Vault, and Furiosa doesn't know if he'd actually trade her but the threat feels particularly piercing now. She doesn't care to test it. She shakes her head, but she's looking past Dementus to her dog. A silent ask to stand down on any ill-advised attempt at Dementus. Nothing good will come of it.
Of course, that doesn't satisfy Dementus even if it looks like an answer: "Speak, girl."
And it takes a moment for her voice to rumble back up through her throat: ] No.
[ "Good girl," and he taps her face almost jovially, releasing her. She slumps to the ground, and Furiosa catches the eye of her dog only briefly and accidentally. She looks at her boots.
"You'll move down to the base of the tower," he offers like it's easy conversation. Like it's a real favor from him, "A wedding gift. Be indecent to shack up here with your pa when you have marital duties to attend to," and he laughs at himself, as easy as anything.
And then Dementus is gone, back to squawk orders around Gastown. Furiosa remains sitting, taking a breath before she presses back to her feet, schooling her expression into something inscrutable. She takes the few paces back to Scully's corpse, peering at her dog, her bride, expectantly. ]
Come on then. We have to bury her before sundown.
no subject
The tiny voice of reason in him reigns, tells Max that he gains far, far less if he acts now than if he does nothing.
So he doesn't. He watches instead, stomach lurching from what he's just heard, from the new threats that spring from the man's mouth. His own daughter who he apparently won't think twice to ship off somewhere else and meet the same fate under someone else's eye. Over Dementus' shoulder, Max catches Little Dee's gaze, eyes half wild and pleading. His body tenses even as she's released, even after Dementus offers his generous gift, then turns on his heel and leaves.
Max doesn't move for a long moment, until the next order comes, and he has little choice but to obey.
Mostly stitched up now, the task of carrying the dog is at least marginally easier. At least he doesn't have to worry as much about tearing the wound open more, at least it can start clotting and healing, if he's lucky. There are probably more than simply one vehicle around that can do the foul job of digging up dirt, but Max is tasked to do it manually instead, trails of sweat pouring from his forehead as he moves earth from one spot to another with a square-nosed shovel. It's too bad the beast requires a grave site the size of a person's; he could have avoided this labor altogether if only the dog was someone, anyone else's.
Once the body is placed inside the fresh grave, Max crawls out, sliding a hand gingerly over the newly-stitched wound, over his shirt to check for blood. Finding mostly sweat instead, Max grimaces, wiping his hands on his thighs.
For a moment, he works his mouth around, as though testing its suitability for speaking. ]
So what's at the base of the tower? [ His eyes are on his own hands, the handle of the shovel resting against his chest. He steals a look up at Little Dee, checking for her mood. ]
how i feel when notifs tick over to "two weeks ago:" 🧟
So she watches him dig in silence, burying the closest thing she'd felt to family, to love, in ages. Her eyes are red and bloodshot, but stubbornly she does not cry. Scully deserves to be mourned, but she won't let this awful poisoned earth steal any more of her water. It seems like she watches him with rapt attention, her mouth never moving from the twisted expression, holding a steady and simmering anger. She's been angry for years. A few hours is nothing.
It's only when he places Scully into her grave that she finally breaks, feeling stingy, salty tears well back up. She curses under her breath, peeling back leather gloves so she can shove the heels of her palms into her eyes, like she might be able to dam her emotions back up. It works, until she realizes he's speaking. Her spine straightens, chin lifting and jaw tightening. He doesn't get to see her so exposed. ]
Kennels. [ Sickeningly fitting. Not that they've had a healthy litter in years. The waste seemed to eat away dogs as much as it did people. ] Still nicer than most of this poisoned shithole.
no subject
He pretends not to notice, swinging his body around, eyes averted. The muzzle does a fair bit to his line of sight.
Her answer, he should see coming. His heart sinks, not that he thought it'd be something better, but because it does seem like these people are married to the idea of trapping and treating people like dogs after all. How much of this is Dee involved with or bought into? He can't imagine she's too different from Dementus, though Max imagines he's crazier than everyone else here by a wide margin.
Still. ]
Mm, [ he answers, a little grunt of acknowledgement like it doesn't faze him. ] Better than that? [ He gestures to the top of the tower, lit up and visible from where they are on the ground. ]
no subject
No. [ Her voice rumbles, wrenching her tone and her posture back into the stoic and unreadable fashion that's safest here. ] 's not. [ Of course they aren't. What might be better than the king's chambers. ] Don't ask me stupid questions. You want to shack up with Dementus instead?
no subject
And then he gets back to work, moving the earth back into the grave, until a small mound is formed, loose dirt making its way into his boots.
Finished, Max drives the nose of the tool into the dirt not steps from where Dee stands and raises his chin, scanning the kennels. Not much to see from here. ]
Look, at least it's got you out of there. [ He gives the slightest of nods in the direction of the tower. ] Can't be worse being out from under his nose.
[ He doesn't really expect her to answer him, but even no answer is an answer in itself. His eyes go to her neck again, to the old blood on her clothes, to her mouth, set in a grim line.
(He tries not to stare at her lips but lingers anyway.) ]
Whatever that is, [ he begins, nodding to the wound she won't show him, ] you should at least change the bandage. Once you start getting fevers, might be too late.
no subject
Fevers, though... Fevers would boil her from the inside, poison her organs and pale her skin. Crippled and helpless before she slips away. Worse, she may still come out the other side. She's never been lucky.
Violently, her instincts thrash against the idea. They bite like a dog that acts almost as if it might let itself be pet. It fights the idea of succumbing to a wound Dementus gave her desperately . He would cry thick crocodile tears, mourning his darling daughter. She will not give him the satisfaction.
But she can't give this dog the satisfaction of being right either. Not when he says things like the fantasy that there is any place Dementus isn't watching her. She may be plotting her escape, but she doesn't need a feral loner to fuck it all up by thinking he can make a run at it too. ]
Whatever you think you know about this place, [ She closes the gap, white knuckled fingers closing tightly around the cage of his muzzle wrenching him forward and snarling. ] You don't. There is no mercy, there is no escape, and there is no place that doesn't have eyes and ears. Got it?