6One more chapter from Notch's perspective, and I'm going to end Act 1 and open Act 2 with Ace demanding to know what Furiosa had done. Yep yep.
-Shiv-
I wanted to die, to curl up at the edges of this room hewn from the rock and just shrivel up, maybe reopen the cut on my head and bleed out on the floor. I didn't have the wherewithal to tell where I was, Blind-eye's fortress or the nest of the Dead Men. Didn't matter, I'd be suffered the same fate at either place apparently. Just a thing that they extract valuable fluids from or a place to dump it into. What's the difference really? Things hurt that shouldn't, things Brew promised would never happen to me again.
I didn't notice that I wasn't alone, or maybe I didn't care until he touched me at the shoulder.
I wanted to strangle something, beat somebody to a pulp and whoever was there, they'd do just fine. In retrospect, it might have been a good thing that I hardly had the strength left to do more than rock forward onto my knees and fall on the person that had come to see if I was still alive. It felt like I was fighting with everything I had, clawing, swinging, biting. But every attack was thwarted with ease, all the while the other body in the dark shushed at me. Like some freakish attempt to dismiss the agony I felt and comfort it too.
I when I became too tired to move and my limbs turned to rubber the other body pulled away. I was left on the floor in a pile for a short moment, something warm and smelly was thrown over my back -a moldy blanket- and a feverishly hot hand lifted my chin and offered something cool, wet and clean to my lips. I was scolded over the thin river that trickled down my chin as I drank, yet at the same time fingernails scratched gently through the blunt ends of fuzz left on my head. I was confused, and shaking, and afraid, but exhausted.
Whoever was with me in the dark, they stayed and told me to sleep. I'd stir and fight the drooping of my eyes with the fear I still felt worming under my skin, but the human presence nearby would continue to insist that I rested, with enough repetition I had no choice but to obey.
Mist swept over the craggy rock and the color gray painted the world in hues of old death. The only sound echoing through the ruins were the wails of the final carrier of the word, of the history, the stories. Brew yodeled into the night, singing the old songs or sometimes screaming like a maniac in order to fight back the deafening silence here.
The stone totems had faces and all of them looked sad, every single one. The kid in my arms cried and whimpered, frightened by our grief stricken savior and the ghosts which haunted the fog.
It was just a dream. An old memory playing out in my head to the tune of my own grief. although it didn't truly frighten me it was still vivid enough to jerk me awake.
"Easy now brewer."
The person who had been there before was there again when I woke. There was an oil lamp burning and I could see a body nearby that was much too pale, painted white. Fear crept back in around me. It was Crypt that was with me, the one that had demanded a blowing from another War Boy in exchange for something or other. I didn't want to be in the same room with one of those monsters, then again who else could I have been hoping for? Some normal human? A wretched? My mentor Brew?
As I put some distance between us I came to notice that I was fully clothed again, my fingers bandaged carefully and my broken feet wrapped tightly. There was, however, an iron shackle around my left wrist and a chain that lead to the scrawny War Boy's belt.
No escape.
"Don't be afraid. I don't play with the living." He said as he pressed a needle made from bone through bits of leather and stitched together the carefully worked pieces.
"Why should I believe one of old Joe's walking corpses? So far everyone I've met here has fucked me metaphorically, including you... And that one with the grease on his face- Literal."
"Whipper. You know, if you had cooperated, that could have been avoided."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Don't tempt me. Being yelled at is legit one of my turn-ons so tread carefully. You should also be far more cautious in how you speak of our father, the Immortan. Some won't tolerate a blasphemer for even a moment. If Rictus were to hear you call his Pa old... Well, I wouldn't have any choice but to get a mop to clean up whatever is left over once he's through thrashing you."
I didn't honor him with a response. Instead, I picked at a spot on the slacks I wore. They were mine, but tears and holes I remember being there before had been patched up. Did this War Boy do that? Why? Before I could ask he was talking again.
"You know. If you agree to make the spirits and if you do well at it, you might be provided a small crew like the Organic Mechanic has to help him do his work. A few pups to help you, or maybe a War Boy that is no longer welcome with the war parties. It's not a bad life, being useful and rewarded for it... As a matter of fact, I'd ask for a transfer if you decided to do this, I've never had much love for the work stitching wounds closed."
I laughed at his futile attempt to convince me, it came in a wheeze and ended in a dry cough but I'm sure he understood just how fucking funny I found the whole business. Like I'd give a shit about what a demon like Joe Moore would furnish me with if I bent to his will. I'd rather die and join my brother and master to be fully honest. You know, it felt right to offer a bitter joke to Crypt, he seemed like the type to have a grim sense of humor.
"You know what? If you can bring me that Whipper bastard's sack on a fucking necklace? Then I'll make whatever the Hel you want. I'll make friggin' martinis and pink cocktails if you can make that happen."
Crypt grinned, the light of the oil lamp playing on his features and making him look older, dangerous, like a snake. "Be careful what you ask for."