6Finally, I can put an end to this SINGLE day in the Citadel and forge ahead to after the sandstorm. Fuckin' finally. You have no idea. I'm crying right now. I'm just so happy the introductory chapters are OVER! Now I can get to the real story. Finally... Oh V8 thank you.
-Notch-
Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Chug. It wasn't his fault, he was just being himself. Still, he needed to learn when and when not to pry and he certainly needed to remember his place. I was the second eldest and he wasn't much more than a pup. I didn't need him to tell me when to get a slice stitched closed.
He looked like him, behaved like him too, but he was not Tank. He didn't have the right to tell me what to do. Still, I wandered to the sick hall and sat down for one of the Organic's assistants to patch my face and slap a poultice onto my swollen eye so that I might be able to see out of it tomorrow. I'd gone down for treatment more out of guilt than any real care that my face looked like shit after what Furiosa did to it.
I was long over the shock of what had happened in the War Rig garage. It wasn't bothering me anymore, not after taking out my bullshit on my long dead Lancer's doppelganger. Looking at Chug was like looking back in time at Tank when he'd been young. It was hard to know whether to cherish or loathe the reminder of who I'd come up with. Couldn't blame Chug for that either, though.
I returned to the garage later on, finding my second lancer absent and no black thumb pups near my lot. Being allowed time alone was probably a good thing as I delved into mindless work tightening nuts and bolts and fine tuning the war chariot I drove. I found Chug's ass print in the dust on the roof as I wiped down every surface with a rag. He must have been sitting there waiting around for a good long time before he wandered into Ross's patch of garage looking for me. Damn it. Why did that brat have to be so ill-suited to this life? Too soft, too kind, too much like Tank.
The rest of our crew avoided me, probably hearing about what I had done to Chug and that I was in no mood for further annoyance. I overheard talk that Shock and Lug had bloodied each other up. Not that big a surprise but it was another source of tension. Surely someone other than myself could have taken it upon themselves to keep those two idiots out of the sick ward or differ their dispute to the fury pits where such struggles are settled properly.
Soon there was nothing left that I could do without a second set of hands. The ram bar needed to be taken off and pounded back into shape on an anvil and when I let Chug drive on the way back the front end ate it in a deep dip as we rolled back up onto the road between Gas Town and home. I'd been driving the brewer's Escort but I saw the way Valkyrie's Fender damn near lost her front bumper in the sand. The alignment needed fixed and I wanted Chug to check the suspension too since that was his fault. That's how you learn, you pick up your tools and you fix your mistakes.
I stepped back and had a good look at her. The way the front right corner was sagging, it looked like Chug was going to have his work cut out for him the next day. As long at it got fixed by his hands, then all would be forgiven. Damn him, can't stay angry.
The torches were being put out. War Boys were filing into their bunks, and I was just lingering under a lamp trying to find something else to do in here. I pulled off the steering wheel and made my way down the halls, passed the sick ward and hung my wheel on its peg at the shrine. It had a cat skull in the center, all of the teeth had been missing when Tank picked it up and stuck it in my hands like a gift. I'd shaped bits of metal into fangs to replace the poor cat's chompers and glued them into the holes before re-gifting it back to him. Then Tank dumped it into my lap a second time after fashioning a wheel around it and turning it into the centerpiece.
I had to pull in a deep breath and force it out so that I could expel the memory. Thinking about shit like that turns you soft and if you die soft, you go nowhere.
The passages and tunnels were dark, damp muck squelched and sloshed under my boots as I made the walk to the deeper reaches where my crew slept. By now they'd all be down there, except Ike and Gizz. I ground my teeth, we would be missing Zinny and Wingnut too. Scavengers got their bodies before we could fetch them.
Tomorrow we'd mourn them, Ace would be there to perform the ritual. Gizzard and Bolts had survived, they would be promoted and need to start figuring out their war chariot situation. Either build one or fight for one someone else already built. I'd also need to select four new potentials from the rankless pups waiting to be noticed. All this shit had to be done in the wee hours of the morning before I dragged the whole lot to the clay chamber for a re-paint.
The original crew was me and Tank, Ike and Dun, Gabriel and Kipper, Bird and John-boy, Reese and Phil and finally Hoobie and his sick wagon always full of boys ready die chromed instead of burning out in the sick ward. Shit changes. Only Ike and I left now, and Ike was wasting away fast. Nowadays names like that are hard to come by, instead of the ones they came with the pups are given new names in honor of holy car parts or weaponry. I had another name once, something that lingers on the tip of my tongue and begs to be said. It started with Fff sound. Doesn't really matter. I'm Notch. I'm the second oldest next to Ace. I'm a War Boy. I'm not a history man whose job it is to remember.
Some passages had become black as pitch. The only way one could navigate in the middle of the night was if he knew the way like he knew the roads outside these walls. A body brushed against my shoulder in the darkness. The reaction was instant, natural. At night, even your brothers could become a threat. A danger to themselves and everyone around them if they were one of the ones who got up and walked when the fevers took hold.
It was a lancer, I could tell that much without sight. He was broad and moved well, very nearly reversing my grip and pushing me back against the wall instead of being pinned himself.
"Shit!... Fangin' mental geezer." Ah, I knew that voice.
"What the fuck are you doing skulking around down here in my tunnels, Slit."
He pushed back and I released my hold. I knew this one wouldn't fight me, not unless he wanted worse scars on his ugly mug.
"Tch. Driver booted me out of the bunk... Again."
Ah, I understood and I didn't have any true reason to reprimand the way he spoke to his elder. I knew this one, that he covered his distress in a piss-poor attitude. I could hear him shifting one foot to the other, waiting for permission. Lately, it was more often than not that either Slit or Nux wandered down to my crew's kip looking for somewhere to bed down away from their partner. They were fighting and I sympathized. Often, when a driver or lancer is approaching the end of his half-life, the pair argue. They rage against the looming end of their bond as if the struggle could prolong the time they had. It won't.
"Alright. Come on. You'll fill the spot Gizzard left open, what with being in the sick ward."
I grabbed him at the elbow and towed him along since he would get lost without the guidance through the maze of the lower levels. He and his driver had a bunk up in the barracks. They'd fought for it and won it. I'd been there in the fury pits the day they earned their right to hole in the wall with a skinny mattress stuffed into it.
"Heard you an' your new lancer have just about had the shits of each other." He said dryly. I really didn't feel conversational.
"S'normal shit. The pup stepped over the line. Had to whack him. Ain't gonna be a lancer fir much longer, though. Groomin' him to become a driver."
"Heh, you really think Chug would be any better at driving than he is at fumbling thunder sticks?"
Slit always trash-talked on his fellow lancers, acting like he was the best of the bunch. That gray on his forehead was still fresh by my count. Nothing but a pup with more rank than he had any right to. "You know, I could just let you freeze your ass off in the tunnels,"
He was quiet after I threatened to abandon him in the middle of the corridor. Soon, I was turning the corner into the kip. A torch was still lit. The custom among our group was that the fire doesn't go out until everyone is present and has their boots off. With Ike and Gizz spending the night up with the Organic and his assistants, it would burn through the night.
I pulled Slit further into the swamp of lying bodies and gave him a push. "Find a spot. Stay away from Shock and Lug. They're liable to wake up swingin'... Usual stuff, been trying to kill each other again."
He leveled a grunt and started doing the awkward dance across the floor made of arms and legs to get to an open space between Bolts and the twins. He was still slapped twice by boys who didn't appreciate having their fingers stepped on.
I unlaced my boots and tossed them into the pile of many others before making my way up to my spot. Chug was facing the wall, curled up and skin prickled with the evening chill. I sat leaning over the edge to do my nightly head count. Two, four, six, eight, plus Slit, nine and all of the blackthumb pups who'd prefer to bed down near us boys they knew well rather than the dens where most ankle biters slept. There were some older ones among the piles of youngin's tonight. Brats at the end of puphood who always seem to appear when we lost one or more of our own. They sought to be chosen for training, to rise from among the unranked and fill the gaps in our crew. Too bad for them. I had already made my choice inside my head. Sump, Tread, Stroke, and Harp would be lifted up from youth and become our four new greenhorns.
Sleep evaded me for some time. Long enough to experience further guilt, throw the grimy sheet I kept up here over Chug and turn to keep my back flush against his so that he stayed somewhat warm.
I was nearly at the threshold of slumber when I felt Chug roll over and crush himself against me. Had to arch away a little. Those lumps on my spine were somewhat sensitive and his noggin was like a rock grinding into them. Next, I felt his fingers tracing the exhaust manifolds Tank had etched into my back when we were young and eager to impress our elders. Oh, that was so long ago.
"What are you doin'? Ah, if you're lookin' for a rootin' you're feeling up the wrong tats this time. Go bother Fork if you want that."
"No... No. Sorry mate. I just- What did I do? Why're you so angry with me?"
"Veeight. You still whimpering about earlier pup? M'not pissed at you." Dumb child, he was just looking for reassurance. Rust, if it weren't for Tank and his pitiful habits I'd never have gotten myself saddled with this kid. I couldn't just let him be paired off with some other driver, not after listening to him beg to ride on the car I was rebuilding after losing my lancer. It's just... So, so tangled and screwed up.
He made a noise and sighed slowly. It was like the hiss of air being let out of a tire, a load of pressure being spewed out.
"Are you... trying to get rid of me?"
Fuck. I rolled over and threw my arm over the little idiot's shoulder. "No. For Joe's sake... S'just hard lookin' at you is all."
"Why? I mean. I ain't doing that bad hurling thunder sticks. I'm I? Is that why you want me to try drivin'? Why you can't look me in the eye? I'll get better! I promise! I just need more time!"
"Nah. Shut it before you wake everyone. I ain't tryin' to drop ya. You do okay at poppin' Buzzards and raiders. It's just. I think maybe... You might be Tank's pup."
He pulled back, eyes wide and incredulous. "What?"
I nodded a bit. "You heard what I said, boy."
"How. I mean... How can that be?"
"Tch, you ever look at your own reflection? Got the same eyes. One brown, one blue. An' your face. You got the same face as him."
"Thought it was just coincidence. Right? I mean. There ain't no girls among us, 'cept Furiosa an' Die... And we ain't allowed to fraternize with wetcheds so-"
"He did... Broke the rules. Tank was rootin' with some wretched girl. The number of days fits. Know why he had all them scars on his back? Cause he got caught. Got whipped bloody and stupid over the girl he was sneaking out to see. I think she mighta been your mother. And Tank mighta sired you. That's why he lost his shit when he saw your face among the uglies below. Cause you were the proper age, an' you looked like him... Look like her too a lil' bit."
He was quiet. Never really wanted to say all this shit to him but how much time could I possibly have left? I was the Legendary Boy of supreme luck but luck has to run out sometime. With the lumps growing on me, it couldn't be long. I felt okay but that could honestly just be denial or something. He needed to know the truth before I went the way of burning out or dying historic. One could only hope for the latter. He still hadn't said a word before I found more to say myself.
"It's hard lookin' at you because I keep seeing Tank every time I do. You gotta understand that. An' I can't let you die like him. I want you to become a driver... Plus, I'm old. I'm gonna kick this rust-bucket an' go off to Valhalla someday. Somebody is gonna have to keep an eye on these idiots once I'm gone. Right?"
The boy said not another word for several breaths. His head was probably humming like an overworked motor. When he finally opened his mouth, what he said was not something I expected at all.
"We lost Zinny and Wingnut. You're gonna have those weird dreams if you don't do the cut thing before you sleep."
He was right. They weren't really dreams, though, more like half recollections of an old woman whose job it was to put the dead to rest. That was from before I came here, even further back in time before I stood among the wretched.
"Yeah. Here. You do it." I dug around in my pocket until I found a dirk and its sheath for Chug to use.
"Where at. You're running out of room for more cuts on your arms."
"Just find a spot on my back then," I instructed as I sat up. I could feel how unsteady his hands were. "Did you ever go to get that top up?"
I suppressed hiss as he made the first shallow slice. "Well... No. Didn't feel like it."
"You know better than to put something like that off Chug. You know your blood ain't right. You'll burn out if you don't get your donor fuel regular like."
"Yeah but..." He trailed off as we turned our heads to observe a new interloper. It was Nux, how he managed to find his way down here in the dark I'll never know. He was here for Slit, kicking at his foot to rouse him.
I listened to them argue in whispers. Slit refused to get up, Nux wanted him to come back to their bunks but refused to offer an apology. After a while, the driver gave up and squeezed himself in between Bolts and his lancer. Apparently they were both going to bed down here. If they kept this shit up they were going to lose their bunk.
I looked back at my own lancer as he finished the second cut. "First thing in the morning, I'm taking you up for a bloodbag. No buts. Got it?"
"Yeah. Alright."
END OF ACT 1
I had to go back and make some minor changes to ages and such because to me all of the war boys in the film looked SO young although many may have been pushing thirty. I looked up a great deal of the actors and found that I misjudged their ages by a lot. Apparently, white costume paint and too much black eye shadow makes everyone look between sixteen and twenty one. Plus, Josh Helman (Slit) and Nick Hoult (Nux) are blue eyed and baby faced and they were the two War Boys who got the most screen time. It's easy to underestimate the age of the whole army when you're stuck staring at those two. I'll go back and amend for my mistakes by changing how old some of the boys are, most notably Notch. He'll be somewhere in his early forties now. Ike is trailing just behind him in his late thirties.