h-h-holy shit

           Her smile is wry, is dry as the sky above them, blue eyes fixated on the stars above. I know you know that. Of course she knows it. She’d been born to it. Compassion was her rightful inheritance. Compassion sparked alongside the rage in her breast at the sight of those women, caged like precious finches, forced into motherhood, made into property. Compassion made her search for a way to get them out. Dangerous and near impossible. Compassion made her RUTHLESS in the safety of those women. 

                    “I couldn’t fail them. So I had to be ruthless.” NO UNNECESSARY KILLING. She might have plunged that knife into the kid’s throat if not for Angharad’s words we agreed. “But that fight’s not over. These people here, the children, the sick, the old. The defenseless.” 

              Her voice trails away ( her chest still aches where she’d been stabbed, where he’d cut into her to drain the blood pressing upon her lungs still healing ) and for a moment all that can be heard is the slow turn of turbines, the wind in the leaves of green things. Up here everything seems peaceful. Now. 

max gives to her a thoughtful nod; he knows what she means, what she’s getting at. in the set of his face you can see the wheels turning in his mind. thoughts stirring in the grey lines of his mind. the turbines groan on, and max counts the different sounds they make. he tips his chin towards her, and remarks, carefully,

     “Your friends from out there don’t have leaders anymore.” 

     they killed them all. one by one. warlords of the wasteland. they barricaded the war boys up behind them; likely a good deal of them died in what max imagines was a gruesome pile-up – the ones that didn’t would’ve crawled home sick and bloodied.

     “People in the Bullet Farm and Gas Town could need our help.” a little shake of his head. he had something follow up to say, but first he’s stuck by his own words, an automatic inclusion of himself into furiosa’s activities, her life, her citadel. “Your help,” he corrects, weakly, fingers finding their way into his jacket pockets. “But if you want…”

     he trails off. back to the point. “Those people. Didn’t they live off – produce, water,” his words are staggering, uncertainty, but he has an idea. One that goes beyond just survival - and that makes it foreign to him. “Lived off supplies from here?” hand emerges from pocket to twirl a finger at the citadel. he shrugs, heavily. “Could broker peace.”

     but then, of course: “Unless they don’t want peace. And then we can be ruthless.”

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           Her smile is wry, is dry as the sky above them, blue eyes fixated on the stars above. I know you know that. Of course she knows it. She’d been born to it. Compassion was her rightful inheritance. Compassion sparked alongside the rage in her breast at the sight of those women, caged like precious finches, forced into motherhood, made into property. Compassion made her search for a way to get them out. Dangerous and near impossible. Compassion made her RUTHLESS in the safety of those women. 

                    “I couldn’t fail them. So I had to be ruthless.” NO UNNECESSARY KILLING. She might have plunged that knife into the kid’s throat if not for Angharad’s words we agreed. “But that fight’s not over. These people here, the children, the sick, the old. The defenseless.” 

              Her voice trails away ( her chest still aches where she’d been stabbed, where he’d cut into her to drain the blood pressing upon her lungs still healing ) and for a moment all that can be heard is the slow turn of turbines, the wind in the leaves of green things. Up here everything seems peaceful. Now. 

max gives to her a thoughtful nod; he knows what she means, what she’s getting at. in the set of his face you can see the wheels turning in his mind. thoughts stirring in the grey lines of his mind. the turbines groan on, and max counts the different sounds they make. he tips his chin towards her, and remarks, carefully,

     “Your friends from out there don’t have leaders anymore.” 

     they killed them all. one by one. warlords of the wasteland. they barricaded the war boys up behind them; likely a good deal of them died in what max imagines was a gruesome pile-up – the ones that didn’t would’ve crawled home sick and bloodied.

     “People in the Bullet Farm and Gas Town could need our help.” a little shake of his head. he had something follow up to say, but first he’s stuck by his own words, an automatic inclusion of himself into furiosa’s activities, her life, her citadel. “Your help,” he corrects, weakly, fingers finding their way into his jacket pockets. “But if you want…”

     he trails off. back to the point. “Those people. Didn’t they live off – produce, water,” his words are staggering, uncertainty, but he has an idea. One that goes beyond just survival - and that makes it foreign to him. “Lived off supplies from here?” hand emerges from pocket to twirl a finger at the citadel. he shrugs, heavily. “Could broker peace.”

     but then, of course: “Unless they don’t want peace. And then we can be ruthless.”