Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Max hasn’t seen a real human in over 57 days.

Of course, this is when the new ghost appears.

Granted, Sprog and Jessie are always there, waiting in the wings to weep (Jessie) or hurl accusations (Sprog). He sees them plenty in the desert, nothing to quell them or his mind but the harsh sun and blistering sand.

So when the new guy shows up, materializing out of the hot midday sun, Max only jumps a little.

“You better go,” the ghost says calmly.

His voice is nice, oddly soft with his outback burr.

Max ignores him.

A two-headed lizard foolish enough to leave the safety of its home sneaks up behind Max. He kills it with a crunch of his boot and eats it. One does not simply waste resources like that in this burned-out world.

He continues to scan the valley below and only allows himself to look at the new guy through his peripheral vision.

Dressed in dark, dusty riding leathers, the man stands out starkly against the light sandy outcropping. He has medium-ish length dark hair and some sort of black grease smeared across his forehead. He stands casually with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. Like Max, he stares out into the valley below.

Max contemplates the new guy’s demand briefly but still doesn't move. His ghosts like to give heartbreaking accusations and sow terrible sorrow, not give helpful advice. And, he learned the hard way that talking back to his ghosts is a terrible idea so asking why he should go is not happening.

“Go, you fool.”

The ghost seems insistent, his tone carrying a slight edge now.

Ignoring his instincts to not take his eyes off this guy, Max looks over his shoulder.

“GO, MAX!” Sprog howls as a vision of a legion of cars plows Max down.

Fuck.

Max leaps into his car and slams on the gas, the wheels threatening to spin out on the loose sand with sheer force. He straightens out the wheel and files down the ridgeline into the valley below.

It’s not enough.

Max can tell, somewhere deep inside of him that breathes more gas fumes and churns with the rumble of a V8 engine; he isn’t going to make it.

The new ghost sits in his passenger seat, his hands gripping the dashboard as if he could commune with and employ the engine to push harder, to go faster.

Still, it is not enough.

The pursuit crashes into Max, flipping the car as sheer bloody panic begins to swell in his chest.

He has survived the wasteland for so long now, held out against so many awful and desperate people that the level of fear rising in Max is surprising and so unhelpful.

His car lands wheels up and Max hardly waits for the dark spots to leave his field of vision before he claws his way out through the window, his sharp breaths coming in pants now.

Briefly, he feels a calming touch on his shoulder, the weight grounding him in his moment of panic before it's gone. There’s a light scent of gazzuline and leather in the air when more bodies, actual human bodies, slam into him. Something heavy hits him in the head and Max knows no more.

↭

He awakes to pain and blood.

Dank clumps of his unkempt hair are snipped and fall in waves below him as the riotous masses hold him still. The distinct buzz of a tattoo gun merrily gorges his back, the pain making him overwhelmingly aware that he is bound in an unfamiliar, dangerous place. More panic spews forth, and Max’s saliva drenches the gag stretched uncomfortably across his face.

He has to get out, to go.

He sees an opening and runs for it, knocking these strange pale demons out of his way. His hands are bound in heavy chains but he doesn’t let that stop him. Dodging this way and that, Max manages to climb a grate, desperately seeking a way out.

“Max? Max? MAX” Sprog’s angelic face leeches into a twisted baleful grin, his little hands raised in claws. The shock of seeing him startles Max into falling back into the water below him.

Still, he wastes no time and continues to run, mindlessly sprinting down unfamiliar corridors until he sees two double doors at the end of the hallway. Pushing his aching knee, Max pumps his arms and slams open the doors only to come to a screeching halt.

Where the hell was he?

Was that… green? Over there on the opposite mountain?

Hearing the rumbling mass of his pursuit, Max has no choice but to jump and latch onto the swinging hook. He swings away from the doors but to his horror, whoever was lifting the hook stopped and now Max is swinging back into the hands of his captors.

Fuck.

As the pale demons claw him back away from the ledge, Max takes one more desperate glance at the open sky and the startling green before being consumed by the darkness once more.

↭

He spends the night in a cage suspended above the ground, a metal muzzle digging painfully into his face, his arms bound in chains behind him. The prickling pain in his neck tells him that some type of medical line was hooked to him when he was out.

He shifts slightly, trying to find comfort for his bum knee, before studying his surroundings.

Judging by the other suspended cages around him, Max clearly is not the first prisoner to be taken by this gang. And by the partially decomposing corpses in some, he won’t be the first to die here either.

“You won’t die here,” Max’s new ghost says calmly, his silhouette illuminated by the moonlight filtering in from above.

Max doesn’t reply- the muzzle is heavy and harsh against his face, making talking painful- and merely raises an eyebrow.

“You won’t, you're too valuable,” the ghost continues, “they need you for something, and that will be your ticket out of here.” He leans casually against an empty cage on the ground next to Max, rolling something dark in and around his fingers. In the moonlight, he is hard to miss, yet with what little warboys- fucking hell, warboys- dart past the ghost, not one acknowledges him.

The moonlight makes his new ghost look even more unearthly, his pale skin luminescent and his dark wavy hair an inky black. His eyes though, such a deep green remind Max of a word so old and different from this wretched wasteland. Its once-buried resting place in the recess of Max’s mind is blasted open; forest. His ghost has forest-green eyes.

Consequently, the moonlight shows the wear and tear of his leathers, the elbows and knees reinforced with something thick, the dusty boots metal-tipped. An empty thigh holster is strapped to his left hip, and there are several nice hiding spots for something sharp and dangerous. More than anything though, it's the way his ghost never stops scanning the room, never stops observing the comings and goings of the space.

This man was a road warrior.

Now, fully illuminated in this dark cavern, Max is confused. He is positive now that he has never seen this man once before. Never killed him or got him killed- that he knew of. So why was he here?

Perhaps those many days lost out in the sand affected Max more than he thought.

“Rest, Max” his ghost gently says, “you’ll fear nothing tonight. Rest, and prepare for what is coming. You’ll find opportunity then.”

As if they were waiting for the command, against all odds, Max’s eyelids begin to droop. His last image was that of his warrior ghost quietly standing guard, his hands gently rolling that dark object between his pale fingertips.

↭

It takes Max to being strapped down to the front of a speeding car, barreling blazingly across the desert sand to realize this is what his new ghost meant about being valuable.

Huh.

Blood bag indeed.

He files that universal donor information away for later and continues to curse the stupidity of man.

His donee, as it were, is a feral little freak who has severe marital issues with the other guy in the car with them.

The crazed mania surrounding this Immortan Joe is intense, even for all the general crazies that come with living in this wasteland. Vaguely, he remembers hearing about this Immortan a few thousand days ago when the man and his followers fought against that massive biker gang. Max had been somewhat near the area but knew even then, he wanted no part of whatever was happening between the two.
And yet.

Here he is anyways, forced to be up close and personal as his donee and partner fight it out against buzzards around the war rig; i.e. dragged into some nonsense wholly against Max’s will.

Fuck this.

He gives a rough growl, furious as the fireball of the flipped spiky car comes too close to comfort. Max glances briefly to the side and makes eye contact with the war rig driver. The heat of the battle and breakneck speed makes it hard for him to discern any real details but the determined glare, alight with something that screams ‘I will do everything to fucking survive’ is familiar.

His reflection in his car’s window shows him the same thing.

It’s Max who looks away first. There’s a prickling in his skin, a slight raise to the hair on his arms. Somehow, he knows he’ll be seeing this driver again.

It takes his donee’s yell for him to notice the large sandstorm building up in front of them.

“She hopes to lose us in there!” one of them screams behind Max.

Judging by the intense clouds and ominous red lighting, Max privately agrees with the war rig’s driver. It's a clever idea.

Suddenly, his muzzle is yanked back as someone pulls on his chain.

Ah, the opportunity then.

He almost melts off the hood of the car when the partner with staples in his face removes the thick medical needle from his skin. There’s no time to appreciate the relief though as he slides up and over to the back of the car.

There, leaning as if it was an easy joy ride and not a breakneck push to survive a sandstorm, is his new ghost.

His ghost merely raises a pointed eyebrow at Max’s muzzle and chain as if he expected Max to be free already.

Jackass.

But not entirely it seems. As Max slides down next to the stapled-face man, he sees his new ghost causally stick out one of his legs. Not wasting a moment, Max props his hands back against the car and kicks out sharply with both of his legs. Not expecting the sudden motion, the stapled-faced man gives a sharp cry and stumbles back. Hitting- something, he flies off the car, disappearing in the swirling sand.

Despite his better judgment, Max looks at his new ghost.

The man grins and says nothing. He does, however, jerk his chin over to the front of the car. Right, Max is still chained to the driver. And, they’re in the middle of a sandstorm.

Right.

Max is still trying to break the back windshield- that stupid suicidal fucking maniac- when the car’s weight is finally not enough to remain on the ground. As the car and its inhabitants go flying, Max thinks about two things:

Survive, dammit.

And-

How in this wretched wasteland, did his ghost manage to fucking trip someone?

↭

There’s a sharp ringing in his ears as Max bursts from the sand. Vaguely, he hears Sprog murmuring something incoherent, and Jessie whimpering, but they thankfully fade as more things come into focus for him.

Miraculously, he’s survived flying off a car in the middle of a sandstorm. Suffering no apparent mortal wounds, he follows his chain back to its other end and finds his donee slumped in the sand, still out cold.

The car is totally fucked, its pieces lying haphazardly around, but there is a sawed-off shotgun near his unconscious jailer.

Perfect.

“That won’t work.”

Ignoring his new ghost, Max picks up the shotgun and lines it up. He pulls the trigger. The hammer falls with a dull click, the chamber is full of sand, and the hand is unfortunately still attached.

His ghost snickers.

Still ignoring the ghost man- a new personal favorite pastime- Max searches the area for anything that might finally detach him from the feral little man. He is debating the merits of just biting the damn hand off- muzzle issues notwithstanding- when he hears a clang. Metal on metal, rhythmic banging, somewhere nearby in the haze. He waits and listens a few seconds longer, pinpointing the exact location of the sound before glancing at the ghost man.

He’s staring directly out toward the sound, his feet planted firmly into the sand, his hand lying by his sides. The ghost’s shoulders are tense and fingers curled into fists. But his face- open and hopeful and wanting-

Hmm, interesting.

Max heaves the unconscious man up and over his shoulders before heading towards the sound.

Better see what all the fuss is about.

At the last minute, Max grabs the shotgun. Who knows, it might come in handy.

Chapter Text

Well, Max is kind of correct. The shotgun does come in handy but he still gets the shit beat out of him. Only with his jailer's help is he able to finally subdue the woman. 

He’s so fucking over these people from the Citadel. All he wants is some wheels and a direction, capable of putting several leagues between him and the crazies. 

The pain in his body and face- damn that woman hits hard - and the sharp tingling in his skin from overstimulation of being around too many people leads him to shoot at the pregnant woman without pause. 

Damn these women, damn his jailers, damn this whole fucking area. Max is done .

Striding past the pregnant woman, Max throws his things into the cab of the war rig and drives off. 

He’s just beginning to feel a bit of relief- the rumbling of an engine doing more to soothe him than water- when the war rig begins to shutter and slow down.

Fuck.

Slowly, as if mocking him, the rig comes to a shuddering halt. 

Max sighs, leans back into the seat, and waits for the woman.

She appears a moment later, not even a little out of breath. “Kill switch, I set them myself. The rig won’t move without  me.”

Max ignores her, fuming silently. 

So much for relief.

“You get in.”

“No, not without them,” the woman says firmly, jerking her chin toward the women behind her.

“So we wait.”

“You are relying on the gratitude of a very bad man. You’ve already damaged one of his wives, how grateful do you think he’ll be?”

Max eyes the other women briefly. All dressed in white without a trace of wasteland radiation on them. He thinks back to when he first came upon them from the haze. The metal contraptions they were removing from their waists. Chastity belts Jessie whispers from his mind, her tone sad.

Hmm, the wives of Immortan Joe.

Still, Max is feeling petulant enough that he continues to sit. Besides, no one cares about a nameless wanderer. He can give the Citadel people the slip while they deal with the women. 

Possibly seeing something confirming this resolve, the woman tries again. “You’re sitting on 2000 horsepower of nitro-boosted war machine. I’d say you’ve got yourself a five-minute head start.”

A low whistle comes from Max’s right.

“Oh, that's lovely. What a beaut.”

Ah his ghost, back with more unhelpful comments.

Lounging in the passenger seat, his ghost softly caresses the dashboard, his callused fingers lightly grazing every groove and dial. There’s a sense of wonder and pride coming from him, his presence calm and easy. Noticing Max’s silence, his ghost removes his hands and leans in closer to Max and the open window.

“She’s right. You should listen to her.”

During the fight with the woman, his ghost just stood there and grinned. When she nailed him in the face with a particularly mean right hook, he’s pretty sure he heard the man laugh. So no, Max is not inclined to listen to him. 

They all sit for a few more agonizing seconds, the faint beat of the war drums getting closer. 

Signing, his ghost flicks Max’s muzzle and leans back into the passenger seat. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, “another stubborn one.”

A beat later, the woman says, “You want that thing off your face?”

Max gives her a look, sees the truth in her eyes, and mentally sighs. 

Keeping his gun on her- she is easily the most dangerous one- Max opens the driver’s side door and slides back into the passenger seat. 

They all carefully climb in, the wives eyes weary and never leaving Max. 

He makes sure to pull all the weapons from various hiding places in the cab, compiling them by his feet. Ignoring the glare the woman gives him, Max continues to file vigorously at his muzzle and settles in for the drive. 

His ghost appears on the outside of the driver's door and leans in through the window slightly. He studies the main dash and the steering wheel and observes as the woman punches in her kill switches and starts the rig. 

There’s that odd look again. So much pride and sadness on his ghost’s face, all in one fell swoop. There’s something about him that still doesn’t add up. But looking at the woman and the ghost side by side, Max sees a familiarity between them. Both are warriors. Both are accustomed to the war rig life; they move with the gentle swaying and jostling from the rig as it picks up speed. There’s something else too, something that Maz isn’t seeing yet. 

He vaguely ponders it as the war rig rides on under the noonday sun. 

↭

There’s something about these wives that is pretty terrifying.

They tie up Max’s stowaway former jailer and toss him out of the cab, screeching, “Then who killed the world?!”

Somewhere in his mind, Jessie gives an uncomfortable gleeful laugh.

Who killed the world indeed.

↭

The wives call the driver Furiosa. 

Imperator Furiosa. 

His ghost gives a low impressed whistle at that, his eyes shining. 

She was high up in the Citadel’s chain of command, possibly the highest-ranking imperator they had. Max can understand that. Her commanding tone is firm, expecting nothing less than all her orders to be obeyed. She has the practical ease of being constantly close to death and dying and it doesn’t frighten her. Nor does it make her maudlin or too self-assured to the point of being brash. Either of those things is an easy way to get killed quickly in this wasteland.

She instead calculates quickly her best advantage for every situation and adapts. For example, knowing that she could pick one of the wives- Angharad who is pregnant, Cheedo who is like a child, Capable who’s never fired a gun, Toast who is too eager to fire a gun, and Dag who is insane - or chose Max who is a stranger and has been pointing a gun at them the whole time, Furiosa selects him to remain in the cab in case her deal with the mountain bike gang goes south. 

Him, the stranger with the gun. Specifically chosen because he has a gun. 

Clearly, she deems his threat to be lessened as of late. 

So yes, Furiosa is a highly capable, dangerous woman. 

Who has some serious balls. 

Max is only slightly intimidated. 

And because it is a group effort or something beyond this land has it out specifically for Max, the deal does, in fact, go south. 

With a brash yell, “FOOL!”, it begins. 

In theory, it shouldn't be possible what he and Furiosa did. They should absolutely be dead, their bodies left to bloat and rot under the hot sun, the wives recaptured, and the war rig in pieces. 

And yet.

And yet.

Connected by something unexplainable, Max and Furiose defend the rig from the bikes. One after another, the bikes or riders fall or explode around them. If Furiosa swings to her left, Max covers her right. They reload and toss guns to each other, seamlessly defeating the oncoming forces. At one point, feeling a heavy hand jerk him sharply to the side, Max switches the handgun to his other hand and shoots the man who tried to kill him. 

Glancing to his side, Max sees his ghost give him a nod before the man reaches up and tugs on Furiosa’s belt loop, directing her attention to someone trying to sneak up on her. She kills them with a clean single shot. He pats her pant leg twice, affirming her kill before disappearing again. 

Huh.

Nice to know that he can be helpful.

He sees through the corner of his eye- multitasking kills, keeping her six, and driving the rig doesn’t leave much room for anything else- Furiosa makes an odd face. She half smiles glancing downwards which drops when she sees it’s just Max. Frowning, she readjusts her stance in the cab and keeps firing. Interesting, did she feel his ghost’s pats on her leg?

Max is so confused.  

But then-

Then they lose Angharad.

↭

They drive into the night, mostly in silence.

Some of the wives cry, some yell, but mostly they curl inward into a messy tangle of limbs searching for fretful sleep. 

Even Max wants to close his eyes for a minute, craving a brief respite from the sadness and the guilt. He’s no smeg, as Dag says. Max knows Angharad slipped because of him. Because of the wound he gave her. If he were still a man, perhaps he would weep for her too. But he isn’t, not anymore. Now he’s just some wretched thing, struggling to survive. Still, something in his chest aches. 

“Sleep Fool,” Furiosa murmurs, “who knows when we can again.”

Max doesn’t make the move to relax at first. He feels too keyed up, his hands slightly twitching, his knee bouncing but he wills his body to come down off the adrenaline high. 

“She’s right,” his ghost whispers from his spot by Furiosa once again. “We’ll make sure everything is okay.”

Finally, Max sighs and nods his head, acquiescing to her suggestion. 

Shifting back further into the passenger seat, he tries to get comfortable.

Under Furiosa and his ghost's watchful eye, Max slowly slips into a light sleep.

↭

His dreams start as they normally do, with blood and pain. But instead of Jessie and Sprog’s mangled bodies, he sees Angharad lying broken on the ground. 

In his dreams, Max is still a man, so he weeps. 

“Why Max, why? You let me die!”

Angharad’s voice is raw and anguished. Her body flickers from her to Jessie, to Sprog, and back again. Their voices rise to a fever pitch, piercing Max’s ears despite him covering them with his hands, his cheeks wet with tears and blood and-

It stops. 

Just like that.

Firm hands grip his shoulders and gently lift him from his cowering position. 

“Max, it's over mate. Look at me.”

His ghost’s soft outback burr is soothing after the harsh cries of his failures. 

Lightly taking hold of Max’s face, his ghost wipes his tears away with his thumbs. 

“They are not your failures Max. They are the victims of an unjust world, led by cruel men. You are not one of them.”

Max stares bitterly at his ghost. A simple thing to say, but a harder thing to believe. He grabs his ghost’s wrist and pulls his hands away from Max. He opens his mouth to argue, to yell, to do anything to quell this shame in him when a different slim hand grabs his wrist. 

It’s Angharad. 

She’s more lovely now than ever, her body not broken but strong. She smiles softly at him.

“Jack is right, it’s not your fault,” she says, her voice soft. “I don’t blame you. Not even a little.”

Still smiling, Angharad reaches over and lightly kisses his cheek. “Take care of my girls, Max.”

And with that, she’s gone. 

Max looks back at his ghost. He’s clean in this dream. The black grease is gone and his war leathers are replaced with soft-looking pants and a simple shirt. He looks more at ease too, not constantly looking at his surroundings like in the waking world. 

“Jack is it? That’s your name?” Max finally asks, his voice soft.

Jack grins and bows.

Chapter Text

Just as he easily slipped into his dreams, Max awakes from them. Fever-like chills and heavy sweating usually accompany him after nightmares. This time around is different. No sweat or chills, no lingering sense of panic or shame. He actually feels…restful?? Judging by the slight shift of the stars in the sky, Max must have been only out for a little while. Still, it's the nicest he’s felt after dreaming in a long time. 

Stretching slightly, he looks over to Furiosa. She is the same as before, driving the rug with ease and gazing across the sands, her mind clearly occupied with something. 

Clearing his throat, Max asks, “Do you want me to drive? So you can uh sleep?” He finishes with an awkward wave of his hand. He’s a little out of practice looking out for others. 

She looks at him, her eyes still sharp, even after the day they've had. She seems to be mulling it over, a slight crease in her brow as she concentrates on the question. Finally, she nods. Steadying the wheel, she moves to a slight crouch. Motioning for the go-ahead with her head, Max slides over to the driver seat and grabs the wheel with one hand. There's a slight overlap as Furiosa slides into the passenger seat. Her human arm brushes his shoulder. The contact releases a familiar scent, gazzuline, and leather. 

At first, she's tense beside him, not quite ready to sink into the passenger seat. But as the moments pass, she finally reclines further into the seat with a sigh. Leaning her head back, Furiosa closes her eyes. 

Letting her rest, Max focuses on driving, keeping an eye on their rearview mirror. A kind of stillness resides in the cabin as most occupants are asleep or something akin to sleep. He takes this moment to observe the overall cabin of the war rig. 

The hulking machine surprisingly provides some comfort, its cabin spacious, easily fitting multiple people. Max still prefers his own car and its agility, but there's something to be said about the war rig’s style. 

“At first, they never added anything to the war rigs if it wasn't useful,” Jack says, appearing in the middle of the cabin, crouched between Furiosa and Max. “What was the point if it was just going to be shot at.” 

Jack's voice is soft, respectful to the stillness of the night. 

“But then as the rigs came back, broken and with pieces missing, the mechanics began to add stuff along with the patches. Missing a chunk here? Patch it with steel and iron rivets shaped like skulls. Left side of the tanker gone? Add a new plate with screaming flames, daring anyone to defy the rig and Immortal Joe again.” 

As he speaks, Jack returns to his ministrations from this afternoon, gently running his hands over every nook and cranny in the cabin. No dial or indention was left untouched. 

“Then came the rise of the drivers, the legionaries of Immortal Joe. Four ranks, Centurions, Tribunes, Praetorians, and Imperators,” he murmurs, his gaze on the sleeping Furiosa.

“Centurions are the crude leaders of two to three vehicles. They lead the mobile defense and are usually cannon fodder. Your former jail was one I believe.”

Max thinks back to the feral little man and his partner with the staples on his face. The title makes sense for the duo.

“Then the Tribunes. They assist with the war rigs. Patching it, helping train the lancers, and providing support for the loading and unloading of the rigs at Gastown and Bullet Farm. If they're good and consistent in their efforts, the Praetorians will start training them to drive the rigs. The idea is that when a Praetorian dies, then the Tribune will be competent enough to ascend to a Praetorian position, replacing their former teacher.” 

Jack runs his hands over the armrests of Max’s and Furiosa’s seats. His gaze is slightly unfocused, staring into the night, clearly remembering something that Max can't see. 

“Praetorians are ranked elite. The Road Warriors of the Citadel, serving their one Immortan Joe. Only the best can make it to being Praetorians. The best drivers, the best leaders, the best warriors, everything. Everything they learn moving up the ranks serves them in their position. And if they’re good? Better food, better lodgings, more water than mother’s milk, and their pick of bedmates,” he finishes with a quiet and bitter laugh. “Like all positions in the Citadel, you are beholden to the Immortan Joe. You serve him forever, bringing him glory until you die historic on the fury road.”

Jack glances at Furiosa, his gaze troubled. Gently, he lifts his hand and reaches for her machine arm. Slowly, he runs his fingers down the length of her metal forearm.

“...Then the Imperators. The best of us all. They’re Praetorians who’ve accomplished two near-impossible things. A flawless run history; successfully making over 200 runs to and from destinations without losing a single man.”

The pride in Jack’s tone is so clear, his face alight with the glow. But it softens in a solemn look.

“But the Imperator position is only granted after a Praetorian has successfully brought back a full-life wife for the Immortan Joe, and” Jack’s breathe hitches for a second before continuing, “the wife has to give birth to a healthy child.”

The cabin is silent.

Max feels a hint of something in his stomach, something sour and wrong, before it dissipates. It’s this wasteland. Driving the once-human beings into madness. He thinks back to Jessie and Sprog and Toecutter and the car and the explosion and-

Max grips his armrest firmly, grounding himself into this moment in time, leaving the memories back where they lay in his mind.

They all did things here in this new world. Abominable things. But they did it to survive, to live .

He thinks back to Angharad.

Take care of my girls, Max.

He thinks back to the Citadel, with its green mountain tops.

He thinks of the little embellishments Jack pointed out to him in the cabin. A design here, a style choice there. Mostly likely put there by Furiosa herself.

He thinks about what the girls have been talking about almost the entire time, the Green Place.

But most of all, he thinks about Furiosa. Her face snarling at him as she defended the rig and the water from him, protecting the girls behind her at all cost. The genuine bafflement and hint of amusement when he earned his mantle of ‘fool’ from her. The tears in her eyes as she told the others that they would not turn back for Angharad.

She’s still human, despite what she had to do to survive. Could Max even claim the same for himself?

Sighing, Max studies Jack and Furiosa. Jack is still running his hand up and down her metal forearm. His gaze is soft and so gentle and so sorrowful. Jesus, the pain they must’ve shared is-

Oh.

Oh.

Max isn’t sure how it took him so long but he gets it now, finally. The missing piece that’s been evading him ever since Jack appeared on that ridge line however many days ago.

Jack isn’t Max’s ghost, he’s Furiosa’s.

↭

The night continues. Jack doesn’t speak again, content in watching over the cabin, and Furiosa. He is back to running that small dark object between his fingers again. Despite not even looking at his hand, his dexterity holds and the object never falls. It looks like a simple stone to Max but he isn’t sure. Something about the texture of it is too odd for a stone. 

Max is still driving, even if his mental state is in shambles, well, more so than usual. Seeing other people’s ghosts would explain a lot of odd things about his life.

He is ruminating on the revelation when Furiosa awakes. True to her warrior position at the Citadel, between one breath and another, she is fully awake and alert. She checks on the girls in the back seat first, then the review mirror, then Max.

“You drive well, fool. Better than most,” she says, her voice rough from sleep. 

Max just shrugs. He understands who he was before the water wars to a point. He was a cop, he had Jessie and Sprog, and they were taken from him, and murdered. But the in-between is hazy for Max. Details don’t matter in this wasteland. Surviving does. So were his driving skills good because he was a cop or because he was surviving in this new world? Hard to say, so he says nothing at all.

“Here, I’ll drive again.”

They switch seats, back to their original spots. She looks more at ease behind the wheel, Max thinks. A road warrior through and through. 

They sit in silence once more. Jack is still crouching in the middle of the cabin. The girls were beginning to shift and move, the natural movement of the group slowly waking up as a whole. Noticing their shift into the waking world, Furiosa leans down and grabs the bag of guns and ammo by Jack. She hefts it up and back, tossing it lightly by the feet of the wives.

“We need inventory. Match each bullet to the correct gun and see how many we have left. I also need someone in the back of the rig to keep watch. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Some of the girls grumble but eventually, the tasks are divvied up, with Capable shifting to the back of the rig and Toast completing the inventory.

Left to his own devices, Max thinks about what the wives had been talking about all day, what Angharad was determined to see. The Green Place. He’s been all over this wasteland and has seen many a strange thing but Max has never seen anything that would fit such a moniker. He frets for a second on how to ask before just word-vomiting the question.

“So huh, what is this…. green place?”

Furiosa gives him a look for a moment before returning her gaze to the front. Surviving death together must not do a whole lot for trust levels.

“It’s a long night’s run, east from here.”

Max waits for more but she doesn’t continue. 

“Oh Fury… still don’t trust anyone, do you?”

Jack’s voice is kind but weary. Gently, he reaches up from his sitting position and touches her human arm. It's the type of touch Jessie would give Max when he was too deep into his work files at the dinner table- fondness but with a pinch of exasperation. Max expects Furiosa to jump, or at least look at her arm- as she did during the bike attack- for the phantom touch but she doesn’t do either. Instead, she sighs and relaxes slightly into her seat. Surprisingly, she continues. 

“I grew up there,” she says, her voice soft. “The last patch of woods in this new world. Trees that reached towards the sky, fruit, heavy and ripe, ready to be plucked and shared with others.” The wives in the back don’t pause what they are doing but they shift ever so slightly so they may hear Furiosa better. So, it's not a new story for them. “We had a clean water spring, turbines for energy, and horses,” her eyes light up slightly at the mention of the long-extinct animal. “They were our companions and our transport. No heavy, gas-logged machines to be seen.”

 “And the Many Mothers? Tell him about them, Furiosa,” Cheedo requests softly.

“Our people were small in numbers but big in heart. Led by our elder women, we were raised by many and cherished by all. Women have always been better at sharing and taking care of each other.” The wives snort slightly in the back, sharing knowing grins. “Knowledge was passed down from mother to child, from clan to individual. Specific clan elders held very specific information in their minds, earning titles like Keeper, Guardian, Healer, and Teacher. They taught us what they could and compared notes with each other, making sure that knowledge wouldn’t become lost to us.”

“Like Miss Giddy and the histories tattooed on her skin,” the Dag murmurs. 

“Yes, like Miss Giddy. The Many Mothers knew that by losing the knowledge of the old world, then we would devolve into something wretched and cruel. Frightened by things we should know, things we should understand.”

A small pause as the weight of her words settles in the cabin.

“So you're looking for your home?” Max asks.

Furiosa shakes her head ruefully. “In a way perhaps. Originally I was just desperate to get back to what I knew. But then I met… others. People like me who no longer knew where they belonged. I’ve been away so long that there are some nights I feel as if I’ve dreamt the place up. The idea of the green place became a sort of symbol. One of hope.”

The girls in the back dip their heads in agreement, their eyes soft on Furiosa. It’s clear she gave them something Immortan Joe could never even fathom; a purpose to life in this wasteland, one based on hope.

“What are you looking for now?”

“Redemption.”

She finishes and the cabin goes silent. Toast finishes her inventory and shares the numbers with Furiosa while the other two quietly continue to converse with each other. Max is not paying attention though. His head is spinning, his memories flashing bright then fading with everything Furiosa said that he apparently knew of still. Horses, fruit, turbines, keeping knowledge of those who came before. He had forgotten all of it. Max could weep for all that the world has lost if he thinks too hard about it. And Furiosa came from a place like this? No wonder she never really told anyone besides the wives. If Immortan Joe ever found out about it, he would raze it to the ground. 

All this, for Furiosa’s redemption. Max doesn’t pray and doesn’t believe in any god, old or new. But at this moment, Max prays that Furiosa finds the redemption she is looking for. Anything to quell that deep sense of loss in her eyes. 

“She never got to tell me the details,” Jack whispers, his voice mournful in the quiet cabin. It jerks Max out of his musings.  “She was too afraid back then. Knowing now what I do, can’t say I blame her. Still, I wish…”

He trails off, his gaze sad. Max still doesn’t quite know how the history of Jack and Furiosa but witnessing what Immortan Joe does to people and their lives, Max understands exactly what Jack doesn’t say.

If only. 

Chapter Text

They’ve all reached a comfortable silence when they pass the crow fields. Then it's a stressed silence. No one says anything lest those monstrous creatures hear. They’ve only just gotten past those creepy fields when the rig starts to slide. Furiosa curses as she hard readjusts the wheel, but it's no use. The dank mud entraps the wheels, causing them to spin wildly without moving. 

As if thinking with one mind, Max and Furiosa leap from the rig and set out to free the damn thing. The wives help too and suddenly his former jailer is there? But according to Capable he wants to help? Max doesn’t quite follow the logic there as he is too busy focusing on the encroaching gunfire from the dark. Damn, they caught up to them fast. As Furiosa and the War boy come up with a plan, Max pulls out the rifle and aims for the approaching light. Setting his shoulders properly, he aims and fires.

And misses.

“You should let Furiosa do that.”

Max knows that Jack means well but they don’t have time for this. Ignoring Toast’s “You’ve got two left,” Max settles himself again and fires.

And misses, again.

Damn.

But then Furiosa is there, gently taking the gun from him. He is ready to grumble when she sets the barrel on his shoulder. It’s a nice reminder that the woman is taller than him. That leather and gazzuline scent is back and something about it just screams Furiosa. And Jack too honestly. It’s… comforting, in an odd way. Furiosa tells him not to breathe which is funny since he is already trying very hard not to. He feels her settle into the rifle, inhales once, and fires.

The noise is deafening. A ringing noise fills his ears as he tries to shake it off. Glancing to his side, he sees Jack grinning at him. Max just rolls his eyes. Maybe the man was right but Max will never admit that. 

Ignoring his sniggering ghost, Max jumps back into the fray, helping the others maneuver the rig forward. As he helps lay down mines in the mud, gunshots strike near them.

“Don’t they know they’re shooting at us?!” Cheedo’s voice is incredulous but it doesn’t stop more gunfire raining down on them. Max heaves the metal traction plate over his body as he clutches Cheedo to him. He’ll be damned if he lets another one of the girls die on his watch.  The bullets hit the plate with heavy thumps that make his arm shudder but the metal holds true. In between the beats of the falling gunfire, Max escorts Cheedo back to the others.

“You need to take the rig half a click down the track,” he says to Furiosa, gesturing towards where he wants them. In safety. 

Furiosa’s eyes are hard to read as she meets Max’s gaze. “What if you're not back by the time the engines cool?”

A beat passes.

Something unfurls in Max’s gut, something heavy and… hopeful.

“Well,” he finally says, his voice soft, “you keep going.”

It's not much in terms of potential goodbyes but it’s what he has to offer. He thinks back to Jack in the cabin and what the ghost never said. 

If only. 

Grabbing the bag of remaining weapons, Max turns around and starts running into the darkness. With each step taken, he counts backward.

10

9

Take care of my girls, Max

8

Blood and fire and pain.

7

6

You let us die!

5

Life and death and oh how easy it is to take.

4

3

He’s a raging feral!

2

Max grins, mad as the day he tied Toecutter to the burning car. 

1

↭

Even as a ghost, Jack isn’t some primordial being. He can catch glimpses of course, a decision made here, a shot fire there. Just enough foresight to keep her safe. He’s been watching over Furiosa for so long now it's easy for him to forget that there are others like her out there. Caring and strong and resilient when lesser people would wither and die.

But then he meets Max.

And Max can see him. Hears what Jack says- even when he pretends not to, the little shit. 

Watching him interact with Furiosa is strange at first. The violence they committed against each other was troubling, even if Jack and Furiosa's first meeting had been violent too. They didn't seem to be capable enough, or trusting enough to help each other.  But Jack remembers what he saw before, a glimpse of a future so awful that Jack would puke if he still could. A future filled with fire and blood and a dead Furiosa. 

No, his mind rebels at the very idea of that. It isn’t her time yet, she has to survive, to live damn it.

And she will, because of Max.

Jack just isn’t sure why yet. 

It's not hard to see how similar they are. It's in the way they move together, how they think the same way, and are so so strong. 

He is reminded of this strength as he watches Max decimate the tanker and the men aboard. It's… hard to watch truly. There's a savagery unleashed in the man that Jack has never witnessed before.  As the blood of his enemies drenched Max’s skin, his teeth barred in a predatory grin, Jack is reminded of an old story about a nameless war god. How the god would bathe in rivers of blood created by his bare hands, his enemies forgotten in the beastly righteous glow of the god.

“Mad Max.”

Jack startles, so caught up in Max that he doesn’t notice the man’s unnerving child appear beside him.

“Mad Max,” the child repeats, his tone worryingly gleeful.

“Mad Max, Mad Max, MAD MAX, MAD MAX, MAD MAX!”

The child’s tone rises to a fever pitch as he screeches his father’s name over and over again. Jack is beginning to grow concerned for the feral little thing when pale arms reach around and hoist the mad child up and into embracing arms. 

“A nickname,” Max’s lovely former wife whispers, “from his time on the force. He never liked it.”

Casting one last mournful look at Max and his savagery, Jessie and Sprog disappear. 

Grimacing, Jack looks back to Max and catches him executing the final man. He is drenched in blood, his sides heaving as he staggers back away from the slaughtering fields and back towards the rig.

Sighing, Jack remembers Furiosa losing her arm and her feverish walk back to the Citadel.

He always did have a thing for the tough ones with soft hearts

↭

Max is still reeling from unleashed memories when he runs into Jack. Images of Toecutter, blood, executions,  and his former force members chanting Mad Max, Mad Max clog up his brain. He’s so focused on not vomiting, on not collapsing from the weight of his bloody past life that it takes Jack grabbing him forcefully by his shoulders to stop. He almost decks the man before realizing that the ghostly man didn't deserve it. 

“Breathe mate, you have to breathe,” Jack’s voice is worried and a little bit sad.

Understanding dawns on him that Max is very close to hyperventilating. He tries to breathe, to follow Jack’s advice but it's hard. The adrenaline still pumping through Max’s blood is creating a dull roar in his ears that is very hard to ignore. 

“Damn it, Max, breathe .”

Gently grabbing the back of Max’s head with one hand, Jack pulls Max’s forehead forward and touches it with his own. “Match my breath, Max, listen.”

It should unnerve Max, the touch. He doesn't get much calming physical touch in this wasteland. His body should rebel, skin crawling at the close proximity to somebody else but it doesn't. As natural as a sunrise, Max mirrors Jack, clasping his hand on Jack’s head and breathes. 

Jack is cool to the touch and comforting. He is as tall as Max, his hair is surprisingly soft.

They stay like that for several moments, both listening as Max’s breath slows down to its natural rhythm. 

Finally, Max withdraws from the odd embrace and stands back. His body is exhausted, his mind too but he is no longer panicking. His breath is settled and calm once more. 

Jack watches him for a few moments, his green eyes watching for any lingering panic before he nods. “You should get back to the others. They're waiting for you.” 

He is right, of course. The force that Max killed is small fry compared to what awaits them if they linger longer. Snatching his sack of weapons from where he dropped it earlier, Max hightails it back to the rig. He uses uh mother's milk to wipe the gore from his face. It has an odd consistency that he tries not to think about. 

What he does think about, over and over again, the image replaying without prompting, is the small relieved smile Furiosa gives him.

↭

Dawn approaches by the time they leave the ominous mudland behind them. They’re all exhausted after the mad dash away from the Bullet Farmer. Taking turns sleeping and sharing some food; eventually, they all no longer feel like collapsing. 

As they get further into this patch of unfamiliar desert, Furiosa gets quieter. Her eyes constantly scan the horizon, searching for something only she would recognize. Max is expecting some hidden valley entrance or forgotten cove where the green place could be sheltered. So when they approach an old metal structure, its top decorated with shiny, sun-reflecting pieces and a screaming naked woman, Max halts the rig completely. “That is bait.”

“Stay here.”

Furiosa exits and starts reciting something. Her lineage, Max realizes, and the screaming naked woman stops and quickly climbs down. 

Of course, they all ignore the staying order as more strange women appear from the desert sand. They’re older and tough as nails. The Vuvalini. Furiosa already clearly loves them. The bait one looks to be an old friend of hers, their reunion tearful and joyful. Noticing the familiar forehead greeting, Max looks at Jack, but the ghost man is distracted, watching the reunion. 

Seeing the wives interact with them is a little funny. Max wonders if this is the first time they ever saw a group of women like this before, free and beholden to no man. The thought erases what little humor he felt, slow sorrow taking root as once again he is reminded of all the things this world has lost. 

They seem nervous of Max and Nux which is understandable. Max isn’t sure how he would’ve fared if he was a woman in this wasteland, but he’ll bet every last drop of water he has that he would not survive like these women have. These Many Mothers.

And they are the Many Mothers. So few left. He hears Jack’s sharp inhalation at the revelation that they are all that’s left. That the Green Place, Furiosa’s home and redemption, is gone.

Jack makes a motion to move towards Furiosa and her grief in the sand, but Max puts up a hand.

“Don’t,” he mutters. 

Jack looks like he wants to argue but he merely sighs and remains where he is. They watch as Furiosa lets loose, her scream agonizing.

They all let her be, kneeling in the sand, as they gently herd the wives to their bikes. They speak lowly about food and finding a resting place for the night. Nux gives Max an odd look, clearly thinking Max was speaking to him but doesn’t say anything. He moves on with the others, quickly catching up with Capable. Max studies Furiosa for one more moment, before turning and giving her the privacy she deserves. 

Gently, he takes Jacks elbow, that cool touch returning, and guides him away from her. 

“Wait, till later. It’ll be better,” he mutters again. Jack says nothing and merely follows Max. 

As they approach the others, Max gets a queer look from one of the Vuvalini. The oldest one with white hair. She raises one eyebrow and gazes directly at… Jack? 

Interesting

↭

The group scatters into pairings as the sun disappears behind the horizon and night falls. No one feels like sleeping, not after their chance for a better home is gone. 

Max is finishing off the last of the dried meat, it’s flesh tough and vaguely unappetizing. Readjusting his lean against the rig, he forces himself to eat the last bite. Honestly, the two-headed lizard was better than this nonsense. Still, he finishes it and watches as Jack and Furiosa stand at the top of the ridgeline together. Furiosa is standing straight, her posture impeccable as she observes the wasteland. Jack is half a step back from her and is angled more towards her than the ridgeline. 

A Imperator and her Praetorian. 

“What an odd trio you make.”

The oldest Vuvalini woman, the Keeper of the Seeds, is short, tough, and a mean-mugging son of a bitch. Max likes her instantly. 

“I take he isn’t yours?”

Max glances at Jack and shakes his head.  

“So then the child and woman are yours?” she asks, jutting her chin out towards Jessie and Spog. They’re further out to the side of Max, on a gentle slope. Sprog is drawing something in the sand while Jessie watches.

He nods.

“Curious, oh curiouser. How long have you seen him then?”

Max looks up, thinking for a moment before holding up two fingers.

Keeper stares at him for a moment before chuckling, “No one to do things halfway I see.”

Sighing, Keeper sets her long rifle against the rig before taking up a seat next to Max. She unhooks a pouch from her belt and holds it out to Max. “Go on, open it.”

Grasping the warm leather pouch for her, he gently opens the drawstrings and shakes whatever is in the bag into his palm. Something light and vaguely porus falls. They make a very familiar and distinct clacking sound as they do. Unsure, Max holds his palm out to Keeper to see:

In Max’s hands are three very small finger bones. One of which has a crude metal ring around it still. 

“It’s Lark’s, my wife,” she murmurs. “She died 3,000 days ago, but she didn’t leave me until a few hundred ago.”

Reaching out her knarled hand, Keeper plucks the bones and bag from Max and begins to turn them over, inspecting them every which way. “We ran across a vile, roving gang; murderers, thugs, and thieves.  They were terrorizing anyone who had the unfortunate luck to run into the gang, stealing their supplies and machines. Killed them if they were lucky and skinned them alive if they weren’t. We took care of the gang, but one of the last ones got one lucky shot and hit Lark. She was dead before dark. Two days later, I was trying another seed in a new batch of soil when she appeared and said, ‘That won’t take, Seeds.’ ” 

Keeper’s voice catches slightly on the nickname before chuckling slightly, “I thought my heart would stop she scared me so bad. But then I kept seeing her, and she kept having smart-ass remarks to make. But over and over again, those remarks saved my life.” Keeper’s gaze is soft, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “She remained that way until a few hundred days ago when Valkyrie and I were discussing where we should move next. Our options were nonexistent and our supplies were practically the same. But Lark told us to come here, where the dunes met the salt flats. The others were skeptical but I knew to trust my Birdie. Sure enough, we found an old camper van half buried in the dunes with all the supplies we needed when we arrived. It was that night Lark told me one more smart-ass remark before saying goodbye for good. You know what she said? Stay Seeds, stay .”

Keeper’s voice catches again on the nickname, this time Max sees tears in her eyes before she ducks her head away from him. It takes her a minute before she speaks again. 

“And so we have. We’ve remained here, the longest since the Green Place, looking for something we didn’t understand. Today was supposed to be our last day before moving on somewhere else when you all showed up.” Keeper clasps her hand on Max’s shoulder, her grip strong. “There towards the end, I thought I was going mad, dreaming up that my long-dead wife told us to stay here for no reason.” She chuckles lightly. “But you proved her right. My Birdie was right after all.”

Keeper pats him on the shoulder one more time before lowering her hand. She continues, seemingly lighter somehow, less burdened than she felt before. “The Many Mothers have stories about people like us, stories spanning back before all this nonsense.” She waves her hand in mild contempt to the sprawling desert. “People who could see and sometimes speak to their dead. Our traditions tell us that this only happens in times of great turmoil. When fate needs help.” 

Silence fall over the two of them. For a moment they watch as the night sky unfolds above them, the stars the only unchanging thing about this wasteland. Max thinks about what she said, wondering if there’s anything left in him able to believe in something like fate. Glancing over to Furiosa again, an unbidden thought pops into his brain.

Could I believe in her?

 Keeper turns to Max abruptly and pins him with her gaze. “Listen to me carefully, son. The timing of this all is no coincidence. You, Furiosa, the rig, the ghosts, all of it. Something big is coming down the pipeline and you best be ready when it does.” 

Max stares at her for a moment before dipping his head, “Thank you, Keeper.”

Keeper laughs as she stands, gathering her rifle back into her arms. “You know, I never did much understand the necessity for men. But you, Max? You’re all right.” With that, she gives a salute and walks back over to the wives. 

Max just shakes his head, smiling slightly. He doesn’t remember having grandparents- doesn’t remember his parents either -but he hopes that they would’ve been someone like her. 

↭

It’s as Max sits down on the step of the rig and removes his cloth and needle from his pocket when Jack decides to join him again. 

The ghost man is clearly agitated, pacing in the sand in front of Max, his expression thunderous. “They’re talking about leaving the rig behind and going out in the salt flats.’’

Max hums, and removes one of his knives. He presses the tip into his arm, cutting just enough to get the blood to spill. 

“There is nothing out there! Everyone who goes that route never comes back. It’s a fucking suicidal.”

Max makes an appropriate nod, then places the needle into his blood and begins to chart. It’s tricky work, to get the details right. The needle isn’t the best illustrative instrument but it makes do. Remembering the night skies and sun positioning since the citadel, he painstakingly details out the most correct map that he can with what he has. The results aren’t too bad. 

“Mate, do you even hear me?”

Frowning, Max pauses and looks up to the ghost Jack’s face is drawn and worried, his brow furrowed. “They’re making a mistake. There’s nothing out there. They’ll die if they go that route.” Max frowns but doesn’t say anything. While the idea of Furiosa leaving makes something in his stomach turn, Max isn’t sure where he stands with her and the group. Would they even ask him to go with them? Would he want to? And the salt flats, who can say what’s out there. Knowing Furiosa and that stubborn survival streak in her, she would be the first one to make it through and survive them. But the wives, the few surviving Many Mothers? Would they make it? Thinking about their possible death makes his stomach churn too.

Sighing, Jack squats down in front of Max, his eyes level with Max. “I don’t know why you can see me, or what fate has in store for you and Furiosa but-” his green eyes pleading, “something will happen soon and you’ll need each other. If she goes out into those salt flats, then what you dread most will finally happen.”

Max pales and jerks back from Jack. A brief spasm of something- hurt? - flashes across the ghost’s face before Jack’s expression turns flat. “This isn’t something you can walk away from, Max. There’s no running, not anymore.” With that, Jack turns on his heel and disappears. 

A sweat drop rolls down Max’s temple as his heart races. What you dread most will finally happen . He thinks back to Toecutter and Sprog, and those many days lost in the desert and mad max mad MAX MAD MAX MAD MA-

Madness.

The thing that Max can’t stand the idea of.

Madness.

It’s that thing from Pandora’s box that if let out, then Max would be no more. He’d be just another wretched thing, left to rot forever under an unforgiving sun. 

Madness.

It's that thing that awaits him should he fail. Should Furiosa fail.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Max glances down to his map and winces. The cut on his forearm bled onto the top corner of the map, the bloody crimson appearing like inky darkness under the moon’s light. 

Chapter Text

He’s still sitting there, slightly nauseous and contemplative on the rig’s step when Furiosa finally approaches him. 

“I’ve talked with the others. We’re never going to have a better chance to cross the salt. If we leave the rig here and load the bikes up with as much as we can…we can maybe ride for 160 days. One of those bikes is yours.”

It takes a moment for Max to understand what she’s saying. Jack’s warning is still bouncing around his skull, and Sprog has been madly humming since so his focus is shot. Probably noticing his shit attention span at the moment, Furiosa prompts him again. “You’re more than welcome to come with us,” she says softly.

It’s a good offer, despite what Jack says. 160 days of guaranteed supplies is way better than most in this desert. He’ll be fed and watered, but if they find nothing out there, he’ll be dead. Still a better prospect than most. At least then he’ll die on his terms. And you’ll be with Furiosa a traitorous voice in his head whispers, which is too true of a statement for comfort so he actively shoves that comment straight into a dark corner of his mind. 

But at the end of the day, Jack is unfortunately right. Max always runs. It's all he knows. So steeling himself against the probable disappointment in her eyes, Max finally says, “I go my own way.”

Furiosa just nods and walks away, her towering figure looking oddly soft in the blanket she has wrapped around herself. The image prompts Max to call out, “You know, hope is a mistake.” Furiosa pauses and looks back at him. “If you can’t fix what is broken, you’ll uh,” his voice breaks for a moment, “...you’ll go insane.”

The silence afterward is deafening, louder than any rifle shot near his ears. He doesn’t know how but in the nod that she gives him before striding away, Max sees her understanding. She understands now that Max runs because if he stays, he’ll have to confront the idea that the wasteland isn’t the one who made him the feral creature he is now. 

It was hope. 

As Furiosa turns the corner around the rig and is lost from view, Max returns to his map. It's complete now, as accurate as it can be with the given circumstances. He packs it away for the night and feels rather than sees one of his ghosts approach him. Thinking it's Jack again, coming to yell and rage more, Max sighs and looks up. 

It’s not Jack, it's Angharad.

She’s holding Sprog’s hand, and Jessie is holding the other hand of the child. The trio looks at him in sorrow and contempt. 

“You promised, Max” Angharad whispers, her lovely voice furious. “You said you’d look after my girls.”

Her disappointment and fury cut him like a knife. Sharp bitterness curls in his gut. He swallows painfully and opens his mouth to defend himself, to say anything to get her to stop looking at him like that - but they're gone in a moment. 

That night, Max slips into a tense and unrestful sleep.

None of his ghosts save him this time from the blood and torment of his dreams.

↭

He awakes with a gasp, phantom pain ringing through his chest. He dreamt of spears, sprouting from his chest, a macabre bouquet of pain and death. Rolling over, he spits bile into the sand. It takes him a moment to stand, his bum knee stiff, his joints aching terribly. When he can finally stagger to standing, Max realizes he is alone. The others are already gone, a small dust cloud forming as they march through the salt flats. They left him a bike though, full of enough provenions for him to lay low and disappear. The thoughtfulness makes him sick to his stomach.

There’s nothing out there. They’ll die.

You promised, Max.

If you can’t fix what is broken, you’ll go insane.

Max breaks.

In an unusual show of rage, he howls as he kicks his bag of supplies over. Is there no way for this to end well? The others will die in the desert, alone, while Max will return to that festering creature he was before being captured by the Citadel. It's a future set in stone, one that he wrote. And this time, no ghost will appear to help him. The knowledge that Jack has abandoned him hits Max just as hard. 

The realization that Max has disappointed him to the point of abandonment cracks something in his chest. The rage that he felt disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. The sudden emptiness is jarring and-

Max touches his cheek. His fingers come away damp.

He is crying. 

Oh.

He’d forgotten what this felt like.

A memory unbidden arises from the damp. It’s him with Sprog as a small child. They’re playing in the backyard as whatever Jessie is cooking smells heavenly from the open kitchen window. Sprog, in his eagerness to make a friend, is scratched by their fluffy orange cat, the Colonel. 

“Now, what did we say about the Colonel little man?” he asks as he gathers the crying child in his arms. 

“Not-t, not to- pet hard.”

“That’s right, the Colonel was just reacting. He didn’t mean it. Be gentle with your pets, and you’ll be fast friends.”

“Your father is right” Jessie murmurs, her body soft as she appears and leans on Max’s shoulder. She smells like the sweet treat she is baking in the kitchen. “The Colonel would’ve been much meaner if he didn’t already love you.”

“Love hurts sometimes, little man. But that’s why it’s so sweet.”

Kissing away Sprog’s tears, Max and Jessie carry their child to the kitchen. 

The memory breaks and Max is again standing on a ridgeline, crying. 

Oh.

Wiping his eyes furiously, he quickly gathers the pack he kicked around. He doesn’t even have a plan, he just knows he has to catch up to the others, to Furiosa and-

The map he drew last night flutters to the ground in front of him. Max stares at it for a moment, before reaching down to pick it up. The Citadel skull he drew seems to taunt him, its grin empty and maddening. 

Hmmm, now there’s an idea. 

↭

“This is your way home.”

Furiosa just stares at him, her eyes stunning in the morning light. 

He hopes she can’t tell that he is nervous sweating or that he is slightly out of breath from his mad dash to catch up with them. He is also aware that all of the Wives and Many Mothers are staring at him and the attention is not helping. 

“We go back?” she finally asks, her voice incredulous.

“Mmm.”

“Back?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you weren’t insane anymore!” Dag calls out from the back.

He hears the others murmur, talking about the Citadel and the green and aqua cola- but Max only has eyes for Furiosa. 

He can tell she is unsure of the idea, her eyes flickering between him, the others, and the salt flats ahead. She’s still considering riding on then. No , he thinks, I will not let her .  

Max is two seconds away from opening his mouth, ready to beg on his knees if he has to. Don’t be like me, don’t run Furiosa. Please-

A familiar hand settles on her shoulder, its fingers thick and calloused from working on war rigs.

Jack.

Perhaps Max is projecting a bit but Jack looks happier than the last time Max saw him. The ghost is relaxed next to Furiosa, his green eyes shining. Glancing at Max, Jack gives him a quick wink before returning his attention to Furiosa. Ignoring the odd fluttering in his stomach, Max watches as Jack calms Furiosa. He isn’t quite sure how Jack can do that- influence emotions, see the future, etc- but Max is grateful nonetheless. Seeing how her shoulders drop a fraction, her eyes focusing more on Max and the women and not on the salt flats is a huge win. 

She furrows her brow, thinking hard. Jack is helping yes, but in the end, Furiosa is a woman of her own mind. No matter how much she is influenced, she’ll always ponder every option first before jumping head-first into something. While she thinks, Valkyrie speaks up, “It’ll take us two weeks to skirt the wall of mountains.”

Max is already shaking his head before she finishes. “No, I suggest we go back the way we came. Through the canyon.” 

“It’s open. We know that right? He brought all of his war parties through.” 

Max nods at Toast’s words. “So we take the War rig and charge it right through the middle of them. We uncable the tanker and seal the pass behind us.”

“Kaboom,” one of the Vuvalini breathes, her voice excited. 

Max shoots her a half smile. The women talk more about the Citadel and war pups but Max is already returning his attention to Furiosa. The others are convinced. All that’s left is their leader.

Jack’s hand is no longer on Furiosa’s shoulder but he is still lingering near her. Furiosa is looking at Max but her gaze is far away from the current conversation. She’s still mulling all of this over. Max shifts his weight and leans down a little bit to her. The movement causes her eyes to refocus on Max. Good.

“Look, it'll be a hard day. But I guarantee you that 160 days that way is nothing but salt.” He lowers his voice a bit and pitches it more toward Furiosa, this last part is not meant for the others.  He stubbornly ignores the slight uptake in his heartbeat as he receives 110% of Furiosa’s attention. “ At least that way, you know, we might be able to… together… come across some sort of redemption.” He finishes softly, refusing to let his gaze wander from Furiosa’s until understanding reaches her eyes. 

Hope isn’t a mistake. It’s the only thing Max has left now, and it frightens him. Helping the Wives and Many Mothers find their green place, their home- helping Furiosa find her redemption- and helping Jack find his purpose- Well, it’s the most alive Max has felt in years . 

He tries to convey all of this in his gaze, still bad with words and opening up to others, but Furiosa understands immediately. She gives him a soft smile and turns around to bark orders to the others, sending everyone back to the War rig. At the sight of her and the others discussing battle formations, something that was heavy in his chest fades away. Letting out a slow breath, Max grounds himself in this moment. A heavy, firm hand squeezes his shoulder. It’s Jack and he is smiling so wide, the grin takes several years off his face. For a moment, Max sees what Jack could have been in another life, a life away from War rigs and Immortan Joe. It’s a nice look.

“You’re a good man, Max. I’m glad Furiosa has you,” he murmurs. And for a moment, the two of them just stand there, Jack gently rubbing his thumb across Max’s collarbone. It’s a moment that Max could relax into forever… but he can’t. They have war formations to plan.

↭

As soon as the war party realizes what they’re doing, it's chaos. Engines roar, flames dance, and those incessant war drums and guitars continue to pound away, the deep booms felt in Max’s bones. 

Half of the Vuvalini are on their trusty bikes, providing some lancer-like support with their long rifles and one-shot kills. The war pup, Nux, proves to be indispensable when the War rig’s engine threatens to blow. Even the Wives help in a way, reloading guns for Furiosa or providing intel on the placement of the opposing vehicles. Under Furiosa’s command, they all work together like a well-oiled machine. 

It’s hard not to think that they might escape this day with most of them alive at this moment. Keeper cackles widely as Valkyrie descends onto Nux’s former stapled-face partner. Furiosa avoids the spike traps like it's nothing and Max’s bum knee maintains its strength as he glides over the hood of the rig and back into the cabin. 

It’s a good start. 

Jack had assumed his regular spot in the middle of the cabin in the beginning. His neck is constantly on a swivel as he tries to prevent anyone from sneaking up on them. His fingers move constantly, dancing across the space as he touches Furiosa’s elbow here, and Keeper’s shoulder there, minutely adjusting and protecting them from unseen foes. Jack’s eyes are slightly unfocused as he does this, half his attention spent on the future and possible outcomes. It must be madness, separating the strings of fate and possibilities like that, but Max is grateful all the same. Somehow, he can already tell that Jack has prevented many catastrophes, and the thought of the group making this mad dash back to the Citadel without him is harrowing. 

Things turn to shit though when they get harpooned in the back. The resistance builds up immediately as several rogue vehicles attempt to pull the War rig to a stop. Sensing Furiosa’s order even before she gives it, Max instructs Nux below to work on the struggling engines and grabs Keeper. The pair race to the back of the rig with bolt cutters. Setting Keeper to preemptively loosen some bolts on the fuel tanker, Max works on cutting the harpoons. It’s not going that well. As soon as he cuts one away, another takes its place. Growling in frustration, he pushes himself to work faster when suddenly, something slams into the War rig. The jolting moment topples him from his position, resulting in him clinging to one of the harpoons, his legs dangling into space. 

Fuck.

Hurry Max, they need you at the cabin! Jessie yells in his mind, her voice shrill. It's her frightened voice, one that has haunted his dreams from the very beginning. Not a good sign. 

He struggles for a moment but pulls himself up, back onto the rig. Just in time to see strange men on poles, teeter-tottering down onto the rig.

Polecats , Jack hisses in his mind. Watch out for them Max, they’re dangerous and hard to kill.  

It’s as Max dodges one with a wicked knife when he receives this information. Dangerous, got it. 

Breathing in deeply through his nose and ignoring the discomfort in his bum knee, Max focuses on the battle. There's a sort of rhythm to fighting, one that he learned a long time ago. Thrust here, dodge there and improvise constantly. Anything can be a weapon out here, and by taking advantage of that mantra, Max beats several men with his bolt cutters. The heavy iron breaks bones and pulverizes flesh. Behind him, one of the Vuvalini fires her long rifle and kills them with one shot. The pair move together as one and work to clear the roof of polecats. This flow is interrupted however when Jack curses violently in Max’s mind. Fuck, Keeper, No!

Shit. Something in Max clenches. Wrenching away the long rifle from the Vuvalini member, Max shoots the man trying to get into the cabin in the back. The force of the shot knocks the man off the cabin roof and onto the hood before rolling off. A slight bump in the rig’s wheels confirms his ending place. 

Striding forward, Max rushes to the cabin. He has to see, to know what happened, and keep the others safe-

Sprog appears before Max and throws his little hand at Max, his gaze wild. Instinctively, Max mirrors him. The reflex saves his life. A hidden polecat man shoots a bolt at him, the bolt is meant as a headshot but thanks to Sprog, it merely goes through Max’s hand and grazes his temple. It’s still enough force to knock him on his back. Dazed, Max looks up to the sky and sees Sprog leaning over him. “Jacky taught me that ages ago,” the child giggles madly. “I like him.” With one last mad giggle, Sprog disappears. 

Thanks, Jack , Max thinks as he groans and removes the bolt from his hand and head. Anytime , Jack says, a slight twinkle to his tone. Lovely, Jack taught Sprog premonition. That was going to be interesting when they got out of this… If they get out of this. 

Aching terribly, Max stumbles to his feet and sees another polecat land and rush the cabin. Swearing, Max sprints and knocks the man off the roof and onto the hood of the rig. They grapple for only a moment before Furiosa slams on the brakes and sends yet another enemy to be crushed under the power of the rig’s wheels. Max glances back and gives Furiosa a nod, grateful for the assist. Jack is still beside her, but he isn’t looking great. His eyes are still slightly unfocused, fingers still dancing across the cabin and its occupants, but Max can see the man is covered in sweat. His usually normal complexion is an ashen gray, and his jaw is flexed into a grimace. He must be reaching his limit , Max thinks. The very idea is extremely discomforting. 

But he has no time to think on that further as two other polecats land the rig. Scrambling, Max dodges a killing blow and swings one of the cats into the other, the enemy’s body providing a shield from the chainsaw-wielding man. But while the blow kills the man, the force knocks Max off his feet and backward. Alarmingly, Max feels himself topple over the side, his head aiming for the death-dealing wheels below. For a moment, he closes his eyes, bracing himself for impact, but a familiar metal hand clamps tightly onto his ankle. Momentum slams him into Furiosa’s driverside door, the force of it disorientating. But he’s alive, thanks to her. 

He dangles for a second before lifting his head and looks to Furiosa. She’s grimacing, the weight of Max, even with her metal arm and enforced back brace, is heavy and hurting her. He sees the Wives at the back window, their hands reaching for him, but it's Jack who has captured his attention for a moment. His face is by Furiosa’s, one hand on her metal arm providing support, and the other reaching out for Max. Jack’s mouth is open, panic clearly in his gaze. But that turns to anguished rage as Furiosa suddenly howls with pain.

There’s commotion in the cabin, the Wives yelling, and Jack roars in rage. He disappears from view, leaving Furiosa in the window. The upside-down view is making it hard to differentiate what's happening, but even in this state, Max can tell she’s hurt. Badly. 

But there’s no time to do much about it at the moment. More cars approach and Max is once again faced with death by wheels.

Fuck, Max, Furiosa, I- She-, Jack whimpers in his mind, his voice close to sobs. Jack, there’s no time for that Max snaps back and immediately feels guilty. He knows how Jack feels at this moment. Jessie and Sprog’s limp bodies rotting in the sun flashes in his mind. It’s a wretched feeling, truly.  But he knows he is right. They’re not out of this yet. Coming to a grim conclusion, Max tells Jack  No more future-seeking, and focus only on Furiosa. Keep her alive. Jack’s assistance surely kept them all alive to this point, but if he spreads his attention thin again, then Furiosa will die. The rest of them are on their own now.  Sensing more than seeing the nod Jack gives him, Max focuses inward once more. 

He won’t go to that dark place anymore, to find that awful version of Mad Max he once was. He can’t anymore, not after Furiosa, and the Wives, and the Vulvalini, and Jack. But he can become something more, better. 

Vengeful.

Righteous.

A protector.

A road warrior. 

Seeing the enemy's vehicles close in on his dangling body, Max bares his teeth. They’re welcome to come at him, he’ll slaughter them all. To protect his redemption, his hope. 

↭

The People’s Eater is a vile, disgusting man. The toxic smell of his rotting feet fills the cabin of his rig, threatening to make Max hurl. But he is easy enough to kill. Knocking him out with a sharp elbow jab, the big man provides an easy shield from Immortan Joe’s bullets. Shoving the dead man to the side, Max steers the rig around Furiosa’s and heads for Immortan Joe’s. It’s as he settles along the other side of the War rig, that Cheedo leans out of the rig and hollars at Max. “She’s hurt! She’s hurt real bad!”

 And she is. Even from this far away, Max can see her slumped over the steering wheel, her breaths labored. One of the Wives wrapped a bandage around her side, but it was already mostly red. Jack is there too, crouched by her side, with his hands pressed firmly on her side. His attention is fully on her.

 Max can’t see anything more though as the gas tanks piled on the back of the People’s Eater’s rig begin to explode. Rushing, Max heaves one of the People’s Eater’s massive feet onto the gas and scrambles up and out of the rig. From there, he jumps to the War rig, intent on helping Furiosa. But he only lands for a moment before being grabbed by a polecat and lifted into the air. The pair fight for dominance over the pole, as the mad pursuit continues below. Max howls as his head grazes the racing landscape below him. The polecat struggles to release Max, intent on throwing him to the ground, but Max gains the upper hand and knocks the polecat off. The lighter weight heaves the balanced pole up from the ground and back into the sky. Max feels more than sees the heat from the People’s Eater’s rig exploding behind him. As the pole sways back towards the rig, Max reaches desperately for it, needing to see Furiosa, to make sure she’s okay. But it’s not close enough. The pole dances away again and heaves him to the war drum rig. 

The drummers are still pounding the loud percussions, the strange creature playing the flaming guitar. It’s a good thing Max’s ears are already shot due to the raging battles of the day, or the proximity to the instruments would’ve been excruciating to hear. 

Letting go of the pole, Max scrambles up the side of the war drum rig and stands behind the guitar man. Vaguely, through the haze of flames and exhaust smoke, Max sees Furiosa climb out of the war rig and slowly make her way to Immortan Joe’s vehicle at the front. 

Fuck, Jack, what is she doing! Max hisses furiously to Jack. But for once in the several days that Max has known the ghost, he does not answer. 

Fuck.

Panic filling his veins, Max dashes to the front of the war drum rig, intent on jumping to the war rig, but he is waylaid by another polecat. Doging a bolt, Max smashes into the creature playing the flaming guitar. Cursing, Max grapples with the man, wasting precious minutes that could have been spent helping Furiosa instead. Finally, Max takes the creature's beloved instrument and smashes it into the polecat, knocking the man backward. Free of the guitar’s rigging, Max jumps to the war rig and sees a giant man wearing a baby doll's head belt around his waist pick up Cheedo, and place her on Immortan Joe’s vehicle. 

No, no, no, no-

The alarm-ridden mantra fills his head as Max launches himself at the man. No more of Angharad’s girls, of his girls, will be terrorized by these men again.  Using every scrap of energy he has left, Max fights for his life against the giant. The man outweighs Max and his bulging muscles hold nothing back as he smashes into Max. The blow sends stars to Max’s field of vision, and he can feel something in his ribs give way. Fuck, he must’ve broken a rib or two. Scrambling back, he dodges another blow. He searches for a way to beat the man when he sees Cheedo haul Furiosa up into Immortan Joe’s rig.

Clever girl.

But Furiosa is still clearly bleeding, her labored breaths apparent from a distance even. And Jack is still nowhere to be seen. 

A new surge of panic flares in Max. He needs to finish this, now .

Max lurches to his feet and attacks with a new vigor. It’s still not enough though as the giant grabs him by the throat and begins to squeeze. Choking in what little breath he can, Max claws at the giant’s hands. Something happens though, causing the giant to relax his grip and turn around. One of the silver tubes attached to his back is hissing out air. Ignoring the pain in his throat, Max takes advantage of the distraction and rips the tank of the giant's back. He then slams the tank repeatedly into the giant, not letting up for a moment until the man topples over and is still. Good.

Staggering a bit, Max finally launches himself onto Immortan Joe’s rig. Just in time to see said man’s face get ripped off by Furiosa. 

Witness.

I witness you, Furiosa. Your redemption is beautiful. 

He rushes to the side of the vehicle and hauls Furiosa’s almost limp body up. Her face is bruised, her side still bleeding, and she is missing her metal arm. 

Max has never been more grateful in his life than at this moment. Gently, he cradles her to him. The contact already clearing some of the intense dread he has been feeling all afternoon. Carefully, Max gathers her in his arms and takes her into the cabin. Toast is already there, driving the vehicle with Immortan Joe’s corpse still in the seat. Gingerly, Max lowers Furiosa to the ground. 

“Help her,” he commands one of the Vuvalini. Leaving her in the woman’s caple hands, Max grabs Joe’s bloody corpse out of the driver seat and drags him out of the cabin to the back. Throwing the body to slump in a corner, Max turns around and witnesses the demise of the war rig. 

The explosion catapults flames sky high, as rocks and debris fly everywhere. Numbly, Max takes a second and mourns the damn thing. The machine doing more for Max and his loved ones in the last few days than the majority of humans Max has met. He gives the war rig one final nod before turning to head back to Furiosa.  He stills though as he sees Caple’s and Dag’s tear-streaked faces. Noticing the lack of Nux and the bag of seeds Dag clutches to her chest, he realizes that the war rig’s demise is also a funeral pyre. 

Nux, Valkyrie, many of the Vuvalini, and Keeper of the Seeds.

So many dead. 

And Jack.

Where is he?

As the flames slowly disappear behind a rocky outcropping, Max heads for Furiosa.

He’ll lose no more.

↭

Furiosa’s face is ashen in the evening light, her rasping breath filling the cabin. 

The Vuvalini had done her best to make Furiosa comfortable, but she was no healer. Furiosa was dying before their very eyes. 

“Why is she making that noise?” Cheedo asks, her voice soft.

“She’s pumping air into her chest cavity… collapsing her lungs one breath at a time.”

Mournful silence falls over the cabin. Bile fills Max’s mouth as helplessness threatens to overwhelm him. If she dies, then everything would mean nothing. Their redemptions, Max’s hope, are gone. 

A cool grey hand gently takes Max’s and leads him to Furiosa’s side.

“Here… stab her here.”

Jack’s voice is faint, barely able to be heard over the noise of the engine. He looks even worse. His entire body is grey, his hair limp and deep, black circles make themselves at home under his dull eyes.

For a brief moment, Max wants to rage at the ghost, demand where he has been, and why the hell he let this happen to Furiosa. But one look into his eyes tells Max everything he needs to know; Furiosa is only alive still because of Jack. 

Swallowing back all his questions, Max gets to work. 

Grabbing the knife, Max places one firm hand on Furiosa's ribs. Looking at her straight in the eyes, he apologizes, “I am so sorry,” and stabs her.

The wet slink of the knife withdrawing from her side feels obnoxiously loud at the moment. But it doesn’t cover the sound of Furiosa’s pained whimpering.

Gently, Max cradles Furiosa to him, their foreheads almost touching. She’s whispering something softly, her voice too weak to carry. Something about home and-

“Jack.”

Slightly startled, Max leans back and sees her eyes on Jack right beside him.  The ghost is crying now, his gaze locked on her. Max is full-on panicking now, their time running out if she can see Jack. 

No, no, no, no, no-

“She exsanguinated, drained of all her blood.”

Desperately looking around the cabin, Max searches for something else he can use to help her, but nothing seems promising. Glancing back at Furiosa, Max stills as he sees Jack gently touch his forehead to  Furiosa’s, his smile soft and sad.

Oh.

Rest, Max. You’ll fear nothing tonight. Rest, and prepare for what is coming. You’ll find an opportunity then .

We’ll take my blood bag!

Universal Donor.

Oh.

Quickly, Max unclips the medical line from his shoulder and gives one end to the Vuvalini while taking the other.

“Hold that there, yeah,” Max directs as he rolls up his sleeve, “Needle, we’ll need that. Keep her awake.”

The Wives gently speak to Furiosa, their tone soothing. Furiosa murmurs again but doesn’t move. They need to move, fast.

“There, hold it up. Alright.”

Max doesn’t breathe until he can see his blood work its way down the line and into Furiosa’s body. The Wives retreat as Max gathers Furiosa in his arms again. Jack is right there too, his head only a breath away from Max’s and Furiosa's. Cupping the back of her neck, Max looks into her eyes and introduces himself.

“Max, my name is Max.”

Furiosa smiles, her bruised and bloody face lovely.

“Yeah, mm-hmm. That's my name.”

A cool hand cups the back of Max’s neck and draws him down to her. 

They stay like that, touching foreheads, with Jack’s arms around them, until Furiosa falls asleep.

↭

The others disperse, exhausted and emotional after the long day. The two remaining Vuvalini take in the Wives' soft cries as they all mourn those they’ve lost. They’ll be at the Citadel in a few hours, so they take solstice when they can. 

Max doesn’t question it when they all leave him with Furiosa in the back. The earlier blood-giving has exhausted him too, and lying down next to the sleeping Furiosa is the only spot in the cabin that he wants. 

What the others don’t see is Max is laying his head on Jack’s lap. The ghost, like Furiosa, looks better. His skin is no longer an ashen grey and the dark circles have almost disappeared completely. Even with his renewed form, something tells Max that Jack doesn’t have much longer with them. It’s something about his outline. It’s not as defined as it once was, no longer tricking Max in the right light to believe him human.  Max ponders this as the ghost’s cool hands gently pet Furiosa’s buzzed hair.

“It used to be long.”

Max hums but doesn’t open his eyes, content in just listening to Jack speak in his comforting outback burr.

“It was this thick, long brown color. The color of freshly tilled earth. She’d wear it down with some tied back, so it wouldn’t get in her eyes.”

An image of a younger Furiosa flashes in Max’s mind. Her powerful form accentuated by her long dark hair. Somehow it fits her, just as her buzzed hair does too. Neither diminishes her power, only further enhances it. 

“One time, after a long, hard day- much like this one actually- she pulled me aside and pulled this from her hair.”

Blinking open his eyes, Max glances at the dark object in Jack’s hand. It’s the thing Jack has been carrying around and messing with since Max has known him. Seeing it up close tugs at something in his memory, the odd texture of the small stone oddly familiar.

Jack chuckles softly above him, the movement slightly jostling Max in his lap.

“I didn’t know what it was either at first. She had to explain it to me. It’s a fruit stone, the pit of a once ripe peach.”

The memory of Jessie, Sprog, the Colonel, and that evening in the garden flashes in his mind. Peach pie, that’s what Jessie was making that night. It used to be one of Max’s favorites. Something else he chose to forget in this wasteland.

“It came from her home, her people; and she carried it with her always.” Jack’s voice stops for a moment, before continuing in a sad tone. “After I died, she killed a man and planted the stone in his stomach. Growing the first peach tree in the Citadel from his blood and flesh.”

Max just stares up at Jack incredulously. 

Jack chuckles again, “Or so they say. I’ve never seen it. But there are peach trees at the Citadel, and rumors have it that no one is sure who first planted them. They just grew out of the ground one day, and have been carefully tended every since.” Glancing over to the Wives in the front seat, Jack continues, “...peaches were Angharad’s favorite.”

Jack’s voice fades to silence after that, the implications clear. It’s nice, to have these moments of Furiosa’s youth told to Max. It makes him want to know more about her, to learn these secrets himself. He is studying Furiosa’s sleeping features, looking for the hint of the strong, rebellious youth she was when Jack gives a gentle, “Oh.”

Concerned by the shock in that one word, Max sits up and looks at Jack.

The ghost’s outline is even more faded than before, his hands and feet almost gone entirely. His gaze is focused on something Max can’t see, but whatever it is, Jack is in awe.

“I think I see it.”

“See what?”

“The Green Place.”

Jack grins, tears welling in his eyes. He looks at Furiosa first, love so evident on his face. It makes Max want to laugh a bit. It’s how Jack has always looked at Furiosa, but only now does Max see what it truly is. The ghost leans down one more time and places his forehead on Furiosa’s. Giving them a moment of privacy, Max looks away.

There are some things in this world that are not meant for others. 

He doesn’t start when Jack’s cool hand clasps onto his neck. This part is familiar after all. Smiling, Max and Jack’s foreheads touch as the two men lean into each other. Max breathes in Jack’s comforting scent before leaning back. Something grazes his forehead before he can though. Glancing up in shock, Max sees Jack grin as his lips lightly touch his forehead. This kiss is fleeting but it’s cheeky just like Jack. 

Jack releases his hold on Max and leans back. He gives one more nod to Max before he is gone. 

This time, he won’t be back. 

Laying back down, Max turns to face Furiosa once more and sleeps.

In the front seat, the Wives pretend not to notice as tears slip down Max’s cheeks.

↭

The wretched people of the wasteland cheer loudly as the Wives, Vuvalini, and Furiosa are placed on the platform.

They chant over and over again; Let them up! Let them up! Let them up! Let them up!

Despite nearly dying only a few hours ago, Furiosa stands tall, her shoulders back as pride exudes from her.

Max is proud of her, for her.

He should be next to her, helping her, but not yet. 

She will need things; tools to help her and the Wives lead the Citadel into a new era. One built on hope and redemption. 

Max thinks back to his map and the stars and to Jack, with his crinkly smile and incessant need to help. 

He still isn’t sure what he is looking for in this wasteland, but Max knows he has a place to land now. 

Giving one more glance to the rising platform and the roaring crowd, Max meets Furiosa’s searching gaze. Her eyes, even at a distance and with one swollen, are lovely and soft as she nods to Max. He returns the nod.

Between one moment and the next, he is gone, disappearing into the cheering crowd.

↭

Max hasn’t seen a real human in over 46 days. 

Of course, this is when the new ghost appears.

Granted, Sprog and Jessie are always there, waiting in the wings to hum (Jessie) or draw stick figures in the sand (Sporg). He sees them plenty in the desert, Jessie’s songs calming and Sprog’s stick versions of Furiosa and Jack and the Wives getting better and better. 

So when the familiar, white-haired woman shows up, materializing out of the hot midday sun, Max isn’t surprised. 

“There’s a plant over that ridgeline I want you to take back to the Citadel,” the ghost demands.

Her voice is warm, mirth coating the fond tone.

Max smiles and nods.

“Lead the way.”