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The war was over once the storm had come in. The Citadel forces had made their retreat back to the fortress with the intent to return and clean up the mess once the sands had settled again. War Boys were sent to gather or scavenge what was left of the Horde and their own brethren. Black Thumbs would eventually be called to the battlefield later to collect useful, unbroken parts to be recycled for newer, stronger machines. The People Eater would arrive eventually to count the costs, assess the damages, and determine the body count. The war was over, but the status of that mongrel Dementus was unknown.
Only Furiosa would know.
And it should have been him to do the deed.
The Immortan’s son, Scrotus, was informed first thing the next day that his hot rod was seen on the horizon, fastly approaching the Citadel. He found himself in the garage not long after, waiting with an impatient scowl over his scarred, itching face. Growling quietly, he kept his icy gaze on the lift that would soon bring his rig back to him, and with it, Furiosa. He hoped deep down she’d taken a beating, that she’d return without an eye or another limb. She took his car, after all. He should have her torn apart for that alone.
But she had taken far more than his car. She took his opportunity to bring Dementus’s head mounted to the hood of his rig. She took the pride of being the Hero of the 40-Day War. The chance to show his competence, his savage vigor to do what needed to be done – gone. Faded in the dirt clouds kicked up from the sands as Furiosa raced away with his car. His glory. A real, tangible example to show his God-King father, a victory to bring him on a silver platter. A way to show his demigod son was worthy of all the same glory he had.
I told you all along, father. Death was the only option.
The only other sound besides the thuds of his boots against the rock beneath him was Rictus’s oxygen tanks filtering air into his nostrils. A sound that became white noise to Scrotus at that point, neither a comforting nor distressing sound: a reminder of his brother’s mortal binds. His own mortal binds. He wanted to reach out and snatch those tanks off and smash them into the floor, sending Rictus flinching and scurrying away. As if it was Rictus’s fault for his ailments, as if Rictus was to blame for the fear frustration with his inevitable and early mortality. It all faded once the loud growl of his rig’s engine echoed from below. He stopped in his idle pacing, brow deeply furrowed as his fingers curled tightly into his wrapped palms.
The lift ascended, and soon enough his car was slowly rolling into the garage, the Praetorian bitch behind the wheel. Scrotus scowled, approaching the car with a menacing, practiced patience. As the woman exited the vehicle, it was only seconds before he had her pinned to the side, knife to her throat. The burning stares of bewilderment from all those who occupied the garage made the hair at his nape stand on-end, but somehow her glare was far more searing. It made his spine tingle with excitement and anger. The History Man’s words echoed briefly through his mind then: there certainly was a darkness about her. An undefined darkness. Rage.
You insipid Bitch-Goddess.
“Should cut you up right here, right now, eh? Give my rig a new paint job,” he hissed into her face, only a couple of inches from her scowl. “You run off to play vigilante with my car – you’re out of your feeble, bitch mind!”
She hardly moved. Didn’t even blink. That lit a fire in Scrotus’s belly, his shoulders tensing with a renewed frustration. He stood a bit taller, glaring down into her bright eyes. Still, she remained still, like he was staring daggers into a brick wall.
“So where is he, then? Hm? Surely you brought ‘im back, corpse or not, right?” he growled. No answer again, which made his next inhale shaky, rage-filled. “Where is he, Praetorian?!”
“Dead,” was all she said, voice hoarse but firm. That made Scrotus scoff, barking out a quick laugh.
“Oh, sure – sure. We’re meant to believe that? And what if you let him go, let him get away, hm?” He used his free hand to grab her head, shoving it back as the blade of his knife pressed harder against her neck. “You think I’m stupid? Stupid enough to believe your little lies?” he hissed. He was quickly taken aback when the Praetorian shoved him away with a surprising strength, letting out a pained and rageful snarl.
“Dementus is dead!” she shouted, panting heavily. There was no time to say anything else before her prosthetic wrist was snatched up by the towering slab of muscle, Rictus.
“No touchin’!” he shouted, looming over the smaller woman, nearly engulfing her in his tall shadow. Her large eyes glared back up at the man-child, filled with a rage and a bright shine of something else. That same something Scrotus had seen in those bright green eyes before.
Many times.
Scrotus watched, huffing quietly as he sheathed his blade. With a scowl and a roll of his eyes, he stepped forward, grabbing his brother’s arm. He pulled Rictus away from the Praetorian with a surprising ease, and a rough shove sent him stumbling away with a confused shout.
“Rictus,” he growled, taking a threatening step towards him. “Get out. Go. Now.”
“... But, she–”
“Now!”
Scrotus knew the exact amount of imposing he needed to be to send Rictus scurrying away, like the child he always was, always will be. He watched as his brother reluctantly stepped away, lips pulled into a fowl pout. Waiting with arms crossed until Rictus had retreated fully, he slowly turned his attention back to Furiosa, who stared intently at the garage floor. He moved closer to her once more, eyes narrowed. He kept about a foot or so distance between them, knowing now she was unafraid to lash out if she truly wanted to. It was not fear, no. He simply didn’t want any more reason to smash her brains underneath his boot.
The silence was loud enough to force Furiosa to glance back at him with a tired, worn stare.
“You’ll need a far more convincing lie for the Immortan,” he growled at her. “Best come up with one quick.”
Because you’re quite good at lying, aren’t you?
She kept her lips tight then, eyes narrowed at him.
Scoffing, he cocked his head to the side and turned, leading her with him out of the garage. The palpable tension between the two remained the entire trek to the throne room was unyielding. Scrotus spared her an occasional glance, eyeing the Praetorian’s new… arm. Perhaps she deserved it. Or… perhaps Dementus deserved exactly what he got.
Whatever that was.
Scrotus pushed past her once they had entered the cool oasis of the Immortan’s throne room. All the present Imperators turned to watch them both, and soon the God-King followed suit. He stood to his full height, eyes sharp and locked onto Furiosa. The demigod son stood quietly beside him, arms crossed. An excited fire ignited in his gut as a smirk pulled at his chapped lips. He was hoping for his father’s harsh hand to come down upon that Bitch-Goddess for her insubordination. She stole my car. She made a fool of me, father. He supposed he should be embarrassed, acting like a child hoping his tattle would earn him a good show.
Unfortunately, embarrassment was exactly what hit him when the conversation concluded, with Furiosa offering a V8 salute to his father.
He called her Imperator. She’d been promoted. For what? She had no evidence that Dementus was even dead! She acted out of line, she ignored orders, she ignored the chain of command, she made a fool of me, father!
He watched as she departed, quiet and reserved. That enraged him further. At least have the balls to look upon the man you’ve emasculated, you slag. He swallowed back a snarl, fist curled tightly around the hilt of a dagger. It took everything in him to not throw it across the room, fantasizing a precise, gnarly shot.
A perfect liar, she was, from the moment she was dragged into the Citadel by Dementus. That perfect little girl, with her perfect skin, her perfect face, her perfect health. That angel-child with clipped wings that disappeared into the night, only to reemerge right under his nose. Angel-child turned to Bitch-Goddess. Now she’s taking the valor that should have been his. How dare she? After his generosity of keeping what he knew to himself! Oh, he could have made her life hell. He should have made her life hell.
He turned his head to spit at the ground, as if venom filled his mouth, smothering his tongue. Jealousy tasted so, so foul. Remaining quiet, he fumed, even as the Immortan excused the rest of his Imperators. He refused to look his father in the eyes, glaring to the side. It was both shame and anger that prevented him from even acknowledging the Immortan. It felt like betrayal, sharp in his throat.
“Enough,” was all Scrotus heard, deep and gruff behind a respirator. He scoffed in response, shaking his head. Without sparing his father even a glance, he stepped down and stormed out of the throne room. There was nothing more to be said.
He’d failed. He’d let her slide in from underneath him. That’s all that he’d hear from his father. It was his fault, after all. Letting a woman take what was rightfully his. He would be so lucky for the Immortan to never divulge the truth of the matter, to spare Scrotus the judgment of the rest of the Citadel. He should be thankful.
He escaped away into the watchtower, where he remained until the night, staring out at the wastes beyond.
His father’s pride is reserved for his sons – not some surrogate bitch-daughter. Now she’ll be heralded as the hero of the war. She slayed Dementus, after all! The Red, the Great, the Dark Dementus! Her name will be etched into the walls of legends. And where will his be? His will be a quiet, exasperated sigh on the tongue of his father.
My devil-child, Scrotus. The almost-hero of the Citadel.
Perhaps one day he will see through her facade, see her for the liar and thief she is, the great liar she had always been.
And what a glorious day that would be.