I'll give you freaky people a proper summary before you read this tripe. The reason I'm writing this monstrosity is to explain to myself how Furiosa and the former wives are going to keep wasteland assholes from raiding the hell out of them now that there are no War Boys to defend the joint. All they have left are pups and sick dudes waiting for the Organic to come back and hook em' up to blood bags. (he's not coming back. Sorry boys) So... Yeah I'm just probing this dystopian world looking for logical answers to concerns of the logistics in running a place like the Citadel.

A tonne of War Boy original characters ahead. You have been warned.

If you're looking for Nux/Capable fluff, you won't find it here. Nux is dead. Period. It will take a lot of begging and whimpering to get me to write in his survival, and even then -if I let him live- he's gonna be a mess and I don't mean physically. He's gonna be a mental fucking mess.

Everything is in first person because I'm a jerk. These chapters are also going to be short or long or agonizingly clipped depending on what was going on in my head when I wrote them. The perspective will switch rapid fire between characters including Furiosa because I'm just not seeing enough in the fan community from her perspective that isn't romance garbage between her and Max. It starts several days before the events seen in the Fury Road film, and I have no idea who will survive this. Also there will be another road war because I said so.

I'm just letting this story happen to me, I'm not planning anything but the base skeleton of the tale and everything else is just going to happen on its own.

Also I've already written the gut wrenching end. Because I'm a jerk I'm not going to share any details about the end with you guys. All I'm doing is filling in the road to get there to that ending.

Again, most of these war boys are made up, so are the booze peddling wastelanders.

We'll talk about romance later. If I feel like it.

-Notch-

Speed, purring engines, the shuddering of tires tearing through shallow dunes of sand, howls of violent intent and fury. It was my happiness and everything I knew.

"Dumb shank!" Roared the one who wore a mask to conceal his face as he lobbed another bottle of bursting flames at us. I was lucky Chug had swerved under me to avoid the wreckage of one of the cycles as the plow on the front end of the Dodge they drove massacred both it and the pup rider.

"Witness!"

By Immortan, that bomb chucker was feisty. He'd make a shine lancer if he were one of us and I was admiring with my lips pulled into a snarl, but I'd rather be doin' it from further if he was going to be hurling fire at me. I pounded the roof and shouted to Chug to steer our chariot further out of the fighter's throwing capability. I didn't wanna die soft, screaming and burning up.

On this fine night we were chasing down a group which raced shipments of their special brew to Bartertown by the cover of night. Everything they did was done to keep their presence hush, to conceal their identity and wherever it was they hid in our territory during the daylight.

They were slippery, like a sweat soaked half-life under the fever, or a greasy black thumb's hands; But the Imortan -Hail V8- wanted them and what they could do. They were living here in the immortal's territories, using his roads and making a mean profit doing it. Joe owned their product by default, they just didn't realize this yet.

Nothing can escape Immortan Joe, and nothing can out pace us.

The grog runners only had two chariots . We had them outnumbered by two and a few cycles but their rides were as shine as ours and they fought back against our assault with a skill that would have been praised by the mighty V8 had they not been filthy infidelic spawn.

Vicious as they were, Ike soon saw his glorious opportunity. He'd been fighting the fevers on this long hunt, and linking his fingers at any quiet moment to give prayer for a chromed end to his waning half-life.

Now that we had found the armored cargo truck and had met their viciously defending guard vehicle with the shrill grind of steel against steel I knew what Ike would be thinking. I could even see the fervent glint in the lancer's eye glimmering in the moon light.

When my Pontiac -named Valkyrie's Fender- nearly brushed her passenger door in a grinding caress against Fork's VW -which he had yet name- I passed my own can of chrome to Ike, leaning hard with the force opposing as Chug steered us clear of wrecking against our brothers.

The scrawny shadow of what Ike had once been snatched the can from the hand which gripped it on the end of my outstretched arm. He grinned at me with a fantastically wide maul of crooked teeth, causing his sallow cheeks to stretch his heavily scarred face. It made him look every bit the kamikrazy shit he'd always bragged he'd be on the day he rode to the promised afterlife.

We all knew his time was close, far closer than I suspected that I might go so I held no regret in giving up my grill paint to a comrade from my own generation of war pups. The lumps up and down my spine may have gnawed hard and my chest may have burned with every speck of road dust that had managed to work its way passed the rags pulled over my lips and nostrils but I still had my strength. Ike however was not only painted in the image of sun bleached bones but was fast beginning to resemble a skeleton in shape. He needed that shine on his face more than I did.

The masked defender who perched over the crates of clinking bottles in the back of the armored up dodge seemed to sense the way Ike was eyeing him with a thunder stick in hand. Those oily black eyes burned deep in their pale sockets as he grasped at yet another bottle to stuff in a rag and light it. His stance was low, shoulders hunched and eyes full of the feral krazy.

So far the uppity devil had tossed one boy to the sand below the wheels for his attempt to board and had lit up another on his motorcycle with his fire bombs for veering in too close. Proven deadly and quick, it became apparent that we would not take this one alive without losing more of our own unnecessarily.

Ike -who's life was over no matter what- would have his chance to chase Valhalla and subdue the masked nutter with a sure strike of his lance.

We probably wouldn't need all of them. Taking just one alive was probably enough to ferret out the recipe for their prime gut busting grog. We'd leave the Organic Mechanic to that task later. We would keep one of the drivers -both if possible- but this ruddy mean thing astride the fleeing Dodge needed to go. Ike was up to the task, lining up his leap to glory.

His aim was true, form flawless, his time spent honing the skill and demonstrating it in many battles showed in a grace that could scarcely be put into words. Each of us was riveted as he cried for witness with lips glistening in shimmers of chrome.

The lance lunged down into the masked demon's chest solid center but no bang?! It was a fucking dud! What shit eater had rigged the charge on its end? Whoever had been on duty assembling bang sticks deserved to be- I didn't have the chance to finish that venomous thought, nor watch as Ike grappled with the infuriated enemy who'd been knocked back against the cab of the truck.

Chug musta' been watching the gates of Valhalla open and then crash shut on our brother too closely. The ram bar on our nose jolted against the tail bumper of the enemy Escort with enough strength to rend and tangle metal. It was clear that Chug wasn't quite so ready as I thought to try his hand at driving. If my young lancer had been ready then he'd have known to watch the car ahead of him and take notice when the driver pumped his foot on the brake.

I flew from the lancers perch, soaring like the black birds which pluck the eyes from the dead. I didn't stay flyin' for long though. I met the roof of the enemy war chariot with knees, elbows and a cheek bone.

That's gonna scar.

I wasn't at all sure what had caught my face and torn it open but I drank down the pain, made it into fuel then lit it on fire. The arms and legs burned deep in every bend but my fingers found their grip, hauling me inches closer to the wind sheild where glass may once have been in the Before Times.

Things began to blur in the fury, the kamikrazy rush of adrenaline that threw me into action, made my loins throb even. Somehow I'd put myself into the drivers seat, which was for some reason on the wrong side. I could vaguely recall kicking at where I expected the drivers head to be only to find air, then a hand throwing its stony grip around my ankle and pulling my boot off in the struggle. The rest was lost in the blood lust.

The driver was unconscious on the floor boards next to me, knocked flat out and laying in the space where a passenger seat should be, but wasn't.

I could hear my brothers whooping and roaring praise but I just felt jaded as the high of war slithered away from me. I was their senior, the second eldest, perhaps not even the second strongest but I was the one who Valhalla would not accept. I was thrust out of deaths shadow more than I could count, and now once more. By luck the vehicle hadn't rolled when the driver succumbed to my fist rapping on his skull. By luck I had regained control over the speeding two tonnes of metal. Why did I even bother to carry chrome anymore? Valhalla seemed not to want me over this stupid luck.

As I spied the Dodge the driver looked into my eyes with his single intact peeper. He had a face that was painted something like ours but more intricately embellished in skeletal details. Nah, couldn't be paint, the flesh looked too perfectly adorned for paint somehow. It looked more precise. Like the markings that the Organic etched onto blood-bags with ink and a machine.

Anyway, he looked completely terrified despite his nearly intimidating size. I pulled back, tapping the break as I saw him reaching for something in his lap. Probably a pistol. The thought was confirmed when I heard the bang over the drone of the engines all around and the ping of lead on steel. I looked to the back of the cargo truck, Ike was still fighting with that masked maniac but not for long. They both tumbled out onto the sand in their struggle, left in the dust if not mashed under the treads of tires. Someone shouted Witness, but no one could be sure if the man was dead. Ike was notorious for taking tumbles and he knew how to fall. Even as weak as he was he might still be alive.

The pursuit continued on, but eventually things became more complicated when we realized that we had entered the hostile zones. We had veered into the territory of the Buzzards, flesh eaters who dwell under the sands in the sunken cities.

We downed three of their prickly death machines yet still we became separated from our prey in the chaos. Somehow the armored truck had slipped away from us but the problem of fuel made it impossible to continue the chase. If we didn't cut our losses now and turn back then we'd never make the return to the Citadel without unreasonable losses. After five days there just wasn't enough guzzoline to risk furthering this mission. We had one hooch maker, that should be enough I hoped.

Ike was picked up on the way, wandering along the tracks we left for him to follow and adorned with raw sand rash. The body of the masked manic was never found.