A/N: Hello! This is being presented as-is from Archive of our Own (AO3), where I've so far written 29 chapters. I'll be posted this series weekly until the two are caught up, and then you can suffer with everyone else who has to wait for an update. Enjoy!

The Powder Lakes went on for miles. The wind-swept sand continued on towards the horizon, and it probably continued on for another horizon after that. It wasn't to be confused with the Salt, which seemed to never end. Perhaps it didn't. Max remembered seeing pictures of the water himself, the Big Wet before it went to salt. He looked over the featureless basin, wondering if at some point it was full of water and life. Didn't matter now.

He eyed, for now, his map inked in oil and blood. The center of the map was tattooed in red with the symbol of Immortan Joe. Next to it was a cross marking cardinal directions. The cloth was ragged, pockmarked with dots and marked with lines and shapes that only he would be able to make out and understand if he handed it to someone. It didn't matter, because he never would.

Hello? Where are you?

He sighed.

Where are you, Max?

Max Rockatansky.

You said you would help us.

Here they come again. Worming their way into the black matter of my brain. Max's voice found a moment of silence in his head.

Help us, Max.

You promised to help us.

A soft shuffling sound came from the sand below his feet. With a strike of his heel and a swipe of his boot, he nabbed the source: a two-headed lizard. Food. Swiftly, he popped the dead reptile in his mouth, eager to get the raw bony animal down his gullet. It was then, in the middle of Max's meal, that his car's engine turned over.

He turned to his car, lizard dripping out of his mouth, and saw a woman sat in the driver's seat, desperately trying to get the thing going with only one arm. Max rushed to the door, grabbing at the woman to drag her out. She resisted fiercely, hooking onto the wheel with the rest of her missing arm and jabbing at him with the other. He knew what she was doing was futile; she wouldn't be able to shift for her life. Max pulled again stiffly, blocking her jabs. Eventually she got a good one in, slamming a fist into his nose. He staggered back, and she lifted herself out of the car to come at him. With no hesitation, Max produced his shotgun from inside his jacket and pointed it at her.

The engine had turned back off, leaving them in silence. Max took this opportunity to get a good look at the woman who tried to steal his car. Her hair was cut short, and she appeared to be well-fed and well-dressed, but not for the rigors of the wasteland. She had nothing with her but the clothes on her back, and definitely a knife in her boot. Her eyes told a greater story than she would let on, one of fear, grief, and desperation – a look Max was all too familiar in seeing and having. Max was tempted to just wave her off with his gun and wash his hands of this meeting forever, and pretend it didn't happen. Or maybe he should shoot her, knowing the former would just have her die slower. He didn't have time to make that decision.

They both heard them coming, and she was the first to act. She was back in the car, turning over the engine by reaching her right hand to the left, but he stopped her. "Move," was the growl he let out, pushing her over into the passenger's seat. The woman didn't fight, but pulled her knife out of her boot, keeping it close. He threw into the car his pack, his pot, his sleeping roll, some of it falling into the woman's lap. Neither of them cared, because the only thing that mattered now was making distance, and fast. The supercharged V8 engine roared to life, and the Ford Falcon sped down the rocky hill towards the Powder Lakes.

Their pursuers soon appeared behind them. War Boys. Max wasn't new to them, and the woman was at least smart enough to fear them. He watched, sometimes from miles away, as they chased people like ghosts across the Wastes, taking their cars, bodies, even lives if it suited them. He envisioned himself overturned by one of their lances, crawling out of the corpse of his car, chained to the end of one of theirs, forced to chase them back to the Citadel on foot. Max prayed for a quick death, at the very least, and shifted into a higher gear.

Furiosa wasn't sure who to be more afraid of, the War Boys coming to kill her, or the raggedy man driving the car. He looked more animal than man with his hood down and his cap off. His hair and beard were long and knotted. In some places it clotted into a solid mass, and he seemed not to care. The man had spoken in a deep, grating voice as if words had been lost on him for a long time. She clutched the knife tighter in her right hand, not sure if she was better off in the car or out in the sand.

The War Boys had been following her from the Citadel. She had a head-start, jumping one of the cars out of a lower Garage exit, and drove away. She dared not head East – they'd follow her into the Salt if they had to. For now she had gone South-west, angled away from Gastown, into the craggy hills that bordered the great stone towers. Eventually, her great jump caught up to the car, leaking oil until it couldn't go anymore. Furiosa had continued on foot, trekking over the peak of the crags, until she saw the man with his car.

She was torn between asking the man, killing him, or just trying to speed away with the car. Asking the man seemed out of the question. Furiosa had been surrounded by bad, bad men ever since she was stolen away from the Green Place. She found loyalty in her crew, but nothing more. Ace respected her and followed her, but she knew Immortan Joe trumped her every time. She wasn't sure if a man could find it in their heart to help.

Killing was ugly. Furiosa knew how to kill, and who, and when, but she didn't have a taste for it. She had grown close to the wives, especially the Splendid Angharad, and she didn't know anyone else that was so protective of life, hesitant to wish death on anyone but those that truly deserved it. For a second, she was watching herself on the hill, piking the man in the neck with her knife, and she knew he didn't deserve it. She would steal the car, then.

Furiosa knew she was fucked as soon as she got into the car. The driver's seat sat on the right instead of the left, and her missing left arm put her between a rock and a hard place. At this point, it was do or die, so she did – or at least she tried. The man easily caught her, and she swung wildly even though she knew how to fight. She hardly cared, only wanting to find her foot on the gas and nothing in the rear-view mirror. Still, he pried at Furiosa, trying his damndest to get her out of the car. With a moment's hesitation, she spotted a weak spot and rammed her fist into his nose. He stumbled back, and she took the fight out of the car, even though she should have taken that moment to get the car driving down the hill.

When the man pulled out his shotgun, Furiosa knew she was double fucked. End of the road. She thought of the Vuvalini, of her mother, of Katie, of the Wives, of the War Boys still barreling through the Wasteland with her in their sights, and now she stood in front of a shotgun, in front of a wild man, between him and his car. She was almost ready to face Immortan Joe himself instead of standing in front of this person. His long shaggy hair made him unreadable, hiding his face. The clothes he wore bulked him up, hiding his stature. She was afraid and completely alone.

It didn't take long for the War Boys to get within earshot. The man was distracted, and she took her chance. Furiosa clambered back into the car, clumsily reaching to turn over the engine, but found herself pushed further into the vehicle. She drew her knife out of her boot, watching as the man quickly tossed his belongings into the car. For a moment, Furiosa watched with envy as he operated the car smoothly with two hands, and cursed Immortan Joe for taking her left arm. The car roared to life, and they sped down the hill into the Powder Lakes.

She curled up into a ball on the passenger's seat, knife always between her and the man, even though she was pretty sure he had more important things to do than mess with her. Begrudgingly, Furiosa admitted to herself that she wouldn't be getting anywhere fast without him. Still, she looked behind them, at the dust plumes getting closer and the dark shapes taking form. Cars and motorcycles: the standard patrol. More than enough to take them down. It seemed useless to run.

A heavy weight fell against her. Furiosa held up the knife in response, unsure at first what it was, but she saw it well enough. It was a gun. Hesitantly, she took it in place of her knife. "Use it," the man told her, shifting higher. He knew she wouldn't be dumb enough to shoot him, and he was right. It was better off used against the War Boys following them. And so it was.