➥ "AND HE WAS HERE WHEN THE BOMBS DROPPED." | MAD MAX AU | OTA

[nestingdevil]

They all know what it means when it starts. The thudding drone of bass from deep in the recesses of Vacant City, the too-deep sigh of bone-dry cogs choking with protest. The melody grows as more and more come to the call. With their instruments of choice, let it be a wrench in hand or a couple of long, plastic pipes they've saved for such an occasion. The noise hums harmonious as the seconds pass and from the lowly hull of a not-so-vacant ship, a red glow begins to hum.

It's Finders Day.

Misshapen cars, trucks and motorcycles swing in black-steel cages - like starved victims of a medieval torture room. The procession causing chrome and steel to strike angrily at the late-night sky; a consistent blue-black with metallic grimaces. Those who reside in Vacant City know who they belong to, but unlike many of the self-crowned kings of the Wastes, there's an understanding here. A residual nod that each and everyone shares:

Monsters came in all shapes and sizes in the Wasteland. But some were far more giving than others.

Flares ignite down below in a flurry of red-hot pink and carbonizing smoke. Finders Day always comes at the Crow's Hour. When supplies are minimal, but the prospects are high. It could be the next day, a month from now, longer - but it always seems to fall whenever one very signature car disappears in the morning haze. Gone for hours, it seems, then back again. With the same uttered promise that far too many have heard before:

"Nothing wrong with too much hope now, is there?"

Ragged families scurry out of their makeshift homes towering up above and small children leer dangerously on jagged pikes of gnarled wire and iron. It is a spectacle to uphold, that's true. But not just for the line up of steel horses or the quickly-smeared oil paint that comes in feverish excitement. It also means food, water, liquor, and anything else those of The Devil's Nest gang can get their hands on.

Which usually is plenty.

Cages bang loudly on sand-soaked metal planks and chains fall with the weight no longer holding them. In hypnotizing flutters of flares, there's movement; not unlike shadowy fish schooling upon an inexperienced swimmer. Roofs are banged, doors are torn open. And the roar of engines starts quickly, nearly deafening out the constant rhythm wafting in from no where and everywhere all at once.

A squad of cycles, cars, and one, lumbering truck head the procession. A pack of wolves composed of red-peppered chrome and dust-caked wheel-wells. Angry smoke and diesel lifts into the tight enclosure, temporarily blocking out the white-wax wane of a late moon.

No one knows the exact story and the rumors have been endless. Told by campfire, whispered in the shadowy depths of a half-holding building. "They were here when buildings rose and people lived. They were here when you could see yourself in a million mirrors and never look once. They were here when food was in a great safe and you could have your fill."

"And he was here when the bombs dropped."

Comments

gently... dusts this off... (if you're still interested in it being dusted off...)

[makehistoria]

Stocke can't lie and say he was expecting it - so all that's left open to him is a hissed, angry word, a curse swallowed by the roar and eaten by the sand. In one move they've doomed the whole of them and him the last - after all, he's the one that led them here. Doesn't matter whether you're the tiger or the one it's chasing when you lead it straight to camp.

If they meant to kill him and didn't care what happened to them: it'd be almost clever. But Heiss's follow out of no fanatic devotion, only fear of the warlord's far-reaching knowledge and promise of reward; besides, as far as Stocke knows, the man still wants him alive.

Knee-jerk or planned, it doesn't matter. All he can do is try to raise his chances.

Distantly, he hears the shells let loose, the scream of metal into rock; out of the corner of his eye he can tell there's impact, though he wouldn't say he'd seen it. He thinks: if I get out, I'll have to go back and clean up. No guarantee there're no survivors. But the rest of him's in hyperfocus - where, where, there.

Can't just be the one in front retaliating: the rest of the Nest gang have to have joined in by now. But Stocke's paying attention only enough to slide a two-step closer to one of Greed's own, snatch an unused pistol from a holster without as much as a 'borrowing this.' His hand darts out and returns unnoticed like the ghost he's been called and with barely a lean he slants back to his previous position. Then he twists in his seat, checking - loaded? (Loaded.) The recoil's going to be heavier than he's used to firing one-handed, that he can tell. But -

Even knowing it, his first shot goes wide of any of his pursuers. His second's aimed for the chest and hits the throat instead, but that's a shot he'll accept.

He's been tailed by this group for full half an hour, what might as well be an eternity. He knows - the cyclist that was his target rode in tandem with a partner, far too close, and when his bike swerves it tangles the both of them in a scream of metal, a deep furrow of sand and broken pieces. Stocke doesn't wait to watch, just throws his gaze forward for barely a flash to make sure he's still on course, then shoots a third time. This time it's straight and true, and another of Heiss's topples.

His pursuers are heavily outnumbered. It's only a matter of time, and they'll all be mopped up and buried by the sand, so much dead chaff.


And when they are: for a moment, Stocke's almost tempted to try and make a run for it. It'd be monumentally stupid - he's good, but even he's not even close to that good. Even so, the urge is there. Making a break for it; it's a risk either way, staying to see what this warlord'll say about a force of hostiles screeching down on him or running from the midst of his followers, and at least if he guns it it'll feel like he's doing something instead of just waiting for his fate.

Stocke doesn't. Slowly, his hands relax on his handlebar and the pistol; he returns the gun with as quick a whisper as before, then sits straight and calm, cool on sight as the desert rock at midnight. Chilled, unmoving, unconcerned. Maybe his heart's beating fast enough he could almost compare it to the rev of a motor; maybe he's wondering if this time is the time he's not getting out of it, finally run onto a track too sharp for him to take. But he's not saying a word, and the sheen of goggles keeps his expression safe. Confidence, maybe, will buy him time - keep the gang around him from grabbing the interloper straight up instead of waiting for Greed's word. One little pebble in a pit if possible advantages, and you never know when the smallest change will make all the difference.

He keeps pace, and he waits.