➥ "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

I come bearing action scenes, pls give me a wave if there's a problem (guess who watched mad max)

[makehistoria]

They call them Sand Ghosts, or Dust Chasers. A small crew, though people can't seem to decide whether there's six or seven of them, maybe even eight. Always on the move, in and out of the desert wastes - the only time they ever seem to show is to throw a wrench in a certain warlord's plans, then vanish again like spectres. Phantasms. Maybe there's something in the name.

Some say 'They betrayed their warlord;' others say 'They betrayed their warlord for us.' But the story of cutting ties is the same either way, and it's no secret - three of Heiss's elite crew, spies and secret police and assassins alike, loyal for years. Then gone in the night, an enforcer and mechanic in tow.

To Stocke, it's just him and his team. It's not the original five anymore - they've picked up more stragglers on the way - but that doesn't change anything. Him and his team, messing with all of Heiss's little outposts and feelers, and doing what they can for everyone else. (It's not enough. Never enough, without the clout of a wasteland emperor behind them. But Stocke's not having them go back to Heiss for anything; if nothing else, he'd be the only one likely to survive.)

And sometimes one of Heiss's far-ranging gangs is lucky (or unlucky) enough to set eyes on them. Sometimes they've even got the firepower to be a threat.

"Scatter!" Stocke calls out, and - "Five days!" It's rubbish, of course, and his team knows it - he'd hardly announce plans within ears' reach of pursuers - but it's a good bit of invention. He gets shouts back, revving engines, and the formation bursts like a firework, like a star; their pursuers stall, deciding who to chase. Logically, it should be an even split - they'd still have some sort of advantage even with all of Stocke's split up, smaller targets. But Stocke's banking on something else -

And he's not wrong. Of the rough dozen and a half after them, a full nine swing around to bear on him.

It's got nothing to do with his importance and everything to do with it being personal. More personal than the betrayal itself, though that's far more under wraps than the identity of his previous employer.

Three more peel off after Raynie, another two after Rosch - the largest vehicle, the only one that isn't a cycle and could be rightly called a war machine - and the rest go just as splintered as Stocke's own gang. Stocke bares his teeth, satisfied - Raynie's even better at using the sands than he is, and he's got confidence in all of them. They'll be fine.

So he turns his attention to the road in front, and the canyons - now all he's gotta do is get rid of his tail. Time for a favoured strategy - he keeps his pace low enough that they start to draw nearer, darting glances in the cracked, sand-strewn mirrors. Then he skids, intentional, gear too high - throws sand up, sends two cycles slamming into each other full-tilt when they're blinded. He doesn't wait for the noise and explosion - soon as he's sent up his makeshift spray he guns it, click-click-click down through gears until he's got the traction he needs, then straight back up the scale once he's built up enough speed.


Twenty minutes later, his pursuers are down to four - but a far more skilled, persistant four. Canyon roads and jumps weren't enough to balk them, and Stocke's out of ammo for everything but sniping; not the most one-handed of activities. He's just peeling through options in his head when he swerves a corner onto the road and -

A wall of chrome and engines, blazing bright and hot in the sun. Stocke screeches across dirt, avoids impact by yards, ends up speeding parallel. Whose territory is this? He's in and out of borders so often, just like he'd been as one of Heiss's, that it takes him a moment. Greed.

Stocke knows the name, knows the reputation. Never met the man, but that makes it easier to make the detached decision - he swerves into the mass, dodging through cars and smoke, blending into the crowd. Goggles and scarf hide his face, and even if he's caught after, he carries enough (he hopes) to buy off a favour - either way, better anyone's mercy but Heiss. and he's out of other roads to take unless he wants to go diving straight back into the arms of the four after him. As for them - it'd be stupid to invoke another warlord's wrath, much as he hears the 'war' part of it isn't really Greed's style. They wouldn't get out alive.

...apparently they're holding on to that idiot ball. They decide he's picked up friends, (a lot of friends) or maybe they've just got twitchy trigger fingers: either way, as soon as they're round the corner and see the Devil's Nest gang, they open fire.