I live, I die, I live again (Mad Max: Fury Road fanfiction)

Chapter 3 - A hard nut to crack

On the walls of the cave, light flows in a reverse liquid way: accumulating on the reliefs, disappearing into the cavities. It flickers as if it were going to fade out at any moment, and yet the bulb continues to shine at the end of the long double-wire that connects it to Volta's battery. A sudden gesture and her hook is planted in the stone above her head. The rock crumbles. The suspended bulb swings and the light spins until it reaches the entrance of her shelter. Outside, the day is almost dead and the heat too.

With some kind of precaution, she removes the fabric strips that protect her from the sand, the prerogative of the Buzzards. The strips of her arms, those of her legs and those of her head, including her scarf, wet of her breath and sweat. Of these traveling clothes, she owns only one set. Against the wall, she has stored the large bag of copper coils looking like an ossuary. And next to it, she has thrown the War Boy.

She did what she could to stem the bleeding in his leg. The most important thing since all she wants to do is to deliver him. She doesn't know how many ribs of his frame he has cracked, how many pieces his leg actually is. The burns are difficult to distinguish from the rest, and his shoulder has more or less repositioned itself while she was transporting him. Now, he also has a long scratch of copper-shear on the top of his white forehead. He has not powdered himself for several days, this is obvious, and the only black marks he has are under his nose and around his eyes. A very end of a half-life, that will pass away in two days if he's not transfused. If he's lucky. The extent of the grease paintings is significant for War Boys, Volta has seen enough of them to know. The less they have, the more dangerous they become, because they are so close to the end of the road.

— I'd better hurry up tomorrow, she whispers as she pulls her bag up to her knees, but her eyes are still on him: finally, he seems to regain consciousness.

She's taking a risk by doing this: even half open, even almost dead, he's shown good reflexes earlier. He's certainly worth even more than he bragged about. If the rumors are true, at the Citadel, only remain War Boys unfit to fight. And War Pups, so immature their arms cannot even raise the hood of a car. All the others have been used as tire and cannon fodder, in this rabid attempt to get she-doesn't-even-know-what back. The word war is enough to describe it all, anyway. They'll probably want to patch this one up, despite he probably has very little intrinsic time left to live. She has no doubt that she will indeed be rewarded. In the meantime, her dagger remains at her side.

As he rolls his head on the wall, she digs into the side pockets of her bag and pulls out another piece of copper. A long, tapered rod that will require little work. She has made her own manual wire-drawing machine, and feels it as an extension of her arm. It will only take her a few moments to get her second light bulb working again. Bite, pull, blow the dust away, over and over. The Way Boy has opened his eyes. With that blue, he's probably had a lot to deal with in the reverberation.

He looks at his leg, tries to take a deep breath – which fails – and then he seems to focus on where he is. The ochre colour of the rock won't fool him: they are still in Rockrider territory, however facing the plain. On the outer edge of the Pass. She had a hard time dragging him in there, but the copper bag was even heavier. Even though she's concentrating on her work, she knows that he's assessing the situation. If he starts throwing anything at her again, including her copper coils, she will finish him off and decide that the reward is not worth the trouble.

— What are you doing?, he says.

Volta focuses and doesn't look at him anymore.

— It doesn't matter.

— That's wire.

— You're not going to start that chatting again.

She knows that the War Boys are a flock of loudmouths, and that only the most bogan-crazy and impulsive ones can hold on long enough to grow two lymphomas like these. Having to saw off a few of these devotees on the Road is one thing. But having to bear one of them for a night is worse than a nail in the tire. She pinches the copper, then pulls hard on her wire which splits into three filaments. A cubit long, thinner than the last yellow grass. With her fingertips, she twists them into a tight braid, and then – from her little toolbox – she pulls out her needle. A sudden breath, and she feels her talkative burden just squeezed against her copper bag.