Nightmares and Hallucinations | Leaks

[theroadwarrior]

MEMORY LEAKS:


001.

You feel hot. Hot and very hungry, stomach twisting in knots; from the feel of hair on your face and around your sweaty neck, you haven't cut it off in a very long time — the long beard is thin and dusty, washed out from the sunshine. Your heavy calloused hands are working on the inside of a weathered car, under the hood, and it looks like a belt is broken. With a annoyed grumble you slam the hood back down, and glance around to a very long, very spacious expanse of orange sand. A scorpion scuttles by, and you consider catching it, keeping the poison somewhere in case it proves useful. Or maybe cooking the thing over a fire. Your stomach rumbles again needily. How long has it been? You wearily wander back to the front seat, scheming up a way to get your interceptor moving again. Glancing at the driver's side rearview mirror, you see your face: tanned, gray-blue eyes listless from exhaustion, lips cracked with a thirst you can't feel yet because you're too used to the feeling anyway. You blink away the sounds of a child's voice, asking you to come find her. She's not real. You know this.

There are ridges — tall eroded ridges that give a little protection, some shadow, but you haven't managed to reach it yet.

Maybe for the best that you didn't. Your heartbeat flutters, thumping loudly in your ears at the sound of an engine from the ridges; scavengers, or people from the few remaining cities, coming to find you. It gives you time to plan — and so you hide behind the car with your limited handgun ammo and lick your lips, waiting for the other car to pull up cautiously. There are two people in it, and you curse, because two against one out here is not good. Not at all. They're likely armed, too.

"Look around, see what we got here, mate," one says, sounding very excited for their find. "Kill whatever moves, alright? Unless you feel like taking home somethin' alive so the meat stays fresh longer." You close your eyes for a moment. Cannibals. They're not exactly common, but out here in the more isolated parts of the wastelands, they're a concern. You try not to imagine your leg on a spit, but that's just what to expect, if you're caught. With your heartbeat thundering in your ears, you turn and aim — they aren't even worried about getting attacked, and that is the signs of maniacs, people too lost to bother with. You're a little like that yourself, but you know better. You know you're crazy. It's alright, a voice says, you're okay, aren't you? Where are you? Come here, come find me.

You blink away the afterimage of a girl's body mangled in the sand, only to find you've already shot both of the men and are in the middle of pulling off their shirts and shoes to pilfer as your own. Your gun is empty. But they have knives and some jerky. And... your stomach flips again at the sight, because it could be anything. It really could be. But you're hungry, dizzyingly hungry, and — well.

Rubbing the blood off your hands, you steal it. And parts of their car.

You could always just steal the car... but this one is yours.

Always been yours.

***

002.

No, no, no, you think. And again, no. Your legs are on fire, aching and stiff, and your arms are pulled back. Snow-white faces jeer at you in the dark as you're held still; something sharp is burning tattoo ink into your back, every line unkind and raw. Above your head, someone is cutting away the grimy locks of hair you had left to grow. Your beard leaves your chin and neck and mouth vulnerable, and for some reason, that bothers you as much as the needle burrowing up and down into the flesh between your shoulder blades. Grunting your disapproval, you sag finally when the ink and blood is sopped up and you're left to hang for a moment. It's hot, hotter than the desert, and sweat drips off you.

You're terrified. Your eyes roam around desperately for some sort of escape; under you, small white hands collect your hair clippings. What should you do? What can you do? you have to escape. You have to survive; don't die here, not here, gotta get your car, gotta use these damn legs of yours; your left leg throbs from the pressure of you hanging horizontally, but all of that is blocked out by the bright orange brand coming in your direction. They're gonna burn their symbol into your flesh. They're going to own you.

As it closes in, the fear of the burn, of the ownership, you finally twist yourself around like a dog battling a wire rope around your neck. It's a success — they scramble to subdue you, but you're fast — you're fast, and you're running. The sound of boot-heavy footfalls make you sprint harder, your lungs screaming in protest. The voices of the dead roar in your head, and everything is happening too fast to get a hold on them. Max, where are you, Max, Max!! Water splashes around your feet; your burning throat feels like it reacts to the sensation of cool water to drink, but you can't stop. The men in white warpaint surround you, and you clamor up the side of the pipes, trying to escape to the iron bars above your head; freedom. You see it there, truly freedom, but the bars and thick and there's no getting around them.

Max? Is that you? a voice says, and the girl's little face peers at you through the bars before you slip down and fall into the waters below, suddenly so much more frigid than you remember it being just a moment ago. Like a hellish apparition, you see the child's face again — her blue, vibrant eyes pierce through the murky waters and her face is twisted into something malicious. Where were you?! Max, where are you?! You burst from the water, choking on the mouth gag cutting into the edges of your lips. The war boys are there, and they're real, and you barely realize that before they're upon you.

In a blur, you smash one into the wall and shrug away their ripping, violent hands, rushing through door after door, breaths half-whimpers as you flee like a trapped rat. Faces — not real, you know, not real, but they never go away — bombard you; twisted, ugly faces, all screaming for your blood, all cursing your failures. You couldn't protect them. You can't protect anybody, not even yourself. And before you can even process the barrage of images in your skull, you're standing on the ledge of a very, very high drop, overlooking this place they had called the Citadel.

You'd nearly fallen to your death.

No time to think about this, though. The boys in white paint are nearly upon you again, so you make a leap of faith; luckily, the chains on your wrists (heavy, too heavy) are sturdy. You loop the binds on a passing hook, hoping to let the crane carry you away — hope is a foolish thing, though, and there are hands grabbing onto your legs as they try to drag you back into the dark, oppressive heat within the walls. One man falls to his death. You don't bat an eye, trying in vain to cling to the metal hook that could grant you, however short-lived, freedom.

But hope. Hope is pointless.

You are pulled back onto the ledge no matter how hard you kick your burning legs, and a smothering raggedy mask is dragged over your face before you're pulled back into your prison.

***

003.

The needle in your neck makes you frantic for a moment, but hanging upside down dulls it, dizzies you. The muzzle on your face presses your nose, your lips. You are silent. You are an object right now; some kid's bag of blood, doomed to be drained. It's hard to figure out what to do next, when squirming accomplishes nothing. But then someone says "we take my blood bag"; someone plans to take you back out into the open air. And for a moment, you allow yourself to scheme.

As long as you're out of this dark, claustrophobic place, you can get away.

You always do.

As they heave you onto the car, you don't struggle — for once. If you struggled now, they'd make your binds tighter, they'd catch you most definitely, and this has to be calculated. No matter what, you have to be ready for the perfect chance to get away. Besides, they've gone and chained your hands to the car. To the driver. The bastards.

And in case you ever needed to know... being strapped to the front of a car going ninety to a hundred miles per hour is not at all fun.

The engine that is practically beneath your feet sings a turbulent, rowdy song before you're all speeding down the highway; indistinguishable curses pour out of your mouth like a broken toilet, all rough and grousing and frustrated. You're not even sure what you're doing out here, though you have some slight idea about someone taking something that wasn't theirs — what had that war boy said? Wives? You admittedly had other things on your mind, when they were all storming around in an excited panic. The muzzle on your face is still there, pushing on all sides, confining. Itchy. Hot. You glare out at the war rig; a woman is driving. She looks out you with sharp eyes. You see a potential human being to push out of a car, to kill if they make things impossible. Anything to get away. The terror is still seeped into your bones, after all. The panic hasn't left. It's just gone silent, like a television on mute.

The war boys launch their attack on the war rig driving up ahead, and from there, it's more cursing — spears thrown just next to your head, blades nearly taking your face off. You wish you could say this was entirely new to you. But it isn't. And even when you finally get free and kick one of the war boys off of the car, there still leaves one issue:

Sandstorm, and it's a bad one. It's the kind you would try to outrun in your interceptor.

You know. The car they stole from you. Your car.

You only realize now that the boy driving the car that you're temporarily chained to is planning to barrel right through the goddamn storm, even after having felt the force if it now. You would say that you're surprised, but seeing as how some of these war boys had thrown sometimes into cars with all the desire in the world to die for their leader, you really aren't. Sand assaults your eyes, ears, mouth, the force of it making the grains rough, sharp, and painful against your thick skin. Oranges and purples and reds burn through your vision. One of the pursuit vehicles is carried off into the sky, ripped apart in the turbulent winds above.

And yet they continue onward. Damn persistent kid. Damned idiot.

"Oh, what a day, what a lovely day!"

You beg to differ.

A lot. Especially when you peer through the back windshield and see what the war boy's plan is, and it's not particularly one you'd put your seal of approval on: fill up the car with guzzoline, hit the war rig, blow the thing sky-high. You image your flesh being blasted apart in the violent crash, pictures flames eating up your skin (like the cannibals, always like a cannibal). He screams for you to witness him, and what the hell does he think you're doing now? Breaking out the back window, you reach for the flare he lights up. The trigger for the very big, very flammable gun. You have to reach it.

You can't reach it from here, though.

It's only pure luck that the top of the car detaches, leaving a spot big enough to you to grab the flare from his hand, before he can throw it down into the fuel pooling at his feet. The only issue? The brakes. The brakes that the boy stomps on. From 60 to 0, you think, and it's your last thought — swimming in the screams of panic in your head — before the war rig slams into the back of the car. It's in seconds that you and the car crash; it comes apart all around you, and you bounce painfully off the ground like a pinball before slamming to a stop in the sand. Your head hits the rough ground hard, melting your thoughts into an ooze that escapes you.

It all goes black.

***

(Harry)

 

The sun is hot on your skin, the flesh of your back aching from where the Citadel had made their marks in the grooves of your muscle there. Your knee aches a bit after the journey to the Vuvalini — all the running, the climbing, the exertion. And now this is it: this is all that's left, and you've left them with a wordless goodbye as they make their way across the salt flats. You know there's nothing worthwhile in that direction... nothing worthwhile in any direction but behind them, with the supplies they have. And already you're hearing the ghostly voices, haunting your ears. Asking for you. Always asking where you are; you suppose asking because they want to know when you'll join them in the land of the dead, so that they may finally find you. 

 

This is for the best. You've never done well with people; making your  own way, it's how you've lived for a long, long time. And Furiosa is strong, as are the others. They can... They'll make it, even if it seems like a lot to handle. They've got to. Hello? Hello? Max? You furrow your brow, glancing behind you — you always think that it's not real, but there are always those seeds of doubt; is it real this time? Or now? It feels so real. You can't distinguish their voices from the true sounds of the wind over the dunes. It's impossible to tell, and when the girl appears in front of you and throws her hand at your face, you flinch back. Your hand moves to your forehead. 

 

You're not really sure why. 

 

But the moment has passed, and the girl is gone again, leaving you for just a moment within your own thoughts. She reappears in the distance, walking along the sand without a care in the world. You think she looks better that way, than the sometimes menacing face she is in the darker moments of your fragmented mind. She asks you to follow, and you do — because you have an idea, a way of getting home, of having a happy ending for once. Or as close to happy as anyone in this place can ever get. 

 

You have to get them home. Without delay, you mount your motorcycle and speed off toward the hallucination of the girl, not surprised at all when she disappears like a mirage in front of your eyes. She's not what you're driving for; the specks in the distance... that's your goal, and your mind is finally clear enough for a little while that you can focus on everything but your past mistakes.

***

(Harry)

You're very quick to do the girls a favor and remove Immortem Joe's hulking corpse from the driver's seat. He's heavy and your limbs scream in protest, but it's for the best to hurry up and empty that driving space, to let one of the Vuvalini take it over and get them home. Well — not... your home. You're well-aware you don't have a home, and that will likely never change. It wouldn't feel right, anyway. You're a scavenger; you live in the wasteland because you deserve to be there, among the wretched crows and the scorpions. You've learned how to make it. Or fake it until you make it, anyway.

 

Dropping Joe's corpse on the hood, a wave of pride hits you that you're not expecting. Not that you're particularly proud of yourself; waging a near-losing battle isn't new to you. But there's still saliva on the side of Joe's face from where Toast had spat on him, blood dribbling from the jaw and flesh ripped apart by Furiosa. They'd all done well. Really well, and as someone who has thrived as best you can, you can't help but feel respect for their struggle. It was something earned — something Joe will never have. Not after turning you into a living blood bag, not after chasing them down and hunting after the girls like a parasite seeking out the limb it slipped off of. 

 

You cover his face and tie him down, watching the sheet stain with blood and feeling like this was far more than the man had deserved. Their so-called God was dead. Who would carry them to that shiny chrome eternity now? You quietly imagine Nux as a ferryman to something bigger and better, just for a fleeting moment, and then the Wives' worried voices take your attention.

 

They have to go back.  

 

"To their home," you mumble, your knees crackling as you rise to stand on the hot, shining hood of the vehicle. You're more than willing to see the end of this story, for a change.

***

(Nami)

 

You look down at Furiosa's waxen, pale face, one of your hands pressing her cheek — tentatively, just a few pads of your fingertips, because you're not sure if you remember how to help anyone but yourself. Her breaths are laborious, the sound a wheezing that makes your blood run cold. "Why is she making that noise?" Cheedo says nervously, but you don't look at her. You stare at Furiosa, at least until one of the Vuvalini answer the question: air into the chest cavity. Collapsing her lungs, one breath at a time. All common sense says that she'll be dead soon; all common sense that you've acquired over the years tells you she doesn't have a chance in hell, and you're better off letting her drift away. It's not always the worst alternative. 

 

But you scramble for supplies, finding what you need: a knife. It's sharp enough and it'll do, it'll help keep her breathing, keep her from drowning herself. You steady the tip of it over the side of Furiosa's ribs, familiar with the process. Intimately so, from long since passed, before you'd completely lost your mind. "I am so sorry," you say, as jam the blade in deep enough. In your peripheral, Cheedo hunkers down, eyes wet with tears. Capable is not far from the same. You order the old woman to help with the wound, relieved by the more stable breaths that filter from the Imperator. There we go. There we go, good. Good, Furiosa, you think. She finally looks at you  with clarity in her eyes, and you think as well: she can't die here like this. 

 

You have to find your redemption, save her at least. You have to. You can't have another girl, another woman, to haunt your mind.

 

Of course, it's more than redemption and safeguarding what precious sanity you have left; you don't want her to die. 

 

"Hey," you drawl, voice surprisingly soft. Softer than you remember being able to sound. "Hey..." She's trying to say something, as you slip your hands behind her head to rest against her neck in a way you can only hope is supportive. I'm here, you think. You almost wish you didn't want to be, that you could just let it go, let her rest. But not today. Today is their victory. She can't die now. You're inches from her beaten face, as she whispers to you. Home. Get them home, you think she says. And then she falls limp in your arms.

 

"No," you say, searching her for a sign of hope. Hope is a mistake. But you look for it regardless. Just for today. "No, no no no — no."

 

This is where the death happens. You can't stop it, you can't fight it, you can only watch. But you're seeking out the needle, the tubing — you can fix this. You're a bloodbag, after all, and you have just enough to keep her going. Universal donor. You has Dag set the needle as you plunge the other carefully into your vein, letting the blood flow through from your arm to hers. This is the gift of life, blood. You understand now. This is what you can do. You search her face, and you hope. And you hope. And you give her something you never want to give anyone ever again — something to remember you by, a piece of you that you had left to the desert and your own wildly turbulent mind.

 

"Max," you tell her, thumbing her cheek, feeling the swelling under your palms, waiting for your own redemption, for her sake. "My name is Max. That's my name."
 

HALLUCINATIONS / NIGHTMARE FLASHES:

Any of the following can be seen in sudden violent flashes while asleep, or while awake.

Just as a note, Max's face or voice will not be present in these, save for potential ragged breathing during the nightmares.

Often they will be either started with the sound of many, many voices whispering over each other, so much so that it's hard to distinguish who is saying what. Oftentimes, though, they will hear and notice the little girl very often in the imagery and voices — some may be able to pick out different quotes, like those listed below. And also, if one would like to experience any of them during their characters being awake, they're more than welcome to hallucinate the image of a rather intimidating little girl, or angry, unnamed figures storming them. All up to how you wanna roll with it!! Essentially, your character will likely feel they're going a little crazy for a brief moment.



.... Also, the images below are 2spooky. Just wanted to have some kind of warning thing. Cool.

Potential quotes a character may hear, whether in dreams or in auditory leaks while awake:

"Where are you, Max?"
"You promised us!!"
"You let us die—"
"Max, is that you??"
"Come on!"
"Run Max, run!!"
"Angharad!!"
"Turn the rig around!"
"What do I call you?"
"Why didn't you help us?"
"Save us!!"
"Save us, Max—"