I loved Fury Road and I am weak.
Hawke/Fenris, Fury Road AU, 2500 words. Soundtrack.
He comes back six months later with a knife that’s not his,
in a car that’s not his, with a veritable armament in his backseat. The Citadel
is not as he remembers it—greener, already, grass spilling down over the
mountain’s sides, a soft moss creeping along the edges of the earth—but the
shouts and whistles as he approaches are the same even if the paint is
different. No white ghosts for them now, not anymore; blood instead, and red
paint, vivid violent slashes across every nose he sees.
He cocks the shotgun in his lap. Fair enough.
They’re not violent, though, even as they pound fists on his
hood and bellow meaningless phrases as he draws closer to the Citadel’s heart.
The chained platform hangs at half-mast now, spikes relocated to the outer
walls, and he can’t help rolling his head on his shoulders as he throws the
beaten DeVille into park and cuts the engine. The tattoos pull a bit, as
always, and the newer cut on his shoulder blade twinges as he straightens, but
that’s an easy thing to ignore when the crowd is parting around his car like
sand opening at the edge of a pit.
He stretches again, steps out of the car, slams the door
closed behind him. The shotgun’s in easy view, as is the semi-auto pistol at
his hip and his hair too white to be anyone else. The half-lives
haven’t lived long enough to go grey in decades.
“Hey,” she says.