jumpscares | SWIM INSIDE THE SOLAR SEAS [open]

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SWIM INSIDE THE SOLAR SEAS [open]

▶ WHO: Nux + OTA, will match style
▶ DATE: directly after getting rewards
▶ WARNINGS: probably none
▶ SUMMARY: Nux got a flamethrower. He's using it immediately.

a) "BURN SOME OF THOSE FUCKERS"

There's a god. There's some kind of god, must be, since they left him a gift. It's as dangerous as it looks when he lifts it, stands on top of a lone vehicle not far outside the compound and sets fire to a small approaching horde. Those aren't real people. Not real heroes, not ones he could talk to and learn from. Target practice. Ain't got feelings so Nux doesn't hold back as he blasts small infernos their way. Makes him think of Coma-Doof but this fire-gun is even bigger, even stronger! It's a rush he hasn't experienced since his first few days in this mysterious land.

No more Immortan to die for and grovel under but Nux knows nothing but the cult he was raised by. So he screams a chant, one he'd heard plenty of times on the Fury Road as the Wagon led the charge:

"Roasting flame, scorch the earth, sky and wind alike! Immolate! Immolate!"

Whoever might approach this loud, somewhat blinding scene best do so cautiously - no telling what a War Boy pumped full of adrenaline and handling a deadly weapon might do on reflex.

b) PREFERRING THE LESSER PSYCHO

At some point there's no more fuel left. Atop a bed he sits and it's the most comfortable bed he's ever known. Soft and warm and safe. This is the one he was shown by Silent Bullet Man and he's curled around the flamethrower like a snake with limbs as he counts his scrap. A raided television set rests up by the pillow and he's sorting the parts pulled out of it for the tenth time over, piling like pieces together and making a note of how many he has. He'll forget soon enough, so he has to do this often.

Periodically Nux coughs, ugly croaking noises that wrack his chest. Then he'll scratch the lumps on his neck. It's their fault. Always Larry and Barry's fault, making him sound sickly. They're even chewier when he's been active like today, but it's fine since he's calm now. Calm and sitting and counting. Nothing he can't deal with, even if his hacking's loud enough to bark out through the open door and into the hallways. If not that, the acrid smell of burnt metal’s strong enough to fill the air just the same.

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It's the commotion that draws the boy, the plumes of smoke, the dry voices raised in hunger, but the meat they want is standing where they can't reach. He watches from the wall for a while. Curiosity draws him closer—curiosity and the riddle of the fire. It's quiet in a way it shouldn't be. How is he doing it? What's that in his hands?

Roasting flame, scorch the earth, sky and wind alike!

All things considered, this fellow seems like he's having a good time. Maybe he'll wait to ask. Maybe the chant could use another verse in the meantime!

"Burning blaze, blackened bones... sizzling, sloughing, scent of smoke to fill the space inside, belonging's burrow empty. So he digs deeper."

Er... it was a fair start, anyway. At least he didn't shout the entire thing. Also, he is now sitting inside the car, where a passenger is meant to be. No footsteps, no door slamming, he's just there, incongruously large hat and all.

In a rush of newfound pyromania and his own excitement he doesn't notice the stranger until they appear in the car and there's a shift of weight under him; feels like someone's jumped in. A finger twists the flamethrower off and Nux drops to his knees, weapon in one hand as he peers upside-down through the windshield.

The target-practices are busy burning and melting into ash. Nux is more fixated on the intruder. Pays no mind as he plasters a clammy hand on the glass, then knocks.

"--ey, who's that?" Unless they were hiding in the backseat, Nux is sure this person(?) wasn't there when he drove his way out.

The might-be-a-person who almost certainly didn't stow away in the back appears to be a young man, quite lean and pale, with wide, honest eyes. He tilts his head, and his shoulders too, and it's not nearly upside-down like the scarred face past the glass, but... close enough. Surely he'll appreciate the gesture.

"It's me. Cole." The obvious answer, without a trace of condescension. "I came to hear your fire, but it wasn't singing. Where does it come from?"

Cole? He's thinking: Coal.

Nux rises, tromps down the hood and hops off. Isn't bothered by the groaning remains of what he just torched as he makes his way around to the driver's side. Opens the door and slides in flamethrower-first, shoving the bulky weapon into the space between both seats. Then one hand's grabbing the wheel and the other, planting itself on one fuel tank. He feels no fear and only a little bit of nerves: most of the strangers up here just have interesting things to say. Aren't danger.

"It comes from this! Blaster!" Fingers drum against the tank and make a tinny noise. Not an M2, that's for sure! -- so what kind of spectacular weapon is this? "-- Gift from the gods." That's the only explanation. He's starting to smile, knowingly.

Where Coal is from, god and demon and spirit are names for beings of a similar nature, at times used interchangeably, and so the proclamation throws a spark, lights him up. It's not a smile—he smiles very rarely—but an earnest expression nonetheless. Maybe he looks worried. He often looks that way. (He's not leaning anymore, either, just for the record. And the hat is kind of... everywhere.)

His hand moves: a false start, like he's just thought better of touching the thing. The ones who reward with ways to kill are not often named spirits, and gods even less often. "Why?"

What if he looks inside the war boy's head—will he see the reason? Was it an exchange, a bargain born of pain?

Edited 2015-08-06 16:54 (UTC)

Why? Good question. One Nux doesn't know. Snorts in response to such a question not out of mockery so much as something childish and self-congratulating. "-- 'cause I did something that pleased!" Nux's voice is bright and proud of himself in a way that isn't arrogant. Each day, he doubts himself. But then a miracle like this occurs. Something inexplicable! Something that shines and restores all his lost faith. He glances at the flamethrower crooked next to him, splaying fond fingers over what counts for its belly, like it's a pet.

Then he shifts attention just as fast and reaches up to touch the brim of the hat. Grabs it and rubs the material between his fingers without asking because that's just what you did at the Citadel and it was never any different. He focuses on the fabric as long as he's allowed.

"I like your hat." One quick nod. Affirmation. It's a good hat.

"Oh..." That's a relief. Sort of. The answer—the vague wisps of memory, the story Nux tells without knowing—won't mollify that nervous pulling inside him, the feeling he can't name, but at least there's no demon involved. It's a good day when his daggers can stay sleeping.

Then a hand reaches toward him, and his eyes track it, wide and pale behind the shaggy blond fringe. He remains very still, as if a butterfly's just landed on him, or maybe a wasp, he's not sure which. Nux will find the fabric is soft, the brim itself stiff but pliable, prevented from flopping into Cole's line of sight by a leather strap. An armoured cap holds it tight to his head. He's worn this hat through wind and rain and snow and sand; it's weathered, but well cared for too, filthy and polished, scuffed and beloved, in a way Nux might find familiar. Maybe that's why he likes it. (At least someone does.)

"Thank you. Me too." As a hasty afterthought, like he's only just remembered it's polite to repay a compliment: "I-I like your... head."

A hand goes up to run across his scalp, shorn with razors and radiation alike. The visage of the Immortan-- that's what he's got. A brand. It's something a little tainted now, because he thinks about all sorts of things he doesn't want to think about when he's alone and remembering the Citadel. To look the part of a War Boy when you aren't really one anymore, that's weird. Nux doesn't know anything else, so there's a sense of pride when the compliment hits: I like your head. Really, does he? Nux grins wide as acceptance of the comment.

Finally he lets go the hat brim after rolling it through his palm, having sufficiently touched it enough for now. Cole or Coal is quiet and seems uncertain. Nux digs his nearest had into the cup holder as he turns in his seat, grabbing keys and jamming them into the ignition. It's great because he didn't even have to hotwire this magnificent beast, this untouched vehicle of a make he wasn't familiar with and could only guess. Mercedes? Anyway, the keys were already there, and he'd been just as fascinated with how clean and straight they were. No sequences required. Generally War Boys were not given such treasures.

It's shifted to drive but kept braked as he presses a boot on the pedal, making the car growl to life. Swings his head toward Cole with more of that manic smirk; that'd help anyone, wouldn't it? "Guts full of guzzo and ready to go for hours!" Hours, at least hours. Nux is enthralled with all these finds he's had today.

Yes, that's it, the ache that whispered, that came to him on the wall like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Oh, those keys are nice, they sound cheerful! Anyway, the need for belonging can be a challenge, but—

Noise, a kind of growl he's never before heard, suddenly resonating all around them. Nux's voice drags his shocked attention off the window—it sounded so close, impossibly close, it's got to be right on top of them, or it's some new magic he can't hear, or—the other guy is smiling? He's smiling and talking like it's nothing, like it's something good. He's seen that very smirk on warriors before the charge—sometimes before they died.

Guts full of... what? Are they inside the beast? It bellows again, sounding hungry this time, and in purest astonishment Cole cries,

"Your house is alive!"

Not a house but Nux doesn't care enough to correct, his nerves vibrating just like the seat he sits on, the car they're in as he revs it hard, makes it rumble. It's a fine beast for how sleek and pristine it is, this engine, and Nux knows he can push it to its limit. White-knuckled hands grip at the wheel and squeeze all the more in response to Cole's shout, mistaking any sort of fear for excitement. How could you not be?

"Alive!" He agrees, yanking it into drive and accelerating rapidly, no warning, no need-- they start flying in seconds. Nothing in the way and miles of plateau. It's like home, but colder and darker. More seconds and Nux is testing the speedometer, the red needle at the very edge of its allowed gauge. That's a limit that doesn't last long around War Boys.

"-- And so smooth!" Shouting over the roar of one-sixty-miles-per-hour.

Cole gasps urgently as his back bumps the seat, and for a time he's pressed there, frozen in uncomprehending silence. Yes. Smooth. Absolutely, that is the word he'd have chosen. Also: aaaaaaa

But then, Nux's enthusiasm does its part to help. It plants a foot down on the edge of his surprise, keeps it from falling too far into fear, allows dread to ease into wonder. He sees the war boy's hands move the wheel, or push or pull the stick between the seats, his feet pumping down below: it's a machine. It's got wheels and levers and things, like the trebuchets—but alive?

Like Bianca! That's reassuring, sort of. "Ohhh! This isn't your house... it's your friend!"

Still his fingers crush at the edges of his seat, as if he might somehow become dislodged and be flung out into the dirt. Ground racing past, wind all around them, dust and plant matter and flying insects briefly ablaze in the headlights. Inevitably, the spots on the windshield command his attention.

"They can't get out of the way." RIP bugs.

Edited 2015-08-10 01:09 (UTC)

Bugs are nothing. Stuff to eat if he catches one or it lands on him all skittering and dizzy from being blown into something solid but at this speed, they're splats that Nux doesn't even see. His eyes are on the horizon. Like a dog after the unyielding garbage truck, he chases it, never to catch it.

Pedal's getting tapped in quick succession because that gauge is a lie and he knows he can go faster. His new friend(?) isn't screaming or even moving much, and so it must be okay. Even if it wasn't okay Nux wouldn't stop, but the shared excitement only pumps his veins that much harder and his grin widens. He laughs at Cole's comment like it's a funny joke.

"Nothing can! My wheels sweep death across the dunes!" Shouting, joyful about it. Nux banks left at a ninety-degree angle, only slowing down enough that it doesn't immediately flip them over, then keeps onward. He likes how the motion flings him so violently.

Edited 2015-08-10 04:01 (UTC)

Meanwhile, Cole's behatted head has just hit the window, clunk, metal on glass. "Ouch." It didn't really hurt, but that's what you say. He palms the glass belatedly, stays leaned where he is until the ride jostles him elsewhere. If only he knew about seatbelts.

Death across the dunes, and they're racing with a fleet of fanatics, a swarm of bandits like bees defending their queen. They come loud and fast—fast enough to forget the pain when he swallows. Red desert all around. The sky so big and so blue. Dust and smoke and snarling laughter, voices raised above the noise, the sun blazing on silver teeth...

"So shiny— aah—" A sudden bump in the terrain bounces him airborne—only a little, only momentarily—and when he lands it's with a startled sound that trembles into his voice, hinting at laughter. "Oh no... do that again!"

Maybe there are seatbelts but Nux has forgotten them too. Then again, he's the driver and he can anticipate where the vehicle will swing. Feels faster than one-sixty right now but the numbers won't tell him. That's fine. Nux can just tell, been driving so long and no matter how different a car is from the last one you piloted, speed always feels the same.

Shiny. Nux hooks onto that phrase and spares Cole another enthused glance before focusing on the road again. This stranger's speaking his language! He's the first to do so! But he looks nothing like a War Boy save the paleness, the hard-spit name like Coal. He'll have to interrogate him once they stop. Whenever they stop-- if they ever stop.

Small bumps are like hills at this velocity and seeing the response from his passenger, Nux starts scouting for an actual one. Not just a rock or a corpse already extinguished by someone else. The skyline is very flat, but looking in every direction he can, Nux spots an actual ridge curving gently to the south. He eases into the turn this time then basically kicks the pedal as he races for that dune, fully intent on ramping them off it into whatever lies underneath.

This is really something! If you asked him to explain exactly what is going on, he might have trouble doing it—granted, he can't always do that anyway, least of all in a way anyone will understand, but he's fairly sure he likes it. Whatever its name. Being rattled around at high speed like dolls in a box on a dragon's back. But a dragon usually knows where it's headed, it can see for miles and miles, it knows the land and the sky above it. Maybe Nux's friend knows what they're about to see—but maybe it doesn't.

He's about to say something, a word of caution maybe, when the tremendous bump and lurch of the rise rudely interrupts, and before he can squeak out a word they're in the sky above the land. His guts seem to lift inside him, and for one perfect moment the queasy thrill of weightlessness eclipses all concern for whatever may lie ahead...

Seconds suspended in time. For just a split one it feels like they hover, the lack of knowing what lies under the dune exhilarating. Could be death. But they're already dead, so would they die again? Was existence just a string of deaths and reawakenings into something? Nux's thoughts are a spark in his brain for that tiny moment before they slam into the dirt. Hard.

So hard the force propels him from his seat inches into the air, throws him forward and slams his chest into the wheel. The horn blares and the vehicle shudders before Nux forces it onward; he's a ruthless driver, and he screams something ecstatic:

"Conquest!" Was just a meager, medicore hill but it's the most fun he's had in weeks. Now, though, they're in an ocean of plateau with no discernible landmarks save the compound being a speck on the skyline behind them, and the car's solar power can only last so long. Especially when a War Boy's working it. Nux flicks a glance to the fuel gauge, noting it has plummeted. But he hasn't seen any guzzoline around here.

"-- Look around for some juice," he barks at Cole.

The landing is kind of terrible, the aftermath a mess of jostling—oh, the great bang and clatter of falling down to earth. That is familiar. Nux's fast friend trumpets weirdly in victory—then Nux does, too. The ride is frightening, bewildering, but their joy is suffusive and it bubbles up and out of Cole in blurted laughter. He hasn't done much laughing that he can remember. Maybe none.

"It just came out," he says, squirming back into a reasonable position, recovering his hat before it can fall off entirely. Between the two of them, it's gangly legs and arms everywhere in here. "What a nice feeling."

But then—juice? Juice! He can do that. Maybe. The search, based in the passenger seat's immediate vicinity, lasts about four seconds. "I don't see any." They are almost certainly not talking about the same thing. Also, his voice is now vibrating as the tires encounter an abundance of little rocks and scrubby brown clumps littering the path ahead... but there's no time to marvel at that, he's on task. Bumping around in his seat, Cole leans forward, hands planted on frame and console to steady himself, and looks out at the landscape yawning before them. His eyes focus on no place in particular.

Without any warning but the movement itself, one skinny arm thrusts its way into Nux's field of vision, and one pale finger touches the windshield in front of him. "Should we look there?" There, to the left: a dark smudge in the near distance. It's difficult to see, especially at speed, and at this hour (is it twilight, let's say it's twilight), but it's there. There are many distant smudges around here, yes, but this one is different.

Edited (fiddly bits) 2015-08-15 02:51 (UTC)

No juice? No more guzzo-- bad. Nevermind the fact Nux isn't aware this thing is running on the sun. The sun, disappearing over the plains like it's taking a dip under the dirt. That's something Nux has never actually questioned. Why does the sun leave and where does it go? It's crossed his mind but it's something else he's never thought to ask.

Doesn't ask now, either, because he's distracted by a hand in his windshield and a finger pointing at one specific lump of darkness ahead. Nux zeroes in on it. Yes, they should look there-- he nods, a quick motion as he zooms toward it. The zooming is decreasing. It's getting weaker, starting to slow to at least half the searing speed of before and Nux gives the pedal a kick like that'll help before they pull up several yards from the shape.

The Shape is something domed. Bright, if not smeared with filth and torn. What is it? Nux gets out and takes some moments to stare at what he cannot know is a tent before he starts to trudge toward it. Curiosity killed the dog.

It takes Cole a moment to work out exactly how his bald companion freed himself from the vehicle. After not too long a delay, he unfolds himself from the carriage and moves away from it, quiet as a ghost, the door left open behind him. He is well accustomed to camps, at least—and tents, too, although none precisely in this style.

The moment he draws near the site proper, his gentle, earnest voice comes slipping through the silence. "The air bakes, then chills, grit everywhere, something stubborn in my eye. Can't sleep, shouldn't, mustn't, in case the dead come dragging through the dirt. Keep it low, more smoke than flames." Now crouched by the dug-in fire pit, he pushes his finger into the dirty ash left behind, making little prints there just to see them. "Almost out. Too cold, too... empty. I can't do this anymore."

He's becoming accustomed to the average person's need for tl;dr, too, and so adds, "He was here, then he left."

(He has asked that very thing of the sun.)

Nux is lifting the tent as Cole speaks, fingers wrapping around a piece of black frame like an exposed bone. He raises it. It's light and vaguely familiar, too - War Boys have no need for tents; vehicles are safer and more efficient when having to spend the night in the wastes. But he's seen these things scattered in buzzard establishments way out past any sort of civilization. This one here, though - it's colorful! He's smearing away some dirt to expose bright red cut in between black panels.

He turns when Cole nears the fire pit, stares at him like he's preaching gospel. What's he talking about? What does it mean?

"Who left?" is the question since there's too many for all the other words, and Nux is letting the tent fall comically to its side as he leans in. Stares rapt, and listens.

"A man."

Cole has a piece of charcoal in his hand; he's turning it over, pinching it experimentally, looking at what's left behind on his fingertips. Black and grey dust, the same as it is at home. The hat's brim hides his face, his shoulder.

"He was afraid, aggravated, he didn't want to be here. So he went somewhere else."

The two knives strapped to his back are enclosed in leather scabbards, one curved slightly more than the other. The handles are weathered, but fine. The blades are quite long.

A man...

There's a lot of men in the waste but far less knives, especially ones so shiny and sharp. Nux's eyes dart to them when they glint in the dim light, a sheen of white zipping over one of the blades long and quick. Without thinking, he reaches out to them with the intent to grab.

"Can I--" Thinks better halfway through but it's a little late for manners.

Hey now, mister sticky fingers. Cole's on his feet again before Nux's mouth has finished making that last vowel, turning his back away from snatching hands, squaring himself defensively, smooth as water. This benign wisp of a boy can make himself serious, it seems.

"No." It comes out firm. "It isn't safe."

Such a reaction does more to intrigue than deter and Nux's eyes widen, for a second wondering if Cole will use those sharp pointies against him. No, no, just trying to keep them out of his reach.

"Why!" comes the question. Eager and tilting himself to try to get a glimpse of the knives, now hidden behind Cole's back again.

"Don't." He twists away from Nux's stubborn peering, backs off a little more. Shoes scuffing in the dirt. "These daggers are for danger, for protecting people. They... they're special. They belong to my friends."

His stern tone becomes more anxious in the face of such excitable persistence. Will it help to explain why, exactly why? It might—but what if it doesn't? He can't make him forget, not here, miles from anywhere safe, left all alone in the deepening dark... "Please, I don't want them to hurt you."

SWIM INSIDE THE SOLAR SEAS [open]

a. :>

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