eumenis | PSL post (for datbackstory)

PSL post (for datbackstory)

Even after Immortan Joe is dead and the Citadel won, they all know Gastown will be a problem. The lack of leadership from the People Eater doesn't make much difference; he was never a war leader so much as a businessman. The ranks of Gastown boys, flamers and polecats, are decimated, but guzzoline draws all sorts of desperates. Where trained soldiers are lacking, mercenaries are easily obtainable. All it would take is one charismatic leader to fill the power vacuum, and they would have the might of a very large city coming at them.

Of course, Furiosa and the Sisters have faced terrible odds already and come out better than they had any right to. She dares to hope even if the worst happened, they could survive and win. But if they can head off trouble at the pass, they should make the attempt. As the only one of them that's ever actually been to Gastown before, Furiosa is the only sensible choice for diplomatic effort. She's not much of a diplomat when it comes down to it. She can talk down a frightened feral, evidently, but diplomacy requires more patience than that.

Still, after several days of meetings in the city--some of them more like physical sparring matches than discussions--she thinks things are going well, and feels like she can breathe again. She slips away from the half-dozen war boys she's brought along as an entourage, and goes walking in the quieter alleys, the hovels on the edge of the marl pits. Half of them are being swallowed by sinkholes, and the rest are foul, but she won't be attacked here. The population is too sparse this far out.

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It also didn't help that without Gastown as an ally, guzzoline would be a much more tenuous commodity. And while the Citadel was impressively self-sufficient in some ways, they still needed things, important things that couldn't be found within it's stone catacombs. And with just how entrenched the People Eater had been as an entity, those who might take the power he left were understandably wary to be the first to move on the empty throne, just in case the stories of what happened were just that. Stories. Which worked in Furiosa's favor in some ways, though it did mean that whoever they managed to get to take the place on would have no end of trouble from the long-game players who hadn't yet tipped their hands.

But down in the slums and alleys, none of the power plays mattered much. Just the poor bastards scrabbling out a living as best they could, carefully avoiding looking too close at the woman if they had to pass her, otherwise all but melting away to other passages or buildings. Not wanting to risk her deciding that she was offended at them for whatever reason.

It was almost impossible to miss the sudden wide gap in ramshackle hovels and piles of scrap, a sturdy-looking door set into a wall, like it had been given a wide berth by all who lived in the area. Not entirely unusual in any sense, there were plenty of places like this in the area that led to old tunnels or rooms, many picked clean, or collapsed from years of neglect. Some didn't open at all anymore, sand miring the workings of the latch to leave them all but cemented shut.

But it wasn't usual for them to have the Immortan's brand engraved in the metal over the handle.

If Furiosa were inclined to try the door, she'd find with effort it did open, leading to a dark hallway that was neither picked clean nor nearly as dusty as it should be if it were an abandoned place. The fact that nothing had been taken spoke volumes to the fact that there had been dire consequences for going inside. Just visible in the harsh daylight from outside was another door at the back of the hallway, this one just as heavy as the entry door from the looks of things.

One of these days, Furiosa plans to work on finding them other energy sources. She's heard rumors of methane and bio-fuels being used elsewhere in the Wasteland. They might be just that--rumors and wishful thinking--but sometimes survival requires trying ridiculous things. Things like trying to take on three war parties with one Rig, a dying war boy, a handful of determined women, and a half-crazy feral. And, hell, that worked out.

Right now, she's still thinking over her strategy. Who to back here, who to push out of the way. Assassination is a possibility if worst comes to worst, but she's still trying to keep her promise to Angharad, out of guilt and sentiment, perhaps: no unnecessary killing. It's just so hard to know what is and isn't necessary, sometimes.

The massive size of Gastown does mean that there are a number of caches and dungeons and hiding places around, so Furiosa is not entirely surprised to see the door in the wall. The symbol makes her pause, though, back of her neck tingling as if the brand that still sits there is reacting to the proximity of the other image. She rolls her shoulders irritably and tugs at the door lightly with her right hand.

When that doesn't budge it, she switches to the left, slightly reckless with misdirected anger. But who will stop her, anyway, and if something within did belong to Immortan Joe, she killed him fair and square and has a right to claim it if she wants to. The pull and twist of her reforged metal arm succeeds in popping the door, and she glances around, checking for onlookers, then placing her hand over the pistol holstered at her hip before she goes in.

She makes a small circuit of the hallway, checking for signs or traps, then eyes the second door and taps it with her metal fist, which makes for a fairly impressive thump-clang.

Seems like Furiosa's 1-0 on ridiculous things so far, might as well continue the streak.

No traps in the dim little hallway, no sign of threats other than that looming metal door that looks even more sturdy than the last one, though in much better condition for being shut away from the elements and sand. It wasn't even locked, and in fact when Furiosa tapped it, it pushed in a half an inch before catching on the half-opened latch.

Not that the Spine had any idea what might be out there at this point. He'd spent a long, long time chained in the middle of the room, only his captor's careful management of water rations keeping him from having the power to break free. He'd tried it once before, gotten a good way out but unfortunately his boiler ran dry before his pursuer's patience and he'd woken again in the room that was his impromptu prison. And he knew what was wanted to give him freedom, it hadn't changed since the first time he'd woken up in this miserable place, but he would be dismantled for parts before he gave in, he decided that the first time he laid eyes on the man they'd called Immortan.

And so he'd been left, with only the regular visits from an old mechanic called Bolts to mark the passage of time, the small rations of water to keep him functioning but not enough to give him the strength to break free again. The occasional visit from the Immortan himself, during which The Spine simply said nothing to him, staring stubbornly as he noted the illness that was clawing it's way through the man further with each visit.

But then suddenly there was nothing. No visits, no mechanic, and for the first time that dull worry that was his constant companion flared up a bit more. That he'd been forgotten. Did anyone other than Joe and his mechanic know about him? Had Bolts finally died? If so, it was just a matter of if Joe realized before the bot's condition deteriorated without that skilled hand keeping him functional. He was already low on water as it was, by the time he heard that thumping at the door there was little more than sputtering steam from vents.

"...Bolts? That you?" Feeling a small bit of relief that he'd not realized he could at this point- if he broke down there was a risk to everyone in the area, including the poor folk just trying to scratch out a living in the misery that the world had become. They didn't deserve that kind of death. As it was he lifted his gaze, expecting to see the elderly mechanic come in, complaining as usual about the doors and everything else around him. And if not, well that deep baritone certainly had scared away those bolder scavengers before if that was what was lurking.

Weakened or not he'd certainly not look it, chained in the middle of the room as he was, the ends of the chains bolted to the floor around him, keeping him pinned on his knees. Even so it was clear that he was tall, the sharp green glow of optics and that dulled glint of metal illustrating that what Furiosa found in that room was certainly not human.

Is that like believing six impossible things before breakfast? She might be running behind.

Speaking of impossible things, she has a hard time understanding how this place could remain unlocked, unplundered, and so clean within. Even with the Immortan's sigil as a warning on the door, she's impressed no one has dared to take shelter within during storms or on cold desert nights. Or at least, if they have, they never left any debris, nor, as far as she can tell in dim light, the sign of scorch marks from fires.

It makes her wonder whether the fear of Immortan Joe was the only thing keeping people away, or if they might also have feared whatever is locked within. When she sees the door move, visibly unlocked and accessible, she actually hesitates. She's long been known for boldness, but might it be just a little too reckless to investigate without backup from her men?

What changes her mind is the sound of the voice calling from within, because that means there's a person there, possibly a prisoner, and if there's no one attending him since the coup...well, dying of thirst or hunger is an ugly way to go. Frowning, she pushes through the door, ready to draw her gun if need be.

"No, that's not my name," she says by way of introduction, and then freezes.

Glowing is bad. Glowing is all too often an indication of radioactivity in the Wasteland, or some other kind of toxicity. Nuclear poison is one death strength and tenacity can't contend with, she knows, and for a moment she's tempted to simply leave. Except he's chained, and whether he's a human or not, he seems to be a person, and evidently a former prisoner of Joe's. We are not things.

She looks him up and down, steps a little closer, and pauses well out of arm's reach. "You're...unexpected."

Which is her terse way of wondering what in the name of V8 are you?

Something like that.

He couldn't help the surprised huff of steam at the sight of the strange woman, expression turning wary. What was she doing here? His gaze skipped over her quickly, taking in her general appearance, the easy way she carried herself, the metal arm. Was she a new mechanic or some scavenger unafraid of what she'd find in one of Immortan Joe's caches?

Luckily for Furiosa, that glow was simply light, nothing radioactive or toxic there. As it was, he seemed almost hesitant to speak up again for a moment, trying to suss out what was happening. Unexpected. That meant she wasn't instructed to be there. She'd know what she was looking for if that were the case.

"Well to be fair, neither are you." He said finally, frame creaking slightly as he shifted, a flash of a grimace flickering over his metal face at the uncomfortable sticking to his joints. It had been some time since Bolts had come through, and without the maintenance of joints, the discomfort of his position was becoming a bit more pointed.

"What's your name then?"

She doesn't move like a scavenger, or even quite like a blackthumb. She stands like a soldier, spine straight, shoulders back, and she holds her metal arm angled before her body, like a shield or weapon. Nowadays, Furiosa doesn't bother with the Imperator grease paint, so her face is clean of anything save dust, but she has a black scarf. That alone is a signal of rank in the Citadel, though she's not sure if the symbol is carried over into Gastown. The People Eater had different protocols.

A wry smile flickers over her face at the observation. She's never been told she's unexpected before, but somehow she suspects a lot of people have wanted to say as much.

"Furiosa." She answers simply, circling around him now to try and get as good a look at him as she can. "Formerly Imperator of the Citadel. And you...would have been placed here by Immortan Joe? Good news: he's dead."

The bot just peered at her a moment at the news, wondering if it were a trap of some form before he just shook his head with a wry snort.

"I can't say I'm saddened by the news." It couldn't have happened to a more deserving person in his opinion, as much weight as it carried nowadays. In the world before he might be considered a 'thing', but at least his family saw otherwise. Here, he didn't have that luxury especially when those in power often saw other human beings as mere things as well.

"Well then it's good to meet you. I'm The Spine." Settling back slightly as he looked thoughtful a moment, brow furrowing slightly. "Can't help but wonder what happens to me now though. Know why he kept me around, question is what sort of person took over."

She's made a full circle before she stops in front of him again, satisfied he's well and truly tethered and not holding any weapons. It's easy to see why Immortan Joe would want this being kept either in his control or out of sight. In prime condition and shined up, he probably looks like an avatar of V8 Itself. The part of her that is a trained mechanic and revhead dearly wonders about how he's made. The rest of her is more interested in what he's saying, and for the moment that takes precedence.

"This place is still in contention for a leader. The Citadel has a Council now, run by people from several different ranks and levels, and headed by the Sisters. I'm here representing them. So...for all intents and purposes, you're looking at the sort of person who took over."

She pulls the canteen off her belt and checks the weight of it in her hands. "Do you need water? I'll have to go back to the Rig for boltcutters."

"Well... sounds better than what there was." He responded, feeling better for her coming back around his front. In top shape he certainly would cut an impressive figure, but now scruffy and dented from captivity he looked a bit less so.

"If I have a full boiler I could probably pop the bolts myself. Doesn't have to be the drinking water, just can't be salt water." He knew how precious potable water was; it was simpler to just clean his filters out a bit more often, save the drinkable water for others, but the salt water just... did nothing good for his internals either way.

"About a half-gallon'd probably be enough to manage it." No, he didn't want out of those chains at the chance what gave Furiosa that idea?

"It doesn't take much to be better than what there was," she tells him, not because she's trying to manage his expectations; she's simply being honest. But if the discussion were to get more detailed, she would have a lot to say about the Sisters and Council, and most of it would be positive.

"Boiler," she repeats, quietly, and reflecting on the implications briefly. Not a combustion engine, but something in him is making that glow, presumably. Before she exposes her war boys to him for long, she'd like to get a Geiger counter close enough to check him, but that may not be feasible. "Hmm. I have a full canteen, but I doubt it's quite a half-gallon."

She's getting the impression he doesn't want her to just leave him there, though, and that makes plenty of sense if he's been stuck a while. They have enough aqua-cola with them that she can spare this much potable water. Wash-water would require another trip out of the building to search, and she's not without compassion. "We can try it, anyway."

Approaching, she offers the bottle, eyes narrowed. "I don't keep slaves, and I'll play you fair, but if you turn on me, you will wish you hadn't."

That's all the warning she feels the need to give at the moment. He seems remarkably calm and friendly for a captive, metal man or otherwise.

"Can't argue with that, startin' at rock bottom there's only one way to go."

The optics were thankfully nothing to worry about, but the glow visible past that tattered shirt he was wearing might be something else, the blue glow swirling slightly. But thankfully nothing dangerous- his creator had made sure that everything was well-shielded after all.

"I run on steam mostly." Might as well be straight with her, he'd get nowhere fast being cagey if he needed to rely on her for repairs. At her warning though he seemed to relax a bit and nodded.

"Don't intend on turnin' on anyone." Accepting the bottle; he had just enough range with his chains to be able to pop the cap and drink, taking it slow. It had been awhile since he'd been offered more than bare minimum to stay functional, so he was wary of their being any holes or leaks. Luckily it seemed everything was in good shape, so soon enough the steam from vents was much less sparse, and he looked much more alert as well.

"Here, you're gonna want to back up, don't need to clock you with a bolt if I do manage this." If not he'd have to wait for her boltcutter, but he figured he had enough energy back to manage the simple bolts as it was.

There's a subtle tension to her, up close. It's not so much fear as a constant, inescapable awareness of risk and focus on survival. It's rare for her to be truly relaxed, and in this place with a stranger, it's unlikely to happen. She seems disinclined to lash out, though, whether because she's decided her's trustworthy or she just figures hitting him would hurt her more than him.

Either way, she's glad he doesn't plan to turn on her. She watches him drink for a moment with mild, analytical curiosity. Drinking, yet the water must be going from mouth to boiler...the line between man and machine seems suddenly terribly blurry.

What on earth are her war boys going to think?

She smirks and takes her canteen back, nodding. "I would prefer to avoid that, too. Sounds painful. But don't hurt yourself, you hear? I do have boltcutters, if we need them."

She backs all the way to the doorway to give him space.

The gaze on him was unsurprising, even after the world went to hell he was an oddity, he knew that much, had gotten used to curious and suspicious stares long ago. As it was he just nodded in response, waiting patiently for her to get back far enough that he was assured he wouldn't accidentally hit her should a bolt shear or a chain snap.

"Takes a bit more than this to hurt me, luckily." He replied, shifting hands to get a better grasp on the chains, close to where they were bolted down. If he could get them to give even a little he could unwind himself from the whole mess, nice and simple. Putting his weight into it he pulled, and soon enough with a groan and rip of metal the bolts were dragged out of the metal flooring along with the chains, sending him back onto his behind with a metallic clunk and a startled noise.

He's going to get some more curious and suspicious stares before long. Maybe open-mouthed awe, too.

She has her prosthetic arm up as he pulls, to act as a shield to her head and face, but angled so she can peer through the struts. She's gauging the weight of the chains, the force he must be exerting, and damn but that's impressive, even frightening.

She wasn't expecting him to fall, though, and that ruins the effect slightly, to the point where she gives a little snuffling snort of amusement, then ducks as a piece of metal goes ping! and ricochets off the wall nearby.

"...well. That worked. You good?" She comes back toward him again, reaching for the end of a chain to help him get untangled.

The awe he could do without.

If she thought that was impressive, just wait until he has a reason to exert his full strength someday. As it was, he gave himself a sheepish shake, carefully pulling loosened chains off of himself with Furiosa's assistance, grateful she hadn't just outright laughed at him.

"Aside from the ding to my pride, yeah." He responded, mindful of where she was as he was pushing to his feet. Taking it slowly, paying attention to the shifting of servos and gears for signs of trouble but thankfully Bolt's maintenance had kept him in decent shape, and soon enough he was standing at his full seven feet, peering over at Furiosa.

"Thanks for the help."

He’s taller than Rictus, if not nearly broad in the shoulder. Probably far heavier, too, given the metal construction, and when he stands up she has a very solid sense of the difference in size and strength between him and her. For all that, though, she’s good at reading body language, and his is very human, except that here’s no aggression there, no attempt to intimidate her. She notes he’s taking care not to step on her as he stands, too.

A huge masculine-shaped metal person should put her more on the defensive, but she feels as much at ease as she ever does in Gastown. That says something. She’s not sure what, yet, but she’s willing to trust her intuition. “Pride heals pretty quickly, in my experience,” she tells him. “Hold still a minute, let me get the chains out of the way so you don’t get caught up again.”

She’s guessing he’s a little weak. A human chained for as long as he must have been would probably be unable to stand, and even a V8 that hasn’t been run properly for a while needs time to warm up. She circles around him matter-of-factly, tugging and kicking the chains and loose stone and metal out of the way. “And you’re welcome. I guess you have a choice now. You can come with me, stay in Gastown, or go exploring. I think you’d better at least let me top off your boiler before you go walking off on your own, but that’s your call. Do you need…oil or anything?”

Awkward. It feels almost too personal to ask him about his inner workings like that, but also necessary. “I’d love to know what the old schlanger wanted out of you that he kept you this long, but that’s probably an ugly story.”

She doesn't need to know so badly she won't give him an out. Not this time.

In fact he was doing the exact opposite. Trying to appear less tall and imposing, seeming aware of how intimidating he could be simply by existing and trying to mitigate it through whatever means necessary. Appreciative of her consideration; while he was doing much better for more water, he was still a bit unsteady on his feet yet; balance sensors re-calibrating on the fly after so long kept down. Stepping away from the mess once Furiosa had finished clearing his way, tilting his head thoughtfully with a small puff of steam from between his lips in a facsimile of a sigh.

"Can't say I know what I want to do yet... but that can be worried about later. As far as fluids go, I should be okay on oil but it never hurts to check. That and filters, I was about due for that check when Bolts went MIA." There were crueler ways to talk about inner workings and to be fair he needed to be frank about them if he was going to get what assistance he might need. Either way he appreciated the fact that she'd left it up to him instead of just deciding it needed doing.

"Not as ugly as it could be from what I know about him. Mostly a case of 'if I can't have it no-one can' topped with a egocentric certainty that I'd come around to his way of thinking." Likely not even realizing he'd referred to himself as an object even in that casual sense- it was an issue that without family around to correct him on, he would often slip back into. Plenty of issues there even before Joe had gotten his hands on the bot.

It wasn't the first time military men had laid claim to him after all.

Furiosa is used to evaluating war boys based on attitudes, speech and body language. At first, it was to vet them as potentials for her own crew. These days she's always double and triple checking before she lets them get too close to the Council. The Sisters are tough, probably tougher than anyone knows, but all it takes is one angry bullet...

Well. Regardless, she's watching the Spine for similar reasons, and pleased with what she sees so far. Big men who are aware of how imposing they are and save the gift for when it's needed are few and far between.

"Filters? Hm." Makes sense, but she rubs the back of her neck awkwardly, moving off. "If you need tools, I can see if we have them...but I don't know any 'Bolts'. I'm probably the best blackthumb on the crew I've got with me." They're good men and women, courageous and loyal, but they're young and not very experienced with war or machinery.

"And nice vocabulary use." She smirks faintly and heads slowly for the door. Egocentric...she could think of harsher words for the man, but maybe understatement is a more appropriate legacy for him, considering how he made himself out to be a god.

"Why don't you follow me for now, then? No tricks, no strings attached. We'll see what I can do for you until you decide where you're headed."

That gift was one he was happy never sharing if he got his way. Vow of peace or not, he still didn't like when people responded to his presence with fear.

"Most of my function is pretty simplistic in design thankfully... can do some repairs myself but definitely will need help with others." Aside from a few more advanced features, he'd last had a complete overhaul in the 50's so luckily everything was basic. Gears and pistons and hydraulics. The more complicated stuff was better left alone, didn't need to be touched so long as he didn't get too badly injured that was.

"Gotta make use of that thesaurus I read where I can." Not forgotten, never forget mistakes lest they be repeated, but told like he was. A horrible man who did horrible things and ultimately paid the price for it. Content to let Furiosa take the lead as he was feeling steadier for the movement, paying more attention to his internals for the time being, making sure nothing was pulling or resisting, that everything felt as it should. Better to be aware of any warning signs of problems from being chained up so long before they became serious after all.

"That sounds just fine to me, definitely appreciated."

Gears and pistons and hydraulics she can handle. She can't help but wonder, though, if it's uncomfortable or even painful to have bits worked on like that. Like going to see a redthumb. Does a metal man feel physical pain? It might be kinder if he didn't, under the circumstances.

She hesitates briefly, then gathers and winds a length of the chain to take with her before going. She'll send a war boy back for the rest. It's good, solid metal, and good scrap is not to be wasted. Just because she has no intention of claiming the Spine as a possession doesn't mean she won't take charge of legitimately inanimate objects around his prison. Slinging the chain over her right shoulder, she nods toward the door and leads him out. "So. As I said, Immortan Joe is dead. So is the People Eater and the Bullet Farmer. There's a little...mm, discussion going on about who will be running Gastown from here on out. If you stick with us, we'll give you a ride, but if not, you better keep your ear to the ground in case you have to make a quick exit."

She's leading him more or less exactly back the way she came. It's dusk now, and the smell of ozone and diesel is heavy in the cooling air. The streets are quiet for the moment, save for the occasional stray rat.

Luckily there are procedures in place, ways to cut down on sensation before repairs so that pain isn't something to be concerned about. Not that he'll worry about that until they settle somewhere to get that work done. For now he's focused more on the area that they're walking through. Keeping an eye on things as he listened to her commentary with a small nod.

"Probably best if I stick with you. Can decide if I want to set out on my own once I've got a better idea of what's been going on." He hadn't been out of stasis long before captured by Joe, long after everything had gone to hell though. Disconcerting if he was honest. Some time somewhere safe to get an idea of what he'd missed? He'd certainly take it.

"Don't mind helping out either." Paying his way not wanting to be a burden when he knew things were hard, and just generally wanting to be helpful.

She nods, turning down a better-lit street. Gastown alleys are lit with lanterns, not electricity. It makes for smoky, heavy air, but there is light enough to see the uneven road by. "You must...have existed before the old world fell."

Because she can't imagine how anyone now would have the equipment, knowledge, or technology to create a being like him. "Do you remember it?"

That's a vague-as-hell question and she knows it, but she wants to see what knowledge he does have. Anything from science to poetry would be valuable. They have old books at the Citadel, but their History Woman is gone. Maybe not all of the old world is worth preserving, but some of it must be.

He couldn't help but smile faintly at the comment, nodding in response. It was easy enough to see here for him, the light more than enough for him to see the way.

"I was built in 1896, as a matter of fact." He wasn't surprised by the question; even if he wasn't technically allowed, Bolts had talked with him while he worked, asked questions in a way that made it obvious that whatever information there was? Was hard to come by, scattered. "Aside from a few blank spots here and there I remember all of it. Liked to read, remember all of that too." A soft chuckle, giving a light tap against the side of his forehead. "Photographic memory comes in handy like that."

She looks up at him (And damn it, that's going to take some getting used to. She matches most war boys for height within a few inches...), brows knit thoughtfully as she tries to parse what she knows of history. Her time is measured in seasons from the founding of the Green Place, and days from the founding of Joe's Citadel, and moon cycles from the end of the Road War. None of that really helps her equate '1896' to today, or figure out how long ago it really was. But she's guessing several human lifetimes. That's impressive enough to go on.

It also firms up her opinion that for all his charisma and savvy, Joe was a fool more often than not. The amount of knowledge the Spine must have is staggering. "Anything you can share with is would be appreciated," she says, and hopefully manages not to sound too eager.

"Not right out here, though. The Rig is parked just inside the bridge gate. We can--"

She pauses at the sound of running feet, distinct in the quiet street, and puts her hand on the holstered gun at her hip. It's a needless precaution, though, because the man running toward them is one of her own crew. He staggers to a halt when he sees her, waving frantically and out of breath. "Boss! Boss, there's somethin' you need to see..."

He'd be happy to clarify once he knew just how things were tracked, how the passing of time was measured by folks now.

"No good having all this info if I don't share it." He replied helpfully, an assurance that he was happy to share what he knew. She'd saved him from languishing in that room to possibly die; while it had been chance and perhaps not hard for her, he certainly wanted to repay her in some way that was as close to as meaningful as he could manage.

Hearing the running approaching them though he straightened, not to be intimidating but simply to be alert, optics brightening as he focused on the figure running their way once the man was in view. Armed, but no weapons in hand, clearly alarmed by something, the guess confirmed by his exclamations when he came to a stop. For now? Spine would be quiet, let Furiosa deal with the situation without him butting in.

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