Nux (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gonnadiehistoric) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ya_assemble2015-06-01 07:30 pm
gonnadiehistoric) wrote in ya_assemble2015-06-01 07:30 pm
Entry tags:
Witness [tons of spoilers]
Nux wasn't sure he believed in Valhalla anymore. After all, Valhalla was supposed to be the place where Warboys walked eternal with Immortan Joe, where they lived with the heroes of old.
But Nux had learned the truth from the Wives - from Capable. He'd realized how wrong he'd been about Immortan Joe. He'd found better heroes in Furiosa - and even the road warrior, nameless and muttering and mad but willing to help them as best as he could - and even in The Vulvalini, who had been outnumbered but fearless, all of them willing to fight to make a better world out of the mire of despair Joe kept them all in. They had wanted to build and protect and stop wasting those that lived in the Wasteland that was their world.
And the man he thought was his god, his redeemer, had died just like that, died like he was any other man. Nux had already mostly believed the wives - and cared enough about them, about Capable, to silence what doubts he had left. He'd mostly understood everything Joe had done was wrong, but for him to die, hearing Cheedo yell it out, cemented it in his mind with a finality that could not be denied.
Immortan Joe was not immortal. Immortan Joe was not his savior, he was mad lunatic that treated people like things - Nux included. Just a thing to be used, just a thing to fight for him, die for him. It had made it so much easier to die for Capable, for the Wives, for the Vulvalini, for the road warrior and Furiosa. And also for the wretches of Citadel, for the milk mothers, and the War pups, and the Warboys sick and at the end of their half life that deserved a better end than dying for nothing at all.
They would make it better. He believed it. The Wives and Furiosa and the surviving Vulvalini - and the road warrior, if he stayed. They were better than Immortan Joe would ever be. They were hope.
He was hope. That was what he could give the last of his life for, a much better death, a much shinier death than any way he could've died for Immortan Joe.
So, when it was clear he wasn't escaping Rictus, when it was clear the only way to block the pass was to crash it all, he had whispered for Capable to witness him and he had seen her hand move, the gesture of mourning for the Vulvalini, like she was taking him forever into her heart - and what better witness could he ask for than Capable? Then he had wrenched the wheel to the side as hard as he could, felt the war rig veer and lurch and then...and then ...
Then he had wound up here, wherever here was. And he felt so...good. Barry and Larry were there but they weren't chewing at his windpipe and he felt like he'd never have another night fever again. He felt good, like a full life.
That was why Nux wondered if Valhalla had ever been real at all. Because he knew he had to be dead and clearly he was somewhere, somewhere where the sickness in his bones had lost its hold. But there were no gates waiting to open for him, like the grills of a pursuit car, shiny and chrome. There were no heroes of old. And he already knew Immortan Joe was a liar. Someone who cared more about the hurting and the owning, not protecting, growing, helping.
This place looked like a place from the before times. Streets all paved and unbroken, buildings intact, lectric lights shiny and bright. There was more green than he'd ever seen in one place, in patches nearby (parks, though he didn't know the word), and green stretching off into the distance (forests) outside the place, the - he had no word for the cluster of buildings and streets. City? Town? He knew there were many old words for places like this and knew a few of them but didn't know enough to tell them apart. The cars were plain and un-salvaged, and sometimes new. Maybe that was what really came after death, a place like the before times, an unbroken, unblemished paradise.
He saw a woman walking down the street, holding her child's hand - a child that was unblemished, without tumors or growths, no deformities, perfect in every way - and called out to her.
"Where am I? What is this place?" he asked plaintively. "Am I arrived in Valhalla?"
But she didn't see him, she didn't hear him, she and her perfect child walked right through him, with the feeling of cold mist, like the cool, moist air in the muddy place with the crows, a place that was pure deadness.
He fell to his knees, and he despaired, oh, he despaired. He was ruin, he was beyond redemption. That was the way of it, wasn't it - he had warred and killed and broken because of Joe's word and maybe he hadn't done enough to find that redemption the road warrior and Furiosa had spoken of. Maybe his death hadn't been enough.
"It was my fault. I know!" he cried out to whatever, whoever, had damned him, cast him to this place. "We should have been dying for the protecting. The Wives asked who was to blame and it was all of us, Joe and us listening to Joe. I know. But I did what I could. That was shine, what I did - isn't that enough?"
There was no answer.
Who broke the world? Men like Joe and the people who helped him did. Maybe the stain was too great for what he did at the pass to wash it away. Even if there was a Valhalla, this wasn't it. This place wasn't warm welcomes by dead brothers, and feasting with heroes, this was an empty place, a place where he was even smaller and less important than back home. It was a place of cold mist and loneliness.
And darkness. Shadows lengthening, turning into monsters, living nightmares, with claws and teeth. Shadows and enemies in the dark that had him breaking a car window, hotwiring a car, and revving away on a merry chase.
Those that came after him to bring him to the Pole at Manny's behest would find themselves in a high speed chase on the highways outside of Burgess that led into the mountains, a trail of police cars full of mystified police officers on his tail - followed by a mass of fearlings the police officers couldn't see.
You had to give the new guy credit: he sure knew how to make an entrance.
But Nux had learned the truth from the Wives - from Capable. He'd realized how wrong he'd been about Immortan Joe. He'd found better heroes in Furiosa - and even the road warrior, nameless and muttering and mad but willing to help them as best as he could - and even in The Vulvalini, who had been outnumbered but fearless, all of them willing to fight to make a better world out of the mire of despair Joe kept them all in. They had wanted to build and protect and stop wasting those that lived in the Wasteland that was their world.
And the man he thought was his god, his redeemer, had died just like that, died like he was any other man. Nux had already mostly believed the wives - and cared enough about them, about Capable, to silence what doubts he had left. He'd mostly understood everything Joe had done was wrong, but for him to die, hearing Cheedo yell it out, cemented it in his mind with a finality that could not be denied.
Immortan Joe was not immortal. Immortan Joe was not his savior, he was mad lunatic that treated people like things - Nux included. Just a thing to be used, just a thing to fight for him, die for him. It had made it so much easier to die for Capable, for the Wives, for the Vulvalini, for the road warrior and Furiosa. And also for the wretches of Citadel, for the milk mothers, and the War pups, and the Warboys sick and at the end of their half life that deserved a better end than dying for nothing at all.
They would make it better. He believed it. The Wives and Furiosa and the surviving Vulvalini - and the road warrior, if he stayed. They were better than Immortan Joe would ever be. They were hope.
He was hope. That was what he could give the last of his life for, a much better death, a much shinier death than any way he could've died for Immortan Joe.
So, when it was clear he wasn't escaping Rictus, when it was clear the only way to block the pass was to crash it all, he had whispered for Capable to witness him and he had seen her hand move, the gesture of mourning for the Vulvalini, like she was taking him forever into her heart - and what better witness could he ask for than Capable? Then he had wrenched the wheel to the side as hard as he could, felt the war rig veer and lurch and then...and then ...
Then he had wound up here, wherever here was. And he felt so...good. Barry and Larry were there but they weren't chewing at his windpipe and he felt like he'd never have another night fever again. He felt good, like a full life.
That was why Nux wondered if Valhalla had ever been real at all. Because he knew he had to be dead and clearly he was somewhere, somewhere where the sickness in his bones had lost its hold. But there were no gates waiting to open for him, like the grills of a pursuit car, shiny and chrome. There were no heroes of old. And he already knew Immortan Joe was a liar. Someone who cared more about the hurting and the owning, not protecting, growing, helping.
This place looked like a place from the before times. Streets all paved and unbroken, buildings intact, lectric lights shiny and bright. There was more green than he'd ever seen in one place, in patches nearby (parks, though he didn't know the word), and green stretching off into the distance (forests) outside the place, the - he had no word for the cluster of buildings and streets. City? Town? He knew there were many old words for places like this and knew a few of them but didn't know enough to tell them apart. The cars were plain and un-salvaged, and sometimes new. Maybe that was what really came after death, a place like the before times, an unbroken, unblemished paradise.
He saw a woman walking down the street, holding her child's hand - a child that was unblemished, without tumors or growths, no deformities, perfect in every way - and called out to her.
"Where am I? What is this place?" he asked plaintively. "Am I arrived in Valhalla?"
But she didn't see him, she didn't hear him, she and her perfect child walked right through him, with the feeling of cold mist, like the cool, moist air in the muddy place with the crows, a place that was pure deadness.
He fell to his knees, and he despaired, oh, he despaired. He was ruin, he was beyond redemption. That was the way of it, wasn't it - he had warred and killed and broken because of Joe's word and maybe he hadn't done enough to find that redemption the road warrior and Furiosa had spoken of. Maybe his death hadn't been enough.
"It was my fault. I know!" he cried out to whatever, whoever, had damned him, cast him to this place. "We should have been dying for the protecting. The Wives asked who was to blame and it was all of us, Joe and us listening to Joe. I know. But I did what I could. That was shine, what I did - isn't that enough?"
There was no answer.
Who broke the world? Men like Joe and the people who helped him did. Maybe the stain was too great for what he did at the pass to wash it away. Even if there was a Valhalla, this wasn't it. This place wasn't warm welcomes by dead brothers, and feasting with heroes, this was an empty place, a place where he was even smaller and less important than back home. It was a place of cold mist and loneliness.
And darkness. Shadows lengthening, turning into monsters, living nightmares, with claws and teeth. Shadows and enemies in the dark that had him breaking a car window, hotwiring a car, and revving away on a merry chase.
Those that came after him to bring him to the Pole at Manny's behest would find themselves in a high speed chase on the highways outside of Burgess that led into the mountains, a trail of police cars full of mystified police officers on his tail - followed by a mass of fearlings the police officers couldn't see.
You had to give the new guy credit: he sure knew how to make an entrance.
no subject
Apparently the promise of food that wasn't lizards and bugs and wilted vegetables had lit a fire under his butt because now he was digging around like some curious toddler, getting into things, opening and sometimes spilling them if he didn't realize what was inside was something spillable.
He was almost as much a puppy in human form as her teammate that could actually turn into one.
There were bags and boxes of food in there that he started to open and sniff. And stuff into some of his pockets if he liked what he smelled (or licked). Why stop with the plate she'd put out? He'd go back to eat that entire thing after loading up.
"You said I can eat as much as I like," he said somewhat defensively, glancing over at her, as if expecting judgement for him taking so much food. He hopped up on the counter to get at the higher shelves, kneeling there so he could reach.
Opening a canister, he pulled out strings of dried pasta and started chewing on them, his expression showing that he wasn't necessarily disgusted with them so much as confused about what they were made of. They tasted like nothing.
no subject
"You're supposed to boil those," she explained, gesturing at the noodles hanging out of his mouth. "I'll show you how if you clean up the stuff you've spilled."
Though maybe she should let the elves know to grab someone else if they ever saw Nux trying to cook anything...