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_assemble2015-06-11 07:20 am
gonnadiehistoric) wrote in ya_assemble2015-06-11 07:20 am
Entry tags:
Tinker [open] [Expect spoilers]
Now that Nux was a bit more adjusted to his new surrounds and a bit calmer, he'd taken to exploring a bit. There was quite a bit to explore, given how many levels there were to this place, and each one of them had amazing things to see. There was a whole level of paper. Just paper spewing out of the mouth of a massive carving of a wooden man, maybe some kind of soldier? And inside the paper was more paper, and on that paper there was writing. He'd picked up and read one of the papers and it seemed to be some kind of message scrawled in what might have been a child's handwriting, naming things that might have been the toys being made on the other floors.
On each floor they made all different toys. He hadn't even dreamed there were that many different kinds of toys that could be made and the sight of them reminded him of something he'd long since forgotten. His Mamma and Dadda had made him a toy when he was very young, a little doll of scrap metal and wire. He'd forgotten it but for some reason this place made it easier for him to remember some of the things he'd long forgotten.
He was fairly sure his parents had been kind to him. Yes. Yes, "beautiful boy," his mother had called him. But then his father had gone away and his mother had gone still, and the rest was...
The rest was a very long time of not having had that sort of kindness. Oh, he'd had his place with the War boys, certainly. They had their strange camaraderie, but it was one filled with head butts and punches and challenges and aggression. And they were not truly important to each other because they were only important if they died for him.
Not like Capable's gentleness. Not like his mother's soft words or his father's soft promises of a better life.
How had he forgotten it? How? But he knew. He'd put it out of his mind. His parents had died soft, soft and meaningless. His mother, from sickness. His father, from violence, most likely, as he went out searching for water or food or something to trade. He'd said he'd come back. He hadn't.
Then he'd been swept up into a new life with a new "father" until his parents were a lifetime away.
That was how it was, wasn't it? Each time you found yourself somewhere new and strange, what you'd left behind suddenly seemed a lifetime away. From milling about with the wretches to a War Boy in the Citadel. From War Boy to 'reliable,' traveling in the War Rig, with Furiosa and Capable and the Wives and the road warrior. From crashing in the canyon to a different world, one of bright lights and strange sounds and beauty and darkness chewing at the edges.
He didn't want Capable to seem a lifetime away. That was why he'd chosen the wrap he was wearing around his torso. It was soft and comfortable and less constricting than the shirts the yetis had offered and it was the color of her hair. Every time he looked down at himself, she wasn't a lifetime away, only yesterday. Forever yesterday.
All that he could do was find familiar things and try to make sense of the strangeness, which was why he was taking apart a Transformers toy (not that he knew what it was called). He'd already figured out the little puzzle of how to make it transform back and forth to the different forms but there were little lights and it made sounds and the black thumb in him wanted to see how it all fit together, how it worked, so he'd stolen a screwdriver and was taking it apart right in the middle of the floor, not even bothering to do it in the lounge area. Just right in the middle of the floor near the stairs.
One of the yetis saw what he was doing and gestured at the toy, argle bargling at him in distress.
"I'm going to put it back together and put it back," Nux protested. "It's your fault, anyway, for making something I'd be wanting to take apart."
It was a child's logic. He didn't care, he was just saying whatever might get the big hairy thing to go away. The yeti rolled his eyes, argle blarging something that was possibly the yeti equivalent of 'Are you fucking kidding me?' before throwing his arms up in the air.
Nux just bared his teeth in a very obvious display of 'back the hell off.' He wasn't really as aggressive as he'd been in the past but he figured the expression still might work to get the yeti to leave him alone, and sure enough, the yeti moved on, muttering to himself.
This little exchange happened with more than one yeti. They weren't particularly keen on having people unbuild their toys when they'd put so much work into building them.
It made for a strange sight, the bald, pale, young man, sitting on the floor bent over a Transformer like he was dissecting the thing, lips and face ritualistically scarred and skull-like. He wore a red woolen wrap around his torso, brand new, and battered cargo pants (with roughly a million straps and pockets) clearly rather old and worn. And battered, mismatched boots.
Old clothes and new ones. Menacing scars and bright and wondering eyes like a child's. Disparate parts. But that was what most things from his world were made of and the people were no different.
On each floor they made all different toys. He hadn't even dreamed there were that many different kinds of toys that could be made and the sight of them reminded him of something he'd long since forgotten. His Mamma and Dadda had made him a toy when he was very young, a little doll of scrap metal and wire. He'd forgotten it but for some reason this place made it easier for him to remember some of the things he'd long forgotten.
He was fairly sure his parents had been kind to him. Yes. Yes, "beautiful boy," his mother had called him. But then his father had gone away and his mother had gone still, and the rest was...
The rest was a very long time of not having had that sort of kindness. Oh, he'd had his place with the War boys, certainly. They had their strange camaraderie, but it was one filled with head butts and punches and challenges and aggression. And they were not truly important to each other because they were only important if they died for him.
Not like Capable's gentleness. Not like his mother's soft words or his father's soft promises of a better life.
How had he forgotten it? How? But he knew. He'd put it out of his mind. His parents had died soft, soft and meaningless. His mother, from sickness. His father, from violence, most likely, as he went out searching for water or food or something to trade. He'd said he'd come back. He hadn't.
Then he'd been swept up into a new life with a new "father" until his parents were a lifetime away.
That was how it was, wasn't it? Each time you found yourself somewhere new and strange, what you'd left behind suddenly seemed a lifetime away. From milling about with the wretches to a War Boy in the Citadel. From War Boy to 'reliable,' traveling in the War Rig, with Furiosa and Capable and the Wives and the road warrior. From crashing in the canyon to a different world, one of bright lights and strange sounds and beauty and darkness chewing at the edges.
He didn't want Capable to seem a lifetime away. That was why he'd chosen the wrap he was wearing around his torso. It was soft and comfortable and less constricting than the shirts the yetis had offered and it was the color of her hair. Every time he looked down at himself, she wasn't a lifetime away, only yesterday. Forever yesterday.
All that he could do was find familiar things and try to make sense of the strangeness, which was why he was taking apart a Transformers toy (not that he knew what it was called). He'd already figured out the little puzzle of how to make it transform back and forth to the different forms but there were little lights and it made sounds and the black thumb in him wanted to see how it all fit together, how it worked, so he'd stolen a screwdriver and was taking it apart right in the middle of the floor, not even bothering to do it in the lounge area. Just right in the middle of the floor near the stairs.
One of the yetis saw what he was doing and gestured at the toy, argle bargling at him in distress.
"I'm going to put it back together and put it back," Nux protested. "It's your fault, anyway, for making something I'd be wanting to take apart."
It was a child's logic. He didn't care, he was just saying whatever might get the big hairy thing to go away. The yeti rolled his eyes, argle blarging something that was possibly the yeti equivalent of 'Are you fucking kidding me?' before throwing his arms up in the air.
Nux just bared his teeth in a very obvious display of 'back the hell off.' He wasn't really as aggressive as he'd been in the past but he figured the expression still might work to get the yeti to leave him alone, and sure enough, the yeti moved on, muttering to himself.
This little exchange happened with more than one yeti. They weren't particularly keen on having people unbuild their toys when they'd put so much work into building them.
It made for a strange sight, the bald, pale, young man, sitting on the floor bent over a Transformer like he was dissecting the thing, lips and face ritualistically scarred and skull-like. He wore a red woolen wrap around his torso, brand new, and battered cargo pants (with roughly a million straps and pockets) clearly rather old and worn. And battered, mismatched boots.
Old clothes and new ones. Menacing scars and bright and wondering eyes like a child's. Disparate parts. But that was what most things from his world were made of and the people were no different.