#the terminology and politics are from the movie Fury Road

[mvssmallow]

Blood and Dust: Prologue

Whoever controls the Water, controls everyone. 

My name is Chan. In a former life I was the son of a farmer and soldier. After the World fell, the War for Dust and Water began, claiming every weak scavenger without loyalties and eliminating those without the right ones. There was no room for autonomous thought, only universal law enforced by Haelend and his anaemic army of psychopathic War Dogs. 

After they claimed the Eastern Oil mines, they came for the Northern Greenlands that my Grandfather protected. Few of us were spared in the war, they killed the men and mothers and branded all the children, the ones they didn’t kidnap and torture. They took whatever viable seedlings there was and only fled when a resistance led by my father staged a stealth attack at the last minute. But we were not a district of War, not back then anyway, and there was no victory march in the aftermath. There was only death and loss. 

Those who were left behind were driven mad by either grief or anger. Many left for other territories, trekking across the Dustbowl like lost immigrants, but I stayed behind, vowing to rebuild and replant on the Earth where my ancestor’s blood and ashes had fallen.

That was 8 years ago. Not much has changed. It’s hard to grow much when there’s only dirt and sun. 

Whoever controls the Water, controls everyone. 

And right now, Haelend still controls the water. 

But he doesn’t control everyone. Not yet. 

****

“Chan! Visitor at the gates.”

“How many?”

“Just one. I disarmed him already. Don’t know how the hell he got past the spikes but he’s covered in whole lot of blood.”

Chan looks up from the radio transmitter he’s been trying to fix for the last 2 weeks and sighs wearily in Changbin’s direction. “Aren’t they all?”

“Not all of them.” Changbin shrugs with a smirk, “The last stray we took in was covered in fur.”

“That mutt better not have chewed the cables again.” 

At the mention of his (alleged) crimes, a black Akita-Wolf huffs indignantly but tries to push his nose against Chan’s fingers as he follows them dutifully down the corridor. 

He’d been against taking it home but Chan had seen how dangerously closed off Changbin had gotten over the years and before Felix had collapsed at their gates last winter, he admits it had been a lonely existence with the two of them. Loneliness was so deeply an ingrained and accepted normalcy for Chan that sometimes it’s easy to forget that not everyone could survive like that. Not even grumpy guarded ones like Changbin. 

“Bear doesn’t do that anymore.”

“He did it last week.”

“He was bored.” Changbin says dismissively, reaching down to scratch behind Bear’s soft furry ears. “He thought he saw a rat.”

Chan looks over quizzically, about to ask his best friend when he started talking to animals, but decided this probably wasn’t the time to hear about ridiculous anecdotes. 

Felix is already waiting for them, crouched in his bird box look-out with one hand on the scanner and one on the trigger of his sniper rifle, poised for orders like the loyal kid he’s always been. He eyes Chan and gives the ‘ok’ signal to move ahead. 

Before any further words are uttered, a wet cough draws their attention to the stirring bloodied figure Changbin had tied to the weathered stone pillars by the gates. 

“You disarmed him before he passed out?”

“Yes.” Changbin replies, “A few knives hidden in his boots and an old rusty shooter. Magazine was empty.”

“How’d he get past the spikes?”

“Felix is trying to figure that out. Sandstorm last night might have jammed the cogs?”

“Fuck.” Chan mutters in frustration. It’s always the sandstorms. “What else?”

“Young. Male. Early twenties maybe. Too bloody to see any markings or inkwork. Defensive wounds all down his arms though.”

Unarmed, bleeding, injured or not, all visitors are treated with the same level of caution Chan reserves for War Dogs. Though, this one wasn’t nearly pale enough to be one, which meant that the majority of the blood on him wasn’t actually his own. The fact that their visitor was even alive means one of two things: he’s one hell of a fighter (there’s no such thing as luck in the Dustbowl) or he’s bait. 

The thought prickles the skin across Chan’s neck and as he tightens his grip on his double-barrel shotgun and pulls up the scarf covering the lower half of his face he can hear the tense heavy loading of Changbin’s crossbow as he does the same. Bear is, as always, hovering behind them, his menacing rumbling growl is enough to stir the visitor back into consciousness. 

Chan takes a step forward and nudges a bare bloodied foot. 

“Wake up sunshine.”

There’s a heavy pause before the visitor rolls over with a pained groan before gasping for breath like all his ribs were broken and he was suddenly hungry for air. 

“What’s your name?” Chan asks, his shoulders are aching from the anxious tension he always gets every time they have to do this.

There’s a wet splutter in reply and the visitor blinks blearily at them for a few slow seconds before the realisation of his precarious situation suddenly dawns on him all at once. “Are they gone?”

They? 

They means plural.

Nausea churns in Chan’s gut as he straightens to take in their surroundings. Looking up at the Bird Box, Felix is already scanning the perimeters with hurried efficiency, it isn’t until there’s a thumbs-up thrown in their direction that Chan breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Who is they?”

“East Block. War Dogs. Desert Snakes. Take your pick.” 

Chan looks down at their visitor with a mix of disbelief and awe. “They were all hunting you? Why?”

“They don’t need a reason.”

There’s truth in that statement. There might be Haelend’s universal law but outside the central citadels, in the vast expanse of the Dustbowl, it’s a lawless state. Few reasons are needed to justify kill. Sometimes no reason at all. 

That being said, to piss off three separate factions is a rare unenviable feat that Chan wants no association with. That fact alone sets off alarms bells and the only logical decision here is to cut their visitor loose and send him back into the desert. 

Changbin hasn’t moved or taken his eyes off the bloody mess on the ground, his crossbow remains loaded and aimed at the visitor’s head. Subtlety was never his strong suit. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to die for a few hours?”

“How’d you get past the spikes?”

“What spikes?”

Chan can feel the frustration creeping into his head and when he looks across, he can tell by Changbin’s tense jaw that his patience is also fading by the second. They don’t kill unnecessarily and Chan doesn’t want the bad karma on his territory but there are exceptions to every rule.

“Listen mate, unless you’re gonna answer the questions, you’re welcome to spend the next week back out in the Dustbowl.”

That seems to shake their visitor out of his stupor. Chan knows all too well that the only fate as bad as captivity in a citadel is to be let loose in the desert with no water or supplies. Death is all but inevitable. 

“No! Wait. Don’t send me back out there by myself again. I swear, I didn’t mean to do it!”

“Do what?”

The visitor pulls himself to sit down against a pillar and when he looks at Chan in the eyes, there’s a hard defiant glare there that is completely unexpected for someone with three weapons aimed at their head. 

“I tried to take an oil rig over in the East Block.”

There’s an uncharacteristic snort of disbelief to his right and Chan isn’t even sure how to respond himself. 

“You and what army?”

“Just me.”

“Are you crazy in the head or you just got a deathwish?”

“It was mine! I won it fair and square!”

“You won an oil rig?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty good at Desert Poker.”

He blames it on being around each other for far too long but Chan can tell the exact moment when Changbin has heard enough and is ready to kick the visitor back into the desert and bolt the gates behind him. 

But Chan also knows that Changbin is nothing if not a pack animal.

And pack animals always wait for the pack alpha, so Chan presses on.

“You can drive a rig?”

“Of course, I’m not stupid.” Comes the snotty reply and Chan has got to hand it to their visitor, this kid has balls of steel. 

“How many kill switches are there?”

“Six. But the newer models can go up to eight, if you got the money for it.”

“What are you, some kind of annoying mechanic?”

“Yeah.” The visitor grins at him, black eye, split lip and all. His outward cockiness cracking for a moment to reveal the uncertain smile of a lost kid. 

“Cut him.” Changbin whispers beside him. “This isn’t worth it.”

9 out of 10 times Chan would agree. 9 out of 10 times they think alike and execute the same plan. It’s how they’ve been able to survive and maintain their meagre territory. It’s not very much, and probably deemed worthless by the bigger factions, but 9 out of 10 times their teamwork and partnership is how they’ve managed to have anything at all.

But this is that 1 out of 10. 

There’s something different Chan sees in the visitor’s eyes but more than that, there’s something very familiar. He saw it in Changbin then Felix. He’s seen it in himself. It’s not desperation, he sees that all the time, everyone is desperate in the Dustbowl. This is longing. For safety. For protection. For peace. For belonging. 

“Which district has your loyalty?”

“The one that doesn’t take a pint of my blood every 3 weeks.” The visitor pulls up his shirt and scrubs at his skin to reveal a dark black “B” inked onto this chest.

A phantom ache surfaces along Chan’s forearms. “You’re a War Dog Bio-Donor.”

“Ah, so you heard of us. You gonna try and blood bag me? Because I gotta tell you, they kinda bled me dry last time.”

“No, we don’t do that here. Whose blood is on you?”

“My sister’s.” The visitor says too quietly. “I buried her yesterday.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Changbin curses beside him, taking a step back and lowering his crossbow a fraction before signalling Bear to heel.

Chan pulls the scarf off his face and has to agree with the sentiment. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, his mind already made up now. “You got a name?”

“Does it matter if you’re going to kill me anyway?”

Chan smirks for some reason, maybe there’s something in him that enjoys collecting broken strays like this and seeing them learn to become human again. He’s down it twice now. He can do it again. 

“No name, no entrance mate.”

There’s shock in the visitor’s eyes, followed by confusion, conflict, trust and anti-trust. But in the end, shelter from the Dustbowl is too powerful a hope. 

“It’s...Han.”