Max is dreaming. Max knows it's a dream because he's comfortable. He's stretched out across the backseat of the War Rig, his feet pressed hard against the rig's frame to brace himself as the rig shudders through the sand. In reality the cab is full, with no space to stretch. When Max was falling asleep he'd been crushed against the window by the women, listening to them talk, as Furiosa drove and the War Boy kept vigil in front.
It had been nice, somehow. All those people, and no one trying to stab each other. But Max's legs were starting to cramp even as he dozed, and in the dream they hardly even ache. A whole bench to himself, and only the occasional thuds of his head against the window to remind that pain still exists.
Max thinks this is a better dream than usual. Less explosions and less death. Fewer ghosts. If what he has to dream about now is an empty cab, things are going pretty well.
Furiosa ruins everything by sliding into the backseat, pushing Max's legs to the floor so she can sit down. Max tenses, not because she's taking his space, but because he doesn't know who's driving the rig. He and Furiosa are the only ones who know how, and the rig's still moving. They haven't stopped, can't stop. Who's driving? Max actually opens his mouth to ask, but then he remembers that it's a dream. It doesn't matter if they crash. Dreams can be terrible or dreams can be pleasant, but they don't have real consequences the way that living does. Max settles back and lets the rig take them wherever it wants.
The cab is silent except for the white-noise growl of the engine. Furiosa is leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed and her eyes watching the road. Max is sprawled awkwardly, half-lying and half-sitting, and he's watching Furiosa. The grease is fading from her skin, and underneath her face is calm. Resigned.
Max recognizes that expression. He sees it in the rear-view mirror whenever his eyes catch on himself.
Furiosa turns, still calm, and Max fights the instinct to drop his eyes.
"Can't sleep?" she asks.
Max thinks about explaining that he's sleeping right now, but it doesn't do any good to explain dreams. He asks a question instead, one he wouldn't want to ask in the real world. Where it would mean something.
"Why are you doing this?"
Furiosa looks back, through the window in the cab. Max props himself up on his elbows and looks with her. Some of the women are sitting in the first watch post, one dozing while the other looks through binoculars. The others are probably in the farther watch post, if they exist in the dream at all.
"I could have been one of them," says Furiosa. "If I'd been born a little different."
Max doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows.
"When I was brought to the city, I was inspected." Furiosa grimaces and rubs at her shoulder. "I have my uses written on my back. Breeding wasn't one of them. Immortan Joe was disappointed."
Furiosa turns back, looks out along the road. Max follows her gaze, all the way up to the blinking satellites. "I have a responsibility," she says, soft and angry, "to the ones who didn't disappoint."
Max tries to remember what that's like, responsibility. He knows he had it once. He can recognize in it others, see it clawing through Furiosa, dragging her past the point of no return. But there's only an echo of it left in Max, responsibility replaced by just the impulsive urge to follow through on what he's started, and see what happens next. There's no mission, anymore. Not even survival, not really. Just following through.
Furiosa takes his silence for confusion, and she wants him to understand. "It's easier to show you than to explain it."
Max isn't sure how she can show him responsibility, but then she starts to work on her belt, pull her trousers free. She's going to show him why she can't breed.
Max opens his mouth to stop her, and then reconsiders. You have to let the dream flow. Let the dream show you what it needs to show you.
Furiosa glances at the front of the cab, then shimmies herself up and shoves the trousers down to her knees. The skin of her thighs is pale, almost translucent, cold. She pushes aside the metal symbol of Immortan Joe she wears around her waist, and the chains spill sideways over her leg. Underneath is... something. Max can't see it very well.
"Some people have scars from the world dying," says Furiosa. "Other people have tumors. I have this," she raises her metal arm, and then gestures with it at her lap, "and this."
Max sits up properly, sideways on the bench, and looks. Between Furiosa's legs lies a curl of flesh, translucent white like the rest of her skin. It looks relatively innocuous, like a bulgy penis, fat and squat. Max isn't sure why Furiosa thinks he'd be confused or surprised. He's seen penises before. But, sometimes that's how things are in dreams—strange things seem normal and normal things become bizarre.
"Can I touch it?" he asks, the words crawling out of his mouth even as his brain tries to pull them back. He doesn't need to know anything, he doesn't need to be shown. But Mas really does want to touch it. Follow through, right? No consequences.
"It's not a toy," says Furiosa, sounding more amused than annoyed, but only barely. "It's part of me."
"Can I touch you?" asks Max. He looks at Furiosa and waits until she sighs.
"You can touch," she says.
He puts his hand out to brush the backs of his fingers along the organ. It unfurls, fat bulgy form resolving into something folded in on itself, a long prehensile tendril. It tapers to a soft point, and a thick vein runs along the length. It almost seems to pulse.
It's almost as long as Max's forearm. He has no idea how it fit in Furiosa's trousers. Dreams don't have to make sense, it's all right. Calm down.
Max turns his hand and runs the pads of his fingers from top to bottom, bottom to top, and the tendril starts to twist in his grasp. It wraps around his wrist and pulls him tighter against the base of itself until he gets the message and grips it lightly. The tendril squeezes his and Max squeezes back, until Furiosa grunts and chokes back a curse.
Furiosa's hands flex, and the tendril almost releases Max. Max strokes it again, and the tendril yanks at him, almost overbalancing him into Furiosa's lap. "Sorry," says Furiosa. "It's been a long time, I'm not used to this anymore. I can—"
Sometimes Max used to have a different kind of dream, a really nice kind. In the dreams people would touch him, soft and gentle, and Max would wake up with soiled underwear and half-memories of warm mouths and hands. Maybe this is one of those dreams, though he thought they'd stopped for good. Or maybe this is a dream for Furiosa, and he's providing the hands. How can you tell if you're a dream?
"If you let go," Furiosa is saying, "I can put my pants back on. Okay? You don't have to do this just because you were curious."
Max's brow wrinkles, as he pulls himself out of his thoughts and back into whatever Furiosa wants to tell him. When he realizes that Furiosa is trying to stop the dream, he says the first thing that pops into his head. The first thing that might convince her not to. "Can I put my mouth on this?"
"What?" says Furiosa.
"Can I put my mouth on you?"
Furiosa stares at him for a second. And then she swings her legs up on the seat, dropping her left knee to give Max access. He crawls forward, careful not to put too much weight on her calves or get caught up on the tangle of her trousers. It's awkward, and Max has to push away chains again before he can put his face between Furiosa's thighs and lick tentatively at the base of the tendril. It shivers, and Max continues to lick, onward and upward until he has to bring his hand up to reach what's still wrapped around his wrist. When the tip of his tongue touches the tip of the tendril Furiosa hisses, and her right knee leans hard against Max's skull.
Furiosa pulls her knee back after a moment, but she has more control over her knee than her tendril. It releases Max's wrist and seeks out his mouth, playing across his lips. Max opens for it, wider and wider as the tendril plunges in. It wraps around his tongue and he gags briefly before it lets go and tries his throat instead. Max gags again, his eyes squeezing shut. And then remembers that this is a dream—dreams don't need gag reflexes. He won't choke or drown.
All at once his throat relaxes, allowing Furiosa inside of him.
"Okay?" asks Furiosa. "Shit. If you—"
Max braces himself against her thighs and leans forward, feeling his lips slide against the smooth skin of tendril. He can't take very much in his mouth, not even in a dream, and he wraps his hands around the part he can't fit inside his body. Furiosa shudders and now her left knee is clenching around him, bracketing him inside her thighs. The chains from her belt shift back into place again, scattering over Max's hands and face, but Furiosa flicks them away. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, then his head, and her fingers scrabble across his scalp, flesh and metal catching at his hair. Her swearing becomes one long string of words and syllables, and Max can't understand what she's saying anymore until suddenly it's "Stop, stop," and he opens his mouth and chokes as she pulls herself out of him.
The tendril is glistening now, not just with Max's saliva but with something viscous that drools thick around her length.
Furiosa hasn't let go of Max's head, and he looks at her, trying to figure out why they've stopped. He was fine. She seemed more than fine. Did he do something wrong?
"You were going to make me come," says Furiosa. "I don't want to strangle you."
Max nods. This seems like good logic, but it has a flaw. "I want you to come."
Furiosa's fingers tighten on his head. Her metal hand blocks off his peripheral vision completely, so he can only look straight ahead, only look at her. He doesn't want to look anywhere else.
"Want you to come inside of me," clarifies Max. He wants to know how it would feel, if it really would strangle him. He's pretty sure that you can't really die in dreams. It's happened to him hundreds of times before, and he's still alive. He thinks. He's probably alive.
Follow through, follow through, and see what happens next. He wants very badly to make Furiosa come.
Furiosa's face flushes red, and she starts to strip off her boots, untangle her trousers. "We can make that happen," she says, as the trousers drop away completely. Max is captivated by the curve of her ankles, the hair on her legs. He wants to rub his face against them, see if that hair's as soft as it looks.
Furiosa shakes her head when Max opens his mouth again. "Not like that," she says. "Turn over."
Max doesn't quite understand what she wants from him, so Furiosa shows him. She twists him and turns his body until his face is pressed down against the seat, his head pointing to the door, his knees pushing up his rear. Furiosa pushes his trousers down.
At the first touch of skin against skin, Max jerks and nearly kicks Furiosa in the stomach. He knows that it's her, but he can't see her and he doesn't know what she's doing, and they're only a day, a few hours removed from being strangers. From being enemies. She has knives everywhere, and guns, and who knows what she's planning, and maybe you can die in dreams, and she pulls him up and holds his head against her chest until Max remembers how to breath again.
"Sorry," say Furiosa, rocking him a little. "Sorry."
"Need to see you," mutters Max. "Can't do it if I can't see you."
"Do you want to stop?" asks Furiosa.
Max shakes his head. His dick, long ignored, wants desperately to continue. So does Max. Follow through.
"Okay," says Furiosa. "Keep breathing."
It's better when Max is on his back, when he can see the almost pained look on Furiosa's face as the tendril begins to squirm its way inside of Max's body. He's had fingers up his arse before, sometimes with careful preparation and sometimes with just spit and hope. This is different. The tendril is very thin at its point, and the fluid lets it slide into Max easily. He gets used to the tendril gradually, and it crawls in and thickens slowly until it fills him, full and complete. It almost feels like it's coming out his throat again. Max realizes that probably his rear end doesn't fit much more than his front end had, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Furiosa's face, partly for the view and partly to preserve the illusion that she's buried herself in him completely.
Furiosa's hips don't rock like he thinks they should. No. Max tries to pull that word, 'should,' out of his head. It doesn't belong in a dream and it doesn't belong to what Furiosa is doing to him now. Furiosa's hips don't rock, anyway. She stays completely still, clutching at his wrists, while the tendril curls and twists in his body. It finds his prostate and squirms against it until Max is shivering and bucking under Furiosa. She holds his wrists but lets his hips and back move freely, until he's arched, trembling, only his shoulders and the soles of his feet touching the bench.
She must not be all the way in, Max realizes, or he would have thrown her off. He gets control of himself, just barely, even as Furiosa continues to push hard against his prostate, and lowers himself back down.
"More," he grits out. He wants as much as he can take, and he doesn't think they've gotten there yet.
Furiosa frowns at him like she disagrees, but she pushes a little further, in increments, slowly. Max is gasping and shivering and can no longer stop himself from arching up again to meet her. He feels her hips press against his rear and the thickest part of her tendril push through his hole and her fingers tighten convulsively against his wrists hard enough that Max thinks someone's bones will break. Furiosa curls forward, her tendril rippling and her forehead pressed against Max's chest.
She makes a noise that almost sounds like words, and Max comes.
Furiosa gasps as he tightens around her, and then her tendril convulses for one long minute, pulsing hot inside of him, stretching Max wide as he shivers and shakes. Furiosa collapses on top of him when she's done, managing to mostly avoid the sticky mess that Max has made of his shirt. She's got a little on her chin, though.
Max is floating. He thinks he's good at this dream stuff. Or Furiosa is. Maybe both.
Furiosa withdraws herself slowly from Max, even more careful when he winces. She picks up a rag from the floor and scrubs at her chin, then at Max's shirt. After she drops the cloth, Max catches her hand and kisses the palm, something he vaguely remembers doing, sometime, with someone. Furiosa takes his hand and kisses it back.
"You should get some sleep. We've either got a very long day tomorrow or a very short one."
Max thinks again about telling her that this is a dream, but he doesn't want to shatter the illusion. He pulls his trousers back up, curls against the right window, and closes his eyes. He half-hopes that the dream will continue, somehow. But the rig just rolls across the sand and Max feels his mind fizzing away, lulled by the noise of the engine.
Max wakes up when the rig hits a rock, jolting his head against the window. The stars are still out, pinpricks of unmoving light in the darkness. The back of the cab is full, as it should be. The short-haired woman is leaning with her back against his shoulder, holding the long-dark-haired woman in her arms. Furiosa is curled up by the left window, and the red-haired woman sits in the front, face turning to scan the sand. The long-white-haired woman is probably in the watch post with the binoculars. The War Boy is driving.
Max's forehead creases as he remembers his dream, and his certainty that he and Furiosa were the only ones that could drive. But he knows that the War Boy can drive the rig. The War Boy is driving the rig.
Sometimes you forget things in dreams.
Was the War Boy driving all night?
Max looks down at his shirt and cannot pick out any particular stains from the dirty collage. He sniffs at the shirt, flicks his tongue out to taste it, but still can't tell if the night was real or imagined. He looks over at Furiosa, still asleep and uninformative, but he drops his eyes as soon as he notices the War Boy watching him in the rearview mirror.
"Can you drive?" asks the War Boy. "My shift's about up, and Furiosa said she'd take the morning."
"Yeah," mutters Max. He flexes his hand, and feels his palm tingle.