Chapter Text
Nux’s world is pain.
If this is Valhalla, he thinks, he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t feel shiny or chrome or even anything remotely resembling a person. It’s impossible to pinpoint the pain, impossible to determine which part of him hurts the most. Some dim part of his brain tells him that it’s his back, but he doesn’t know if he can believe it.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying here. He hasn’t been awake the whole time. At least, he doesn’t he think he has. It’s hard to tell. Opening his eyes to check the position of the sun seems like more effort than it’s worth, and so he keeps them closed, listens to the rattle of his chest when he breathes and knows it means nothing good.
It is so unbearably hot.
He thinks he slips into unconsciousness again, but it’s hard to tell. He’s tired more often than he isn’t, and at least the blackness takes away the pain for a while. It would be better, he thinks, if he just stopped coming to.
He is so, so thirsty.
If this is Valhalla, where is the water?
So when he first hears the engine, he thinks he must be imagining things. His body relaxes, and he even allows himself to smile for a moment. Ah, he thinks, languidly, maybe this is Valhalla after all.
There are sounds—walking sounds, animal sounds—and he is surprised. He didn’t think animals could enter Valhalla. Something cold and wet presses against his cheek, and then there is a sound—a bark.
A dog?
Nux remembers dogs, hazily, like something viewed through gauze. The Wretched had them, when he was a child, before he became a War Boy. He never had one, but he remembered them. He remembered liking them. If there are dogs here, Valhalla seems like a nice place. He tries to open his eyes, but it’s hard; his eyelids feel heavy, and he is tired, so tired, so so tired—
There are footsteps—human ones—and then a voice. It’s familiar and it reminds Nux of the road—of gravel, of dust, of a roaring engine and the crunching of tires. It is gravel and thunder. And it is pleasantly surprised.
“So,” it says, with something like pride in it. “You’re not dead, after all.”
At long last, Nux manages to crack his eyes open. He sees boots, a braced knee, and then he hears a bark and his eyes swivel, looking for the source. When he finds it, he thinks the voice must have been wrong or he must have misheard. He must be dead. Because there is a dog in front of him, and the dog is wearing goggles.
