[ It's hard to imagine Max as a kid. She barely remembers her own childhood, the long days when she ran through the Green Place barefoot dressed in blues. She'd catch echoes of it sometimes in watching the War Pups. Mostly distorted like looking at yourself in a dented hubcap, but sometimes at the right angle you catch a perfect look backward, kids with the paint warn off, racing on the garage creepers or playing games from the old world in the dirt in between chasing each other with equipment.
Children who never have a chance to grow up into steady, stoic men. Quiet men who watch, who say whole sentences in the way that they rumble from the back of their throat. Men who'd spill their own blood to build a home with no need to ever live in it.
Sounds familiar. ]
He sounds like a good man. I'm sorry.
[ Furiosa looks over, her expression soft and solemn. She makes a little gesture with her hand, one she made with the Vuvalini too, palm open like it's loosely reaching towards the stars, then drawing towards her heart. Respect and mourning. ]
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Children who never have a chance to grow up into steady, stoic men. Quiet men who watch, who say whole sentences in the way that they rumble from the back of their throat. Men who'd spill their own blood to build a home with no need to ever live in it.
Sounds familiar. ]
He sounds like a good man. I'm sorry.
[ Furiosa looks over, her expression soft and solemn. She makes a little gesture with her hand, one she made with the Vuvalini too, palm open like it's loosely reaching towards the stars, then drawing towards her heart. Respect and mourning. ]
Just you and your mum after?