#✗ ; verse: the holy trinity of oil guzzoline and air ( mad max. )

[tensleepshrike]

On the boiling horizon, a storm churns with the wrath of God. Lightning flashes in the angry violet tumult, the occasional silver bolt penetrating the wall of sand and illuminating the desert for miles, making it sparkle, making it diamond, making it chrome.

Every hackle raises at the comparison. A shudder races down her spine. Still another day to go until they reach the Citadel, and already she's hearing War Boys.

The creature known as Millicurie pushes off from the lookout point and slides down the slope of the mesa to rejoin the crew in its cradle. Her right hand drags behind her, tempering her acceleration, as the index finger and thumb of the left form a bit against her tongue and she whistles around it.

From the distance, a cataclysm of thunder. Of crunching metal. Of daily apocalypse.

Millicurie springs to her feet upon reaching the bottom and races to the campsite perimeter, whistling again. Then she wheels around and drops to hands and knees beside the pair of legs sticking out from beneath the hearse's chassis.

To its mechanic, she says, “Feel the static? There's a sandstorm coming our way. I think we should move.”

She pops her head back up and cocks an ear. Frowns. Nothing yet.

"Where'd the other one go? I thought we agreed we wouldn't go too far."

@alonggoodbye