Slit had been hoping to conduct maintenance in solitude by coming into the cavernous garage at such an early morning hour, not out of a desire to avoid his fellow War Boys, but more from an attempt to make progress in peace. Later on in the days when the garage was buzzing with activity, there seemed to be distraction after distraction that kept Slit from getting anything worthwhile completed. He wanted to get something done.
And so, here he was, laying atop a makeshift creeper, rolled underneath the belly of a war vehicle, tools at his side, and he was finally getting something done, despite the vague haze that hovered in his mind due to such an early awakening. Getting up like this was a pain, but it was worth it for the rare instance of peace and quiet. It was as he laid underneath the car that he heard the soft padding of footsteps echoing off the walls. Slit hadn’t been expecting anyone else to show up. Inwardly cursing the interruption, he stopped his work, falling silent and remained hidden under the car, hoping that whoever it was would simply leave without pestering him. The person then called his name.
An immediate recognition of the voice stirred in him. One of the wives had wandered into the garage. Well, one of the women who used to be a wife. Slit frequently needed to force upon himself the reminder that they were no longer wives, and even then, it was a memory far less arduous to recall than that of Immortan Joe’s death. All of the War Boys, including Slit, detested reminders of their god’s demise. The free roam of the former wives was one such reminder that the Citadel’s redeemer was no more. The man who had given them purpose, something to live for, something to die for, was now rotting in the soil.
It was something Slit was making an effort to move on from. Allowing no hint of his presence as he lay underneath the vehicle, the lancer drew a slow, deep breath into his lungs to calm himself. The reminder of the Immortan’s death needed to be accompanied by the reminder of what the wives had done for Slit– at least, what they thought they’d done for him. Death had been nearly upon him when they’d dragged him from the wreckage of that crash so long ago. The gates of Valhalla had been open, and he’d gladly have died that glorious death in combat in order to walk through those gates, but before his last strings could be severed, his life had been salvaged by others. Now he lived a life devoid of his ruler.
Living on wasn’t what he would’ve chosen for himself. Second chances weren’t something he craved. Slit was a half-life, meaning he would die regardless in few years to come, and pathetically on a sickbed instead of gloriously on the fury road. He could’ve hated the wives– former wives– and the others who’d rescued him for it. Holding such acts against them would’ve been easy. Loathing them for letting him live, for murdering Immortan Joe, and holding them in absolute contempt for the rest of his half life would have come as naturally as sleep or hunger.
And he did feel that way, at first. For many days after the start of the Citadel’s reform, Slit had ignored the former wives and Furiosa entirely, with not even a mere glance at their direction in passing. It had taken time for him to fully recognize that what they’d done was to help him, not hurt him. And now, as he lay hidden from Toast the Knowing, Slit compelled himself to remember that.
When she made mention of some new auto parts, the lancer’s interest sparked. Something she’d brought in could prove useful for his current project. Albeit still somewhat reluctant, Slit finally slid out from under the car with a grunt and stood, revealing himself to the young woman. Gloved hands patted debris off his baggy pants before he approached the crate of parts, and he knelt down to dig through it, all without a word, and without offering a single glance at Toast herself. It still felt strange to lay eyes on the former wives. To behold them had been a privilege only Immortan Joe himself was worthy of. Back then, the wives had been like holy treasures that no other man could witness, and now that Joe was dead, the women were just like everyone else, and that was a difficult concept to grasp.
“Nice stuff,” he commented as he rubbed some sand off of an engine part. Some of it was scrap, but some looked very useful. Slit took notice of the crate’s size. “You carry this all the way here yourself?” Strong wife. No, not wife– strong woman.
Just as Toast was abandoning her hope in the box of spare parts she’d brought up with he, the war boy appeared from underneath the rusted out hull of a vehicle. She allowed herself a brief flash of relief. He was no longer actively avoiding her, then. The small woman lifted the box again and took another few steps toward the warboy, placing it at his feet and waiting with baited breath for him to go through it. She knew she shouldn’t be this concerned with one person’s feelings toward her. She’d gone her whole life with little thought toward the opinions of others save her sisters and, on occasion, Furiosa. Now it seemed that she cared more. For the first time in her life, Toast did not want to be tolerated, she wanted to be welcomed. It was her fault that she’d picked a particularly uninviting person. Slit had avoided them like they were Wretched for the first few weeks after his unsolicited rescue. He’d been angry, she knew, as had most of the warboys after they’d returned. They’d taken their god, but while the other’s dislike waned with time, Slit’s had seemed purposeful and personal. Toast moved around him to sit on an empty metal table, her feet swinging over the side. He was releasing it now, his dislike, or maybe just trying to be civil. She’d accept his civility in inches. His voice tugged her from her thoughts and she looked up, brown eyes meeting his own blue. She nodded. “Yes.” She hadn’t wanted to bother anyone. Her eyes strayed to the metal piece in his hand. “Is any of it useful?”
