The Ural is on a straight course, now. Regular, comfortable, nothing like on the rough ground of the Badlands. The Road, the Fury Road. The one used by convoys loaded with Guzzolene, Aquacola, bullets and all the Productions. The one the Buzzards have so often attacked. In the rear-view mirror, far away, Gastown's columns of smoke rise and fade on the wide blue sky. And in front of their tires, miles away, the Citadel peaks; its three mineral towers topped with the green of their crops. No vehicles from the refineries are in sight. Neither at the front nor at the back. Only the ground scrolling, scrolling in beige and ochre hatching.

It's been more than ten minutes since Nux has said anything, and Volta looks at him through the corner of her goggles. He's looking down on the road below, over the retracted spikes of the sidecar. This silence does not please her. Now she knows enough not to like it.

— Are you dead already, glupyy ?

He shakes his head several times and moves his leg, probably uncomfortable because of the metal splint.

— I'm fine. Going great.

That's what he says, but there's an abnormal distance in his eyes. Volta speeds up but the Ural can't go any faster. The only thing she wants is that he doesn't fall asleep, so she backfires the engine.

— The platforms are in sight, she says, and those words seem to stir up some of the adrenaline he has left.

— Tower One, he says. That's where we need to be lifted up.

He forces himself to sit down without slouching and allows himself to be exhilarated by what he sees. Closer, closer. At any given moment, the Citadel seems within reach.

— The Millrats are the ones who make the Wheels turn, but it is the Lifters that we have to convince to take us up. They choose.

— We'll hang on.

This statement turns the War Boy's gaze to Volta. Hanging on. For the first time since they stormed out, he laughs. And as if to wake up his machines as much as those of the Ural, he starts banging on the side of the sidecar. Volta rushes. Again and again, and little by little the shapes become clearer. The Three Towers, the ridge crops and hydroponic bays, the cranes planted on the heights like so many black thorns. The huge screaming skull carved in stone, the symbol of the deceased Immortan. And the water that – suddenly as they approach – cascades down from the black mouths connected to the great pumps of the Aquifer. Like a long white strip, the Aquacola pours out. Down towards a crowd that they guess to be large, more people than ever. The human mass invades the centre of the Towers, all around the Citadel and even into the desert. There, they slowly distinguish a profusion of vehicules. Of all kinds. From all horizons. The tanks of the Gastown Polecats are there, the rumors had not lied to Babushka. But also many caterpillars from the Bullet Farm and cars of all kinds, coming out of they-even-don't-know-where. It's just as if every hole in the ground had released living beings that had been holding up for too long. A tide of humans whose clamour can be heard even through the V8s.

— That's crazy.

Nux's posture, leaning forward over the mechanical scarifications he inflicted on himself, is explicit. He's never seen anything like this here before.

— That's totally crazy.

They make their way through the stopped vehicles that their occupants have left without really worrying about them being stolen in the mechanical density. Closer, closer, until they can no longer move forward without risking crushing the fringes of the crowd. Wretched people, starving and riddled with tumours, as there have always been, but other faces, other gaits. Women, men, children. One of them is carrying a crow. Even some old people. Bins, jerry cans, kettledrums. Volta stops the engine of the Ural and they both stand in a moment of astonishment, watching what the Wasteland had never known.

Suddenly, Volta looks on her side. She's just felt it close to her motorbike. A little presence. A child. Skinny, already almost hairless. A little kid with blue eyes. He'll probably have a lot to deal with in the reverberation too if he lives long enough. He's standing next to the burning Ural, staring at them, not moving. Volta doesn't take her strips off, nor her goggles. But suddenly, without really thinking about what she's doing, with the crowd passing on either side of them, she plunges her hand through the buzzard clothes. Right into her pocket from which she pulls the Ford she picked up in the Pass. From her knuckles, she makes it shine a little. And then she sends it into the kid's hands, red from having dipped his fingers in the earthy water. He looks at it. He weighs it, then he smiles. Chrome.

— Babba !

Nux raises his head. The kid runs away and disappears into the crowd towards a woman they can't see. The parade of jugs resumes, other motorcycles arrive and line up near the Ural Buzzard that they would normally have blown up. With her hand, Volta closes the case of grenades and locks it up. Then, on a single impulse, she stands on her feet.

— Let's go, she says as she frees her curly hair from her rags.

The strips are sent to the bottom of the side bag: now Volta could be anyone. It's time. It's more than time, and she pulls Nux out of the sidecar with his prosthesis which alone helps him stand. One resolute breath and she puts her head under his arm for support. It doesn't matter if he's taller, nor if the whole thing is shaky. The number of steps they have to take is less than a hundred.

— The Iskra provided the glass for the Dome up there, she says with a chin movement towards the heights.

A haven of pure water and filtered air. An engineering marvel of metal and blown silica that is said to house books. Volta looks up as they wobble through the jubilant human mass.

— It's a sanctuary, she says.

— It's a prison.

Nux won't say any more. He's focusing on his steps now, and Volta would swear he can't really see around him anymore. He's only got one shoe on, she hadn't even noticed. Anyway, his feet are as hard as the tires of shoe soles. Over there, the Wretched have set up tents. At the foot of the falls, they began to channel the clear water with custom pipes. Against Tower One, a tattooist at a table is writing on a man's skin. Words, many words, as if he was recording stories and facts. Volta raises her head, now feeling crushed by the height of the Citadel that stands out against the sky. By the heavy clicking sound of the chains lifting up and down the platforms. By the rolling of the wheels trampled by the Millrats.

— What are you going to ask for?, she hears at her shoulder, and Nux stumbles, closer, closer to the dock platform.

Again, he seems lucid and traces of that mischievous enthusiasm are back upon him. You can have as much Aquacola as you want. Ask for milk. Grain. You can carry.

— Shut up.

She is now struggling under his weight too. She's willing to bet that she and the prosthesis are doing the work now.

— You can ask for Guzzolene. The Ural, she'll purr like a –

— Shut the fuck up, Nux.

All of a sudden, she drops him and his elbows meet the platform slats. Under a fabric mask, a Lifter leans over. He shouts "War Boy! "and several bald and powdered kids – grease to the top of their foreheads – pull their once-fellow further on the platform. Suddenly Volta feels light and paradoxally heavy. Behind them, the water flows down and down. And as she steps back, the Lifter orders to the poor pulley-men:

— Up !

Nux manages to sit down but the platform moves and he falls back down.

— Your reward, Buzzard!

In his voice, there is anger but mostly astonishment. The platform goes up, up. Now she would have to jump. The crane pivots. The structure gives a jolt.

— Your reward...

And the prosthesis, which she hasn't got back. Underneath, Volta looks up as the platform rises, rises, up to three times her height above. She's got words in Russian, she's not sure if the slang can say them too. She shrugs her shoulders. And lifting her hands at the sides of her mouth, overcoming the tremendous noise of this rebirth, she says to him:

— I don't give a shit!

What she will remember is to see him rise, rise, more slumped at every moment on what drives him upward, towards the distant heights of the Citadel. Where he wanted to go, where the gates have just opened for him. Where he's not awaited. Volta has already turned around, she won't look any further, she doesn't need to. She splits the crowd. Heavy. Light. At the sound of the chains stopping, she knows he's arrived. He may survive an hour, a day, several. So will Larry and Barry.

No matter how long now.

"Where must we go we who wander this wasteland in search of our better selves ?"