The Wasteland. In a word, vast. Reaching from horizon to horizon, it stretched as far as any man could go, and continuing still. This expanse, built of desert, swamp and mountain, was conceived from the sins of mankind, born in fire and stood in the ashes of what had preceded it. Those born into this hell, who held no memories of before, would tell you that the Wasteland had always existed, and would do so until the end of days. Those who had died in the creation of it would tell you nothing. Their bones litter this new world, a lingering reminder of their failures and the price they paid for them. Those who survived, however, would tell you of before, of a time of green and life, not dust and death. Provided, of course, that their minds had also survived the journey, and not instead left their bodies to wander, due after dune, in search of the past, consuming themselves in the grief of loss and the desire to rebuild, a desire for a second chance. But second chances are rare, and do not come cheap.

Once upon a time, as the sane survivors will tell you, there was a world before the Wasteland. A world made up of colours, of green and blue and white and yellow and more, where humanity thrived and none were forced to face the horrors of survival. The world was alive, with water and food to spare, and people went about their lives, living, working and growing side by side. But this was not to last. People became greedy, as people inevitably do, and began to use more and more, wasting what they believed to be limitless, but instead proved shockingly finite. People fought each other for even a tank of gasoline, maimed and killed each other for even the smallest cup of dirty water. This continued to grow, with more and more people realising that the world they had lived in, the world they knew, was coming to an end, and that there was no hope of turning back. Eventually, conflict, once confined between one person and another, soon turned into country against country, when the word still meant anything, and the world was torn apart in the struggle for resources, the planet bathed in nuclear fire, killing hundreds of millions, in the name of survival. And so, the Wasteland was born, filled with sand and blood and death. Little remained of before, solids like cars and guns, liquids like water and gasoline, and the dust and bones of the dead haunting the planet, taunting those who wander the desert of what was before, and the selfishness which destroyed it.

It was in this time, when humanity was in the process of tearing itself apart, that a man rose. This man had fought in the wars that had raged for resources, had bled for the survival of his home, and had been honoured and commended for trying to patch up the mistakes of those he protected, those he had watched his brothers-in-arms die for. This man saw, as many did, that the world would not long survive the disasters and atrocities that had been wrought upon it, and that a new world would soon rise, born like a phoenix from the dust and ashes of the last. But, unlike many others, he refused to accept it. He refused to simply lie back and let himself be destroyed with his fellow men. And so, he acted. In the dying days of the world, he gathered together his gang, those who wouldn't die passively, who would follow him in controlling their own lives, their own fates, and he drove. His Horde followed him, constantly growing and developing. After the world was changed, baked in fire, he grew harder, simply killing others and taking what he could, rampaging and stealing as he saw fit, like the Viking raiders of old. In time, he found three landmarks which would grow to be his kingdom. One was an oil refinery, with its black liquid still rising from out of its pumps, bleeding from the earth. Another was a lead mine, a deep gash in the ground which was still filled with the tools required to mine and meld the material found into food for the Horde's massive armoury. And the last place, a trio of rock pillars, shooting high into the sky, dominating the surrounding landscape. These places would soon become known as Gastown, the Bullet Farm, and the Citadel, and would grow into the three crowning gem in the Horde King's empire.

And so, for nearly fifteen years, the man built. He carved a home out of the pillars, joining it with the oil refinery and the lead mine. In time, other survivors came to the pillars, and were promised water in return for loyalty. This number only grew, until the ground surrounding the fortress was littered with stragglers and survivors, all living in the shadow of the Citadel, and all totally dependent on its ruler for life. The man took the boys who came to him, those who didn't know of any time before, and trained them, moulded them into his brainwashed, zealous army. He took women from the survivors, those who had not had their beauty marred by radiation or life in the desert, and made them his breeders, through which he would further his legacy. The man stopped being known as a man, and became Immortan, sitting on his throne of dust and skulls, ruling over his little stretch of Hell.

Eventually, he grew bored, and desired more, as all men eventually do. His gaze swept the desert, searching for a new conquest, and his eyes came to rest on a small cluster of mountains, not far from his throne. These mountains, slanting into the sky, sheltered a small settlement, where survivors had cowered from the new world, slowly growing into a community, albeit a small one, with the people beginning to tentatively reach out, aiming to rebuild what had been lost. And it was into this that the Immortan drove, accompanied by his Horde. He offered the people water and protection in return for their loyalty, as he had done with others, but they refused, seeing what he was and fearing for a future under him. He came to them again, offering the same deal over and over, steadily growing angrier at their defiance, until one day, he gave up. If they wouldn't accept his peace, they would taste his war and fury. He amassed his army and attacked, intending to take the settlement. But he was pushed back, the settlers refusing to roll over and accept surrender. Again he charged, and again he was repelled. The process was repeated and repeated, until the defenders tired and could no longer weather the onslaught. And, finally, the Immortan charged, and the defences fell, leading him to the heart of the settlement. Those living there never stood a chance, the Immortan's anger being too great to ever consider mercy. The Horde rampaged, killing and pillaging everyone and everything, nothing and no one being spared from their chaos. And eventually, the Immortan stood over the ashes of this settlement, his feet planted on the rotting corpses of those who had fought to defend it. Over time, he turned this place into an extension of his kingdom, and continued his rule, believing all those who might want revenge on him to be dead, lying in the dust. He was wrong.

For, as he stood over the bodies of those who died facing him, a boy watched. Watched from beneath the bodies of his family, as everything he had known was destroyed, everyone he had cared for cut down without mercy, left as food for the maggots and crows. And, cowering beneath those empty husks, he swore a vow. A vow to the memories of his family, a vow to the home that had been ripped from him, that he would avenge their destruction. And for years, he grew. He patched himself back together, built himself the tools he would need to enact his revenge. Even when he had calmed the fire in his heart, when he had silenced the violent rage filling him up to burst, the desire still remained. The desire to hurt the Immortan, as he had hurt him, to take everything he cared about, everything he had built, and leave him standing in the ruins of what had once been his, before finally ending him, and fulfilling his promise.

This is his story.