Right. Furiosa isn't scared of much. She's faced down cyclones with steely silence, spat in the face of men that would see her strung up and sun-dried, and driven a straight course with lances and gunfire lighting up the desert all around her. But the way the hull of the ship keens and shudders goes right down the center of her spine, and while she doesn't dare stop to look back, she can almost feel the pressure that must be unfolding back there. A living thing, or a thing that's not dead.
No, there's no doubt in her mind now that they need to be out of the ship, even at the risk of taking to open ground. Something wants the salvage, and it's bigger than them, and maybe they can turn and face it but not from where they were standing.
She wastes none of her breath in words, metal arm coming around Palmer's back to shelter him--he's the only Blackthumb she's got, ok?--and hustling him down the boarding ramp, then around and behind one of the landing struts. She points toward the snowy landscape beyond as if commanding him to watch that direction, then positions herself, gun ready, in case something other than Harley or the droid comes down the ramp after them.
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No, there's no doubt in her mind now that they need to be out of the ship, even at the risk of taking to open ground. Something wants the salvage, and it's bigger than them, and maybe they can turn and face it but not from where they were standing.
She wastes none of her breath in words, metal arm coming around Palmer's back to shelter him--he's the only Blackthumb she's got, ok?--and hustling him down the boarding ramp, then around and behind one of the landing struts. She points toward the snowy landscape beyond as if commanding him to watch that direction, then positions herself, gun ready, in case something other than Harley or the droid comes down the ramp after them.