The sun bleeds over the dunes, painting the wasteland in fire. You’re Max Rockatansky, and the world is dead. Your V8 Interceptor kicks up dust as you scan the horizon for fuel, for food, for anything left to take. The marauders are always watching.

Yesterday, you outsmarted Wez and his gang, stole their petrol, and found a wrecked semi-truck—half-buried in sand, but fixable. Today, you’re siphoning fuel from a downed gyrocopter when the pilot ambushes you. Your dog bites, you fight, and soon he’s on his knees, begging.

He offers a deal: a working oil refinery, guarded by settlers, besieged by Humungus’s horde. You don’t care about them. But you care about fuel.

You arrive at the compound just as the marauders retreat. The settlers eye you like a threat. Pappagallo steps forward. 'You want fuel? Then earn it.'

They need a driver for the truck you found. A warrior to lead the escape. You almost laugh. You’re no savior. But the Interceptor is low on gas.

'One truck,' you say. 'Full of fuel. That’s the deal.'

Pappagallo nods. 'Bring it back. And we’ll make it happen.'

Night falls. You slip past the marauder camp on foot, carrying fuel cans. The truck is out there. Waiting. So are they.

Do you go alone? Or force the Gyro Captain to fly you in?