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Sherlock dips the dull scrap of metal into the solution and smiles. This time he thinks he's found the right combination of chemicals to turn things chrome.
He removes it after a few seconds and sets it on the rough-hewn rock table. When it's dry, he rubs it in the sand bucket to remove any lingering chemicals. The fingers of his mechanical left hand involuntarily flex as remembers the pain of having the acid slowly eat away at his flesh when he'd been careless years ago after an experiment. His prosthetic is too valuable to risk damaging either.
“Did you get it, Boss?” asks a voice from the door.
“Hmmm, I believe so.” Sherlock turns around to a see a War Boy, John, take a few steps closer.
“So shiny, so chrome,” he whispers as he looks the scrap over himself.
“Yes, the Immortan will be pleased.” Sherlock hands the metal to John, watching as he makes to grab it with his left hand but ultimately grabs it with his right. The tumors popping out of John’s shoulder have started to impede his movement.
“Maybe he'll finally give you the War Rig? A prize for figuring out something as, well, chrome as this?”
“That's the hope,” Sherlock says. The War Rig is the only way for his plan of escape to begin.