Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Furiosa had forgotten how cold it was up there, in the Vault. Sunlight streamed in, hazy and diffuse through the glass, but it did little to warm the place. She continued her work, both hands deftly positioning the glass and gluing it back in, hitched to the heavy metal frame of the pane by a pulley and her harness. Recaulking individual planes of glass had to be done every few years; the dry atmosphere meant that the binding that held things in place dried up and cracked away to nothing, letting in the wind and dust. One pane at a time, inch by inch. Carefully, Furiosa reset those valuable panes of glass; they were each worth almost as much as a new War Pup, and she knew what it would meant if she broke anything.

A sound slowly pierced her consciousness, two notes, something that sounded bright and rich with a strange, warm resonance that she had never heard before. Sometimes one note played before the other, sometimes the other note played before it. Sometimes they sounded together in unison. There was both a lightness to them and a wistful mournfulness.

As she finished for the day, she winched herself down, rappelling off the stone wall and freeing herself from the harness. Furiosa walked around the great black hulk that ate up the space in the middle of the room, that was new; she noticed it earlier when she came in, and had no idea what it was, but from the look of it, the design, it was from the old days, from a time beyond memory.

Something else new sat at the black bench, the fine drapery of her clothing pooling like water around her hips where she sat. The girdle was around the young woman's hips, that hateful metal thing, and there was a little clutch of pain as Furiosa recognized it.

Odd that it didn't hurt as much as it used to.

Furiosa glanced at the girl's face.

Latticed scars. Hair the color of wheat. It jolted a faint memory of a bright glowing light in the darkness, but Furiosa couldn't place it.

“I'm trying to work.” Furiosa put her hands against her own hips, the outer curve of her thighs, feeling the reassurance of tools against her palms. “Knock it off.”

The young woman met Furiosa's eyes, her long fingertips on the black and white keys. “You're not working right now.”

“I'm done for today.” But even as she looked to the door, Furiosa hesitated.

“Fix this for me then, War Boy.”

“Not my job.”

“I'll tell the Immortan on you. I'm his favorite.” Her cool eyes met Furiosa's, and Furiosa hesitated, knowing what that meant all too well. A long time ago, she too had been his favorite.

Furiosa swallowed, stepping back. “I can't fix everything.”

“You can't know until you try.”

Furiosa walked around, appraising the machine, focused on it to the exclusion of all other thoughts. “I don't know even know what this is.”

“Miss Giddy calls it a pianofuerte. It's a machine that makes music. But of all the keys, only these two work.”

“Let me see.” The young woman slipped deftly out of her way, leaving the perfumed sweetness of clean skin in her wake.

Furiosa sat down at the machine. She looked down; there were three pedals. All right, this made sense. Accelerator, brake, clutch. There were wheels; it should move, but perhaps it needed guzzoline. New sparkplugs. A rebuilt transmission.

“Show me the working keys.”

The young woman leaned over and pointed them out, one black, one white, a distance from each other, maybe about a handsbreadth. Black paint had worn off of them; they were slightly brown. Perhaps a coded kill switch? Furiosa considered all the possible options, trying to troubleshoot the problem.

“All right, stand back. I'm going to see if I can get this to start.” She waved the young woman back, settled in her seat, pressed the working keys, and slowly depressed the accelerator.

Nothing happened. The engine didn't turn. Even giving the brake a few pumps and jiggling the clutch didn't seem to do anything; it was all frozen up inside. But maybe that made sense; perhaps the wheels were to help move the machine around instead of propel anything; they were pretty flimsy wheels for something so big that it could carry two Lancers, easy. And the bench wasn't even attached to the machine.

“I'm going under the bonnet.” Feeling around the machine, she lifted the heavy lid and propped up the hood strut. “Hit the keys that work.”

The young woman leaned down, her hair falling in a cascade around her face, and she hit the keys. Inside, little pedals moved up and down, striking long wires.

“What about the other ones?”

The young woman began touching different keys, her long thoughtful fingers stroking over them, and it distracted Furiosa for a moment before she looked under the bonnet again. No intake, no valves, no pistons. Just more little pedals inside that no longer moved, though here and there she could hear hollow, thwarted thumping.

“Whatever it is, whatever music it's supposed to make, I think this machine is trashed,” Furiosa shrugged and moved to close the lid. “I can't fix it if it's not an engine. I don't know what it runs on if it doesn't run on guzzoline.”

“Wait.” The young woman's hand stopped Furiosa's, and Furiosa flinched away, afraid to soil the soft, smooth hand with her own grimy, calloused fingers.

“What is it?”

“Don't shut the bonnet. I like the way it looks now.”

“Like a fatally fractured bird in a glass giant's cage,” a new voice said and Furiosa twisted around to catch a glance, a flash of pale skin and even paler hair. But then Miss Giddy came out of the other room and shooed her away.

*****

“Nux?”

Nux looked up from the hood of the engine, finally pulling out the defective spark plug that had been causing all the problems. It somehow broke free and dislodged itself mid-drive, and a large piece of it had knocked about, damaging the engine. It took Nux about three hours to find the piece; next was to patch up everything it had damaged. He had a running list in his mind.

“What?”

“There's a Lancer waiting for you. Says you set up a meet with 'em.”

“Oh, right.” Absently, Nux handed the defective part to a War Pup, wiping his hands off on his work rag. Tell Slit I'll be right there.” He turned to the crew that maintained the car; they had borrowed him from his crew to troubleshoot the engine failure. “Here's what's gotta get fixed now...”

“Nux, you're doing it wrong.” Slit took the practice lance from him. “You don't choke up so high on it, best placement for your hands is here.” He showed Nux, miming the action with the practice thunder stick, an inert dummy, its canisters filled with sand to replicate the weight of the explosives.

Nux stood at Slit's left, his unscarred side, where Slit could hear better. “You're not going to get as much distance that way. If you gripped it here,” Nux pointed, tapping the pole. “You'd be able to throw it further.”

“Finally you're listening. That's what I've been trying to say. I want to throw. But it won't balance right the way the shop makes 'em now. Right now it's made for sticking prey, not throwing.” Slit mimed the action. “Like a guided drop. I wanna throw it, like a distance.”

Nux considered the problem and briefly struggling with the fastenings, he removed the practice canisters, handing the blank pole to Slit.

“Hold it up like you're going throw it.” Nux picked up his test lance, watching where Slit's hand was positioned on the pole. In his mind, he subdivided the pole of the lance into tenths and then halves, breaking it down into hand-lengths. Eyeballing the measurements, he guessed at how many hands down from the end the optimum position of the explosives there could be for the best possible balance.

Nux took the thin, dented metal canisters and repositioned it a few hands down from the end of the long, flexible metal pole, securing it neatly.

“Try this.”

Slit hefted the shaft, and gave it a toss. It flew across the room, the wobble of the end keeping it straight.

“Thirty hands accuracy. Maybe more.”

“It throws, but that's not the point.” Slit shook his head. “How are the explosives going to go off if they're not at the end?”

“Oh. I didn't think about that.”

“This is stupid.” Slit picked up the practice lance. “This thunder stick idea is no good. I'm going back to the shop. There's better stuff to do than waste time on this.”

“No, no wait.” Nux gestured for the test lance, and taking it in his hands, began unfastening it. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

Nux took off the dummy canisters and opening them up, began redistributing the varying amounts of sand within them, tapping out excess. He hefted them with both hands in turn, gauging their weight before resetting them on the end of the pole, the way they normally were set.

“Okay, try this.”

Slit picked up the lance and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. This feels better.” With a sharp twist of his torso, he launched it across the room.

“Thirty hands and I wasn't even really trying.” He turned to Nux, showing him the good side of his face, grinning. “Yeah, I can see this working.”

“The shop should have been measuring them even in the first place.” Nux shrugged. “You should tell 'em that.”

“Don't tell anyone else about my technique. It's my idea.”

“Course not. It's yours. So when will you be my Lancer?”

“When are you getting a drive?” Slit met his eyes, and Nux suddenly realized that finally they were about the same height. He had finally caught up to the older Slit, if only in height. “If that'll ever happen.”

“It will.”

“Keep dreaming, Revhead. Don't you have some oil to change?”

Later that night, Nux woke and couldn't sleep. His mind was abuzz with ideas; he shifted around in the loose sand, trying to get comfortable.

“Stop that, I'm trying to sleep.” Slit's arm pinned him, hard muscle cutting across Nux's chest for a moment before letting him go with a sharp shake.

“I had that dream again. About the engine I want to build,” Nux whispered. “Six gears forward, four gears backwards. That way I can get up to almost full speed backwards if I need to.”

“So you can run away faster in a fight?”

“So I can run you into the Buzzards faster.” Nux closed his eyes; he could imagine it already, going full bore backwards with his Lancer on the perch, thunder stick in hand, so they could always face their enemies. “It'd give us a competitive edge, once you're my Lancer. I could position you anywhere you like.”

“'Once I'm your Lancer.' Keep dreaming, Revhead. Who's gonna give you a drive? You're just gonna have to wait your turn and take one from someone who gets shot out from under you. Oh but you're not a Lancer.”

“I'll be driving sooner than you think.” Nux traced the V8 on his chest, his ticket to a better life.

“Fine, then I'll be your Lancer. But it better be the best ride in the entire War Party, or I'm asking someone else.”

“You better hold to it.”

“Engine performance.” Slit scoffed. “Is there anything else you dream about?”

“Fuel efficiency, sometimes.”

“Shut up, stop squirming, and go to sleep.” Slit shifted, putting his back to Nux's. “I got patrol all week, early.”

Nux closed his eyes, the design was so clear in his mind. If only he were promoted; then he'd have a car and be in charge of a Revhead crew to customize it. And the parts he'd get, once he showed he could pull his weight. Shiny and chrome. There should be flames, yes. Something with long streamlined curves...

Somehow Nux managed to fall asleep, Slit's whistling breath beside his ear, the familiar warmth of Slit's body against his back.

Chapter Text

That night Furiosa dreamt of the past. The sky, it was blue and endless, pure and untainted, and from here resting against the welcoming warmth of her mother's shoulder, she could see the curvature of the distant waste.

“What's beyond? Why do the Many Mothers go there?”

“That way's the salt. That's how we can trade for petrol and parts, gathering and trading the salt. Otherwise we eat from the earth, nurturing the lives we grow to reap them in season. My darling Furiosa, it is our way of survival; a different way from the others.” The wind rose, and strands of her mother's golden hair flowed with the wind, tangling and fluttering, and when Furiosa reached out to touch those fine, delicate strands, they felt almost immaterial against her fingertips.

“Who are the others?”

“Those beyond our lands. We exist in a hidden place, out beyond the mountains and dunes, far from the world of men. When you're older and stronger...”

Wheat rippled in the wind, no taller than her mother's waist, and the color, the golden sheaves cut in season and the deep green of the cornstalks as the swirling...

Furiosa woke with a start. All around in the nest, her fellow War Boys slept, some huddled on their own, dug into the deep clean sand, some back to back with a fellow Lancer or Driver, some in careless piles. Whatever they dreamt about, it was never spoken of, though sometimes in the night she would hear a single cry, a gasp of fear, a choked-back sob, a brief thrashing of limbs.

Furiosa huddled deeper into the warm sand alone, feeling the chill of the night press down on her and she closed her eyes, trying to remember.

It had been a long time since she had thought of home, and when she tried to recapture the memory it was already gone, lost in the growl of snores and the scents of oil and metal and men.

In the morning, Furiosa went back to work on the glass panels, but this time she had company. Looking down from her dizzying perch, she could see them at study, sitting in a neat orderly row. While the girls didn't address her directly, she could hear them at their reading:

“Listen to this: 'Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him. A good wife always knows her place.'”

“What place is that, do you think?”

“On her back, I assume,” someone said with dark humor, and it made Furiosa glance down at the girls and their books.

The young woman with the latticed scars looked up and gave her a thoughtful look. “War Boy, what do you think?”

“Not paid to think,” she said unthinkingly, as she chipped at the old sealant with the edge of a screwdriver, hugging the precious glass panel to her chest.

“You're not paid at all. No one is. We're all his slaves. His property.”

Furiosa said nothing in response, continuing to scrape and chip at the old sealant in the metal frame.

“My name's Angharad.”

Furiosa quietly worked without another word, but once in a while, she glanced down to see Angharad watching.

While Furiosa worked, she could hear the Wives chattering amongst themselves like a handful of sweet-voiced white crows. Sometimes Miss Giddy would be giving lessons. Sometimes they spoke to her; sometimes she replied to them. Somehow over the course of the week she was working on the windows, Angharad made her give her name, and once Furiosa heard her name in those mouths, on their tongues, it was a strange, unsettling feeling.

When was the last time she had heard a woman say her name?

Once she heard the Immortan's voice, booming, calling out a command she could not quite make out, and it startled her into a dizzy spin fifty hands off the ground, clutching a pane of glass as the wind whistled past her ears. But he never came in, not while she was there.

*****

Nux knew there was something wrong immediately when the chatter and hum of the Citadel slowed down to no more than a sigh before shutting down entirely. He clicked off the welding torch and pushed off the mask.

“What's wrong? What's going on?” He looked around for his cohort as men began filtering into the room; Morsov, Notch, Button... Everyone was accounted for but...

“Where's Slit?” Nux stood and caught Morsov's wrist with his free hand as the War Boy walked by.

“Out on a patrol run.” Morsov shook him off easily.

“Something's happened to them, hasn't it?”

Morsov nodded and gestured toward the doorway; even more War Boys were coming in and behind them, the Ace.

War Boys leaned against the car that was up on the blocks, sat down on the stone benches, crouched beside the tires. The room quickly fell into a hush.

“Nine War Boys went out early this morning for a run around the perimeter, and they never reported back. Three cars, two bikes, and not a sign of either of 'em. We sent out another patrol just now and and they found a place where there's a lot of fresh shells and blood. Couple bodies, but only three of 'em were ours. Lee, Junker, and Spiff. Tracks heading west,” the Ace pointed.

A murmur went around the room; more than a few made the sign of the V8.

“What're we gonna do?”

“Imperator's given the order to retaliate, straight from the Immortan's mouth. Ain't gonna let no one steal from the Immortan and get away with it. War Party's headin out in the hour. Get ready.” The Ace's last words were almost drowned out in a chorus of jubilant shouts.

In the ensuing commotion as War Boys headed to the wheel shrine, Nux somehow noticed that the Ace was beckoning him over. It hadn't been that long since he had last seen the Ace, but all he could think was that the imposing figure of the Ace seemed smaller than he remembered, or perhaps it was just that Nux was now taller.

“The other Half-life Nobles and I agree. You been trainin hard, Nux, and you're ready to be a Driver.” The Ace took him by his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “You keep up that hard work, and we'll see if that don't take you further.”

A confusion of feelings went through Nux at that moment and then all the worries slid away as he realized that finally, after years of being the best until falling behind Slit, who hadn't even been a War Pup as long as he had, Nux had caught up to and surpassed his peer. Slit who was promoted to Lancer before he was, and now Nux had been promoted to Driver without ever having been a Lancer.

“Let's get you a wheel. Morsov! Come meet your new Driver.”

*****

“Angharad, look at the connection. Maybe if I can find some wire of the right stiffness and gauge, I can cut it down into new pins and replace these rusted out pins. That way, maybe we can get this part to move again...” Suddenly, the low thump of the beating drums, reverberated through the cavernous room like a fast-pounding heart, and Furiosa looked up from under the bonnet of the pianofuerte.

A loud bang resounded, the sound of a gun or maybe it was backfire.

“What's that?” The newest of the girls skittered away. Despite having been here for a few years, she wasn't here the last time a War Party was sent out. Dark eyes afraid, she huddled in the doorway of the protective lair of the little bedroom the girls shared, and Angharad shook her head.

“That's a Colt. Single Action Army.” The tiniest of them said coolly, and when it fired again, she nodded. “Definitely a Colt.”

“War. Death. Men and their Anti-Seed, ready to fight another day over the bones and scraps of the world.”

“I have to go.” Furiosa set down the pieces of the pianofuerte she had taken apart. Her grimy hands had left faint black marks on the pale wood, on the dry and crackling felt.

“Don't. You don't owe them.” Angharad took Furiosa by her hand. The young woman's hands were soft and uncalloused, but had surprising strength. “Stay here and help us fix this up. We'll have music days. No one can read the writing, but there might be a way to figure out how to—”

“No.” Furiosa shook her off and quickly packed her tools away. “They need me, and I owe it to them.”

“Don't be a part of this, Furiosa.”

“I'll get in trouble.”

“Please, you're our friend now. Stay and fix this instead of fighting. If they ask, tell them you were busy and didn't notice.”

“I have to.”

“Stay with us, Furiosa. We like you, and you'll be safe here with us.” Another girl spoke; Furiosa couldn't remember what the red-haired one was called.

“I want to.”

There was a pause. Angharad nodded her disapproval. “All right. Then don't come back.”

“I won't.” Furiosa felt for her goggles as she walked out; they were where they should be, around her neck. She hurried across the heavily guarded bridges to the other side. Above, windmills and cranes churned their work quietly amongst the trees and shrubs.

Chapter Text

The Half-life Noble swung the metal arm of the War Rig out and back in, giving it a few drops of oil before securing it. A moment later the vehicle shuddered onto the lift and was lowered to join the rest of the convoy.

Furiosa looked up. High above her, she saw Ace and the other Half-life Nobles, coming down with the War Rig. All around her waiting engines growled their eagerness. Down came the Doof Wagon, gingerly lowered, the squealing electronic yowl of the axe being tuned a sharp staccato burst of sound.

She set her wheel, and started the engine. She could hear Coil moving about on the roof, angling the lances the way he liked them.

So this was it; the last time they had been to war, she had been on a Bartertown run and missed all the fun. The drums sounded again, a moving, furious beat, and the convoy took off, tearing out of the Citadel. Awed, the Wretched followed the War Party for a brief way into the waste, hoping for dropped scraps.

It was exhilarating, the heady beat of the drums, the snarl of the engines competing with the snarl of the axe, and she was enjoying the fierce adrenal pounding of her heart until she saw the mountain of the Gigahorse slicing its way through the convoy.

It passed her car and she looked down, not wanting to be seen. Fumbling at her face, she realized she had her goggles on; if she was lucky, he wouldn't have seen her, wouldn't have noticed. Chancing a glance up, she realized he was merely scanning the horizon as he drove past.

So she too was beneath his notice. Hands clutching the wheel tight, she hit the nitrous and her car zipped ahead, putting seconds between her and the Gigahorse.

“Immortan Joe!” Coil shouted above her, and gritting her teeth, Furiosa drove on.

*****

“Immortan Joe!” Nux hit the nitrous chasing the Gigahorse, getting a burst of speed but not enough to flank it, to catch a glimpse of the Immortan. He wondered what crew had been maintaining this particular vehicle. It ran heavy, sluggish, its front end felt too loose and the back end too heavy. Already he had ideas on different setups, on how to lighten its burden, starting with the Lancer. He could easily save a couple kilos switching from Morsov to Slit. What was it that Slit had said? Whatever vehicle Slit was on, he'd switch over to Nux's, were Nux the Driver.

That had felt like a joke back when Nux felt like he would never escape the Revshop, but now here he was behind the wheel and if only Slit could see him.

Nux glanced around, at the array of vehicles pounding through the waste by his side. At the crowd of lesser ranked Revheads, all clinging onto the great metal skeleton of the hauler. He pitied them, those War Boys without the skill or ability of a Driver or Lancer. War Boys like that might never be Witnessed, might never know true happiness.

Dust kicked up in clouds; he maneuvered to stay in pockets of clean air. In a burst of inspiration, he ducked into the slipstream behind the Gigahorse as it passed; he could already feel that he was gaining seconds even as he eased off the nitrous.

But then the beat changed, Imperators shouted; they were to fan out into a great V, forming a vast line to open up the search, and Nux fell back onto the right flank. Riding to glory, on the right-hand of the Immortan. Already this was turning out to be the best day of his life.

*****

Hours later, reinforcements from the Bullet Farm caught up with them so they all stopped to rest and water the engines. For his trouble, the Immortan in his generosity gave the Bullet Farmer two Half-life Nobles off the War Rig as gifts. There was a brief moment of anxiety for Furiosa, until she realized that Ace had been overlooked; he had been down in the engine when the Bullet Farmer came by.

So the Immortan didn't think this was a problem to be taken seriously, the loss of the cars and their accompanying War Boys, if he could spare hands off the War Rig. It now felt more like a pleasure trip; already they could see the Bandit settlement off to the southwest, the mirrors and windows of their cars and bikes glinting in the sun. It'd be over by nightfall and they'd go home, with stories and boasting tales, with loot and vehicles and trophies.

Furiosa sat in her car, keeping an eye on her rig. Coil had wandered off to consult with some of the other Lancers; someone had mentioned an improved thunder stick design that was better balanced than the current one so he had gone himself for a look.

A cold wind kicked up, stirring the dust around her tires, and she frowned; there was electricity in the air, a nervous charge that itched her bones and it didn't bode well. Looking in her mirrors and then turning around, she could see a heavy cloud forming behind them, coming from the north.

“Hey.” Ace stopped by, tapping on her passenger window and she leaned over, opening the door for him.

“Something up?”

“Need a pair of needle-nose pliers. Snapped mine,” Ace showed her the broken tool before pocketing it.

“Let me find it. Why don't you come in? It's starting to blow out there.”

“Nah, can't stay long. Gotta finish before it starts storming.” Ace merely pulled on his goggles as the wind kicked up, twirling dust devils of sand. Furiosa hesitated; this was already showing signs of a bad storm, so she patted around her pockets, as if she couldn't find it, stalling him.

“S'all right, I'll ask at the next-” But then Ace suddenly ducked in, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later the car shook with sudden violence as wind rear-ended the vehicle.

“No luck, eh?” Furiosa pulled out the pliers, handing them over.

“No luck.” Ace sat back in the passenger seat, wiping his hands clean on a rag.

They traded rations; both carried extra bars of the sun-dried mush that was eaten at every meal. It was something of a novelty to try someone else's for a change despite the fact that each bar of food was essentially the same, made from the common pot. They ate slowly, savoring each bite in the relative luxury of the confines of the car. Whoever was caught out in this storm had to have the luck of finding some shelter; sometimes those of the Wretched were found with their mouths and nostrils packed with sand, or so Furiosa had heard.

“Storms always reminds me of when I was a pup.” The wind had died down to a point where they could talk, but it was blowing strong, keening and whistling around the minute cracks of the car. Sand dribbled in through a cracked window, and Furiosa absently stirred the loose pile with her index finger.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ace glanced at her briefly, his colorless eyes thoughtful.

“What was that like? Back then.”

“We were goin to find a better place. Me 'n my ma and pa, my big sister. Tryin to find a better life.”

“What happened?” In all the years she had known him, she had never heard Ace say so much about anything that wasn't about work, about engines or driving or training. Carefully, Furiosa kept her eyes off of him, so that he would keep talking.

“Storm came and took 'em away. Killed almost everyone in the convoy. That's the way things are in life, Furiosa. One day an Imperator ridin high above the rest, the next day a mouth full of dirt, killed by a storm.” He kept his eyes fixed out at the clouds of choking dust.

Furiosa felt at her own bicep, at the firm bulge of muscle there.

“I think I was one of the first pups. Back then the Prime had charge of us all. We put on the white to keep off the sun, and the black to keep off the glare.”

“What was he like? Back then.” Furiosa couldn't help but wonder; that was a dark curiosity that had to be sated.

“The Prime?” Ace shrugged. “Like he is now. Hard-working. Loyal to the Immortan. Cruel.”

“Oh.” And there, she wasn't surprised.

“Back then I figured I'd be different when I got big myself.” Furiosa glanced at him. Though Ace was looking away, she could see that his crooked, off-set jaw had tightened. “Back then I thought...kids ain't done nothin wrong. Ain't nothing wrong with being little and scared and needin.”

“What about Immortan Joe? What was he like?”

“Strong. Tall. He was our savior.” Ace crossed his arms, his calloused hands cupping his scarred ribcage. “He took us out of the waste. Him 'n his brother, the Bullet Farmer. If it weren't for them, we'd all be Buzzard food or worse.”

“Worse.” And she hugged herself, remembering her mother.

“Ended up sold in Bartertown, maybe, the lot of us kids. Back then there weren't as many kids and there were a lot more road warriors, ready to steal. When we got a bit bigger and went outside the Citadel on trade runs, we hardly ever saw any other kids. Heard people used to keep 'em locked up and out of sight, cuz they were so valuable. Not that they aren't expensive now, just that they was more so back then. Was seventeen or eighteen hundred days after I started working trade runs before I started seeing kids about.” There was a finality to his words; Ace had run dry.

There as a long silence as Furiosa took in what he said.

Furiosa swallowed. She fought herself for a minute but then realized she had to say it; if she didn't, she would never, could never say it. And if she could tell anyone in this world, it would be him.

“Ace. When I was...that is. A long time ago. Slavers...stole my mother and I on a salt run.” She closed her eyes. “It was supposed to be a routine run. Quick. Safe. But they found us. They came to steal the salt. Then they realized we were women...”

Ace didn't say anything, didn't turn around, but he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. Furiosa pulled herself together, her breaths harsh in her dry throat.

“She died...because she was fighting. Trying to stop them. And they killed her.” All the words that had been pushed away for so long that they had almost disappeared inside her, dissolved into the depths of her heart, words that had been long lost to her lips fell out in pieces, fragments. Furiosa leaned against the window, running her hand over the smooth curve of her head. Tears enough she had years ago; now she was all dried up.

“Furiosa. You and me. Together. We all lost someone.” Ace spoke slowly, eyes fixed on the storm. “Can't be a War Boy if you got a mother or a father.”

The wind kicked up again and the sky darkened as night fell. Lightning sizzled across the poisoned red sky as swirls of sand rose high into the atmosphere. Soon it was too loud to talk again, and all she could hear was the dry rattle of sand as the storm buffeted the sides of the car, shaking them with frustrated might.

When Furiosa woke, the storm was over and Ace was already gone. He had left her pliers on the passenger seat, the handles pointed toward her. She could hear his muffled voice through the windows; he was talking to the Imperator as the shorted crew was busy digging out the War Rig.

It took much faster for her to dig out than many of the others, but then she had help. Furiosa picked up two orphaned Lancers from cars whose intakes were so clogged with sand that they would probably have to be towed back on the hauler. A car shot out of the bogged mess of the War Party, then another, and she called to the Lancers to mount up. With a growl, the engine sprang to life, and they were off, tearing after their fellow War Boys.

Chapter Text

Nux, Morsov, Coil, and Notch made quick work of digging out the car; the Lancers had sheltered inside the nearest vehicle as the storm blew through and were the first to dig out the next morning. None of them slept all that much; it was too exciting; they had kept talking and waking each other up. It didn't matter though; this was a War Party and they were going to get as much out of it as they could.

Once the important parts of the car were free of sand and dust, Nux got it started. Notch clambered in and the other two Lancers climbed up on the perches, one in front, one in back. Morsov gave the top door a double tap, and off they went, heading southwest for the Bandit encampment they had seen. If they were lucky, the Bandits hadn't had time to outrun the storm.

They were a full minute out before the next car behind them, and the War Boys cheered each other on for being first to battle, for riding in the vanguard. This was it, they were going to be quickest to the prizes of glory.

The first of the Bandits swung out to meet them halfway and it was easy pickings. Despite the inferior handling, the wiggle of the front, the heavy back end, Nux found it easy to out-drive them, to outmaneuver them. He used that heavy back to slide the car where he needed it to go, the wobble to give the car the appearance of unsteadiness, of weakness, to draw them in close. He moved in simple counterpoint to the Bandits, swinging his car into position at the very last minute, giving his Lancers ample time and place to spear the vehicles. They took out two this way, before the rest of the War Party trickled into the fight, a cacophony of grinding gears, pounding drums, the sharp retort of bullets, and over it all, the wail of the axe. Soon it began to grow ugly; more and more of the Bandits came piling out to meet them, many on quick, hard-to-hit motorcycles, and it was starting to become obvious how their fellow War Boys had been taken down. The combined forces of the Citadel and the Bullet Farm had them outgunned, but the coalition of Bandits nearly had them outnumbered.

The fighting grew intense. The horn on the War Rig sounded, and a handful of cars headed reflexively toward it, to protect it. It was too valuable a vehicle to lose; the War Rig was their primary source of hauling trade goods. Nux was closest on its right flank; he swung his car in, trying to slice between the War Rig and a Bandit attacking its Lancers with spears. One of the Half-life Nobles went down, then another, speared through the head, and Nux felt a brief jolt of surprise as a War Boy's lax body went under the wheels in a sudden burst of red. Swinging his car closer, Nux flanked the Bandit vehicle and his Lancers made swift work of them.

“Morsov! Coil!” Nux pointed to the War Rig from the open top door. “Someone get up there!” Only one Half-life Noble remained aboard, and he was fighting for his life as Bandits began to swarm the War Rig.

“Take the wheel. Get us in close.” From here she could see the Imperator, gun in hand, trying to pick off Bandits as he drove the War Rig. Furiosa jammed the throttle and moved aside; Button took the wheel expertly, swinging it in close. She climbed up out of the top door, ducking in tandem with the other Lancer as a burst of gunfire rang out over their heads. The Lancer was an older War Boy who she knew only by sight but not by name. Side-by-side they returned fire; the Bandit lost control and went down in a swerving mess, taking a motorcycle and its two riders with it.

“What do you need?”

“A boost.” She pointed to the War Rig, at the dangling metal arm just above their heads. He glanced at her and the gauged the distance to the arm and nodded; she was light enough; this would work.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” And with a mighty heft, he swung her into the air and she caught the loose arm of the War Rig. With a jerk of her legs, she swung herself in, kicking a Bandit off as she boarded.

“What are you doing here?” Ace looked surprised as she secured the metal arm and pulled out her gun, picking off another man before reloading.

“Giving myself a promotion,” Furiosa grinned, and seeing Ace's expression change, she swung around, her back to Ace's, their guns ablaze.

The Bandits were trying to herd them, trying to draw them away from the encampment. Even from here Nux could see almost the whole picture of it; the Bandit encampment was getting further and further to the left the longer they drove. All three Lancers were up top now; seeing Furiosa boarding from the other side, they were trying to figure out how to get on. Simple, Nux thought, and he hit the nitrous and fanged it, getting them closer in, angling for that sweet spot behind the spiked front of the tank.

“Pick one and throw 'em on!” Nux shouted as he maneuvered the car, shaking off a rifle-toting motorcyclist by nudging the Bandit off his bike with his back wheel. The man went down in a tumble of limbs. “Thunder up!”

“Morsov,” Coil pointed, and Notch agreed. Morsov was lighter than the older, heavily-built Coil, but stronger and a better hand-to-hand fighter than Notch. The two War Boys crouched down, and Morsov put his boots to their shoulders.

“Nux! Ready?”

“Ready!” Nux eyed the distance, trying to place Morsov so that he wouldn't land in the midst of the Bandits. He adjusted the nitrous, gaining by half a second and it was enough so that when Morsov was sent flying, he caught the edge of the top walk of the tank just behind the front gunner's nest, a couple hands ahead of the Bandits trying to make their way to the cab.

Morsov came up snarling, and bodies began tumbling off the War Rig.

Furiosa saw the other War Boy come aboard; this made things a little more complicated now; she had to watch where her shots were going so as not to hit him. But they had the Bandits squeezed between a set of War Boys, just as the Bandits had previously had the War Boys squeezed between them. Now they were almost evenly matched.

Twisting out of the way, feeling Ace moving with her against her back, she just avoided being skewered by a pike; Ace pivoted and grabbed the heavy metal pole, swinging it against his hip. Counter-weighted by Furiosa, her arm locked tight in his, Ace flung the pike-wielding Bandit off the War Rig. When Furiosa got her feet back under her, she was facing the back of the rig where a Bandit with a spiked metal club in hand was climbing up the heavy metal supports. Compared to the two men left trapped between the War Boys, this was a relatively safer place, but it left Furiosa both frustrated and relieved to have been given something easier; Ace was struggling hand-to-hand with a black-haired Bandit, wrestling the masked road warrior for possession of a gun.

Glancing back at Ace to make sure he was all right, she pointed her gun and fired her last shot at the climbing Bandit with the club.

Nothing happened; the gun had jammed. Furiosa quickly holstered the gun in her tool belt, and pulled the knife from her boot just as the Bandit got to his feet, his club dragging sparks along the top walk.

The club swung at her head. Snarling, she ducked. The man had a long reach and knew how to use it; it would be hard to get close enough to cut him. She looked for an opening, something she could use against the Bandit, remembering how Ace had taught her to fight.

The metal arm of the War Rig. He wouldn't expect that. Feinting, she slid under the metal arm, unhitched it and slammed it bodily into the Bandit, knocking him briefly off-balance. It was enough, hanging tightly onto the arm, she gave him a kick, swinging briefly out over the cars below before momentum dragged her back, and off he went in a tangled mangle of limbs and metal.

“Ace!” Ace looked up as she swung back, and ducked as she flew past him. With a sharp kick, she knocked the black-haired Bandit over the edge. But somehow the Bandit turned at the very last second as he fell. Quick as a bird in flight, the Bandit grabbed a hold of Ace by his foot, and dragged him over the side.

“Ace!” Furiosa scrambled off the arm and caught him, her right hand clasping his wrist, and she tried to haul him up as he kicked off the black-haired Bandit. Ace was too heavy for her, she could just barely hang onto him. Gritting her teeth, she hung on with all her strength, her free hand gripping the metal edge of the top walk. She dug her boots into the frame, trying to get leverage, using any and every Lancer trick that she had learnt about balancing and rebalancing one's weight.

Hang on, Furiosa! She could hear it in her head, voices from the past, War Pups, calling her name. You can do it! Furiosa!

Furiosa pulled hard. One inch at a time, she thought, just one inch at...

Something made her look up; somehow another Bandit had gotten past Morsov and before she could react, the man stomped his metal-shod foot repeated down on her hand.

Furiosa screamed, a harsh, choked sound, but she didn't let go.

Ace's free hand and boots scrabbled on the side of the War Rig for purchase; just his luck, they were right where the sides were smooth; there was nothing for him to get his footing on.

The Bandit spit and said something unintelligible, growling words that were lost to the wind. He brought up his gun and pressed the muzzle against her wrist.

“Furiosa!” Ace shouted warning; he must have seen it. Ace's head darted from side to side, checking the battle below them and suddenly, without warning, he pulled free from her hand and let go. She saw him go down in the dust, bouncing between two cars, rolling, arms curled up to protect his head.

"No!"

But for her it was too late; hot pain seared through her wrist almost before she heard the bang of the gun and slowly, finger by finger, she lost her grip, feeling herself sliding off the edge. She braced herself for the unforgiving impact of the ground, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms and hauled up bodily, deposited back onto the top walk of the rig.

“You okay?” Morsov knelt down over her. He was covered in blood and she wondered where the Bandit who had shot her had gone until she saw his gun in Morsov's hand.

“Yeah. No. Maybe.” There was a strange quiet on the top walk; they were alone and the battle had fallen into a brief lull around them. All she could hear was the whistling of the wind and the tidal rush of blood in her ears and the pulse of the War Rig under her back.

Morsov pulled out his shop rag and wound it tightly over her hand, her wrist; she sat up and offered him hers, and he added the additional bit of rag to the bandages, stemming the worst of the bleeding.

“Thanks.” Shaken, she got back onto her feet, cradling her injured hand, only to stumble as the War Rig began to swerve.

“Acosta!”

Furiosa looked down toward the cab; the Imperator's arm was lax out the window of the cab. From the back, another Bandit's head emerged from behind the upper cab.

“Keep the War Rig clear,” she said, and Morsov nodded, covering her as she made her way down to the cab, barely keeping her footing as she inched along the side of the War Rig, hanging on with her good hand.

Furiosa! Furiosa! Furiosa! A chorus of support, her fellow War Pups, the memory of their voices in her ears, goading her on.

She could do anything. Even this.

By the time she made it inside the cab, her entire left arm was numb and Imperator Acosta was breathing his last. She shoved his heavy, lax body aside and taking the wheel, sounded the horn twice with the heel of her bad hand so Morsov would know what she was up to. She counted two breaths and fanged it, spinning the rig back toward the southwest, slicing through enemy vehicles, feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone and metal beneath the massive tires of the War Rig. If they were going to keep fighting, Furiosa thought, it would be on her terms, not theirs.

*****

Nux saw the War Boy come off the rig, bouncing past his car. He slammed the brakes and put his car in quick reverse, wishing the car was faster, more agile; if that was Morsov, Nux still had a chance at catching his fellow War Boy before he was run down.

“Coil! Notch!” He pointed at the unsteady figure stumbling back up onto its feet. Cars darted past and the War Boy flinched away, wobbling. As they swung by in reverse, the Lancers grabbed hold of the Ace, dragging him on board.

Chapter Text

Bandits began falling back as the War Party headed bodily toward the encampment; many were running for their lives now. Some headed back to try to grab their valuables, others merely took off into the waste, too canny to waste their lives and their precious vehicles for whatever or whoever they had left behind.

The War Party surrounded the encampment, a loose net of vehicles. Shots rang out, the heavy thud of machine gun fire, and War Boys streamed out of their vehicles, armed and ready.

Nux got out of his car and shot down a Bandit that came at him with a piece of steel pole; he flinched back as the man's chest exploded in red, droplets of gore splattering everywhere. Disgusted, he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand and quickly reloaded his sawed-off shotgun. Coil and Notch flanked him as they entered the squalid camp, a shantytown of corrugated aluminum and rusted out metal held together by loose chunks of stone and drifts of sand. It was hastily arranged, a seasonal settlement that moved with the fortunes of the land.

The War Boys said nothing to each other, but Notch grinned nervously at Nux, clutching his weapon with tense, white-knuckled hands. Nux frowned; the younger War Boy's nerves were getting to him, and he could feel nausea clutching his stomach as he walked the winding, reeking paths through the settlement, his eyes sharp, looking for signs of Slit. Here and there a child ran for cover. An unlucky one crossed paths with one of the many packs of War Boys hunting for them and was grabbed before it could run away. The War Boy knocked the air out of it with a quick punch to the gut before chaining it and slinging it over his shoulder. New War Pups, if these captives were lucky; if not, a trip to Bartertown on the monthly run, or down to swell the ranks of the Wretched.

Nux glanced over at Coil, who kept his crossbow ready but had something of a casual demeanor as he helped look for the missing War Boys. Coil, who was much older, who had been a full War Boy when Nux was still a pup had done war before, plenty of times. So Nux stayed close to him, watching his movements, learning from the older man, trying to imitate his alert calm, his apparent lack of concern.

Snap! Coil's crossbow shot into the skull of a Bandit that came out at them from a hut, a weapon in hand.

“Chrome!”

Nux looked closely at the Bandit. The dead man was gripping a spanner in his still-twitching hand, and Nux recognized it immediately; the slightly off-balance screw, the scratches of sketches on the shiny metal, little doodles of men and machines and parts. Quickly he grabbed it and tucked it into his tool belt.

“Slit.”

Slit groaned, blood oozing from the good side of his face where they had sawed jaggedly through his cheek. The torturer had killed the other five War Boys overnight during the storm; it was high entertainment, and men from all over the Bandit camp had crammed into the makeshift hut to watch.

Now they were starting on him. He was tied to a metal frame, a big, heavy rectangular plate of iron made from the tail lift of a truck, and he twisted, trying to break free, but the chains held him tight in place. The torturer fumbled when he heard the gunfire, slicing awkwardly here and there at his belly, trying to make a cut into his abdominal cavity to pull out the guts, to string them slowly on a drum, turning and turning as he writhed in agony. Five already, and Slit was going to be next. He gritted his teeth against the pain of the incisions, hands balled up into fists; pain was nothing to him, nothing. They'd have to try harder than that to make him squirm.

They wanted to know the secret ways into the Citadel. Passcodes, hidden corridors, secret handshakes, and no amount of telling them that such things didn't exist would stay their hand. No way to explain how War Boys from the littlest pup to the eldest Imperator all knew each other, if not by name then by sight. A War Boy didn't need a password when his face and the faces of his fellows were all that was necessary to get in.

Frustrated, the torturer gave up as he heard encroaching gunfire. He picked up a heavy, rusted axe; it was what they had used to finish off at least three of the five, once the torture turned dull and there was nothing useful to be gained but screaming.

The edge of the axe was streaked brown-red with rust, or maybe it was dried blood.

Slit stared at it, eyes wide. A black anger boiled through him; this was not his time, not his place. He wasn't about to join the others, miserable failures. He was not going to die on his back, helpless; not without a fight.

He was not going to die un-Witnessed.

“Say goodbye to your head, War Boy. Decapito–“

The man's head exploded before Nux had time to realize what he did. The axe fell to the ground with a thump. The charnal, animal reek of the hut was overwhelming, the intestinal, organal stink of men's insides filled the air and when Nux realized what the wet lumpy ropes were that were wrapped around the cylinders, he almost vomited.

A loose pile of limbs and torsos were piled in the corner and a War Boy's green eyes looked out at him, staring, from the hollowed-out shell of his body.

There was a groaning, and Nux's attention snapped over to the middle of the room.

“Slit!” Quickly the War Boys came to Slit's side; Nux stood at Slit's left, where Slit could hear better. Something splashed against his boot; Nux looked down and found himself ankle-deep in a depression full of blood.

“Nux. Finally.” Slit was almost incoherent but Nux understood him; his good side had been cut, deeply and jaggedly, almost matching the other and Slit's mismatched eyes looked up at Nux from the red running ruin of his face. There was something hollow in Slit's eyes now, as if some critical part deep inside of him had broke free, dislodged itself and torn up his insides, all in the span of a day.

“Don't talk. We're getting you out.” Quickly, the War Boys went to work, unchaining Slit from his narrow metal bed.

“Deca...” Slit's knees went out from under him as they got him up onto his feet, and Nux and Coil carried him stumbling back to the War Party.

*****

After the battle, they found Furiosa delirious, in a pool of her own blood, her good hand still gripping the wheel of the War Rig. She didn't remember the ride back to the Citadel, only a vague memory of being in the dark hold of the War Rig, a burning lamp by her side. Someone was there with her, holding her good hand, but who it was, she didn't know.

The next few days were touch and go; they hooked her up to a good bloodbag, one of the best, a universal donor, to get the blood back into her body. She heard the bloodbag's weak, pitiful sobs night and day until they replaced it.

She woke up a few times when someone spooned Aqua-Cola into her dry mouth, dribbling it in carefully. They spoke, but she couldn't understand what they were saying. She wasn't sure who it was who cradled her against their shoulder, warm and familiar, and fed her with mush, watered to go down easier, but whoever it was, she was grateful for them. Often, she fell asleep against their strong shoulder, dreaming of the past.

Bouts of hot and cold burnt through her. It was a fever, she knew it, and sometimes when she was alone, she seized up, curled up on herself, shivering on the hard stone bench of the Orgshop where she could hear the rattle of the wheels in the wheel shrine whenever someone came to take a wheel or drop it off. The creak of the blood bag cages swinging over her head.

The shot to her wrist was the least of her worries; it had been a clean, surgical shot, missing bone. Her hand had been shattered by the stomping boot, splinters of bone were working their way up through the bruised skin. She fell into a feverish delirium, and black veins began to run through her left hand, crawling up her arm.

“It's gonna have to come off,” the Organic said. She recognized his voice, understood it through the haze of her fever and started to shake her head. No, no, it couldn't. She'd rather die. They'd have no use for a War Boy with one arm. She'd end up in the Wretched like all the other crippled War Boys, abandoned, detritus. Trashed.

“Furiosa. Stay with me.” Gray, colorless eyes met her own, fiercely, and a strong hand gripped her good hand tight. They were taking her somewhere, somewhere where the light was better and she screamed, wordless. No, no. Not again. Please, no. Mother. No.

“Hold her down. Can't have her movin about while I'm working.”

“No!” She tried to thrash away, to kick, but there were too many hands, hard and calloused and white, and they held her down.

“Don't you worry, War Boy. I done this plenty of times.” The sharpening of the knife, the slick metal sound of the saw as it came out of its sheath.

“Stay with me. Furiosa!”

Once the cutting began, the pain was her entire world, red and orange, swirling behind her eyes and it melted away the cold blue light around it. By the time they began sawing through bone, she saw nothing but blackness.

She was lying down and alone, the stump of her arm bandaged and slung against her chest. No, she wasn't alone, her head was pillowed on someone's leg. Someone had their hand in her hair, the fine stubble that shot up through the scalp that most everyone went and had shorn off immediately.

There was a strange hushed silence. Even the blood bags were still in their cages, their breaths quiet.

“Immortan.”

“Immortan.”

“Immortan Joe.” The voices were hushed, filled with awe.

His heavy footsteps echoed metal through the corridor. She could hear the hiss and breath of his breathing apparatus; he never left the Vault without it.

He stopped before her, and she tried to open her eyes to look at him, her heart banging against the inside of her chest.

“They don't know if she'll live.” Ace. That had to be his voice. Ace coughed weakly, shaking Furiosa, and a bit of hot wetness touched her shoulder. Under her eyelashes, she could see that it was red.

“You don't look like you'll live either, War Boy. What did you break?”

Ace spoke cautiously. “Collarbone. Ribs. Four broken, three cracked, sir.”

The Immortan looked at her. She could feel his eyes on her, burning, and she opened her eyes. He was unclear, hazy in her vision, and as her eye caught the tarnished gleam of a medal on his chest, she realized that from here, she no longer felt anything as she looked at him but the dull ache of her stump and the white hot pain of her missing hand.

“If she lives,” the Immortan said slowly, his hard eyes running over her. “Make her an Imperator.”

He left briskly, and the War Boys let go their collective breath.

She felt the Immortan's words on her like a viscous grease, even as Ace stroked the soft stubble of her head.

So defying him and everyone, she lived.

It took weeks to heal, long days that she spent in the infirmary with Ace. He had been ordered to rest; of his broken ribs, one had shattered in the fall and the Organic thought it would splinter into his organs if Ace exerted himself before it healed.

“Two of a kind together, aren't we, Furiosa?” There was a wry amusement to Ace's words as he sat with her, back to back, keeping each other warm. “Busted chassis, missing a wheel...too bad we can't bolt on a new one for you.”

“Maybe not.” She brought up her stump, as if she could flex the mangled mess of the hand she could still feel. Already she had ideas for a replacement and she knew of some talented Revheads that she could recruit to help build and design it.

“It's a shame we can't bang out the dings as easy as on a car.” Ace winced, his breath catching as he breathed in too deeply. She could feel him tense up against her, and carefully, he felt at his side, at the awkward and crooked angle of his collarbone.

“Are you going to be all right, Ace?”

“That's my second fall, ever. Broke my jaw on the first one, you remember. Been a good War Boy all these years, but it's bound to catch up one day or another. Can't be a Lancer if you're afraid to fall. One more'll probably do me in, but that ain't gonna happen, not if I'm careful. Right, Furiosa?”

“Right.”

*****

It took a week to clean up after the War Party. The hauler brought back vehicle after vehicle; it took a few trips, and War Boys had kept guard on both the battlefield and the encampment to make sure that every last vehicle was hauled back, that every useful bit of material was sorted, loaded, and returned to the Citadel. They picked up a whole slew of new vehicles from the battlefield. Despite the destruction, it was a rich haul; cars, trucks, motorcycles, and every last War Boy who could still walk ended up sorting through parts good and bad, testing engines, and making repairs. The Revshops would be backed up for months with new projects.

By the time Nux had a chance to see Slit, he figured Slit was already on the mend, unhappy with being kept so long in the infirmary.

A Redthumb stopped him as he came down the hall: “Your friend's wounds ain't closin up, not the way they're supposed to. He's taking Aqua-Cola, sometimes, but he ain't eating enough to live by. The Mechanic don't think he's gonna make it at this rate. Better go say goodbye before we send him down.”

Icy moonlight dripped cold through the long air shafts and Nux found Slit fidgeting at the infirmary's stone bench, tracing the tip of his left index finger over healing scabs and scrapes on his wrist and forearm. Slit was across from the new Imperator, who Nux glanced at briefly, curious. She was asleep, her bandaged arm clutched to her chest.

Slit's wounds had been pinned with metallic staples that frankly looked fetching. But the wounds looked bad still, glossy and red with fresh blood, and Slit had lost flesh; he was looking hollow.

“Shiny,” Nux pointed to the staples on Slit's face, his torso, and Slit's mismatched eyes looked up at him, burning with barely stifled anger. Beside him sat a bowl of the mush, cooked down soft and wet for ill War Boys, and it was untouched, cold.

“You hungry?” Nux sat down and Slit moved away.

“Nah.”

“Can I have it?”

“Sure.” But Slit watched him hungrily. The wound on the side of Slit's mouth seemed to dampen as Nux ate, as he took slow, savoring bites.

Nux glanced at Slit, at the bowl of food, hearing the little hiss of air between the edges of the sucking wound as Slit tried to keep blood and saliva from dribbling out of his mouth.

Nux felt down into one of his pockets and pulled out his dried food bars, handing them to Slit without a word.

Slit unwrapped them from the clean cloth, and began to eat, one after another, chewing on the good side of his mouth.

They sat together eating slowly, wordlessly. After Slit finished the bars, he laid down and closed his eyes.

Nux set the empty bowl aside and looked down at Slit; there were lines of pain on Slit's face that were new, lines carved by suffering. He reached out to touch Slit's head, his shoulder, but then hesitated, knowing Slit would despise him for it.

Nux stared at his own hand for a long moment, before drawing back and folding the fingers of both hands together with a sigh.

He sat for a long time with Slit, uncertain of what he should do. He knew Slit wasn't asleep, but it was obvious that Slit didn't want to talk either. So Nux left.

Nux spent spent the rest of the evening going around the shops, calling in favors and trading future work for extra bars of dried food.

*****

Furiosa found herself back in the Vault on the pretext of an errand. Miss Giddy had let her in, putting down the shotgun.

“Furiosa!” The girls ran to her and it shocked her that they remembered her name.

“We've been worried about you.”

“Finally, the questing ears of the great Somnambulists have heard my prayers.”

“It's been months, where have you been?”

“Tell me what gun you used to war with. What was the action like?”

“I was sure you had died.”

“Sorry. I've been ill.” She took her left arm out from behind her back, holding it up, and Angharad gasped.

“Furiosa...”

“I came to apologize. I can't fix the pianofuerte. Not anymore.” She indicated to the metal arm. It was as light as they could make it, but she was still unused to the burden and wearily, she let it drag her arm back down.

The girls looked at her, and looked at each other.

“We didn't really care about that anyway. Not as much as we cared about you.” That was her name, Capable. What a good name, Furiosa thought, and a hard one to live up to.

Angharad stepped forward, and took her metal hand, lifting it despite its weight, despite the black machine oil that oozed slowly from its joints.

“Furiosa.”

Wheat, that was the color of her hair, golden, and her eyes, the blue of the open sky that yawned vast over the great expanse of the waste.

“It's all right.” Angharad's eyes were full of tears, and Furiosa blinked, her own eyes stinging, realizing that those tears were for her. “I'll be your left hand.”

Furiosa said nothing, but she closed her hand over Angharad's, feeling the firm warmth of delicate fingers pressed between metal and flesh.