Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack knew something was off about her before he knew her at all.

"Boss? Got a moment?"

"Sure."

They'd been troubleshooting the second engine. It was the more worn of the two and always fated to be the auxiliary, but there was no reason for it to be this temperamental. They'd already rebuilt it once and Christ what a nuisance, but there wasn't an alternative. The war rig's deployment would have to be pushed back, which meant another tense meeting with Joe.

He could see it already: The People Eater blustering, like volume was going to fix this. Corpus saying something reasonable that everyone would ignore. Scrotus instantly seizing on the wrong solution, like withholding food from the workers to punish them, or doubling oversight. Rictus being ... Rictus. Joe in the middle of it all, quietly assessing. He thought Joe would actually take the news fairly well, so on balance, Jack would aim for an outcome that afforded him goodwill from the two idiot sons. Make it clear the delay had nothing to do with them, that their project was sound and just needed more time, and they'd love you forever. He needed to have them on his side, because it might mean the difference between official support and just scrounging.

Jack did not like scrounging. Jack especially did not like scrounging for engine parts. Jack was not a fan of unreliable redundancies.

Anyway.

He shook his head. That was still in the future. What were they talking about again?

Black Thumb indicated the scrawny dogman, one of the many workers toiling on the bommyknocker. "Do we want to do something about this?"

He looked.

They'd been reasonably certain that he was a she after a few weeks on the floor. She was doing a credible impression of a skinny late-adolescent boy, but everything was too well-proportioned to suggest someone who was waiting on muscle. The dogman was too small-framed to be an adult male, too ruddy to be a War Boy, too tall to be a Wretched, and didn't have the overlarge head of someone who'd been stunted in childhood. When one of the welders mentioned that no one had ever heard them speak, the penny dropped.

Jack didn't see much point in pressing the issue. She worked hard, didn't make trouble, and they didn't have a lot of other options for the dangerous work on the cranes anyway. If a woman at the Citadel had somehow managed to evade the breeding pit, the milking room, and the vault, well ... good for her. He wasn't sure how much longer she'd be able to keep it up, but he didn't want to be the reason she failed.

"Do something about what?" he said.

Black Thumb shrugged. "Right. Toss me the T45?"

He was shoveling down rat jerky and beans when Black Thumb dropped into the seat next to him. "It'll be tomorrow."

"The dogman?"

"Yeah. Caught her loading up veg and a bike under the rig."

Shit. "Any weapons?"

"Nope."

She'd been squirrelly lately. Black Thumb had initially worried about sabotage, but her output never changed. She'd even caught a wiring fault on the excavator that could've been disastrous. Then they'd wondered if it had something to do with Rictus; she always managed to be off the floor whenever that oaf was wandering around. Tonight's revelation made sense, and also explained why tiny quantities of guzzoline had been going missing over the last few weeks. But they couldn't for the life of them understand where she would go. Jack also couldn't endorse the idea of being out on the wastes without a gun, which turned an already bad idea into an actively suicidal one.

Black Thumb was toying with an empty tumbler. They'd worked so late that the refectory was mostly empty, so at least there was no chance of being overheard. "Would it be better to stop her? I don't feel great about this."

"Honestly, we probably should." Jack finished off the last of his supper. "But I don't know why she's running."

"There's no way that bike can carry enough fuel to get her somewhere safe. It's the Bullet Farm, Gas Town, or nowhere."

"Does she know that?"

"Probably not."

He really didn't know what to do. There wasn't, strictly speaking, any rule against people leaving the Citadel; Joe didn't need to craft laws to prevent behavior that everyone already knew was insane. But as a praetorian, Jack wasn't supposed to overlook theft or subterfuge.

Still. The thought of actively stopping her, and all that that would entail -- unhooking the bike, returning it, returning the food, returning the fuel, tracking her down for discipline -- there wasn't any way to do that without attracting unwanted and possibly irreversible attention. He rubbed his chin. "Do they know the bike's missing?"

"Not yet. It might be a few weeks before they do. She did a good job hiding her tracks."

"How reliable is it?"

"Not bad enough to get stripped for parts, not good enough to be anyone's first or second choice for a convoy." Black Thumb leaned against the table. "She requisitioned tools a few days ago that wouldn't have made any sense for her to have unless she was wrenching on a bike. Worked on your lancer's machine, signed the tools back in, but only returned some of them. She was smart about this. I respect it."

Jack was silent for a while. "I don't feel great about this either, but maybe the best thing to do is nothing." 

"I'm just wondering how she'll manage. Going to be hard to get the bike out without any of the War Boys seeing."

"I can always call them to the front and slow down somewhere. Maybe around the midpoint. There's a nice flat bit in the wastes, and we don't usually get attacked there.” He picked up his bowl. “But it feels like I'm sending her to her death.”

“You're not. It's a hard thing, though.” Black Thumb shrugged helplessly, and went off in search of his own meal.

He went to his bedroll that night turning it over in his mind.

It had taken them a while to put two and two together with her avoidance of Rictus. It was unmistakable once you saw it: If he was there, she wasn't. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good, and there had been whispers about Rictus going back years. When Jack had been a fresh praetorian and pulling guard duty outside the vault for the first time, his partner had had a quiet word with him about it. Rictus had been caught with Joe's wives on more than one occasion, had severely injured at least one, and wasn't to be allowed inside the vault under any circumstances. And most of the praetorians, he'd added darkly, thought Rictus had had something to do with the wife who'd gone missing.

That had been before Jack was an officer, but he certainly remembered the commotion when one of the wives disappeared in the night. Conventional wisdom had been that she'd killed herself, but the Citadel didn't have many places she wouldn't have been seen. Some crank mechanic swore that his brother (a treadmill rat) had woken up to Rictus and Scrotus having some kind of argument on the catwalks outside the vault, and that they must've killed her. Jack couldn't see Rictus being smart enough to hide it if he'd done it. Scrotus had his own set of issues, but he'd always left the wives alone, and would cheerfully have thrown his brother under the bus if it came to it. And if he were going to do it, there was no better time than then. Joe's anger had made the entire fortress cower for weeks.

The Citadel had been searched top to bottom, all of its residents interrogated, and all their possessions examined. (The rip in Jack's prized blanket was owed to one of those unpleasant days.) War Boys were sent out in all directions to search anywhere someone might have reached on foot. Some poor soul had even been sent to do a full inventory of the corpses being used by the maggot farmers. Nothing ever turned up.

He stared into the sky. He should shut all of this down; she was going to die out there. But if Rictus was the reason she was running, he couldn't argue with the motivation. He turned over, thought briefly of his mother and her first unit, before she'd met his father. He knew the brutality of being among desperate and opportunistic men.

And maybe he wasn't any better. The dogman had the most arresting eyes he'd ever seen. He had an odd awareness of her whenever she was working around him, which she seemed to do a lot. And in a private, silly moment, he'd thought -- maybe, in another life ...

Stop it.

He pulled the blanket up.

It was a fucked-up world. He was under no obligation to make it worse.

"You're going to pull over and get out."

It was all he could do not to laugh. He'd been at the business end of a gun hundreds of times, and he knew she didn't have it in her. He couldn't articulate how he knew this, precisely, because he'd just seen her dispatch five men on her own and any number on the assist, but he did.

"Stop!"

Poor choice of words.

He slammed on the brakes, sending the startled woman headfirst into the dashboard, and then shoved her out of the rig before she could recover. She never really had a chance.

He made it half a klick before he thought to himself: Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He stopped the rig.

He was still pretty sure she wasn't going to shoot him.

As truces went, that was certainly one.

Without the assistance of the now-dead War Boys, they'd had a terrible time unloading. ("Want to pick it up, ladies?" The Bullet Farmer snarled. "Getting it done today, or no?") His new partner's left ankle was either sprained or broken, and even though she didn't complain, she couldn't handle a lot of weight. By the end of it, they'd had to enlist a group of annoyed miners just to get everything done and the return cargo loaded, and were running three hours behind schedule. He had no doubt that Corpus had monitored the rig's inaugural journey, and that Joe would be sending a fresh escort if he hadn't done it already. They'd get intercepted on the way back and had limited time to talk without anyone else around. Whatever they were going to say had to be said now.

She'd maintained as much distance from him as someone physically could without actually falling out of the rig. He chanced a look. She'd closed her eyes, leaning against the wall, one leg tucked under the injured one. She looked asleep, but the hand curled around the revolver argued otherwise. She had two shots left.

He cleared his throat. "What should I call you?"

Silence.

"I know you spent ... however long you spent not talking, but I am gonna need you talk at least a little for this. We need to get our story straight."

More silence. She opened her eyes and looked out the window. "Does it matter?" Her voice was rusty. "You're a praetorian. The crews will do what you tell them to."

"I'm not worried about the crews, but I am worried about Joe. Whatever else he might be, he's not an idiot." Oh boy, this was not going to be a fun subject to discuss. He shifted uncomfortably, kept his eyes ahead, and spoke as neutrally as he could. "He'll want to know why I'm coming back without my convoy, and with someone I picked up on the road. And I need to come up with a good reason for why a full-life woman should be working for me, and not ... you know. Getting sent to the vault."

He didn't think he was imagining the tremor in her hand. "What makes you think I'm a full-life?"

Oh, please.

It must have showed on his face. She sighed. "Yeah."

They lapsed into silence again. He craned forward; he could just about see a dust plume ahead of them. Either that was the anticipated escort, or they were going to get attacked again. He'd guess escort. This part of the wasteland was so flat that they were still a good distance away, but there wasn't endless time to litigate this. "I don't want that. The vault, I mean. I'll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn't happen, but we need to be on the same page about this."

She shifted almost imperceptibly, turning toward him a fraction of a fraction. "You can always say you recruited me from the Bullet Farm."

"Unfortunately, I can't. The Bullet Farmer sees Joe on a regular basis. I don't think you'd necessarily be the first topic of conversation, but it's not impossible that Joe might mention it. The Bullet Farmer would know if one of his mechanics, or ... " He waved his hand irritably. "Whatever else we're going to call you, left his place for the Citadel. There was a dust-up years ago when all the fortresses were poaching workers from each other. They're not supposed to do it anymore without negotiating."

She considered. "Maybe the convoy ran into the mortifiers while they were harassing some drifters. My people got dusted, I got taken prisoner, and they turned their attention on you. The War Boys did their job, but there were too many bandits. You agreed to take me with you in return for working on the rig, and I got the second engine running again. There isn't an endless supply of mechanics with combat experience, so ... " She shrugged.

It wasn't the most implausible story, especially because it was only a few imaginary vagrant casualties (and one disguised dogman) away from the truth. "Right. And then, rather than drawing attention to you, I point out all the defensive issues the rig's got and start talking about how we fix them."

"The bommyknocker needs to be controlled from the cab. That's the first place I'd start. I could probably rewire it with a few days."

He, too, had seen the dead War Pup. The miners bitched that he'd bled on the cabbages. "And I'd like to take that very good advice from my new second-in-command. Would you mount a gun on the tanker?"

"No. Anything with a decent caliber would put it under a lot of strain, both in weight and recoil. You'd get fatigue cracks pretty quickly, and that wouldn't matter if you were only hauling vegetables, but you're also hauling water and milk."

Jack was fascinated by this little detour. He'd witnessed Black Thumb shooting the same idea down from Scrotus, and for the same reason. "Right."

"So is that story going to work?" She turned those brilliant eyes on him.

"I think I could sell that. Did you actually do that, by the way?"

"Did I do what?"

"Fix the second engine?"

"Yes. Black Thumb got taken out before he could do it." She fidgeted with the revolver, more nerves than threat. "I'm sorry. I know he was your friend."

"He was." Jack stared ahead. He tried hard not to get too emotionally attached to his crews, because anything could happen out on the road, but he and Black Thumb had been together for a while. Probably best not to think about that right now. "I think losing the whole convoy and crew will definitely make it easier to turn the conversation toward upgrades on the rig. Joe might not fuss too much about a female mechanic if he's worried that his very expensive new war rig is a dud."

She was still toying with the Apache, clearly getting a sense of its weight and balance. Finally she stowed it, which he hoped was a good sign. "Can you be honest with me about something?"

"I don't think this arrangement is going to work if I'm not."

She looked at him directly. "How sure are you that you can keep me out of the vault?"

He met her eyes, and the hair on the back of his neck went up. In that moment, they both knew his answer would determine whether she'd use one of the remaining shots on herself.

When he'd made their bargain on the road, he accepted that he'd be assuming a certain amount of risk. Officers weren't supposed to enable or train people for escape attempts. However, he'd overlooked other, more dangerous considerations. He wasn't returning to the Citadel with a grizzled old black thumb he'd found out in the wastes: He was returning with a young, healthy woman. (A young, healthy, beautiful woman. This was not the time to lie about the implications of that.) There'd have been less commotion if he'd come back with an extinct kangaroo.

She no longer had the protections afforded by anonymity, shapeless work clothes, or mutism, and they couldn't go back to pretending she was a man. Neither one of them had had the presence of mind, or even the extra clothes, to try disguising her at the Bullet Farm, and -- mentally kicking himself -- he knew it was only a matter of time before the Bullet Farmer mentioned the Praetorian Jack's strange little mechanic to Joe. The window of opportunity for her to return to being the dogman had passed.

It wasn't just the vault. She'd be out to everyone on the work floor. Without any status or authority of her own, she'd be an object of curiosity at best, and prey at worst. And then there was Rictus to consider.

He thought: Desperate and opportunistic men.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I think it's very likely that Joe will allow me to keep you on the crew, because -- this is going to make me sound like a prick, but because it's me."

"The people on the floor said you've done the most runs and never lost a cargo."

True. He knew he enjoyed a certain respect among the men, and maybe that was the real answer here. Make it clear to everyone that she was under his protection, make savage examples out of anyone who tested that early on, and trust that things would improve after she'd gotten a few more runs and kills under her belt. "I came pretty close today. But you saved it, which is another reason I think Joe will let you stay."

"And if not?" She glanced out the window. He had the feeling that throwing herself out of the rig wasn't completely off the table either.

"That won't happen. I'll strike you a deal," he said, a little desperately. "I have to go up to make my report in the throne room after getting back. You stay with the rig -- it's only praetorians who have to report in anyway. If Joe wants you in the vault, I'll help you escape right there and then."

"Won't you get in trouble?"

"Yes."

She didn't have a response.

The dust plume was getting larger; she'd finally noticed it too. Start there, he thought. She should be scanning for stuff like that passively, not letting it sneak up on her. He squinted: War Boys. He felt under the dash for the flare gun, and then leaned out of the cab, firing off a plume of white smoke: Situation normal. With any luck, they wouldn't have guns actively trained on them by a bunch of trigger-happy anemics when they were intercepted. "Just so you know, it's not usually this bad. The mortifiers were organized. Most of the time it's just idiots on bikes. That wasn't the worst attack I've ever seen, but maybe top three."

"You should probably tell the War Boys to look for the wrecks. I'm sure there's material out there we can use."

"They'll do that anyway, but yes. Not until tomorrow though. It'll be dark soon."

The Citadel's fresh escort was near. He thought he'd have to ask again, but she beat him to it.

She uncurled herself, sitting up on the passenger side. "My name is Furiosa," she said softly.

"I'm Jack."

"I know."

Of course she already knew. He felt like an idiot.

As they'd planned, Furiosa waited in the cab while he went up to the throne room. The crews had gawked at the sight of a woman in the rig, and were still milling around the outside, wanting to catch a glimpse. She'd moved to the slightly greater safety afforded by the driver's seat, which was the side closest to the wall, and was sitting, absolutely rigid. He'd have bet next month's meat rations that her hand was on the revolver.

He pulled the crew chief aside and told him in no uncertain terms that nothing on the rig or in it was to be touched.

"You don't want us to unload anything?" the man said in disbelief. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I don't care if it you play cards, have a tea party, or sit on your hands. The cargo's not perishable anyway." He raised his voice. "No one touches the rig. No one goes near the rig. Anyone who does answers to me."

The crew chief still wasn't getting it. "Who the 'ell is she?" he choked.

"Our new combat black thumb, if we're lucky. Do not fucking touch her." He addressed the crew at large again. "I'm going to the Immortan about our run and I want to be able to evaluate the damage cold. We'll unload and start repairs after I've gotten back and checked things over." He cuffed the sole worker who still had a hand on the tanker, and strode off in the direction of the stairs.

It was a transparently weak excuse. There was virtually nothing the workers could do to the rig that would affect a damage assessment, but in the moment, he couldn't think of anything more likely to keep Furiosa safe. Ordinarily he'd have deputized his own crew for that purpose, but the mortifiers had put paid to that.

He chanced a look backwards and was gratified to see that the War Boys had instantly taken his side in the matter. They were forming a defensive perimeter around the rig as the grumbling workers shuffled off. Joe's cult of personality horrified him most of the time, but unfortunately it did have its uses.

As he climbed the stairs, something about his conversation with Furiosa ate at him. There was a brain there. He'd initially dismissed her as foolhardy at best, but nobody who thought that fast on their feet could be called stupid. Their conversation in the rig on the way back had cemented it. And there was a peculiar delicacy to her that he wouldn't have expected -- and had in fact never encountered -- from anyone who grew up in the Citadel. Not once in his adult life had anyone expressed sympathy over a death that mattered to him.

He put it out of his mind.

His parents had known Joe, back when all three were Australian military in the embers of a dying world. As much as he liked to think that his status at the Citadel was owed purely to his skill on the road, he always felt that Joe had also favored him to a degree, as the son of his old colleagues. If there was ever a time to lean into it, it was now.

He delivered his report in the best praetorian fashion, altering events only to stick to the story he and Furiosa had agreed on.

Yes, the rig had been attacked. Mortifiers. Those worthless bandits had been picking on a band of drifters when the convoy ran into them. There was one survivor from the drifters, who fortunately turned out to be the group's mechanic. She -- "She?" said the People Eater, puzzled -- had been deputized by Black Thumb to repair the second engine and had killed five of the bandits. Yes, they'd fought them off, but the entire convoy apart from the rig had been lost. Yes, they reached the Bullet Farm. The vegetables and milk had been delivered. They'd returned with a cargo of weapons, ore, and ammunition. He would like to ask the Immortan's permission to retain Furiosa as his new second-in-command. He needed to rebuild his crew and they fought well together. How was the rig? It had held up, but there were some obvious defensive issues, and he was about to launch into the plan he'd cobbled together when Scrotus broke in.

"The drifter you picked up. Is she a half-life or a full-life?"

"A full-life, I think." He saw little point in trying to hide this. Lying would only buy time until Scrotus investigated for himself, and the last thing he needed was an adversarial relationship with the most psychopathic of the three brothers.

"How old is she?"

"Young," Jack admitted.

For Scrotus, that was the end of the matter. "Put her in the vault, father."

"I'm sorry, but I have to be firm about this." Jack looked directly at Joe. "I need her on the rig."

The Immortan betrayed nothing. As he'd done in countless meetings before, he simply listened while his advisors quarrelled amongst themselves. Jack had learned from long experience that Corpus was usually closest to whatever decision his father would arrive at, but it wasn't a sure thing.

"There are dozens of black thumbs we could put on your crew," Scrotus said dismissively. "A full-life breeder on the rig is a waste."

"Is she pretty?" Rictus wanted to know.

Mercifully, Corpus intervened before his brothers could get any creepier. "If she's a good fighter and a decent mechanic, that's a rare combination. There are a dozen women in the vault right now. You'd risk overcrowding anyway."

"How do you know she'll be any use on the rig? What were the drifters tooling around in?" Scrotus demanded, turning back to Jack. "There's no way she's got experience wrenching on something the size of the war rig."

Jack was uncomfortably aware that Scrotus, for once in his miserable life, was making a lot of sense. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. I didn't get a good look. We practically ran into the mortifiers after cresting a hill and then it was a brawl."

The People Eater grunted. "Are they still with Dementus, or was this the pack that struck out on its own?"

"These were the ones who went rogue, including the leader."

"Did you get him?"

"Yes. All of the attackers were killed, maybe 25 or 30 total. I'd say the war rig is a big step up from our previous models." He indicated Scrotus and Rictus, who looked pleased. "There's definitely room for improvement, but I don't think the mortifiers are going to be an issue in the near future."

They heard the unmistakable crackle of Joe's breathing apparatus in the background. "But they managed to take out the full convoy," the warlord said quietly.

"Yes. We don't have a good answer for aerial attacks right now. However, I'm not sure if the other bandits have the technical background or the resources to copy their methods."

"You said the Octoboss was killed?"

"Yes, sir. By the mechanic we picked up, actually."

The Immortan's eyes bored into him. "Interesting."

Jack was beginning to feel a little better about where the conversation was heading, and was content to listen while the rest of them lapsed into another argument. The People Eater wanted to cut Dementus' food shipments until he did more to address the gangs. Corpus pointed out that Gas Town was already having issues, and that wasn't likely to improve matters. Rictus still wanted to know if the new mechanic was pretty. Scrotus had largely abandoned his position in favor of taking credit for the new rig, at which point Rictus protested that he'd been the one with the idea.

"Enough." Joe stood up. The rest of them fell silent. "You've served me well, Jack, and you've earned the right to ask for things I would not ordinarily grant. Putting a full-life woman on your crew is a misallocation of resources, as far as I'm concerned." (Scrotus smiled.) "However, the vault is indeed almost full. I can afford to spare her as your second-in-command, if that is your wish." He fixed Jack with a stare. "I do not promise that this decision will remain permanent. If I need to replace a wife and can't find an alternative, she may be it. So I would advise doing what you can to keep her alive and in one piece."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." It was the outcome he'd wanted, and yet not. He'd known it was unrealistic to hope that Joe wouldn't care at all, but the path to the vault was still more open than he'd like. The only way to keep Furiosa safe was to make her so indispensable that there was no question of her being redeployed. The parallel hope was that Joe got a continuous supply of women elsewhere to condemn to captivity. Jack knew it was wrong even to entertain that thought -- to ever wish that kind of fate on a young woman, even for the sake of sparing another -- but he didn't care. The world had become a hideous moral landscape in which one accepted the triumph of evil. He'd given up on being a good man; most days, it was all he could do just to be one of the bad ones.

The Immortan resettled himself in his chair. "The matter is finished. Thank you for returning the war rig in one piece. Take whatever you need to improve its performance. Your next run is to Gas Town?"

"Yes, sir. Three days from now."

"Good. Dismissed."

Jack turned to leave, and then hesitated. It felt dangerous to press his luck, but all of a sudden, he saw a wild opportunity to safeguard Furiosa with official sanction, and in front of Rictus, no less.

Of course Joe had noticed. "My praetorian?"

"Sir, may I have your permission to make it clear to the men that she isn't to be touched? If there's a possibility she might become a wife, I assume you don't want her, um, tampered with."

Joe's pressure collar flared. "Yes. She's not to be assaulted or mated, on pain of death. Will she require a belt?"

One of the shots left in the revolver was definitely going to be used on him unless he could pre-empt this. "I think it would be too dangerous. She was only able to save the rig today by climbing under it while we were at full speed. I need her to be as maneuverable as possible."

Joe turned away indifferently. "As you wish. Dismissed."

He would have run out of there if he could.

The rig was still ringed and guarded by War Boys, who were glowering at the few workers who hadn't left for supper. He could have laughed in relief, but settled for clapping them on their backs and thanking them. They were over the moon to be noticed and appreciated by "Prae-Jack," and assured him that he'd have no shortage of volunteers for his next crew. They departed for their own meals, and he climbed into the rig.

His smile faded. He'd never seen someone closer to a state of exhausted collapse than Furiosa in that moment. She'd put the revolver away, but her hands gripped the bottom of the steering wheel, bloodless and trembling. She darted a glance at him. "Vault?"

"No."

It was as if the strings holding her up had all snapped. She slumped onto the wheel, hiding her face in her arms, hair cascading down to provide all the shield she'd ever get in this living hell. Her shoulders started to shake. He desperately wanted to tell her that it would be okay, that things would be all right, but nothing about this was okay or all right. She would serve under him, or she would serve under Joe.

He settled for giving her what privacy he could, sitting in the passenger's seat and recapping the contents of the conversation upstairs. Her face was still hidden, but he knew she was listening. After he'd finished, she sat up with some effort and wiped her eyes. It left smudges on the grime all over her cheeks. "So I'm safe for now."

"For now, and I think for a while." He felt around his pockets, extracting a rag that unfortunately wasn't as clean as he'd hoped, and offered it. After a moment, she took it with a murmured thanks. "And we'd probably get some advance notice if that's likely to change."

She sniffled. "I wouldn't think there'd be any. Doesn't Joe get rid of a wife right after her third strike?"

How does she know that? he wondered. He hadn't thought the finer details of the breeding program were public knowledge. "He does. But part of the praetorians' duties is to guard the vault. We usually know how many of the wives are pregnant at any given time, and when they're likely to deliver. I haven't done it in a while because I was excused duty to supervise construction on the rig, but I can find out soon enough."

She understood. "So you'd know coming up if a wife was on her third chance and was going to deliver."

Neither of them bothered to comment on the possibility of an healthy heir. "Exactly. And also when a new wife is going to arrive, because we escort them in." And out, he thought. He'd only had to do it once, but it haunted him. He'd walked alongside a sobbing dark-haired woman, fresh off a stillbirth, to bring her to the milking room. If he were being fully honest with himself, it had been among the reasons he'd started grabbing as many runs on the Fury Road as he could. Anything -- anything -- to avoid that.

Furiosa seemed a bit calmer, but was still shaking. He didn't think all of it was owed to nerves. She'd probably hidden on the rig early to minimize the odds of being discovered, so she wouldn't have had anything to eat in a while. He bent down. "Do you want to get some food? Ordinarily we'd be unloading the cargo now, and you'll need to see how that gets done because you'll be supervising it at some point. But the workers are off the floor so there's not much point."

"Yeah." She scrubbed her face one last time and gave him the rag, fingers brushing against his. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And I'm sorry."

She frowned. "For what?"

For everything, he wanted to say. For bringing you back to a place that might turn you into breeding stock. For being part of this whole rotten fucking system. He decided to be a little less ambitious. "For shoving you out of the rig. I know your ankle must hurt like hell."

Her lip twitched. "I did pull a gun on you."

"Yes, but lots of people have pulled guns on me." He lifted himself out of the seat and clambered onto the side, feeling strangely giddy. "C'mon. Let's get some grub."

She succeeded, with some difficulty, in extricating herself from the driver's seat, but that ankle was clearly going to be a problem for a bit. She made it only halfway out of the rig before it gave out entirely. Fortunately, he'd been waiting, out of the insane desire to be gallant in an apocalyptic wasteland, and caught her. Furiosa's face was just clean enough for a flush to be visible. He prayed his wasn't.

He set her down gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she muttered, and began to limp off in the direction of the refectory. She stopped so abruptly that he almost bowled her over. "You need to explain to me where we're going and what we're doing," she said, sotto voce.

"What?"

A handful of workers were still on the floor. None of them were close enough to overhear, but Furiosa's appearance had instantly attracted their attention. "I'm new here," she said, searching his eyes urgently. "I've never been to the Citadel. I was part of a pack of drifters you found on the road. I don't know the layout, I don't know where we're going, and I don't know how things are done here."

"Right." He gestured grandly at the stairs. "Welcome to the Citadel. It's full of cancer patients with guns and it's run by a warlord in a plastic onesie. We're going to head to the refectory. The crews here are fed pretty well. All except for the dogman, who tragically disappeared."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Lucky him."

Progress was slow with her ankle, and she had to stop halfway up. As much as he'd made a mental note to get her checked by the Organic Mechanic, he didn't think all of her reluctance was owed to the pain. "Are you okay?"

"Everyone in that room is going to be looking at me."

He'd anticipated that as well. "Probably. Just stick with me."

She'd been palming the revolver. "Do I have your permission to hit people if they harass me?"

"You not only have my permission, you have my encouragement."

Chapter Text

Well.

Time to see how bad this was going to get.

Their entrance to the refectory was every bit as awkward as they'd feared. It would be an exaggeration to say that every head in the place turned toward them, but not by much. Furiosa fell in step behind him, partly to maintain the pretense that she was new to the Citadel, but mostly (he thought) to have some measure of protection from the eyes. Conversation stilled as they passed. The men stared openly.

Women were unheard-of in this part of the Citadel. The last time he could remember seeing one on or around the work floor was years ago, when an engineer had been pulled away from the hydroponics to assess the pumps on their floor. The woman must've been seventy-five if she'd been a day, but it hardly mattered. For some of the younger War Boys, it was the first time they'd seen any woman other than their mothers. Work ground to a halt until she'd finished checking the pumps, gave a suggestion to the stupefied new plumber, and then vanished back upstairs, flanked by two armed praetorians who'd escorted her at every step. The event was so singular that it had become a chronological reference. Furiosa's arrival would be more akin to a continuous earthquake.

Time to get ahead of it. "Ordinarily everyone gets their own meal," he said, loudly enough to be overheard as they made their way through the refectory. "But tonight I'll get both. Just wait here." Then, even louder: "Thanks for your help on the road today. The Immortan is grateful."

The table in the northeastern corner was nearly always empty, as it had the bad luck to be next to the privy. For a praetorian to be seen there would upset the social order only marginally less than seeing Joe scrubbing a floor, but for the moment, it would have to serve. He motioned Furiosa ahead. There was a silent question in her eyes, but then she caught on, and tucked herself into the corner.

Jack wasn't absolutely sure that it was a good idea to leave her alone, but he gambled that a few minutes wouldn't hurt. They'd arrived toward the end of the meal, and the refectory was emptier than it should have been. Without anything to unload or repair on the rig, most of the workers had probably gone to dinner early. He also recognized a few scattered clumps of War Boys from among those who'd guarded the rig. Winding his way through the tables, he met eyes with the most senior, who nodded.

Good. He'd thought of a little treat on their way up the stairs, and didn't want to spoil the surprise.

Bypassing the serving table entirely, he leaned into the kitchen. "Do you have anything I can spend a chit on?"

Puck was on duty tonight. Half again as heavy as any of the other laborers, he attracted his fair share of criticism for what they all knew was liberal oversampling of the wares. However, he did what he could with the Citadel's limited cuisine, so the resentment was muted. "A few bits," he said. "But no guarantee it'll be any good."

"Any eggs?"

There were a few flocks of chickens living on the upper levels, fed largely on maggots and produce that had spoiled before it could be used or shipped. The odd scrawny rooster or old hen would get sent to the Immortan's table. Eggs were likewise reserved for him, the vault, and his sons in that order, but there were enough to ensure that a steady trickle went to the imperator and the praetorians. After too many complaints about the first-come-first-served system, which invariably penalized anyone who'd drawn duty at irregular hours, Corpus instituted a reward chit system to regulate demand. It wound up being expanded to the few other luxuries available in the Citadel, and resulted in more praetorians volunteering for the dangerous or inconvenient jobs that awarded chits faster. The officers and upper-tier workers had developed a sort of shadow economy with them, trading chits for more desirable shifts, to get an unusually-skilled worker assigned to their rigs, or for nicer tools. After so much time on the Fury Road, Jack had a pile of the things, and usually spent them on food and little rewards for his crew.

Puck raised an eyebrow. "A few, but it'll cost you."

"Wouldn't expect anything else," he said dryly. "Three please."

"Three?"

"Three." It was costly, but they'd earned it. He wasn't looking forward to starting over with a brand-new crew, and the day had been a devastating blow for Furiosa. Directing a quick glance back, he could see her curled into the corner, impossibly small against a silent audience of men. However, his little performance seemed to have done its job. They seemed too uncertain to approach.

Jack already had a running account with the kitchen, so Puck shrugged, and then went off to unearth three precious eggs. Water was more abundant at the Citadel than anywhere else in the wastes, but it was still frowned upon to use it for something as frivolous as boiling food, so the praetorians usually got them fried or scrambled. Puck was among the few who could manage an omelet.

The cook broke three eggs into a bowl and began to beat them with his usual efficiency. "Sorry. Someone bought the last of the chives for their potatoes earlier. I don't have anything for these other than salt."

"It's fine."

He jerked his head toward the corner. "Who's the girl?"

"Drifter mechanic I picked up. She's going to work on the rig and come on runs."

"One of the War Boys told me you'd rolled in with her. I thought he was having me on."

"Already approved by the Immortan."

That threw him for a loop. Puck looked down at the bowl. "These for her?"

"Yeah. Well, both of us."

"You trying to fuck her or something?"

Jack's motive in going to the kitchen wasn't confined to the omelet. The cooks were relentless gossips and could be relied upon to spread news to everyone, short of the more distant maggot farmers. He was deeply uninterested in spending half his life repeating versions of "Leave her the fuck alone," and thought the process could be automated to a degree. "She may wind up as one of the Immortan's wives if he needs her. You might want let people know that anyone who goes after her will get a free trip off the top of the Citadel."

"Ah." Puck poured the eggs into a pan, and began to swipe a fork through them. "Heard you came back without your crew."

"Yeah. The mortifiers hit us with everything they had."

He paused between moving the curds around. "Black Thumb?"

Jack shook his head.

"Shit." Puck returned to the eggs. "I liked that guy. He fixed one of our burners here a little while ago."

"Yeah. We got them back, though."

He heard a sharp crack, followed by a shrill yell. He whipped around to see a howling machinist yanking a hand away from the corner table. It looked like Furiosa had gotten a decent hit in with the Apache's knuckles. Puck craned his head around. "Oi. You might need to bash a few heads in."

"Who's the man?"

"Dunno." With that very helpful comment, the omelet was done, and Puck slid it onto a plate. "Three very expensive eggs, P-Jack. D'you want me to keep them here so they don't hit the floor while you go start a fight?"

"Won't be necessary. There's not going to be a fight." Rank had its privileges. He'd be invoking it a lot until Furiosa stopped being a novelty.

"If you say so." The cook jerked a thumb toward the serving table. "Everything else is out there, though it's probably a little cold."

The machinist was now saying something to Furiosa, whose only response was a stony glare. Since the man was maintaining a reasonably respectful distance, and nobody else seemed to be getting involved, Jack judged that whatever was going on there could wait. The refectory was also starting to empty, though Furiosa was the universal fixation as men departed. He snagged a tray and dished out locust bread, two bowls of roast vegetables, water, and maggot mash for both of them, and took a leisurely route to their table. "Is there a problem?"

The machinist obviously recognized Jack. "This one with you, then?"

Jack stared him down. "Yes. The Immortan has approved her as the combat mechanic on the war rig."

The man curled his lip, but didn't seem to have a response, and slunk off.

Jack turned to Furiosa. "Can you manage a short walk? I got us something decent from the kitchen, but I'd rather not eat it next to the privy." As much as he didn't want to make her run around too much on that ankle, he'd be damned if he was going to eat a king's ransom of eggs in smelling distance of the toilets. Moreover, there were a few distant tables where they'd now have a measure of privacy.

She nodded. They decamped to another table further along the wall. She was hobbling badly enough that he'd resigned himself to seeing the Organic Mechanic that night, rather than doing the damage assessment. Oh well. They'd run late anyway and probably weren't going to get it done no matter what. As he set the tray down, she stared.

"They're eggs," he said proudly. "An omelet. They're from the chickens on the upper tier. They're good, I promise."

"Oh, I know. It's just -- I haven't had eggs in a really long time. Thank you."

His eyes practically bugged out of his head. "You've had eggs before?"

"Uh, yeah."

Out of all the things Furiosa had said that struck him as odd, this was somehow the most startling. "When ... when did you have eggs?"

"A while ago," she said, not meeting his eyes.

"Right." He was still rattled. "Did you have anything else you needed to tell me? Were you running guns on the side? Did you have a private farm? Did you beat up a praetorian to steal their reward chits?"

"I thought you said no questions asked. And I'm new here, remember?" she said pointedly.

Ugh. Nobody was close enough to have heard, luckily. Instead of pushing further, he cut the omelet, and slid her the larger portion. "Sorry. I just -- I'm not asking this about you particularly, but do the floor workers and treadmill rats have some sort of barter system I don't know about?"

She was silent for a moment, but evidently decided this wasn't a sufficiently personal question. "They trade things, but I'm not sure if it goes farther than that. If they do, I wasn't in on it. But I thought some of them got reward chits too?"

"They're almost all from the officers, and I've never seen them circulating outside of the crew chiefs or combat mechanics." He shook his head. The curiosity was killing him, but he was too hungry to indulge it for the moment. "Doesn't matter. Let's eat."

She was clearly ravenous. As she attacked her food, he told her about basic job responsibilities between bites. She would take all of his runs on the Fury Road unless ill or incapacitated. Cheer up: She would also be excused duties if she were dead. (That one earned him an eye roll.) They didn't always get harassed, but she would be expected to help defend the rig when they did. If something broke down, she would do what she could to fix it. If the break was somewhere exposed, the War Boys would shield her while she worked. He'd train her on other responsibilities (he said, watching her push the maggot mash around) like driving, though she'd start out learning on the advance and pursuit vehicles. Everyone on the run had to have at least rudimentary driving skills in case he got killed. Unloading and loading was primarily the War Boys' responsibility, but she should do what she could to assist. They would also handle the administrative responsibilities on each run and would record cargo, numbers, any attacks and where. They would liaison with their counterparts at the Bullet Farm and Gas Town to make sure everyone got what they needed and that information on common threats made the rounds. All reports went to the Citadel inkmen, who would track useful or dangerous trends, and record shipments to monitor demand and plan future harvests. After each run they'd assess the rig for damaged or worn parts, do repairs, reload all weapons, and restock additional ammunition and parts. She should expect to train on a wide variety of guns.

They would also report to the Immortan after each trip. Most of these meetings were perfunctory, but Joe wanted the praetorians' assessments of the other fortresses, and if anything felt off or unusual to them.

Furiosa swallowed her last bite of bread. "Off or unusual how?"

"The Citadel, Gas Town, and the Bullet Farm trust each other, but they don't really trust each other. The relationship between them is too important to risk over anyone's ego or incompetence. The Immortan wants to know if we see anything that Dementus or the Bullet Farmer aren't being honest about." He looked down. "Do you not like maggot mash?"

"It's not my favorite." She pushed it in his direction. "Yours if you want."

He wasn't going to turn down free protein; it puzzled him that anyone would. He spooned it up. "Anyway, probably the most relevant example is Gas Town. Dementus doesn't seem to have any talent for anything other than killing people. Things have gotten worse, especially over the last year. The workers aren't happy, and sometimes the supply isn't what we were promised. And it doesn't look like people are getting fed what they should."

He initially thought she was avoiding the omelet the same way she'd been avoiding the maggot mash, which disappointed him, but no; she'd just saved it for last. She ate with obvious delight, cutting off portions with the side of her fork. Whenever he got treats for the crew, they simply stuffed them down. Seeing someone with actual table manners at the Citadel was new.

She noticed him watching and got self-conscious. "Did Joe cut their shipments?" she said, avoiding his eyes.

"No. This is just a guess as to what's going on, but Gas Town has a refrigerated food storage facility, or it did. We've started to think that either it isn't working well, or it's not working at all. So assuming that Dementus still prioritizes his own gang for food, as time ticks down between deliveries and food starts to go bad -- "

"The gang still eats, but everyone else goes hungry," she finished.

"Exactly. Or they get sick. And we've never really had that much insight into how that system was running in the first place, so we don't know what went wrong. The bloke who used to run it -- I don't know what his name was -- was pretty lenient with the chemical engineers, because he needed them to keep everything running. Maybe they mouthed off to Dementus and he made examples of them without realizing how dumb that was. Unfortunately, that's something Dementus would do."

She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, and seemed about to say something, but changed her mind. "So that's what Joe wants to hear about? Anything that would put the relationship between the three fortresses at risk?"

"Pretty much. More specifically, it's things along the lines of -- anytime we've been promised something and it doesn't show up. When they ask for more supply and why. Damage to the buildings or just poor maintenance. Underfed workers, quality dropping, stuff like that. The supply runs are a way for him to have eyes and ears on the wasteland."

"I assume we're going to Gas Town next."

"Yes. Three days. You won't need to know everything by then, but we'll drill on the basics."

She'd finished the last of her omelet and sat back, looking at her plate a little wistfully. A final knot of War Boys left the refectory, shooting glances at her as they did. Her eyes followed them out. They could hear the distant rattle of pots as the cooks worked to close up the kitchen, but they were far enough away that, for the moment, they had some privacy.

"I didn't know Black Thumb well," she said. "But his job seemed to be just the rig. I could be wrong, but this seems to be a lot more than that."

"It is." He'd been thinking about it on and off, and finally come to a decision. "I think the best way to handle this is to train you as a full praetorian."

"Why?"

He had a lot of very complicated thoughts that he wasn't sure he was going to express well; it was getting late and he was already tired. He toyed with his spoon. "I guess the first reason is that it's the fastest way to make you safe. Well," he amended. "Safer. If you're useful to the Immortan where you are, he's less likely to bung you in the vault. But I don't know if that's a sure thing."

"Depends on how fast he runs out of other options."

"Yes. So we need to make you more attractive as an officer than as a wife. The second reason is that a praetorian's skill set and resources will get you farther in the wastes than a mechanic's. A praetorian can order a chase car prepped with everything you'd need for an escape. A mechanic can't. And there's always the chance that I don't survive long enough to help you with that. You may need to do it on your own."

"Planning on dying early?"

"I'm just being realistic. The job's dangerous."

"I thought you were supposed to be the best." She turned an utterly innocent gaze on him.

"Spoken like someone who hasn't seen my past fuck-ups." He ran a finger down the right side of his face. "The massive, disfiguring scar wasn't a tip-off?"

"It's not that bad. For all I know, you took a digger on the stairs and then told everyone it was a war wound."

Was she teasing him? Was this what being teased was like? "Well, I didn't."

"So how'd you get it?"

"Running with scissors."

She didn't laugh, but she came close. For a brief, shining moment, the world became a happier place. The Citadel and the dying landscape and the endless deformity of everything good and normal vanished around him, and he was having dinner with a pretty girl and she was winding him up and he was delighted and maybe if he kept at it he could make her laugh.

Then her smile faded, and the world went back to being what it actually was. The mood shift was so abrupt that he was about to ask, hesitantly, if he'd done something wrong. Footfalls behind him announced what she'd already seen.

Puck loomed over him. "What's funny?"

Furiosa didn't say anything. After a moment, Jack cleared his throat. "She was having a go at me over the scar."

"Mmm. Bandits, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Scrappy little gang that hit us on the way back from Gas Town once," he said, by way of explanation to Furiosa. Their encounter with the Black Suns was why Jack preferred, in the aggregate, to run into prosperous gangs than desperate ones. Well-funded gangs had the resources to shoot you. Desperate ones had to resort to more painful methods, like broken bottles. Whenever he caught sight of the scar in the rig's mirrors, it left him a little self-conscious. He couldn't honestly say it was a problem, because he'd never have the chance to be a suitor, but he did know that Immortan Joe preferred not to breed off of scarred or disabled women. The knowledge that he was the male equivalent hurt a little, sometimes.

"Right." Puck was frowning slightly at Furiosa. "Did you like your omelet?"

"I did. Thank you, sir."

Puck's eyes crinkled. "No reason to be calling me that. I'm not an officer. You have to call this asshole sir, but not me."

"No, she doesn't." Too late: Furiosa gave him a look that suggested that that was going to be fertile ground for more teasing. Then again, he didn't want to discourage her.

He was spared for the moment as she looked back at Puck. "I meant it, though. I haven't had something that nice in a long time. Food's hard to come by out in the wasteland."

"You're very welcome. You'll get enough to eat here at the Citadel. It won't always be fancy, unless this idiot wants to blow through his supply of reward chits trying to impress you, but it'll fill the belly. Unfortunately," he said, directing the next bit at a reddened Jack, "I have to turf you both out. We're closing up."

"No worries." Jack pushed himself away from the table. "We needed to go anyway. I was going to see if I could get her in to the Organic Mechanic before the end of the night."

"Doubt it. He was planning on going to the pit last I saw him."

Oh, wonderful. Fabulous. One more fantastically awkward thing to discuss with her, but maybe she already knew what Puck meant. "When did you talk to him?"

"Around two hours ago. You can always try to roust him out of there, but he's not going to be happy."

"Better to wait until morning, then. I'm sorry," he said to Furiosa. "I should've brought you to him straight off."

"It's okay." She got up with some difficulty. "It hurts, but I don't think it's that serious. The Organic Mechanic is the medical person here, right?"

"Yeah. He runs the sick bay, and he's who you need to see if you ever get sick or injured." He shifted the table so she could maneuver a little more easily. "Thanks again, Puck. We'll see you tomorrow."

They made their way to the exit. Furiosa was definitely stiffer than she'd been earlier, but seemed game enough. He was debating the possibility of running downstairs to find a clean rag so they could wrap the ankle themselves when he was interrupted.

Behind him: "P-Jack? Can I have a word?"

"Uh, sure." He motioned for her to go ahead. "I'll catch up in a moment."

"Yes, sir."

He almost smiled.

Puck was obviously waiting until she was safely out of earshot. Jack was beginning to wonder what had motivated the delay, and with every second that passed, got more and more unnerved. Had they blown her cover already? He racked his memory. There was no way Puck could've heard anything from the kitchen. They'd had that minor slip-up at the beginning, but nobody was around. Everything else they'd said could reasonably have been onboarding a new worker at the Citadel.

Well, not the last bit, he admitted to himself. The glow from it hadn't entirely faded. But it wouldn't have risked outing her.

Unless Puck had recognized her straight off? He couldn't see how, but Jack thought Furiosa's eyes were so distinctive that anyone would have remembered them. But he couldn't remember seeing her in the refectory prior to this. Floor workers often took their meals below because the refectory wasn't big enough to accommodate all the crews at once. And there was no way she ever could've gotten a reward chit as a dogman, so no reason for her to come to the kitchens, unless ... had she been caught stealing food previously? Was that how she had gotten eggs?

Not possible; something that valuable going missing would've sparked an uproar. But what about the vegetables for the escape attempt?

He was beginning to spiral, every fresh possibility lending its own numb terror, when Puck finally spoke.

Puck's hands were on his hips. "Sir, I know it's not really my place to say anything, and especially not to an officer, but you need to be careful."

Jack was not among the praetorians who insisted that everyone use an honorific with him, and hearing it from Puck, of all people, was doing nothing for his paranoia. He did his best to remain impassive. "Sorry. Not sure I follow."

"Oh yes, you fucking do." The older man regarded him steadily. "Were you telling the truth about her becoming one of the Immortan's wives?"

"Of course I am. I met with him before we came here. If he can't find alternatives down the line, she goes to the vault. Obviously I would prefer that she remains on my crew -- "

"Yeah," Puck spat. "Obviously."

Oh.

So that's what this was about. He had the grace to squirm.

Puck looked to the side. "I'm not an idiot. I'd like to think neither of us is. I'll do my part letting everyone know to leave her alone, but you can't be carrying on like that in public. If she's going to the vault, you either stay professional with her, or everyone's going to think you're just using the vault as an excuse to keep everyone else at bay. How can you possibly tell people they're going to get drop-kicked off the top of the Citadel for messing with her if the two of you are practically on a fucking date at chow time? You can't threaten people with a consequence that you don't take seriously, you know? And there are some absolute nutters among the War Boys who would've shanked you for that little performance, because they would've seen it as an insult to the Immortan." Puck scuffed the ground. "And if she's not going to the vault ... shit. I don't know. That might even be worse. It'll be open season, and I don't see that ending well. Do you?"

Jack didn't answer. He didn't have one.

Puck softened. "Sorry. I just -- Jack, it gives me no joy to say this. But this is so dangerous. Please be careful. She shouldn't be here."

"Yeah," he said bitterly, turning to leave. "I get that."

Furiosa was sitting halfway down the stairs. Something in her expression became more tentative when she saw him. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah."

She was quiet. "Are you sure?"

"It's nothing," he said, more curtly than he'd intended. "Actually, stay here another second. I'll get a wrap for your ankle. We won't be seeing the Mechanic tonight." He felt her eyes on him as he descended.

He went down to the supply bays and hunted for the cleanest, longest rag he could find. The workers who rolled their sleeping mats out on the floor were still giving the rig a wide berth, despite the now-total absence of any reason to do so. Ordinarily he'd have found it funny, but after the conversation with Puck, the many defeats of the day and his own exhaustion had caught up with him. He went back up the stairs and thrust the rag at her. "Here. We should get some rest after this. Black Thumb's bedroll should be available on the praetorians' platform if you want it."

"I guess. Probably not the best idea to be on my own downstairs." She took off her boot. He swore inwardly; the ankle had swollen badly. He shouldn't have mucked around for so long. They both knew there wasn't much point anymore, but still. Furiosa unrolled the rag. "The cook said the Mechanic had gone to the pit?"

"Yeah."

"I assume he meant the breeding pit?"

One of the lower levels was reserved for rooms where half-life women and milkers were bred, ensuring a constant supply of War Pups and mother's milk. Some of it was done via artificial insemination. Some of it was not. "I'm afraid so. It's a privilege that can be granted to officers, and to a few people like the Mechanic and the inkmen." He couldn't meet her eyes. "The Mechanic is a fan."

"I can believe that," she said tonelessly. She'd begun to wrap the foot and ankle, but her technique wasn't very good. He was torn between wanting to help, and feeling that this was absolutely not the time to touch her. As she tightened it, a brief spasm of pain flickered across her features. She jerked at it even harder. "Do you have access?"

God, he didn't want to answer this, or talk about it, or even acknowledge that it existed at all. And yet somehow lying to her would have been worse. "Yes."

He waited for her to ask if he'd ever gone.

She didn't.

Chapter Text

Out of all the things that gave her away, this was the most unexpected.

It had been an unpleasant night.

She'd taken Black Thumb's old bedroll without comment, turning away before he could offer his blanket, and limping to a clump of rocks on the other side of the platform. There was only a sliver of moon. He could barely make out her figure as she bent, tossing smaller stones behind her and brushing dirt away, until she'd hollowed out enough space for herself. Anyone approaching her would have to pick their way among the rocks she'd unearthed and the ones that were already there, and then have to contort themselves under the ceiling. Safety at the expense of comfort, he thought gloomily.

At least it was less an imposition than pretending to be a man for ... however long she'd done that. There had been a few praetorians still bedding down as they'd come in, but it was apparent that word of Furiosa had started to spread. First the inevitable double take, and then they averted their eyes, with a few glances back when the curiosity got to be too much. Fortunately, after she'd wedged herself into the rocks, it was unlikely that stragglers would see her at all.

He collapsed onto his own mat. He always had problems sleeping whenever he lost people on the road, and today had been terrible. While some attacks had been worse in the sense of overall damage done or closer calls, this was the first time he'd lost an entire complement of War Boys. His mind moved over it in the dark, questioning every choice, replaying every shot, and cataloguing every loss. As much as Joe's personality cult was bullshit, Jack had always hoped that there'd be something more than this for the sake of the Boys. Perhaps not the Valhalla they had been promised, but there had to be more than the tumors and the anemia and the servitude, and the quick deaths and the not-so-quick deaths out in the wastes. He didn't know whether there was. A small part of him cherished the hope of seeing his parents again, but there were nights like this when he'd considered that, even if some future realm of the soul existed, he might not deserve to be there.

Or maybe they'd just be disappointed in him, he thought soberly. He hoped not, but life had spiraled into an endless series of moral compromises, with the only alternative being death. Most of the time he thought they'd understand, but some nights -- bad nights -- nights like this -- he stared into the sky and did not think that grace or forgiveness or absolution would be coming for any of them.

He lifted himself on his elbows and tried to peek at Furiosa. He couldn't see her at all from this angle. Going over to check would probably just draw unwanted attention. Everyone was leaving her alone, at least for the moment.

It felt slightly insane that he wanted to check on her at all, but he thought he knew the real reason. She had seemed quietly upset after learning he had access to the breeding pit. It ate at him for a reason he did not understand.

Should he talk to her about that? The truth was more embarrassing than damning, or at least he thought so, but he had no idea how to have that conversation, or if it should happen in the first place. They'd just met. (Technically.) He outranked her. It would be bizarre for any praetorian to explain themselves in any capacity to an inferior, much less about something like this. There was also no guarantee that any conversation in the Citadel would remain private; they'd been careful, but that pit of quiet dread in his stomach when he realized Puck had overheard them wasn't something he'd forget soon.

Maybe it was better to leave it alone.

In the grip of these frustrating thoughts, he fell asleep.

"All right." He favored her with a sardonic look. "Time for everyone's favorite activity: Paperwork."

They'd gotten an early start. This was partly owed to their desire to be off the sleeping platform when the other praetorians awoke, but mostly because Jack could almost feel the crew chief wanting to explode from two floors up. The cargo wasn't time-sensitive, but they'd still need to get it unloaded to do any serious repair work on the rig. They ate a hasty, silent breakfast, and then went down.

Paperwork was an archaic term. There wasn't actually much paper at the Citadel, or anywhere else, as far as they knew. An artisan on the upper levels had been able to create a sort of rough sheet from plant fibers, but his entire production line went to the history woman and Joe's overworked inkmen. For everyone else, rock was in abundant supply, and they had a few stonemasons around to chip them into a usable shape. Some helpful soul had hit upon the idea of using clay that could be packed into different-sized molds, fired, and then marked with different-colored stripes or dots at the top. Because these tablets could be differentiated at a glance, the inkmen could organize reports much faster, and this had become the preferred medium for record-keeping. Accordingly, the build floor was stocked with the small- and medium-sized tablets for trip reports, cargo requests, and requisition "forms."

Two generations after the fall, most of the population was functionally illiterate, and a sizable percentage had never held a pen. With more turnover, Joe was finding it harder and harder to find literate officer candidates. Jack was better off than most; his parents had taught him to read and write, though both skills had languished for lack of any real practice before he became an officer. Record-keeping had never been his particular strength as a result. It was one of his own personal sore points, but there weren't any good solutions. Books were virtually nonexistent, though Corpus had a few, and one of the older praetorians swore there was a small library in the vault.

Jack still remembered the last two books that his parents possessed as they traveled: A shaggy copy of Treasure Island that his mother used to read to him at night, and The Thorn Birds, which she didn't. ("When are you going to start him on that one?" his father had said, grinning.) He'd been six, maybe, and it was one of his earliest memories. His mother had cried when there was nothing else to burn.

He dragged a table and one of the few chairs over for Furiosa to sit on. Her ankle wasn't any better this morning (not that they'd really expected it to be), and they'd have to make time to see the Mechanic, no matter how unenthusiastic she seemed. The workers swarmed the rig behind them, unloading the ore, bullets, and weapons they'd picked up, as the build floor's ancient inkman wheeled over to say hello. When they were rushed, the inkman (named Dogo) would tactfully do Jack's trip records and cargo requests for him. Today, Jack was more interested in seeing whether Furiosa could.

If this had been a week ago, he'd have assumed that a Citadel dogman could sign some mark as "his" name, and not much more than that. After the last 24 hours, he wasn't so sure. Watching her fold her legs beneath her at breakfast, he'd started wondering what other oddities he might chase down.

"All right." He dropped some reed pens, a bottle of ink, and a stack of tablets on the table. "Can you read at all?"

She nodded.

"How well?"

"Fairly well."

"Good. Can you write?"

"Yes."

"How well?

She shrugged.

Well, he'd find out either way. He held up one of the thin clay tablets used for record-keeping. "Right. This is a trip report. They're always marked with red dots at the top. When we write these, we start at the top, list destination, cargo, crew and vehicle losses or damage, and estimated bandit kills. You know, if relevant."

"It is," she said dryly.

He hid a smile. "Yes. The reports are really lists more than anything else and they're not complicated to write." (He elected not to discuss how long they took in his cramped penmanship.) "And these -- " He gave her a smaller tablet. "Red lines. These are cargo requests. For the most part, they're just a formality, because we already know what we've agreed to give the Bullet Farm and Gas Town, but we still need records so we can track how much water is being pumped and what percentage of the crop is being shipped. Trip reports and cargo requests all go to Joe's inkmen. They keep track of everything and let him know about any trends we need to get ahead of." The war rig actually owed its existence to this, after an escalating series of attacks on the supply runs.

He handed her the tablets and turned his attention to the workers. "All right. I'm sorry I kept you off the rig last night. What are we looking at in terms of repairs?"

All things considered, the rig was in surprisingly decent shape. They'd need a tire replacement, the radiator needed to be topped off, some basic maintenance done on the engines, mirror replacements, a few new parts elsewhere, and some dents that needed to be bashed out. He said to Furiosa, "Got all that?"

She nodded.

He remembered their conversation in the rig, and turned to Sawkins, the crew chief. "Any possibility we can rewire the bommyknocker controls to the cabin before the run to Gas Town?"

"We can try," Sawkins said, looking skeptical. "On its own that wouldn't be a huge deal -- it's just everything else that's got to be done on top of it. Certainly within the week though."

"I think that'll be okay. Wiping out the mortifiers took care of the most organized threat out there. If we cross-train everyone on it, that's a decent solution until we can control it from the cab."

"My worry about rewiring it there is that you could take your own crew out." The chief pointed to the side mirrors, all of which had been smashed. "How well can you see the top of the tanker from the cab?"

Fair point. "Not always well, and not at all if the mirrors are out. Maybe we can program a warning sound before it starts up?"

"Sir?"

He turned. Furiosa wasn't teasing him this time, just being respectful in front of the men. She handed him the tablet. "All set."

That fast? He stared. The trip report was written in a beautiful, flowing script. The beginning was more uneven, with awkward splotches where she was clearly getting used to the pen, but the rest of it was perfect schoolroom lettering.

She looked nervous, fiddling with the pen. "Is it okay?"

He was at a loss for a moment. "Is this cursive?"

"It is," Dogo said, peering at it approvingly. "That's a lovely job, miss. I haven't seen that from anyone other than us in a long time. Parents teach you?"

"Uh, yes. My mother. When we were out in the wastes," she added unnecessarily.

"Was she a teacher?"

"No. I think it was just how she had been taught."

"It's always nice to see the old world isn't completely gone. Unfortunately, you'll need to recopy that in print. One of the Immortan's inkmen reads cursive, but the other one hates it." Dogo looked at Jack. "You should be fine here. She won't have any issues with the cargo request." He smiled at them and wheeled off.

All right, Jack thought. Don't make a thing of this. He addressed the pack of wildly excited War Boys who'd come to volunteer for his next crew. "You boys up for a training session on the bommyknocker?"

The rest of the morning was fairly routine. After she'd finished both the new version of the trip report and the cargo request for the upcoming Gas Town visit, Furiosa was set to work replacing the side mirrors. It was ridiculously simple work given her actual skill set, but it was obvious to everyone that she was in no position to be climbing all over the rig. Sawkins had noted this and, without comment, assigned her the only job that could be done while seated in the cab. It was unexpected given the man's graceless shock at her arrival the night before, but no less welcome for all that.

There was also a surprising gallantry among the War Boys, who got her everything she needed and wouldn't hear of her getting up. Jack was no fool; he could see the unspoken competition to get on his good side, but he'd take it either way. Rewarding respectful workers with coveted crew jobs for "P-Jack" was the best way to ensure that Furiosa wouldn't get harassed or undermined on the road. The Citadel was a dark forest, but not everything in it had to be an enemy.

Some things were, though.

Furiosa was almost done. With a straightforward job to do, and Jack and the War Boys handing her tools and parts, she'd relaxed a little. She'd even joked around with one of the younger boys who was innocently fascinated with her hair. Jack was about to hand her another screwdriver when she saw something in the new mirror that made her go deathly still.

"Prae Jack! I'm glad you survived."

Oh, fuck. Why hadn't he thought of this?

Jack jumped off the rig, intercepting the big man at the tanker. "Hey, mate. Good to see you."

"Came down to check on the rig." Rictus looked on proudly as a swarm of workers toiled all over it. "Held up okay?"

"It did its job and more. Honestly, considering all the hits it took, it's in pretty good shape. It'll need a new tire, and some maintenance we'd been expecting anyway, and we'll probably rewire the bommyknocker so it can be controlled from the cab, but in the meantime we're going to coordinate the War Boys and ... " He kept jabbering. Anything to keep Rictus distracted and away from the cab. He caught sight of Sawkins, standing at the table off to the side, observing the little scene with interest. Jack knew he was talking too much.

But Rictus wasn't all that interested in the details, and despite Jack's best efforts, was making his way slowly along the crane platform. "The rig was my idea, you know," he said, inspecting the workers' efforts.

"I heard that. Thank you. I wouldn't have made it back without it."

Rictus smiled. "Anything for Prae Jack. You're the best." He cocked his head, catching sight of something in the side mirror. His eyes narrowed. "Is that your new black thumb?"

God damn it.

The big man swung himself up to the cab and stopped in open-mouthed astonishment. "You're the new mechanic? You'd have to be. You're the only girl."

"Yes, sir." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Huh." Rictus seemed momentarily lost for words. "Where'd you come from?"

Furiosa gave him the usual story, keeping her head down and her hands folded in her lap. Some of the older and more socially adroit War Boys had, like Sawkins, picked up on Jack doing his best to distract Rictus. Jack had been around the build floor for months at that point, and he was often in the company of the brothers. "P-Jack" might be deferential to Rictus and Scrotus, but never obsequious or chatty. Work on the rig slowed as the men watched.

Rictus extended a curious hand, rolling a strand of Furiosa's hair between his fingers and looking puzzled. The War Pup who'd asked her about her hair earlier turned to Jack with a worried look. He didn't know what to do.

Furiosa's hands were trembling. "Why're you scared?" Rictus asked.

"I've never met the son of a god before, sir."

She was a terrible liar. However, Rictus was a terrible person, and easily flattered. "You don't need to be scared of me. I'm just here to make sure the Immortan's wishes are carried out. I'll help you if you want."

Jack almost jumped when someone materialized at his elbow: Sawkins. "Sir," he said, addressing Rictus. "If you have a moment, I was wondering if you'd help us over here on one of the chase cars. I need a strong chap for this part, and the ones I've got are a bit on the smaller side."

"All right." Rictus was always proud to be asked for something that required his size or strength. Giving Furiosa one last pointed look, he levered himself away from the cab, and ambled off.

Jack bent inside. "You all right?"

After a moment, she nodded violently, and took the screwdriver with a shaking hand.

An absolutely insane thought had begun to worm its way into Jack's brain, and he thought: No. Absolutely not. Not possible.

It wasn't possible.

But it was.

It looked like Rictus was going to be hanging around for a while. Using the excuse of needing to get Furiosa's ankle looked at, Jack got her off the floor as soon as she'd installed the last mirror. The War Boys clustered around Rictus as soon as he'd finished working on the chase car, each with a question or compliment. Some of it was hero worship from the truly hardcore: Some of it was legitimate need: Jack suspected that the lion's share was the distracting busywork that the floor had collectively developed to keep Rictus away from anything they didn't want him interfering with or delaying. He made a mental note of the latter group.

He still had the trip report and cargo order in hand. "I usually deliver these because Dogo has a hard time with the stairs. If you want, I'll go up and get them to the inkmen while you're at the Mechanic, and then -- " He glanced to his side, only to discover she wasn't there. She'd lagged behind in the corridor, and as badly as she was limping, he didn't think that had much to do with it.

Furiosa had steadied herself against the wall and was breathing hard, eyes glazed, staring at the floor.

"Are you okay?"

She didn't answer. She still had some carabiners on her work suit from being clipped under the rig, and one was close enough to the wall to keep rattling against it. There was a vacancy in her look that sent a crawling sensation up his spine. In that moment, he could not have sworn she knew he was there.

The rational part of Jack knew that stopping Furiosa's escape had been the right thing to do. The rig was fully loaded, and its fuel efficiency was shit even in the best of circumstances. She didn't have any experience driving it, and there was no chance she'd have made it wherever she was going. She'd have died somewhere out in the wastes, and whatever was left of her would've been scavenged by bandits and insects. He'd made his offer with the certainty that whatever was back at the Citadel couldn't possibly be worse than that. He knew that, or he thought he did. Now he wasn't so sure.

After a time, her breathing slowed and she swallowed. She lifted desperate eyes to him. "Jack, please don't ever leave me alone with him."

It was the first time she'd ever used his name. Now completely unnerved, he nodded.

They made it a little farther down the corridor before he realized that, circumstances being what they were, he'd need to clarify. "Do you mean Rictus or the Mechanic?"

"Both."

Fucking hell.

The Organic Mechanic laughed. "Jack! Heard you got yourself a new black thumb."

The sick bay wasn't large, but it was the only real option for medical care at the Citadel. Most of its therapeutic approach was weighted toward recovery from accidents and injuries, with a ghoulish pragmatism toward more advanced conditions, which could only be treated by way of a bullet. "I did. This is Furiosa. I was wondering if you'd take a look at her ankle."

"Course I will. Always got time for a pretty girl." (We know, Jack thought.) The Mechanic flung an arm at the exam table. "Can you hop up on your own, or d'you need help?"

"I'm fine," she said shortly. She wasn't. The table was high and she was having problems getting onto it without the use of both feet. Jack lent his forearm and lifted her slightly.

The Mechanic watched her progress with a critical eye. "No mystery here, it's the left one. Need help getting your boot off?"

"I've got it."

"Fair enough." He possessed one of the few rolling stools still around, and pushed himself away to open the supply cabinet. The fortress wasn't particularly well-stocked, but it could handle basic healthcare needs and some minor surgeries. Jack would admit, albeit grudgingly, that the Mechanic did good work, and had always treated his crews fairly (though he sometimes bitched about "wasting" medical supplies on the War Boys). He rolled back just as Furiosa got the boot and bandage off.

The Mechanic moved her pants leg up to her knee with a practiced flick, and then lifted her heel, forcing Furiosa back against the angled table. "Done yourself an injury here, love. How'd it happen?"

"Fell out of the rig," she muttered.

"Some black thumb you are. Did it happen yesterday? This isn't fresh."

"Yeah."

The Mechanic peered at her over the table. "Not very chatty, are you?"

"No."

He paused, staring at her hard, hand still on her. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I've only been at the Citadel a day."

"Doesn't answer my question, love, now does it?"

She was silent. Jack broke in. "She'll be our new combat mechanic."

"You already said. Black Thumb got dusted, I take it?"

"I'm afraid so. We lost the entire crew and all the chase vehicles."

"So you managed to lose one mechanic and then fell arse-first into another one out on the road." The Mechanic nodded at Furiosa. "That's why they call him Lucky Jack." He went to work, dirty fingers palpating her ankle, straying up her calf. "So what the hell hit you out there?"

"Mortifiers with a lot of imagination and some gliders. We got them in the end, but it was a hard fight." His mouth thinned. "Steady on, mate. I don't think anything's wrong with her leg."

"Just checking."

"Were you? She might be one of the Immortan's wives at some point. Show some respect." He was uncomfortably aware that defending Furiosa on her own merits would be less effective than invoking Joe.

It was still the wrong card to play. The Mechanic gave Furiosa a knowing look. "If that's the case, love, I'm gonna have my fingers on something a lot more delicate than your leg at some point."

The morally correct thing to do would be to shoot him, but Jack had left his sidearm downstairs. He leaned down until the Mechanic looked up, startled. "Not yet," he said, clipped.

The Mechanic occupied an odd spot in the Citadel's hierarchy. He wasn't exactly an officer, but he was so crucial to the running of the vault and the sick bay that he might as well have been. A power struggle between the two of them would not necessarily end in Jack's favor, and they both knew it. However, the outcome was uncertain enough that the man lost some of his bravado. "Fair enough."

There was an awkward silence before the Mechanic returned to his work. "I remember that outfit -- the mortifiers, I mean. Probably knew some of them. Hard luck." He gently manipulated the ankle, sparking a hiss of pain from Furiosa. "Sorry, love, I know it hurts. No real way of knowing, but it feels like a standard sprain to me. Might be better if it were broken, because sometimes that heals cleaner than a sprain. Either way I'll wrap it for you. Try to stay off it as much as you can for a few days, and tie that boot tight when you can't." He grinned. "Sweet Jesus, you're tense. Just relax." He patted her foot, and reached for a bandage roll.

Jack was beginning to wonder how much of his life was going to be spent placating creepy assholes. "Light duty for a few days?"

"Ah, yeah."

"She okay to drive?" He wanted to get her the hell out of the Citadel, for even the meanest taste of freedom that would afford. Driving lessons were a perfect excuse.

"Might have some issues with a manual because that foot's gonna hurt for a bit."

Fine. He wasn't going to start her on the rig anyway. He caught her eye. "You want to start driving?"

It was the happiest Furiosa had looked all day.

The Mechanic finished wrapping the bandage around the bottom of her foot, cinching it and clipping the unused portion. "So where'd you come from?"

"Uh, the wasteland. I was passing through with some drifters."

"Mmph." The Mechanic rolled away, tossing the rest of the bandage in the cabinet. "Run into Dementus? I was with that outfit for a bit."

"No."

Jack passed Furiosa her boot. "Speaking of which, we're going to Gas Town in two days."

"Still got some mates there. Say hi to the old gang for me."

"Will do." He lent Furiosa his arm so she could get off the exam table.

"Come back any time," said the Mechanic. "Always love to see a woman on her back."

Neither one of them knew what to say. She was moving better, but she'd folded her arms, almost hugging herself, seemingly lost in thought.

A group of War Boys passed them in the corridor, doing the usual double take, and then moving on in silence. She ignored them. They rounded the corner and were alone. Jack gave it another twenty seconds, and then slowed.

"Furiosa?"

She stopped alongside him.

He didn't know precisely how to say this, or if it was the right thing to do. All he knew in the moment was revulsion strong enough to overcome any higher form of thought. "If you don't ever want to go back to him, I'm okay with that. If you get hurt, I'll take care of it myself, unless it's something I don't know how to do, or can't figure out how to do, or if it's something you'd be uncomfortable with me addressing. Okay?"

Their eyes met. She understood what he was saying. "Thank you."

"I don't know what to do about Rictus," he said bluntly. "He should know better. Joe said in front of him that you weren't to be touched. So I'm not sure how to handle that yet."

"For what it's worth, I don't know what to do about him either."

"You were avoiding him before all this kicked off."

"Yes." She was quiet. "Was it very obvious?"

"Not to the average person, and I don't think he noticed either. I said I wouldn't ask questions, and I won't. I have no right to know what happened there. But I assume you've got a good reason not to want to be around him, so ... we'll figure something out."

"For the moment, we can go driving."

They'd begun to move forward again. He smiled. "Agreed. Let's get the hell out of here."