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Chapter Text

“The stars be with you.”

Her mother’s words weigh heavily on Furiosa’s mind tonight. This was supposed to have been the day she’d finally escape the Citadel and keep her promise to find her way home. She’d prepared for months — getting onto the build crew that would give her regular access to the War Rig, stealing and stashing a few day’s rations under the chassis, securing the motorbike she’d managed to smuggle out of the workshop, and finally clipping herself to the Rig’s underside and riding out through the gates. All according to plan. Today would be the day.

But then today just had to be the same day the Octoboss staged his attack, and before she knew it everything had gone to shit. She’d survived, somehow, and then for one wild moment thought she’d be able to hijack the vehicle itself — not exactly a stealthy mode of transport compared to the bike she’d been planning on, but certainly faster than walking — until the Praetorian had kicked her out of the cab and left her by the side of the road without even a bag of potatoes to her name.

Until he’d come back for her, and she’d come back with him. Right back where she’d started.

But the stars are still with her — tattooed across her arm, of course, but also spread gloriously above her tonight. It’s a moonless sky, and she has an excellent view of it from her perch on one of the narrow metal catwalks that link the great bluffs of the Citadel. The same stars she used to see from the Green Place, she tells herself. No matter where she is, they’re still the same stars.

She can’t stand to be inside tonight. Half the Boys look at her like she’s got two heads. And as for the other half… it’s not her head they’re interested in. Anyone who chances it will soon find her knife in his thigh — if he’s lucky. But like Praetorian Jack said earlier, it’s been a hard day. It seems easier to just be alone.

Jack. She’s still got the gun she grabbed off him earlier, now holstered snugly against her hip. Before today she’d never spoken to the man, and actually today she’s hardly spoken to him either. But when they locked eyes over the hood of the Rig earlier, when she slipped into the passenger seat next to him, when they’d faced down bullets and flamethrowers and everything else the Mortiflyers could throw at them and survived to be the last two breathing — it was like they’d shared a certain understanding.

Of course, that was before she tried to hold him up with his own gun and he’d abandoned her in the Wasteland. But, then again, he did come back.

Even after the intensity of the earlier battle, returning to the Citadel had shot her body through with adrenaline all over again. Despite Jack’s reassurances, she was half certain she was making a hideous mistake, that it would have been better to just ignore his offer and go die alone in the desert. Anything but be locked away as someone’s property. And yet the same steady voice that had talked her into staying had also convinced Scrotus not to immediately drag her before the Immortan, to let the Praetorian go make his case for a new apprentice instead.

So now, rather than being an anonymous dogman, she’ll be part of the War Rig crew. On the way to becoming a praetorian herself. Well, she’s survived working for the Citadel this long. She can treat it the same way she treated the last job — make herself useful, take what she can, and keep her mouth shut. Then, when the opportunity comes again, follow the stars home.

“You'll have all the skills you'll need to get wherever you want to go,” he’d said. That, and better access to guns and vehicles. Next time she runs, she won’t be inches away from being ground under the wheels of the War Rig with only a bag of potatoes to her name. Next time she runs, she promises herself, she’s going to make it.

The soft clank of footsteps on metal knocks her out of her reverie immediately and she scrambles to her feet, hand already resting on the hilt of her gun. She turns to find Jack cautiously approaching, wreathed in starlight. He has the body language of a man trying to pacify a feral dog.

“Been looking for you,” he says. “Spoke to the Immortan. You’re on the crew. If that’s still what you want.”

She slowly drops her hand from her hip and nods. Jack looks pleased, but if he’s waiting for another response from her, he’ll be waiting for a long time.

“We’ll start tomorrow. Show you around the rig, teach you where everything’s kept. Plenty of work still to be done to fix it up after today, of course, so we’ll get the blackthumbs on that. I’m doing another run to the Bullet Farm next week, so if all goes well, you can be riding shotgun then.”

She stares back at him, unblinking.

“You can come inside and sleep, you know,” he says eventually. “I keep my crew safe.”

She looks away, shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” Jack turns and starts back down the walkway, then pauses to pull a small parcel from his pocket. “Almost forgot — I got you something, up in hydroponics.”

He tosses the object over to her and she catches it. It’s something angular and cool, wrapped in an old scrap of fabric. When she doesn’t make a move to open it, he turns away again and leaves her to it.

Furiosa watches him vanish back into the guts of the Citadel and then slowly unwraps the parcel. Inside, incredibly, is a single slice of watermelon.

The flesh of the watermelon is past its prime — the crispness she remembers from her childhood is beginning to give way to something mustier — but it’s still the sweetest thing she’s tasted in a long, long time. Furiosa savours the first cautious bite, but then hunger takes hold and she devours the rest of it quickly, scraping her teeth along the rind until it’s down to a thin green sliver. This doesn’t go to waste either — she dispatches the rind in a few more bites. The taste is bitter, but she savours the crunch, a welcome contrast to the textureless potato gruel allocated to dogmen.

Where did he even get this? She didn’t think praetorians would have unfettered access to the hydroponic gardens. Better rations than hers, certainly, but fresh fruit has always been the preserve of the Immortan and his sons, or sent off to trade for other rare commodities. Or given to the Wives, of course, in hopes that it would keep their skin glowing and their babies healthy.

She narrows her eyes. If that’s Jack’s intention behind the gift, she’ll shove him off this bridge herself. Or maybe he’s somehow worked out her initial role at the Citadel and this is some sort of message. But then why not just say something to her face, or drag her straight from the War Rig to the Citadel’s audience chamber and claim credit for bringing back the Immortan’s wayward property? Instead he makes excuses for her and then gives her precious, possibly stolen fruit.

What does he want? The question lingers in her mind like the taste of the watermelon juice on her lips.

She waits on the walkway for a while longer, but eventually all her thoughts give way to a bone-deep exhaustion. She needs sleep desperately. She doesn’t want to go back inside the Citadel, but she can’t stay here — the night air is only getting colder and she’ll be too exposed, both to the wind and to anyone who tries to jump her in the night. Nowhere to go but down, and it’s a long way down.

Maybe she can find some hidden nook inside to sleep in, build herself a little nest in the back of a storage room like she used to do as a child, when she’d first escaped.

Furiosa skulks back into the corridors of the Citadel, keeping her shoulders hunched and head down, but feeling incredibly exposed without her hood. She knows these levels like the back of her hand though, and it should be easy to keep to the quieter passages, away from curious or hostile eyes. With any luck, she’ll make it to a good sleeping place unseen.

But when she rounds the first corner, there he is, leaning against the wall, very obviously waiting for her. She freezes.

Jack looks up at her, and she notices the bags under his eyes. “You ready to sleep?”

What does she say? She doesn’t know this man, doesn’t like the idea of sleeping next to him. She could just go back outside and hope he leaves her alone, but that seems unlikely, and her body is begging her to rest. She realises she’s clutching the fabric wrapper of the watermelon in her fist, the little bit of juice that seeped into it cold against her palm. If he wanted to try anything, he could have done so by now. Or maybe he’s just toying with her, another one of the Wasteland’s many sadists. Right now, though, he just looks the same way she feels — bruised, battered and very, very tired.

So she nods, and then holds the fabric scrap out to him. Gift received and appreciated. He takes it from her hand without comment and tucks it into his pocket.

“Rig crew quarters are this way. Got anything you need to grab from the blackthumb quarters?”

She shakes her head. Anything she owns, she keeps on her at all times. Not that there’s much to speak of — her threadbare clothes, the peach pit, and now the combination knife-revolver he’s told her to keep. Less chance of having anything stolen, or left behind if she has to make a run for it.

It’s her first time seeing the crew quarters. The space is smaller than the vast dormitory she used to sleep in, a low-ceilinged room with at least two dozen bundles of blankets and bedrolls stacked in the corner. None of them have been set up for the night yet — every man who slept in here last night is dead now, except for one. Jack must be thinking the same thing, because he sighs. “Well, just us in here tonight. You’ve got your choice of the beds.”

He tugs a heavily-patched roll of bedding from midway down the stack and rebalances the rest. That must be his. She hesitates, then reaches for the one at the top.

“Ahh, I wouldn’t pick that one,” Jack says. “I think that’s the one Ozka slept on and he used to… well. There are better options.” He reaches past her and grabs another bedroll from the stack. “Try this one. Less stains.”

She silently takes the bedroll from his hands and tilts it up towards her face, giving it a cautious sniff. Stale sweat and a hint of feet — she’s slept on much worse. Whatever Ozka used to do at night, he can do it in Valhalla now.

Her eyes track Jack as he crosses the room, unrolls his bedroll in a corner and throws the blanket over the top. He lowers himself onto it with a sigh of relief and shrugs his jacket off, looking up at her expectantly. Still keeping an eye on him, she takes her own bedding and sets it up in the opposite corner of the room, waiting to see if he’ll insist on her coming closer.

Instead he just flops back onto the bedroll, tugging the blanket over his shoulders. He keeps his boots on. She slowly lays back under her own blanket, but decides to keep her jacket and boots on too. Just in case.

She’s still watching him, but he’s turned away from her now, only showing his back. She wonders if this is a conscious choice on his part, trying to seem like less of a threat.

“Get some sleep,” he calls. “And enjoy the quiet. Tomorrow we’ll pick a new crew and this place will be filled with snoring War Boys.”

Furiosa wants to stay awake a bit longer, make sure she’s not leaving herself vulnerable, but it’s warm under the scratchy blanket and her eyelids are starting to slip.

“Long day,” she hears Jack mutter to himself. “Long day.”

Furiosa dreams of the Octoboss, harpoon through his leg and slowly being dragged into the swirling bommyknocker, but suddenly she’s the one in the paraglider and the metal flails are spinning closer and closer and —

She wakes up with a start, her pulse racing, eyes flicking around the unfamiliar space as she remembers where she spent the night. Jack is crouched at the other end of the room, already dressed and folding his bedding into a neat bundle.

“Morning,” he says. She stares back at him from under her blanket, feeling vulnerable. He waits a moment for a response, which she doesn’t offer, then carries on. “We slept in. Better hurry if we want to get to the mess hall. And pack your bedroll up — I try to keep things tidy in here.”

So he’s a neat freak. That’s a novelty. She slips out from under the blanket and rolls the bedding up, glad to have slept with all her layers on.

Jack leads her to the mess hall where the praetorians and War Boys eat — a large space filled with long metal tables pocked with dents and divots, the ceiling covered in ductwork and vents that fail to clear the smell of stale gruel from the air. They’re late enough that the place is mostly empty, but the few people who are there all stare at her as she follows him to the counter and then to a table, clutching her bowl of rations close to her chest. She was right about the Rig crew getting better rations — their potatoes come with extra protein in the form of a handful of roast crickets, and her mouth waters at the sight. But there’s not a melon to be seen.

She sits with her back towards the wall and wolfs her meal down, keeping her eyes on the rest of the room. There’s the entrance they came in near the counter, and another exit at the bottom end of the chamber. A group of three War Boys at the table to her left, another two in the opposite corner, and a lone praetorian near the far exit. She reaches for the reassurance of the knife at her belt again.

“Hey.” Jack’s looking at her too now. She stares back at him, mouth full of potato. “Ignore them. You’re in my crew — they’re not going to bother you.”

She wants to tell him she disagrees, that she’s seen how starving men will turn on each other for even the smallest bite to eat. That he should watch his own back when he’s got something other people might want. Instead she just narrows her eyes slightly and swallows her potato gruel.

“So,” he says, spearing a cricket on the end of a battered fork, “we’ll need to pick out a new crew. Have a proper look at the Rig and see what needs fixing up. But before that, I’m thinking we should go to the armoury.”

“Where does a dogman learn to shoot like that?” Jack asks, more to himself than to her.

The visit to the armoury was a good idea. Furiosa started to feel more confident the second she laid eyes on the racks of weapons available to the War Rig crew. If someone wants to come at her, she’ll have a little more firepower now to back her up. Jack must have seen her eyes light up at the sight, because he decided they’d spend a little time doing target practice before sorting out the new crew.

She’s a natural with the sniper rifle. They’re back on one of the Citadel’s linking walkways again, Furiosa lying on her stomach and Jack kneeling next to her with binoculars, eyes locked on the ragged burlap targets that someone must have hung off the cliff walls long ago for training purposes. She’s calm and steady behind the trigger, hitting each mark as he calls them out. The sound of each shot echoes off the Citadel walls and into the dry Wasteland air.

“Third from the left.”

Crack.

A memory — Mary Jabassa crouched next to her, adjusting the heel of the gun against Furiosa’s shoulder. “Keep it steady,” she says. “Deep breaths, don’t rush. You want to pull the trigger while you’re breathing out.”

“Second from the right.”

Crack.

Another memory — Mary with the rifle gripped tightly in her hands, pushing her daughter away on the thunderbike as the sandstorm rages around them. How many of Dementus’s bikers did she shoot that day? Not enough.

“Dead centre.”

Crack.

The pain in her chest as she ran back across the Wasteland towards those shots, legs pumping, feeling sick every time she heard another one ring out, and even worse when they stopped.

“Good,” Jack says, sitting back. “Let’s take a break.”

It takes her a few seconds to relinquish the rifle, but eventually she lays it down next to her and slowly sits up. Her elbows hurt from the metal grating they’ve been resting on — there will still be red dents left in her skin when she goes to sleep tonight.

“I can’t keep calling you the dogman, you know. You’re not working on the cranes any more.”

She waits to find out what new name he’s going to give her. People have called her a lot of things out in the wasteland — Little D, girl, boy, you there, treadmill rat, dogman, often terms much less complimentary. What will it be this time? He doesn’t seem like the sort of man to name her after himself, or call her something insulting just to remind her of his own superiority. It’ll be something functional, probably, and short. Easy for barking out orders during combat.

But instead he just looks at her expectantly, and she realises he’s waiting for her to tell him her actual name.

After so long, the sound feels unnatural on her tongue. “Furiosa.”

He nods, looking pleased she’s actually answered him. “Nice shooting, Furiosa.”

She shrugs and looks away. She feels exposed — maybe she should have just let him pick something, let him cloud his view of her with his own assumptions. Letting him actually know something about her feels like giving up some form of power. But hearing someone else actually speak her name again does spark some tiny ember in the ashy coals of her heart.

Well-fed and well-armed, Furiosa follows Jack to the garage to examine the War Rig and pick the new crew.

Word of the last crew’s glorious ascent to Valhalla has spread, and the garage is packed with War Boys keen to be the next in line. Drivers, lancers, mechanics — even prospective Pissboys. They have their pick of the litter. Jack does, anyway — she hangs behind him warily, conscious of their stares. He walks down the line of eager white-powdered bodies, recognising a few faces immediately and tapping them to join.

She knows a few of them already, even if they’ve never spoken to each other. Sixer, named for the extra finger on his left hand, is short and broad-shouldered, a cheerful sort well-liked among the Boys. Hud is quieter, but his eyes burn with the fervency of a true believer in the Cult of the V8. Then there’s Keero, a braggart and a bully, but with a reputation as a good shot and an even better driver that makes him an obvious pick. But most of them are unknown quantities, and her nerves grow with each new selection, unsure how they’ll react to working with her.

Eventually Jack turns back to her, his arms folded. “We still need two more. You’ve worked with some of these on the build crew. Who’d be your pick?”

She didn’t expect him to want her opinion. Part of her wonders if this is some sort of trick – if she names a Boy, will he order him to his death to make a point, the way the Immortan often does? But it doesn’t seem like his style.

Furiosa runs her eyes across the assembled crowd until they settle on two faces in particular. One of them belongs to a scrawny War Boy barely tall enough to see over the shoulders of the other Boys: Craw, a blackthumb she worked with back when she was building the Rig. She remembers seeing how devastated he was on the day he was passed over for the Rig’s original crew. Too weak, apparently — but he’s got nimble hands and a nimble mind, and she wouldn’t mind having him at her back. Her other pick is standing at the edge of the crowd: Runt, the name he earned as one of the smallest War Pups still sticking to him even as he now stands a full head over most of the others. She doesn’t know him well, but he’s built like a tank, and she’s spotted him getting up early every day to practice his thunderstick-throwing. That, and he’s never struck her as an arsehole, which can be a rarity around here. Still, she hesitates for a moment longer before answering, her voice low.

“Craw.” She points, hoping she’s not sending the War Boy to his death. “He’s quick with his hands, will be good at fixing things on the road.” She jerks her head towards her other choice. “Runt too — someone dropped a full toolbox on his head once and he was still standing after. He won’t go down easy.”

Jack nods, then waves at the pair she’s named. “You two. You’re in.”

Craw and Runt jostle through the crowd to join the rest of the group. They eye Furiosa curiously as they pass, but seem too excited about their selection to give her too much of their attention. The rest of the crowd disperses, dejected — although she knows their next chance to experience the glory of war will probably come soon enough.

Jack gathers the crew around him next to the War Rig and they fan around him in a semi-circle, eager for orders. Furiosa stays behind his elbow, close but not too close. She doesn’t want them to get the wrong impression about her reasons for being present, but she also feels that much more comfortable having Jack between her and them.

The Praetorian clears his throat. “All of you have been selected for the War Rig crew. Some of you will drive pursuit, others will ride the Rig itself. You will protect the Rig and its load on every run we do on the Fury Road, for the glory of the Immortan Joe.”

This produces a loud cheer from the crew, who thrust their interlaced fingers skyward: “Immorta!”

Jack continues: “We ride for Gastown and the Bullet Farm, and we bring home the guns and guzzoline every time. Anyone dares to challenge us on the road, the wrath of the Citadel is the last thing they’ll ever know.”

The crew whoops with delight. She notices how his voice changes as he addresses the Boys — louder, bolder, brasher. They’re eating it up, of course, but it makes her that much more conscious of how different he is when they’re alone. She’s only spent 24 hours with him, but already she can tell when he’s putting up a front.

But Jack’s not done yet. Instead he gestures towards her, and she immediately feels the stare of a dozen pairs of eyes.

“Furiosa is my second-in-command. You answer to her.”

No cheers this time, only an uneasy silence. She hears a voice from the back of the group: “Ain’t that the dogman?”

“Not anymore,” Jack says. “She’s the reason this Rig is here in the garage and not in the hands of the Mortiflyers. Killed the Octoboss himself, and a dozen of his men besides.”

There’s an appreciative murmur from the crowd, but then another voice pipes up, more sceptical: “Ain’t that a woman?” A few of the others shift awkwardly on their feet, whispering.

Jack crosses his arms. “She’s my second, and likely a future praetorian. If anyone has a problem with that, he’s welcome to go back to bottling piss in the latrines. My orders.”

That shuts them up, although a few suspicious glances still find their mark. She keeps her jaw set and stares straight ahead. Praetorian’s orders or not, she doubts this is the last she’ll hear about it.

“Right.” Jack unfolds his arms. “We ride for the Bullet Farm in five days and there’s plenty on this Rig that needs fixing. Let’s get to work.”

Their little dormitory is full that night. This time Furiosa drops her bedroll next to Jack’s, instead of retreating to the opposite corner. If she’s going to sleep with someone at her back, it may as well be him. The idea of lying with her face mere inches from his is unsettling though, so instead she angles herself in the opposite direction, tip to tail. He doesn’t comment on this new arrangement, and neither does she.

It feels very different lying there in the dark to the previous night. Even as they drop off to sleep, the War Boys make their presence known — the snoring is tremendous, and the room is warm and stuffy with so much body heat. Most of them just flop down on their bedding in just their trousers, skin exposed to the air, but she notices Jack still sleeps with a blanket despite the heat. One more layer between him and the rest of the world, just like that jacket. It’s not much of a shield, but it’s something.

He put the weight of his name behind hers today — why? Jack said he’d teach her about road war, but that didn’t mean making her his second-in-command and potentially bringing himself a whole heap of trouble. And yet today he stood between her and a group of War Boys, people who wouldn’t have given two shits about her a few days ago, and told them that what she says goes. He could have picked any one of those men to sit beside him in that gleaming cab, but instead he chooses her. Talks the Immortan himself into this unheard-of arrangement for her. Puts his neck on the line for her.

Furiosa frowns at the shape of his knees under the blanket. After a dozen years in the Wasteland, most men’s motivations are obvious to her. His are not.

Her thoughts are nowhere closer to an answer when sleep finally overtakes them.

Chapter Text

They spend the rest of the week getting the War Rig back into road condition. Furiosa wonders if the build crew expected to be doing so many repairs this soon after the vehicle’s maiden voyage. Part of her wants to slip back into their ranks, back into the comfort of being one face among many, but for now they all seem to be avoiding her. Fine — they know what to do. She can just let them get on with it.

The War Boys, however, need a bit more supervision. They’re all excited by the prospect of road war, but getting them to work with the precision that Jack wants from his crew will take some training. Still, they respond to his orders with enthusiasm, all competing to show off their capabilities and earn the approval of the legendary driver. Maybe they’re dreaming of holding such a prestigious rank for themselves some day.

But it’s not one of the War Boys who Jack has chosen to ride next to him. It’s Furiosa, and she needs to start issuing orders of her own.

A few days after the new crew is formed, Jack tasks her with making sure the Rig’s extensive arsenal is fully replenished. She works her way through the vehicle, doing an inventory of everything they’ll need to load up. It’s a long list — too much for her to carry on her own.

Three of the War Boys are loitering against the wheels of the Rig. She hops down from the cab and walks over to them. “The boomsticks at the back of the cab need replacing.”

Sixer and Tach both nod and turn to head for the armoury, but Keero crosses his arms and scoffs. “I don’t answer to you.”

She remembers seeing him around the Citadel back when she was a dogman. Medium height, with a snub nose and a crude image of a carburettor carved into his chest. Never looked twice at the blackthumbs — too busy bragging to his friends about how much glory he was going to bring to the Immortan, even though he’s hardly left the Citadel before. But he’s looking at her now, a broad smirk on his face.

Furiosa has survived Dementus and Immortan Joe. She’s not going to be messed around by this callow idiot. But the rest of the nearby crew are watching, and she knows that if she doesn’t insist on obedience now, she won’t be given any more of it. So she squares up to the War Boy, sets her jaw in a way that feels commanding. “Replace the boomsticks.”

Keero snorts. “Tell it to the other milkers. If the Praetorian wants to keep some Wasteland rat around to warm his bedroll at night, he’s welcome to do it, but I’m not taking orders from some poxy scrag—”

She punches him square in the nose.

The War Boy crumples to the ground, clutching his face, blood leaking from between his fingers. Tach yelps in surprise, and Sixer kneels next to Keero with a nervous glance up at Furiosa, but the rest of the crew reacts with a mixture of hoots and jeers. There’s a smear of white pigment on her knuckles. She wipes her fist on her trousers. “Clean yourself up and replace the boomsticks. I’m not asking again.”

“What’s going on here?”

She turns to see Jack pushing his way through the crowd, concern on his face. He looks between her and Keero, quickly sizing up the situation. She keeps her face impassive despite the adrenaline coursing through her, waiting for him to tear into her for fighting, but instead he turns to speak to Sixer. “How is he?”

“Broken nose,” Sixer says. Keero himself is quiet, his eyes turned away from everyone.

“Right. Keep him leaning forward so he doesn’t swallow the blood.” Jack turns back to Furiosa, but she’s already walking away, the rest of the crew giving her a wide berth as she passes. She’s made her point.

Jack finds her in the corner of the workshop, bent over the engine of the pursuit vehicle they’ve requisitioned for the convoy. She doesn’t look up, just keeps on working on replacing the cylinder head. Her knuckles are still smarting from the punch.

“So,” he says. “Keero.”

“He’ll live.”

“He will.” Jack sidles closer, resting his forearm on the roof of the car. “My question is why you hit him.”

She braces herself for a bollocking, but instead he just looks at her and waits. Does he actually want to hear her reasoning, or is he just luring her into a false sense of security? She decides to push her luck.

“I asked him to replace the boomsticks.” Furiosa twists the wrench with more force than she needs to. “He wouldn’t do it. Now he will.”

Jack sighs. “If you’re having trouble with the crew, you could have come to me.”

She steps back from the engine and slams the wrench onto the tool trolley with a clatter. “I need them to listen to me. Getting heard doesn’t come as easily to me as it does to you.”

“I’ll talk to them, make sure they listen.”

“Praetorian.” Furiosa turns to face him, shoulders tense. “I don’t want you to fix my problems for me. If I run to you for help, I look weak. I’m not going to be somebody’s fucking pet.”

“Nobody’s saying that.”

“Keero was saying that. So I hit him.”

“Well. Sounds like Keero had it coming then.”

She shrugs and picks up the wrench again, turning back to the engine.

“Furiosa,” Jack says. “Look, I’m not here to tell you you’ll catch more flies with honey. But in my experience, you get better results from earning respect than you do from causing fear.”

That’s news to her and every other miserable underling in the Wasteland. She spent enough time listening to Dementus wax lyrical about the importance of respect to know it was all a lie — at the end of the day, fear is what keeps people in line. Some bosses just like to cover the brutality with a veneer of civilisation. She tightens her grip on the wrench. “I’ll respect them when they respect me.”

He sighs again. “That’s fair. Keero was out of line. Just… next time, maybe don’t skip straight to breaking noses.”

Furiosa isn’t convinced, but she gives him a little nod. Let him think that if it gets him off her back.

“Do you want him off the crew?” Jack asks.

She pauses for a moment, considering, then shakes her head. She’d probably just end up having to punch the replacement too. At least now Keero knows better. And if he doesn’t, chances are he’ll be off to Valhalla soon anyway.

“Okay, your call.” Jack steps back from the car. “But any more trouble, let me know.”

Furiosa listens to his footsteps as he walks off. She wonders how many more broken noses it’ll take for the crew to listen to her — and how many it’ll take for Jack to drop this whole patient-and-understanding act. Sooner or later, everyone shows their true colours.

Keero doesn’t give her any shit again, and neither does anyone else. Not to her face, anyway. The funny looks and the muttering continue, but she can live with that.

The new crew makes their first run to the Bullet Farm that week. This time, the drive is uneventful. Furiosa can feel the War Boys itching for action, but she can tell that Jack shares her relief.

He takes the opportunity to start teaching her how to drive the War Rig. After all the time she spent building the massive vehicle, she thought she knew its mechanics inside and out, but actually driving it is a different thing entirely. But she’s a keen learner, and Jack is a patient teacher, and on the stretch back to the Citadel he even lets her take the wheel for a period herself. It’s a thrill, being behind the reins of so much power. She finds herself stepping down from the cab that night with a newfound confidence.

That confidence continues to build as she grows more used to their routine. The days pass in a cycle — training with weapons and wheels, drills with the crew, learning every nook and cranny of the Rig so she can better defend it in battle. The longest shifts are always their runs to the Wasteland’s other fortresses. She and Jack rise early to make sure the Rig is fully prepared and properly loaded, then make the tense drive down the Fury Road with their eyes glued to the horizon. She joins the crew in the backbreaking labour of emptying and refilling the Rig with the various trade goods, while he deals with the various representatives of Gastown and the Bullet Farm sent to supervise the exchange — she’s happy to leave him to that task and keep her head down, especially in Gastown. Then it’s another long drive back to the Citadel, the slow process of getting the Rig and its bounty back up the massive lift, keeping an eye on the unloading and doing a final check of the Rig for any maintenance issues. After those days, she’s asleep as soon as her head hits the bedroll.

The crew grow more used to her presence as well, and her orders are followed quickly, if not with as much enthusiasm as Jack’s. The first time a new raiding party tries their luck at ambushing the Rig, Furiosa is the one who picks the leader right off the roof of his truck with a well-aimed shot from her rifle, and they treat her with a new respect after that.

The raids are rare, though, and never anywhere close to the threat of the Mortiflyer onslaught. Most of them are just small groups of drifters, new to this patch of the Wasteland and desperate enough for resources that they don’t realise the foolhardiness of taking on the Immortan’s convoy. Thanks to the drills Jack puts the crew through every day, they take them down easily, although not without a few losses. Keero’s buddy Tach is one of the first to go — he takes a nasty shotgun blast to the gut, and they all witness him as he sprays his mouth with chrome and hurls himself at the shooter’s car, blasting both it and himself to smithereens. His glorious death is the envy of the rest of the crew, and the new recruits listen to the story of it over and over again with wide, hopeful eyes.

She watches Jack as he goes through the repetitions of the day. She learns from the way he speaks to the War Boys — calm and authoritative, but never cruel in the way that someone like Scrotus would be. She notices his little habits, like the way he always removes and folds his driving gloves as soon as he steps down from the Rig after a run, tucking them into the same pocket each time. She knows the slightly worn patch on the centre of the steering wheel comes from him tapping it every time they ride the massive industrial lift down to the base of the Citadel, like some sort of good luck charm.

She’s getting used to this life now. She can feel herself getting stronger too — that extra nutrition from the crickets is putting new muscle on her bones, and her ribs and hipbones no longer jut through her skin in the way they used to. Her voice starts to lose the rasp of underuse, becoming louder and more confident. She’s a better shot now, definitely a better driver. “Everything there is to know about road war,” he’d promised her — she might not know everything yet, but she’s damn sure she’s on the right path.

Just being able to drive the War Rig isn’t enough — Jack’s determined to have her proficient with all the convoy’s vehicles, cars and bikes alike. He still keeps her in the Rig’s cab when they’re actually making a run on the Fury Road, so a few times a week they head out on their own for a few hours of training manoeuvres. Furiosa looks forward to these sessions. Every time she gets in the lift with a bike, or behind the wheel of a V8, she can’t help but imagine the day when she leaves this place for the last time.

Usually they don’t stray far from the flats around the Citadel, but today they’ve gone further afield. Jack’s keen to see how she handles rockier inclines on a bike. After so much time surrounded by the protective might of the War Rig, being out here on the back of a relatively lightweight Yamaha feels a lot more exposed. But Furiosa still relishes the feeling of the wind in her hair and the idea that she could just fang it east. Not that she will today, with no supplies and Jack keeping pace on his own bike to her right. But some day, this is what it’ll feel like.

The downside of going out this far is the other company. One of Jack’s rules is that they don’t go this far out without backup. Keero is following them in his own car, a lifted El Camino he’s christened the Copperhead thanks to the plentiful rust on the bonnet. He’s got Craw riding shotgun, with Sixer and Runt standing in the cargo bed, gripping onto the bar mounted to the back of the cab for dear life. The tall War Boy looks queasy — either Keero had more than a few shots of the Citadel’s moonshine this morning, or he’s purposely putting an extra swerve onto all his movements. Furiosa’s willing to bet it’s the latter.

Jack gestures to pull over at the bottom of a rocky slope. Furiosa hits the brakes and pulls in next to him, killing the engine just in time to look back and see Keero skid into his own stop with an ostentatious and completely unnecessary handbrake turn. Runt staggers off the back of the Copperhead, one hand pressed over his gut. Keero hops out of the cab with a smirk on his face and follows the other War Boy, laughing. “Aww, poor Runty! How’re you gonna handle road war if you can’t even stomach the road?”

Craw is slower to exit the vehicle, his eyes meeting Furiosa’s with a weary expression. “Maggot-brained idiot,” he mutters. “He’s going to knacker the transmission if he keeps that up.” Furiosa snorts in agreement, raising a little smile from him.

“Right,” Jack says loudly, drawing their attention. “Let’s not burn any more fuel and daylight than we need to.” The War Boys assemble around him, Keero leaning back against the bonnet of the Copperhead, Runt still looking a little green around the gills. “You four — take turns with two men on watch, and I want the other two practicing your boomstick throws.” He turns back to Furiosa, who’s still straddling her bike. “And you’re back on the bike. We’re going to try some ascents and descents, see how you get on.”

The slope proves to be uneven and covered in loose rocks, putting both Furiosa and the Yamaha’s tyres to the test. Jack points out different spots along the ridge he wants her to aim for, and she tries to get there in the shortest amount of time. It starts to remind her of climbing in the Green Place as a child, finding the right ledges and hand-holds for the quickest ascent but still keeping her balance. As she makes her way back down, it occurs to her that the Rig’s convoy is unlikely to ever cross terrain like this on its usual routes to Gastown or the Bullet Farm.

“Good,” Jack says as she pulls to a stop at the bottom of the hill. “I can see you’re gripping with your legs more now. Remember to keep standing as much as you can — it’s different from road riding. But you’re doing well.”

Furiosa nods, feeling a rush of pride at earning his approval, and then surprise at the strength of the feeling. She’s not used to caring about anyone’s opinion of her as long as they’re not actively trying to screw her over. But every day she spends on the road with Jack is another day that her respect for his skill as a road warrior grows. If he thinks she’s doing well, then she can believe she’s doing well. And that means she’s got a better chance at getting home.

Jack points to a rock near the top of the ridge. “See if you can loop round that boulder and then make to the top. And don’t let those elbows drop. Gives you better control.”

She nods again and then guns the engine, intent on keeping the weight of her body central on the bike as its angle rises and falls with the terrain. She grits her teeth and takes it slower as she corners around the boulder and makes it around without incident. But her focus slips once she knows she’s past the hardest part, and the bike hitting another rock near the top of the ridge knocks her off her balance. She feels the Yamaha about to topple from under her and just manages to swing her legs into a dismount before it crashes into the ground, Furiosa falling inelegantly next to it.

A moment later she hears the snarl of an engine as Jack fangs it up the hillside and pulls up at the top of the ridge, hopping off his bike and crouching next to her. “Hey, you alright? Are you hurt?”

A little winded and more than a little embarrassed, but not really hurt. She shakes her head, frowning.

“Well, your dismount was good,” Jack says. “Knowing how to bail out safely is just as important.”

Furiosa shrugs, then starts to get to her feet and immediately winces as her scraped palms press against the ground. He reaches towards her, but she pulls away instantly, hunching her shoulders. “It’s fine. They’re just grazed.”

Jack steps back and turns to look at the horizon, one hand raised to shade his face. She decides to take a moment before trying to get up again, then realises that he’s currently giving her that moment. For some reason, this is annoying. “See anything?”

He shakes his head. “Just the usual. Lots and lots of nothing, all the way out to more nothing.”

If he was looking east, she thinks, there would be something. But he’s facing south. She brushes the grit from her palms and gets to her feet. A moment later, a howl rings out from below — the War Boys again. The two of them exchange a look and then Jack takes his bike back down the cliff, Furiosa not far behind him.

“Prae Jack!” Keero yells as they reach the base of the hill. “I think there’s been a mistake. Somehow two feeble old women from the Wretched have been playing at being War Boys, and now they’re out here with us.”

“Oh, rack off, Keero,” Runt moans. “I’m trying to practice here.”

“We need the best of the best on the Rig, Prae Jack, and this smeg can’t even hit the mark with a fake thunderstick. His throws fall short, every time!”

“You didn’t hit it either,” Craw grumbles. He’s crouched on the top of the cab, ostensibly on watch duty, Sixer at his side.

Keero shrugs. “Close enough that a real thunderstick would explode and take a man out.”

“Shut up, Keero!” Runt snatches up one of the practice thundersticks from the cargo bed of the Copperhead. With a determined grunt, he hurls it towards the sandbag they’ve set up some distance away. The stick soars through the air and clatters into the rocky ground several metres from the target. Craw winces.

“Next time, Runt,” Sixer says encouragingly, but his words are smothered by Keero’s call of “Mediocre, Runty!”

“Keero, that’s enough,” Jack says.

“Oh come on, Prae Jack, we’re not here to fuck spiders. If Runty boy can’t cut it—”

“You’re leaning over too much on your front leg,” Furiosa says. The men all stop and stare at her, but she looks straight at Runt. “It changes the angle of your throw. Makes you aim downwards too much. Try keeping your leg straighter.”

Keero scoffs again. “No use trying. He’s hopeless.” But Runt frowns thoughtfully, then reaches for another practice stick. She can see him concentrating as he lines his body up, then takes a step forward and throws. The thunderstick flies gracefully through the air and smacks into the sandbag with a satisfying thud. Craw whoops and bangs his hands on the top of the Copperhead, while Sixer hops down and slaps Runt on the back. Runt turns back to Furiosa, his face splitting into a broad grin, and she gives him a nod.

“Nicely done,” Jack says. “Keero, I want to see you hitting that mark too. Otherwise, take a shift on watch and let Craw have a go.” He turns away from the sour-faced War Boy to Furiosa, his voice quieter. “That was a good spot.”

She shrugs, walking back to her bike. “I’m going to take another run at the boulder.”

Furiosa’s legs are tiring as she rides back up the hillside, but she still nails the loop around the boulder, and this time keeps her focus all the way to the top. She brakes at the top of the ridge and pauses to look back at the scene below. Keero is now sulking on the roof of his vehicle while Runt guides Craw through another throw. Jack glances up at her and waves briefly, and she raises her hand in response. She turns away to take a look over at his expanse of nothing, and sees—

Not nothing. Something. Someone.

There’s a car heading roughly in her direction, a driver and passenger in the front and a third person riding on the roof, the silhouette of a rifle slung over their shoulder. The gunner bangs on the roof and yells something and she freezes in position just long enough to see the driver change course and swerve towards her. They won’t be able to make it over the top of the ridge, but in a minute they’ll be swinging around it.

Furiosa peels around and fangs it down the incline. “Contact!”

The War Boys scramble back to the Copperhead, and Jack’s already back on his own bike with his rifle in his hands by the time she reaches him. “Who?”

“Car with three hostiles. Started coming this way when they saw me.”

“Buzzards?”

She shakes her head. The car had none of the scavenger gang’s familiar spikes and saws, just some sort of unfamiliar insignia on the front. “They had different markings, but I didn’t get a good look. They’ll be round the ridge any minute.”

Keero revs his engine and leans out the window to yell to Jack. “Is it war?” Back in the cargo bed, Runt has swapped his practice thundersticks for the real thing, his face tense.

“Be ready,” Jack yells back. “They might fall back when they realise they’re outnumbered.” He kneels behind the bike and braces the barrel of his gun on the seat. Furiosa grabs her own firearm and follows his example.

A moment later, the hostile car comes roaring around the side of the hill. Jack immediately fires a warning shot that dings off the bonnet, and the vehicle skids to a halt. She can see the markings on the front more clearly now: an abstract design of circles linked by bars, all drawn in white paint. The scavengers are all hooded, their faces hidden, but they seem to have a brief argument before the driver slams the car into reverse and pulls a 180. She holds her breath as the sound of the engine fades into the distance.

Jack rises and swings his leg over his bike. “Training’s done for the day. Back to the Citadel, now.”

“We should’ve killed them, Prae Jack,” Keero yells.

“They knew they were outgunned, and they ran,” Jack says. “No point wasting the bullets.”

Some men would find good sport in chasing that car down and taking out their worst impulses on its occupants. Furiosa’s spent enough time with Jack to know that’s not his thing, and she’s glad of it. But as she straddles her own bike and looks back towards the dissipating dust cloud left by the scavengers, she hopes that choice doesn’t come back to bite them.

Chapter Text

Of course, it only takes a second for something to go wrong on the Fury Road. Three months into Furiosa’s role as the Praetorian’s apprentice, that one second includes a buzzard’s gunshot shattering the War Rig’s wing mirror into dozens of pieces, one of which hurtles through the window and embeds itself in the side of her waist.

One of the War Boys shoots the raider a moment later, the man’s body tumbling under the Rig’s churning wheels, and the rest are dead soon after. But the damage is done.

Panic floods through her body at the same time as the pain. She turns away from Jack, hunching slightly to hide the hand clutching her side. She can feel blood warming her fingers, sweat trickling down her neck.

Jack glances over at her, concerned. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she bites out, pressing her forehead against the door and staring out the window at the horizon. Can’t let him see how bad it is. Can’t let anyone see. They’ll all think she’s useless and feed her to the maggots, or worse. Animal instinct kicks in: get somewhere safe, somewhere she can be alone and lick her wounds. All she can focus on is keeping pressure on the wound long enough to make it back to the Citadel.

They’re on the final stretch of the return leg already — it’s unusual to have raiders attack this close to the Citadel, another stroke of bad luck — but the remainder of the journey passes in a blur as she tries her hardest to appear fully conscious. She does her best to hold the shard of glass steady — the more it moves, the more blood seeps out, the more she has to bite the inside of her mouth so as not to scream.

When they do make it back to the garage, she staggers haphazardly from the cab, clinging to the door so she doesn’t totally lose her footing and fall to the ground. Craw’s concerned face swims in front of her and she turns away. Jack is saying something in the distance, but his voice is muffled and she ignores it like she ignores the blackness spreading in the corners of her vision. Let him worry about unloading the Rig. She just needs to get somewhere private so she can patch herself up and none of them will have to know.

She’s still on her feet when she makes it to the storage closet, teeth gritted, too damn stubborn to go down. It’s only when she tries to pull the shrapnel out herself that the pain swamps her completely, and she blacks out.

She wakes up with a gasp in a different room. Firm hands immediately press her back down onto the workbench she’s been laid on, and her body floods with adrenaline before she puts together what’s going on. Jack is leaning over her, brow furrowed with concentration. Furiosa realises with a jolt that his fingers are touching the bare skin of her abdomen — one hand holding the skin around the wound in position, while the other stitches it closed.

She stares at the ceiling and tries to lie still while he works, her nostrils flared, breathing slowly through the pain. He must have taken the shrapnel out while she was unconscious, because it’s slightly more bearable now, but not by much. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, wincing, but determined not to cry out — she’s shown too much weakness already, passing out like that. If any of the crew saw her like that, helpless and vulnerable after how hard she’s been working to prove that she’s the exact opposite, she’s going to be furious with herself.

Jack pulls the last stitch tight and ties it off before cutting the trailing thread short with a knife. His eyes flick up to her face for the first time. “The glass missed your organs. It’ll hurt like hell, but as long as infection doesn’t take hold you should be alright.” She nods weakly in acknowledgement, but he’s still frowning. “Don’t do that again.”

“Get stabbed?” The pain must be making her foolish, answering back like that.

“Sneak off alone with a serious injury. Try to pull it out by yourself. You’re lucky you didn’t fall on the damn thing and make it worse.”

“I can handle myself.”

She tries to tug her torn shirt down over her stomach, but he stops her hand. “Wait. I’ll wrap it.”

He pulls a roll of bandages from a bag, the cloth strips well-used but boiled clean in the Citadel’s usual attempt at sterilisation. She has to arch her back slightly so he can pass the fabric under it, grimacing again at the new flare of pain, but his hands are steady and gentle. Once the bandage is secure, she pulls her top down to hide it, although a strip of it is still visible through the blood-stained tear in the shirt. She’ll need to stitch that up at some point too, but it can wait.

“Furiosa.” Jack’s voice is stern, a tone she usually only hears him use with the War Boys, not with her. “I mean it. There’s tough, and then there’s stupid, and I know you’re only one of those. You get hurt, let me help you.”

She glowers back at him, but she’s also imagining the alternative — her alone in that closet, unconscious and bleeding out. Stupid is right.

“I’m sure I’ll need you to do the same for me,” he says, his expression softening. “We look after each other and we’re both better off for it, right?”

After a final moment of hesitation, she concedes with a begrudging nod.

Jack sighs. “Good.” He looks her up and down, chewing on his lip slightly. “You’re pale — maybe I should go to the Organic Mechanic, get you a bloodbag—”

“No!” She grabs his wrist, memories of the Mechanic drawing her blood as a child flashing through her mind. “No Mechanic. No bloodbags.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I hear you. No bloodbags. But no bleeding to death by yourself either. You get looked at by me or the Mechanic, that’s it.”

She exhales. “Fine. You, then.”

“Good,” he says again. “Then my doctor’s orders are that you’re on bed rest for the next week. At least.” Furiosa starts to object, but a single look from Jack shuts down her protest. “And if you don’t want to see the Mechanic, then I will. You need something to fight off infection.”

“No Mech—”

“I’ll say I need something for one of my crew. He doesn’t need to know who.” He pauses. “I won’t ask why you don’t want to see him. You can have your reasons. But you can’t have a slow, painful death out of pure stubbornness.”

Furiosa grips his wrist for a moment longer, then slowly lets go. She’s in no position to do anything but accept his terms anyway. She glances down from Jack’s face to see the trolley where his medical equipment is laid out — knives, clamps and tweezers, strips of catgut and bandages, a jug of what she assumes must be alcohol. And off to the side, the shard of glass from the wing mirror, still covered in her blood.

“It looks smaller,” she mumbles. “Now that it’s out.”

Jack nods. “Any bigger and you would have been dealing with an intestinal injury. Not a good way to go. You got lucky.” He sees the expression on her face and winces. “Well, lucky and unlucky.”

“You stitch a lot of people up?” She’s not sure why she’s talking so much when everything hurts. But at least it’s keeping her awake.

“Myself, mostly. That’s why it’s good to have a partner to do it.” He steps back and wipes his hands clean, rinsing the blood off with a precious glug from his waterskin. “My old second was pretty good with a needle.”

Jack’s old second, a man she only knew as Black Thumb. One of many with that name, but then again, at the time she’d just been another Dogman. She thinks about the night before she’d made her last escape attempt, when the man had found her stashing supplies under the War Rig and let her go. She wonders if he’d known what she was planning, or who she really was. Were he and Jack close? He’d trusted her, that day under the Rig — passed her the hose and let go. Put the welfare of the rest of the convoy above himself.

“He was a good mechanic,” she says quietly.

“He was. A good man too.” Jack starts packing the medical kit up, carefully wiping each tool with an alcohol-soaked rag. He smiles suddenly. “There was one time, back before I’d made praetorian, when the two of us were working on this car together…”

But as Jack tells his story, sleep reaches up and claims her for its own.

As promised, Jack keeps her on bed rest for another week. He suggests moving her to the dormitory, but Furiosa refuses for the first few days — she doesn’t think she can make it there under her own steam without tearing something open, and the idea of him carrying her there is too mortifying to consider. In the end, they wait until she can get to her feet and then make a slow, uncomfortable stagger from the workshop to the sleeping quarters, with his arm tucked under her shoulder for support.

She still hates looking this weak in front of everyone, but the crew reacts with more understanding than she’d expected. Sixer brings her a mismatched pack of cards and teaches her a game that can be played by a single person — he tells her it’s called “pay-shins”, although neither of them can explain the name. A complete card deck is a valuable commodity, even if the cards themselves have different origins, and it surprises Furiosa that he would trust her with it. She makes sure to stash it in one of her most secure pockets. Some of the other War Boys stop in during the day to check on her and share gory stories of their own injuries. “Lived to fight another day, and so will you!” Runt says proudly after regaling her with a story involving a tyre iron, a bushel of potatoes and someone else’s tibia.

“You should tell her about the time that arrow went right through the side of your arsecheek,” Keero says, then jumps out of the way with a hoot as Runt swings at him.

But most of the time, she’s alone with her own thoughts. She naps a lot, but her sleep is always shallow, with Jack’s Apache revolver clutched tightly in her fist, blade out. When she does wake up, she wonders what time it is. Without sunlight, all she has to go on are the appearances and disappearances of the War Boys and sounds echoing down rocky corridors from elsewhere in the Citadel.

Three more days pass while she’s stuck in the dormitory. Furiosa is lying on her uninjured side and most of the way through another round of Sixer’s game when she hears approaching footsteps. She immediately drops the card from her hand and grabs the knife — just because the crew have been good to her doesn’t mean everyone else will have the same intentions. But then Jack appears in the doorway, and she relaxes.

“Just me,” he says, glancing at the weapon in her hand. She flicks the blade down and slips it back into its holster without comment. “Brought you some more meds from the Mechanic.”

She grimaces, but accepts the vial from his hand and quickly tips the contents down her throat. Jack winces at her disgusted expression. “I think he makes them taste bad on purpose.”

“Sounds like him,” Furiosa mutters, passing the empty vial back to him. He pockets it before kneeling next to her.

“How are you feeling?”

She shrugs slightly. “Less pain today.”

“Can I take a look?”

He always waits for them to be alone before checking the wound. Furiosa is grateful for this — nice as the crew have been, the thought of exposing any additional skin in a room full of people… well, it’s not something she’s going to do. But right now it’s just the two of them, so she nods and leans back, drawing the fabric of her shirt up just enough to expose the dressing. Jack gently unwraps the bandage from around her torso until the stitches are showing, and she waits while he examines it.

“Looks good,” he says eventually. “The swelling’s gone down again.”

“Good enough to go back to the garage tomorrow?”

Jack frowns. “Not if you’re going to be lifting anything heavy.”

“I need to make myself useful.”

“You need to heal.” Furiosa looks back at him, still sceptical, and he sighs. “I’m not sure how many times I have to say this, but I’m not going to throw you off the crew just because you’re laid up for a week.”

A lot of men would. Definitely those with a rank. She knows the other praetorians and imperators will cut a War Boy loose from their own crews as soon as they’re too hurt to be helpful. Easy as replacing a busted part. Maybe the injured man can work his way back to his old position later, if he’s lucky enough to recover properly, but until then? Not the officer’s problem. And yet here Jack is, hand-delivering her medicine and insisting she gets more rest. Most men wouldn’t do that, but he’s not most men.

“You can’t keep me here forever, you know,” she says. Jack furrows his eyebrows and flicks his eyes back towards the door, and she realises he thinks she’s talking about her escape plan. They haven’t spoken about that since the day he brought her back — too dangerous, when anyone could be listening. She clarifies: “In the dormitory, I mean.”

Jack relaxes slightly. “Trust me, I’d rather have you back on the road. That drive to Gastown yesterday wasn’t the same without you watching my back.”

“You said it was all quiet.”

“It was. Didn’t see another soul outside of the convoy.” He shrugs. “I guess I just… well. I got used to you being there.”

It’s true that this has been the most time they’ve spent apart since he recruited her. She realises that it’s not just the resting that’s felt strange for the past few days. It’s also the being alone. She’s also grown used to his constant presence, by her side in the dormitory or in the War Rig, and now not having him there feels… odd. She finds she doesn’t like the idea of him driving to Gastown by himself, or of someone else warming the passenger seat. And of course she wants to hold on to her position, because that’s what’s getting her fed and trained and keeping her alive until she can get the hell out of this place. But there’s also a part of her that worries that if she’s not there to spot the raiders or fix the engine, something bad could happen to him.

Furiosa could tell herself that’s because he’s also what’s getting her fed and trained and keeping her alive, but she’s not sure that’s all there is to it. Somehow she prefers Jack’s presence to his absence. It’s a strange feeling after so many years of just wanting to be left alone. She doesn’t feel like she wants to be invisible to him.

It’s unnerving. She needs to keep her guard up. She sinks into herself and turns her gaze away. Jack waits a little longer for a response that doesn’t come, then gets to his feet. She expects he’ll need to get back to work, but instead he lingers.

“I didn’t always live at the Citadel,” he says.

She glances up, not sure why he’s telling her this.

“Before I came here, I lived out there in the Wasteland. Never staying in one place for long. I was only little, but I remember what it was like. No food, no water. Nothing but death. So living here… I know there are compromises, and lots of them. But it could be much worse.”

So he’s not just talking about her staying in the dormitory now. Furiosa sees the expression on his face and it’s like catching a glimpse of something secret. A wound Jack usually keeps bandaged and hidden.

The words come from deep inside before she realises it. “It could be better.”

Jack looks back at her, that impossibly tired look still in his eyes. This time Furiosa keeps her gaze locked on his. Hope is a precious resource, and she knows she should guard hers closely, but for some reason she needs him to know she has it.

“Maybe,” he says eventually, but Furiosa can tell he doesn’t believe that. He gives her a small nod and turns to leave the room.

She clears her throat. “Wait.”

Jack looks back at her. She scoops the playing cards on the floor back into a deck and holds it out to him. “Stay for a round?”

He pauses. “D’you know Shoot the Lizard?”

“Better than you.”

The huff of laughter Jack makes as he sits back down gives her a sense of relief that she chooses not to look into. “Oh, we’ll see about that,” he says. “There’s a reason Praetorian Aldred doesn’t play against me any more.”

“Because he scratches his wrist when he’s got a good hand.”

“You noticed?”

Furiosa snorts. She’s only watched Aldred play from across the room, but of course she noticed.

Jack performatively cracks his knuckles. “Fine, card sharp, hurry up and deal.” Furiosa finishes shuffling and obliges. As she doles out the cards, there’s a voice in the back of her mind asking her how trying to cheer Jack up by joking with him about cards is supposed to fit into her plan. But as she sees him pick up his hand and shoot her a brief smile over the top of the cards, she figures it can’t hurt.

Chapter Text

Furiosa heals well. Jack’s stitches hold, and infection spares her this time.

It’s not long before she has to return the favour. After another three months together, Furiosa has seen Jack shot, stabbed, and concussed by explosions. She’s seen him burn his hand by snatching some flaming projectile as soon as it came through their window and hurling it right back out before it could ignite anything in the War Rig’s cab. She’s seen him with black eyes, broken fingers, lacerations that need her to carefully stitch ladders of catgut sutures all down his arm.

She’s right there with him, of course, getting exactly the same treatment from the denizens of the Wasteland. They survive. They always do. No matter what, they grit their teeth, tell themselves that licking their wounds can wait, and keep driving. She starts to appreciate the security of knowing that she can count on him to patch her up again.

She can count on him for other things too. Sometimes he comes back from his visits to the Immortan’s audience chamber with another tiny luxury from the hydroponic gardens, which he silently passes to her when nobody’s watching. A handful of strawberries, each fruit no wider than her thumb, but sweet. A single pepper the size of a spark plug, cool and crisp against her teeth. She’s not sure if he’s sharing gifts from the Immortan or poaching this bounty from the gardens, but it gives her a tiny thrill each time — a secret held by just the two of them.

But the thrill unsettles her too — she’s used to keeping secrets only for herself. Somehow Jack has started to slip through the barrier she keeps between herself and the rest of the world. She knows she spends almost every waking minute with the man, and every sleeping minute too, but she worked side-by-side with other blackthumbs for years and never found herself thinking in terms of “we” rather than “I”. We eat our morning rations, we drive to Gastown, we keep one eye on the horizon. She’s started to resemble him more closely now that she’s taken an old patchwork jacket for her own, both of them sheathed in protective layers in stark contrast to the bare-chested War Boys. Furiosa knows some part of her has come to see Jack’s presence as a form of safety. Every time she sits beside him in the Rig, just the two of them in the cab, she feels a fraction of the long-held tension ebbing from her bones. It’s dangerous, this feeling. She can’t allow herself to become complacent.

“Contact!”

They’re halfway to Gastown when Craw spots the telltale trail of dust on the horizon to their right. Looks like they won’t be alone on the road today. It’s Furiosa’s turn in the driver’s seat of the Rig, and she tugs the cord above her head to give the horn a single blast before wrapping her fingers around the steering wheel that much tighter. They’re overdue for a fight, really — the past month has been too quiet. She glances out the window at the approaching raid, willing them to hurry up and get it over with.

The Boys are thrilled, of course — she hears the delighted cheers of “War!” as they scramble to get into position. Jack is tense beside her, one hand drumming on his thigh, a loaded rifle already across his lap.

“What have we got?” he calls out to Craw as the dust gets closer.

“Three cars, three bikes,” Craw shouts back. “Don’t recognise ‘em.”

Furiosa nods, performing her usual mental inventory — pistol on one hip, knife on the other, extra knife in her boot, shotgun stashed in the driver’s side door, additional rifle mounted at the back of the cab behind their heads. If all goes well, she won’t have to use any of them. Her most important job today is just to keep the Rig moving while all hell breaks loose around her. The first time the Rig was attacked while she was driving, she nearly ran them off the road while trying to shoot the biker who was hurling explosives at the radiator, and Jack had to grab the wheel to keep them straight. She didn’t even hit the biker in the end, but Sixer did. Jack told her off after that — as much as he ever tells her off, anyway — but she’d learned her lesson: if you’re going to drive the War Rig, you need to have faith in the rest of your team.

And she does have faith in them now, to some degree. She and Jack have trained them well, and they kill far more men than they lose. She knows better than to take success for granted, but three cars and three bikes shouldn’t pose much of a threat. The Rig is backed up by two pursuit vehicles — Keero in the Copperhead and Hud in his Commodore — and two of their own bikes, each carrying two War Boys. She’d still rather be riding shotgun, but having Jack sitting next to her is the next best thing.

Furiosa watches in the mirror as the dust cloud resolves into the raiders’ vehicles. The cars are well-armoured and decorated with designs of circles and lines. She catches a glimpse of white on the bikes as well, although it’s hard to get a close look with the way they’re already dodging and weaving. A jolt of recognition hits her — the same scavengers they saw by the ridge a few months ago, back with bigger numbers.

The road is still clear ahead and she holds her nerve, keeping her hands on the wheel as the crew spring into action. Sixer, Runt and the other lancers on the roof of the Rig are hurling thundersticks at the bikes, while Keero and Hud peel back to engage the raiders’ cars. The action veers into her blind spot and she loses track of them for a minute, with only the sounds of the roaring motors and the crackle of gunfire to go off. Then that unmistakable cry — “Witness me!” — followed by a huge explosion. When the cars pull back into view, one of the scavenger vehicles is missing. She wonders grimly which one of her crew will be feasting in Valhalla tonight.

Meanwhile, she’s surrounded by motorbikes. The convoy’s outriders are holding position at the front, but the scavenger bikes are steadily drawing closer, weaving back and forth to dodge the many projectiles being thrown at them. Whoever these people are, they’re talented riders. She flicks her eyes back to the horizon ahead as Jack steadies his rifle against his shoulder and fires at the biker on his side. Either he hits the bike or the rider, because both of them rapidly topple out of sight.

Back on the driver’s side, however, she hears the clank of contact being made. She peeks briefly down from the window to the steps leading to the door, yanking her head back into the cab just in time to avoid the bullet that whizzes her way. Another raider has somehow latched their bike onto the Rig’s side and is preparing to climb in the window. She doesn’t give them the chance — instead she jerks the latch of the door and kicks it open, rapidly swinging it back towards the rear of the Rig. Half a second later she feels the telltale jolt of something — someone — going under the wheels. Enough to jostle them in their seats, but not nearly enough to slow them down. When she reaches out to slam the door shut, there’s no raider to be seen.

By her count, this leaves one bike and two cars left to deal with. She glances in the wing mirror and sees the second car speeding up the right-hand side. Hud pulls his Commodore into the gap between the Rig and the raiders, the sides of the two cars smashing together as they jostle for position.

The third scavenger vehicle, a ute with what looks like a rough cage mounted on its back, gives the clash a wide berth as it pulls forwards. The convoy’s own outriders veer off the road to engage it, the War Boy lancers riding pillion already raising their thundersticks.

So that’s the hostile cars accounted for, but where is the third bike? Next to her, Jack reloads the rifle and fires again — she follows his aim to spot the scavenger, still bobbing and weaving as they pull to the front of the Rig. She floors the accelerator, intent on running them over. The bike disappears beneath the gleaming hood of the Rig, but no bump in the road materialises.

Furiosa’s about to check if the rider has managed to cling to the hood when an unusual sight catches her eye. The scavenger ute veers into one of the convoy bikes as if to knock them over, but instead a pair of hooded figures lean out and drag both the driver and the lancer into the cargo bed, leaving the speeding bike to topple over. The second convoy bike smashes into the fallen one, sending two chalk-white bodies flying, and the ute takes a hard right, heading for the hills.

She’s looking back and shouting an order to the War Boys to aim for the ute when Jack suddenly grabs her shoulder and yanks her roughly towards him with one hand. She just has time to see the third scavenger biker in her window before the man topples out of sight, a fresh hole in his forehead from Jack’s revolver.

She straightens up to find a strange knife embedded in the back of her seat, exactly where her neck would have been. She rips it out of the leather and stashes it in one of the driver’s door pockets, then looks back to see Jack staring at her, wide-eyed and tense. “Thank you,” she says, her own voice hardly audible over the sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears.

He nods and gives her shoulder a brief squeeze. She doesn’t have time to think about the jolt of feeling this produces in her body before the Rig is wracked by a thunderous explosion.

Furiosa grapples with the steering wheel to hold them steady, Jack bracing his foot against the dashboard next to her. The dials on the dash spin wildly, but she doesn’t need to look at them to know the second engine is out. The Rig shudders as it stabilises, massive wheels settling back on the tarmac. She looks in her wing mirror to see black scorch marks along the side of the tanker. Both the raider’s vehicle and the Commodore are gone.

Jack bangs on the roof of the cab. “Status report!”

Craw’s excited face quickly appears in the window behind them. “Defeated in the name of the Immortan, Prae Jack. They blew up their last vehicle, took out Hud’s car with them.”

“The second engine too,” Jack mutters. “Let’s hope that’s the last of them.” He turns back to Furiosa. “I’m going under, see how bad the damage is. Keep us driving.”

She nods, hands steady on the wheel again, and he disappears down through the hatch in the floor of the cab. Survival comes first, and she knows she needs to focus on the here and now. But her mind is racing, and it takes some work to stop thinking about the scavenger ute speeding off into the distance with its stolen War Boys. Or the feeling of Jack’s protective hand on her shoulder.

The War Rig is trailing black smoke as their convoy limps into Gastown.

They pull over as soon as they’re through the gates and hop out to evaluate the damage. The second engine is in a bad way, damaged by shrapnel from the explosion — they’ve got the replacement parts to fix it, but it’ll take time. Not to mention they’ve lost Hud’s Commodore, two bikes and eight War Boys.

At first they think it’s nine when they find Runt’s limp body sprawled on the Rig’s roof, his head bloody. His foot is trapped under one of the railings — if not for that, he probably would have slipped right off and been crushed under the wheels. But he turns out to just be unconscious, knocked cold by the head of a faulty thunderstick. Sixer wakes him up with a few gentle slaps. The War Boy seems shell-shocked, although she’s not sure if that’s because of the concussion or if he’s just deeply disappointed not to have died historic like his brethren. Still, give him time.

The Gastown guards are watching with interest, along with some of the locals. Furiosa feels the hairs of the back of her neck prickle. She hates visiting this place at the best of times — now she feels even more vulnerable. One of Dementus’s lieutenants will be along any minute to supervise the trade, and even though the chances of them recognising her are low, she still misses her old leather hood.

Normally they keep their visits to Gastown brief in comparison to the Bullet Farm. Even after years of a tenuous but mostly uneventful peace between Dementus and Joe, the Immortan still resents how the biker warlord seized control of the place, stealing one of his Rigs in the process. Furiosa remembers it too, of course — not that she’s let anyone know that she was there, watching from the cliffs as Dementus slaughtered his own men. So she’s happy to agree with Jack’s preference to speed things along, exchange their goods for guzzoline by daylight as quickly as possible and then be back on the road. A long shift, but better than hanging around any longer than they have to.

But they’re already running late, and given the state the Rig is in, it doesn’t look like they’ll be heading home any time soon.

There’s a familiar figure approaching — Fang, easy to spot in the crowd thanks to the yellow stripes on his head. Better he doesn’t spot her.

“I’ll get to work on the engine,” she says to Jack, climbing back into the cab to grab her tool belt. She hops out of the opposite door to avoid Fang and ducks under the Rig into the relative safety of the shadows. It’s a relief to be hidden behind the massive wheels, and she’s still close enough to listen in on their conversation as Jack relays the story of the attack on the convoy. She keeps an ear out as she gets to work on disassembling the damaged engine.

“We’ve been calling them the Snatchers,” Fang is saying. “Started seeing them around a while ago. Creepy fuckers. Must be hungry for fresh meat too, because they’re after snatching people as much as anything else.”

“Well, they’re on your turf attacking our War Rig,” Jack says. “The Immortan won’t be happy.”

Fang doesn’t sound particularly bothered. “Take it up with Dementus. He’s on his way down now.”

Under the Rig, Furiosa freezes. Despite visiting Gastown many times now, she’s still never actually seen its ruler himself. Not since that day he left her at the Citadel. Fighting off those marauders was one thing, but the idea of being face to face with Dementus again is far more terrifying.

Not face to face, she tells herself. Stay under the Rig and keep your mouth shut and he’ll have no reason to look at you. Still, she tucks her hair under the collar of her jacket and smears some grease from the engine on her face, hoping to blend in with the darkness. Her heart is pounding so hard it feels like everyone else will be able to hear it, but she takes a deep breath and tries to carry on working on the engine.

Soon she hears the sound of a large vehicle pulling to a stop near the Rig, and then the sound of heavy feet dropping to the ground. She peeks out just beyond the Rig’s wheel. There he is — she’d know those motorcycle boots anywhere. Dementus himself, only metres away. She can’t hear what he’s saying at first — only the sound of blood rushing in her ears. Why did she leave most of her weapons in the cab? All she’s got on her is a selection of wrenches, Jack’s Apache revolver and another old knife tucked in her boot. It doesn’t seem like enough to take him down.

So instead she waits, willing her breathing to slow and her hands to work — blend in like one of the crew, be invisible.

“Terrible business,” Dementus is saying. “Trying to take what’s rightfully owed to Gastown. If the Immortan can’t control his own road, that’s a problem.”

“I’ll pass that on,” Jack says, his voice deadpan. She doesn’t know how he stays so calm listening to this man when eight of his men are dead, when her mother is dead, when he made her watch every cut and listen to every scream, muzzled her and kept her in a cage like one of his dogs, but she’s not in a cage any more, she’s—

She’s safe, for now, as long as she stays hidden. She digs her nails into her palms and watches their feet. The conversation has finished while she’s been getting a hold of herself, and both Dementus and Fang are retreating.

She can’t help it — she has to see him. Slowly, carefully, she draws closer to the edge of the War Rig, revealing more and more of the scene until — there he is. Dementus, the man who killed her mother, the monster who took her childhood, mounting the steps into a giant six-wheeled truck. His hair is no longer red and his beard is greying, but it’s him. She watches him climb into the truck’s cab and slam the door, Fang on the driver’s side, and the two of them drive off. Neither of them so much as glance at her.

As the truck vanishes into the chaos of Gastown, she realises Jack is watching her, a concerned look on his face. She meets his gaze for a moment, then ducks back under the Rig, saying nothing.

Chapter Text

There are few places Furiosa would rather not be than a ramshackle corner of Gastown in the dead of night. Up in Dementus’s tower, maybe. Back in the gilded cage where Immortan Joe keeps his doomed Wives. Dead in a ditch with vultures picking at her face.

So it could be worse, she thinks as she lies there listening to the endless roar of the refinery, the industrial clatter of metal on metal and the distant shouting of the fortress’s inhabitants. Things could always be worse. But not by much.

By the time she’d finished fixing the engine, it was well past sunset. The convoy was down in numbers, the crew were exhausted, and they had no way to tell if more marauders were waiting for them in the dark. Jack had made the call to stay the night.

Which leaves her here, lying on a filthy bedroll next to the Rig’s massive wheels, trying and failing to eke out some precious sleep right under the nose of her greatest enemy.

Even without Dementus, Gastown would not be an easy place to sleep at night. The massive refinery runs for 24 hours a day, and the rest of the fortress is a maze of drills, pumps, nodding donkeys and all sorts of other machinery, all adding to the industrial chorus. And then there are the inhabitants, a mixture of disgruntled locals and restless bikers, all shouting at each other to be heard over the din. The War Rig crew have settled in for the night in a derelict garage at the edge of the fortress, but the noise is still relentless.

And the place reeks. The Citadel is no garden of roses — the Wives’ perfumed prison aside — but the guzzoline fumes here are equally matched by a general miasma of piss, smoke and bodies left to rot. No matter where Dementus’s horde goes, the stench is persistent.

She turns in her bedroll and wraps an arm over her head, trying to drown out the racket, but anything she does manage to block out is immediately replaced by thoughts of Dementus. What is he doing right now? Sleeping, probably, with no idea that Little D herself is currently hidden in his shadow, imagining all the different ways she’d like to kill him. Maybe she would rather be in his tower after all. She’d spent a few days in that grandly-painted top room, years ago, when he’d first taken the place. It would be easy enough to remember the way back up — she could use the cover of night to sneak through the fortress, slip past the guards, scale the building and slit his throat. Or maybe he’d just catch her and hurl her off the balcony.

Still, she could probably get a few good stabs in if she was quick enough. Aim for the arteries or some critical tendons. Send him toppling over the railing so they could both fall to their deaths together. But then she’d never go home again, and the promise she’d made to her mother would be for nothing.

Furiosa sighs. Vengeance is not on the cards for her tonight, but neither, it seems, is sleep.

She gives up on the idea and crawls out of her bedroll, slipping on her jacket. Before everyone turned in for the night, Jack had assigned the surviving War Boys to a watch schedule, just in case the locals tried anything. She may as well replace one of them and let someone else get some rest tonight.

When she reaches the agreed spot at the edge of the garage, however, she’s surprised to see that the man on watch isn’t marked by the white paint of a War Boy, but the dark forehead of a praetorian.

Jack is sitting on a rusted folding chair, rifle across his lap. There’s a second chair next to him. She sidles over, sits down. He gives her a nod of acknowledgement, then turns his gaze back to the Gastown night.

“I thought this was Runt’s shift,” she says.

“It was,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep. Gave him the night off. He took a nasty hit today anyway.”

They sit in silence for a while. There’s a brief whoosh of flame from somewhere on the Gastown skyline, the sounds of motorcycles revving and men jeering. The area around them seems relatively calm, but she still feels her nerves itching. Part of her wishes she was back on the road instead, fighting off marauders by moonlight. Better than sitting here just waiting to see if the jaws of a trap suddenly snap closed around them.

Her shoulders tense as a distant scream is cut short, then followed by raucous laughter. Jack frowns.

“Told you you shouldn’t run off here,” he says. “This place gets worse every time I visit.”

She snorts. “I wouldn’t have run here.”

Jack finally glances over at her for the first time, the rare tidbit of personal information catching his attention. “Yeah?”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not with him in charge.”

He waits to see if she elaborates. She doesn’t.

“You hate him, don’t you,” he says quietly. “Dementus.”

Still she says nothing, but he must see her fists clench around the arms of the chair.

“I’ve seen what you’re like here,” he continues. “Head down, practically hiding. You don’t want him to see you. But the look in your eyes when you saw him, that was pure hate. I’ve seen you kill dozens of men who wanted to kill you first and you never looked at any of them like that.”

She wonders whether or not to confirm his suspicions, then realises she doesn’t need to. He knows. He knows her better than she thinks he does.

“He killed my mother,” she says finally. “When I was young. Tortured her to death while I watched.”

He sighs slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Furiosa waits for him to ask how she got away, what had led to her hiding among Immortan Joe’s blackthumbs pretending to be a boy, but instead his question is something completely different.

“What was she like? Your mother?”

It takes her a long time to work out how to answer. She hasn’t spoken to a soul about Mary since Dementus traded her to the Immortan, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about her every day. But those thoughts have always been private. Many people in the Wasteland might remember watching her mother die, but the memory of her mother in life — her strength, her smile, her selflessness — is hers alone.

“She was a warrior,” she says at last. “A protector. She told me to run while she took down the biker horde, one by one. She gave her life so I could get away. Except I came back for her.”

Jack is looking back into the darkness now, but she keeps her eyes trained on him, watching for a reaction. He nods slowly, and then she sees the faint twitch of a smile on his lips.

Furiosa scowls at him. “What?”

He raises an appeasing hand at her. “Nothing. It’s just… now I see where you get it from. She sounds a lot like you.”

She shrugs and looks away, leaning back in her seat. Another minute passes. The endless racket of Gastown continues on.

“And you?” she suddenly asks. “What was your mother like?”

Jack shifts in his seat and looks down. It takes him a while to answer the question too. She gives him time.

“She died when I was young,” he says. “But she was a warrior too, both her and my dad. They brought me to the Citadel back when the Immortan had first taken it, back when he was… well. They were calling him something different then.”

She waits for him to go on, watching him fidget with his thumbs. She guesses nobody has asked him a question like that for a long time either.

“Her and Dad, they were like praetorians before they were called that. Doing supply runs for Joe, keeping the Citadel sorted. If not for them, I probably would have just been thrown in with the War Pups, or down with the Wretched. But they kept me safe. Said the Citadel was the best place we could be, out in the Wasteland. Food, water, steady work. It’s not like there’s anywhere else.”

There is, she thinks. There’s somewhere much better. He just doesn’t know about it. She wonders what it was like for him, growing up in the Citadel, thinking there was no hope at all for a better life. Despite everything that’s been taken from her, hope is one of the few things she has left. She feels a twinge of sadness that he doesn’t.

“They both died a few years later though. Out on the road.”

They sit together with their memories for a while, a little moment of quiet in the Gastown night.

Furiosa doesn’t remember the Snatcher knife she’d stashed in the Rig’s door until they’re pulling back into the Citadel the next day.

As she waits for the slow rise of the lift to take them back up to the workshop, she draws the blade from its hiding place. It’s an unusual creation — there’s a nasty serrated edge, with a narrow channel running parallel to the edge. She turns the weapon in her hand, examining it. The handle is wrapped in leather, with those same circle-and-line designs painted down the hilt. There’s an odd hue to the metal, too — a slightly greenish tinge, as if it’s been stained with something.

The steel catches the light, and with it Jack’s eye. “What’ve you go there?”

“The knife one of the raiders left for us.” She leans away from her seat and taps the hole where the blade had been embedded the previous day. “Strange one.”

“Keep it in here for now,” Jack says. “Might come in handy.”

She nods and replaces the knife before returning her hand to the gearstick — the lift has reached the summit. As they pull into the garage, they can see Scrotus pacing back and forth, waiting for them — no doubt he’ll be eager to hear why they’re coming back from their run a day late and a car short. It’s Jack he’ll want to talk to, so Furiosa keeps her head down, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she slowly pulls the Rig into its final position. The tanker is already waiting for them, having been sent up in the lift first with many of the War Boys — the full combined Rig is too big to fit.

“Well?” Scrotus demands as Jack swings open the door and climbs down, folding and pocketing his gloves as always.

“Ran into some trouble on the road,” Jack says. “The guzzoline’s fine, but we lost one of our pursuit cars, and eight crew. Took some time to repair the second engine so we had to spend the night in Gastown.”

Scrotus curses, kicking one of the barrels that have been set out to unload the fuel. “We can’t have these bottom-feeders thinking they can take down the Immortan’s convoy! And for that fool Dementus to see us weak like that. If he was behind this…”

Furiosa leaves Jack to manage Scrotus’s rantings, busying herself with unloading the Rig instead. Despite the road battle, they’ve still managed to bring back a full tanker of guzzoline, and that’s the main thing. She sets the remains of the crew to work on filling the many barrels. They’ll need to recruit eight replacements to bring their numbers back up to a full compliment, and requisition another pursuit vehicle too. She makes a mental note to speak to the salvage crew about taking a tow truck out to the crash site — maybe they can recover some of the parts if the wrecks haven’t already been picked clean by scavengers.

And if the Immortan takes the threat of the Snatchers intruding on his territory seriously, which he likely will, then Jack will probably be summoned to a war council soon enough. She winces imagining what that will be like — standing there in a state of deference for who knows how long, listening to Rictus and Scrotus competing over who can say the most idiotic thing. With Jack occupied, she’ll have to cover restoring all those elements of the convoy herself. Strictly speaking, that’s the Praetorian’s job — but the History Man’s advice to make herself indispensable has stuck with her, even if she turned her back to him at the time. And the sooner they’re battle-ready, the better.

Furiosa grits her teeth and cranks the wheel that controls the main guzzoline valve, watching as the precious oil races through the tubes and into the waiting barrels. A long day, yes. But she’s no stranger to long days. She’ll get her head down and get it done.

It’s late when Jack returns from the higher levels of the Citadel, just like she expected. Furiosa spots him enter the garage from her perch making repairs to the top of the Rig’s cab. He looks weary, his shoulders slumped as he crosses the stone floor. She raises her hand in a brief wave to grab his attention. Maybe it’s her imagination, but he seems to stand up a little straighter as he returns it.

She slings her toolbag over her shoulder and clambers down the side of the cab as he approaches. “How was it?”

“Scrotus and Rictus want war, of course.” He shrugs. “The People Eater is concerned about how it might affect our trade agreement with Dementus. But the Immortan’s orders are to get more information. We’ll send out a few scouting parties.”

She nods, wiping grease from her hands with a rag. The garage is quiet — they finished emptying the tanker many hours ago, and most of the crew and the blackthumbs have gone to bed.

“Did you get the guzzoline unloaded?” he asks. She nods again. “Good. We’ll need to be up early tomorrow,” he says. “Need to get the salvage team out to the wreck site. And recruit eight more War Boys for the crew.”

“I spoke to salvage. They’re leaving at first light tomorrow,” she says. “And I had a look at possible crew replacements. Crank and Cam should be good. Fabro too — he’s got a good arm for thundersticks. And Dez is doing a lot better now that he’s had those tumours out. We’ll need another four, but it’s a start.”

Jack gives her an unreadable look, and she suddenly worries she’s massively overstepped. Hopefully he doesn’t think she’s trying to muscle in on his position. She shifts her stance and turns her eyes away. “Just a thought.”

“No,” he says, rubbing his chin. “It’s a good thought. Good choices. I’ll speak to them tomorrow.”

She looks back up at him, relieved. “I also talked to the rev-heads. There’s another car we should be able to take. Needs some work to make it convoy-ready, but we can get the team on it.”

Jack makes an odd noise. It takes her a moment to realise he’s stifling a laugh. “No, I’m impressed,” he says, seeing her wary expression. “Sounds like you’ve done my job for me. You angling for a promotion to Praetorian Furiosa?”

Furiosa shrugs. “I’m no praetorian. Just doing what needed doing.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he says. “There’s more to the job than just driving and shooting. I think your forehead will be matching mine before too long.”

His words are kind, but she’s not sure she shares his optimism. The chances of someone like Scrotus thinking she’s praetorian material seem slim to none. Still, she feels a flush of satisfaction at the praise — his opinion means a damn sight more to her than Scrotus’s ever will.

Jack glances briefly at the handful of blackthumbs working at the other end of the room, then speaks again, his voice quieter. “Have you got a minute? If you’re not too tired, I’d like to show you something.”

The Citadel is quiet as Furiosa follows Jack up twisting stairwells and down snaking corridors. She hasn’t spent much time on these levels before — this close to the nutritional wealth of the hydroponic gardens, a wayward dogman would have drawn a lot of attention. It’s different now that she’s in Jack’s company. Everyone who sees the Praetorian Jack approaching gives them both a respectful berth. She keeps her eyes forward, tries to act like she belongs here even though she doesn’t know where they’re going.

Her eyes are aching from the lack of sleep, but curiosity drives her forward. Where is Jack taking them? Maybe she’ll finally find out how he gets those scraps of fruit and vegetables, if he’s got some sort of connection up here. At the same time, the uncertainty makes her nervous. Every new secret they share feels like another thing binding them together, tying her to something other than herself, and she’s not sure how to feel about that.

The hallway they’re in turns a corner into a dusty assemblage of crates, and she thinks they’ve hit a dead end until Jack shifts a stack of them out forward, revealing a gap in the rock. Furiosa eyes him sceptically as he moves to shimmy into the dark, narrow space. He glances back at her and jerks his head toward it, a silent invitation — come on. She frowns as she watches him vanish into the darkness, hesitating, then follows him.

The tunnel is a tight squeeze, even for her, and she can feel the rock scraping against her back even through her jacket. More bruises to add to the collection. She feels her way along the wall as it curves around, eventually widening into a larger crevasse. There’s a faint light ahead — not the flame of the Citadel lights, but the cooler glow of the moon.

Her curiosity only grows as she scales a small ledge and emerges onto a larger shelf of rock, almost completely enclosed by the cliffs of the Citadel aside from a narrow view to the horizon on the left, but open to the sky above. Jack is standing there waiting for her, and next to him is—

She can’t help but stare. Water. Running down the cliff in a steady trickle, pooling in a dip in the rocks. Just out there in the open air for anyone lucky enough to find it. How the hell did he..?

When she finally tears her eyes away from the tiny oasis, she sees that Jack is watching her with an actual broad grin on his face. She’s not sure which of these two sights seems more unlikely or incredible, but here they both are. Her mouth is hanging open slightly. Whatever she expected him to show her, it wasn’t this.

“It’s drinkable,” he says. “Runoff from the gardens. Might taste a bit of soil, but other than that, as good as it gets.”

“Who else knows about this?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Just me, and now you too. Found it when I was a kid, after my parents… well. I did a lot of exploring then, looking for somewhere private.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, her voice hoarse, and she means it. After years of seeing nothing but sand, steel and ashes, this is a miracle. There are even plants here, clinging to the cliff walls and enjoying the precious moisture. It might not be as green as the hydroponic gardens, or as richly appointed as the Wives’ quarters, but those places belong to Immortan Joe. This place belongs to Jack. She realises with a jolt that this is probably the best place he knows in the entire world.

And rather than keep it to himself, he’s sharing it with her, and her alone.

She feels a lump rising in her throat. Jack is still smiling — maybe he thinks she’s just overcome by the sight of unlimited drinking water. “Go on,” he says. “Help yourself.”

Furiosa crosses the rocks to the trickle of water and cups her palms against it. The liquid, when she raises her hands to drink, is cool and sweet, with a slightly earthy note — much better than the stale metal tang of her usual water ration. She quickly drains her makeshift cup and presses her hands back into the stream, eager to take advantage of such an unexpected bounty. The water spills in her haste, leaking between her fingers and splashing down her chin. She looks back at Jack, suddenly self-conscious. “Did you want some?”

“You first. I can wait.”

She drinks greedily until her stomach is cold and the ends of her sleeves are soaked. Some of the water has run down her arms, wetting the elbows of her jacket. She doesn’t remember the last time her elbows were wet, doesn’t remember when she could last afford to let even a single drop of precious water miss her lips. She could spend all night indulging in this luxury, but eventually she steps back to give Jack a chance to enjoy it.

She watches as he lifts his own handfuls of water to his mouth, closing his eyes with pleasure as he drinks. Something about this sight shoots a tingle up the nerves of her spine, and she turns away, looking down to the little rock pool instead. It reminds her of the river that ran through the Green Place, and she thinks about how her people used to gather around its waters — children playing, adults doing the washing or fishing for dinner. Incredible as it is, this little oasis is a pale shadow of the bounty she used to take for granted. A powerful longing for her lost home smashes into her like the shock wave of an explosion. She feels winded by the sheer ache of it.

Then she thinks about a young Jack finding this place — only a fraction of what she had while growing up, no family to share it with. Suddenly the sorrow she feels isn’t just for her own lost childhood, but for his as well. She looks back at the exhausted man savouring that meagre trickle of water and thinks about how he deserves better than this grim life — risking his neck out on the road every day for bullets and guzzoline, body and soul promised to a warlord who reaps the benefits of his work and pays him in scraps. She misses the Green Place desperately, but at least she has somewhere to miss, something to fight for. The Wasteland is all he’s ever known.

And somehow he’s still the man who chose not to abandon her on the road. Who stuck his neck out for her to have some measure of independence when he could have offered her up to his masters instead. Who builds her up with weapons and stolen food and knowledge, who keeps saving her life again and again, who shares his most secret place with her and doesn’t even ask for what other men would simply take.

He’s a good man. How the hell did the Wasteland produce someone so good?

“You good?”

Furiosa almost jumps out of her skin as Jack’s voice snaps her back to reality. At some point in her reverie she must’ve sunk to the ground, because now she’s crouched there with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking back up at him.

“Little overwhelming, right?” he says.

She nods unsteadily.

“I couldn’t believe it when I found it,” he continues. “Thought I was seeing things. Then I kept expecting someone to fix the leak, but it hasn’t happened yet.” He ruffles a hand through his hair. “You can come up here if you ever want a drink, or a wash or something.”

“Jack.” She gets to her feet. “Why are you sharing this with me now?”

“Wanted to for a while,” he says. “But I didn’t think you’d take it well if I tried to lead you into some dodgy tunnel on your own like that, and I wasn’t looking for another excuse to get stabbed.”

She thinks back to how she was around him when they first met, constantly on edge, waiting for him to show teeth that never came. Would she have followed him into the dark like she has tonight? Not a chance in hell.

“But then last night I thought, well, maybe you’d trust me more now.”

Because last night she trusted him with the memory of her mother. She looks at Jack, standing in front of her in his dust-covered leathers. The expression on his face looks a little like hope. She trusts him more than any man alive.

And a dozen years of experience is screaming at her that she’s a damn fool. What makes her think she can trust anyone? She remembers Dementus’s servant, taking advantage of her mother’s empathy — “I’m a mother too”. When Dementus brought her back to the camp again, Furiosa knew from the look on the woman’s face that she’d been the one to rat them out. She’d bitten her as soon as she got the chance — left a nasty scar, but nothing compared to Furiosa’s own loss. To feel compassion for someone else in the Wasteland is like handing them another weapon to use against you.

She needs to remember that lesson, remember that the Wasteland is a world in which everyone is only out for themselves. Just because someone doesn’t immediately screw her over doesn’t mean they’re not waiting for a better opportunity to do it. Waiting for a moment of weakness on her part. Bonding over dead parents and lost childhoods makes her vulnerable. If she lets her guard down, shows any kind of softness, she’s practically asking for a knife in the gut.

And yet.

She hates this indecision. The only person she’s really been able to trust all this time is herself, and then he comes along and makes her question her own judgement. She can’t let her heart be weak like this, can’t afford to get soppy just because someone shows her a sliver of kindness. She needs to be single-minded if she wants to ever see her home again.

If any of this struggle is written on her face, Jack misses it. He’s busy settling next to the pool, working on the buckles of his boots. He must be planning to soak his feet. She imagines how incredible that cool water would feel against her own skin.

“I need to sleep,” she says.

He looks up, and she sees a flash of disappointment on his face before he catches it and stuffs it down somewhere, replaces it with a familiar tiredness instead. “Right. Long day.” His hands pause on the boot buckles. “I can walk you back—”

She cuts him off. “I know the way.”

“Right,” he says again. She wishes she could sit next to him and dip her own feet in that pool — maybe splash some of the water at him, just to see how he reacts. But just being here feels like crossing a boundary, entering a new place where they’re more than just partners on the Rig. Better she doesn’t let herself get mixed up any more than she already has.

“Well,” she says awkwardly. “Night.”

Furiosa turns and scrambles back down the rocky crevasse, trying not to think about the last glimpse she had of him as she left — Jack sitting alone next to the pool, shoulders slumped, offering her a gift she wouldn’t take.

Chapter Text

The next day is awkward. Neither of them mentions the cliffside pool, or her abrupt retreat from it — it’s too risky to speak of the place where they might be overheard anyway. They don’t ignore each other or avoid each other or avert their eyes when the other person walks past. It is, for all intents and purposes, a completely normal day. And yet Furiosa goes through the whole day with an uncomfortable tickle at the back of her neck and a twist in her gut.

They have a lot to do. Furiosa makes sure the salvage crew rides out on schedule before she meets Jack in the garage to pick the eight new crew members. He includes all four of her suggestions from the previous night.

They’re busy introducing the excited War Boys to their new posts when another one appears at Jack’s elbow. “You’re summoned, Praetorian. The Immortan wants to see you.”

She and Jack exchange a brief look before he turns to the new crew. “She’s in charge,” he says, then heads off to the higher levels of the Citadel. She hopes Scrotus hasn’t been in Joe’s ear about the destroyed car, but it seems like the sort of thing that would be beneath the Immortan to care about. The new Boys are waiting patiently — none of the suspicion she remembers from the day she and Jack first recruited a new crew. She wonders what the War Boys tell each other when they talk about her now.

Time to get to work. “Fabro, you’ll be on the roof. Dez, we need you at the back of the cab to focus on mechanics. Crank and Cam, you’ll be driving pursuit as soon as we get the replacement vehicle in. The rest of you will be on the bikes.” The War Boys jostle each other excitedly. “But today you’re all on restock and repairs. Come on.”

The rest of the team show the new Boys the ropes while Furiosa climbs into the cab to start her inventory of the weaponry. She glances into the mirror and sees Craw excitedly relaying some story to Dez. He kicks his leg out suddenly and she realises he’s miming the way she smashed the Rig’s door into that Snatcher two days ago.

Another hour passes before Jack returns. She leaves the crew to it and steps away from the Rig to hear their orders.

“Immortan wants us in a scouting party,” Jack says. “Praetorian Aldred’s crew are heading west, but someone’s also claiming the Snatchers are holed up in the hills to the south, so we need to check it out. Two pursuits, you and me and two of the Boys.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.” He looks towards the crew, busy swarming all over the Rig. “Who would you bring?”

So he’s still on this idea about her learning all the aspects of being a praetorian. She thinks for a moment. “Keero in the Copperhead, with Sixer riding shotgun.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Keero?”

“He’s a skilled driver, decent mechanic and a good shot. For a small group, we need the versatility.” She means it — it’d be easy to leave him out, but the War Boy’s grown to be a reliable member of the crew, and he doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge for that broken nose.

He nods. “Good. I’ll tell them.”

Their little convoy rides out the next morning — Furiosa and Jack in the front car, a requisitioned Holden ute, followed by Keero and Sixer in the Copperhead. They’re quiet as they turn off the main road and into the Wasteland, heading for the hills where the Snatchers are rumoured to be setting up. Jack is driving this leg of the journey, so she has nothing to do but stare out the window and try to keep her mind on the mission ahead, rather than the man sitting next to her.

The plan is to approach the hills at dusk, stash the cars under their sand-coloured tarps and then silently cross the final distance on foot under the cover of darkness. If they get into a good position, they can keep an eye on the Snatchers all night long, work out what sort of numbers and equipment the Citadel would be up against if it sent out a proper raiding party to clear them out. They make good time, and as the sun dips towards the desert, she can see the first few hilltops in the distance.

What the plan does not account for is the dark ominous cloud that suddenly materialises on the horizon. A massive sandstorm, moving in their direction at a rapid rate. Jack pulls the ute over and Keero pulls up alongside them, Sixer leaning out the window. “What’s the plan, boss?”

“Keep driving for now,” Jack says. “Let’s see if we can use the cover. But if it gets too thick, we’ll have to pull over and wait it out.”

They make it another ten minutes before they lose sight of the cliffs, and another ten before they can no longer see the Copperhead in the rearview mirror. Jack pulls over again and waits for them to catch up, but there’s no sign of them.

“Shit.” Jack drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We could be right on top of that camp in this mess and have no idea.”

Furiosa reaches into the glovebox and grabs two pairs of goggles, tossing one of them to Jack. “Do we go back, see if we can find the other two?”

He shakes his head. “At this point we’re only risking getting further apart. Let’s hang tight for now, wait for the storm to thin out. The others should be smart enough to do the same.”

He’s right — they’ve drilled the War Boys on this sort of scenario a hundred times. At least the storm should hide them while they wait. She hangs the goggles around her neck anyway, just in case, and he does the same. Nothing to do but run down the clock.

Which also means nothing to distract them from talking about whatever happened last night. She braces herself for an uncomfortable discussion.

Jack has other ideas. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We don’t know what we’ll find once this storm lifts. I’ll take first watch.”

Furiosa nods and curls up in the passenger seat, tucking her face into her shoulder. Maybe it’s the muffled roar of the sandstorm, maybe it’s residual exhaustion from the previous evening, but she’s out like a light.

The storm is still raging when Jack wakes her with a hand on the shoulder, a finger lifted to his lips. She’s alert immediately, following his eyes to scan what little they can see through the windscreen. It’s properly dark now, and for a moment she thinks there can’t be anything out there but sand.

Then she hears it — a faint sound in front of them. Not the storm. Something else. She exchanges a glance with Jack as she reaches for the shotgun in the passenger door. Then, suddenly, a muffled bang.

“Get down!”

Both of them duck below the windows as a projectile crashes through the windscreen and immediately begins belching smoke into the vehicle. She grabs for the door handle, coughing as she rolls out of the ute and into a crouch on the desert floor. She just has time to pull up her goggles and yank her scarf over her nose before the gunfire begins — the extra plating on the door keeps her shielded, but the windows are immediately blown out, scattering her hair with glass. She sticks behind the door and cradles her shotgun, waiting for the salvo to pass. Through the mess of sand and smoke in the ute, she can just about see Jack crouching behind the driver-side door in a mirror of her own position.

At least all of the aggro seems to be coming from the same direction — if they were surrounded, they’d know it. But still, they’re pinned down with no clear view of the enemy. She listens to the rhythm of the gunfire, eyes the bullets piling up around the edges of the car, makes a guess — one hostile with the launcher, at least two more with rifles. She waves to Jack and holds up three fingers. He nods back. A moment later, the gunfire stops.

They both stay frozen, squinting into the darkness, trying to make out footsteps or some other telltale sounds of movement. All they can do is wait for the assailants to come to them — giving up the relative shelter of the armoured ute and venturing blindly into the maelstrom of sand would be suicidal. But it’s a tense wait.

Furiosa hears a sound to her left and drops to the ground a moment before another bullet wizzes over her, smashing into the upholstery of the passenger seat. She reaches up to grab the passenger door and slams it shut, then rolls under the chassis of the ute. The metal rings with the sound of more bullets smashing into the door as she crawls to the other side — better than them passing through the cab of the vehicle, even if the blackthumbs will have a hell of a job fixing the thing up later. She scrambles out on the driver’s side and tucks herself against the body of the ute next to Jack. Between the goggles and the scarf he’s pulled over his nose, his face is impossible to see, but Furiosa knows he’ll have that grim, focused look on his face that he always gets in battle. Even when they’re pinned down in a sandstorm, the thought of that face is oddly reassuring.

Jack leans back and brings his mouth to her ear, pulling his scarf down just enough to be heard over the roar of the wind. “We need to lure them in!” Furiosa nods and waits for the next bullet to fly through the remains of the windows above, then lets out a high-pitched cry of pain. As Jack gives her a nod of approval, she reaches under the driver’s seat and unsheathes the long knife they’d stashed there earlier, then drops to her stomach and crawls back under the ute.

At least another minute passes while they wait for the attackers to approach. They’ve yet to return any of the gunfire, and the fumes from the smoke bomb have been comprehensively blown out of the destroyed windows. Furiosa clutches the knife, shotgun resting in the dust next to her. All she can do is try to keep her breathing slow and hope her yelp was loud enough to draw them in. Make whoever it is think that she and Jack are easy pickings.

Then she makes out shapes moving in the darkness — three figures stalking forwards, hunched over rifles. She kicks her foot back to tap Jack’s boot three times and grips the hilt of the knife, listening.

“You see ‘em?” A man’s voice, muffled but croaky.

“Not yet.” The second voice comes from above a pair of boots, getting closer and closer to the ute. Tattered, flimsy boots. “Maybe one of them’s still insi—aarrrghh!”

Old Boots has stepped too close to the ute — close enough for Furiosa to lash out with the knife and cut right through his boots to his Achilles tendons. The man screams and staggers back. A moment later, she hears Jack’s rifle ring out behind her and Old Boots crumples to the ground, hands clutching desperately at his bleeding throat. Croaky Voice has dropped to a crouch behind the back wheel and is swearing profusely. Furiosa grabs her shotgun from the ground and scoots in the opposite direction to get a better angle on the man. She’s lost track of the third attacker, who seems to have vanished into the storm — hopefully Jack has better visibility. Croaky Voice yells something and tries to shuffle around the back of the ute. She turns her body to face him and fires. The shotgun blast hits him in the leg and he topples into the dirt with a howl. A quick glance to her right shows that Old Boots has stopped moving.

She barely has time to think about where the third man might be before a metal canister skitters under the ute, spewing more of the noxious smoke. The goggles and scarf aren’t nearly enough to hold it back, and her eyes and lungs immediately feel like they’re burning. Furiosa instinctively scrambles backwards away from the device, and a moment later someone’s grabbed her legs and is yanking her out from under the vehicle. She kicks frantically out at the attacker, but it’s hard to get purchase on anything when she’s on her stomach with no visibility. The third man hauls her out into the open and she manages to twist onto her back, bringing the shotgun towards him, but he lashes out with his boot and kicks her arm just in time for the shot to go wide.

There’s no time to reload — instead she grabs the shotgun with both hands as he moves to tackle her, smashing the butt of the weapon across his jaw. The impact knocks a few strands of ragged blond hair from his hood, but he somehow absorbs the blow and throws his full weight onto her, knocking the breath from her already-burning lungs. She drives a knee into his chest, feels a rib or two crack, but can’t stop him from wrapping his hands around her throat. Every instinct is telling her to grab frantically for his hands and tear those crushing fingers away from her neck, but instead she scrabbles for the knife on her belt and finds it, stabbing him roughly in between the ribs with a strangled yell. The man groans and collapses on top of her, his hands going mercifully limp, and she kicks the weight of him off her and rolls onto her elbows, gasping for air.

Through the chaos of sand and smoke, she catches a glimpse of activity. Jack is grappling with another person for control of his rifle. Not three attackers, then — four. She’ll kick herself for misjudging the count if she survives this.

Furiosa staggers to her feet, the bloody knife still in her hand, and lurches towards the struggle. Before she can reach them, the fourth Snatcher kicks Jack in the knee, knocking him off balance, and then smashes him across the face with an elbow. Jack crumples to the ground behind the open car door — all she can see is the cloaked figure standing over him, rifle now fully in hand.

She’s on the man a moment before he can pull the trigger, launching herself at him with a feral yell. It’s enough to knock his shot off target, but not enough to pitch him over. The hood of his cloak blows off, exposing a bald head mapped with intricate ridges of scar tissue, but she doesn’t have time to look closer before he swings the barrel of the rifle back towards her. She grabs her knife from her hip and tackles him again, slashing at his chest. The blade bounces off — he must be wearing some sort of armour under his robes — but at least she’s now too close to shoot. The Snatcher moves with almost unnatural speed, snatching her wrists out of the air before she can divert her blade to his face and twisting them. She grimaces as pain lances through her body, tries to pull him closer so she can land a headbutt, but instead he drags her to the ground and presses an armoured knee into her chest. She’s trapped.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees a hand scrabbling in the dust for the rifle. Jack, still breathing.

She can play distraction. If the Snatcher is focussed on keeping her pinned, then she’s got him trapped too. The pressure on her chest is crushing the air from her lungs, but she just needs to hang on for a few more seconds, keep him still so Jack can—

Crack.

The bullet passes through the back of the man’s skull and exits just above his eyebrow. She feels the impact of it on the ground right next to her at the same time as the spray of blood spatters across her goggles.

For the second time that night, Furiosa shoves a corpse off of her and rolls over, breathing heavily. Somehow her scarf had managed to stay in place this entire time — she tugs it down now, desperate for air, even if it is filled with sand. The fabric is wet with bits of Snatcher brain matter anyway, and her day’s been bad enough as it is without having to inhale that.

Jack is crouched next to the car, rifle in hand and also breathing heavily. The right lens of his goggles has shattered and he’s bleeding from a gash on his forehead — whether that’s from the glass or the Snatcher’s elbow, she doesn’t know. They lock eyes for a moment — then she crawls for her shotgun and leans back into the armoured body of the car next to him, reloading the weapon before wiping the blood from her goggles with a sleeve.

They wait to see if anyone else is coming for them out of the night. Seconds pass, but all they can hear is the storm, and the sound of their own ragged breathing. Eventually he exhales slowly and peels the broken goggles from his head. She can see a few small cuts on his cheekbone, but luckily his eye looks okay.

“You good?” she asks roughly, her voice hoarse.

“Knee’s been better,” he says, eyes still on the darkness surrounding them. “Some cuts, nothing deep. You?”

“A few cracked ribs.” And a lot of bruises, but that’s a given. At least her kicked arm doesn’t feel broken. “How did they find us?”

He shakes his head, staring at the fourth Snatcher’s body. “Hell if I know. That one’s not going to be talking any time soon.”

As if on cue, they hear a groan from the back of the ute. Croaky Voice, clearly still breathing. Furiosa frowns and starts to get to her feet, shotgun in hand, but Jack grabs her leg. “Wait. Don’t kill him yet. He might talk.”

She nods, then carefully sidles around to the back of the ute, weapon raised. Croaky Voice is lying in the dust, blood oozing from his shattered leg. His rifle is resting across his stomach, but his hands are still gripping it. When he sees Furiosa, he moans again and tries to scoot backwards on his elbows.

“Toss the gun,” she yells, emphasising the order with a twitch of her shotgun. The man complies with a pitiful whimper, sending the rifle skidding through the dust.

She hears a pained grunt from Jack as he gets his feet and shuffles around to her side, bracing one hand against the wall of the ute’s cargo bed. “Where’s your camp?” he calls.

“Leg,” Croaky Voice sputters, reaching towards the bloody mess of his limb. “My leg.”

“Tell us where the camp is and we’ll tie it up,” Jack says. Furiosa shoots him a look that probably goes unseen thanks to her filthy goggles.

“I’ll talk,” Croaky Voice says, still grabbing at his leg. “Please. I just need…”

It happens in less than a second — Jack steps forward, puts too much weight on his injured knee and falls. He shoots both hands out to catch himself against the ground, within reach of Croaky Voice. At the same time, the Snatcher yanks a knife from a hidden pocket and slashes at his outstretched arm. Jack jerks back out of the way immediately, and the man unleashes a creepy, high-pitched cackle before Furiosa smashes the butt of the shotgun into his face, knocking him out.

She immediately turns to crouch next to Jack, who lifts his arm up, revealing a torn sleeve. “Jacket’ll need stitches,” he says.

“Did he—”

“My arm’s fine. He barely caught me, but it’s not deep.” Furiosa whirls around with the shotgun, ready to introduce the business end to the man’s face, but Jack continues. “Belt his leg and tie his wrists up. We’ll take him back to the Citadel.”

“Jack.” Her voice is sceptical. “With that leg, he’s lucky if he lasts the night.”

“We’ll have to chance it. We need him for intel and we can’t stay here until he wakes up. Don’t know how many more of them are out there. Especially after—” He grimaces, clutching at his knee. “Shit.”

She loops her arm under his shoulder and slowly pulls him to his feet. “I’ll drive.”

They shuffle around the car to the passenger side, and she uses her arm to swipe the debris from the seat before he slides onto it, wincing. The smoke has cleared out but the interior of the vehicle is still a mess — sand and broken glass everywhere, fresh bullet holes in the upholstery. Hopefully it’s still enough to get them back to the Citadel, but the blackthumbs will have their work cut out for them.

It takes another minute to remove Croaky Voice’s belt and pull it tight around his thigh until his wound stops oozing blood, then pat him down for weapons and tie his hands behind his back. It’s a challenge to haul the unconscious Snatcher into the back of the ute, her ribs screaming in protest, but she manages it. Cargo secured, she jogs back to the driver’s side and gets in, swinging the battered door closed behind her. The engine sputters but starts, much to her relief. She grabs the gearstick and pulls the ute around in a 180 degree turn before driving into the storm. It’s better to keep the vehicle moving slow — less noise, and less chance of smashing into something with no warning. There’s no guarantee they’ll be heading in the right direction, but at least it should put some distance between them and wherever the Snatchers are coming from.

They only creep through the storm for half an hour before their ute breaks down.

Furiosa manages to manoeuvre the struggling vehicle into the lee of a cluster of boulders, hoping that will provide some cover, then pins their beige camo tarp over the top. Half the sand in the Wasteland seems to be inside the ute already, but there’s no need to add any more. She only pauses briefly to check on Croaky Voice, who remains breathing but unconscious. Little drifts have already accumulated around him in the cargo bed, and any blood leaking from the Snatcher’s leg is fully clotted with dust. Small mercies — at least that will make for easier cleanup.

She finishes tacking the tarp in place and ducks under the fabric to rejoin Jack in the shelter of the car. The roar of the storm is now accompanied by the crackle of the tarp shuddering in the wind. If anyone does come after them, they’ll have a hard time hearing the approach over this racket, but there’s no way they’re fixing whatever’s wrong with the engine in this weather. They’ll have to hope they’ve made it out of Snatcher territory and wait it out.

Over in the passenger seat, Jack looks drained. He’s staring forward, one hand clutching his injured knee — it must be bothering him. She can’t imagine she looks any better. It’s been a rough night so far, and it’s not done yet.

She removes her goggles, then raises a hand to check the peach pit is still secure in its braid and winces as she accidentally knocks a shard of glass against her scalp. Her sudden intake of breath draws a concerned look from Jack, immediately alert despite his exhaustion.

“Glass in my hair,” she says. “From the window.”

He swivels a finger in the air — turn around. “Let me.”

She hesitates for a moment. Nobody’s touched her hair since she shaved it off, and she likes it that way. But her scalp is going to be a mess if she doesn’t get the shrapnel out.

Her hand is still over the pit and she carefully palms it, tucking it up her sleeve and out of sight. If he sees her fiddling with something, he knows her well enough not to ask. Pit secured, she scoots around in her seat, turning her back to him. A moment later, she feels a gentle tug on her hair as he begins to carefully pick through it, looking for debris. His hands are slow and steady, methodical, and the tension begins to drain from her shoulders. After the punishment her body’s been through today, the sensation is comforting. She wants to close her eyes and fully relax into the feeling, let him take care of her.

She must be more tired than she thought, getting ideas like this. Furiosa digs her nails into her palm — stay awake, don’t get sloppy.

Jack pauses, hands midway through parting a chunk of her hair. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says. “Keep going.”

After a moment, she feels his hands return to her — his thumb gently drawing parts between locks of hair, fingers carefully probing for the glass. Occasionally she feels the tips of his fingers skim her scalp. He works in silence, slowly removing the evidence of the shootout piece by piece.

Furiosa knows her hair is matted — combs are in short supply in the Citadel outside of the Wives’ quarters. But also she remembers the unwanted attention it used to bring her, stained red and strung with bells to make her something ornamental and easily tracked. She’s thought about shaving it off again a few times. But sitting here with Jack’s hands woven into it, she’s suddenly glad to have it.

It makes sense that he’d be so gentle. He’s like this in everything he puts his hands to, practiced and purposeful, whether he’s touching the Rig or a rifle. Or touching her.

Those traitorous thoughts again.

She’s so in her own head that it’s a start when she realises Jack’s hands are no longer on it. Maybe he can tell she’s lost in her own thoughts, because he clears his throat. “All done.”

She scoots back around to face him, noticing the little pile of glass nuggets he’s set on the dashboard. Each one representing one less cut she’ll have, thanks to him.

“Thank you.” He returns her thanks with a silent nod of acknowledgement, but she continues. “Not just for that. That man would’ve killed me back there if it wasn’t for you.”

“He would’ve killed me first.” Jack shrugs. “Stronger than either one of us.”

“Right.” How does she say what she really wants to tell him right now? Getting the right words out is like pulling teeth. “But not both of us. Together.”

She sees recognition spark in his eyes: this is her version of an apology for the other night.

“Right,” he says. “Together.” She’ll take the slight smile that follows as his acceptance of that apology.

A tiny smile crosses her lips as well — a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, rarely-offered thing.

Impulsively she reaches over to grab his hand, the one resting on his thigh instead of his injured knee, and squeezes it, his scraped knuckles pressing into her palm. After a moment, he turns his thumb up to lightly stroke the underside of her wrist.

She wants to say more, but instead she looks away, back towards the tarp billowing over the shattered windshield. “You should sleep. I’ll take this watch.”

“Right,” he says again. Neither of them move their hands away.

Eventually Jack dozes off in the passenger seat. Furiosa keeps watch for the rest of the night, waiting for the Snatchers to track them down, but they don’t.

Dawn breaks at the same time as the storm. After hours and hours of the roaring wind, the silence feels unnatural to her ears. She quietly slips out of the car and lifts the tarp to check out their surroundings. As she thought, they’re stashed next to a small outcrop of boulders, now edged with drifts of sand. The tarp blends in well.

She grabs a pair of binoculars from their pocket on the inside of the door, then ducks under the tarp and climbs the boulders for a better look. She can see the hills they’d been aiming for on the horizon behind them — fortunately there’s no sign of movement. The Citadel is just visible off to their left. If they’d carried on in their current course they would have overshot by miles, but at least they haven’t gone in completely the wrong direction.

Her eye catches on a glint of sunlight on something in the distance, closer to the cliffs, and she squints to make it out. It’s the Copperhead — but no sign of a tarp, or of Keero and Sixer. Shit.

They still have Croaky Voice in the back though, if he’s still alive. So they won’t be returning to the Citadel with nothing.

They won’t be returning to the Citadel at all if she doesn’t get this engine fixed. She scrambles back down the boulders and unpins the front of the tarp, trying to be quiet as she rolls it back over the hood of the car — let Jack sleep a little longer if he can.

The problem reveals itself quickly — a hole in the oil pan, letting the oil out and the sand in. It’s a wonder the engine got this far before breaking down, considering how much gunk is probably in it. She curses again. There’s no chance of fixing this in the field. It’ll need a team of blackthumbs to properly clean it out.

Without the engine working, she and Jack are stranded out here. She closes the hood of the car, throws the tarp back and slides back into the driver’s seat to give him the bad news. “Jack.”

Somehow he’s managed to sleep through all of that noise. It’s a good thing she took the second watch last night. She reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Jack.”

His eyes twitch as if dreaming, but he doesn’t wake. Suddenly she notices the bead of sweat on his face, drawing a thin line of black grease from his temple down to his cheek. She moves her hand from his shoulder to rest on his forehead — it’s burning up.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Something is very wrong.

Furiosa evaluates her options. There’s no moving the car, and she won’t be able to move Jack far by herself either. She could make a solo run for the other pursuit car, but she’d be leaving herself exposed and Jack completely defenceless.

She’s going to have to call for help. Before she can talk herself out of it, she grabs the flare gun from the glove compartment, then leaves the car and climbs back up the boulders a second time. If the Snatchers get here first, she’s screwed, but she’ll have to hope they’re closer to the Citadel. She grits her teeth, raises the gun to the sky and pulls the trigger.

Bang. A burst of red blooms against the blue of the Wasteland sky. The Citadel’s sentinels should be able to see it from here. She chews her lip, hoping like hell they send a rescue party soon, hoping like hell that Jack doesn’t get any worse.

Chapter Text

Luck is on Furiosa’s side. A tense hour and a half after she sends up the flare, a party of War Boys rock up with another pursuit car and a tow truck.

Nobody argues when Furiosa orders them out of the car and says she’s taking it for herself. They can deal with the broken-down ute and all squeeze into the tow truck on the way home — she needs to get Jack back to the Citadel as soon as possible. She and one of the Boys sling his arms over their shoulders and shift him from one passenger seat to another.

“Who’s the smeg in the back?” one of the other War Boys calls. She’d almost forgotten the Snatcher in her rush to move. For a moment she considers just leaving him in the ute, but if he dies back there, all of this will have been for nothing.

Instead she orders the War Boys to shift Croaky Voice into the back seat, and then she takes off, a plume of dust in her wake.

She checks Jack’s forehead again as she pulls onto the massive lift at the foot of the Citadel. His skin feels clammy and his breathing seems to be getting shakier. She barks orders at the crew, insisting on getting them up into relative safety as quickly as possible. “I need two men to keep an eye on this prisoner in the back. And get the Organic Mechanic.”

She’s used to them dealing with their medical care themselves, but given the state he’s in, the Mechanic is the only option. She’s avoided the man as much as possible since they both arrived at the Citadel. If anyone’s going to recognise Little D, it’s him — if not from her face, then from her veins, which he is unfortunately very familiar with. She loathes the man, hates his predilection for human blood sausage and the way he looks at everyone like an interesting and interchangeable collection of body parts. But he’s never shown much interest in her as the praetorian’s apprentice, and she needs to find out what’s wrong with Jack. And, most importantly, how to fix him.

By the time the Mechanic arrives, Furiosa’s got Jack propped up on the ratty, grease-stained couch in the corner of the workshop. She needs to cool him down, get him out of the jacket. She leans over and undoes the front, then carefully threads his arms through the holes before sliding the layer out from under his back. Jack looks even more vulnerable without his leathers. Underneath, his well-worn shirt is soaked with sweat.

That’s when she finds the cut from Croaky Voice’s knife on his left arm. It looks shallow, but the skin around it is turning an unnatural shade of green.

She stands back as the Mechanic goes through whatever poking and prodding he finds necessary, digging her nails into her palms all the while. Part of her wants to pull the Mechanic’s hands off Jack and snarl at him to stay away, before the creep takes a shine to the idea of doing some organ harvesting. But she holds her nerve and waits.

Finally the Mechanic steps back, wiping his hands on his filthy apron. She raises her eyebrows at him, waits for him to speak.

“Well, he’s definitely running a fever. That forehead’s absolutely burning up. Whatever they cut him with must’ve had some sort of poison on it.”

Her irritation overrides her desire to draw as little of his attention as possible. “How do we stop it?”

The Mechanic seems unphased by her hostility. “Not much I can do about it if I don’t know what it is. It’s in his bloodstream now. He’s lucky they didn’t get him too deep – a stronger dose probably would’ve killed him off by now. Nothing to do but wait and see if he fights it off.” He meets her glare with a shrug. “Keep an eye on him overnight, make sure his temperature doesn’t get too high. Get some food and water down him if you can.”

“That’s it?”

He snorts. “If he was the Immortan or one of his sons, maybe I have something else in my stash to use. But he’s not, so that’s it.”

She stands there staring at Jack’s limp form as the Mechanic strolls past her, completely unbothered. She wants to knock the bastard to the ground, hold his own scalpel to his throat and demand he does something useful so she doesn’t have to see her partner like this. Instead she steps forward and grabs his arm, lowering her voice. “I need to speak to you. Privately.”

She’s not sure if it’s the strength of her grip or the look in her eyes, but the Mechanic stops and looks back at her, considering. Eventually he nods towards an emptier corner of the garage, and she drops her hand from his arm, following him past stacks of car parts to the shadows. He crosses his arms, waiting to hear what she has to say.

Furiosa chooses her words carefully. “If you did have something in your stash that could help, what would it be worth?”

The Mechanic raises his eyebrows. “Worth a lot to you, clearly.”

She doesn’t reply, just clenches her jaw and waits.

He snorts. “I do have something. Make it special myself. Might help him, might not. But I could use someone who’s able to get me things from the Wasteland.”

“What things?” She keeps her voice steady.

“Things I can’t get here.” He shrugs. “Medicines. Chemicals. I can ask the Immortan for them myself, but he doesn’t always share my… priorities.”

“Fine.” It’s hard to shake the sense she’s walking into a trap, but if it means saving Jack, she’ll deal with the consequences of that later. “What do you need?”

“I’ll let you know when there’s something I want. Then it’s up to you to get it.” The Mechanic smirks, clearly pleased with the direction this discussion has taken. “But if you don’t keep your end of the deal, I’ll tell the Immortan you’ve been nicking things from his personal medical supplies.”

“I’ll keep the deal.” She holds his gaze, but there’s a growl creeping into her voice now. “Just get me the meds and I’ll get you what you want.”

The Mechanic spits in his palm and extends it to her. She only hesitates for half a moment before she shakes his hand. Spit is probably the cleanest thing on it.

“You’ll have your meds,” he says. “Not sure why you’re so keen on it, but that’s your business. Seems to me like you’re missing out on a chance to permanently take that driver’s seat.”

It takes everything in her willpower not to deck him. Instead she slowly unclenches her fists and walks back to the Rig’s crew, who have gathered at a distance out of concern for their boss. She spots Runt biting his lip at the front of the crowd and waves him over.

“Pick him up and take him to the dorm. Stack his pallet on top of mine so it’s more comfortable. I’ll look after him.”

“You’d better report in first,” the Mechanic calls over his shoulder. “Since the Praetorian’s not doing it any time soon.”

Furiosa freezes. “To the Immortan?”

“Nah, no apprentice is going to see the Immortan. I think you’ll be having a little chat with Scrotus.”

Furiosa follows the Organic Mechanic into the higher levels of the Citadel. She’s avoided seeing any of the Immortan’s sons or lieutenants since joining the Rig’s crew — if one of them does make an appearance, she keeps herself busy in the background, tries to hide in Jack’s shadow. Nowhere to hide now, and she’s not at all prepared for this situation. Her mind is racing with thoughts of Jack, of what she could do to try to make him better.

Getting from the garage to the cliffs where the Immortan’s highest-ranking officers live is an intentionally long journey — presumably for defensive purposes, but it also gives anyone travelling to see the Immortan more than enough time to dwell on his power. She has to cross two of the catwalks that link the rocky towers of the Citadel, each one giving her a better view of the giant skull-and-wheel sigil carved into the stone. Eventually they reach the top of a stairwell, pass between two bare-chested, well-armed bodyguards, and emerge into the royal rooms.

The Mechanic must assume she’s never been up here before — which is what she’d like him to think — and leads her to a smaller room near the Immortan’s main audience chamber. He knocks on the stone doorway. “Boss? Report from your scouting party.”

She edges cautiously into the room to see Scrotus, reclining on an upholstered chaise and scooping a handful of berries into his mouth. The room is decorated with weapons mounted on the wall by gilded hooks, with an ornate but faded rug underfoot. Despite the attempted grandeur, the air smells unpleasantly sour, with a hint of something rotten.

Scrotus stares at her as he gets to his feet. “What is this?”

“Praetorian Jack’s assistant,” the Mechanic says from behind her. “Back from the scouting mission.”

“And why isn’t the Praetorian here to see me?” Scrotus is talking past her. She keeps her head low and her eyes averted, knowing to speak only when spoken to.

“Almost got himself killed by the Snatchers. Figured this was the next best thing.”

“Fine.” Scrotus waves a dismissive hand at the Mechanic. “Go.”

She stands there waiting, her entire body tense, listening to the Mechanic’s footsteps retreating down the hallway. It’s just her and Scrotus now.

“So, you’re the one Jack wants to drive the Rig with him,” the Immortan’s son says.

Furiosa nods, eyes still locked to the floor.

“He says your insides are all rotten, no good for breeding. Is that true?”

Her insides certainly feel rotten, listening to this. She grits her teeth and nods again, praying this line of questioning doesn’t continue.

“Bah.” Scrotus sighs and turns to look towards his window, and she allows her body to relax ever so slightly. “Hurry up and report then.”

She relays the story of their encounter with the Snatchers as concisely as she can — how the enemy somehow managed to track them down in the sandstorm, the shootout, the prisoner in the back of the car, Jack unconscious in the workshop with some unknown toxin in his blood.

Scrotus interjects regularly with insults about their incompetence and comments about how much better he would have handled the situation. She lets him grandstand, tries to seem as dull as possible. All the while, her mind is racing. Have the War Boys managed to move Jack to the dormitory yet? Is he still breathing?

Eventually he runs out of steam and orders her out of the room. “Tell the Organic Mechanic to wake the prisoner up and get him talking. And if the recovery crew doesn’t get those vehicles back, I’ll throw you off the Citadel myself. That’s good metal.”

She nods again, allowing herself to imagine what it would be like to push him out that window and watch him splatter on the rocks below, and silently backs out of the room.

As soon as she gets back to the Citadel’s lower levels, Furiosa marches to the kitchens and demands an extra portion of the most nourishing gruel they’ve got on offer. At the pumps, she pulls Jack’s rank to get some additional water, still fresh from the aquifer. It’s much cooler than the dregs that have been sitting in her waterskin all day, and she wraps the battered flask in her jacket, hoping to insulate it. Normally she’d never try this — she’d still like to be as unknown as possible beyond her relative comfort zone of the Rig and its crew — but today it feels necessary. She bites back the fear that she’ll cross paths with the wrong person and somehow reveal her past identity. She’s already tangled with the Mechanic and Scrotus — doesn’t seem like things could get much worse than that. And Jack needs her help.

Outside the dorms, a breathless War Pup catches up with her, a small vial in his hand. “From the Organic Mechanic,” he says, pressing it into her palm. “Three drops twice a day, he says.” She nods in thanks and the Pup trots back down the hallway, leaving her to stare at the murky liquid she’s pinning her hopes on.

Inside, Runt and the other War Boys have settled Jack on his pallet just as she asked. Whether that’s out of respect for her or for Jack is a question for another time. She gives them the same nod of approval she’s seen him deliver day after day, hoping it’ll have the same effect.

“Good. All of you, get some sleep.”

The Boys tramp off to their own pallets obligingly. Runt and Craw linger for a moment to give Jack a concerned glance before they go. She hopes they aren’t thinking of offering to lend her some of their chrome paint, just in case it’s necessary overnight. Although he wouldn’t earn that honour, dying of sickness. Maybe that’s what they’re worried about: their hero dying an ignoble death.

He’ll fight it off, she tells herself. Get a grip. No one’s dying.

First things first: she needs to get the medicine down him. She kneels next to Jack and pulls his shivering upper body towards her, cradling the back of his head as softly as she can. The Organic Mechanic’s meds are in the pocket of her jacket. Three drops. She pulls the vial out and awkwardly unscrews the lid with one hand, then tilts Jack’s head back slightly, propping one of her own knees behind his back to keep him in position. His mouth is slightly open, but not by enough.

“Jack,” she whispers. “Open your mouth. I need you to drink this.”

When he doesn’t respond, she presses her thumb to his lower lip and gently pulls his jaw down, angling the vial towards him. Jack groans and weakly tries to turn away, but she holds him steady, keeping her hand at his mouth. “Shhh. Stay there.” Before he can protest further, she tilts the vial and carefully tips three drops of the liquid into his throat.

Jack sputters slightly, but she closes his mouth again, adjusting the angle of his head. “Swallow.” After a few moments, she feels the slight gulping motion from his throat and exhales slightly in relief. Screwing the cap back onto the vial with him still in her arms is awkward, but she manages it, tucking it back into her pocket before she slowly lowers him back onto the pallet. Jack’s head flops to the side, and the dim light of the room catches on a bead of sweat as it traces his forehead.

Furiosa settles next to him with her water and her gruel and tries to decide what to do next. His driving gloves are still on. She undoes the snaps and carefully slides them from his clammy hands, folding them and putting them in the usual jacket pocket. Next she unbuckles his boots and wriggles them off his feet. The only time she’s seen him take these boots off himself was when he was showing her that little cliffside pool, and she left him there, barefoot and vulnerable.

The Mechanic said to keep him cool. She tries to remember what her mother did to take care of her when she was a child. A soothing voice and a cold compress on her brow. She pulls a rag from her pocket and carefully wets it with some of the precious water. As she lays it across his forehead, she tries to ignore the small, panicked voice in the back of her mind — don’t leave me alone in this world again.

Her mother used to tell her stories when she was sick as well — exciting tales of warrior women and adventure and strange beasts she’d never heard of before — but she’s not about to start reciting those now. The crew would think she’s completely cracked. Not that that would be unusual in the Wasteland, but she’d rather have them look at her the same way they see Jack. The brave leader, cool under pressure, someone who always knows what to do. She’ll fix him up and get them all back on the road again.

One by one, she hears the sound of her crew slipping into the low, steady breathing of sleep. Soon the dormitory returns to its usual late-night quiet, broken only by snores and the occasional fart.

She used to hear some of the other mothers singing at night, their clear voices combining in the moonlight. Mary never sang, and her daughter won’t either. But she suddenly feels a deep pang of yearning for how she felt hearing that sound as she drifted off to sleep.

She won’t sleep tonight.

The gruel is congealing. She needs to try to get some of it down his throat — water, too. But he’s tossing and turning, lips moving silently in response to some feverish dream. She dabs the wet cloth at his forehead again, rubbing some of the black grease off in the process. She wrings the dark liquid out of the cloth and carefully tips a little more cold water onto the fabric before replacing it.

Is this helping? Furiosa is infuriated by how useless she feels. It’s a good thing Jack’s eyes are closed right now, because otherwise he’d see her just glaring right at him, willing him to get better. Instead all she can do is sit this vigil and wait.

Suddenly Jack wakes with a startled croak, hand grasping at the air. She finds herself automatically resting a hand on his forehead and another on his shoulder, trying to soothe him. “Shhhh.” He glances around wildly for a moment, as if not sure where he is, but doesn’t pull away from her. “You’re good. You’re good. It’s just me.”

He settles back into the pallet, eyelids closing again. “Fury…” he mumbles.

“Drink this,” she whispers, holding the flask to his lips. He slows his breathing, manages a few weak gulps. She realises that at some point she’d started stroking his hair gently, trying to calm him down. It seems to be working.

Furiosa manages to feed him some of the gruel, following it with more water, although he still seems disoriented. She hopes the eating is a good sign. Again, that inner voice — don’t leave me alone.

“Fury,” he mutters again. That name again — he’s never called her that before. “Tired.”

“I know,” she says simply. “Sleep.”

He sighs and rolls over, resting his head against her folded leg. She freezes for a moment at the unexpected contact, then relaxes. The side of his face is pressed into her calf, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. She tentatively runs another hand through his hair, listening as his breath steadies, warming her skin through the fabric of her trousers. He mumbles something unintelligible.

“Shhh,” she says again. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Jack makes it through the night. Furiosa catches a few minutes of broken sleep here and there, but when the crew starts to stir in the morning, she’s already sitting upright, preparing to give Jack another dose of the Mechanic’s medicine.

The room empties out as the War Boys pack their bedding away and make for the mess hall, but she doesn’t move. Craw lingers next to her, a look of concern on his face. He looks like he wants to say something, but eventually he turns and hurries out of the dormitory. Twenty minutes later, he and Runt show up with two bowls of maggot mash.

Furiosa accepts the bowls gratefully. “Thank you.”

Runt looks down at Jack’s sleeping form, then back up at her. “Er, Furiosa… what should we do? Today, I mean?”

She blinks, setting the bowls down. Her thoughts have been so focused on Jack that she hasn’t thought about who would cover his position while he’s incapacitated. There are other praetorians, of course. Plenty of them would like a crack at driving the Immortan’s prize War Rig.

She remembers what Jack had said, back when she was recovering from the wing mirror injury. That he wouldn’t drop her from the crew just because she was out of action. But she doesn’t doubt that Scrotus and Rictus will have plenty of candidates angling to be Jack’s replacement, and she doesn’t want him to wake up and find the Rig’s wheel in someone else’s hands. And as for what that might mean for her — she can think of a lot of options, none of them good.

Furiosa needs to keep the crew going. They’ve got five days until the next run to the Bullet Farm. So long as Jack is up by then…

She gets to her feet and sets her shoulders back, doing her best to project an aura of confidence. “Business as usual, just like the Praetorian taught us. We get ready for the next run. Runt, I need you to run the lancer training session today. We’re down at least one pursuit vehicle, so you’ll have to go up on the cliffs to practice.” The tall War Boy throws up a V8 salute, looking reassured. She turns to Craw. “Is the second engine fully repaired?”

“All fixed, Prae— uh, Furiosa.”

“Then let’s get a new pursuit vehicle lined up. Talk to the revheads and see what you can get us.” She frowns. “And make sure the crew have fixed up any damage to the side of the tank. The Immortan will want his image looking shiny and chrome.”

Craw nods and throws up a salute of his own. “Copy that.”

She waits for them to leave, but they seem like they’re still waiting for something. “…Anything else?”

“I saw a mate from the salvage crew in the mess hall,” Craw says. “He said they found Keero.”

“Alive?”

“In the infirmary.”

“And Sixer?”

Craw shakes his head. “No sign of him.”

Furiosa glances back at Jack. As she watches, he stirs slightly in his sleep, forehead still dotted with perspiration. She wants to stay here with him, wants to wipe the sweat and greasepaint from his forehead until he opens his eyes again. But much as she wants to stick by his side like glue, she knows it’s not the best thing she can do for either of them right now.

She sighs. “Get one of the Boys to come here and keep an eye on the Praetorian. I’ll finish the mash off, and then I’ll go get Keero’s report.”

Once she’s managed to coax a semi-conscious Jack into swallowing some more water and some of the maggot mash, and choked some of it down herself, Furiosa leaves him under the watchful eye of one of the War Boys — Dez, one of their new recruits — and goes to find Keero.

The room that passes for an infirmary at the Citadel looks pretty similar to her own dormitory — a windowless, low-ceilinged space. But instead of the military tidiness imposed by Jack on their dorm, it’s a chaotic arrangement of pallets. Ailing men are laid at odd angles, crammed in wherever they can fit. The air is fetid with the smell of vomit and rotting flesh. The Organic Mechanic isn’t present, but Furiosa is greeted by his assistant, an ancient-looking man with a stringy braid down his back. As she enters, he’s scooping maggots out of a tin can and carefully arranging them on a blackthumb’s wounded hip, but he looks up at her and shoots her a toothless grin. She nods back, fighting the urge to tug her scarf up over her nose to block out the stench.

Luckily, Keero’s pallet is near the entrance. Furiosa gingerly picks her way through the mess of miserable bodies, then drops into a crouch next to him. Keero cracks open his eyes and blinks at her hazily. “Oh. It’s you.” She nods, and the War Boy reaches up to rub the sleep from his eyes. “I feel like the War Rig fell on me.”

“What happened?” she asks, keeping her voice low.

“Those bastard Snatchers.” He drops his hand with a groan. “Found us in that sandstorm. The Copperhead hit something and blew out the tyres. I pulled over to check and some cowarding filth hit me over the back of the skull. Next thing I know, it’s daytime and some rat-faced salvage boy is slapping me round the face.”

“Did they cut you?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just a big bonk on the head. Left my car too.” He snorts. “Smeg for brains, all of ‘em. The Copperhead’s the best set of wheels the Citadel’s got.”

“And Sixer?”

This time it takes Keero a moment to respond. “Dunno. They must’ve taken him.”

Furiosa sits back. “But not you.”

“I know that, don’t I?” he spits. “I’m here and he’s not.”

Now she recognises the look on his face. Not just pain and exhaustion, but shame. Not only did he let the Snatchers get the jump on him, but then they took his closest friend and left him in the dirt. Keero’s a colossal ass, there’s no getting away from that — but she still can’t help but feel a little bad for him.

And then there’s Sixer — amiable, easy-smiling Sixer, taken who knows where. It was her choice to include him and Keero in their scouting party. She still has his pack of cards in her pocket.

The sound of footsteps makes her turn back to the doorway. The Organic Mechanic raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Your boy’s awake,” he says. “Thought you might want to know.”

Furiosa is on her feet almost immediately. “The Praetorian?”

The Mechanic snorts. “How would I know? You didn’t bring him here.” Seeing her narrowed eyes, he grins. “That raider you brought back. Scrotus is down in the cells with him now. Don’t think he likes the answers he’s getting.”

She’d like some answers of her own.

“Something wrong with Prae Jack?” Keero says. Furiosa turns and looks down at the defeated War Boy. For once, his expression looks genuine. He’s worried.

“Rest up, Keero,” she says. “We still need you on the crew.”

She’ll head back to the dorm and check on Jack as soon as she can. But first, it’s time to see the Snatcher.

Chapter Text

It’s not a long walk from the Citadel’s infirmary to the cells — both are in the central tower, the first a few floors above the second. When Furiosa arrives, she notices the smells of both places are remarkably similar. Foul and rotten. Not a place fit for long-term occupancy.

Another praetorian, Geo, is standing next to the entrance with his arms crossed. He looks her up and down warily. “Prae Jack’s apprentice.” She holds his gaze, a challenge in her eyes. Geo clears his throat. “Heard he had some bad luck out on your trip. How’s he doing?”

“Better,” she says, her words guarded. Geo isn’t the most dangerous of the other praetorians, but she’s seen the way he looks at the War Rig. If he got the chance to get behind the wheel himself, he’d take it.

The praetorian nods and spits on the ground, a glob of phlegm landing next to his boot. “Glad to hear it. You here for the interrogation?”

Furiosa can already hear the sound of Scrotus yelling from inside, followed by the sound of something metal smashing into the wall. She nods, and Geo waves her through.

She’s never been to this part of the Citadel before, despite knowing where it is. No reason to come here if you don’t absolutely have to. Now she steps into a dimly-lit, craggy-ceilinged chamber, ringed with individual cells carved out of the rock. The cells themselves are tiny, too small for a person to lie down in — although the few occupants they have are chained to the walls anyway. In the centre of the room are a few cages that remind her of the ones they keep the bloodbags in, as well as a grim-looking collection of racks and tools. The smell is much worse inside, and her stomach churns. Instinct is telling her to run, but if there’s a chance she can find out anything that would help Jack… she has to try.

The Snatcher — Croaky Voice — is hanging against the wall of his cell by the shackles on his wrists. His trousers have been cut away at the knee to reveal his injured leg, which is now turning a noxious shade of black. Furiosa has seen more than enough death to know his time is limited. Keeping him alive was no mercy — he would have been better off if she’d put a bullet through his skull back in the sandstorm.

Despite this, Croaky Voice is laughing.

It’s not a noise she recognises at first. Something raw and guttural, utterly joyless. His body is shivering with the effort of it, the chains at his wrists clanking, but still he laughs like it’s as necessary as breathing. Like a compulsion.

Scrotus is standing in front of the cell, red-faced, looking even more murderous than usual. He smashes the metal pole he’s holding against the bars of the cell. “Idiot! Answer the question!” He spins around and his eyes lock on Furiosa. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She ducks her head and stares at her feet, deferential. “The Mechanic told me you were interrogating the prisoner, sir.” He didn’t tell her to come and get involved, but Scrotus doesn’t need to know that.

“Blood-sucking fool,” Scrotus growls. “I’ll deal with him later.” He shakes the metal pole at Furiosa. “Get out.”

She bows again, resolving to come back later, but then there’s a new noise from the cell. Half-laugh, half-word. “You.” Both she and Scrotus stare at the Snatcher, who is now staring directly at Furiosa. “You should have come with me.”

Scrotus shoots a suspicious look at Furiosa, then turns back to the prisoner. “Come where? What are you talking about?”

“To the lab,” he wheezes. “She could have made you better.”

“Fool! She’s just a driver!” Scrotus smacks the pole into the wall again.

“Not her.” Croaky Voice turns his baleful gaze onto the Immortan’s son. “Our lady of the scientific theory. The mistress of knowledge, the head of the periodic table. She who will heal the world.”

Scrotus leans forward, face almost pressed against the cell’s bars. “You speak to the son of Immortan Joe himself, worm.”

“The Farmacyst will make us strong again.” Croaky Voice stares back at Furiosa and cackles, his mouth in a half-grin, half-grimace. She notices his teeth are stained black. “It is an honour to be chosen for her trials, and you reject it.”

“Where did you take the War Boys?” Furiosa says. Scrotus shouts at her to shut up, but the Snatcher is already replying.

“They were honoured. At the lab-rat-ery.” Suddenly the Snatcher convulses and wretches. Black bile drips from his mouth and spatters onto the floor. When he looks up, he’s laughing again. “Two days without the rocket fuel. No one lasts a third. Giggles and black, there’s no way back…”

“Hey!” Scrotus prods Creaky Voice with the pole. “Speak sense!” But the man is shaking again, eyes rolling back in his head as more black liquid trickles from the corner of his mouth. Furiosa stares at him, willing him to speak again so she can ask him about the poisoned knife he used on Jack, but her gut is telling her the man won’t be saying anything else.

When Scrotus turns and screams at Furiosa to get out, it takes her less than a second to comply.

Jack stays unconscious for another day and night, and Furiosa spends as much time as possible at his side. She leaves her bedroll next to his and catches a few hours of shallow sleep here and there, but it’s never long before she wakes again, feeling the need to check on him.

She forces herself out of the dormitory regularly to check on the crew and make sure they’re on top of everything. At one point she catches Praetorian Geo sniffing around, a critical eye on Craw as he buffs the damage out of the mural on the side of the tanker. He straightens up when he sees Furiosa watching him.

“How’s Jack today?”

“Recovering.”

“Right.” He reaches up and picks something out of his teeth, wiping his hand on his trousers after. “Rig needs to go to the Bullet Farm day after tomorrow.”

“We’ll be ready. Jack’ll be ready.”

She tenses, realising she’s just said Jack’s name without his title, but Geo doesn’t seem to notice. “Guess we’ll see then.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “That Snatcher’s dead, by the way. Never woke up.”

On the morning of the third day, Furiosa dozes off after the War Boys leave for the mess hall.

When she wakes again, she finds Jack rolled onto his side, watching her. He looks exhausted, his hair disheveled, but there’s more colour in his cheeks again and his eyes are bright. He meets her eyes with a wan smile.

Relief crashes over her like another sandstorm: he’s going to be okay.

Keeping her eyes on his, she silently reaches out and clasps his hand, squeezing. His hand is warm against hers, no longer clammy. She suddenly feels the urge to pull him closer, press her forehead to his — but if anyone else comes into the dorm, they’d definitely notice that. They might notice this anyway. She allows herself a few more moments of his touch, then withdraws her hand and sits up, reaching for her jacket.

Jack’s voice is rough from lack of use. “How long?”

“The sandstorm was three nights ago.” She slips her arms into the jacket and shrugs it onto her shoulders. “Engine broke down. Had to call for backup to get you back here.”

He frowns. “Sixer and Keero?”

“Keero’s in the infirmary. Sixer’s missing. The Snatchers took him.”

Jack groans and rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows. “Shit.” He raises a hand towards her. “Help me up?”

“They poisoned you. You need to rest.”

“I’ve been out for days. I need to get up.”

He’s right, of course, even if she wishes he wasn’t. Geo will be lurking around again today to see if Jack makes an appearance. She gives up and carefully pulls Jack to his feet. He looks a mess — his hair is sticking out at odd angles, and the greasepaint on his forehead is in serious need of a top-up. She passes his jacket to him and he slowly shrugs it on with a grateful expression. “Thanks.”

Worried as she is about him toppling over, it’s a relief to not be facing the Citadel by herself again. “The crew will be glad to see you.”

“I’d better go report to the Immortan,” he says, stuffing his feet into his boots. She notices his fingers check the usual jacket pocket for the driving gloves and find them exactly where she left them.

“Already talked to Scrotus,” she says. “After I got the Mechanic to look at you.”

“You talked to Scrotus?” Jack freezes, a look of concern flashing across his face. “He didn’t… are you…”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly. “Told him what happened, he wasn’t happy, I left. That’s it.”

His shoulders relax and he turns to pack up his bedroll. She does the same.

Before she can leave the room, however, Jack stops her with a hand on her shoulder. “Hey.”

She turns to face him, the eye contact suddenly making her nervous.

“Thank you.” His hand is still on her shoulder. “I don’t remember much about the last few days, but I know you were there.”

She wants to tell him how scared she was by the idea of losing him, how glad she is to have him back on his feet. But all she can do is nod, and that will have to do.

Jack is right about needing to show his face. She tries to convince him to visit the mess hall first, but he insists on going straight to the garage, where they’re immediately intercepted by a War Pup. Scrotus has been looking for them, and from the timid look on the Pup’s face, the Immortan’s son has been on the warpath.

Furiosa watches as Jack makes to follow the Pup, squashing her concerns about how he’ll handle the long walk to Scrotus’s quarters. At least his illness has given his injured knee some time to rest. He pauses for a moment and she steps forward, worried he’s going to faint, but instead he turns back to her and inclines his head. “Come on, you too.”

“Upstairs?” Her mouth goes dry.

“You need to know what’s going on. I’m back on my feet now, but if something else happens to me…”

Scrotus won’t be happy to see her, she thinks. She definitely won’t be happy to see Scrotus. But instead she just nods and follows him to the first bridge between the Citadel’s towers. If nothing else, she can keep an eye on Jack.

Jack makes a dogged attempt at the stairs, although he has to stop for a breather a few times. She keeps herself at his elbow, waiting to catch him if he stumbles, but in the end it’s not necessary. They stop for a final time at the top of the stairs and she watches as Jack composes himself — adjusts the sleeves of his jacket, pulls back his shoulders, sets his face into a mask of calm reliability. She does her best to mimic his preparations, adding an extra layer of deference to her eyes that she hopes will keep her as unobtrusive as possible. “Right,” Jack says under his breath, and then she follows him in.

The Pup leads them to Scrotus’s chambers again, knocking quickly on the side of the archway before making himself scarce. She wishes she could do the same. Scrotus is on his feet this time, pacing back and forth with a knife in his hand. He frowns as Jack enters with Furiosa a step behind him. “Praetorian. Why is the girl here?”

“She saw more of the Snatchers than I did, sir. Thought she might be helpful for answering questions.”

Furiosa keeps her gaze low, feeling the itch of Scrotus’s eyes looking her up and down again. Eventually he snorts dismissively and looks back to Jack. “The Organic Mechanic’s been looking at the corpse of the prisoner you brought back. Says he wants to talk to us about it.”

The two of them step to the side as Scrotus stomps past them, then follow him down the hallway and down another flight of rusted metal stairs. Eventually the passage opens up into a larger stone-hewn chamber. The room is framed with racks of shelving containing a ramshackle collection of jars and plastic containers — medical detritus from the old world. A large metal table sits at the centre of the room, currently bearing the corpse of Croaky Voice, illuminated by a gas lamp attached to a scaffold above. The entire room reeks of offal.

Next to the table, of course, is the Organic Mechanic himself, looking remarkably cheerful in his element. “Aha, there you are! Praetorian Jack, good to see you back on your feet.”

The Mechanic tries to catch Furiosa’s eye, but she stares past him, keeping her expression stony and her back to an array of fermentation tanks. She recognises these from the days when she and the Mechanic travelled with Dementus — he must have replicated them here to continue growing some sort of medicine. Was that in the mixture she’d bought off him?

“Hurry up,” Scrotus says, folding his arms. “This place turns my stomach.”

The Mechanic raises an appeasing hand. “Won’t take much of your time.” He slaps the hand down on the corpse’s shoulder. “Have to congratulate the Praetorian on bringing back this fantastic specimen, though. Great material. You find anything else like this, bring it to me.”

Scrotus snarls. “The Praetorian serves the Immortan Joe, not you.”

“I serve the Immortan as well, of course.” The Mechanic seems used to Scrotus’s temper. “But what we can learn from this body is very interesting.”

“Get on with it then.”

“The scars on his chest look like they’re just decorative. But there are multiple lateral incisions along the scalp, with evidence of intentional fractures to the cranium.” The Mechanic looks up at Scrotus’s glowering, uncomprehending face. “They cut his brain up.”

“So he has battle scars. What’s interesting about that?”

The Mechanic shakes his head. “Not from battle. These were purposeful cuts, made gradually over a period of time. And he survived, at least until you blew his leg up and brought him back here.” He gazes admiringly at the corpse. “Fascinating work. I’d love to meet the person who did this.”

“He talked about someone called the Farmacyst. Maybe you’ll get to meet her before we torture her to death,” Scrotus says. He’s fidgeting with the knife again. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say then!”

“This man wasn’t alone, right?” the Mechanic asks, his attention now on Jack. “There were other… Snatchers, whatever it is they’re called?”

“Three others,” Jack says. “Furiosa and I killed them.”

Now all eyes in the room are on her, aside from the dead man’s. Scrotus snorts. “Weak men, if some little girl can take them down.”

“She saved my life out there,” Jack says. “Not for the first time.”

Furiosa keeps her face impassive, but his words make her nerves jump — although she’s not sure whether that’s pride at hearing him vouch for her again, or fear at Scrotus taking this contradiction as a mortal insult and ordering their deaths on the spot. But either the man seems less homicidal than normal, or he’s distracted by thinking about the Snatcher threat, because he turns his attention back to the Organic Mechanic.

“Well?” he says. “What else did you learn? How do we track them down and kill them?”

“I don’t know about tracking,” the Mechanic shrugs. “But as far as killing goes, bullets are usually good. This one would’ve rotted to death soon, if the withdrawal didn’t get him first.”

Scrotus narrows his eyes. “The what?”

Furiosa has always known the Organic Mechanic to relish having an audience for his work, so it’s not a surprise that he welcomes the excuse to take them on a leisurely tour through the rest of Croaky Voice’s anatomy. The circle-and-line scarification on the man’s chest is difficult to see now that the Mechanic has cut into it, but that also means that they get a good look at the rest of his innards. There are a few yellowish tumours — a common enough affliction in the Wasteland — but the Mechanic is more excited by the state of the corpse’s kidneys.

“Just look at these!” he exclaims, holding a pair of mottled brown organs high above the corpse with his tongs. “The size, the colour. Those nodules on the sides!” He rotates the tongs with his wrist, admiring the kidneys more fully, then lets out an appreciative whistle. “Real beauties, these. Never seen anything like ‘em.”

Jack and Furiosa stare back at the globs of flesh politely. Do they look unusual, or do they just look like guts? She’s spent much of her life avoiding looking too closely at people’s kidneys, so she’ll just have to take the Mechanic’s word for it. Scrotus, meanwhile, is pacing back and forth next to the table. She wonders how long he’ll be able to hold his patience.

“And then there’s the veins,” the Mechanic continues, dropping the kidneys back into the open abdomen with a wet plop. He shoves the tongs back into one of his apron pockets and lifts the corpse’s arm instead, twisting it to show the underside of the forearm. “Clearly damaged. The colour is all off. And the wounds here and here.” He taps the skin of the wrist and the inner elbow. “Repeated damage over a long time, always holes over the veins. Injection sites.”

Scrotus looks unimpressed. “So they’ve got bloodbags. We’ll take those too.”

“It’s more than just blood going in there,” the Mechanic says with a grin. “They’ve been dosing the bastard up with something. Whether that made him stronger or better at fighting, I don’t know, but it’d be a treat to find out. Of course, as soon as you took him away from whatever it was, his insides all went to hell.” He slaps the corpse on the shoulder affectionately. “Great stuff. I’d love to see more of them.”

“If it’s bodies you want, you won’t be waiting long,” Scrotus declares. “I’ll put a bullet in each one of them myself. Cowards can’t even face us without drugging themselves!”

The Mechanic shrugs. “Maybe they’re on to something. If we can find out what they’re using, we could take it for ourselves. Try it out on a few of the War Boys.”

Furiosa sees Jack stiffen next to her. She understands. The half-lives suffer enough as it is — short lives made even shorter by the work they do, filled with plenty of pain along the way. They don’t deserve to be experimented upon.

Luckily for them, Scrotus is in agreement — sort of. “Our warriors are not weaklings!” He smashes a fist on the table next to the body. “We crush these fools. We don’t copy them.”

“Suit yourself, boss.” The Mechanic steps back, his attempt at a deferential bow spoiled by the smirk on his face. “You know best. Just send the bodies my way and I’ll be happy.”

Scrotus turns back to Jack. “No more scouts. We need a full raiding party.”

Jack nods. “I’ll prepare the crew. We can be ready—”

“No,” Scrotus cuts him off. “You’ve failed once already. I told you to do some recon and all you do is get lost, wreck a pursuit vehicle and almost get yourself killed. This time I’ll lead the party myself. Mow these smegs down, take their leader and feed her innards to the crows!” Beyond his shoulder, Furiosa sees the Mechanic wincing at the idea of all those wasted organs. “Bikes, flamers, the most dedicated warriors! We ride out tomorrow, for the glory of the Immortan Joe!”

Jack’s face is a well-practiced mask of non-expression. Furiosa does her best to appear obedient next to him, keeping her eyes on the dead Snatcher instead of the Immortan’s idiot son as he continues his rant. She can feel the anger rising in her at his insulting words towards Jack, but there’s nothing she can do about it now beyond fantasising about grabbing the Mechanic’s tongs and ramming them right through Scrotus’s eye socket.

Finally, Scrotus dismisses them — “Get back to your convoy and prepare to restock at the Bullet Farm. We’ll be taking as much ammunition as we can carry!” — and she and Jack duck out of the gruesome room, leaving Scrotus to enthuse about the glorious battle he’s planning. The Mechanic exchanges a look with her on the way out. She imagines he must be disappointed not to have Furiosa going on the raid, especially given the deal she made with him just a few days ago. Scrotus might not care about whatever secrets the Snatchers are keeping, but she doubts his opinion matters to the Mechanic at all, unless it’s being delivered violently.

“You did well,” Jack says as they tramp back down the stairs. They’re far enough down now to be out of earshot of the higher-ups, but he still keeps his voice low.

“You didn’t have to speak up for me like that,” she says. “With Scrotus.”

He shrugs. “If he can’t recognise a good warrior when he sees one, that’s his problem.”

She feels a flush creeping up the back of her neck. It’s a good thing he’s ahead of her so he can’t see it.

“And it’s true,” Jack continues. “You did save my life out there. Three times, really, if you also count getting me back to the Citadel and getting me through that poison.”

The flush is spreading from her neck to her face now. She changes the subject. “You’ve been on your feet a while. How are you feeling?”

They’ve just reached a small landing on the stairwell, a good place to pause. Jack sighs and leans back against the wall, his eyes closed. “Tired. Very tired.” He cracks an eye open to see her uncertain expression. “But not on death’s door, if that’s what you’re asking. You?”

She considers her words. “Thirsty.”

He raises his eyebrows, not understanding. She continues. “As in, I would really like to drink some water. A lot of fresh water.”

This time she sees the light of recognition in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Right. Me too.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. She knew this stairway was narrow, but she’s suddenly much more conscious of how small the space is that they’re currently occupying. Not private, though — someone could come along and find them at any moment.

She clears her throat. “The crew will be waiting.”

“They will.” Jack pushes off from the wall but doesn’t start down the next flight of stairs yet. “But later we’ll see about getting you that water. Do you remember how to get there?”

Furiosa nods. “I remember.”

“Okay then.” He tackles the first few stairs with renewed energy, and she thinks she catches a hint of a smile on his face before his back is fully turned to her. “Tonight.”

She squeezes the railing of the stairs. “Tonight.”

Chapter Text

The crew are just as excited to see Jack back on his feet as she expected, mobbing him like excited puppies. “I knew you wouldn’t go out like that, Prae Jack!” Runt yells, pumping his fist in the air. “When you die, you’re gonna die historic like the best of us!” It’s a compliment, although not one Furiosa would like to think about right now, with the memory of Jack weak and unresponsive in his bed still so fresh. But she stands back and watches as he manages the exuberant War Boys, settling them down while making sure they know he appreciates the welcome.

They’ve got a day and a half to get the War Rig ready for the next run to the Bullet Farm. They’ve just wrecked two different pursuit vehicles — the Commodore meeting an explosive end in the road battle with the Snatchers, and the engine of the Holden destroyed by the scuffle she and Jack had in the sandstorm — so they need to go speak to the rev-heads and try to arrange another replacement. It won’t be the last she sees of either car, of course, since any components that aren’t completely annihilated will be reworked and reborn in other machines. Everyone in the Citadel knows better than to waste good metal. But that takes time, which is a scarce resource in itself, and until then they’ll have to scrounge up something else to accompany Keero’s Copperhead.

She goes about her regular tasks but constantly keeps an eye on Jack to see how he’s managing. He’s tired, definitely, and looks to be favouring his injured knee, although he puts up a convincing front of strength when Geo makes an appearance. As soon as the other praetorian skulks off, however, Jack immediately slumps into a chair with an exhausted sigh. She hopes he won’t be too drained to keep to their agreement tonight, then feels a pang of guilt for keeping him from his bedroll. Then she remembers how glad he looked when she suggested it, and decides she doesn’t need to feel guilty after all.

In the end, Furiosa is the first one to make it to that little cliffside oasis that night. She finishes picking her way through the crevasse and emerges onto the sheltered ledge, expecting to see Jack right where she left him a few nights ago, but there’s nobody there. For the first time in a long time, she’s completely alone.

She drinks her fill from the trickle on the cliff face, keeping an eye on the entrance, but there’s no sign of Jack yet. Eventually she sits down on a low boulder to wait. The first time she came here, she hadn’t had much time to look at anything besides the water, but now she examines her surroundings in more detail. The ledge is nestled into the cliffs on most sides, stone walls shielding it from both the Wasteland wind and curious eyes below. It must be well-shaded for most of the day too. She gets to her feet and approaches the open edge and peers down cautiously — definitely high enough that nobody’s seeing them from the ground, unless she stands right on the brink and waves her arms about.

She sits back down on the boulder and turns her attention upwards. The cliff walls create a rounded frame for the night sky. It’s a beautiful sight — the familiar constellations seem to sparkle in the cool night air. The stars are with her, here at Jack’s oasis. She rolls her left sleeve up and looks between her tattoo and the sky, matching the stars to their inky counterparts to orient herself. If north is that direction, then that way would be east — that’s the way she’ll head, some day, when she’s ready.

A sudden noise on her left snaps her to her feet, and her hand to the hilt of her revolver. But it’s just Jack, finally appearing out of the shadows with a noticeable limp. She relaxes, lets her hand drop to her side.

“You found it, then,” he says.

She shrugs. “Good sense of direction.”

He grins as he cups his hands under the running water. She watches as he drinks deeply, then splashes the water on his face. She’s momentarily distracted by a stray droplet running down his jaw and falling from his chin — must just be that she’s still not used to having water to spare. He sighs. “I need to sit down.”

She digs her nails into her palm as Jack lowers himself to sit on another boulder. Now that she’s actually here with him, without any real chance of being overheard or overseen, she doesn’t actually know what to talk about. Doesn’t know what she wants, except that she just wanted to be with him. Wants to reassure herself that he’s alright, without having to worry about anyone else seeing her worry.

Last time they were here, the part of her that prioritises self-preservation at all costs won out. But tonight, she just really needs to check something.

“Show me your arm,” she says, stepping forward.

Jack gives her a questioning look, then slowly undoes the front of his jacket and slips his left arm out of the sleeve, letting the leather hang off his shoulder. He holds his arm out to her. Furiosa carefully slides the fabric of his shirt up to his elbow and then slowly unwraps the bandage she’d put over the cut. She cradles his forearm in her hand as she examines the injury, remembering the ominous colour it had been when she and the Mechanic examined him. But it all looks to be healing normally — there’s no visible evidence of the poison that had dragged him into days of darkness. She breathes a sigh of relief.

Now that she knows his wounds are recovering, she starts to realise how warm his arm is against her hands. She rotates his wrist slightly, watches the muscles of his forearm shift under his skin. From there, it’s a short trip for her eyes to run up his outstretched arm and past his shoulder until they reach his face. Does he look more gaunt than usual? Maybe she can try to pressure the kitchen into giving up some extra rations. There are bags under his eyes, although the eyes themselves seem bright as they look into her own.

Also, he doesn’t seem to be breathing, which is a problem.

Furiosa is suddenly very aware of how narrow the distance between their bodies is. A new feeling twists deep in her gut, and she’s not sure she’s breathing either.

She snaps her gaze back to his injured arm. “Looks good,” she says, smothering the hitch in her voice. “I’ll wrap it up again.” She can feel Jack’s eyes on her as she winds the bandage back around his forearm. Maybe tomorrow she’d get some fresh bandages to replace these ones, or at least boil them clean. Maybe it’ll be easier to think when she’s back in the stone halls of the Citadel. This hidden place seems like it should be safe, and yet standing here next to him makes her heart race like she’s about to fight a dozen raiders. Whatever this feeling is, it definitely doesn’t feel safe.

Furiosa tucks the end of the bandage into place and then unfolds Jack’s sleeve. She holds his wrist for half a second longer than she needs to before dropping it. As soon as she does, she realises that her own sleeves have still been rolled up this whole time, giving Jack a great look at her tattoo.

Not safe. Sloppy and foolish. She yanks her own sleeves down hurriedly and turns away, cursing herself internally. Of course this is what happens when she lets herself show any kind of softness: she ends up exposed. If this mistake ends up being the thing that links her back to that night she escaped from being a Wife, or that sends Immortan Joe and his armies on the path to the Green Place…

She braces herself for him to ask her about the stars — why she has them, what they mean. Her brain frantically rattles through cover stories and excuses. But once again, Jack seems to know when he shouldn’t pry. Instead he just shrugs his jacket back on, but leaves it unzipped this time, as if presenting a gap in his own armour.

Just because he hasn’t said anything doesn’t mean he’s not going to tell someone else. She could try to stop him now, before he even gets the chance — tell him he saw nothing, threaten him to stay silent. What currently passes for her freedom is at stake. Her home is at stake. If it was anyone else, she’d consider just shoving them off the cliff.

But it’s not anyone else. It’s Jack, who has had a thousand opportunities to screw her over for his own benefit, and has chosen not to every single time.

Furiosa releases a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. She’s going to have to trust him. No — she’s choosing to trust him.

She turns back to Jack, who is now stretching his knee and wincing slightly. She’s dragged him out here instead of letting him rest, then thought about pushing him off the cliff. Her head is all over the place. “We should go to sleep. You must be tired.”

Jack looks up. “You wanted to come out here so we could go back inside and sleep?”

The flush is creeping up the back of her neck again. She doesn’t know what she wants.

Maybe he can tell, because instead he offers a suggestion. “The pond’s nice to dip your feet in, if they’re sore.”

She remembers sitting on the riverbank with the Green Place’s other children, laughing as they dangled their toes into the water. It did feel nice. Probably still does.

After a moment’s hesitation, she sits next to the pool and undoes the buckles of her boots, sliding them carefully off her feet. Next to go are her heavily-patched socks, which she tucks into the top of the boots. Her feet are grimy and heavily calloused, and the nail on one of the big toes is currently sporting the sort of bruising that makes her question how long the nail will be hanging around for, but she’s sure he’s seen worse. She tentatively lowers one foot into the pool, then the other.

He’s right. It does feel very nice. She savours the feeling of the cold water on her skin, wriggles her toes and watches as the refracted moonlight catches them like a school of minnows. If she looked at nothing but the familiar stars in the sky and blocked out the muffled industrial sounds of the Citadel and the shouts of the Wretched far below, she could almost pretend for a moment that she was back home.

Almost, but not quite.

Instead she looks across the pool to Jack. He grins again. “Good, right?”

She flashes a hint of a smile back in his direction and then bends down to dip her hands in the water too, rubbing them together to loosen the grime. Once her hands are cleaner, she moves on to her feet, slowly working the dirt from the skin and loosening the knots in her muscles. The thought crosses her mind that Jack, so good with his hands when it comes to tending her injuries and picking glass from her hair, would probably also be good at this job too. But that was road war business, keeping each other alive and healthy. Which is all she should really be thinking about.

Jack clambers down from his rocky seat to the other side of the little pool and follows her example, peeling the various layers off his feet before submerging them in the water. She notices that where she left her socks crumpled in the tops of her boots, he straightens them out and folds them neatly together. Precision in all things.

They’re quiet as they soak their feet together, keeping to their own sides of the pond. She focuses on the sensation of the water and gradually feels some of the tension recede from her body. It’s just her and Jack sitting together, just like they do in the mess hall or the Rig. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

They have one more day to get the Rig and its crew fighting fit before their next run, and it’s a busy one, but Furiosa still finds time to ask around the garage until she finds the thing she’s been looking for.

When she appears at Jack’s shoulder and silently presents him with a contraption of buckles, bars and leather straps, it takes him a moment to realise what he’s looking at.

“A knee brace?”

“Got it off one of the blackthumbs,” she says. “Used to belong to Old Hoon.”

They both know Old Hoon won’t be needing it any more, given that the man’s upper half had been completely crushed by a falling chassis in the workshop the previous week. Once someone dies in the Citadel, their belongings are fair game for whoever can get there first, and in this case it was the man’s former apprentice.

Jack eyes the brace critically. “How much did it cost you?”

She shrugs. “A few days’ worth of crickets. You should put it on.”

“Take it out of my rations instead. You need the protein.”

“You’re the one who was barely conscious a few days ago.”

They lock eyes, a silent face-off. A passing War Boy gives them a wide berth. Eventually Jack sighs. “Fine. Half your crickets, half mine.”

Those crickets are staying firmly in his bowl if she has anything to say about it, but she’ll deal with that later. She holds the brace out to him again. “Put it on.”

Jack undoes the buckles and wraps the straps around his injured leg, tugging the hinged metal bars that make up the side supports into place. He buckles the brace back up and gives his knee an experimental flex. The hinge squeaks — Old Hoon was good at maintaining cars, but clearly not much else. Furiosa frowns and reaches for a nearby can of machine lubricant, then crouches next to Jack and carefully applies it to the hinges of the brace, rubbing it into the joint with a rag. “Try it again.”

This time, the brace doesn’t squeak when he moves his knee, but she does notice one of the straps seems slightly loose. She pulls it tight, bracing one hand around the back of his thigh as she does, then runs her hands down his leg to check the rest of the brace. It looks like it fits well, and she steps back, satisfied. “How’s it feel now?”

“Yeah, fine.” Jack’s voice is a little strained, although not in the way it usually sounds from pain. She wonders if she’s done the straps up a little too tight. “Thanks.”

Furiosa nods shortly, not knowing what else to say. Before she has time to dwell on it, there’s a round of cheers from the War Boys. The noise makes both her and Jack flinch as if they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t, but the crew’s eyes are turned towards someone else.

“I’m back, maggots!” Keero strides towards the Rig with his arms raised. “Can’t get rid of me that easy!”

The rest of the Boys greet him whoops and with slaps on the back, but he makes his way past them to reach Furiosa and Jack. When he reaches them, he throws up a V8 salute. “Prae Jack. Furiosa.”

Jack nods. “Good to have you back, Keero.”

“We heading back out there to get those filthing Snatchers?” Keero looks between Jack and Furiosa, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Scrotus and Praetorian Aldred took a war party out this morning,” Furiosa says, and watches his face fall.

“Oh.” Keero shrugs, but she can tell he’s bothered. “Well, I hope they kill them dead. Do you think Sixer…?”

Jack exchanges a look with Furiosa. She’s told him what Croaky Voice said before he died. Neither of them have high hopes for Sixer. If the Snatchers wanted him for a human test subject, Sixer being dead might actually be a better option. She thinks about the missing War Boy’s cheerful smile, the time he and Keero competed to see who could throw a rotten potato across the garage. Now here she is wishing him a quick death.

“Knowing Sixer, he probably went out fighting,” Jack says. “Did the Immortan proud.”

“You think?” Keero glances at Furiosa, uncertain.

Nothing to do but repeat the lie. “I’m sure the heroes of Valhalla welcomed him with open arms,” she says.

“Yeah, they would. He’s always been a shine one.” Keero sounds a bit more convinced now. “Right. I’d better go fix up the Copperhead.”

The War Boy leaves, now with a greater spring in his step. Furiosa watches Jack as he turns back to the Rig. He’s got his stoic praetorian face on again, but she knows him well enough now to recognise the unhappiness in his eyes. It might be from thinking about Sixer’s likely fate, or from having to spout Immortan Joe’s bullshit to his crew, but she suspects it’s probably both.

Furiosa doesn’t meet Jack at the hidden spot on the cliffs that night — both of them need their sleep to be ready for the Bullet Farm run. If there’s a chance of them facing another Snatcher ambush, she wants both of them to be as well-rested as possible. They end up working late anyway, taking a short break only to collect their dinner.

There is, inevitably, another face-off in the mess hall over the cricket rations. As soon as she scrapes hers out of the metal bowl and into a pouch to fulfil her half of the trade deal, Jack leans over and tips his own crickets back onto her plate. Furiosa gives him a look and pushes the bowl back across the table towards him. Jack leans back, arms folded, jaw stubborn, refusing to take it. They stare each other down as if daring the other person to blink, neither one wanting to be the first to break. It’s only when the rest of the crew starts to eye the uneaten rations with interest that they reach a silent agreement to just split it down the middle, wary of drawing any more attention to themselves.

She quietly hands the pouch of crickets over to Old Hoon’s former apprentice before getting back to work. She still owes the man another four days of protein — tomorrow she’ll make sure Jack eats his whole share.

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. The deep weariness in her bones is offset by an anxious energy at the idea of another fight. Normally the thought of going on a run doesn’t scare her, but if Jack is still recovering then he might be vulnerable. She’ll have to take extra care to watch his back tomorrow.

Furiosa rolls over on her bedroll, restless. Jack’s feet are inches away from her, still encased in his boots and blanket. She’d ended up sleeping face-to-face with him while he was sick, the better to keep an eye on him, but tonight she’s reverted back to their old top-to-tail formation. Their bedrolls have inched closer and closer over time, slowly closing the distance between each other night by night.

He seems to be asleep, at least — she can hear his breathing, deep and steady. The sound is soothing. At least he’ll get some rest, even if she doesn’t. She tries to slow her own breath down to match his, as if they could be as in sync while sleeping as they are out on the road.

If the last week had gone differently, she’d be lying next to an empty pallet right now. Jack’s few possessions would be raided the same way Old Hoon’s were — she’d have to see his boots on someone else’s feet, his blanket on someone else’s bed. They’d take his jacket and his driving gloves and they’d cease to be a part of him, and she would truly be alone again.

She feels a fierce spike of anguish at the idea and bites the inside of her lip to stifle the feeling. There’s no use dwelling on what didn’t happen. Jack is here and he’s healing. She’s not alone, and she has his warm body next to hers to prove it.

Warm hands, too. She thinks about how warm they felt when he squeezed her hand after waking up from his illness. When his palm lay open under hers as she checked his injured arm, with him trusting her to be gentle. The feel of his muscled thigh pressed against her fingers when she adjusted the leg brace.

The way he grabbed her leg to keep her in the War Rig’s cab the first day they fought side by side, and every push, pull and shove they’ve given each other in combat ever since. Every time they touch each other, it’s to ward off death.

That might explain why his touch makes her feel so alive. Doesn’t explain why she finds herself wanting more of it.

There is, of course, something that would explain that. Something that would also answer why she went through such lengths to look after him when he was sick. A few months ago, she would have considered leaving him after the sandstorm — abandoning the ute, trekking out to Keero’s car and just fanging it east. She probably would have decided against it due to not having enough food and fuel, but the idea would at least have occurred to her. Instead, her first thought was that she’d do anything to save him.

She could have thought of home, but she thought of him.

Surviving in the Wasteland has given Furiosa years of experience suppressing bodily cravings. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion — none of them have kept her mind from its purpose. This new thing should be no different.

Still, when she does finally fall asleep, it’s to the memory of Jack sitting across from her at the oasis, smiling.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the War Rig’s cab is tense the following morning. The new War Boys are whooping with excitement as the drive gets underway, giddy to be riding to war with the famous Praetorian Jack. But Jack’s jaw is rigid as he scans the horizon for any sign of the Snatchers, and in the passenger seat, Furiosa keeps a close grip on the shotgun across her lap.

But they make it to the Bullet Farm without spotting even a single scout, and the return journey to the Citadel is just as quiet too.

Just after they finish unloading their cargo of munitions, the war party returns. Furiosa keeps her head down, looking busy with the Rig’s radiator, but keeping an eye on the proceedings as Scrotus’s driver manoeuvres the mighty Land Mover into the garage. The Immortan’s son is clearly in a foul mood as he scrambles down from the top of the vehicle and storms across the floor. War Boys and blackthumbs alike scurry out of his way, ducking projectiles and insults alike.

When the rest of the war party files into the garage after Scrotus, all the vehicles intact and their crews looking bored and sheepish, the result of the raid is clear: they haven’t found anyone.

Praetorian Aldred confirms the story to Jack in the mess hall that evening. The war party made it to the hills where they’d had their sandstorm battle with the Snatchers, but found no trace of them — no tyre tracks, no footprints, no evidence of any camp. Scrotus insisted on driving around the area in increasingly broad circles all through the night, only giving in when Aldred — very hesitantly — reminded him that if they didn’t return soon, they’d all run out of guzzoline and be stranded in the Wasteland.

As Furiosa scrapes the last dregs of mash from her bowl, Keero slips onto the bench next to her. “They find ‘em?”

She lowers her bowl to the table and shakes her head. “No sign of them,” Jack says. “Vanished into thin air.”

Keero frowns. “They’ll be back. We’ll get them then.”

But the Snatchers don’t come back.

They’re still on edge during the next few runs to Gastown and the Bullet Farm, but once several weeks have gone by with no sign of the Snatchers, Furiosa allows herself to feel relieved. She and Jack have faced down the invaders twice, and won both times, even if it hurt. Maybe they’ve decided that was enough for them to look for easier pickings elsewhere in the Wasteland. Their contacts at the other fortresses don’t report any sightings either, and as trade resumes uninterrupted, the tensions between the Immortan and Dementus seem to settle too.

The War Rig crew settles back into their usual routine. The new crew members prove to be quick studies, and before long they’re running through maintenance tasks and weapons drills with the precision of old hands. Jack’s knee heals well, and he trades the leg brace to another praetorian for a leather pauldron, which he gives to Furiosa. She fastens it to her left shoulder before they leave for a run, noticing how it serves as the mirror to the one Jack wears himself.

For now, at least, the Wasteland seems to be experiencing something that could just about be called peace.

Furiosa, however, is not experiencing peace.

Not that she’s felt anything close to the concept since she was taken from her home, anyway — but now there’s something new gnawing at her, disrupting even the few quiet moments she gets in the Citadel. Especially the quiet moments.

She and Jack continue to meet regularly at their hidden spot in the hydroponic gardens. They soon develop a routine, quietly soaking their feet together, and she tells herself to be content with that, not to push it any further.

But then one night it’s especially warm and Jack shrugs his jacket off along with his boots. Last time she saw him without it, he was unconscious, looking weak and vulnerable. This time is different. As he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and dips his hands into the pool to splash more water on himself, she can’t help but notice the way it runs down the muscles of his forearms. Or how the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he slowly rolls them back, shaking out the stress of the day.

She keeps her jacket on, even though the heat suddenly seems to be getting to her. She’ll just have to sweat it out.

As they keep meeting, he seems to peel off the rest of his armour layer by layer in the same way as his jacket. Jack becomes more and more talkative. Sometimes he keeps it light — opinions about the vehicles, or observations about the War Boys. He tells her about the time he caught two of his old crew trying to make moonshine with their potato rations and how he decided to leave them to it instead of punishing them, although he knew from his own experience how grim the result would probably taste. When he gets to the moment the Boys actually tasted the alcohol for themselves and describes the looks on their faces, she can’t help but crack a smile.

Sometimes he reveals something deeper. One night she learns that his favourite food is strawberries, which he occasionally pinches from the hydroponic gardens, because his father used to love them and shared them with his son at every chance he got.

“That must have been dangerous for him,” she says. “Stealing from hydroponics. I would have worried about him being caught.” She worries about Jack getting caught, of course, but she won’t say it.

“He didn’t have to steal them,” Jack says. “The Immortan included them in the rations sometimes, back in those days.”

She raises her eyebrows. It’s hard to imagine the Immortan giving away much of anything now. He gives them enough food to be useful to him — nothing more.

“It was different then,” Jack continues. “When he first took the Citadel. He had to earn his men’s loyalty.”

Furiosa keeps her face blank, but allows her voice to carry a hint of sarcasm. “Isn’t everyone here loyal to the Immortan?”

Jack gives her a wry look. “He’s built himself a cult now. That’s a different kind of loyalty. My parents saw him as a leader, but they never saw him as a god.”

If anyone overheard him talking about Immortan Joe in this way, he’d be thrown off the cliffs immediately. She knows he wouldn’t speak these thoughts to anyone else but her. Another way of showing that he trusts her with his life.

She offers her own blasphemy in exchange for his. “The Immortan giving out free strawberries sounds about as likely as him sending either of us to Valhalla.”

“Valhalla.” He repeats the word with a snort. “Every time I send those boys to their deaths, I wish I believed it too. At least that would be better than knowing I’m just watching them die to keep the Immortan in power. Or to keep me alive behind the wheel.”

His shoulders slump and she thinks about what a lonely life this is, serving a megalomaniacal leader, everyone around you either doomed or brainwashed or both. A loneliness she shares.

“When my parents died, he said there’d always be a place for me here. I was so relieved.” Jack lowers his head, resting his forehead against his palm. “I didn’t think about what it’d be like. I was just happy to save my own skin.”

“Jack.” Her resolve to keep her distance breaks and she reaches for his other hand. “We do what it takes to survive.”

He looks down at his hand as she squeezes it, then raises his eyes to meet hers. She holds his gaze.

“You’re nothing like Immortan Joe, or Dementus, or any of the monsters I’ve met. Nothing.”

She wants to tell him that he’s the most human man in the Wasteland. That she understands his fears, but that she sees him trying to do the right thing. Or at least what passes for the right thing out here. If they both lived in the Green Place, they’d have the chance to be better people, not the mere tools of a man who treats everyone under him as if they’re more expendable than bullets or guzzoline.

There is a part of her that wonders if he’s right — that this place has turned them both into monsters. She knows well enough the cruelty that happens on every level of this Citadel, from the Wives at the pinnacle to the Wretched far below, and every day she works to keep the entire system running. Because she knows that any attempt to burn the whole place down would get her killed, and then she’d never go home again. No Valhalla for her.

Is there still a place for her in the Green Place, after everything she’s done? Her mother told her to do whatever it takes, but she doesn’t know if she meant all of this.

Now, as she hears Jack express her own fears, she wonders if his own mother ever told him something similar. There’s only room for survival out here. No space for self-pity, and no space for anything else either.

Then she sees Jack offer her a crooked smile despite the sadness still in his eyes, and something in her heart cracks.

There should be more to their lives than this. Just like him, she wishes they could all believe in something better.

With the road being so quiet, Furiosa and Jack manage to go a full six weeks without either of them getting injured. That streak ends when Runt accidentally kicks his own toolbox off the top of the War Rig again and a falling screwdriver nicks the side of Jack’s neck.

Furiosa is alerted first by the sound of metal clattering on the floor, then by the communal shout of “tak-see!” that comes up from the War Boys — a word none of them really know the origin of, but is still the traditional shout when someone drops something — but it’s the glimpse of red on his neck that makes her rush over. “Let me look at that.”

Jack presses his palm against the wound, wincing slightly. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Shit, Prae Jack, I’m sorry!” Runt comes scrambling down from the tanker, dropping to the floor as he gathers the fallen tools.

“You’re alright, Runt,” Jack says. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding. I’m cleaning it out.” Furiosa jerks her head towards the workshop where he first stitched her up. “Come on.”

Jack follows her to the workshop obediently and waits as Furiosa grabs the medkit from its hiding place. She turns and nods at the workbench. “Sit.” He obliges, an amused look on his face, and she pulls his hand away from his neck to examine the wound.

It is actually just a scratch. She’s pretty sure it’s already stopped bleeding.

“What do you think?” Jack deadpans. “Is it fatal?”

Furiosa presses her lips in a thin line and pulls a clean cloth from the medkit, splashing it with her waterskin. “I’m still cleaning it.”

“I’ll try not to pass out,” he says, then winces again as she presses the damp cloth to his neck. “Ow!”

“Hold still,” she mutters.

“It’s just difficult,” he says. “With the pain and all.”

Furiosa pulls back and frowns at him, crossing her arms. He’s teasing her. She’s seen this side of him more and more since they started spending time together up on the cliffs — relaxed, a little less serious. He’s different when it’s just the two of them.

“Fury, I’m fine.” Jack gently takes the damp cloth out of her hand. “It’s a graze from a screwdriver, not a poisoned knife.”

She reddens slightly, both from the recognition that she’s fussing over him and from the nickname. Last time he called her that, he was half-conscious and feverish. Hearing it again now, with a smile on his lips… it brings up a lot of those feelings she’s been trying hard not to feel.

The knock at the door makes them both jump. Furiosa takes a quick step back to broaden the distance between them just before Keero appears in the doorway. “Prae Jack, can I talk to you?”

Jack gets to his feet, all business again. “What is it, Keero?”

The War Boy shuffles his weight from one foot to another, uncertain. Eventually he sighs and answers. “I want to transfer to another crew. The scouts.”

“You do?” The surprise is evident in Jack’s voice, and Furiosa can see why. Being in Jack’s crew is a coveted position among the War Boys. If you die, you die defending the Immortan’s prize War Rig, bringing gas and guns and glory to the Citadel. Praetorian Aldred’s scout crew is a much grubbier gig in comparison — you might die fighting scavengers, but you could just as easily die in a rockslide or simply vanish into the unknown. It’s definitely a demotion, and they all know it.

“It’s just… I can’t stop thinking about them. The Snatchers. The way they took Sixer.” Keero picks nervously at his nails, and Furiosa is suddenly struck by how young he looks. “If they’re still out there, I’d rather be looking for them.”

“You’re certain?” Jack says. “I’d like to keep you on my crew, but I won’t stop you going if that’s what you want.”

Keero hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes.”

“I’ll speak to Praetorian Aldred then. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you and the Copperhead.”

“Thank you, Prae Jack.” Keero smiles and throws up his hands in a V8 salute, backing out of the room. “Real shine of you.”

Furiosa clears her throat. “Keero, wait.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out Sixer’s deck of cards. She tosses it across the room and the War Boy cups his hands to catch it. When he opens his palms to examine the gift, his eyes light up in recognition, and he grins back at Furiosa.

“I’ll give them back to him when I see him again,” he says. “In Valhalla.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

After Keero leaves, Furiosa turns to look at Jack’s face. He’s still staring at the door, all earlier goofiness gone. “You didn’t have to let him go,” she says.

Jack sighs. “I figure they all deserve some freedom. Even if…” He lets the sentence trail off into nothingness.

“You’re not a monster,” she says evenly. “Remember?”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “We’ll need another pursuit driver now.”

Furiosa stuffs the medkit back into storage and starts for the door. “I’ll ask around. See who’s available.”

“Fury?” Jack’s voice stops her in the doorway. “See you tonight?”

The next day, she’s busy cleaning one of the rifles they keep strapped to the Rig’s cab when one of the War Pups finds her.

“The Organic Mechanic wants to see you.”

Furiosa stifles a frown, then nods to the Pup in confirmation. As she turns back to reassemble the gun, she can’t help but grind her teeth a little bit. It’s been a while now since they made their deal, and the Mechanic hasn’t called up her end of the bargain yet, but she knew it was too much to hope that he might let it slide. She doesn’t regret the decision, not for a second — if it kept Jack alive, it was worth it — but that doesn’t stop her from dreading the potential consequences.

She makes the journey to the Citadel’s higher levels as quietly as she can. It’s late in the evening and she’s not sure what to expect up there — Scrotus in his usual rage, the People Eater with his beady eyes and fidgeting hands. Rictus, whose presence still makes her want to slip into the nearest shadow. Maybe even the Immortan himself. So it’s a relief when she makes it to her destination without crossing paths with anyone but War Boys and praetorians. Whatever the Immortan’s top people are up to right now, it seems to have them occupied elsewhere.

The Mechanic is in his lab. There’s another body stretched out on the table this time, scrawny, stained and missing a head. Judging by the state of them, she’d guess it’s one of the Wretched. The Mechanic has his hands deep in the corpse’s guts, and as she watches, he carefully pulls a yellowish-pink organ out of the muck and snips it loose.

She’s managed to keep her approach so stealthy that he doesn’t notice her in the doorway, and she has to clear her throat to get his attention. The way he jumps and almost fumbles the glob of flesh in his hands gives her some small measure of satisfaction.

“There you are,” he says, covering his surprise with another of his creepy grins. “Just finishing something up here, and then I’ve got some work for you.” He waves the severed organ at her teasingly. “Lovely little pancreas, eh?”

She narrows her eyes and waits as he drops the organ onto a metal tray and minces it with a nasty-looking knife, then scrapes the mince into another container and mixes in a dusting of white powder. He’s clearly taking his time on purpose — maybe some way to reassert himself after she startled him. Eventually the Mechanic wipes his hands on his apron, then rubs them together.

“You’re off to Gastown tomorrow, right?”

Furiosa nods slowly. They’re leaving early in the morning. It’s part of the reason she was still in the garage. Cleaning the weapons always makes her feel a little bit better, because every time she goes to Gastown, she’s wondering if this is the trip she’ll have to use them.

“I need you to get me something. Got a contact there who has some supplies for me. I want you to collect them.”

She folds her arms. “Why not request it with the rest of the supplies?”

“Can’t do that,” the Mechanic says. “Not for the person I’m dealing with. I need this off the books.”

“The Immortan doesn’t approve, then.”

“The Immortan has the fate of the Citadel in his hands.” The Mechanic raises his own hands obsequiously. “He doesn’t need to concern himself with my silly private projects.”

So he’s definitely up to something. Interesting. It’s doubtful he’ll want to tell her anything, but if she can get some dirt on him, it’ll make dealing with him easier in the future.

“Fine,” she says. “Who’s your contact?”

The Mechanic grins. “Nasty bastard, one of Dementus’s own riders. Wears a red kilt. Calls himself Big Jilly.”

Chapter Text

When the War Rig leaves the Citadel the next morning, Furiosa has yet to get a minute of sleep.

She’s spent every trip to Gastown carefully avoiding anyone who knew her as a child, especially Dementus and his lieutenants. She’s seen them plenty of times — it’s often one of them who greets the Rig crew and manages the trading — but she does her best to keep busy and be as unremarkable as possible. She’ll duck back into the cab when they come around like she’s suddenly noticed some critical maintenance job, or join the crew in whatever task they’re currently working on, especially the ones most likely to let her keep her face in shadow. Just another nameless worker, even if she does stand out from the rest of the War Boys.

Jack understands, of course, since she’s told him what Dementus did to her mother. Lately he’s been nudging her to handle a little more of the business dealings when they go to the Bullet Farm, but here, he’s happy for her to keep her head down.

So if she’s tense today, it shouldn’t be anything new to him. Nothing worth commenting on. But when he glances at her from behind the wheel, it’s clear that he’s clocked something is going on with her, despite her best efforts. She wonders if she should be concerned about how good he’s getting at reading her now.

“Hey,” Jack says. “You good?”

Furiosa shrugs minutely, tries to throw him off the scent. “Didn’t sleep well.”

He gives her an understanding nod. “Should be a quick trip today. In and out.”

She nods back, keeping her eyes on the road. Hopefully he’s right.

When they pull into Gastown after an uneventful drive, she’s hoping that it’ll be Big Jilly who greets them. Instead the Rig is welcomed by the smaller, white-haired figure of Mr Davidson.

Furiosa fights back her nerves by telling herself it could be worse. Someone like Fang or Mr Norton would be more dangerous — she remembers both of them as snarling and suspicious, not likely to let her slip away from the Rig unnoticed. Mr Davidson, by contrast, seems a lot less likely to care. He wasn’t particularly interested in her as a child, but he’d never made any effort to be especially cruel either. Judging by the bored expression on his face today, he likely just wants to get the job done and go back to his card game and a flask of moonshine. Maybe a little quality time with Mr Harley.

The fact remains that she’s going to have to seek Big Jilly out for herself. Which means stepping away from the relative security of the Rig and into the chaos of Gastown. She gazes out the window as Jack steers the Rig into position and throws it into park. As usual, the place looks even worse than it did the previous time. One of the storage hangers has burned down during the last week, and there’s still a charred corpse lying on the ground in front of it. Next to the corpse, a biker is relieving himself against the rubble. Furiosa grimaces. People die inside the Citadel every day too, but they don’t just leave their dead lying around to rot like that.

Jack gives her a brief nod, then hops out of the cab to speak to Mr Davidson. She opens her own door and climbs around the side of the Rig before scaling the ladder to the roof of the tanker, where many of her crew are already scrambling to begin the process of unloading their goods. She joins in with the work, but uses the height of her position to scan the area. As usual, the sights, smells and sounds of Gastown are an assault on the senses. Much of the fortress is a labyrinth of pumps and ducts, but the area they always do their loading and unloading in is relatively open. Good for spotting people, but not so good for sneaking off to meet them.

She grabs a winch and hooks it onto a crate of onions as she tries to decide what to do. Wandering aimlessly into the backstreets of Gastown would be a death sentence, especially without the protection of Jack, the crew and the Immortan’s name. But she doesn’t know what the Mechanic will do if she returns empty-handed.

Furiosa glances over the side of the tanker to see Jack, still in conversation with Mr Davidson. She’d feel a lot safer in this place with him at her back. Maybe she should have told him what was going on. But then she remembers his reaction to the deal she made for the leg brace and how he refused to let her give up the rations. She doesn’t need to drag him into this as well.

Then her eye catches on a flash of red at the edge of the tarmac, and she releases a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. There he is, still wearing the same long, scrappy kilt she remembers him with — Big Jilly, leaning against some sort of storage tank and picking his nails with a jagged knife. A passing biker makes some unheard comment to him and he cackles. He made that same rough laugh after the horde seized the fortress, when his gang rounded up the original lieutenants of Gastown and slit them open.

It makes sense that he’d be the Organic Mechanic’s contact. She doesn’t recall them being especially matey back in the day, but they must have found some way to keep in touch. And while he’s putting up the appearance of being casual, he does seem to be eyeing up the Rig’s crew with interest.

She watches him back, willing him to come closer so she can get this deal over with, but he stays put.

The rest of the crew seem oblivious to her nerves. She glances back towards Jack, on the opposite side of the tanker. He’s still occupied with Mr Davidson, who is now eating a handful of berries one by one with obvious pleasure. If she’s going to do this without drawing too much attention, she needs to do it now, while everyone else is occupied.

Moving steadily and purposefully, Furiosa walks back down the tanker, descends the ladder and jumps to the ground. She keeps her head high as she crosses the distance to Big Jilly. The massive biker has noticed her now, shifting from his relaxed lean into a more imposing stance. As she reaches him, his face breaks into a confident leer.

“Well then,” he says, “what’s this? Praetorian Jack’s girl, here to see me. Got sick of all your War Boys and come to meet a real man?”

She keeps her own face expressionless. “The Organic Mechanic sent me.”

“Did he now?” Big Jilly swaggers forward, looming over her. “Then I owe him a favour. What’s your name?”

Furiosa has put up with too much shit like this before for it to draw any reaction from her now. “The Mechanic said you’ve got something for him. I’m collecting it.”

Big Jilly snorts. “Right. So you are.” He turns and crouches next to the storage tank, rummaging under the curve of the metal before pulling out a stained sack the size of the Rig’s wheel. “This should be what he was after, although fuck knows why.”

She reaches for the sack. Big Jilly reaches for her. Furiosa’s knife is tickling the underside of his chin before he can even touch her.

They both freeze for a moment before Jilly hands her the sack and backs off, grinning. Furiosa bundles the sack under her arm and backs away, not returning the smile. She doesn’t turn her back or return the knife to its sheath until she’s a good ten metres away from him.

“Pleasure doing business,” he calls after her. “And tell O.M. I’ve been missing that jerky he makes!”

Furiosa’s lip curls into a snarl as she stalks back to the Rig, intent on stashing the bag and getting back to her duties before anyone else sees her. But when she looks up, she realises she’s already too late. Jack is standing on the running board of the Rig, gripping the handle next to the door, an unreadable expression on his face.

She feels her neck flush but says nothing as she reaches him, climbing onto the running board herself and quickly slinging the bag through the window. It lands on the floor of the cab with a clunk, safely out of sight.

Furiosa looks up to see Jack inches away from her, his eyes burning into hers. Even through the reek of Gastown, her nose catches a hint of sweat and leather. She can think of a hundred questions he might ask, but he only goes with one: “Are you alright?”

She nods silently. He looks relieved, but he also looks annoyed.

“Right,” he says. “In that case, you’re talking. Tonight.”

The drive back to the Citadel is very quiet — there are no raiders, but there’s also no conversation between the two of them. Furiosa kicks the sack under her seat as she gets into the cab, then stares out the window for the rest of the trip, keeping her eyes off Jack. Jack, for his part, keeps his gaze on the horizon, although she catches him drumming his fingers on the wheel occasionally. Normally he does this when they’ve been warned about a possible ambush, but she suspects it’s something else on his mind this time.

Once they’re home, she ignores the sack until they’ve finished unloading the guzzoline and most of the crew have cleared out to the mess hall. Then she opens the door of the Rig, grabs the package from its hiding place and tucks it back under her arm, still trying to look casual. Jack is standing back, watching her again with a concerned expression. When he realises she’s heading towards the stairs to the upper levels, he takes a step forward, then restrains himself.

She turns back and looks him in the eye for the first time in hours. “I’ll explain. Later.”

He nods, and she leaves him in the garage with the Rig.

Thankfully it’s a clear shot to the Organic Mechanic’s lab again. The man himself is sitting in the corner, examining something in one of his glass jars. There’s no corpse on the table this time, so she slaps the bag down on the metal surface with a thunk before offering him a wordless stare.

“Ah!” The Mechanic approaches, rubbing his hands together with glee. He unties the sack and peers inside, grinning. “Very nice. Jilly have anything else to say?”

Furiosa shakes her head. If these pricks want to talk about jerky, they can do it in person. “Are we done here?”

The Mechanic doesn’t look up, still preoccupied by the contents of the bag. “Yeah, we’re done. This’ll do nicely. Very nicely indeed.” He lifts his head. “Although really I could also do with—”

But she’s already out the door.

When she slips between the rocks and reaches the oasis, Jack is already waiting. No soak in the pool this time though — he’s kept his jacket and boots on, and from the way he freezes when he sees her arrive, she gets the feeling he’s been pacing.

Normally she’s the quiet one out of the two of them, but now it’s Jack who holds his tongue. He just stands there, arms folded, waiting for an explanation. She doesn’t have to give him one, of course. Could just tell him it was private business, nothing he needed to concern himself with. But if she was trying to save him the worry, she’s already failed. May as well be honest about it.

“I was doing a favour,” she says halfheartedly. “For the Organic Mechanic. He wanted me to get something from Big Jilly.”

“Does the Immortan know?” Jack says. She looks away and he sighs. “Fury, I wish you’d told me. If anyone found out…”

“It would be bad. I know.”

“If it’s because you want to leave…” Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dementus’s crew have got bikes, sure, and the Mechanic… well, he’s got a lot of things, but he’ll sell you out to the Immortan or cut you up himself as soon as it suits him.”

“Jack, I don’t even want to breathe the same air as any of them. I wouldn’t talk to them unless I had to.”

“I know we haven’t talked about that for a while, but I promised I’d help you when you were ready, and if—”

“I did it for you!” she blurts. Jack stares at her. “Medicine, Jack. When you were really sick. You needed medicine, so I made a deal with the Mechanic, and this was the price. I did it for you.”

He sighs again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Save your life?” She steps towards him, staring incredulously. “Yes, I had to do that.”

“Not if it means putting yourself in danger.”

“We do that out on the road every day.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not. We’re a team.”

“If we’re a team, then why not tell me about this deal?”

She crosses her arms. “Because I could handle it myself.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Oh, so that’s different.”

“I got by for years on my own.”

“You also got stranded in the Wasteland with nothing.”

She glares at him and takes another step forward. “Only because you didn’t pull over when I asked you to.”

“And then I’d be stranded instead, probably dead within a few days, and you’d be… what? Driving the Rig by yourself, looking for some place that probably doesn’t even exist?”

Of all the things he’s said, this is the blow that lands. Furiosa freezes in place. Maybe there is some truth in the idea that he’s been hesitating to send her on her way. Maybe he thinks doing that would be nothing more than dooming her to a lonely death in the far reaches of the Wasteland.

Does he really believe she’d do that? Take up with people she hates, throw away the only real security she’s had out here, leave him — all in search of a mere myth?

“The other day, when Keero left to join the scouts… it felt like I was sending him to his death out there, chasing after a mirage,” Jack continues. “I won’t stop you, but—”

“It’s real, Jack,” she says, her voice quieter. “The place I’m going. It’s real.”

He just looks exhausted now. “If there was somewhere better than this, the Immortan would have taken it. Or Dementus, or some other warlord. Taken the people and resources for all they’re worth and run everything good into the ground, just like this place.”

“They haven’t,” she says. “I would have heard. Things are different there. Better. No warlords, only the mothers.”

“Fury,” Jack says again, and she wishes he wouldn’t call her that, make her heart jump when she’s already struggling to keep a lid on the boil of feelings inside her right now. “I wish there was somewhere like that too, but—”

“I’ve been there,” she says. “I was born there. Jack, it’s real.”

Jack just looks at her, and she can see the struggle written in his eyes. The pain of wanting to believe in something that you know to be impossible.

Furiosa knows she’s already crossed a line by telling him anything about the Green Place. He’s smart enough to connect her words with the tattoo on her arm. He could drag her in front of the Immortan tonight and reveal her secret, take the glory of leading the raid for himself. But she also knows he’d never do that.

And she also knows that right now, she needs him to trust her. Needs him to know that she wouldn’t just throw away the life he’s offering her here for nothing. That she’d never abandon him for anything less than home.

“Jack,” she repeats. They’ve been steadily moving closer while they’ve been speaking, and now he’s only a few feet away from her. Impulsively, she reaches for him and finds his forearm, resting her fingers on it. “You have to believe me.”

Jack is still just looking at her, those sad eyes such a small distance from her own, and she’s not sure if she’s imagining things, but it’s like she can feel the warmth of him through the leather sleeve of his jacket. Some sort of electrical current, like she’s hooked up to a car battery, the energy building to a spark. Her heart is in her mouth.

“I swear to you, it’s real,” she says again. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t…”

The rest of the sentence hangs in the air, unspoken.

I wouldn’t leave you.

He’s so close. All she’d need to do is lean forward just a little more.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I believe you.”

And by now she can read him well enough, can trust him enough, to know that he’s telling the truth. And somehow, right now, that belief means the world to her.

Furiosa releases a long-held breath. Hopes this means he knows that she wouldn’t be leaving otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’ll be leaving. Not tonight, not tomorrow, but some day she’ll be gone, and their partnership will be over.

And despite the hunger she feels to close that gap between them, she knows there’s no point planting seeds you’re not going to be around to harvest.

Furiosa pulls her hand back from Jack’s arm, breaking the invisible current. Tries to draw her head back and recompose herself. But she still looks him in the eye.

“Thank you.” She lifts her chin high in a display of mock-offence. “And I’m not Keero.”

Jack snorts. “I believe that too. You’ve got nicer hair, for a start.”

She flushes slightly, and notices that he does too. They both look away for a moment before he turns his face back to hers.

“Fury, if anyone’s going to find a better way to survive out here, it’s you. So whenever you want to go… just say the word. When you’re ready.”

She could be ready. He’s taught her how to drive a War Rig, a pursuit car and a motorbike. How to kill a man with a shotgun or a thunderstick. How to be a road warrior. If she left now, she’d be in much better shape to make it home than she was during her last attempt.

But part of her doesn’t want to go yet. Not tonight, not tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Furiosa and Jack both go back to their separate pallets after their meeting up in the cliffs, and the next day she tries to pretend she wasn’t thinking about what it would have been like to close that narrow gap between their bodies.

There’s always plenty of work to keep her occupied. War Boys to train. Firearms to reload. Runs to make. She loads the Rig with potatoes, cauliflower, gourds, water, Mother’s Milk. Swaps it all out for bullets and guzzoline. Spots a band of raiders on the horizon and crushes one of them under the wheels of the Rig only a few minutes later.

She still meets Jack in the evenings, but she keeps to her own side of the pool, and she doesn’t mention the Green Place again. They can talk about their days like they did before, and she can try to avoid thinking about the future.

But she can’t keep denying to herself that something has changed between them.

When they’re out on the road in the thick of combat, it’s like the two of them are sharing a dance only they know the steps to. But back in the Citadel, it feels increasingly like they’re fumbling through their movements, accidentally stepping on each other’s feet.

It’s inevitable they’ll have to touch each other in the Rig. Jack’s hands are all over her when he’s pulling her back through the cab’s trapdoor after she’s finished making emergency repairs mid-drive. Her arm is brushing his chest when she reaches past him to shoot the masked raider who’s just appeared at his window. She can only focus on staying alive then — there’s no time to think about the pressure of his fingers on her hip, or the way she could draw her arm back to slowly run her hand across his ribs.

But the first time his boot bumps into hers under the table in the mess room, she jerks her foot back like it’s just been burnt.

The second time it happens, however, she leaves it in place, and he doesn’t move away either. Instead they just sit opposite each other, eating their mash in silence, not daring to look up and catch each other’s eyes.

This time, Furiosa is the first one to spot the raiders peeling out from their hiding spot behind the rocks.

The War Rig is halfway to the Bullet Farm, heavily laden with fresh produce and Mother’s Milk, and despite their full escort of bikes and pursuit cars, someone still thinks it’s worth taking a shot at the booty in those tankers.

She grabs Jack’s arm, and he follows her eyeline to the faint plume of dust rising on the horizon before sounding the horn a moment later: contact. The War Boys greet the sound with their usual excitement, and she glances in the wing mirror to see the pursuit cars fan out on either side of them, ready for action. It’s been a while since their last encounter and the whole crew has been spoiling for a fight. She grits her teeth and hopes they’ll be able to let off some steam without losing their lives in the process.

The raiders pull out in front of them in formation, weaving from side to side to avoid the many thundersticks the Rig’s crew are already pointing at them. From the spikes all over their vehicles, they look like buzzards. She runs a quick tally — six bikes, two cars and what looks like a modified pick-up truck with some sort of machinery in the back. It’s unusual to see the buzzards this far out of their usual turf, and even stranger to see them on bikes. She wonders if some more of Dementus’s gangs have gone rogue and made some new friends.

The two cars are the first to engage, their drivers pulling wide and then hitting their brakes so the Rig and its escorts pull past them. She hears the sound of explosions hitting their target and War Boys screaming — whether with joy or rage, she doesn’t know. The truck stays far ahead of them, partially masked by the still-weaving bikes. They’ve got War Boys riding point on two bikes in front of the Rig, each in their driver and lancer pairs, and she watches as they fang it towards the enemy. One of the lancers, a new recruit called Goldie, gets a solid hit on an enemy, and the damaged bike smashes into its neighbour, sending both raiders crashing to the road. She feels the men and their bikes go under the wheels moments later. But someone on the truck is a good shot, and within seconds Goldie and the other three War Boys are dashed against the tarmac too.

Furiosa glances in the mirror to see that both the buzzard cars are still in action, though so are the convoy’s own pursuit vehicles — duels are happening on both sides, soundtracked by the roars of engines and the scream of metal on metal. She sneaks a quick look at Jack to see the usual look of grim focus on his face as he holds the Rig steady. She knows he’ll mourn the loss of their dead crew later, but for now, his attention is entirely on the moment.

The remaining buzzards on bikes are pulling back towards them now. Jack leans back towards the window at the back of the cab and yells for more firepower up front, and soon she sees a barrage of thundersticks raining from the roof. One of the bikers falls, but the others manage to weave out of the way. Narrowing her eyes, Furiosa shoulders her rifle and fires. Another one of the raiders tumbles from the back of his bike, but something on his clothing snags. She watches as the riderless bike drags his crumpled form behind it for a few seconds before it topples, and she thinks briefly of Toe Jam.

A moment’s distraction is all it takes for the field to change. Jack yells and she barely has time to look back ahead of her before the spiked pickup smashes into the front of the rig. Another thunderstick flies from the top of the cab, but it’s met by the rapid sound of automatic gunfire from the truck, and she winces as a white body topples in front of the windscreen and slams into the hood before sliding out of view. There’s no time to wonder which one of the crew that was — she’ll have to find out later, if she survives this. The gunfire from the pickup dips to the top of the windscreen, and she and Jack instinctively duck down as the glass shatters across them.

They’re hemmed in — the truck to the front of them and three bikers still at large to the sides. Jack’s jammed the accelerator in place but they’re basically driving blind. What’s happened to the War Boys on the roof is a mystery — she can’t see any of them through the back window. Furiosa watches Jack’s eyes flick to the cord above the driver’s door and nods at him. He nods back in silent agreement, and in one smooth movement she grabs the shotgun holstered in the passenger door and then kicks it open. One of the bikes is right next to her, and she barely sees the man’s startled expression before she shoots him in the chest and neck. As the bike crashes behind her, she reloads her firearm, then leans out from the door and fires a few hopeful shots in the direction of the pickup. She doesn’t know if any of them make contact, but the distraction buys Jack enough time to sound the horn twice and hopefully bring them some reinforcements.

She can’t see the other two bikes from here — either they’re on the driver’s side or they’re already dead. She hears shouting from the War Boys crossing from the tanker to the cab, but if the pickup has a machine gun, they’ll be sitting ducks. She needs to take it out.

After one last glance at Jack, Furiosa tucks the gun into her belt, slips out of the open door and clambers along the running boards on the Rig’s side towards the pickup, keeping her body as close to the metal as possible. She hears Jack’s rifle providing a distraction of his own. The dry wind tears at her as she steadily makes her way forward. There’s a new sound coming from the pickup now, the roar of a new motor and the shriek of metal being torn into. She catches a glimpse of sparks. They’re cutting into the front of the Rig, trying to take out the engines.

She peeks briefly around the edge of the radiator grille. Four men — a driver, the gunner on the roof, and two more operating what looks like a circular saw rigged up in the bed of the pickup. She dips back into hiding to consider her options, but it only takes a second. She’s trained for this. Prioritise the threats and take them out accordingly.

Furiosa draws Jack’s Apache revolver from its holster, pops out of cover and fires. The shot hits the gunner in the forehead and his body drops from the roof — more chum for the Rig’s wheels. The pickup swerves slightly and she can see the alarmed driver struggling to hold its position. She fires at the two saw operators, winging one of them in the arm, but the movement is making it too difficult to aim properly. As the driver slams the back of the vehicle into the grille again, she flicks the revolver’s knife out, pushes off from the running board and leaps into the bed of the pickup with a wild yell.

She hits the truck bed hard and her knee screams with pain, but she’s up in a crouch quickly, knife ready. One of the raiders yells something she can’t make out over the combined thunder of engines and the still-running saw, and reaches for his hip to draw some sort of machete. But the tight space slows him down and Furiosa is on him before he can get the blade clear, her knife finding purchase in his throat. She looks up to see the other raider scrambling up the back of the pickup’s cab, reaching for the machine gun. She grabs for his leg and he kicks out at her roughly, his spiked boots catching her on the arm. She snarls through the pain and holds on for dear life, bracing her own feet against the cab and pushing back. The man kicks again but slips, toppling backwards. She falls at the same time, the back of her head slamming against the bed of the pickup, but his momentum carries him further. Half a second later she hears a hideous garbled scream as his fall is broken by the circular saw.

Dazed and spattered in red, she rolls onto her hands and knees and reaches for the saw controls, switching the machine off. The truck bed is slick now and she scrabbles to get purchase, her feet slipping in the raider’s blood. There’s only the driver left to take out, but he’s slammed the accelerator now and they’re pulling away from the Rig. She grabs the side railing and hauls herself forwards, intent on finishing the job.

But it’s the crew who finish the job for her. Suddenly Cam’s car is pulling up next to the pickup and Runt is dragging her out of the truck bed and into the back of the pursuit. Outnumbered, the last raider jerks the wheel and tears away from the road. One of the War Boys must have thrown in a parting gift, because moments later there’s an explosion in the cab, and she watches as the truck skids sideways before overturning entirely.

All she can hear now are the convoy’s own engines and the wild cheering of the War Boys. Runt is still holding her shoulders, whooping. Cam pulls back to bring the car in line with the War Rig’s cab. “We got her, Prae Jack! That’s the last of them!”

Jack sounds the horn, the convoy pulls to a stop, and then she’s surrounded by rowdy War Boys, all slapping her on the back and shouting her name. “Did you see that, Prae Jack?” Runt yells. “She killed ‘em with his own saw! Barely a scratch on her!” She looks up from the scrum to see Jack standing in the Rig’s doorway, a strange expression on his face. The Boys jostle her towards him and he grasps her hand, pulling her back into the cab.

“Well done,” he says, settling back into the driver’s seat. “Never seen anyone kill a man with a saw before.”

“I didn’t see it. Heard it though.” She reaches for a cloth to wipe the blood from her hands. “Who’d we lose?”

Jack sighs. “Goldie, Chops, Fabro, Voss, Siso, Tezza. And Dimo.”

She stops rubbing the cloth over her face. She’d liked Dimo. He was young, too — barely more than a Pup. This shouldn’t have been his life.

“They’ll all be telling this story back at the Citadel, you know.” Jack leans back, looking at her. “If you wanted to start a legend, you’ve done it.”

Furiosa closes her eyes. “I was just trying to keep everyone alive.”

He gently takes the rag from her hand and dabs at her cheek. “I know.”

She doesn’t reply, and after a moment he pulls his hand away. She hears him start the Rig’s engines, the horn sounds once, and they’re off again.

When they get back to the Citadel, they have their usual parting — Jack leaves for the Immortan’s audience chamber to report another successful run, while Furiosa supervises the unloading of their latest haul from the Bullet Farm. She has to rope in some extra hands this time after losing so many on the road, but unfamiliar workers mean the process takes longer than usual. By the time the last bullets have been emptied from the tanker, the day has caught up with her and she’s absolutely bone tired, but Jack is still nowhere to be seen. He only materialises when she’s already curled up on her pallet for the night, knife in hand, still half-awake. Only when she hears the familiar sounds of his boots on the stone floor and opens her eyes to see him unrolling his pallet next to hers does she slip into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, however, Jack lingers in the dormitory while the rest of the crew file out in search of breakfast. It’s obvious there’s something on his mind. Furiosa puts her own bedroll away and waits for him to speak.

“I’ve got news, but it’s not bad. I promise.” He takes a deep breath. “The Immortan wants to see you.”

Adrenaline spikes through her at his words, and the knife is back in her hand before she can even breathe. She stares at Jack, wide-eyed. He raises his hands slightly and she has a sudden memory of the night after their first meeting, when he approached her on the catwalk like she might bolt at any moment.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re getting promoted.”

Furiosa narrows her eyes slightly, not relaxing her grip on the knife. She’s got no intention of using it on Jack, but it makes some animal part of her feel that much safer. “…Promoted.”

“You’ll be a praetorian. The Praetorian Furiosa.”

“Praetorian.” She sounds the word out slowly.

“It’s time,” Jack says. “You’ve more than proven yourself. You can drive, you can shoot, you can command the men. Yesterday I spoke to the Immortan and he agrees his cargo is in safe hands.”

“We lost seven War Boys.”

Jack winces. “We did. But you saved the cargo, and he values that.”

He pulls a small tin from his pocket and holds it up before tossing it across the room to her. She grabs the tin out of the air and unscrews the lid. The smell of the black greasepaint hits her nostrils and she looks back at him, raising her eyebrows.

“Don’t put it on yet,” he says. “The Immortan will want to give you the title first.”

She doesn’t know how to reply, can only keep rotating the tin with her fingers.

“It should be a quick trip up there. In and out,” Jack says. Like they’re going somewhere dangerous, like Gastown. She hasn’t told him any of her reasons for finding it dangerous, but she hasn’t needed to.

The question slips out before she can stop it. “Do I still ride with you?”

She catches surprise flicker briefly across his face. “Yeah. We need two praetorians on the convoy, with the Fury Road being like it is these days. And I think we go well together, as a team.” His voice is calm, but she thinks she sees some uncertainty in his eyes. “Why, did you not want to—”

“No,” she cuts him off, then clears her throat. “You’re right. We go well together.”

“Good,” he says, looking relieved. “There’s always more to learn out there, but… well. But you’ve earned this.”

Furiosa looks down at the tin in her hands again. Being a praetorian means more of everything. More access to the Citadel, more rations, more respect. She’s technically his equal now. He could have kept her as his underling, but instead he went to the Immortan himself and asked for all of this, for her.

She raises her eyes to meet his. “Thank you.”

For a moment Jack’s face breaks into a genuine smile of pride, startlingly warm. Her heart does a tiny somersault at this unexpected sight. Then he looks away awkwardly, runs a hand through his hair. “Right. We’ll get some breakfast, and then we’ll go.”

Even though she knows the way well by now, Furiosa sticks close behind Jack as they make their way to the Immortan’s audience chamber. They make the walk in silence. Jack pauses on the stairs just before they reach the top level and gives her an encouraging nod, and it’s only when she nods back that they step through the door.

The hallway that leads to the audience chamber is guarded by a familiar face: Praetorian Geo, currently in the process of swivelling his pinky finger around the inside of his ear. He straightens up when he sees Jack approaching, wiping the finger on his trousers. “Jack.”

“Geo.” Jack’s tone is neutral. “We’re here to see the Immortan.”

Geo glances towards the stone arch that leads into the chamber. “May as well go through. Quiet in there at the moment — just the People Eater going on about his numbers.” He lowers his voice confidentially. “I think Rictus may have dozed off earlier.”

Jack gives him a brief smile that comes nowhere close to his eyes, then gives one last look back to Furiosa. She straightens up, pulls her shoulders back and tries to get into the right mindset — a confident road warrior, dedicated to the cause. Not a terrified little girl clutching a teddy bear. Jack gives her another brief nod, and then they step into room.

Furiosa hasn’t been here since the day she disavowed Dementus as her father and was traded to Immortan Joe. Now it’s like stepping into a bad memory. They’re all still there, gathered at the end of the room by the enormous balcony — Scrotus, Rictus, the People Eater, and the Immortan himself. This time they’re joined by Corpus Colossus, who she rarely sees around the Citadel. There’s also a pair of Imperators and a solemn-faced War Pup holding a platter of fruits and other delicacies, but she only has eyes for the men who thought they were entitled to lock women and girls in a vault. She half expects that if she looked to her sides, she’d see Dementus and all his lackeys — the History Man proposing a joining of royal dynasties, Mr Harley frowning in concern. She has to remind herself that they’re off in Gastown, that it’s Jack by her side instead, that he’d never treat her like a commodity to be traded or locked away.

Just as Geo said, the People Eater is monologuing about the state of the Citadel’s balance sheets. “…And the production rates of Mother’s Milk are down by four percent!” Corpus appears to be listening closely, but Rictus and Scrotus have clearly been zoned out for some time and are bickering off to the side about whose vehicle would win in combat. As for the Immortan… the look on his face is unreadable. He turns away from the group to stare at his two road warriors. Standing next to Jack in the middle of the room with those sunken eyes burning into her, Furiosa feels an icy chill run down her spine.

“Praetorian Jack.” The Immortan’s voice is just as she remembered: low and muffled, but powerful enough to immediately stop all the other chatter in the room. She sees the rest of the group turn to look at her — the People Eater with his usual sneer, Scrotus bored, Corpus and Rictus curious. Both she and Jack remain silent, knowing better than to respond to anything other than a direct question. She holds herself still as can be, like a lizard trying to avoid being spotted by an eagle, and fixes her gaze to the floor.

Jack’s words repeat in her head: A quick trip. In and out. He wouldn’t have set her up to be imprisoned again. If the Immortan wanted her locked up, he could have had it done at any time since she joined the Rig crew. There’s no reason to think that this is a trap, but every instinct is screaming at her to get out.

“You’ve brought your apprentice,” the Immortan says, stepping forward and looking Furiosa over. Long seconds pass as she waits, frozen, for him to speak again. You could become one of our Wives. She prays to all the stars in the night sky that she doesn’t hear those words again, but the sun is bright outside — no stars here to protect her. He’s not a god, she thinks. He’s not a god, and they aren’t the sons of a god. They’re all just men, awful but mortal, and they can be fooled. Can be beaten.

Eventually the Immortan makes an approving noise and steps back. “Well then, your apprentice has proven to be quite a warrior. You chose well, Praetorian, even if your choice was… unorthodox.” He narrows his eyes. “Your name, warrior?”

“Furiosa, Immortan.” The name feels dry in her mouth. Not Little D, not Wife, not dogman. Just Furiosa.

He flicks his hand up, and one of the Imperators immediately moves to pick something up from a shelf at the side of the room. As the man approaches, Furiosa sees what he’s holding: a cushion, worn but still plump, with something metal resting on top. She realises it’s a large cog bearing the Immortan’s sigil, just like the one Jack wears around his hips. A matching belt, now for her. The Imperator stops next to her, the cushion in his outstretched hands.

“Take it,” the Immortan says. “From now on, you will serve me as the Praetorian Furiosa.”

She bows and raises her hands in the V8 salute, then reaches out and takes the belt from its perch. As she does, she slowly lifts her gaze to meet Immortan Joe’s. She sees intelligence in those eyes, even amusement — but no sign of recognition. He thinks he sees her, but all he sees is another warrior, a cog in his machine. Her past identity is as hidden from him as her heart. Something inside her feels stronger at the realisation.

“Now go.” The Immortan turns away, dismissing them. “Prepare my War Rig for the next journey to Gastown.”

In unison, Furiosa and Jack bow, turn towards each other and walk briskly out of the room. Behind her, she can hear Rictus’s voice saying, “Dad, can you tell Scrotus that the Big Foot is a much more powerful—” and then a snarl from the Immortan. Nothing about her, nothing about the girl he tried to abduct from the vault all those years ago, the girl who vanished into the night and was never seen again. She keeps walking past Geo, who says something she doesn’t hear, down the hallway and onto the stairs, and she’s okay, they don’t know, she’s okay she’s okay she’s okay she’s okay she’s—

She’s pressed against the wall of the stairwell a few floors down from the audience chamber, breath shallow and rapid, her hands clutching the belt with white knuckles. She’s safe but she can’t breathe and it feels like her whole body is going numb and—

“Hey. Hey.” Jack is standing in front of her, his hands gently holding her upper arms, thumbs massaging the fronts of her shoulders. “It’s okay. You’re good. You did good. Just breathe for me, okay?” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and takes a deep, gulping breath, then opens them to look back at his concerned face. “Breathe with me, nice and slow,” he says quietly. “In, out. In, out. In, out.”

Furiosa follows his lead, matches his rhythm, and gradually her breaths get slower and steadier. Jack stops talking but continues to rub slow circles into her shoulders, waiting for her to come back to herself.

“I’m good,” she says eventually, voice still shaky. She feels the urge to give her whole body a shake, like one of Dementus’s dogs shaking the stress out after a fight. “It was just hard. To be back there again.”

Jack almost certainly caught that “again”, but he doesn’t comment on it. “You did well. We won’t have to go up there often. Usually we just report to Scrotus, unless something goes really wrong on a run.”

Furiosa grimaces at the idea of going back there again, but the spike of panic is duller this time and she beats it back down. Instead she takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Let’s just go—”

There’s a clanking sound from above, and she and Jack instantly break apart and stare up into the dimly-lit stairwell, bodies tense. From above one of the rails, a face looms out of the darkness, framed by scraggly dark hair.

“I hear congratulations are due, Praetorian Furiosa,” the Organic Mechanic says.

“Thank you,” Furiosa says stiffly, her mind racing. How long has he been there? What has he heard?

“I’ll leave you two to get on with things,” he says with a leering grin. “I’m sure you’re both busy people.” With that, his face dips out of view, and she hears the sounds of footsteps retreating back up several flights of stairs.

Jack glances back at her, and Furiosa realises her fists are clenched, nails digging into her palms. She takes another breath and relaxes her hands. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”

That evening, once she’s had time and a relatively hearty meal, Jack takes her to the House of Holy Motors. It’s quiet — there are a handful of War Boys worshipping at the V8 shrine, but for the most part, they have the place to themselves.

“Right. Time to get your new kit on.”

Furiosa paints her forehead first. There’s a grid of black tiles attached to the wall next to a workbench — some long-dead technology from the old world, but it provides enough of a reflection for her to work with. She turns to face the workbench, drops her old jacket on the surface, and dips her fingertips into the tin of paint. As she smears the inky praetorian black across the skin of her forehead, she can feel Jack’s eyes on her back. She takes her time rubbing it into her temples and around her eyebrows, catching glimpses of herself in the glass of the tiles as she does. It’s not often she dwells on her own appearance, and she’s unsure about the person she sees looking back at her. A warrior, marked by shadow. If she showed up at the Green Place like this, would they still recognise her as their own?

She draws a rag from her pocket to wipe the excess paint from her fingers, then turns back to Jack. He nods at her handiwork, then holds out the belt. She hesitates to grab it from him, and he surprises her by stepping closer and wrapping the belt around her body himself. She holds her breath as his hands settle the strip of leather on her hips and fasten the buckles, never touching anything but the belt despite being just a few layers of fabric from her skin.

Jack finishes adjusting the belt and steps back, his face serious. She looks down to see the Immortan’s sigil centred across her groin. She shifts her weight to the side and the dangling chains smack against her thighs. The feel of the metal immediately reminds her of the Wives’ chastity belts, and she can’t suppress the involuntary shudder that runs through her. She glances back at Jack, who is watching her with a look of sadness in his eyes.

“You get used to it,” he says. “The weight.”

She doesn’t reply, but after a moment he continues speaking.

“I got you something else too.”

He scoops that something else up from the crates and holds it out to her: a new jacket. Furiosa takes it in her hands and examines the garment. Compared to the oversized patchwork creation she’s been relying on for the last few months, it looks to be in remarkably good condition. She turns it over and runs her fingers over the material, admiring the quilting on the shoulders. When she looks back up at Jack, her eyes are bright.

“One of the sleeves is a bit short,” Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But aside from that, it’s good leather.”

She undoes the front of the jacket and hands it back to him silently, then turns around. After a moment he holds it up to her, and she reaches back, slipping her arms into the sleeves one after the other. Jack guides the jacket over her shoulders as she slowly shrugs it on. She zips the front up, impressed that the zipper has lasted this long without succumbing to damage and rust. The fit is great — not too snug, but close-fitting enough that it’s unlikely to snag on something during combat. The worn leather feels soft under her fingers, but tough enough to offer some protection. She moves her arms experimentally, adjusts the way the neck sits on her, then turns back to face Jack.

It hits her then, who she looks like now — a road warrior with a painted forehead, dressed in road leathers and a skull-adorned belt. While her reflection in the tiles was fragmented, the image in front of her is complete. She and Jack are a matching set.

She realises the jacket marks her out from the other praetorians, who tend to stay as shirtless as the War Boys — no need for armour when you’re awaited in Valhalla at a moment’s notice. But she doesn’t look like them. She looks like Jack. Two of a kind. Partners.

Praetorian Furiosa pulls her shoulders back and lifts her head high. After a moment, she runs a hand up around her neck and untucks her hair from the collar of the jacket, letting it hang free down her back.

Jack takes the sight of her in and smiles again, crossing his arms. “You look good. It, uh. It suits you, I mean.” He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck again. “…You look good.”

After a quick glance across the room to make sure nobody else is watching her, she matches his smile with a small one of her own.

Chapter Text

After another brutally hot day, Furiosa doesn’t need to say a word to know where she’ll find Jack that night. It’s just assumed they’ll meet each other in their usual spot, hidden high on the cliffs, and they do.

The tension of those first visits to the secret pool has been worn down with time. Now she’s grown used to peeling off her jacket and boots, rolling up the cuffs of her trousers, and dipping her toes in. It takes a little longer now that she’s got her praetorian belt — she’s been wearing it for a few months now, but she still can’t wait to remove it every night. Jack is already sitting at the edge of the pool when she arrives, and she quickly sheds her layers and joins him, sighing in satisfaction as the cool water welcomes her aching feet. He meets her eyes with a tired smile.

It’s been dark for hours now, but the Wasteland is taking its time to shake off the day’s relentless heat. They’re quiet as they dip rags in the water and wash the sweat and dust from their skin, enjoying the respite from the clamour of the Citadel. Both of them leave their foreheads painted, though — coming back to the crew looking too fresh might arouse suspicions of where they’ve been.

Afterwards they lie back on the rocks, allowing the night air to dry their skin. Her left arm is stretched out, the tattooed stars looking up at their celestial counterparts. She’s given up hiding it around Jack. He hasn’t asked her about it, but as with so many of her other secrets — the only treasures she could keep as her own for years — she finds herself wanting to share it with him.

So when he rolls over to face her, then reaches out and gently runs his fingers over the ink, she opens up again. “It’s a map,” she says. “To where I come from.”

He watches her, waiting to see what piece of her armour she might peel back this time.

“My people used the stars to navigate,” she explains. “It’s something we used to say to each other. ‘The stars be with you.’”

“‘The stars be with you,’” he repeats. Furiosa nods, surprised at the sudden rush of emotion that comes from hearing another person say those words to her after so long. She feels a lump forming in her throat.

Maybe Jack gets some sense of the impact this has on her, because he decides to fill the silence with a memory of his own. “I had an uncle, when I was young — he was an old man already, but he’d tell me stories from before. Used to be some sort of history man back then. And he always liked talking about the stars. He said there were ancient legends about them.”

“Tell me one.” She rolls over to look at him. They’re both lying face to face now, voices low. It reminds her of how she and Valkyrie used to lie like this and whisper secrets to each other, long after they were both meant to be sleeping.

He turns to the sky and raises a hand, then pauses, thinking. Eventually he points towards the sky. “See those three stars in a row, right there? He used to say that was the belt of a mighty hunter. If you look at it right, you can see the rest of his body — that’s his bow over there — and then next to him are his hunting dogs.”

“What did he hunt?”

“All sorts of things. Animals, monsters. That cluster of stars next to him — my uncle said those were a group of sisters he fell in love with. Chased them across the sky with his dogs to capture them.”

“Sounds like they didn’t want to be caught.”

Jack shrugs. “Never said it was a good story.”

She props herself up on one elbow and looks at him. “I think there’s more. Look at the positions. The hunter is chasing them, but he hasn’t caught up to them yet. They can still outrun him and be free.”

He smiles. “I like your version more.”

“Me too.”

They lie next to each other for a while, the silence of the night interrupted only by the wind and the occasional howl from the Wretched down at the base of the Citadel.

Jack gazes back up at the sky and furrows his brow in thought. “Actually, I think I see you up there.”

She shoots him a curious look. “Where?”

“Right over there.” He points up again. “See, that box of four stars is your body, and the line next to it is your shotgun.”

Furiosa squints at the night sky, trying to make it out.

“And then that little cluster of stars making a downwards curve right there is your grumpy face—”

She gives him a playful shove. “I do not have a grumpy face.”

Jack bats her hands away, his mouth set in a mock-serious expression. “Hey, this isn’t coming from me. It’s written in the stars.”

“Well, you don’t know how to read the stars.”

“I’m reading them clear as day right now, and they’re saying grumpy face.”

“I think they’re saying Jack is an idiot.”

He shoves her back, barely enough to move her, but Furiosa takes the provocation and retaliates by grabbing his wrists. In one smooth motion, she rolls to her knees and leans over him, pinning his arms back above his head. Her hair slips down from behind her shoulders, framing the gap between them. She looks down at him, victorious. “Take it back.”

Jack gazes up at her, and the look of pure devotion in his eyes hits her like a thunderbolt.

What the hell is she doing?

Looking forward to sneaking off with him every night. Lying here next to him, making up children’s stories and roughhousing. Enjoying the feeling of his fingers on her precious tattoo. Pinning him down and getting so close she can feel the warmth coming off him. She wants this so much, wants him so badly it burns to think about it, and yet the recognition that he feels the same is excruciating. Because some day she’ll leave, and she’ll leave him behind.

Mary Jabassa taught Furiosa how to ride a horse and thread a needle and fire a rifle, but she also taught her how to love: fiercely, bravely, selflessly.

And it’s selfish, what she wants now. Because if she gives in to all this want, it’ll only hurt him even more when she goes. She’d be setting them up for destruction, like planting a seed and then scorching the earth. And she already knows that leaving will hurt like hell for her too.

So she looks down at Jack — beautiful, patient, understanding Jack, who knows her better than anyone alive — and she knows she’s been an absolute fool.

Furiosa clambers to her feet abruptly and slips her jacket back over her shoulders, shoves her feet back into her boots. As she fastens the buckles, she catches a glimpse of Jack’s expression as he watches her — a mixture of uncertainty and resignation. She grabs her hated belt and runs.

She’s back in the Green Place again, running towards her village, grass soft under her bare feet. Everything looks exactly the same as the day she was taken, even the people. They’re all still there — childhood friends, neighbours, all the Vuvalini.

But none of them will look at her. She reaches out for them, grabs their shoulders, but nobody will show their faces. Finally she sees her mother, standing at the edge of the village.

“Ma!” she shouts, sprinting towards her. “Ma!”

Mary alone turns to face her, grim-faced. Her rifle is slung over her shoulder. She doesn’t meet her daughter’s outstretched arms.

“Why didn’t you go?” she says. “I told you to go.”

“Ma,” Furiosa says again, her voice small like a child’s. “I’m coming back. I’m here.”

“I died for you. I died so you could get home,” Mary spits, and Furiosa suddenly sees the blood dripping from her mother’s nose, the flames crawling up her feet. “I died for nothing.”

“Ma…!” She’s crying now, trying to pat the flames out with her hands, but they only spread to her arms, racing across her tunic.

“You can come back,” Mary says, her voice colder than it ever was in life, “but you have to pull the trigger.”

Furiosa turns and realises Jack is behind her. There’s a gun in her hand and some invisible force raises it, points the barrel right at him. She screams and tries to fight it, but the pressure builds on her trigger finger until—

She gets one last glimpse of Jack’s face before he topples backwards, his body dissolving into guzzoline.

Furiosa wakes up with a scream half-caught in her throat, sitting bolt upright on her pallet. She looks wildly around the room, breathing heavily. Her mother is gone, replaced by the sleeping bodies of her crew. War Boys learn to sleep through other people’s nightmares at an early age.

Jack is awake though, propped up on his elbows watching her, a look of concern on his face. He opens his mouth to speak. “Fur—“

“I’m fine,” she cuts him off and lies down again, pointedly facing away from him. She can still feel his eyes on her back — and, when she reaches a shaking hand up to check, her tears on her cheek.

Jack tolerates her silence throughout the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They go through the motions of their usual routine — coordinating Rig maintenance, drilling the War Boys on manoeuvres, sleeping next to each other — all without her saying a single word more to him than absolutely necessary. It’s like their first few weeks of working together all over again.

Furiosa knows she should appreciate him giving her space, but she also hates it more than anything. Once again, Jack is letting her set the terms of their relationship. He’ll take as much or as little as she’s willing to give. And there’s a lot she’d like to give, but that’s why she needs to cut it off. For both their sakes.

So she rebuilds her walls like she never removed a single brick in the first place, and when he continues to stoically bear her silence, it inflames her even more.

Everything comes to a head three nights after she dreamed about Mary. She’s stayed up late again, trying to avoid him by losing herself in the House of Holy Motors. The crew in one of the pursuit vehicles had reported that the bommyknocker wasn’t spinning properly last time they’d used it, and if she can’t fix her head, she can at least fix a machine.

Sometimes she thinks it was easier when she was just the mute dogman. Simpler, definitely. All anyone expected from her was hard work, and as long as she delivered that, they’d mostly just leave her alone. She could get on with a task and dedicate her mind to planning her escape. In those days she could afford to be single-minded. One goal, one focus. Never questioning whether she was doing the right thing.

Furiosa lugs a ladder over to the back of the War Rig and climbs up to inspect the bommyknocker. The problem is easy enough to spot once she’s there — the bracket connecting one of the chains to the spinning mechanism has been damaged, keeping the chain attached but only at a wonky angle. It’s a surprise the part hasn’t detached entirely, and she feels a momentary rush of pride at the craftsmanship that’s kept the device together. Was this one of the parts she welded herself? She could just report the issue to the next shift on maintenance, let them deal with the hassle, but right now she’d rather fix it. Just her and the Rig. A good distraction.

She climbs back down the ladder and skirts around the tanker to grab her toolbag from the cab. It’s stashed under the seat, right where she left it. She does a quick inventory, even though everyone here knows better than to meddle with her kit, and it’s all there — welding torch, spanners, screwdrivers and more. She borrows a welding mask and gloves from a nearby workbench and heads back up the ladder.

Detaching the rest of the bracket is easy enough, but first she’ll need to lug the flail up into a secure spot so it doesn’t smash on the floor and damage the spikes as soon as it’s loose. She slowly pulls the chain up, hand over hand, keeping her shins well clear of the spiked ball at the end. She wouldn’t have been able to do this before, but all the time on the Rig’s crew has made her stronger — a combination of the endless drills and the extra protein have put new muscle on her arms and back. She carefully balances the ball on top of the ladder in front of her, then gets to work removing and replacing the bracket.

She’s finished welding the new bracket into place and is waiting for it to cool when she’s rudely interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by a familiar voice.

“That’s a two-person job.”

Jack’s found her, then. Furiosa lifts her welding mask and shrugs, not taking her eyes off her work. She clips the torch back onto her belt, then removes one of the gloves and carefully runs her hands over the metal. When it seems set, she gives the chain an experimental tug.

“I’m serious,” Jack says. “If that thing comes loose, it’s taking out the ladder. Your legs too, if you’re unlucky. You need someone there to spot you.”

“I’m almost done.” She pulls the other welding glove off and tucks them both under the strap of the toolbag, still avoiding his gaze.

“At least let me—”

“I’ve got it!” she bites out, whirling around to stare at him as she takes a few steps down the ladder. He’s closer to her than she realised, almost within touching distance, and she involuntarily jolts backwards. The ladder had felt steady enough while she was working, but the spiked ball must have been balanced more precariously than she thought, because this sudden movement tilts it sideways just enough for gravity to rapidly take over. The ball lurches over the edge of the ladder and swings down, smashing into the side rail like it’s taking out a raider’s motorbike. The ladder goes flying from under her and before she can realise what’s happening, she’s falling on her arse on the hard stone floor.

Or would be, if Jack hadn’t grabbed her. Instead of being flat on the floor, she’s caught in his arms like he’s dipping her, one hand behind her shoulders and another at her hip. The ladder crashes to the floor next to them, the spiked ball swinging freely above it. There’s no avoiding his eyes now — alert, concerned, and dangerously close to hers.

To hell with his quick reflexes and foresight. She’d rather be on the floor.

Furiosa rolls out of his grasp and scrambles to her feet, turning away from Jack. There’s something warm on her forehead and she reaches up to find a small trickle of blood. That must have been the old bracket she’d left on top of the ladder hitting her on the way down. She wipes her bloody fingers on the grease rag hanging out of her pocket.

“That wound needs cleaning,” he says. “Come on.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll deal with it.”

“I’m not asking.”

She whips around, ready to push him away, but whatever words might have left her mouth are stopped in their tracks by the look on his face. Jack is angry. She’s seen him disappointed, exhausted, stressed, but not this. Even under fire with men dropping dead around him, he somehow always keeps his head. But right now, staring at her in the garage, he’s fuming.

Fine. Maybe this is what she needs to do. If a fight can put some real distance between them, so be it.

They end up in the tiny sideroom where he keeps a stash of medical supplies, or at least something approximating that — a small bag with a bundle of rags and a flask of alcohol. He closes the corrugated scrap metal that passes for a door and nods towards the stool in the corner. “Sit.”

She sits, sullen. He tips a splash of alcohol on one of the rags and leans over, wiping the blood from her face. The liquor stings, but she looks steadily over his shoulder, waiting for the fight to begin.

“Do you know what my first thought was, when you appeared at the front of my War Rig all those days ago?” he asks, dabbing at the wound. “I thought maybe the War Boys were onto something with this whole Valhalla thing.”

She narrows her eyes, not sure where this is going.

“Because there I am, seeing my whole crew die around me and the men who killed them closing in to finish the job, and I’m starting to think this is my last run,” he continues. “And then I see this person appear at my radiator like magic, with all this long hair and a face like thunder, and I’m thinking someone’s sent me my own personal avenging angel.”

This is not what she was expecting. But Jack’s not done.

“But I don’t really have time to think about it then, because I’m too busy trying not to get killed, and not to get you killed either. So by the time I get my head around the fact that it’s not an angel, just the dogman from the build crew looking much prettier than I remember, I’m already driving off with you screaming in my rearview.

“So then I’m thinking, well, whoever this person is, she’s tough and fierce and she’s already saved my damn life, and I’d rather have her next to me in a firefight than not. And when you agree to join my crew, then I know that you’ve got one more thing going for you, which is that you’re not fool enough to get yourself killed out of spite just to prove a point.”

He steps back, bloody cloth in hand, and she scowls at him, waiting for him to make a point of his own.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, and I won’t ask, because I know you won’t tell me. But you’ve got to trust me, even a little bit.”

“I cut my face. I’m fine.”

“In here, you’re fine. Pull that out on the road and you’ll get yourself killed. Me and the crew too.”

She can push his buttons, push him away. She shrugs. “Maybe I’m not meant for teamwork then.”

“Oh, really?” He drops the rag on a workbench and leans against it. “All this time as partners and you’ve suddenly decided you’re fine out there on your own?”

“That was always the plan, Jack!” she hisses. “You knew that from the start.”

“I know.” He rubs his brow. “I know.”

“Maybe you’re better off replacing me now. Take on a new apprentice.”

“Fury,” Jack says, his voice heavy. “When you’re gone, I’ll get someone else to sit in that seat. But there is nobody — not in the Citadel, not anywhere in the Wasteland — who could ever replace you.”

The words hang in between them in the stuffy air — him still leaning against the workbench, her stopped in the centre of the room, breathing hard. They lock eyes, frozen like two gunfighters waiting to see if the other draws their pistol first. Or waiting for something else.

Furiosa wants to tell him that he shouldn’t say these things, that the only thing words like that can lead to is hurt. But instead she kisses him.

The first kiss is incredibly awkward.

It makes sense, really. She doesn’t know what else she expected. Furiosa has never kissed anyone before — all she’s got to go on are memories of what she’s seen before, glimpses of Ma and KT when she was younger, or boisterous War Boys fumbling for satisfaction. So while she has an idea of the general movement, she goes in too hot, crashes her lips into his like her brakes have failed. Everything collides uncomfortably — her nose presses against his, the pressure of the contact digs her teeth into her lips. Jack, for his part, just stands there completely motionless. She’s got one hand on his chest and it doesn’t feel like he’s even breathing.

She pulls back after a second, eyes wide, her pulse racing. The adrenaline is coursing through her, fight or flight. Jack stares back at her, stunned.

“Fury,” he says. “What…”

Panic floods through her: she’s misread this completely, projected her own feelings onto him, imagined something that wasn’t there. This has been a catastrophic mistake. She takes a few steps backwards.

Jack steps forwards. Furiosa freezes again, and so does he. She watches as an entire war plays out across his face in just a handful of seconds — confusion and fear and hope and uncertainty and longing, all battling in the flash of his eyes and the twist of his mouth.

He exhales roughly and suddenly the expression on his face is set. Determined. Hungry.

Jack closes the gap between them.

The second kiss is much, much better.

This time, when their mouths meet, it feels less like a crash and more like a perfectly executed manoeuvre, the precise application of soft lips and stubble. He sinks one hand into her hair while the other wraps around her waist and she feels something ignite inside her, flames licking all the way up from her toes, high enough to make her cheeks flush. It’s like the first time she heard him throw the War Rig into gear and felt the twin engines roar, something so deep and powerful and unmatched that it almost didn’t seem real. It’s like being on the road with him in the thick of battle, that dance that only the two of them know, their bodies so in sync they don’t even have to speak a word to each other. It’s like biting into the freshest, sweetest fruit she’s ever tasted after a dozen years living off musty potatoes and insect gruel. It is, in a word, Valhalla.

And Furiosa doesn’t believe in Valhalla. Knows it’s a trap to keep the War Boys sweet, to make sure they throw their lives away for the Citadel. She also knows that if she died right now, if this moment in Jack’s arms is the last thing she ever feels before the ceiling caves in and the entire place collapses into the Wasteland, it’d be the most glorious death in the world.

But she’s not here to die in the Citadel. She’s here to go home, and she’s just made that a thousand times harder for both of them now that they know what she’ll be leaving. This was a catastrophic mistake after all, just in the opposite way she’d thought.

It feels like stabbing herself in the heart, but she breaks away. Jack’s mouth follows hers for a moment as she steps back, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to fall back into him. He looks down at her, his eyes soft, and she curses herself for what she’s about to do.

“I can’t,” she says quietly. “Jack, we can’t.”

If pulling away from him was a blade sliding between her ribs, the expression on his face now is what twists the knife. It’s painful to know she can’t kiss him again, but it feels so much worse to think that she’s hurt him badly. She can’t bear to look at him now. Instead she curls into herself and turns away, miserable.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

She hears a few ragged breaths behind her, the sound of Jack composing himself, and when she turns back to him, his face is still once again.

“Don’t be,” he says. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.”

She looks away again, tries to shove her own emotions down behind a mask too.

“I’ll still help you leave,” he continues. “When you want to go. Wherever you want to go. All you have to do is ask.”

Even now, he has to be noble. She wants to throw herself against his chest and scream at him, tell him that he’s only making it more difficult for her by being like this. But she already tried that a few minutes ago, and look where it got them. Instead she closes her eyes for a long moment, then nods.

And then there’s nothing left to do but walk away.

The next two weeks are, in a word, miserable.

Both Furiosa and Jack put on brave faces. They don’t avoid each other, or only speak to each other when necessary — instead they just try to pretend the kiss never happened, that there is nothing more between them than a partnership of two road warriors. A friendship, sure. A trusted companion in a brutal world, absolutely. But they have to believe it’s only temporary, that they can’t build it any further, knowing that the higher they’d fly, the harder they’d fall.

They’ve both survived this long by virtue of self-control. Furiosa knows how to project a certain image in order to survive. She’s spent long years keeping various longings in check — to fight, to run, to scream — and this should be no different. Meanwhile Jack has his familiar role as the Citadel’s luckiest praetorian, a legend among the War Boys, dedicated to the Immortan and nothing else. They can sink back into their jobs, continue to act like the people the rest of the Citadel expects them to be, and nobody will know the difference.

Except, of course, for them. Because no matter how many miles she drives, or bullets she fires, or orders she gives, the memory of kissing Jack is scorched across Furiosa’s brain. She thinks about him in the morning while she’s cleaning the guns and while she’s watching War Boys load vegetables into the tanker. She thinks about him in the afternoon while she shows Craw how to replace the worn pins and bushes on the Rig’s excavator arm. She thinks about him at night when she goes alone to one of the walkways on the Citadel’s exterior and stares up at the stars.

And then there are the dreams. Now there are entirely new visions mixed in with her usual nightmares. Some of them are just as horrible — the Immortan finding out what’s happened between her and Jack and executing them both, or Jack shoving her away and screaming at her that he’ll never trust her again. One night she dreams that she’s embracing him, but this time her touch sets him on fire and he burns to ashes in her arms. But sometimes the dreams are delicious in a way she’s never known before, and she kisses him hungrily and doesn’t stop, lets his hands roam across her exposed skin, feels the stubble of his jaw against her neck as he moves lower and—

Furiosa wakes up with a gasp and sees Jack looking at her in the dark. He turns away immediately, but judging from the glimpse she gets of his flushed cheeks, she can imagine what sort of noises she might have been making. She rolls to face away from him and hides her own blush in her hands, half of her praying the crew are still asleep and the other half willing herself to join them so the dream can continue. Behind her, she hears the sound of Jack abruptly getting up from his pallet and walking quickly out of the room. She resists the urge to follow him.

Every hour is a torment. Things can’t go on like this, knowing how close she is to something she cannot allow herself to have. Knowing from Jack’s stolen glances at her that he’s suffering from the same affliction. It’s intolerable.

She needs to leave. She needs to go home. Anywhere else but here.

With her sleep even worse than usual, Furiosa doesn’t notice the commotion in the garage until Runt interrupts her. It’s the evening after a run to Gastown and she’s just doing the final checks on the tanker pump, her eyes itching with exhaustion. When the eager War Boy suddenly appears next to her, it’s hard not to scowl at him.

“Prae Furiosa!” he says, the title still a little unfamiliar to her ears. “Did you hear about the Praetorian Aldred’s crew?”

She frowns and shakes her head once. Praetorian Aldred is a tall, skinny man with only one ear and a proclivity for slowly grinding down little strips of leather between his molars. He’d ignored her completely until her recent promotion. Since then, they’ve exchanged a few wary pleasantries in the mess hall, but little more than that. She rarely sees him anyway — Scrotus usually has him leading bands of scouts through the Wasteland, keeping an eye out for new intruders on the Immortan’s lands.

“His scouting party just got back,” Runt continues. “Raiders got them bad.”

She pauses. “Keero make it?”

Runt slowly shakes his head, and Furiosa thinks of the other War Boy’s face when he’d asked to join the scout crew. Uncertain, but determined. She’d known this day would come, as it does for all the War Boys, but Keero… despite everything, she’d grown to like him. She hopes it was a quick death.

“And Aldred?” she asks, lowering the lid back onto the pump controls.

“Dead! Only two of the Boys left, and one of them dying real slow.” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why they brought him back. Should have let him die historic out there.”

She secures the clasp of the lid and turns to look towards the massive lift. War Boys and blackthumbs have crowded around to gawk at the remains of the unfortunate scouting party, but she can just about see a burnt and battered pursuit car rolling off the lift and onto the garage floor. The crowd parts as she makes her way forwards, pale white faces eyeing her respectfully. A far cry from the way they looked at her just a year ago.

She’s just in time to see Scrotus barge into the circle around the scout car to confront the War Boy getting out of the driver’s seat. He’s bleeding from several cuts on his chest, but steady enough on his feet to make the sign of the V8. His companion in the passenger seat is not so lucky — he’s missing part of his jaw and his eyes are closed. Not long for this world.

“What is this?” Scrotus yells. “Where is Praetorian Aldred?”

“Dead, sir,” the War Boy says, short of breath. “An ambush just south of the cliffs. They’re all camped over there now in some caves. But they hit us at night, grabbed the ones on watch before they could raise the alarm. Hoods and masks. They moved fast. All I remember are the white markings.”

That’s when she notices the greenish skin around the wounds on his chest, right before he collapses on the floor.

As Scrotus roars and kicks the side of the car in frustration, she can only think of one thing: the Snatchers are back.

Chapter Text

Furiosa’s dreams are not kind to her that night.

She’s holding Jack in her arms, yes — but he’s hot, too hot, and his skin is a ghastly pale colour except for the green veins on his arm. The poison is back and she knows she needs to keep him cool, give him medicine, but everything she picks up disintegrates in her hands. She pulls a strip of cloth from her shirt and frantically sloshes water from her flask onto the fabric, only to have it dissolve from her grip. The vial she got from the Mechanic is empty, and the glass rim slices her fingertips. The green is spreading up his arm, fast enough that she can see it moving, and all she can do is hold him closer as the tears drip down her face.

Jack looks up at her with wide eyes, and she realises with a horrible jolt that he knows he’s dying. She shakes her head frantically, gripping his shoulder as if her hands are a tourniquet that can keep the green from spreading, but there’s nothing she can do as the tendrils start to creep up his neck. And now they’re not just veins but vines, leaves sprouting from his skin, thorns and flowers alike.

“Fury,” he says, through lips that are almost overgrown. “You have to choose.”

Then the black grease on his forehead suddenly floods outwards, covering his body like a shroud, and she screams.

For the second time in a month, she wakes up with a sob trapped in her throat.

Both of the War Boys from the scouting party are dead before the sun rises.

Furiosa hears the news the next morning in the mess hall. The other praetorians sit together at a table on the opposite end of the room, talking in low voices. She and Jack usually keep to themselves or eat with the Rig’s crew instead of mixing with others of their rank, but today he gets up from their usual table and walks over to speak to them. She keeps an eye on the discussion as she shovels her morning rations from the mess tin into her mouth — maggot mash and onion, with a few chunks of carrot as a treat. When Jack returns and tells her about the deaths, she’s not surprised.

Jack shakes his head as he sits back down. “Foul moods over there. They want to know what happened to Aldred.”

She shrugs. “Same thing that happens to everyone.”

He raises his eyebrows at her nihilistic tone, but she goes back to scraping the last of the mash from her tin. “Scrotus will be on the warpath,” he says eventually. “Expect some new orders later.”

“Another war party?” Furiosa finishes licking the last traces of flavour from her metal spoon and sets her mess tin down on the table. “I think we’ll only find them if they want to be found.”

Jack shoots her a warning look — keep your voice down. He’s not wrong to be cautious. For a moment she thinks she can always talk to him about it more at the hidden pool later, but then she remembers they haven’t been there in weeks.

There are new orders, but they don’t come from Scrotus. Instead she’s stopped in the hallway outside the mess hall by a War Pup with a familiar and unwelcome request — the Organic Mechanic wants to see her.

Furiosa sighs. “In his lab?”

“Nah,” the Pup says, shaking his head. “He’s with the bloodbags.”

Even worse. She hates it there. Maybe the Mechanic’s figured that out and holding their meeting there is some sort of power move — she wouldn’t put it past him. Jack was a few steps ahead of her when she paused, and now she can see him hanging back as various War Boys and praetorians file past him. She’d call it eavesdropping but it seems too obvious.

“I’ll meet you at the Rig later,” she says, turning away, but she’s stopped by his hand on her arm. She turns back to see him right next to her, a worried look on his face. The combination of his touch and proximity sends a shiver of longing down her spine, but she keeps her face impassive. “Won’t take long.”

He glances around to make sure nobody else is listening in. “I thought you were done with this,” he says quietly.

“I am,” she says, and leaves him standing in the hallway, conscious of his gaze on her retreating back.

It’s rare that Furiosa has any reason to go into the room where the bloodbags are kept, and she’s glad for that. The place makes her sick — the cages with their miserable occupants, the overwhelming stench of iron and filth. She’s stuck to her guns about avoiding using them herself — hard not to feel disgusted by the practice when her own blood was drained as a child — but she worries that one day she’ll take a bad hit on the Fury Road and wake up to find some poor bastard has been drained for her. As with all blood spilt by the Citadel, it’s not given up willingly.

She braces herself and walks into the room with what she hopes will pass for confidence and justified irritation, trying not to look up at the prisoners. The Mechanic is at the other end of the room, hooking up a War Boy for a transfusion. The Boy’s neck is a mess of tumours and she wonders if this is his last shot, juicing himself up before he sends himself to Valhalla fighting the Snatchers. He’s got a few friends with him too, slapping him affectionately on the shoulders, and she feels a momentary flash of relief that he’s not alone.

“Praetorian Furiosa,” the Mechanic says, getting to his feet. “Good to see you.” She returns his false pleasantries with an impatient look, and he motions towards a side room. “We can speak in here.”

She follows him into the smaller chamber, ducking past a tattered curtain. It’s a storeroom, lined with shelves bearing various medical supplies. She waits for him to lean against the shelves before she speaks. “Our deal is over. I got you what you asked for.”

“So you did,” he says. “But I’ve got another job for you. I’m sure you remember our friend with the remarkable kidneys?”

“Our deal,” she says again, “is over.”

He grins. “I’d like to make a new deal.”

What he’d like isn’t her concern. Furiosa turns and lifts the curtain again, ready to walk out.

“I’d wait until you hear what I’m offering,” he says. “Little D.”

It’s like her world contracts all at once to a single point, like all the breath has been sucked out of her lungs. That moment of weakness on the stairwell after her promotion ceremony. He must have been holding onto this ever since, waiting.

Little D.

A name she never wanted to hear again.

Furiosa slowly lets the curtain fall and turns back to face the Organic Mechanic. He’s smirking back at her, certain he’s struck a nerve. If he wasn’t certain of her identity before, he is now. She should never have agreed to work with this monster. Should never have let her guard down by speaking to him any more than necessary. Maybe this is the real price she’ll pay for saving Jack’s life, and all the nonsense with Big Jilly was just extra.

She can’t go back to the vault with the Wives. She’ll slit her own throat before she lets it happen.

Or she could always slit his throat.

The Mechanic’s eyes flick to her hip as she draws her knife. His eyes darken, but he doesn’t lose the smirk. “Thought you might do that,” he says. “But there’s three War Boys right outside, and hundreds more who’ll come running once they call out. Do you really think you can kill me right here and walk out without anyone noticing?”

Right now, it’s very tempting to find out. But she doesn’t like her odds.

“I’m not going back,” she says. “Not to either of them.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” he says. “You’ve made a new life for yourself, and that’s fine. You can keep it if you want. I can see this suits you better than being a Wife anyway.” His grin widens. “Just get me what I need and I won’t tell a soul.”

Furiosa keeps her knife pointed at him. “What,” she hisses, “do you want?”

“Our friend with the kidneys,” he says again. “I’m sure you’ve heard his mates are back. Picking off scouting parties. Now we know where their camp is. I want you to raid it and bring me back some goodies. Call it the spirit of scientific inquiry.”

“Scrotus will be sending a war party.”

“Oh, Scrotus,” he snorts. “He’ll steam in like he always does and destroy everything. And they’ll hear him coming from miles away. These people aren’t idiots. I need someone with a bit more… subtlety.”

“I’ll get myself assigned to the war party. Smuggle something out.”

“No,” he says. “I need you to get a look at their setup before it gets smashed up, or before they pack up and leave like they did last time. If their boss is working on something tasty over there, I want to know.”

She glares at him. “That’s a suicide mission.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “Look where you’ve gotten yourself. You seem to me like someone who knows how to survive.”

Furiosa doesn’t reply.

“Do this one thing for me and that’s it,” the Mechanic says. “Keep the deal and I won’t say a word about who you really are.” He taps his heart. “On my honour.”

“Your honour is worth less than nothing,” she spits.

He shrugs. “I’ve said my terms. Accept them or don’t, but I think you’d rather keep your freedom.”

Adrenaline is coursing through her body as she considers her options. Fight her way out of the Citadel right now, her versus everyone else, or take her chances with the Snatchers. Either way she goes down swinging.

Slowly, Furiosa returns the knife to its sheath, her eyes still locked on the Mechanic. “You speak about this to anyone,” she says, “and you’ll wish I’d cut your throat right here in this room.”

Furiosa brushes past the curtain, rounds the corner into the bloodbag room, and almost slams right into Jack.

Of course he just had to follow her here. Judging by the look on his face, he heard the entire conversation. She opens her mouth to explain, but nothing comes out.

“Up top,” he says. “Right now.”

She’s never been to their clifftop hideaway during the daytime. Maybe dusk at a push, but never anything close to midday. It looks unfamiliar in the sunlight. Smaller.

They’ve broken their usual protocol by going there at the same time, walking through the halls of the Citadel in silence. She can see a muscle twitching in Jack’s jaw as he strides forward, can read the tension sitting heavy on his shoulders. She probably looks the same to him.

Once they’re at the oasis and she’s squinting slightly from the sun, he turns and looks at her, crossing his arms. “Furiosa. Tell me you’re not going to do what the Mechanic is asking.”

Furiosa doesn’t know how to reply. Doesn’t know how to explain, or if she even wants to. Instead she just shrugs.

“I’ll talk to him,” Jack says. “Get him to back off.”

“You can’t do that,” she says. “He knows things about me. About who I was.”

He furrows his brow. “He knows about your home?”

“No,” Furiosa says. “After that. You know how he came to the Citadel?”

“I wasn’t there, but I heard he was one of Dementus’s men. Came over after the Gastown treaty.” She sees his eyes widen slightly in understanding. “You said Dementus was the one who killed your mother. Was the Mechanic there?”

She nods. Jack takes a step towards her before stopping himself, then sighs. “I should have put that together. I’m sorry. You think he recognised you from that day?”

“It wasn’t just a day.” She can feel the words rising in her now, expressions of pain she’s only kept to herself for so long. “Dementus kept me around for a long time. Said I was his daughter. Called me ‘Little D’.” She spits the name out like a curse. “After Gastown, the Mechanic wasn’t the only one he traded away. I went too.”

Jack has moved closer while she’s been speaking, and she realises she’s trembling. But the words keep coming. “A healthy, full-life girl. Given to the Immortan.” Her voice cracks. “He put me in a vault, like I was some kind of treasure. With all of those other women. Do you know what it’s like for the Wives? I couldn’t let it be me, Jack. I couldn’t.”

He opens his arms to her, and she falls into them. She’s shaking now, but he holds her tight, his body warm and still, his breathing rhythmic. After a while she feels her own breathing slow to match his. She wants to hide, wants to sink into his chest and let the sound of his heartbeat drown the rest of the world out.

“I can’t go back,” she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’ll die before I go back.”

“You won’t,” he says. She feels one of his hands rise to softly stroke her hair, and she melts slightly under his touch. “We’ll figure this out.”

A horrible thought occurs to her. “I shouldn’t have told you. If the Immortan finds out you knew…”

“You can tell me anything you like.” He continues stroking her hair. “And he’s not going to find out. About any of it.” He pulls back slightly and looks her in the eyes. “Besides, if the Immortan tried to lock you up again, you really think I’d just stand back and let that happen?”

Looking at him now, feeling his hands holding her steady, Furiosa knows that he wouldn’t. He’d get himself killed, but he’d fight them tooth and nail first, and he’d do it for her.

“I said I’d get you home some day,” he says. “And I meant it.”

She takes a deep breath, then exhales and draws herself upright, starting to rebuild her armour.

“We’ll figure this out,” Jack says again. “Just let me think. We’ll find a way out of this.”

And despite the fear in her chest, she believes him.

Later on, she can’t believe she didn’t see it coming.

Furiosa is reloading the guns in the Rig’s cab when Jack appears at her shoulder. “Can you cover the kill switch reset today? I need to go see Scrotus.”

Here come the real orders then. She nods and watches as he walks off towards the stairwell. Enough time passes before he returns that not only has she finished reloading the weapons and resetting the kill switch, but she’s also finishing up supervising the War Boys as they restock the thundersticks. When he gets back, his mouth is set in a grim line. She gives him a questioning look.

“Can’t tell you here,” Jack says in a quiet voice, glancing back at the crew. “Target practice? I’ll meet you there.”

So she heads up to the cliffs with her rifle, picking off rats one by one while she waits for him to join her, wondering if he’s been waylaid by some other business, and that’s when she sees the trail of dust rising from the ground below: three pursuit cars in formation, heading off into the Wasteland.

And that’s when she realises he’s played her for a fool.

She slings the rifle over her shoulder and sprints down the stairs, barging past War Boys and rev-heads and blackthumbs and even one startled praetorian, until she bursts into the garage, breathing heavily. She stalks through the immense space looking from side to side, but she already knows she’s not going to find him.

Instead she runs into Craw, the young War Boy snapping to attention when he sees her rounding the side of the Rig. “Prae Furiosa!” he says. “You looking for Prae Jack? Just missed him. He rode out with the scouting party just now.”

“Where?” she says in a low voice, knowing what the answer will be.

“The Snatchers,” he says. “Prae Jack’s gone to find the Snatchers.”

Chapter Text

Prae Jack’s gone to find the Snatchers.

Furiosa is going to kill Jack for this, but first she needs to save his life.

All at once, the panic lifts, and she snaps into action. She turns back to Craw. “I need you to prep one of the convoy’s pursuit vehicles.”

Craw gives an apologetic grimace. “Prae Jack took them, sir.”

“Then get me one of the bikes. A quiet one. Load it up with a tarp and a spare tank of guzzoline.” The War Boy nods eagerly as she turns away and stalks back through the House of Holy Motors, her jaw clenched. She’ll need a few more things before she’s ready to go.

Her first stop is the armoury. The guard on duty doesn’t question her as she collects fresh cases of ammo for her rifle, her revolver and her shotgun — perks of being a praetorian. After a moment’s hesitation, she also picks up the nasty-looking knife that catches her eye and straps the sheath over her belt.

The guard clears his throat. “I think Rictus might have had his eye on that one, Praetorian.”

“I’ll bring it back,” she says, not bothering to look up as she brushes past him on her way out. There’s one more stop she needs to make.

As she expected, the Organic Mechanic is back in his lab when she appears in the doorway. He looks up, startled, then sets his face back in a knowing smirk. “So you had some time to think abou—”

“That vial you gave me before,” she says. “When Praetorian Jack was poisoned. I need more of it.”

“That’ll cost you,” he says. “Not the easiest thing to — oof!” She slams him into the wall and presses an arm against his neck. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to really put her weight into it, press down just a little harder and choke the life out of him, but that won’t get Jack back. Instead she fixes him with a stony glare.

“If you want this job done, I need it now.”

“Right,” the Mechanic gasps. “I get your point. Just…” She backs off and he slumps forward slightly, then hurries across the lab to pull out one of the drawers from a rusted cabinet. He rummages inside, then thrusts a pair of vials towards her. She snatches them from his hand wordlessly, leaving him there to catch his breath.

When she returns to the garage, Craw is waiting for her with the bike she requested, fully loaded. “Threw in a little something special for you, Prae Furiosa,” he says proudly as he lifts the flap of a saddlebag to reveal an explosive cargo of tin cans. “Grenades. Made fresh.” She gives him a nod of approval and watches as his face lights up.

“Good,” she says. “Now get me in the lift.”

Jack’s tracks are easy enough to follow — a path of tire treads across the Wasteland dirt, drawing her in. Furiosa isn’t sure how far behind she is. The treads look fresh enough, but she can’t see him in the distance. It’s already mid-afternoon and the relentless sun is beginning to dip slightly, so he must be fanging it to get most of the travelling out of the way before it gets too dark. Although at some point he’ll have to stop if he doesn’t want the sound of engines to give his approach away. There’s no sign of a sandstorm to throw them off this time.

The desert wind is tearing at her hair and slowly griming up her goggles with sand, but at least the scarf she’s pulled up over her nose is keeping most of the grit out of her mouth. She leans forward on the bike as if it’ll make it go faster. If she gets there and finds him dead, she’s going to… well, she doesn’t know what she’s going to do, but it’s going to involve an awful lot of raw but purposeful savagery.

As her eyes follow the tracks towards the horizon, she realises she’s truly alone out here. Not just alone, but with a motorbike, weapons and enough fuel to get her beyond the Citadel’s reach. She doesn’t have any food on her, but she’s gone a few days without eating before, and she could do it again if she needed to. Water would be a problem, but maybe she’d get lucky, find someone who’d be willing to barter some of her weapons for some aqua cola. This is what she’d wanted, back when she’d strapped herself to the bottom of the Rig with a stolen bike and a bag of pilfered vegetables. She could make a sharp turn right now and head east, see how far she could make it.

The promise she made to her mother all those years ago hangs in front of her like a mirage. Find her way home, whatever it takes. No more Organic Mechanic blackmailing her. No more Scrotus, no more Immortan Joe. Until now, she hadn’t thought she could just stroll out of the Citadel with a decent set of kit, but that’s exactly what she’s done. She’s got a real shot at this.

She can’t take it. Can’t make a break for freedom while Jack dies needlessly on her behalf. Even if luck went her way and she made it home alive, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself once she got there.

“Sorry, Ma,” she whispers, and drives straight on.

It’s almost sunset when she sees a glimmer up ahead — the remains of the day’s sunlight, reflecting off metal. Vehicles. Furiosa narrows her eyes and draws her pistol, unsure of what she’ll find at the end of the tracks. She slows down as she approaches, hoping to keep the noise of the bike down as much as she can, but she can’t hear anything but the engine and the howl of the wind against her ears.

This whole time, the tire tracks have shown three cars travelling single-file, a standard convoy formation. Now they suddenly split apart, and she sees them swerve and weave across the sand. Then the scorch marks appear — black stains on the ground, littered with shrapnel, and soon there are unfamiliar tracks merging into the tangle left by the Citadel’s vehicles. She sees the shredded remains of a car door, spiked hubcaps, a crumpled white and red body. The story of a battle written in the sand.

She follows the tracks anxiously as she crests a hill and sees the story’s conclusion: the wreckage of three pursuit vehicles, nestled at the bottom of a valley.

Furiosa’s first impulse is to barrel down the hill and get to the site as fast as she can, but instead she drops from the bike and presses her body low to the ground, unslinging her rifle from her back. Heart in her mouth, she pulls her dirty goggles up to her forehead, then settles her shoulder into the rifle and scans the scene for any signs of movement. Any signs of life.

She doesn’t see Jack, but given the rest of the situation, that’s a relief. The cars are in a bad way — one of them is flipped upside down, while the other two have come to rest in a V shape, their fenders crumpling into each other. There’s a mangled corpse a few metres away from the upside-down car — too burnt for her to tell if it was once a War Boy or a Snatcher — and another white figure slumps from the window of one of the other two vehicles, the head lolling at an unnatural angle.

The only sound is her own breathing. She runs her gaze along the surrounding terrain — no obvious hiding spots for an ambush. Furiosa gets to her feet and runs down the slope to the crash site, keeping her head low and her hands wrapped tightly around the rifle. She pushes past the smell of burnt flesh and spilled guzzoline to quickly check the insides of the cars. The two corpses turn out to belong to Crank and Cam, their lips painted with a mixture of blood and chrome. She circles the rest of the scene, but doesn’t find anyone else. If the Snatchers lost any of their own men in the battle, they must have taken the dead home with them.

There is no sign of Jack. She takes a deep breath and tries to still her racing thoughts. If he was dead, they would have left him here with the War Boys. Which means she has to believe he’s alive.

She’s going to get him back.

There are more tire tracks leading back up the opposite hill. She jogs up the trail left by the Snatchers, dropping into another crouch as she reaches the crest of the hill. The sun has dropped below the horizon while she was examining the wrecks, but even in the dusk she can make out the shapes of the cliffs rising towards the heavens, and the openings of caves set into the rock.

As she slings her rifle over her shoulder and runs back to her bike, Furiosa looks up at the first stars emerging in the darkening sky and prays she’s not too late.

It’s dark by the time Furiosa reaches the bottom of the cliffs. She had to take time to consider her approach — bringing the bike too close would definitely draw attention, and so would heading straight at the Snatcher camp by foot. Instead she ends up riding the bike in a long loop around to a spot further up the cliffs, where she stashes it in a crevice and throws the sand-coloured tarp over the top. After that she jogs back towards the cave entrances, sticking as close to the rock face as possible and keeping an eye out for guards. She catches the occasional glimpse of movement up above and presses herself into the cliffside, but the night is in her favour and they seem to have their eyes set on the distance.

Eventually she can see the tire tracks running down the hill. They lead to a small encampment at the base of the cliffs. She drops into a crouch in the shadows to survey the area. Someone’s set up a rough stockade of scrap metal spikes, but the area inside is lit and she can see glimpses of it through the gaps in the fence — a mixture of tents and vehicles. There are guards here too — mostly pacing around the edge of the camp, but there’s a makeshift tower made of scaffolding that peeks over the edge of the spikes, and she can see a solitary figure standing at the top, with the silhouette of a rifle across their back. The sounds remind her of nights in Dementus’s camps as a child — rough voices laughing and arguing over a card game, the clatter of cooking pots. As she looks on, she can make out the shape of another figure walking through the camp and vanishing into the side of the cliff. An entrance to the caves.

If she’s going to find Jack, she needs to get in there. She takes a slow breath. Be invisible. She can do this — she just needs to think of what it was like when she was smaller, of all the tricks she used to sneak around the Citadel between escaping the biodome and blending in with the treadmill rats. Keep to the darkness, watch your footwork, always know where the next hiding spot is. Luckily her clothes are all pretty dark as it is, and she still has the praetorian facepaint to cover her forehead. She tucks her hair into the back of her jacket and pulls her well-worn scarf back over her nose. It’s as close to becoming a shadow as she can get.

Furiosa waits until she’s certain the guard in the watchtower is looking the other way, then sprints to the edge of the stockade, keeping her head low. Once she reaches the edge, she moves steadily along until she finds a gap that looks big enough to squeeze through. Through the gap she can see a tarp billowing over some sort of truck, but no people. Whoever built this must have been thinking about deterring a vehicular assault, as the spikes jut out at just the right angle to skewer a foolhardy driver, but it’s easy enough for someone her size to slip between them. She moves into the camp as quietly as the night wind and immediately ducks under the tarp.

The truck is high enough off the ground that she can crawl under it, and she wriggles under the chassis on her belly, taking care not to snag her rifle on the machinery. As the tarp ripples in the breeze, she gets a view of the path to the cave entrance.

She can plot her route there, like the stepping stones she used to jump between to cross the Green Place’s river. Narrow gaps between cars. Shadows behind stacks of supplies. There’s one dodgy stretch where she’ll need to just leg it along the inside of the stockade and hope nobody’s looking, but she thinks she can make it.

And luckily the Snatchers don’t seem particularly alert, the ones on sentry duty aside. Most of them are busy doing the usual sort of things Wasteland gangs do at night, like arguing over booty and who gets to chow down on the least scrawny rat they’ve managed to catch that day. None of them seem to suspect that there’s already an intruder inside their camp.

The next stepping stone is a dark corner behind a stack of heavily-stained luggage. The guards are looking away and she can’t see anyone else nearby — this is her window. Furiosa takes a deep breath to steel herself, then rolls out from under the tarp, scrambles quickly to her feet and darts across the small stretch of open ground. She sinks into the welcoming shadows and waits for the sound of someone raising the alarm, but it doesn’t come. One step closer.

It takes her a few minutes to make her way across the camp like this, doing her best to keep her head down and her footfalls soft. She scrapes her calf on a spike as she slips between two battered V8s and winces as she sinks to the ground, hoping nobody overheard her rough inhale of pain. She knows she should also worry about the injury getting infected, given the thick layer of rust on the spike, but there are too many more immediate concerns for her to think about that.

One of her last stops before she reaches the cave entrance is hiding between a tent and the stockade. She doesn’t realise until she’s within touching distance of the fabric that there are people on the other side of it — she drops into a crouch, stilling her breath entirely, as a voice suddenly calls from inside. “Oi, Fosfo! Have you been in my bags again?”

She hears footsteps approaching, but doesn’t see the walker. “Like fuck I have!” a second voice says. “You’re wiggin’. Gone sand crazy.”

“I’m not wiggin’. I took those gnashers off one of them Citadel boys earlier and now they’re gone.”

The voice that must belong to Fosfo snorts. “What makes you think it was me who took ‘em?”

“Who else ‘round here needs new teeth as much as you?” the first Snatcher yells. “You’ve got a smile like a lizard’s ribcage!”

This must hit home, because Fosfo sounds decidedly angrier. “You take that back, Tungs. I got good teeth.”

“You got my good teeth, ‘cause you stole ‘em!”

The next noise Furiosa hears sounds an awful lot like Tungs getting punched in the face. She scrambles out of the way as the tent shudders backwards, only just dodging the figure smacking into the other side of it. But then the fight moves in the other direction and she hears the sound of the two brawling Snatchers spilling out into the rest of the camp, drawing appreciative whoops from onlookers. It means more attention on this corner of the camp, but hopefully this will be enough of a distraction to get her where she needs to go. She chances a look around the side of the tent and sees a guard walking away from the cave entrance towards the fight — whether to break it up or bet on the winner, she doesn’t know. She also really doesn’t want to think about whose teeth they’re fighting over. She needs to get Jack and get the hell out of here.

There’s a sudden crash of metal on metal, followed immediately by a pained scream. The guard breaks into a jog and passes out of sight. She takes a quick look around the side of the fence and sees only backs turned towards her. Nothing for it but to run.

Furiosa breaks from cover and legs it for the shelter of the cave, praying nobody else is standing right inside it. She’s only out in the open for a handful of heartbeats before she rounds the corner of the entrance and ducks into the shadows, slamming her back against the wall so her body isn’t silhouetted against the light of the camp. There’s nobody immediately visible inside, just a narrow stone corridor. Behind her, the noise of the fight continues on unabated. She’s made it in.

It hits her that what she’s doing is completely insane and it’ll be a miracle if she gets out of here alive. But she’s already made it this far, so she silently draws Rictus’s knife and tiptoes further into the cave.

The place is nothing like the stone hallways of the Citadel. Those have been hand-hewn over time, the rough corners chipped off and edged with pipes, ducts and other man-made tools. But this cave is raw and natural, with none of the Citadel’s signs of established settlement — less of a hallway and more of a tunnel. The floor is uneven and there are no torches mounted here, so she creeps forward slowly, tentatively feeling her way through the dim space and hoping she doesn’t break an ankle. The tunnel curves upwards as it winds through the cliff. There’s some light reflecting from ahead, and she works her way towards it, keeping one hand braced on the dank stone wall.

Eventually the tunnel opens up into a lit space — not quite a cavern, but definitely something passing for a large chamber. She hangs back in the shadows, still pressed against the wall of the tunnel, and looks out into the room. The space is broken up by natural pillars of stone, as well as rocky spikes reaching towards each other from the floor and ceiling. The air feels wet and musty, and she can hear an irregular dripping noise echoing from somewhere. But her attention is immediately drawn by the bored-looking guard standing near the opposite edge of the chamber, and behind him, a pair of figures slumped against the spindly stone columns. One with a bald white head and bare white chest, and one all in brown leather. His head is bowed forward, but she can just make out a glimpse of a grease-black forehead under the tousled hair.

Her heart leaps. She’s found Jack. Now she just needs to get him and the War Boy out of here, assuming they’re all still breathing.

But first, the guard. She fights the urge to just rush him and get to Jack as quickly as possible. If they’re all going to sneak out, they can’t have someone raising the alarm. She tightens her grip around the knife. She can’t be seen until the last moment — she needs a distraction.

As she hangs back in the shadows of the tunnel, the War Boy starts coughing. The guard turns his head briefly to look at the source of the sound, and she darts across the room to the nearest column. If she can just make her way across the chamber like this, she can get close enough to the guard, but there’s still some distance to go. Furiosa casts her eyes around the cave floor — maybe she can throw something, direct the guard’s attention elsewhere. She picks up a pebble and gives it an experimental toss at the opposite end of the room, then peeks around the edge of the corner to see the guard’s reaction.

Sure enough, the guard is looking towards the spot where the rock landed. Jack, however, is looking right at her.

An entire silent conversation passes between them in that brief second before she ducks back into the shadows. Jack’s first expression is one of disbelief, followed by a mixture of hope and fear. She shoots a pointed look at the guard and then tucks her head back behind the pillar, trusting him to get the message. Cover me.

Sure enough, a moment later she hears Jack’s voice. “Hey, you there. Hey!”

“Shut it,” the guard says.

“I just want some water,” Jack says. “Just a sip, please. I’ll trade you for it.”

“What’s a smeg like you got to trade? We searched you all when you came in.”

“I’m serious,” Jack continues. “It’s in my pocket. They missed it, because it’s only small, but it’s valuable for someone who knows what they’re doing. Looking at your face now, I can tell you’re a smart man.”

That’s her cue. Furiosa looks cautiously out from behind the pillar to see the guard’s face is indeed turned towards Jack. Slowly she advances into the open, her footsteps delicate among the debris littering the cave floor, not daring to breathe.

The guard leans forward. “Oh yeah? You trying to trick me to come closer to you?”

“I’m tied up. What am I going to be able to do to you? You can just reach into the pocket yourself and grab it. Just as long as you give me the water.”

“Which pocket?”

“You promise?” Jack says, his face giving no clue that she’s almost halfway across the room. “I’m so thirsty.”

The guard nods. “Yeah, mate. Just tell us the pocket.”

Jack gives a slightly performative sigh. She knows him well enough to recognise all the tells of his acting, but clearly the Snatcher doesn’t. “It’s a hidden one, stitched under the shoulderpad. Please, the water.”

A high giggle creeps out of the guard’s mouth. “Or how about I just take your treasure and drink that water myse—”

Furiosa slits his throat, and the man crumples to the ground with a horrible gurgle. He grabs briefly for his throat and then lies still. She steps quickly over the body and rushes to cut the bounds tying Jack’s hands behind the pillar.

As soon as the rope gives way to her knife, he pulls his hands back in front of him, shrugging his shoulders and rubbing at his wrists with a wince. She wordlessly unslings the rifle from her own shoulders and passes it to him, along with a knife she pulls from her boot, and he gives her a grateful nod. They’ve got a lot to talk about, but it can wait.

The War Boy — she can see now it’s Runt — is unconscious. He’s covered in dust and grime, with a trickle of blood running from his mouth, evidence of his earlier coughing. His body looks pretty battered, but at least he doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding from anywhere else.

“They gassed us,” Jack whispers. “Got us cornered in a valley and threw some sort of smoke grenades in through the window.” He glances towards the tunnel she came in through. “Did you see any of the others?”

“Dead,” she says bluntly.

He grimaces slightly and crouches behind Runt to start cutting his ropes. Furiosa kneels in front of the War Boy to catch him in case he falls forward, but instead he wakes up as his arms come free, his eyes lighting up when he sees her. “Prae Fur—!” She claps a hand over his mouth and holds a finger over her lips, and he nods, slowly getting to his feet.

“Did you see where they took your weapons?” she asks.

Jack shakes his head. “Woke up in here. Which way out?”

“I came in through the camp, but all three of us aren’t going out that way without being seen.” She frowns, thinking, then looks towards the other end of the chamber, which narrows again into another tunnel. “I saw some more cave openings higher in the cliff. Maybe if we keep going up, we can find another way out. Escape over the rocks.”

“You’re the boss,” he says. She shoots him a look, not sure if he’s joking or not, but his expression seems sincere. She turns to Runt, who nods.

Furiosa takes a deep breath and adjusts her grip on her knife. “Then let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Just as she guessed, the tunnel snakes further up into the cliffside. Furiosa leads their little party up into the darkness, Jack right at her shoulder and Runt bringing up the rear. The War Boy stumbles on the uneven floor a few times and Jack has to reach back and catch him, but they make steady progress.

It doesn’t take them long to find the source of the light ahead. She holds up a fist to pause the rest of the group, then creeps along the edge of the tunnel to where it opens up into another chamber. She draws her scarf back over her nose to hide her face and cautiously looks out into the unknown.

Jack hears her gasp and is at her shoulder almost immediately after. She feels his hand squeezing her arm as he joins her in looking at the room, a quiet oath slipping from his mouth.

The new chamber is larger than the last one, and has been set up as a makeshift laboratory. Tarps have been rigged up against the ceiling, funnelling any condensation from the dank stone surface out towards another exit on the opposite side of the room. There’s a foldable metal table in the centre of the chamber, an array of scalpels neatly lined up on one edge. The walls are ringed with crates which have been stacked and turned on their sides, serving as rough shelves. Inside are more vials, jars and ancient plastic bottles than she’s ever seen before. There’s some sort of alchemical setup with a portable gas stove and assorted beakers and flasks, one of which is held over the flames with a metal clamp, the liquid inside simmering away. Next to it is an unfamiliar metal box with a cylinder set into the middle and a rough crank on the side that looks like a newer addition. She can see multiple boxes of rare commodities, some of which she’s only seen once or twice out in the Wasteland — hypodermic needles, plastic tubing, rubber gloves — and even more machines so unfamiliar she can’t even begin to guess at their purpose. The Organic Mechanic would be in heaven.

But what draws her eye isn’t the supplies, but the test subjects.

They’re in cages at the far end of the room. Three metal cells, not attached to the stone walls but clamped to each other. One of the cells is empty, but the other two each contain a crumpled body. The white clay has almost entirely worn off, but she recognises them from the scars on their skeletal backs.

“Fucking hell,” Jack whispers. “Sixer and Keero.”

How long has it been since they lost track of Sixer in that sandstorm? Months. She’d thought he must be long dead, and she thought the same of Keero just yesterday. This is worse.

Furiosa quickly crosses the room to the cages. Neither of the War Boys are moving. Sixer is almost unrecognisable — his body looks skeletal and distorted, covered in strange growths. “Keero!” she whispers furiously. “Sixer!” Behind her she can hear Runt make an exclamation of horror. She wriggles her arm between the bars of the central cage and just about reaches Sixer’s outstretched ankle. She taps it gently at first, then shakes it, hoping anxiously for some sort of response, but his leg is limp under her hand.

She looks up to see Jack standing over her. “Are they dead?”

“Sixer’s not breathing.” She withdraws her hand and reaches for Keero next, shaking his shoulder. “Keero is, but he’s burning up. We have to get him out of here. Can’t just leave him like this.”

“Can we carry him?” Jack says. “How did you get here?”

She presses her lips together. “Just a bike. But we can…” Her voice trails off as she suddenly feels Keero’s shoulder shift under her hand. “Keero?”

The War Boy groans and slowly rolls over to face her. For the first time, she notices his neck is hugely swollen, his eyes yellow and bleary. He strains to open his mouth, dried spit sticking his lips together. “You.”

“Me,” she says, and stands to start undoing the clamps securing the bars of the cage.

Keero gazes up at her with a weak smile, his eyes looking past hers. “I found him,” he croaks. “Now I am awaited.”

Furiosa finishes the first clamp and moves on to the second. Jack joins her to work on the bars of the cage. Meanwhile, Runt crouches next to them, looking at Keero with concern. “Come on,” he says. “Get up, Keero. You’ve got to get up.”

“Nobody deserves to die in a cage.” The words come out more vehemently than Furiosa expected, and Jack glances at her. She looks away, tearing the loosened clamp off with renewed vigour while Runt keeps up a constant patter of encouragement. Before too long, they’re able to pry the front of the cage loose and drag the War Boy out. Keero drags his knees on the ground, trying and failing to stand up on his own. Suddenly he twists and retches up a string of black bile, which spatters on the floor next to Jack’s boot. As he turns, she can see the back of his head boasts a fresh ladder of sutures. Her own stomach twists. It’s evil, this place. What’s been done to these people. And there’s no doubt in her mind that if she hadn’t come, they would have done it to Jack.

It’s only when she hears the sound of a gun cocking behind them that Furiosa realises they failed to leave anyone on watch.

“Weapons on the ground,” a voice says. “Turn around slowly, hands up.”

They’ve got no choice but to comply. Furiosa places her knife on the cave floor, then unslings the bag of Craw’s explosives from her shoulder and carefully lowers it to rest between the cage and her feet. Next to her, Jack does the same with the rifle. She exchanges a steely look with him as they slowly turn to face the enemy, hoping he gets the message that she’s not planning on going quietly. When she does lock eyes with their captor, however, it’s not the sort of face she expected to see.

There are three Snatchers standing there watching them, all toting firearms, clothed in the usual dark robes and masks. But in their middle is a weathered old woman with a round face that reminds Furiosa of a shrivelled apple. Her grey hair is pulled back in a tight low bun, and she wears a long, tatter-hemmed coat in a colour that looks like it may once have passed for white. A delicate set of wire-rimmed eyeglasses hang from a chain around her neck. She’s not armed, at least not visibly, but it’s clear from her proud posture that she’s the one in charge here. The woman looks at Furiosa with a soft smile, but her eyes are cold.

“Well,” she says. “You’re new.”

Furiosa keeps her hands still and stares back at her, silent. Behind her, Keero slumps back to the floor, moaning. “Get up!” Runt whispers again.

One of the Snatchers snarls at him. “You speak only when the Farmacyst asks you!”

The Farmacyst. Furiosa wonders if this is her lab — keeping innocents in cages and experimenting on them seems like the sort of cruelty that gets people into leadership positions out in the Wasteland. She’s determined not to end up as one of those experiments, but all she can do right now is wait for an opening.

Jack, however, is more willing to speak and less willing to follow Snatcher orders. “What have you done to them?”

The same man steps forward threateningly, but the Farmacyst holds up a hand, and he stops. She stares Jack down, a smug look on her face. “I don’t have to justify my work to you Citadel rats. Superstitious fools, worshipping your Immortan Joe like some kind of god. Everything I do here is in the pursuit of science.”

“Torturing people?” Jack says.

“My work will save lives,” she says. “Make humanity stronger, smarter, so we might have dominion over the world again, instead of scraping out this pitiful existence. And I’m already seeing results. But there are processes that must be followed. Clinical trials. Many of my own disciples have volunteered, of course, but I needed more subjects. So isn’t it fortunate that you’ve joined us?” She smirks and runs her eyes over Furiosa. “This one looks healthy. Maybe the side effects won’t be as extreme for you. Then again, maybe they’ll be worse.”

This time it’s Jack who steps forward and Furiosa who holds out an arm to stop him. She rests her hand on his chest briefly, feeling its rapid rise and fall, and gives her head the tiniest shake. Not yet. The Farmacyst laughs.

“Step away from the cages.” The white-coated woman nods towards another corner of the room blocked in by rusted filing cabinets, and one of the Snatchers jerks his rifle in that direction for added emphasis.

Furiosa and Jack edge slowly across the room towards the cabinets. She shoots a quick glance towards the room’s two doorways as she walks, but the odds of making it to either without taking a bullet seem impossible. Runt reaches for Keero, but the ailing War Boy writhes out of his grasp and curls up on his stomach, at first groaning in protest, then lashing out with a weak kick. Runt looks up helplessly, clearly not wanting to hurt his friend any more than necessary.

The woman sighs and flicks her hand towards the corner. “Go with the others.” She nods back to one of the Snatcher henchmen. “You, go deal with him.”

Runt skulks across the cave to where Furiosa and Jack are standing. The three of them wait there with their hands raised again, watching as the Snatcher approaches Keero. Furiosa glances at Jack out of the corner of her eye and sees his jaw clenching.

The Snatcher gives Keero a rough kick in the side with his foot. “Move, snot-rag.” Keero groans again but stays on his stomach, his arms folded under him. The man kicks him again, this time more viciously. “Move!”

“Please,” Jack says. “Just let me—”

“Shut it!” the Snatcher barks. A second one leaves the Farmacyst’s side and crosses over to the cages, then slams his foot down on Keero’s knee. The War Boy cries out in pain, and Furiosa has to stop Jack from moving forward again. She can hear Runt on her other side muttering under his breath, still urging Keero to get up. She’s thinking the same thing herself — despite the bad start she and Keero had, she doesn’t want to see him go down like this. He deserves a better fate.

As the first Snatcher brings his boot crashing into the War Boy’s ribs again, the Farmacyst sighs. “Pathetic. Next time I won’t waste such high doses on such a weak specimen.” The third Snatcher grins and begins crossing the cave to join in with the beating.

Keero raises his head slowly and looks up — not at the men standing over him, but across the room to Furiosa. His chapped lips part into a blissful smile.

“Witness… me!”

As he pulls his hand out from under his body to reveal one of the explosive cans clutched in his fingers, Furiosa just about has time to tackle Jack behind the cabinets.

Then Keero slams his fist into the ground, and all hell breaks loose.

The explosion hits so hard that Furiosa isn’t certain at first if she’s alive or dead. She can just about remember pressing Jack to the floor with her body and bracing her hands over her head, then there’s a colossal noise like the Citadel itself falling on top of them, and then darkness.

When she regains consciousness, it’s to an overwhelming ringing in her ears and an enormous weight on her back and legs. She struggles to take a breath and inhales a mouthful of dust instead, making her cough painfully. As she tries to lift her arms, she becomes aware of something moving underneath her. Jack, twisting so he can reach up to touch her, pressing his lips to her ear. Even though she can feel his breath on her skin, she hears his voice like it’s coming from far away. “Fury. Fury!” She tries to say something back, but can hardly hear her own voice either — whatever noise she makes just feels like a groan in her throat.

She still can’t see, but at least she can feel Jack’s hands. Her body is pinning his down, but he’s managed to reach her left wrist, and she can feel his fingertips pressing into the skin — checking her pulse, maybe? He’s still talking, but she can’t make out what he’s saying. After a moment his hand shifts and she can feel his thumb stroking the inside of her palm. It’s a small but welcome distraction from whatever is weighing her down from above, something cold and heavy. She can smell dust and blood, and hopes it’s not her own. Maybe she’ll just close her eyes for a while, since she can’t see anything. She’s so tired, and it would be so nice to just rest.

Jack pinches her hand, hard. She groans again, and once again his thumb strokes her palm — an apology. Furiosa understands: he needs her to stay awake. Inviting as the darkness feels right now, giving into it would be the death of her. Somehow, they need to get out. She makes another attempt to move her right arm, and immediately sucks in more dust as she inhales from the pain. Something is broken. The pressure of Jack’s thumb increases again in response, and she curls her fingers around to brush against his.

Suddenly she can feel the weight on her legs shifting, then lifting away. Shortly after, the pressure on her back lifts as well, and she rolls to the side, gasping eagerly for breath even as the nerves in her right arm scream with pain. A small amount of light breaks through, illuminating Jack’s face next hers — it’s covered in dust, a smear of blood near his hairline, but his eyes are bright, his brow furrowed in concern. His hand moves up to brush her hair from her face, and she can just about read his lips: “Stay with me, Fury. Time to go.”

Furiosa looks up and sees Runt crouching next to them, hand still braced on one of the filing cabinets. That must have been what was pinning her down, but it’s also what shielded them from the force of the blast. Behind him she can see a haze of wreckage, firelight flickering through the smoke.

There’s no point asking about Keero, who has obviously vaporised himself, and hopefully the Snatchers along with him. The story of his historic death will be a big hit back at the Citadel, if the rest of them can get back alive to tell it.

Jack slowly gets to his feet. She sees him wince as he puts his weight onto one ankle, but aside from that and the blood on his forehead, he seems mostly intact. He reaches down and carefully pulls her up by her left arm while she does her best to keep the broken right one close to her side. Luckily she still has Jack’s Apache revolver strapped to her left shoulder. She reaches awkwardly for it with her left hand, but Jack realises what she’s trying to do and unpacks it for her, pressing the weapon into her palm. She flicks out the knife and nods.

They step out from their corner into the rest of the chamber, Furiosa leaning on Jack’s shoulder and Runt leading the way. The lab has been absolutely destroyed. The fronts of the filing cabinets have been partially blown off, leaving a mixture of shredded paper and ashes to drift through the air. A few scraps of the tarps still hang from the ceiling, swaying gently in the smoke. The operating table is tipped over and the glass equipment is entirely smashed. The source of the fire turns out to be the burner from the alchemical set-up, but the flames are now spreading from one box of supplies to another, creeping closer and closer to the smashed crates of spilled chemicals. Furiosa doesn’t know what will happen when the fire reaches them, but it probably won’t be anything good.

As for the Snatchers, she can see the remains of them spread across the floor. The two that had been right next to Keero are unrecognisable, but she can see the third man lying under a pile of fallen rocks, his neck at an unnatural angle. Runt shoves some of the rocks off the corpse until he finds the man’s shotgun. He holds it out to Jack at first, who shakes his head, then turns it in his own hands experimentally. There’s no sign of the Farmacyst at first, but then she notices a scrap of once-white fabric peeking out from a pile of rubble. Keero’s revenge.

Jack looks towards the entrance they came in from and shakes his head. The tunnel looks to have partially caved in, but there’s nothing on the other side for them but a lot of very angry Snatchers. She jerks her head towards the other exit, he nods, and together they start picking their way through the wreckage, skirting around the expanding fire. All three of them duck low to avoid the worst of the smoke, which makes them cough and their eyes water.

Suddenly Jack freezes. At first Furiosa thinks he must have heard something, but then he darts towards the fire and snatches something from the detritus. As he turns back to her, she sees he’s grabbed the metal box she noticed earlier, the one with the cylinder and the hand crank. She raises her eyebrows at him in disbelief. “For the Mechanic,” he mutters, before once again offering his arm for her to lean on.

They’re almost at the exit when something suddenly snags her ankle. She instinctively reaches out to break her fall and screams in pain as her broken right arm takes the weight of her body against it. Jack yells something and she looks back to see the Farmacyst emerging from under one of the fallen tarps, her glasses smashed and her coat in shreds. She’s got a knife in one hand, another of those nasty blades with the narrow channel running down the length, and her lips are moving rapidly in some sort of rant that Furiosa still can’t hear. Furiosa kicks out frantically at the woman, her boot crashing against her shoulder, but she can’t find purchase and the Farmacyst keeps coming, swinging the blade towards her.

Jack brings the metal box down on the Snatcher leader’s head, and she crumples to the ground instantly. The three of them stare at the body for a second before Jack hauls Furiosa back to her feet. As they stagger into the tunnel, the spreading flames cast long shadows ahead of them.

Heading upwards again is difficult. It’s dark, the floor is still uneven, and rising smoke from the lab fire forces them to stay low. Of the three of them, the seemingly indestructible Runt is in the best shape, and presses forward with his new shotgun in hand, but both Furiosa and Jack find themselves regularly leaning against the tunnel walls for support.

A few more sounds are finding their way through the ringing of Furiosa’s ears — notably the sound of another explosion, which she guesses must be the fire reaching the shattered vials of chemicals. The smoke soon becomes increasingly acrid, but she can only hope it’s putting the rest of the Snatchers off pursuing them. She can also feel a breeze drawing the smoke upwards, so there must be some way out at the end of the tunnel, even though it currently feels endless.

Runt stumbles back down the tunnel towards them, and she can just about make out his voice. He sounds excited. “Not long to go, Prae Jack, Prae Furiosa. I see the moonlight up ahead!”

They press on with renewed determination and suddenly they’re out under an open sky, the smoke billowing out into the open. Furiosa staggers a few steps away from the cave mouth and leans over, bracing her left hand on her knee as she gulps fresh air into her burning lungs. They’re on a narrow ledge of the cliff, far above the Snatcher camp. The camp itself looks to be in total disarray — many of the marauders seem to have gone inside towards the lab, and the ones that remain are running frantically back and forth, shouting angrily to each other. She also spots a single dead body lying near the centre of the camp — the loser of the fight over the teeth, presumably.

Jack rests a hand on her left shoulder and gives it a squeeze. She tilts her head to the side and presses her cheek against the back of his fingers, wishing she could just let go — crawl into his arms and sleep for days. Feel his hands running through her hair again. But they’re not out of the woods yet, and as always, survival comes first. She wonders briefly if Runt has noticed the way they’re touching each other, but right now she’s too tired to care.

Furiosa takes one last deep breath and straightens up. Jack gives her a questioning look and she nods. Time to get the hell out of here.

The narrow ledge they’re standing on carries along the cliff face, and they decide to follow it. She keeps expecting to find a guard, but nobody appears — maybe they were one of the men that ambushed them down in the lab. Runt leads the way again, still cradling the shotgun, with Jack and Furiosa close behind him. Jack is still carrying the metal box under one arm, despite the blood dripping from one corner. She hopes that’s enough to satisfy the Organic Mechanic, because that’s all he’s getting.

The ledge grows more and more slim until they barely have room to put one foot next to the other. Jack carefully lowers the box to the ground, then looks up towards the top of the cliff and runs his hand over the rock experimentally, hooking his fingertips over little ridges and bumps. “There’s another ledge above and the angle’s not too steep. I think this might be climbable.” He looks back towards Furiosa. “I’ll carry you.”

“I can do it,” she says, knowing immediately that she can’t. Not with her arm in its current state. He gives her a look that she knows well, and she huffs her assent.

Jack turns to Runt and gestures at the metal box. “Can you strap this to your back and follow us up?”

“Yes, Prae Jack.” The War Boy is already unbuckling one of the tool-belts from his waist.

“Right,” Jack says, looking back at Furiosa. “You ready?” She nods, and he sinks into a crouch, one knee on the rock and his hands gripping the cliff-face. “Hop on. Just wrap your legs around my waist and your arm around my shoulder, and don’t let go.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she tucks her weapon into her pocket and climbs awkwardly onto his back, tucking her knees around his torso and slipping her arm over the top of his shoulder. “I don’t need instructions,” she mutters grumpily into his ear. “I have had a piggyback ride before.” She feels his shoulders shake slightly with a suppressed laugh as he stands up, and then he begins to climb.

Furiosa hooks her ankles together in front of Jack’s stomach and presses herself close to his back, trying not to throw him off balance. He climbs slowly but steadily, and when he accidentally jostles her injured arm, she does her best not to cry out, but gets a muffled “sorry” from him anyway. She can see where the cliff slopes upwards to the next ledge — fortunately it’s not a massive distance, maybe the height of three men.

At one point she feels him suck in a breath of pain as he moves his foot to a new hold. “Your ankle,” she whispers into his ear.

“It’s holding,” he says through gritted teeth. “Hang tight.”

Eventually he reaches one hand up to the cusp of the ledge, then the other, and then he’s scrambling up onto flatter ground. Furiosa clambers off Jack’s back as he swings his legs up onto the rocky platform and sinks down on his hands and knees, breathing raggedly. She didn’t know he was such a good climber, but it makes sense, given how he discovered their cliffside oasis. She wonders if he’s ever gotten the chance to climb a tree — probably be good at that too. Below them, she can hear Runt huffing and puffing as he makes his own way up, although judging by some of the oaths she hears, he’s finding it slow going.

Furiosa gets to her feet to look down at how the War Boy is getting on, but as she rises, a glint of metal catches her eye. She barely has a split second to recognise the form of the dark-cloaked Snatcher guard stepping out of the shadows with a knife, and then he’s right on top of them.

But she gets on top of him first. Furiosa launches herself over Jack’s slumped form and slams the full weight of her left shoulder into the cloaked man, knocking him backwards into the face of the cliff. The man staggers but stays upright, swinging the knife towards her, and she grabs his knife hand by the wrist, her feet skidding on the stony floor as she strains to hold the blade back from her neck. The man snarls at her and she responds by smashing her forehead into his nose. She can hear Jack scrambling to his feet behind her. “Left pocket!” she grunts, and almost immediately she feels his hand pull the Apache revolver from her trousers. The gunshot rings out next to her ear and the man topples to the ground with a hole in his forehead, the knife clattering on the stone next to him.

She leans back against the cliff, her chest heaving. Jack looks back at her, wide-eyed and breathing hard. A close thing, but they’re one step closer to escaping.

Suddenly he rushes forward, reaching towards her. “Your neck!”

Furiosa brings her hand up to her neck and finds the source of the pain. Her fingertips come away red. She must not have kept the Snatcher’s knife away entirely after all. She looks down at the blade on the floor, at the groove carved into its side running from hilt to tip, a tip still wet with her own blood and something else.

Oh.

She looks back up at Jack, who is now very close, gripping her shoulders. Her knees buckle and she slumps forward, her cheek pressing into his chest. It’s fast-acting, whatever this is. Her legs slip out from under her and Jack folds himself around her, both of them sinking to the ground. Everything’s suddenly spinning, and so warm.

Mustering the last of her energy, she drags her hand up to tap the pocket at the front of her jacket. “The vials,” she mumbles, hoping they’re somehow still intact. “The Mechanic. He gave it to me before… when you were sick.”

Her hand drops, and Furiosa looks up at Jack’s panicked face. His mouth is moving, but she can’t hear the words, and her eyes drift past him to the many stars filling the sky. They’re beautiful — why isn’t he looking at them too? She could tell him so many stories about them, so many secrets. So many stars, and then darkness.

Chapter Text

She’d forgotten how good grass feels on bare feet. Fresh and cool, slightly ticklish. But soft for running on, or for practicing cartwheels, or for lying on her back and watching the breeze coax glimpses of sunlight from the leaves above. Much nicer than too-hot sand, or rock, or metal grates. Now she remembers, and it feels wonderful.

She’s lying in a clearing now, grass reaching for the sky around her, the wind ruffling her hair. Nearby she can hear the sound of bees doing their daily rounds, carrying pollen from flower to flower. She has chores to do as well, but for now she wants to just lie here, enjoy the moment before her mother appears and sends her back to work.

There’s a voice somewhere. At first she thinks it’s the wind, but then she realises it must be a person. Not her mother — someone else. But who? She closes her eyes to give space to her other senses, but she’s distracted by the feel of her linen smock under her hands, the call of a singing honeyeater somewhere in the trees. The birds here make such beautiful music. It’s been too long since she heard that sound.

The voice is closer now, calling her name. “Fury.” She opens her eyes.

Jack is there in the clearing with her, kneeling next to her, her hand in his. She smiles back at him. “Jack.”

“Fury,” he says. “Come back.”

“I am back.” She looks up to the sky and realises it’s nighttime. When was the sun replaced with all these stars? “Jack,” she says again. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Jack says nothing, just squeezes her hand. She wants to reach up to him, press her fingers to his jaw and clean that sad expression from his face, but her limbs feel too heavy against the grass.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. “You’ll like it here.” A laugh bubbles out from her lips. “You can climb a tree.”

He leans closer, until she can feel his breath on her cheek, his voice gentle in her ear. “Come back to me.”

“Stay,” Furiosa says, trying again to reach for him, and this time her fingertips just graze the stubble of his jaw before he pulls away. She sits up to follow him, but then he’s backing away from her into the trees, and she watches as they part to let him through, the grass under his feet giving way to barren sand. “Jack,” she calls. “Stay!”

But he doesn’t speak, just keeps walking back away from her with a look of desperation in his eyes. The wind is rising around him, stripping the leaves from the branches one by one, sweeping little dunes of dust up around the tree trunks. She sits back on her heels and yells his name. “Jack!”

The grass beneath her feet is unharmed, still green and lush, and she can still hear the honeyeater warbling somewhere in the woods. But every second she waits, he gets further away.

Furiosa digs her fingers into the earth one last time, feels the moist dirt under her nails and the grass tickling her palms. And then she rises to her feet and runs back into the Wasteland.

For once, Furiosa doesn’t wake up with a jolt, surfacing into wakefulness like she’s been holding her breath underwater for too long. This time it takes her longer to shake free of sleep, to feel her senses rising out of the black and into reality. At first she’s conscious of her breathing, how her lungs still feel weak and raw. Then it’s the sensation of her clothes, sticky with sweat against her body, and something wet and cool resting on her forehead. There’s a foul taste in her mouth. She can hear familiar noises echoing from stone walls — not the song of a honeyeater, but the clank of machinery, the sound of men’s voices. She’s back in the Citadel.

It takes some effort to leave the last vestiges of the darkness behind, but she takes a deeper breath and slowly opens her eyes.

She’s in the dormitory on her pallet. She’s still in her shirt and trousers, but someone’s removed her jacket and belt. Judging by the sensation of the scratchy wool blanket against her toes, her boots are also gone. She tries to move her arms and discovers the right one is splinted and bound to her chest, although the left is free, and she uses it to slowly peel the mystery item from her forehead — a damp rag.

Tilting her head to the side, she finds Jack is next to her, asleep. He’s lying on his stomach, not on a pallet but on the stone floor, jacket still on, his right arm folded under his face for a makeshift pillow. His usual tidiness has been abandoned — the paint on his forehead is smeared, his hair is a mess, and the usual stubble on his face has grown into a full scruff. His cheek is squished against his leather sleeve and his lips are parted, moving very slightly as he breathes.

He looks so tired, so vulnerable. She doesn’t want to wake him. Instead she feels the urge to lean into him, to burrow against his side and tuck her face under his outstretched arm. She realises it’s his blanket she’s under — she could tug it over his body as well, make a little nest for the two of them. Share their warmth. But she’s in the Citadel, in the dormitory, and there are too many eyes around them.

How did she get back here? How long has she been out? Judging by the hair growth on Jack’s face, a while. A horrible thought hits her and she freezes — the Organic Mechanic must know she’s here. He’ll be wanting to collect on the debt. Although if she’s in the dormitory, then that means he hasn’t ratted her out to the Immortan yet. Otherwise she’d be waking up under the biodome. Jack will know — another question to ask him when he wakes. But not yet.

She can’t resist shifting her left hand up to rest the tips of her fingers against his. When that’s not enough, she gently wriggles her fingers under his. Slow and soft as she can, determined not to disturb his rest, but just enough to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. Enough to know that blood is still pumping through their veins. That they’re both still alive.

And as she allows herself to feel relieved, to relax ever so slightly, her eyelids close and she drifts back into sleep.

The next time Furiosa wakes, Jack is sitting cross-legged at her side, holding her left hand in his. His eyes are looking past her towards the doorway, but he looks down immediately when she wriggles a finger. She watches as his face breaks into a smile. “You’re awake.”

She nods weakly, not taking her eyes off his.

“How do you feel?” he says. This time she furrows her brow and frowns at him incredulously, earning a brief huff of laughter in return. “Right. Stupid question.” He leans forward, his shoulders sagging slightly, and a crack appears in his voice. “Fucking hell, Fury. I thought…”

Furiosa squeezes his hand and shakes her head slightly. Not here, not now. Jack draws in a shuddering breath and sets his shoulders back, composing himself. “I’m just glad,” he says. “That you’re okay.”

She tries to speak and finds her own vocal chords are also decidedly creaky. “The Mechanic?”

“You don’t have to worry about him now.”

“Jack,” she says, gripping his wrist. “Tell me.”

He sighs. “He came to see you the day after I brought you back. I think he was waiting for me to go report to him — seemed a bit aggro I had other things on my mind. I just threw that piece of Snatcher kit at him and told him to get out.” He must see the panicked look in her eyes, because he continues. “I didn’t leave it there. Came to my senses the next day and went up to his lab to talk properly. He seemed pretty happy with that box so I told him the deal was through and he wasn’t getting anything else out of that camp, because we’d burned it.”

“And he accepted that?”

“He did when I told him I’d drag him in front of the Immortan for trying to deal with rival factions.”

Furiosa shakes her head. “You do that and he tells the Immortan everything.”

“Well, then you’re both fucked.” She looks up at Jack wildly, but he continues. “Him included. Honestly, I don’t think he wants the trouble. He knows he’s not getting anything else out of that camp, and he seems pretty happy with what he got — says it’s good for separating liquids or something. And I don’t think he really wants two pretorians after him.”

But she can still feel the fear rising in her, nostrils flaring, chest heaving. Jack lifts her hand and presses it to his chest.

“Furiosa,” he says. “If I tell you we’re good, can you trust me?”

She can feel the rise and fall of his chest under her palm, slow and steady. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, tries to match the pace of his breathing with her own. They wait like this for a long moment, her hand on his heart. Breathing in, breathing out.

“I trust you,” she says.

He nods slowly, keeping his eyes on hers. “We’re good. Promise.”

She feels the tension drain from her muscles, allows her body to sink into the pallet. Everything except her hand. “Then we’re good.”

Eight days.

Furiosa doesn’t believe it when Jack tells her that’s how long she’s been out. Then he brings her a bowl of roast crickets and potatoes from the mess hall, with an extra portion of carrots as a treat, and she realises she’s absolutely ravenous.

“Slowly,” Jack says as she shovels handful after handful into her mouth, skipping utensils entirely. “You’ll make yourself sick.” She yanks the mess tin out of his hands with a little growl, and he grins back at her.

While she eats, he tells her all about how he and Runt got her back to the Citadel, how the ledge where she encountered the last Snatcher led all the way to another path that descended to the bottom of the cliffs. How they’d taken turns carrying her across the sands through the darkness while the Snatchers scrambled to stop the fires from spreading to the rest of their camp. How he’d looked back to see the flames licking the panels of the stockade, matched by the sound of fuel tanks exploding. How Runt had volunteered to stay behind and keep an eye on the situation, letting Jack bundle Furiosa onto her bike and fang it for the Citadel.

“Did Runt make it?” Furiosa asks.

“Scrotus sent a war party out to the camp as soon as we got back. They picked him up and now he’s a legend. The War Boy who helped Praetorian Furiosa blow up the Snatcher caves. The others have been pouring him moonshine all week.”

“He is a legend. Keero too.”

He sighs. “Keero too, and all the rest of them. But the Snatchers are wrecked. Runt said he saw a few of them peel out of the camp and light out for the flats, but they’ve lost their leader and a lot of their gear. I don’t think they’ll be back any time soon.”

Jack also tells her how he’d tipped the Mechanic’s vials between her lips. Mopped her forehead with a cold compress and coaxed fresh water into her mouth, drop by drop. Waited and waited. All for eight days.

It takes her several more days to get back on her feet. She sleeps a lot. The crew are excited to see her — several of them come bounding in not long after that first meal, Runt in the centre of the pack with a proud grin on his face. Craw is thrilled to hear that Keero had used his explosives to start the fire and clear the way for their escape, and he earns a few enthusiastic slaps on the back from the rest of the crew. They keep checking in on her too, bringing her gossip and questionable medical advice. Dez also brings her half of a rat he’d trapped and roasted himself.

But it’s Jack who’s there the most — bringing her rations, asking how she’s feeling. Sometimes he appears with an armful of equipment he’s lugged up from the workshop and just sits next to her cleaning guns and gears in companionable silence. He’s not present all the time — now that she’s conscious again, he seems more comfortable leaving her to rest and getting back to his other duties — but often she wakes from a nap to find some evidence that he’s been there. A fresh waterskin tucked under her hand, or the blanket adjusted to cover her feet.

After three more days of bed rest, she’s going stir crazy. When the rest of the crew starts getting up from their pallets and rolling up their blankets the next morning, she yanks Jack’s blanket off her body and reaches for her jacket and boots.

“Woah there,” Jack says. Furiosa shoots him a ferocious look, and he sighs. “At least let me help you get your boots on.”

After fumbling awkwardly with the fastenings with her left hand, she grumpily accepts this offer. He kneels down in front of her, taking her feet in his hands one at a time, and secures the boots without further comment. Around them, the War Boys finish rolling up their bedding and file out of the dormitory towards the mess hall.

Once her boots are on, Furiosa stiffly gets to her feet, unused muscles aching. Before she can shrug her jacket on, Jack stops her again, pulling a ratty scarf from his pockets. “Hang on, let’s get that arm in a sling first.” She waits as he gently loops the scarf around her right arm and then winds one end around the back of her neck, securing the ends of the sling in a knot above her shoulder. He’s reapplied the black to his forehead and shaved at some point in the last few days, the scruff of the beard taken back down to the usual stubble, but she can still see the bags under his eyes — a legacy of the vigil he kept for her. She feels a rush of fondness for him as he slips her jacket over her shoulders and steps back, taking a critical look at his handiwork. “Does that feel okay?”

She nods, then looks down at the little pile of chains and metal discs next to her bedroll. “The belt. Could you…”

“Right.” He crouches down again to grab the praetorian belt. She’s missed her boots and jacket, but this symbol of the Immortan’s power over her is another matter. Still, it’s not like she can stroll out of this room without it. If she’s going to walk back into Citadel life, she needs to do it as Praetorian Furiosa, who defeated the Snatchers in the name of Immortan Joe. Jack spends a moment untangling the chains before he goes to put the belt on her — maybe he’s hesitant to have her bear this mark again as well.

After he loops the strap around her torso and fastens the buckle, she feels his fingertips rest on her hips for slightly longer than necessary. The sensation sends a jolt of heat running through her. The air between the two of them suddenly feels very thin, and when Jack lifts his eyes to meet hers, it’s like her stomach does a backflip.

Furiosa has spent years only letting herself want one thing: to go home. But stars above, she wants this. She wants him. This man who saved her life before they even spoke two words to each other, who pushed her out of a moving vehicle and then came back because he saw something in her, who knows her better than any person alive. Who has spent day after day trying his damnedest to win her trust when she didn’t even know she had any trust to give, because he knew she was worth it. After everything this world has taken from her, he’s given her more than just guns, stolen fruit and the skills to be a true road warrior. He’s given her kindness, and he’s given her hope. And in the Wasteland, those might be the rarest things of all.

She still wants to go home. Wants it more than anything. But she knows if she leaves this place without knowing what they could be like together, she’ll spend the rest of her days wishing she’d found out.

“Do you, uh,” Jack clears his throat. “Do you need a hand with your paint?”

Furiosa reaches up to touch her forehead and finds bare skin. Whatever remained after the ordeal at the Snatcher camp must have been washed off by the cold compresses. “No, I can do it.”

“Right,” Jack says. “Well.” He holds out his opened tin of greasepaint and she dips her fingers in, smearing them across her forehead in the familiar pattern. Once she’s finished, he pockets the tin again, breaks his gaze and moves towards the door. “If you’re all set, let’s get some breakfast.”

“Jack,” she says.

He pauses and looks back at her, waiting.

“I’ll see you?” Furiosa asks. “Tonight?”

The smile is only small, but it lights his face up like the sunrise. “Tonight.”

The day ends up being a busy one, despite Jack’s efforts to the contrary. Everywhere Furiosa turns, he’s getting underfoot — shuffling crates out of her way, picking up items she’s trying to lift if they look too heavy. Eventually she has to pull him aside and tell him that she’s doing just fine, that she wants to get back to normal, and that she promises she’ll ask him for help if she needs it. She isn’t worried about looking weak to the crew like she was when she’d first joined — Runt has primed them all with enough stories of her rescue mission that she has to accept congratulatory cheers from every single man on the crew, and some other War Boys and blackthumbs besides. But the thing that’s going on between them is something she’d rather keep to herself for now, and she’s not sure how much his concern for her will be noticed.

He even tries to offer her a hand climbing into the War Rig’s cab. This, she ignores — one working arm is more than enough for her to haul herself up through the door. Once in the cab, she leans back, surveying the House of Holy Motors through the windshield. It feels good to be back in that leather seat again, surrounded by reinforced metal and a full complement of weaponry. Definitely better than lying in her sickbed.

Jack mentioned that Praetorian Geo had to drive their usual run to the Bullet Farm while the two of them were otherwise occupied (or unconscious). She frowns as she takes a closer look at the dashboard — are those shoe-prints? If Geo’s been resting his filthy boots on the dash of her Rig and not cleaning up after himself, they’re going to have words. She spits on a rag and scrubs the marks away with a grimace. This Rig might bear the Immortan’s mark a thousand times over, but deep down she knows it really belongs to her and Jack. This cab is their place, and no one else’s.

They do have one other place, of course. Even though Furiosa tries to stay occupied, tonight is always at the back of her mind. She feels a twist of nerves, but also a kind of excitement at the thought of being alone with him. Knowing how much has been unsaid.

But before she makes her way up the cliffs, there’s one more thing she needs to do.

She finds the Organic Mechanic in his lab. The room’s been slightly rearranged since she was last here — he’s shuffled his equipment around to make space for the metal box they’d taken from the Snatcher lab. The Mechanic is busy next to it, unwinding a tangle of intestines and cutting them into long, narrow strips. The fruits of his labours are pinned up on a cable running between two of the shelves: catgut, useful for sutures. She’s surprised he doesn’t have some lackey to do this for him, but it’s possible he just enjoys it.

Furiosa does trust Jack’s confidence that he’s dealt with the Mechanic’s attempt to blackmail her. But that doesn’t mean she can’t also make her presence known.

Of course, she’ll wait for that until she’s good and ready, and right now the man is totally absorbed in his work. Once again, he doesn’t notice her standing in the doorway, but he also remains oblivious as she pads silently across the stone floor. She pauses a few steps behind him and just watches, waiting for him to turn around.

It takes a minute or two, but it’s worth it for his reaction. The Mechanic finally turns enough to spot her out of the corner of his eye and immediately does a double take, giving an undignified yelp and slicing his hand with his own scalpel. “Aggh, fuck me dead!”

Furiosa doesn’t give him a reaction. She’s not planning to do anything other than put her foot down, but he doesn’t have to know that. The current buzz around the Citadel is that the Praetorian Furiosa is a fearsome road warrior responsible for infiltrating and blowing up a whole marauder camp, now back on her feet after surviving a deadly poison. Let the Mechanic think about that and squirm.

“Praetorian,” he says, scrambling to wipe the blood and ichor from his hands and wrap his palm with a bandage. “So good to see you. What can I do for you today?”

She folds her arms. “Just making sure you’re happy our business is done.”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Very happy. The centrifuge will be very useful.”

“Good,” she says. “Because a lot of people died so I could get it.”

She’s thinking of Keero and Sixer, of Crank and Cam and everyone who went on that ill-fated raid and didn’t make it home again. But she can tell by the look in his eyes and the sweat on his brow that he’s imagining a lot of incinerated Snatchers, including their leader — killed in her own lab, with her own equipment.

Furiosa stares him down for a moment longer, until he offers an ingratiating grin. “Of course, Praetorian. Thank you.”

She gives him a slow nod, letting him wilt a little more under her steely gaze, then turns and walks out of the room. As she leaves, the Mechanic calls after her. “Anything else you need, you just let me know!”

There’s about as much chance of her doing that as there is of her cutting off her own head, but she doesn’t need to tell him that.

And right now, she’s got somewhere more important to be.

Chapter Text

Jack is waiting for her on the other side of the crack in the wall near the hydroponic gardens.

“I know what you said earlier, but I thought you might need a hand with the ledge.”

She does need a hand with the ledge, damn him.

Their little clifftop oasis is a welcome sight by moonlight. Jack immediately shrugs off his jacket, sits down at the side of the pool and gets to work on his boots. Instead of her usual spot on the opposite side of the water, she plonks herself down to his right. Luckily it turns out that getting her boots off with one hand is easier than putting them on. She fumbles her feet out of their ratty socks and immerses her feet in the cold water, and the sensation draws a sigh from her lips. She can see Jack’s bare feet next to her own, the shapes slightly distorted by the ripples. “Ohh, I’ve missed this.”

Jack smiles. “The water’s nice and cool tonight.”

She looks over at his face, so close to her own. The scar on his lip, the softness in his eyes. She didn’t just mean the water.

Furiosa leans over and rests her head against Jack’s shoulder, pressing her cheek into the worn fabric of his shirt. After a moment, she feels him lean back into her, his jaw brushing the top of her head. She scoots her left hand back behind her to find his fingers resting on the stone, allowing hers to creep over his knuckles.

For a while, this is enough. Just to feel her own weight pressed against his, his shoulder rising and falling slightly with his breath, the warmth of his skin in contrast to the cool water at her feet. She’s sore and she’s tired, and her splinted right arm aches and itches in its sling, but it all fades away when she gets to have this. To be together, just the two of them, in peace and quiet. They could sit here like this for hours while the stars above move on their slow journeys across the heavens, and she knows he won’t push it any further.

But if she’s really honest with herself, she wants more.

She’d told herself once that it would be a waste to plant a seed she wouldn’t be there to harvest. But somehow, despite all her fears, they’ve already planted something precious here in the barren Wasteland earth. And if you kill something dead before you let it grow, you’ll never get to find out how sweet the fruit would taste.

This time, Furiosa will choose to let it grow. For once in this hellish place, let there be some sweetness in life.

She lifts her head from his shoulder, and when he turns to look at her, she leans over and kisses him.

It starts with just the faintest brush of her lips on his. The kiss is slow, gentle — almost delicate. A fragile thing, blooming from rocky ground. Jack responds tentatively at first, like he’s afraid she’s going to cut and run at any moment. But when she pulls back from him only barely, their noses still touching, she feels his body twist to face hers. A second later his fingertips skim her jaw, coaxing her mouth back to his. She lets him draw her in and this time the kisses become deeper — still slow, but with a new undercurrent, the feeling of something inside her growing and growing. She shifts her hips to get closer to him and accidentally cracks her kneecap into his, but it doesn’t matter, not when his hand has trailed down to her neck, his thumb resting against the soft skin just under her ear. His fingers avoid the Immortan’s brand at the back of her neck, dipping into the hair at the base of her scalp instead. When he sucks lightly at her lower lip, Furiosa makes an involuntary high noise at the back of her throat.

Jack pulls back. She follows hungrily, but he reaches down and takes her left forearm into his hands, running his thumb over the fabric of her sleeve. He doesn’t reveal the star map, but she knows he must be thinking about it. She meets his eyes, soft and uncertain.

“You could have been killed,” he says. “Coming to that camp for me.”

Furiosa doesn’t reply. He’s right, of course, but there are an infinite number of ways to die out here. She could be killed by a raider on her way to the Bullet Farm. Someone could slit her throat while she sleeps. The Citadel’s aquifers could dry up and she could die of thirst. Some things are worth the risk.

“When I was carrying you back on the bike and I couldn’t tell if you were breathing…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I need you to promise me something. If there’s a chance — if there’s a real, actual chance — that you can leave this place and go somewhere better, you have to take it.”

The implication remains unsaid. Don’t give it up just for me. She’s already made that promise to someone else, many years ago. Broke it, too. But she nods.

“I mean it, Fury. Promise me.”

“I will,” she says. “When there’s a chance. But right now, I’m here. You’re here.”

Furiosa draws her left hand back and fumbles for her belt buckles, eventually fiddling them loose. Keeping her eyes on his, she pulls the Immortan’s metal sigil from her hips and tosses it to the side. The belt clatters on the rocks and she immediately feels lighter. After a moment, Jack follows her example. Tonight, they’re not praetorians. They don’t fight for Immortan Joe, or for the Citadel, or the V8 cult. They’re just two people, just Furiosa and Jack, and they fight only for each other.

She can feel something new in the air between them now. There’s a prickle running down the back of her spine, warmth pooling deep in her gut. Anticipation. Want.

All she has to do is brush her hand against his thigh and nod, and then his lips are back on hers. She sinks into the kiss, leans into him as his left hand cups her jaw, his right hand snaking around to the small of her back. She feels slightly delirious, feverish. The Citadel could collapse around her and she wouldn’t know it — all she can think about is getting as close to him as possible. Her right arm feels useless in its sling when she should be pressing it into him, running her hand through his hair, feeling the scruff of his beard under her fingertips.

Sitting side-by-side like this isn’t doing them any favours either. Furiosa breaks the kiss just long enough to pull her legs out of the water and swing one of them across Jack’s thighs so she’s straddling him. He responds by lowering his hands to her hips and pulling her even closer. The hunger in his touch spurs her on and she kisses him again, sinking her fingers into his hair, feeling an involuntary roll start to creep into her hips. He does something unexpected but wonderful with his tongue, and she bumps her broken arm into his chest, making her jerk back with a gasp and a wince. Jack looks up at her, a panicked expression on his face. “Shit. Sorry. Was that too much? I can—”

She cuts him off, answers him in whispers punctuated by more kisses: “Not too much. Do it again.” He obliges eagerly and she sinks into his lap, making another little noise at the back of her throat that makes his grip on her tighten. She rolls her hips again in response, savouring the feeling of him between her thighs, the delicious pressure building between them. Judging by the growing firmness in his trousers, it’s having an effect on him too.

Furiosa knows the mechanics of the act they’re building towards — the anatomical particulars and the potential consequences. Her mother and some of the Wives had both given her various talks on the subject, but those had always come in the form of a warning. Something men would want from her that she should avoid giving. But she doesn’t think they were talking about men like Jack, who has never even taken so much as a potato from her without it being offered willingly. What’s happening between them right now doesn’t feel like something taken or given, but something shared.

And with every contact between them setting her body alight, the desire to feel his skin on hers is overwhelming. She slips her hand under the hem of his shirt and runs it up his abdomen, her fingers exploring a landscape marked by scars and coarse dark hair. Furiosa scratches her nails across his skin experimentally and thrills at the way he shivers under her touch. A moment later he drags his lips away from her mouth and down her neck, a trail of kisses running like a line of heat from her jaw to her shoulder. The combination of chapped lips and stubble on sensitive skin makes her gasp, sends a jolt of newly-discovered pleasure shooting through her body. She tilts her head to the side to give him space to continue and lets herself melt into the sensation. All the time they’ve spent together, all the uncertain silences across from each other at this pool, all the effort she made to shut down the longing she felt to reach for him — and the whole time she could have been doing this. She’s never going to waste that time again.

Jack’s hands have shifted up to keep her upright, his fingers resting against the skin at the small of her back. Furiosa runs her left hand up his chest, her thumb brushing over his nipple, and feels him sigh into her shoulder. She’s not sure what’s more exciting — the way he’s making her feel, or the discovery that she has the power to make him feel just as good. There’s a clear-eyed part of her that’s keeping track of all these reactions like she does when she’s picking up a new skill on the road — if she moves her hand like this, then he makes that noise — but most of her feels reckless, almost drunk on sensation.

When Jack doesn’t make a move above her waist, Furiosa reaches under her shirt herself and fiddles for the end of the strip of cloth she uses to hold her breasts close against her body — an old habit of hiding her form that lingers from her dogman days. Once again, it’s difficult to manage with only her non-dominant hand, and she gives a little grunt of frustration. Jack leans back and realises what she’s trying to do.

“Do you want me to..?” His voice is rough. She nods.

An unexpected shyness creeps into her as he slowly reaches up under her top and undoes the wrap. Jack has already seen and touched a lot of her body in the course of their time together — always in the context of patching up injuries, but still, she has some idea of how his hands feel. But this is new. Even if her chest is still hidden under her shirt, his touch here is uncharted territory. When he’s finished undoing the wrap and the fabric falls away, his fingertips linger on the newly-exposed skin of her back. Jack must sense her hesitancy, because they don’t move any further. Instead he looks into her eyes, patient as ever. Nothing taken that isn’t offered.

Furiosa grabs his wrist and moves his hand to her breast, and is immediately rewarded by a sudden intake of breath from both of them and the delicious feeling of his calloused hands on her skin. She kisses him again, holding her body back just enough to keep her injured arm out of the way, and he returns the kiss with a new fervour. Jack catches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, drawing a shuddering gasp from her that spurs him on even more. His hand drifts across her chest but then pulls back.

“Sorry,” he pants. “Your arm. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Furiosa says breathlessly. When he looks uncertain, she grabs his hand and squeezes it. “Jack. I trust you.”

He bites his lip, considering, and then something changes in his eyes. He lowers his hand to her waist, his thumb resting just inside the waistband of her leathers. “Your trousers. Can I take them off?”

She nods, heart racing in her chest.

They soon realise that taking off any more layers will require moving from their current position. Furiosa presses one more kiss to Jack’s lips before clambering out of his lap, and his hands guide her to lay backwards onto a relatively flat stretch of stone. He undoes the buckles of her trousers while she watches, breathing hard, but as soon as he moves to slide the waistband down over her hips, she grabs his hand. “Wait.”

Jack freezes immediately, a questioning look in his eyes. Furiosa clears her throat.

“Take your shirt off.” She can’t stop a tiny smile from twisting the corner of her mouth. “So we’re even.”

His face breaks into a grin. “You’re the boss.” She bites back the urge to tell him that yes, she is, but then he pulls his threadbare top over his shoulders and she has to catch her breath instead. She’s seen him without his shirt on before — several of those scars once bore stitches that were her handiwork — but it feels very different this time. Her eyes run across his bare skin, taking in his broad shoulders, the thatch of hair that starts on his chest and runs in a trail down past his navel. Even now, covered in bruises and accumulated Citadel grime, he’s the best thing she’s ever seen.

“Jack.” The name falls quietly from her lips this time, like something holy. The look he gives her in response is enough to make her heart feel fit to burst.

Furiosa jerks her chin down towards her waistband and nods again. She doesn’t need to ask twice. Jack slides the leather down over her hips and she arches her back off the floor to accommodate him. The night air is cool on her thighs as she kicks her legs, keen to get the heavy material over her ankles. When Jack does get her trousers off, she watches as he automatically folds them over his arms and into a neat square. Furiosa raises her eyebrows at him and he laughs at her nonplussed expression. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Then he looks down at her body stretched out in front of him, her lean legs slightly bent at the knees. She’s down to just her shirt, which has ridden up over her stomach, and her underwear, a thin garment she’d stitched together herself from scrap material. Just like him, she’s covered in scars and bruises and all manner of dirt, but he’s still looking at her like she’s a work of art. Jack exhales slowly. “Fucking hell. If you knew how much I’ve dreamed of this…”

He’s getting more and more talkative. She wonders if he’s getting nervous too. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

This time it’s his turn to stare at her incredulously. “Fury, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

She takes a deep breath, then tucks her thumb into the hem of her underwear and nods. Jack keeps his eyes locked on hers as he guides the fabric over her hips and down her thighs, and while she lifts her hips slightly to help, she doesn’t wriggle her legs this time. Even with the reverent look in his eyes, she can’t help feeling a bit self-conscious.

Furiosa is expecting him to follow suit and take his own trousers off, but instead Jack leans over her and presses a soft kiss to her stomach. “Furiosa,” he says quietly, following her name with another kiss, lower down her abdomen. “You are” — a third kiss, even lower — “so beautiful.” Her cheeks flush, although she can’t be sure whether that’s from his words or the brush of his lips against her hipbone. His hands trace their own paths down the sides of her body, fingertips dancing from her waist down to the gentle dips at the tops of her thighs. She moves her hips slightly under his touch, unconsciously arching her back as his lips meet the crease between her leg and her torso. Jack shifts his own body to kneel between her legs as his line of kisses curves down towards her inner thigh, the stubble of his jaw brushing against her skin. Every nerve in her body feels like it’s alight.

Or so she thinks, until he presses his mouth to the place between her legs and runs his tongue against her core. Sensation explodes through her body like someone sending up a flare in the desert sky. What she’d felt before must have only been smouldering coals, because this is a raging fire. Furiosa gives an involuntary yelp, her hips jumping under Jack’s hands. Jack glances up at her, his face now framed by her thighs. “Are you g—”

Furiosa cuts him off through gritted teeth. “Do. It. Again.”

She thinks she catches a flash of a smile on his face before he ducks back down, and then she doesn’t have time to think at all. Her world contracts to just the place where the two of them meet. His nose brushing against her curls, his thumbs pressing into her hips as he holds her steady, his tongue — she feels like she’s falling apart under him, losing all semblance of control. She bucks her hips, draws her knees up, and he adjusts his grip on her, moving his hands from her hips to her shaking thighs. The pressure of his tongue on her clit draws a series of undignified whimpers from her lips. She tries to stifle the noise until she realises the response it gets from him. And if he likes that sound, then…

“Jack,” she moans.

That definitely gets a reaction — she feels a spike of joy at the groan she hears from him, the way his fingers dig into her thighs. But then he shifts up a gear and it’s almost too much for her, her toes curling, thighs quaking — and then the feeling is building, unbearable, and she’s slipping—

The orgasm rolls through her like a thunderclap and she cries out, her body shuddering under him, brand new stars exploding at the edge of her vision. Years of self-restraint and longing break apart within her and she’s left helpless, her armour gone, completely overwhelmed by the wave of pleasure that leaves her breathless and boneless. Only the feeling of Jack holding her reminds her that she’s still here, that this isn’t some delirious dream, and she follows his touch like a map back to herself, looking up at him through hazy eyes as her body still heaves with the aftershocks. He’s looking back at her with such naked tenderness that it’s almost enough to make her melt all over again.

Words are still well beyond her. Instead Furiosa reaches down, beckoning him closer, and Jack crawls from between her legs to lie next to her. She runs her hand shakily over his face, her thumb grazing the scar on his cheek, then pulls him in for a kiss. There’s a new taste to him now that she guesses must be hers, and the thought sends a new twist of want through her. After so much pent-up hunger, she still has an appetite. She kisses him slowly at first, then presses her lips to his cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck, savouring each sigh. Eventually she leans back and meets his eyes, then runs her hand down his stomach until it reaches the top of his trousers and watches his breath hitch. After a brief hesitation, she moves her hand further down and presses her palm against the bulge at his groin, drawing another ragged breath from his lips. She nods again.

Jack goes still for half a second and then rolls onto his back, fumbling with his buckles and then tugging his leathers off with an awkward eagerness. This time he doesn’t bother folding the discarded trousers. They both pause again while she runs her eyes up and down him, taking in his naked form, uncertain what to do next. Eventually Jack clears his throat. “Might be easier if you’re on top. For your ar—”

Furiosa rolls over and swings a leg over his torso, straddling his waist, and he goes quiet. She doesn’t want to think about her damn arm right now, not when she can think about how good it feels to have her thighs around him. Judging by the expression on Jack’s face, he’s similarly distracted. He moves his hands up to her hips again and she shuffles backwards, freezing when her backside bumps into his erection. Furiosa experimentally arches her back and shifts her hips, and this time he brushes against the slickness between her legs, the contact making them both shiver. Then there’s a few moments of shared fumbling, the two of them working together to find the right angle, and then she slowly sinks down onto him.

She keeps her eyes on Jack as she lowers her hips, adjusting to the new sensation. He makes a ragged noise deep in his throat, fingers digging into her skin as he guides her down. She lets out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding when she reaches the bottom and puts her full weight onto him, savouring the sight of him lying under her like this, his face flushed and undone. So completely hers. Jack looks back at her through lidded eyes, breathing hard. Furiosa leans forward, bracing her left hand against the ground next to his neck, and he lifts his head up to kiss her softly. She feels her body start to relax around him and lifts her hips up slightly before bringing them back down, earning a sigh from Jack and a little thrill of pleasure at her core. She repeats the movement, Jack brings his hips up to match hers, and together they find a rhythm.

The unfamiliarity of it all gives way to new pleasure as she grows more and more used to the feeling of him inside her. She adjusts the angle of her pelvis as she rides him, grinds her hips into his, feels him hit something inside that draws a startled little moan from her lips. The feeling is rising again, the sense of all restraint breaking, and she chases after it like a dog on a Wasteland rabbit. She can feel it building in Jack too, in the way his movements become quicker and less controlled, his breathing and his kisses rougher against her skin. She leans in and impulsively runs her teeth down his throat, coaxing a hollow moan from him, followed by a thrust that leaves her gasping. She doubles down on her movements, determined that wherever they’re going right now, they’ll get there together.

Jack being Jack, he gets her there first. All he has to do is slip a hand between them to brush his thumb in circles against her clit and she’s spilling over the edge, slumping over him with her arm against his chest as she trembles, her body clenching around him. A few moments later, he pulls out of her with a groan and then she feels him come apart beneath her, his face pressed into her neck as he moans something unintelligible, a jet of warmth hitting her stomach. She knots her fingers into his hair and holds him as close as she can, her own muscles still feeling like jelly, keeping him safe as they both come back down to earth.

Once they’ve both stopped shaking, Furiosa rolls off of Jack and sprawls out on the rocks next to him, still breathing hard. Her back is covered in rock dust and her knees are dimpled with pebbles. She’s tired and sweaty and sticky and sore in a lot more places than she was before, and it’s wonderful.

Unexpectedly, she feels a laugh rise from deep within her and break free, a rough, unpracticed noise. Here she is on the side of a desolate cliff in the middle of the Wasteland, body and soul sworn in service to a monster who claims to be a god, the world gone to hell and only getting worse, and she can’t remember the last time she felt this happy.

Jack looks over at her, bemused. “Not the reaction I was expecting,” he says eventually.

Furiosa rolls onto her left side and presses her face into his shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like leather and sweat. She feels an animal instinct to nuzzle into him, try to get as much of his scent onto her as possible. Mark her territory.

“Jack,” she says again. “My Jack.”

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in, kissing the top of her head. “My Fury.”

Chapter Text

Everything after that night is both exactly the same and completely different.

Their days belong to Immortan Joe and the Citadel. Furiosa and Jack wake up next to each other in the dormitories, pull their boots on and pack up their bedding. They still sit opposite each other in the mess hall, listening to the chatter of the crew and keeping their thoughts to themselves. Their diminished crew grows back to its full size — there are new War Boys for her to select and train, and for her existing team to impress with tall tails of heroism. Scrotus has them back on the road as soon as possible. They’re a matching set, two praetorians in the War Rig, ferrying water, milk and veg to the other fortresses and bringing back bullets and guzzoline. The War Boys start to whisper that Jack’s famous luck has rubbed off on her. There are always more fights to survive — attacks from Buzzards, scavengers and all sorts of Wasteland gangs — but they never see any sign of the Snatchers again.

Furiosa’s bruises eventually fade, and her arm heals well. The day she can finally take it out of the splint and make use of her right hand again, she makes one more trip to the armoury, then goes to the House of Holy Motors. It’s the day before they’re due to make their next run to the Bullet Farm, and the Rig is buzzing with activity. Furiosa watches the crew work for a while, ready to catch any mistakes, but for now everything seems to be under control. She and Jack have trained them well.

She spots Runt in the centre of a group of War Boys, chatting. It’s obvious that the younger ones are hanging on his every word. He’ll be dining out on the story of his glorious battle against the Snatchers for a long time yet, and she doesn’t blame him.

“Runt,” she calls. “Come here a minute.”

The War Boy excuses himself from his conversation and jogs over. “Prae Furiosa? Hey, you got your arm back!”

She reaches for the scabbard attached to her belt and unclips it. “Got something for you.”

Runt’s eyes widen as she hands him the gift. It’s a newly-refurbished knife, the blade shiny and chrome. It took some convincing to get the Citadel’s armourer to give it up, especially after she lost Rictus’s knife in the Snatcher camp.

“Wow,” Runt breathes, unsheathing the blade and tilting it in his hand so it catches the light.

“It’s yours,” she says. “You did good. I think you’ve earned it.”

Runt stares at the knife for a few seconds longer, then suddenly clutches it to his chest. He’s a hair’s breadth away from accidentally slicing himself, and Furiosa bites back a wince. “It’s real shine, Prae Furiosa. Thank you.”

She gives him a brusque nod. “That’s all. You can get back to work now.”

The War Boy grins and clips the sheath to his belt before rushing back to the others. No doubt he’s happy to have something else to impress them with. She just hopes it keeps him alive on the road for longer.

Jack sidles up next to her, standing a safe distance apart. “He like it?”

She nods, watching as Runt holds the blade up in the air with a dramatic flourish, drawing a chorus of oohs.

“What’d you have to trade for that?”

Furiosa shrugs. “Just some rations. I can go without potatoes for a few days.”

“Hmm,” Jack says, and she sees him hold back a grin. “We’ll see about that.”

She rolls her eyes as he walks off, knowing he’ll be doing his best to sneak his own potatoes into her mess tin that night. Both of them know she’ll be sneaking them right back onto his. She finds she’s looking forward to it.

So they drive, and they shoot, and they train, and they serve. For now, Scrotus doesn’t give them any more aggro, and the Organic Mechanic keeps his distance. And from what they hear, the Immortan is pleased.

But while the days belong to the Immortan, the nights belong to them.

They can’t make it up to their clifftop sanctuary every night. But when they can, the first thing they do is remove the belts with their heavy metal sigils and leave them on the ground. Here, they’re just Furiosa and Jack, and for a precious, stolen hour, the rest of the world fades away.

Often the rest of their clothes end up rapidly going the same way as the belts. With their days uncertain, both of them are keen to make up for lost time, hungry for each other’s touch. Giving Runt that knife is far from the only thing Furiosa’s eager to do with her recovered right hand. Both she and Jack end up with an entirely new selection of bruises from the rocks until Jack manages to smuggle up a spare bedroll.

But sometimes they just talk — sitting next to each other by the pool with their legs interlaced, or lying back on the bedroll and looking up at the stars. The bedding wasn’t designed to accommodate two, but they manage. Furiosa finds a new favourite spot, burrowed against Jack’s side with his arm around her shoulders and her head on his chest. The shadowy cliffs tower over them, but beyond that, the night sky feels like it’s all theirs.

Sometimes they don’t talk at all. They just lie there together and let the only sounds be the trickle of water down the cliffs and the rhythm of their own breathing. Furiosa can’t tell if these times are the best or the worst. It’s easy to let her mind wander to what it would be like to lay with Jack somewhere else, surrounded by plants instead of rocks. She’s lying there one night, her cheek pressed against his ribs, when he suddenly asks her what she’s thinking about.

“That faulty coolant switch in the second engine,” she lies.

He snorts, and she sighs. “Fine. A dream I had about you once.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I was telling you about climbing trees.”

He pauses. “I know you’ve seen them before, but it’s still hard to imagine a plant big enough that you could climb it.”

She still hasn’t told him about the peach pit. Usually she stops just before she reaches their oasis, pulls it out of her hair and hides it in her jacket pocket. Given the amount of time Jack’s fingers have spent in her hair recently, it was only a matter of time before he found it.

“I used to love climbing trees,” she says. “It’s like a game, working out where to put your hands and feet. Finding the best way to get to the top without falling. But if you do, then there’s a prize. Fresh fruit or a good view.” Jack idly winds a finger into her hair as she talks, and she leans into him slightly. “Ma always used to say it’d get me into trouble, and she was right.” She hesitates for a while, remembering. “But I was good at it.”

“Nah,” Jack says. “I bet you were the best.”

Furiosa rolls over and looks at him. He’s smiling at her with that soft-eyed look on his face, the one she only ever sees up here in the dark. She can imagine what it’d be like to see that look in the daylight, framed by lush green grass and wildflowers.

Instead of telling him that, she rolls over and shuffles along to bring her own face closer to his, and then she kisses him.

There are a lot of places she’d like to kiss Jack.

In the mess hall, over breakfast. Furiosa gets distracted by the joke Craw is telling — and by Runt laughing so hard that he chokes on his own food and has to be slapped heavily on the back — but she’s not so distracted that she doesn’t catch Jack trying to scoot an extra chunk of carrot onto her plate. She narrows her eyes at him, and he widens his, the picture of mock innocence.

In the House of Holy Motors, surrounded by War Boys and blackthumbs. Furiosa is busy drilling the new War Boys in the crew — she’s trialling a new training exercise where she moves a single piece of equipment out of its correct position and then sees how long it takes them to spot the issue. But her gaze keeps wandering over to Jack, who is sliding out from under the new pursuit car Craw’s asked him to have a look at, his sleeves rolled up and his hands dark with grease. He spots her watching him, and she catches a glimpse of that lopsided grin on his face before he slips back under the vehicle.

In the War Rig, near the end of a long run. They’ve managed to fight off another group of scavs — a long, bloody fight, but somehow one without any serious injuries for them or the crew. When the towers of the Citadel finally come into view in the windscreen, Jack turns to give her an exhausted smile of relief that they’ve both made it back intact.

It’d be the simplest thing to just lean over and press her lips to his. As natural and necessary as breathing.

But she can’t. So she saves all her kisses for the night.

One evening, after dinner, Furiosa goes up to one of the narrow metal catwalks that link the three bluffs of the Citadel. The sun has only just slipped below the horizon, and she looks eastward across the Wasteland as the stars make themselves known in the darkening sky. She stands there for a while, leaning against the railing, enjoying the feeling of the breeze on her face as the world around her shifts from day to night.

This is the same walkway she came to on her first night as Jack’s apprentice. She remembers the person she was then — angry, fearful, mistrusting. Waiting constantly for the other shoe to drop. This place still requires her to be all of those things, but she has space for more now. And the Furiosa who sat here many nights ago, glaring at the strange man trying to offer her some watermelon, could never have thought that stolen fruit could lead to this. That choosing not to shoot him down with his own gun on the Fury Road and instead extending the tiniest bit of trust would sow the seeds of something rare and beautiful between them, a Wasteland miracle.

The same constellations still hang above her, offering her comfort, and she’s just as grateful for their presence now as she was before. But she has more than just the stars to keep her company now. A new source of strength and sanctuary.

Furiosa hears footsteps on the grate behind her and freezes, but it’s only Jack. She relaxes as he joins her in leaning against the railing, watching dusk fade across the barren landscape. She thinks about all the things she’d like to do right now. Lean her head onto his shoulder, maybe, or snuggle her chest to his back, wrap her arms around his waist and press a kiss to the side of his neck. But all of that will have to wait for later. For now, night isn’t quite here, and they’re out in the open where all the eyes in the Citadel could find them. But even without that touch, and with limited words, she’s still glad to have him here.

“Been looking for you,” Jack says.

She runs her finger idly up and down the railing. “You got me.”

They stand there together in silence for a while, taking in the view. The barren expanse of the desert appears endless, but they both know there’s something better over the horizon.

“Big day tomorrow,” he says. “The Chief High Blackfinger says the new tanker will be ready to add onto the Rig.”

“We’ll have to take it for a test drive. See how the Rig copes with the extra weight.”

“Two tankers, two engines. I think we’ll be alright.”

“I have faith in your engine.” Furiosa shrugs. “But I might have to speak to you about that test drive later. I had some questions about the acceleration.” She pauses. “And the thrust.”

In the increasingly dim light, she’s the only one close enough to see the little grin that flickers across Jack’s face. “Sounds important. We’ll speak later then.”

As he turns and walks past her, she shifts her body and reaches out ever so slightly, feeling the lightest brush of her fingertips against his before he vanishes back into the Citadel.

Furiosa can’t help but think about the promises she’s made. The one she made to her mother, that she’d make it home and keep the Green Place safe. She still remembers the rules: no outsiders. And the promise she made to Jack that night, that when she gets a shot to leave, she’ll take it. No looking back.

She still intends to keep those promises and go home. But lately she’s been thinking she might bend them a little. Because every time she imagines cutting and running — driving east with enough food, water and guzzoline to make the journey, nothing in the rearview mirror but her own dust — she also imagines what it would feel like to leave Jack behind, and she’s not sure she could take it. Not after everything they’ve been through. Not after knowing everything they could have.

Then she pictures the deadly-serious faces of the Vuvalini every time the alarm bell rang for intruders. Would her return be miraculous enough to change their minds? Mary Jabassa’s child, brought back to them because of an outsider — it might just work. She’d make sure it worked.

She doesn’t have to wonder if Jack would say yes, now that he’s come to believe in her dream of going somewhere better than this. Living a better life, together. Furiosa knows he’d follow her anywhere.

She could ask him to come with her. She might.

And beyond the cliffs of the Citadel, the stars are bright.