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It takes time to get a crew together that works, that talks to each other, that isn't full of guys who are mostly after their own glorious end. Ace selects the guys, tests them. The War Rig team is one of the most elite the Citadel has, the biggest rations allocated to surviving members, the chance to visit and personally trade with towns on their route, and, most of all, with the best chance to die historic. There are plenty of interested War Boys. Even more now they have the Imperator with the chrome hand.
Once he has some he's confident of, they meet her, and she watches the new guys in a drill on the stationary rig. She drops the ones who can't resist the urge to showboat for her attention - to the very vocal disappointment of an otherwise excellent young lancer called Slit - and that's how they slowly assemble a new crew.
She has him pick a full complement of crew and a further ten who have potential to be crew, then puts him in charge of their training. The Imperator’s busy, elbow deep in grease, modifying the War Rig inside and out, not only tweaking the Rig under the hood but stabilizing perches, adding weapons caches, and soldering spikes to the wheels reminiscent of the Buzzards to the east. She has the repair pups crawling wild all over the machine and there still aren't enough hands for all she wants done, so it isn’t a surprise that she delegates the training.
However Ace didn’t expect the responsibility to land on him.
Nobody has ever put this much stock in Ace's opinion, and it is the most exhilarating and terrifying thing he's ever done to go on the next run with the guys he's personally selected for her. He's worked hard to instill her ideas in them: Fight smart, the rig needs a full crew. The Imperator refuses to witness anybody who chooses death when there are better options. Waste this Imperator’s time by forcing her to find new crew and she’ll shut the gates in your face herself.
It turns out to be a milk run, in more ways than just mothers' milk - the Buzzards lay low, and they have the time for some thorough formation drills. They practice their left flank defensive move a few dozen times, until they move smoothly around each other, crossbow and grenade launcher at the ready. When she's back behind the wheel he idly suggests a few swerve and brake tests, give the new handholds a good workout, swing the new boys around a little, and Furiosa flashes him a toothy grin.
A couple of weeks later they have their first truly successful run on the War Rig - meaning successful by the Imperator's standards, not the Immortan's. Meaning, successfully fended off an attack and lost no crew.
The horn sounds as they approach the Citadel, echoing low and loud up against the sheer rock walls, and Ace feels his heart soar, lifted by the noise of the crew cheering.
When the rig comes to a full stop and the Imperator swings down, there is some kind of purpose to her movements, and he goes over to report to her. She steps close up to him, and he startles when she reaches up with her metal hand and grabs the back of his head, tilts his head down toward hers. His eyes are wide when she conks her forehead against his, not a headbutt but not exactly gentle either, with a light side-to-side motion that he can feel smear some of her Imperator's black onto his forehead.
Before the full implications of this even register, she's flashes him a grin, War Boy-wild, and releases him to grab Sprocket, who looks bewildered and then starts to grin too.
The Imperator is alight with the kind of exuberance he's never seen on her. So far she's been cool and remote and always ready to reinforce her authority. As she moves down the line of War Boys, Ace realises she can't be unaware what it means to the men to be touched with her metal hand. She can't be unaware that she is acknowledging them each, personally, as part of her crew.
She's not a small woman, but some of the War Boys tower over her, and she has to yank down their heads to her. He sees a bloody scratch on Sprocket's head and suspects any scars will be treasured. In the eyes of the men he can already see that in this moment, Furiosa has grown to be twenty feet tall and bulletproof.
The crew cheers louder, feeding off her energy, reaching for each other to crash foreheads in imitation. The sounds of their celebration bounce up the rock walls of the Citadel, as if etching themselves into the stone.
* * *
That night, none of them even end up in their bunks. Not gone off on their individual wild celebrations as is customary; they’re in the meal halls still.
They’re in the meal halls and they’re handing each other food and passing down plates like catching a body falling from tumbling like hand meeting hand to swing away from wreckage like putting out your palm and a lance lands in it because someone’s got you and they’re all spilling out endless words, endless revisiting of that run, what would be done better faster more, more modifications to their lances, more maneuvers to practice, is there a better way to get weapons to you, is there a better position for our flamer, is there a better allocation for the bullets…
“I don’t think I saw our Imperator miss once.”
And their tables roared and hands slapped at the surfaces and aqua-cola was lifted high and splashed about like chrome.
Little by little, the night grew long and the mess hall emptied of all crew but them. Their stories grew softer, grew quiet, and almost secret like Witnessing that they shouldn’t have the right to have. They were all still alive. In the crevices of their souls where they know that machines are better than bodies because machines don’t die, this is miraculous. Three tables worth of War Boys became crammed into one, spilled on top and across the floor of the table where Furiosa held court.
No one wanted to leave. (All wanting on some level to make sure of each other’s presence, to count each other again. To be accounted for—)
But War Boys run dry eventually too and they drooped from the table to puddle around each other on the ground, like the half-acknowledged memories of their War Pup piles. (They shouldn’t be, they shouldn’t—)
“Look at this lot,” Ace huffed at his Imperator, the both of them remain hunched at the table.
“I’ll need to get them up in the morning.” Furiosa murmured.
Ace knew that if the Boys were found here by the morning crew, they’d hear no end of it from the chop boys and the other crews.
(The realization is like swallowing something alive.) It makes something skitter in his stomach to realize that she’s watching over them, still.
“I’ll keep you company then,” Ace said, and raised his cup.
She smacked hers against it, gently, like heads meeting.