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Under Imperator Furiosa the War Rig team grows successful, and then it grows legendary. The Ace hears the whispers, in the corridors, the corners, the garages, the pits, and they’re filled with no little amount of awe and jealousy.
There are always War Boys looking to be noticed enough to get tested for the crew, or for one of the War Rig's repair teams. It's not unknown for him to look for new drivers there, after Sprocket turned out to be so shine, so even their Blackthumb positions are hotly contested.
They still lose people, of course. Sometimes simply to enemy action, and sometimes because at the end of a crew member's half-life, the Imperator’s willing to give them a position on the most dangerous perch and a chance to die well, to be Witnessed. It’s still at less than a third of the rate the previous Imperator did— or the others do— and Ace knows it means the team as a whole accumulates skills, keeps getting better, more creative.
It's almost blasphemy to be pleased that their crew isn't hurrying off to die gloriously, and they never say it out loud, but Ace knows the Boss is as proud as he is.
* * *
After that run to Gastown, with how well received their gift had been, Sprocket watches as a certain tension fall away from the crew that he hadn’t even known existed. Their movements seem simultaneously less rushed and hurried but more smooth, and faster, as if somehow the sense that they had more time to do it in made their decisions better. He’ll think on this more later.
For now the crew’s returning their wheels to the Altar after yet another successful run, Furiosa at the lead and the outriders trailing after her, and Sprocket’s hanging back razzing Eskins for almost eating it on a turn when he hears a bit of a commotion off to the side.
They've drawn a bit of an audience— they almost always do— and at the side to the entrance of the Wheel Room is a small group of younger War Boys, done with their tasks of unloading and ferrying. Sprocket recognises them in a vague sort of way, just one more cluster of boys vying for the Boss' attention before they have the maturity of skill level to hope to keep it for more than a fleeting second. He and Guzzer tend to refer to them as Mediocre Boys. There's an older War Pup with them, one of the ones just about coming up on his Apprenticing. His eyes are following the Boss with something of reverence.
“This one thinks he’s got the right,” the boys are saying, shoving the Pup backwards, knocking him out of the Boss’ sightline, almost up against a wall, “look at how scrawny he is, who's gonna pick him for anything but gardening, never going to make it onto a crew.”
“Better send ‘im back to the breeders,” one of the taller stockier War Boys booms with an awful leer, using his full height to tower over the much shorter War Pup, “Have Rett 'ere nurse at that teat som' more.” He reaches out and pets the Pup’s cheekbone and everyone laughs; the small shoulders are hard, his jaw ticking, feet shifting his weight forward—
Sprocket watches and and strides up and casually slams his wheel once at the speaker’s solar plexus and then shoves it up under his chin, driving him away from the War Pup and against the wall. He recognizes the bully now, someone he didn’t even bother remembering the name of, who’d failed even the pre-selections for placement onto their crew.
“I think,” Sprocket says mildly, glaring upwards through his good eye, “You are in no position to judge whether someone’s worthy.” He presses the wheel harder and higher until the bully’s rising on his toes, off-balance.
One of the Mediocre Boys’ hands comes up to scrabble at the wheel laying pressure at his throat, the other hand claws at Sprocket, who only jams that arm against the wall hard enough for the strike to sound up through the elbow, like a horn, before it could even make contact.
“ ‘Rett’, was it? Do you see how I’m doing this, Pup?” Sprocket calls behind him.
“Yes.” The voice answers immediately. He notes that it doesn’t have a quaver. Good.
“You’re smaller, built for speed—” He looks backward and in the same motion twists the wheel up around the bully’s neck into a blow snapping at the back of his skull. The pissant drops, knocked out. (“Mediocre,” Eskins laughs.)
Sprocket steps over the unconscious body towards the pup and nods at the little one to come with him, Eskins had already taken up position on Rett’s other side.
“—like me. You’ll never be as strong as them,” Sprocket says bluntly, “you’ll never have much more shoulder to grow into. So don’t fight to their strengths.”
He glances down and he sees large eyes track him with awe. He sees the grease around the fingertips: aspirations as a repair pup then. “You're not a hammer, you're a drill, so don't try to beat in that nail, huh?” Sprocket tries to speak to what the pup knows, “Use your strengths. Tch, should have the Boss talk to you some.”
Rett’s eyes light up with hope and Sprocket thinks that’s not too bad of an idea. The Boss seemed always in need of more Repair Pups tinkering with the War Rig, not that the crew minded because it meant always something new to try or play with.
She’ll find a space for this one, Sprocket thinks. (Like she did for all of us.)
“Yo Boss!” Sprocket calls, “Got another blackthumb for you.”
Furiosa turns from chatting with the drivers, having long finished placing their wheels back on the altar. Sprocket feels a little uneasy that they're still waiting for him but there was no censure in her gaze. Her eyes meets his then sweeps past to take in Rett, the War Pup’s form... and his chest scars.
Ones that match Sprocket’s own, trophies of the battle he’d fought with the Mechanic to get himself properly tuned, all the unnecessary parts sheared off.
Furiosa’s eyes clear with understanding and she nods, “Let’s go test you in the garages.” She waves the rest of the drivers ahead to the mess halls and turns to lead Sprocket and their new Apprentice down to where the convoy’s being repaired by the crew’s dedicated garage team. There’s always something to work on right after a run.
“Th' others're never gonna believe this,” came the quiet awed whisper at Sprocket's shoulder.
Sprocket has the brief thought that that’s not an unusual state to be in, around their Boss.
(He doesn’t notice that Rett looks at both him and the Imperator while saying so, doesn’t notice the conversations that rise up in the rooms and hallways as the crew empties out, and doesn’t notice the way War Boys edge away from the one labeled Mediocre like he’d carried the plague.)
* * *
"Boss," Ace called, and she waited for his long strides to catch up with her.
"Ace," she nodded.
"Don't know if I— don't mean to—" he hedged, then took a deep breath and squared his jaw. "Might be better you don't come to the Pits anymore."
Her eyebrows went up. The fighting pits were where the Warboys kept themselves sharp. There was sparring and then there were the Pits, where boys challenged each other, hashed out beefs, worked off their energy. Established themselves. It was through the Pits that she'd fought her way out of being a scrawny, insignificant scout and up toward where she'd been in the position to become Imperator.
After their run the day before yesterday, the Immortan had publicly praised Furiosa, suggesting the other Imperators and crews should look to her for an example. In the months since she'd been given the War Rig they had mostly ignored her, but she'd known to expect something from the other Imperators after such praise. It hadn't really been a surprise when the atmosphere in the pits had been different too. Where before, boys from the other crews had seemed honoured for a chance to go up against her - a punch from her metal hand was somewhat of a rite of passage - now they'd been gunning for her. Looking to curry favour with their Imperators. There weren't many rules in the Pits, but last night was the first time she'd felt that might be a problem.
"How am I going to stay sharp?"
"Aw Boss, you know me 'n Guzzer 'n Sprocket will give you a good scrap," he said. Continued with a chuckle, “And the others can give it a good try.”
"Boys get into trouble?" she said. She'd left after two bouts, but most of the crew had stayed.
Ace gave a waggle with his hand that translated to, 'A little, but none of your concern'.
He looked like something was on his mind though, something he'd rather not say but that was weighing on him. She leaned up against the corridor wall and waited.
"Word's got 'round you have us in your quarters after runs," he grumbled finally. "T'other Boys've got some fucked up ideas about—" he looked away, "you rewardin' us."
Furiosa sighed. Her quarters were up near where the other Imperators were quartered. 'Word getting round' could only have come from them. It wasn't like Imperators taking crew to their quarters was new or strange, but that was a dynamic the War Boys understood - getting a Use. She didn't think that any of them had a concept of a woman getting enjoyment out of anything sexual, so where another Imperator would clearly have gotten Use out of his crew, in her case it had to be that she was buying their loyalty by letting them Use her.
Not that she had known much different, until a few runs ago. Having the crew in her quarters after a run had started purely for the calm it gave her to know none of them were shivering down on the ledges in the Skin Shop, subject to the Organic Mechanic's 'mercies'. It had been an easy step after that drunken night at Gastown proved her crew to be... reliable.
From there it had developed into the animal comfort of warm, trusted, safe bodies around her, of hearing breathing around her, of being soothed from a restless dream by a hand lightly stroking her hair.
It hadn't been until she'd woken from a different sort of restless dream, her body pressed up against Sprocket and her hips rocking without her input, that the idea that this could be different, could be more, had even occurred. And it hadn't been until Sprocket had begged her to let him touch her - really touch her - that she'd had the first clue what that might be like.
What it had been like; being held, being cradled against Ace while Sprocket kissed and licked and nipped at her neck, her breasts and her stomach and - oh - his face between her - ohh - and her entire body trembling and her nails digging into somebody's forearm her mouth making sounds her face wet with tears her hips making decisions of their own and OH—
Afterward she'd felt raw, taken apart like an engine, all her delicate inner workings exposed, and she'd hidden her face against Ace's skin and felt blindly for Sprocket, pulled him up against her and hid between their bulk, let them be her shields until she felt like she had a skin covering her again.
When she invited them to her quarters her crew touched her with gentleness she hadn't known Warboys to be capable of— hadn't known any man capable of. Always watching her face, listening to her every breath, her every sound to see what she liked, what she didn't. The words "Shine, Boss?" whispered, murmured against her skin, waiting for a yea or nay. Always holding her hand, so she could squeeze if her voice refused. She trembled under their touches, leaned into their hands, gasped into their skin. She was wholly unused to such reverence, such care, not sure how to process, how to feel.
The idea that she might offer the use of her body as a reward for their loyalty was so far from the truth it would be laughable if it wasn't so infuriating, and judging by the state of Ace's knuckles, she wasn't the only one to think so.
He saw her look at his hands, and shrugged, unrepentant. “Most Imperators stop headin’ to the Pits eventually, anyway.”
"I'll stay out of it," she promised after a pause, pushing away from the wall.
* * *
“Hey Crank!”
“Crank!”
“Where you goin’? Come on!”
“Tapping out of this one, guys,” Crank mutters as he peels off from his old pack and heads for crew. “Got more practice scheduled.”
“Ugh, he’s been like that since he’d got picked.”
“Thinks he’s too good for us now?”
“Better things to do, what with that Imperator of his.”
The ugly laughter rises up behind him and Cranks fist curls up. They'd always had such fun back when he was one of them, the laughter easy and warm. He doesn’t understand why he feels so uncomfortable now, while it’s the same things they’ve always said. And Crank—
It’s not even like he’d ever accepted the Boss’ invites for Use, never been interested though he’d been honored by her asking. He liked giving her a hand to clutch at sometimes, or being a shoulder to curl up against. Her or crew. It’s unfathomably nice curling up with everyone; he’d never woken up feeling so rested, so strong, so centered.
He doesn't feel centered now. He leaves even as they keep on speaking, trying to one-up each other in their disrespect towards his Imperator.
A War Pup’s fiddling with a crossbow nearby, head tilted away as if wishing not to listen but afraid to leave. When Crank passes next to him the pup meets his eyes, and holds up his arms.
Crank lifts him, and carries them both away.
* * *
Eventually it's no longer something to sneer at. It just is. Fours years as Imperator and her gaze has the authority to shut down a newer Imperator when he sees the group of War Boys she leads to her quarters. Four years and her crew has acquired the status of legends; their habits mimicked and filtering through the Citadel in vague echoes. It's no longer the same crew— she still reaches for Sprocket sometimes, on reflex, and knows Ace does too. Some of the youngsters she started with are old hands now, steady and sure.
She no longer trembles, when they touch her, unless it's a good trembling.
* * *
"Boss, will you tell us about the Immortan? What’s he like?"
Furiosa froze halfway to the seat they'd kept free for her. She’d been looking forward to meeting up with her crew, their warm camaraderie and regard. Looking forward to letting their chatter wash over her, their shoulders against hers bolstering her. She’d wanted it more than a drink of aqua-cola. Her throat felt like she'd walked six days through the Wasteland— it always did after reporting to the Immortan directly.
The speaker, one of the newest members of crew, got a swift thwack over the back of the head, and Morsov yanked him close to hiss, louder than he'd perhaps intended, "We don't ask the Boss about the Immortan! She used to have the honour of being his Wife.”
Furiosa sees the table grow quiet as the rest of the crew catches the words and heads turn towards the conversation.
“She misses him, don't make her re-live her loss."
She watches as the new member look horrified and sketch a V8, then every member of her team nod and mirror the salute a moment later.
Furiosa felt her world shift under her feet. Felt like a wall she’d been leaning against has just disappeared.
What was the Immortan like? More diseased than he had been, his breath still just as vile as she remembered. It always took an effort not to throw up at feeling it puffed into her face.
She was still, always, so grateful that he'd never known her name, when she was in the Vault. He'd called her Feisty, as if her resistance was merely a way to entertain him, and she'd let her hate for that name fuel her. Feisty with the long, curly blond hair he'd like to yank on. Feisty who he'd unceremoniously thrown to the Wretched, where she had taken back her own name. He'd never connected that girl with shorn-headed, one-armed, war-painted Furiosa who had drawn his attention in the senior War Boy ranks some ten years later.
She was sure Joe didn't know, because he would have rubbed it in her face every possible opportunity had he known.
It felt like the innocent question and the instant reply had knocked the dust off her air intake valves. This was the lie she had built her team on; the lie that she worshipped the Immortan Joe as much as they did, that she was still so devastated at having failed in her duty to be a Wife to him that she couldn't bear to speak of him. A lie of omission, but still a lie.
It had seemed the safest thing, back then. The only way she could affect to worship Joe without having to speak about him. It hadn't seemed like it could harm, anyway; war rig crews had a high turnover. She'd never expected her crew to turn out to be so strong, never expected to rely on their presence, never expected to bond so closely with some of them, to grow such attachment.
She watched them make the V8 sign and suddenly knew with absolute clarity that everything she had, every bond she had built with the men in front of her, would collapse the instant they learned of her true feelings about the Immortan.
It had been such a relief to speak with Angharad and Miss Giddy and the others. To be able to say, out loud, how every single time she had to report directly to Joe she felt like she needed to scour her skin with sand. Saying the words, hearing them echoed back by the other women, had relieved a pressure she hadn't know was inside her.
Sitting in their little circle and listening to the women speak had filled a space inside her Furiosa hadn't known was empty. Keeping up the facade with her crew suddenly seemed so much heavier now, an impossible load she'd never really noticed before. She could manage it most days, but she could feel herself seeking out more moments of quiet, shake her head at silent offers of closeness.
"Boss?"
She shook herself, looked into Ace's concerned face.
"I need— some time alone," she choked out, already turning away. Knew that he'd be concerned. Knew that he'd be thinking she was going to her quarters to mourn her lost status as Wife. Suddenly she couldn't be here for a second longer.
"Boss, wait," he said, and held out a cup of Aqua Cola and two mealworm biscuits, her evening rations. "We'll stay out of your hair," Ace said, and she knew he meant he'd make sure none of the crew would come to her quarters tonight. It was tradition, by now, that they came the night after a run, so this break would tell them all they'd fucked up and fucked up badly.
She was already feeling guilty about that. They tended to take it hard, and it wasn't their fault that she couldn't be honest with them.
Furiosa accepted the proffered rations, because it seemed the easiest thing to do, and stalked out of the mess hall before she could suffocate under Ace's kindness, and at knowing that it was built on a lie.
The women had talked about an escape plan, at her last visit to the vault. It was still in the early stages, more hope than plan, but she'd naively thought she could take her crew with her, that they would help her, that she could trust them with this.
Now she knew better. They would never cooperate with her if she acted against the Immortan. And if she left them behind they would be reviled as traitors, assumed to have known of her plan.
She could be the Furiosa who protected her crew and kept them alive or the Furiosa who took the Immortan's wives and made a run for the Green Place, but she could not be both.
* * *
The Gatekeeper shifts his weight away from resting fully on his scythe as the lift lowers, bringing them ever closer to the Wretched. Roughly three body lengths away from their reach, he holds his fist up and the lift halts.
The War Rig is coming up on the last stretch; sentries report that the convoy’s come back complete, all vehicles accounted for. Once again.
The Gatekeeper curls his hand tighter against his scythe, he watches as the Wretched clear space around the Rig and its outriders, and he doesn’t know if they maintain distance because of the numbers and strength of the crew that comes back or from something else. It’s hard to guess at what the Wretched are thinking at any particular time, mindless animals that they are. Often, the scouts and raiders who arrive get crowded; perhaps that’s because their hauls are uninventoried and the bloodbags they bring are curiosities; the whole event’s a mad chaos. The moment you sit on your heels, unwary, and those below will tear you apart without reason.
But for Imperator Furiosa’s runs, the Wretched are oddly tame, eyes intent, and the War Pups are already pressing up against the ledges, ready to haul off and inventory the goods. The Gatekeeper sees the Imperator Prime at the water lever, watching for Corpus’s signal on the tower across from him, ready to release the water in celebration if it’s yet another successful trade mission with no loss of stock.
It often is, for Furiosa’s runs.
All three stone towers are buzzing with anticipation, from the foot of the stone to the vague peaks, like energy under the skin. It’s Furiosa, the words hum through the ground and the air. He’d not felt this energy in over 10,000 days, since Immortan Joe stopped leading the raids himself. He feels this energy also in the Gatekeepers around him.
The Gatekeeper scowls behind his hood and strikes the butt of his scythe against the metal. They need to focus.
He strikes it again, and the sound bells into the valley between the rocks, and everything slows down.
The War Rig stops, in front of the space where the platform will land.
The cab door opens.
The Imperator Furiosa leans out and raises her metal hand in acknowledgement, in their routine call and response.
A cheer goes up in the Citadel as the Gatekeeper signals for the lift to be lowered, with a sweep of his scythe, and the Imperator catches his eyes somehow, though the hood, and nods.
The cowled man nods back. He likes a person that knows their duty, and their place.
* * *
Morsov is glad, following the crew up to their Imperator’s room, that their Boss had forgiven them for speaking out of turn that one night. It’d been many days before she’d even looked them in the eye after that, and many more still before she’d honored them with a touch.
She seemed as frantic for it as they were, after too long without, and she ran through each of them as wanted it; like something elemental and fiery and endless.
Heh, not a one can keep up, can we? Morsov thinks as he passes out, ’s a good thing that Boss has all of us here.
His last memory is his Imperator held safe in a nest of bodies, breathing deep and shuddery, eyes flickering from one crewmember to another, intense and unknowable.
* * *
Furiosa wakes up at the dawn’s light in her eyes and blinks up slow at the ceiling. One long unhurried breath expands her ribs and as her chest moves the arms across it shift as well. One crewmate shifts sleepily to curl up against her side. A pair of faces press harder against her shoulder. Several sleepy grumbles rise up as the movement cascades through the bodies around her. She tries not to form the names in her head but she knows the origin of each sound in this room.
She untangles herself slowly, with a minimum of fuss, and dresses.
“I guess I should get up too,” Ace mutters with a groan.
“Get some sleep,” Furiosa says quietly over her shoulder, “We’re going on a run today.”
He lifts a hand in acknowledgement and worms back into the pile of warmth, trusting in her to wake him when needed.
It pits her stomach.
Furiosa closes the door behind her quietly. Walks down the hall. Leans into an alcove and knocks her head back against the rock and sighs.
“The weather vanes say storm’s coming,” Miss Giddy whispers beside her.
Furiosa stares into the middle distance.
“It’s agreed then? You will take them? You’re ready?”
Her jaw hurts. Everything hurts. “The plans are in place,” she says instead.
The sun claws up the sky.
* * *
