Chapter Text
“Still no lifts today,” the Lift Imperator called Hogg shrugged as if in apology before gesturing to the unused lift in the Central Shop, the mills empty of the Wretched that ran them. “Three hands deep of mud or more by now, that's right. Look, them below are barely moving, flooded out of their nooks and crannies.”
“We don't have any records that show an equivalent amount of rain or duration, Imperator. This is by far the most and the longest it's rained here that we know of. The previous record was three days. This is going on nine, almost continuously but for the brief break in the weather a few days ago. And that was hardly enough sun to dry a dustwrap, much less the Immortan's Road,” the Organic called Ducky said.
“Bout the longest I can recall,” Hogg said, glancing at the Ace who nodded in agreement.
“Sure don't remember more than a few days of wet, as far back as bein real little. Weather's changing every season, wetter 'n warmer than it used to be. Remember the dry days, when a drop of rain would have been a miracle, and now we're complaining it's too much wet? Times sure change,” the Ace said, half-amused.
“Do you think Gastown and the Bulletfarm are going hungry?” Coil asked, peering over the side at the muddy, churning mess of humanity below.
“I hope not.” Furiosa frowned.
“Way I heard it from Acosta,” the Ace explained, “They should have stores for a hundred days without regular runs. We all should. Bullet Farm definitely has it, probably more than ten weeks worth for everyone. Gastown, couldn't be sure, that depends on their Imperators and that seems to change all the time. But if there was a real problem, they woulda signaled us by now. Haven't heard anything bout that.”
“Good point.”
“Though there is one thing.” Hogg lowered his voice, and as the others drew closer, he closed his mouth, as if he realized it was something he shouldn't have brought up.
“What is it?” Furiosa was the first to break the silence.
“The brothers. You know. Our brothers,” the Lift Imperator's voice was a low rasp. He met her eyes. “Been whispered about among the brothers that the Daddy is ill. Something serious.”
In the distance, the sound of an engine starting and sputtering out as some War Boys worked in their shop. But there was no other sound beyond that and the falling rain, dripping onto the iron platform when the wind blew it past the overhanging ledge of stone.
The Imperators, Half-life Nobles, and Organic eyed each other nervously.
“It's just a rumor, isn't it?” Coil managed.
“Yes. Just a rumor. Not a word, not to anyone.” Furiosa said with finality.
“What should we do?”
“You'll do nothing, just as you'll say nothing. I'll go.” Furiosa said it before she could take it back, and immediately regretted the words.
“This is as far as you should come.” Furiosa paused before the bridge to the Immortan's Tower. The Ace nodded, stepping back but Coil stepped forward brashly onto the lip of stone, standing beside her before she could step onto the swaying bridge.
“I'll come with you,” he said, “and hold the umbrella.” But she shook her head.
“You can't,” the Ace said. “No War Boys allowed in the Immortan's Tower, not without permission.”
“Thought one of us was to always be by the Imperator's side.”
“As much as possible. But this isn't possible.” The Ace clasped Coil's shoulder. “Let it go, we'll wait here.”
“It won't be long. I'll just go talk to the Bridge Imperator and come back.”
“And when you're back...” Coil said, but Furiosa said nothing in return, catching one last look at his earnest eyes for support as she strode across the last bridge alone.
Her breath came faster, and she didn't know if it was because of the dizzying walk across the swaying bridges, or because of something else, and she decided that it couldn't be fear, no, never fear, because she could not afford the luxury of fear.
As she stepped off the bridge onto the stone of the Immortan's Tower, the Bridge Imperator waved to her from his spot under the overhanging stone ledge. She waved back and on a whim walked over, folding the umbrella back, setting it down to wet the rough stone with dark splotches.
“All good today, brother?” To her own ears, the cheerfulness in her voice sounded artificial but if the Bridge Imperator noticed, he did not show it.
“Oh yeah, brother, everything's fine. Not a peep, not even a pup.” He laughed at his own joke, showing a mouth full of gapped teeth. “No one's come or gone on this level yet this morning. You're the first person I seen today. Newest brother, littlest digger. I heard about you from the others.”
“Furiosa.”
“Mack. Lucky me, getting to see you here! Normally work higher up, top deck, Vault level, but took the low rung just for today, paying back a favor. And here I thought it was gonna be a bad day. Heard about your adventures. Last Witness, savior of the War Rig. Even heard about Bartertown, that's some nice work there, brother.”
“Thanks.” And she was glad that he didn't ask her to touch his mourning scars, though it seemed that the tips of her fingers tingled with strange anticipation.
She rubbed her fingers against the rough canvas of her trousers.
“So...don't mean to ask a brother's private business, but are you coming in to see the Daddy in his Vault? Cos...maybe that'd do a real good if you could go.” Mack's words were hesitant, unsure. “Seeing as we lot of brothers can't go in, not without permission. And he hasn't given permission, not even orders. Not since he's taken to bed.”
“When was that?”
“Two days ago,” the Bridge Imperator said grimly. “And it's not like we can ask the little boys that do the fetching and the cleaning. They don't got no words to say and we don't know their hand words. Some of 'em don't even hear. But you. You could go in. Seeing as how you know. You're...you. Different from us. Your kind can always go in, even if you are a brother now.”
My kind. The words lingered on her lips, but she didn't speak them, holding them back. She took a long breath. The Vault. She hadn't meant to go that far, only as far as the top of the bridge.
“Yes. I'll go.” She looked back toward the Third Tower, but the rain had intensified, obscuring the landing, so that the shadowed figures of the Ace and Coil seemed no more than distant white smudges.
“Lemme get a pup to show you the way...”
Once she was close enough she knew the way, so instead of the barefoot pup leading her, she lead him, and for every one long stride she took, he needed two or three, nearly running to keep up.
Standing before the massive polished door set in a great expanse of flat expressionless stone, her hand raised, Furiosa hesitated, suddenly realizing where she was and what she was about to do.
Around her, the air was sweet with the scent of water, only it was not the smell of rain, but of the misters that gently watered the long tubes of planters. There were no plants now, only soil, and she took a long breath, smelling the dark and fecund scent of of the earth that permeated the stone chamber. A breath and another and another, and suddenly she was almost dizzy with it. Remembering the hidden green within the stone heart of Bartertown, she sighed, wishing that she could see that lush green again.
The pup looked up at her, and shook his head. “Can't go in this way.”
She reached out to touch the steel, but the pup caught her hand, shaking his head.
“I've come through here before.”
“Can't go this way without permission,” the pup whispered.
“Oh.”
And maybe this was for the better; it meant she didn't have to go inside, didn't have to face the past, in whatever form it took. Didn't have to face him...
Her hair was the color of wheat ripening in the fields, and if the wind could have stirred it, it would have been like the movement of the wind as it rippled through the grasses. Only here, there could be no wind to touch it, no rain to wet it, only the weight of stone and shadow pressed around their shoulders, crushing...
“Come on.” The pup took her hand.
“Yes.” But then, he did something unexpected and took her another way that she didn't know existed.
Just beyond the Vault there was a little nest, no not quite a nest for it was all stone and no sand, but it was hardly bigger than a nest, and she had to stoop to enter it, following the barefoot pup.
Beyond were a trio of pups, sitting on stone-carved benches, and when they saw her and her Imperator badge, the three quickly got to their feet and saluted her, eyes cautious. But something about their stance eased, and she wondered why until she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye; the barefoot pup was signaling to them, speaking with his hands and it reminded her--
The open waste. Clear water in a clear bottle. The exchange...
Anti-pax, the Trader Leader had called it, that rough and derogatory sign. The reverse of pax.
Furiosa raised her hand and two fingers. Pax.
The way was narrow and low, and she found it hard not to bang the padded shoulder of her prosthetic hand against the uneven water-carved walls so she turned sideways, hunched over, shuffling through the corridor. No War Boy could pass through here; the smallest were sent to Gastown where they would work hard without eating as much.
The barefoot pup had left her with the others, who glanced at each other with the understanding of those who knew each other's minds intimately, and one of them nodded, gesturing for her to follow.
It was dark; this corridor was not connected to the main system, did not let in any light, and she wondered how much longer it would be until they went around a corner and the faintest glow of light appeared, seeping out from behind a locked steel door. The pup unlocked it, and in the light that flooded into the corridor, she realized she had not gone a long way at all, less than ten hands total.
Stooping down, she stepped through the doorway.
The mute pup gestured to her, miming that she should knock when she was ready, closing and locking the little door behind him.
Furiosa found herself back in the Vault.
She reached out and touched the cold glass of the window with the tips of her right hand, before drawing her hand back as if burned, rubbing her fingers against her trousers.
Immediately she regretted not wearing that shirt she had bought in Bartertown. Scraps perhaps, but it would have covered her bare skin so that he had even less to look at if he looked at her and it sent a strange feeling through her, remembering that she was not just another War Boy.
She had forgotten how cold it was in here during this season, and the vastness of the Vault made her feel even more vulnerable.
Staying on the ledge of stone, she followed the curve of the stone wall, turning the corner to see the sinuous trail of water moving into the central pool. She stepped forward, her eyes moving past the pianofuerte to the graceful stone arch beyond that marked his room.
Sick in bed, two days now.
She felt her mechanical hand clench into a hard, heavy fist, a pooling black rage that welled up deep inside of her and she tiptoed, wondering if she could hear his great heaving breaths as she stepped forward.
She inched her way forward counting the seconds until she could see around the desk and its pile of books that blocked the view of his bed. Not the other bed that she could always see, would always remember the feel of those bare springs and hear the creak of it, the squeak of its rusty joints, with its filthy cover and too-small mattress. Not that bed but the one nearest the window, with its generous mattress and clean bedding.
Her heart pounded and she wondered how hard it would be. Not so hard with this hardened steel hand, she thought with grim satisfaction, and for the first time, she was glad for its loss because it made her that much stronger.
She adjusted the actuators, turning them to high, feeling their mechanical buzz travel through the harness into her body.
She stepped forward.
Bedclothes tossed to the ground in a discarded heap and the bed itself was empty. All if it empty. He was gone.
She turned away with a sigh, adjusting the actuators back to low and when she moved, the faint sweetness of perfume lingered in the air and a shock of memory overcame her, so strong that it stole the breath from her lungs.
Because she was a mother and not a virgin, they tried to rape her.
Furiosa wrote the words down, one after another, scratching the sandstone lightly, writing in the secret language of the Mothers, passed down from woman to woman, time immemorial. Not even all the Vuvalini knew this language; it was an ancient one, one that was no longer spoken, and she knew the shape of the words under her fingertips even though they came by harder every day, dissolving from her memories like salt crumbled into water.
Because she fought hard, they killed her.
The words came but the tears no longer did. There were no more tears left for her, not in this world. The days were long and the nights were longer, alone, locked in. Food came, twice daily with a sweet cup of warm milk. Sometimes she thought she could hear the sound of voices on the other side of the door, but the metal blocked her hearing. Often, she wondered if they were fattening her up to eat.
Because I did not fight hard enough, they spared me.
Every day she thought about how she could fight her way free, but the high window was too narrow and besides, it was barred. She had tried digging through the stone around the bars with her metal spoon, but someone must have noticed the scratches on the metal and replaced it with a plastic one, not hard enough by half. But she could use it to write, and she did, setting the words in a halo around the upside-down A carved underneath the lip of the bed. But the plastic was not strong, and the words could not be carved deep. Forever, they would be no more than faint scratches on the stone.
Because I am a coward, I lived.
She would live with these words forever, because of how deep the wounds were carved into her soul.
Losing count of the days was easy. It was easy to believe that she was dead, trapped in a perpetual purgatory of stone, of sunsets and sunrises, lentils and pumpkins and grains, sweet warm glasses of milk, and long moonless nights where her skin crawled with the black shame of her own cowardice, of her own guilt.
Punishment, she thought, an eternity of punishment for a moment of hesitation. For stacked fears and embedded misery that rotted her through so that when it mattered, she couldn't pull the trigger fast enough.
They should have called someone else Furiosa, she thought. Someone else would have deserved that name. Not her, not that she ever deserved it before, but if she ever did, surely she did not deserve it anymore.
One day, the door opened and when the Imperators came to take her, she stumbled out in a daze of choking fear, remembering the long shaking ride in the back of the slaver's van, days upon days upon days spent blindfolded and trussed, gagged to keep her from screaming, her mouth parched and dry like the endless waste, the blood of her mother still matting her hair.
She could not fight even if she wanted to, because the fear ran through her as violent as the surge of a wasteland storm as the Imperators put their strong hands on her arms, hands that went all the way around. The fear gripped her so tightly she could not walk at first, and had to be coaxed to move.
The hot touch of the brand as it seared the skin behind her neck. The agony of the burn as an Imperator spread it with salve. Those not-so-old memories welled up fast, like a growing tornado twisting through her ribcage and her heart pounded in her chest so hard and so fast that it made her dizzy, and she could hardly breathe for breathing too much.
But instead of the long walk through the rock-cut tunnels and over the bridges, they took her to a bright and airy room, and they gave her something hot and bitter to drink that eased some of the pain, that made the fear melt away and it seemed that everything was a little better, a little brighter now that she didn't care as much anymore.
She knew what marriage meant. She had heard others talk about it before when she was small. Slavery, destitution, abasement. Those words rang true. Some people called it partnership; others laughed and said property. But somehow after that bitter drink it seemed like a charming thing, to be petted and praised, washed and anointed with sweet perfumes, adorned in fine new cloth that she knew were the precious water riches of a community, a long bolt that they draped around her warmly, showing the newly budding curves of her growing body. For other women to dress her hair, grown out since those blood-stained clumps had been sheared off, for them to draw her lips red with rouge, it made her smile and laugh as the fear and the guilt were oddly set aside, partitioned away somewhere deep inside of her that she could not immediately feel.
And then to be surrounded with food and praise, with clear sweet water sparkling in every cup and the Imperators drank to her health, wishing her the best though some looked away or looked at their boots and said nothing. She couldn't hold it against them for long for spoiling the fun, who could? She was too happy. And grateful for it, truly; it felt like an eternity had passed since she had felt anything other than crushing grief.
Light-headed, she took his broad hand when he offered it, and went with him to the balcony. There, down below, like the milling of insects. Dozens, no hundreds. Thousands perhaps, and she had never seen so many people before in her life, and they were all looking up to her, cheering her, cheering him, and when he kissed her she did not resist because it never occurred to her that she should.
“What's your name?” His hands were strong, with thick fingers and a broad meaty palm. His hands were possessive; he touched her everywhere with them, and she could not fight back, couldn't push him off, not even when he hurt her. His fingers were strangely soft, uncalloused, with neatly manicured fingernails, and the skin of his face and his lips were oddly young and tender for a man so much older; years of wearing a purifier mask had protected him from the harsh glare of the sun and the drying touch of the winds.
“Furiosa,” she gasped.
“That can't be your real name,” he laughed, and then he kissed her again, smearing the rouge on her lips as he pulled at her clothing, mindless of the tears he left in the expensive fragile cloth. He stayed dressed, but the rough black cloth that covered every inch of his body hurt her wherever it touched her, abrading her bare skin. “That's a fighting name, for a fighting girl. I've had more than my share of fighting girls. Come on, you can tell me. What's your name, what did your mother call you? What were you called before you came of age? Before you joined the warriors?”
She almost said it, but then she bit the word back to herself. Better die, she thought, than reveal her soul.
“My name is Furiosa.”
“Really now.”
“That's my name. It always has been.”
That night, the things he did to her made her remember fear, but he said it was too early to breed her. Better enjoy you while I can, he had said, laughing at her tears as he gently wiped them away.
“You'll learn to like me, I promise. Everyone always does.”
Furiosa kept to herself. She had no real interest in talking to the other women; they were different, they had grown accustomed to their confinement, caged with clipped wings. They fought for his favor, for his attention; they scrimmaged for nights with him. They reveled in their cosmetics, in dressing their hair and their bodies, making themselves alluring for him. But she who remembered the wild wind of the waste, her hair streaming like a banner behind her as the motorcycle roared between the grip of her firmly muscled thighs, she was not like them. She would never be like them.
Domesticated, bred for the indoors, she thought. There was one older woman, the midwife with the history skin that at first she thought could be an ally, but even a woman like that had been too long confined; the fight had been beaten out of her just like it had the others.
One morning when she looked into the mirror, her face looked strange to her and Furiosa realized that she was now also pale from the lack of sunlight on her skin. She started thinking that perhaps she too had been domesticated, that the fight had been beaten out of her as well. And all those nights that he asked for her, to take his pleasure, she had not fought. She wondered if domestication was a given, that somehow being used like this made her weak and unable to fight.
But because she kept to herself, without ever asking the others, it took her a long time to realize that it was the bitter drink that was keeping her from fighting.
The first time she refused the drink and refused to come down, he had led her into his bedroom himself, going up the stairs to take her from her tiny cell where she had lain on the hard stone of her bed, with the uncomfortable bite of the belt around her hips, dozing to forget her existence as she did every day, as much as she could.
Drowsy, she startled when his hand closed tight around her wrist, as hard as an iron shackle. She tensed to pull away, but he was so much stronger than her, and after a brief struggle she realized she had no choice but to follow him.
When she tried to trip him up on the stairs, to make him fall, he lifted her bodily, slinging her over his broad shoulder as easily as a man lifting a child.
His Imperators were standing outside, so close to the stacks of books near his room that their legs brushed against the fragile paper. That was different, she thought; they rarely came into the Vault.
He fancied himself a scholar these days, a learned man like the ones from Before. Only he rarely read the books. Everyday he meant to work on it, every day he was distracted by something or another, some business with the Citadel, some business with his sons, some business with his wives. So the books were for show like everything else in the Vault. The open pool, the wives with their delicate beauty, the decorative green plants growing in their pots, inedible, a terrible waste of water.
She glanced at the Imperators as she was brought in. One stared at her with hungry eyes, the other looked away, eyes fixed on his stone-scuffed boots.
He didn't bother dismissing his Imperators as she would have expected, and instead slung her on the nearest bed, the one that he used for this sort of thing, with its stained and shabby mattress not quite big enough for the metal-framed bed. The other, he slept in for himself, and it was laid out comfortably with soft bedding and pillows, ready to receive its owner.
The force of it knocked the air out of her, and she struggled to sit up to face him. It took her a moment to remember how to breathe, the way they did when she was learning how to fight, grappling and wrestling in the sun-dappled shade of the orchard trees, where the grass grew thick and in the autumn, the scents of the dying season rose up from the soil and-
“I'm too old to be playing these games, Furiosa.” His voice seemed weary, and he sat down briefly on his own bed, taking a long few minutes to catch his breath before standing up to loom over her.
She didn't answer him, her eyes glaring, and she glanced at the open doorway. One of the Imperators, the one with the beard, was looking at her with a dark, predatory gaze.
“Why didn't you drink your tea, like a good girl?”
She didn't answer him, looking away beyond him. A small window, and perhaps she could squeeze through it, she thought, but then her hands touched the belt around her hips and calculated it against the width of the window frame. It was impossible. She'd have to wait until he took it off.
“Why didn't you come down when I called for you?”
She didn't answer him, but shrugged, not knowing what to say. The wrong thing, and he might hurt her. The right thing, and he might be amused. Or hurt her. But it was impossible to tell what his moods were; it was as if his face was so long-accustomed to wearing a mask that he wore his own face as a mask as well, hiding his mood, his temper.
She would have studied it, but she saw him so rarely that it was hard to know how to predict him.
“You want a fight, don't you? Furiosa, my fighting girl.” He chuckled. “I can see it in your eyes. Just like a fire burning bright. Good breeding stock. I'm glad my Imperator Acosta bought you from those slavers for me. You'll make me strong sons.” He reached out to unchain her belt, and she slapped his hand away.
“Just try me,” she growled, and suddenly it was as if all the fights she dreamt of had come to life; she would go for his throat first and immediately after that the groin, and--
“Prime, Secundus.” Before she could move, the Imperators had entered the tiny room and immediately the room seemed to grow a lot smaller as those heavy muscled bodies came inside.
She threw herself at him, a last-ditch effort that she knew was doomed to fail, but the Imperators pried her off easily, as futile noises of frustration growled from her throat. He gestured, and they pushed her down onto the bed, one standing on either side, holding down her arms and she twisted, straining her body so hard she could nearly feel bones and tendons cracking.
“Legs,” he said wearily, and each Imperator grabbed one of her legs. One caught her by the knee, an older man with a plain, honest-looking face who frowned as he struggled to pin her leg without hurting her, but the other, the slightly younger one with the beard, grabbed her thigh and pinched it hard, so hard that she couldn't help but scream.
And when she thought he would be mad, that he would reprimand his Imperator for damaging the goods, she was wrong; he merely laughed, chuckling.
“They like it better if you can master them,” Joe said, winking at the bearded Imperator. “But sometimes they need disciplining.” Once again he gestured, and this time the Imperators drew her legs apart.
The fear gripped her so tight and she felt her heart pounding as he took the key from around his neck and gently, with much care and ceremony, unlocked the belt from around her waist. Picking up the contraption of leather and steel, he slid it off her legs and tossed it aside carelessly, landing with a heavy clink on the stone floor.
“I didn't plan to breed you so early. You're still quite young,” he said, stroking his fingers along the side of her face and she turned away in disgust, screwing her eyes closed so that she didn't have to look at him, at the Imperators holding her down.
“But you've got too much fight in you, and breeding you will help tame you, help keep you calm. Always does. It's like a magic bullet, having a baby. Kills off all those desires to escape, when you've got a pretty little pet of your own that's mine.” He hauled himself onto the bed, and it took him a few moments to get settled, to catch his breath.
“You're built slim, so one or two babies can't hurt your looks. You'll stay fit and beautiful for a long time, my Splendid Furiosa” He laughed at his own joke, and ran his broad palm over the flat of her belly, his hand fisting the delicate cloth, pulling it away from her to reveal the scant hair between her legs that had grown in the last few months.
One Imperator stared. The other, the older one, holding her knee and her arm, kept his eyes fixed on a point beyond the clear pane of the window. She looked away as well, at the dangling threads of chain that hung from the Imperator's iron badge of office, trembling from his hips, from the stored tension in his body as he shuffled his feet, shifting his weight uncomfortably.
She felt a little envy for that Imperator; he could look out the window. From here, she could only see the square block of light it represented, and not what was actually outside.
She wondered what he saw out there. A bird perhaps, floating free over the waste, a solitary traveler from an unknown place.
The light caught the silver chains, and she counted each one over and over as his heavy breath labored harshly against her throat, Willing herself away, it was like being anesthetized, like she was not quite there, a third person watching from a distance. The weight of his body pinned her easily; he was a big, strong man whose body was softening with age and lack of exercise into fat. He didn't need the Imperators for this. She knew what it meant when they stayed.
As much as her body felt it, something about her soul did not, and she smiled a little to herself without showing it on her face; there were deep places inside of her that he could not touch, that no one could. And even as he entered her again and she could feel her entire body flinch at the stretching pain, she knew no matter how big he was, he couldn't thrust deep enough to touch what made her herself. And it wasn't that he was merely big between the legs; she had seen men before growing up, but he was monstrous. The bulk between his legs was so heavy that he needed both hands to guide it, and before he could use her he needed to slick them both with aromatic oils. It hurt every time, and she never got used to it.
A monster, she thought, and when he came inside her, she knew he had won this round, this battle. A monster trying to fill me with monsters. The words ran through her thoughts as he hefted himself off of her, the black upon black clothing that he constantly wore stained even blacker from sweat and body fluids.
A heavy splotch of red was staining the already stained bedding between her legs, but she gave it a disinterested glance before looking away.
His Imperators kept her from moving, even though she no longer thought about moving, imaging the vile seed he had planted, and the kind of grotesque creatures would come forth from it. When slow understanding sank down into her breast it immediately sickened her, but she choked back her disgust and fear.
“Everyone grows to like it after they get a taste,” he chuckled, as he panted for breath, zipping himself back up. “You'll see. Just give it time, my Splendid.”
She looked far beyond the chains and saw only shadows.
The Imperators helped her up. She moved mechanically to cover herself, empty inside even as his seed seeped cold between her legs.
Shaken, she turned away from the bedroom and when she moved her hand to touch the space between her legs, her fingers ran into the protective leather flap of the Imperator's badge, and as she fingered the imprinted sigil, the panicked beat of her heart subsided.
Somewhere above her, a clean metallic click, and she looked up.
“He's not here.” Miss Giddy held up the shotgun, aiming it down at her from the upper level but Furiosa gestured dismissively.
“I know it's unloaded. It's never been loaded. Where is he?”
“Gone.” The gun came down, and Miss Giddy sighed, clutching the length of steel in her arms. “He staggered away just before you came, to his other rooms, the ones that his Imperators can reach.”
“Ah.” And she felt her shoulders fall. Whether it was from relief or disappointment, she did not know.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted from upstairs and instinctively, Furiosa hid her metal hand behind herself, turning to face the oncoming threat.
“Furiosa!” The girls ran to her, circling around the perimeter of the Vault and it shocked her that they remembered her name. They moved as quickly as they could, the hard belts of leather and steel around their hips impeding their movement.
“We've been worried about you.” Capable said, waiting at the top while some of the other girls went ahead.
“Finally, the questing ears of the great Somnambulists have heard my prayers.” Wringing her hands, the Dag changed the motion into an expression of thanks, a benediction.
“It's been months, where have you been?” Angharad's voice, broken and cracked, almost lost in that patter of bare feet, the cries of joy.
“Tell me what gun you used to war with. What was the action like?” Toast was the first one down, slipping past the others.
“I was sure you had died.” Cheedo peeped out from behind the Dag's shoulder.
“Sorry. I've been ill.” She took her left arm out from behind her back, holding it up, and Angharad's breath caught.
“Furiosa...”
She had not thought of what she had wanted to say; it didn't seem possible to meet again, not after all this time. Furiosa found her voice, the words halting and stumbling past her lips. “I came to apologize. I can't fix the pianofuerte. Not anymore.”
“We didn't really care about that anyway. Not as much as we cared about you.” Capable came to her side, taking her hand. Angharad stepped forward, and took her metal hand and Furiosa gently lifted it to help her, hearing the actuators whirling but feeling nothing.
“Furiosa.”
Wheat, that was the color of her hair, golden, and her eyes, the blue of the open sky that yawned vast over the great expanse of the waste.
“It's all right. I'll be your left hand.” The image blurred, slid out of focus, and Furiosa found her own eyes full of tears that she blinked away before they could cause any harm.
“I can't stay.” The others had left; it was just the two of them now, talking quietly in the deep trough around the outer perimeter of the Vault.
Rain smeared down the panes of glass, the world beyond distorted and hazy from the inclusions and imperfections.
When Furiosa looked up, she could see Capable's still figure standing at the top of the steps, looking out the vast window.
Standing slightly to her left, the way Coil always did, Angharad gripped her hands gently, both the one of flesh and the one of steel. “Before you go, I wanted to speak to you in private and apologize. What I said before, I shouldn't have. It was wrong of me to speak in anger; I knew it was wrong and yet I did it anyway. For that, I might have sent you off to your death without a kind word.”
Such intimacy in her words sent a strange feeling through Furiosa, and it felt like the world beneath her two planted feet had destabilized, cracks appearing in its foundation of stone. This was not the brusque and impersonal speech among War Boys that avoided so many things, this was a person speaking to her honestly and openly, one heart to another.
“It's okay. Don't worry about it. Didn't...that is, I didn't die. See, I'm fine.”
“I'm glad. We all are. You're our friend, and we wouldn't want to lose you or see you hurt. Though...can I ask what happened? How did you get hurt?”
“Doing something that had to be done.”
“Often that's the hard thing, isn't it?” Angharad sighed, stroking the crude metal fingers.
“What are you doing, Angharad?”
“Holding your hand.”
The barefoot pup had been waiting for Furiosa when she returned, leading her back out. But as they walked down toward the lower levels of the Immortan's Tower, he suddenly stopped, his hands quickly coming up to a salute. She felt her hands move instinctively into the salute, just before she heard the booted footsteps. Barely a second later, the Tertius Imperator rounded the corner.
For a moment, she felt her blood freeze and a cramp of fear ran through her gut, thinking she had been caught, that the guilt was writ clear on her face. But the Tertius only smiled, greeting her without reservation.
“Oi, brother Imperator. Always good to see a brother. Heading out for a stroll? Seems like a walk to clear the head is a good idea on a day like this.”
She took the hint and followed his lead; this was not the stilted formal speech of official business, nor was it the kind of casual conversation that she was used to hearing from the Ace, from many of the older War Boys. No, this was something else entirely, and she remembered something that the Ace had told her some days ago. “Just thought I'd see the rain and stretch my legs, brother Imperator.”
“Heading in the same direction then? All right, I'll come too. It's fine, Smalls, you can go. Will take it from here.”
“Sure thing, boss.” The pup bowed his head mid-salute and padded off into the labyrinth of the Immortan's Tower.
The tall Imperator watched the pup leave, without saying a word, but his lips moved silently, and she realized he was counting the seconds.
Glancing back to make sure they were alone, he gestured for her to follow him.
The storage room smelled like dried mushrooms, and she took a long deep breath, savoring the earthy scent.
“Smells good, don't it?” He looked amused. “Here, have some, got a new packet just yesterday.” He fumbled in his pockets and took out a paper-wrapped packet, double or triple the size of the ones handed out in the War Tower.
“No, it's fine...”
“Take it, always more. We're never short on good things in the Immortan's Tower.” He waved it off as inconsequential. “But you should be careful around the pups, they hear everything.”
“Oh.” The Ace had told her about this ages ago, but it was interesting to hear it from another perspective, to see if she could learn more about it.
“Wouldn't be a problem normally, but the elder son takes weekly reports. Sometimes things get seen or heard that shouldn't have been seen or heard.” The Tertius frowned. “But that ain't what we're here about.”
Furiosa's eyes widened; she wondered if she had walked into a trap, going into the Vault. Quickly, she ran through her memories, had she given the pups extra bars? Yes, all of them, even the ones who could not speak, and she felt relieved that she habitually carried her extra just to give to the children.
The Tertius patted her shoulder in a friendly way, in a way that reminded her of the Ace. “Don't look so worried, Smalls is sharp enough to know to keep his mouth shut. Our little digger, I mean, Ace only sends us the clever and brave ones to run messages and errands. The ones that know how to keep their mouths shut,” the Tertuis grinned. “Still does, from what I hear, giving direction to the new trainers.”
“That certainly sounds like Ace.” Furiosa could hardly stifle a grin of amusement. “But this isn't about him is it?”
The Tertius shook his head. “No, it's about one of our brothers. Time we taught some lessons, both teachin you our ways as a new brother and to correct our other brother, as a matter de facto.”
“Ah, yes. I have been expecting this.”
“So Ace filled you in.”
“Yes.” The creak of metal as her hands clenched into fists.
“Good. Timing is everything. Right now, timing ain't great, got too much goin on, but lemme tell you how this is gonna go down. When Two leaves our Tower, we'll send a pup ahead to warn you. Me and the other brothers will meet down in one of the abandoned shops down the hall from his old shop. We pin 'em when he don't think anyone's lookin, do a little cleanup – remember, no broken bones or teeth – and walk out with clean hands and lessons learned all around. Got it?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“How was it? You were gone for a while” The Ace waved her down, offering his hand to her as she stepped off the wobbling bridge.
Furiosa set the umbrella down, watching the sodden fabric wet the parched and thirsty stone of the landing. “Got caught up with the Tertius, that's all. Sorry to keep you waiting, didn't think I'd run into him.”
“After you went over, a pup came fangin it across the bridge and then a couple minutes later the Organic Mechanic came fangin it the other way. Saw 'em bounce past on the top bridge, Vault level” the Ace pointed up toward the bridge high above their heads. “You help the Daddy get out of the Vault or something?”
“No, he did it himself, without any help.”
The Ace looked relieved. “Probably overdone rumors, like always. Can't be that bad if he's on his feet. After all, everyone gets a sniffle or a cough every now and then...”
“Where's Coil?”
“Got called to check in on our War Boy of War Boys, seems that wound on his face got torn open somehow.”
“Oh. Coil can handle it.”
“Would be hard to take him up to the Mechanic if he ain't there. Remember that if the Organic Mechanic asks, cuz one of the Blackthumbs already told me he's unhappy that we tread on his turf by stitchin up War Boys on the road. If he finds out we're stitchin 'em up in the Citadel, he'll be kickin up all sorts of fusses.”
“Right. If he complains, have him talk to me directly. Now what shall we do for the rest of the day?”
“Got a list of things we could do but the list gets shorter every day. Work on plannin the next triangle run to Bartertown and the regular supply runs to Gastown and the Bullet Farm. Inspect the Third Tower. Shop inspections. Work on the War Rig...well, guess we still got plenty to do after all.”
“Well, we're already here. Why don't we try the Third Tower then?”
As they walked into the Third Tower, she glanced back one last time at the Immortan's Tower, barely visible. veiled in a shrouding mist of rain. Soon enough it was gone, hidden from sight by walls of stone as they entered the labyrinthine tunnels of the warrens.