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Another Man's Dog

Chapter Text

An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war.
Charles de Montensquieu


The sandstorm burned out slow and shuddering, like a phosphors flare going cold on the road side. The severity of the wind is the first to abate, easing the sting of the sand as it no longer hurtled forward, but fell instead in waves to the ground.

The Ace had long ago given himself to the storm, just lay where he had  fallen and let the abrasive winds scour and heave and cover, until the grains of sand lay thick and heavy over his skin, and the fierce wind rolled over the sand on his back without scouring the flesh below. Let the sand lay heavy and erase him from all memory, from all existence.

The Ace would not have moved from his sandy prison were it not for a foot catching his shoulder and sending a body sprawling down upon him. He surged up, sand flying, hands curved like daggers, ready to tear, to shred, to put an end to-


The Lancers’s wheezing breath rolled into the Ace’s ears, his body a map of road rash, sand abrasion, and fresh burns.

Their eyes met, and the War Boy sunk against Ace’s chest, shuddering and whining. Seeming unfathomably small for a body Ace knew to be large.

“Boss drove us into the Storm.” Twobit wheezed, lungs straining to push forth words. “She took us into the storm, like she didn’t care, like she didn’t…”

“Furiosa betrayed us.” Ace responded raising a hand weakly to push his shattered goggles from his eyes.

“Car just swept up. Like a, like a scrap of plastic. Storm pulled us up and then,” One of Twobit’s hands flared open, “There was so much fire.”

“How much of it got you?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Alright. Okay.” Ace pressed his fingers against the other man’s side, nudging him off and to sit in the sand beside him.

Ace used his elbows to push himself up, pain flaring in his side, as sand clogged scabs burst and wept red down his stomach into his belt. The skin on the left side of his body was a mangled mess of deep cuts from where he hit the spikes of the War Rig’s tanker while he fell.

He pressed his hand to the middle of the mess and moaned, red and black flaring in his eyeballs as his body tilted forward towards his toes.

“We need to get back to the Citadel.” Twobit muttered, pushing himself slowly to his feet, right arm clenched against his torso, he offered his left to the Ace and pulled him upright.

They fell against each other, bolstering unsteady legs, and blood loss falters, and slowly made the trek to the large rocks looming. Droplets of blood marked the length of their path.

It was a long walk, from the Buzzard filled Wastes to the gulch of the Citadel. The Rock form rose high and towering like the cities of old, and from his place on the ground looking up,  Ace was reminded of the long climb he made for Joe to conquer the Great Rock all those years ago.

He and Twobit passed through the outlying Wretched camps, stumbling over rock, and limb, and refuse. Most of the Wretched maintained their space, but few, the most bitter, hissed and spat as they passed. Fingers curling with the desire to maim, but hands stilled by the knowledge of the Citadel Snipers high above.

They staggered to a halt at the edge of the lift, eyes raised beseechingly at the Overseer and Wheel Rats high above.

Twobit raised his burnt hand, fingers shaky as they grasped for the sun that crested the Citadels crown.

The lift fell and the two War Boys were raised high.  

The Flesh Shop is near empty, cleared of all but the sickest of War Boys, who laid still and quiet on the stone ledges, awaiting their time for the Organic’s Pitying Knife.

Ace and Twobit were beset upon by Mechanic’s pups when they cleared the doorway, pushed and prodded and stripped of their boots and belts as they are shuffled to an empty ledge.

“Is it true?” One Pup asks as he places The Ace’s boots on the ledge beside him, “That Imperator Furiosa traitored the Immortan?”

“I heard she took his most loved thing!” Another contributes loudly.

A sick War Boy opened his eyes at the commotion and pushed himself to his feet. Well, foot, he hobbled forward on a pegleg made of a heavy ladle and collider. “What’s this then?”

 He leaned over the pups, skeletally thin and pale even without concealing dust, and his eyes brushed over the two of them sharply. “Imperator’s Crew.” He spoke to himself, hand tugging at his ear.

“You and You.” He jabbed a finger at a pair of Pups. “Clean ‘em up. I can’t do nothing’ with them plastered in their own red.”

It was then Ace realized, the War Boy wasn’t rusting out, but a member of the Organic’s Loblolly boys. Too damaged for War or the Green Thumbs, but still kicking enough to be of use.

“Might want to prep a Blood Bag while you’re at it.” Ace said.

“Only the best for our Ace.” The Boy responded, smile sardonic. “O-pos for you innit? And your boy?”

The Loblolly brushed his thumb under Twobit’s right collar bone, where each boy had their blood type cut into their skin by the Organic. “AB-neg, you lucky shit.”

Twobit didn’t bother with a response; just let his voice rumble in his chest. 

The War Boy drifted off and the pups returned toting buckets of water and stained cloths. They dipped and wiped and smeared, until paint and blood and grease, ran in tear tracks down Ace’s skin, mingling and softening the blood crusted band of his trouser.

A pack of Loblollys rounded the corner, a pair of Blood bags stumbling in chains between them. They stopped before Ace’s ledge, and hooks fell from the ceiling. The Blood Bags were attached and hoisted up, too broken for protest, too worn to care.

A line of low octane fuel was tethered to Twobit’s arm, the needle an angry form under this skin. Ace was next, a sharp pinch, a burst of red, and body fuel flowed his way, working around his body to be pushed back out the crosshatch of lacerations at his side.

One of the Organic’s mates had started on the Lancer, pressed fingers to his skin, and moved him this way and that under Ace’s watchful eye. “Skin abrasions and light burns. Bruising, maybe internal bleeds, have to see. Petrol Jelly and wrap tight. Bruising’ll-“

“Y’know what Furiosa took?” It was the peg legged Boy, he loomed over Ace and pressed his pale fingers against burns, and cuts, and bruised flesh.

Ace grimaced after a particularly deep prod into a wound. “Saw a Wife before Furiosa knocked me.”

“Hm.” The Loblolly’s attention moved to the mess of his side. “Just one or all of them?”                               

“Don’t know- Slag it!” Ace roared, jerking away from questing hands.

The War Boy flashed tooth, corners of his mouth rucking up. “Felt organs on that one, gonna have ta stich you up or your ins will be your outs. Kinda surprised they aren’t already.”

“It’s the Ace, what do you expect.” Twobit’s loblolly said, “Even his guts know Valhalla won’t take him.”

Twobit rolled his eyes and said. “Course not. Ace is Immorta like Joe; Valhalla knows what it can’t take.”

Probing fingers backed off and were replaced by a needles point. “Yeah well, I ain’t callin’ him Immortan Ace.”


Chapter Text

“And now you'll be telling stories
of my coming back
and they won't be false, and they won't be true
but they'll be real” 
― Mary OliverA Thousand Mornings

Furiosa was on the Lift and she couldn’t remember how she had gotten there. Capable and Cheedo huddled by her side, holding her up with trembling muscle. The Vulvalini stood fore and aft, flanking, protecting, and wary of the writing mass around them, unaware of the actual danger far above.

Toast and The Dag pulled at Wretched hands, hefting men and women onto the lift and a long ingrained habit made Furiosa say “No. Don’t,” but the only sound she made was a sloppy wheeze. 

Bodies shifted and tumbled around; all grit covered skin and soured sweat. Her vision weaved, wavered and blackened.

When her sight came too, and she found they had lost the Fool. The Imperator’s eyes flicked between faces, bodies, trying to find him on the Lift and on the ground below. Until she saw him, finally, down below, amidst the Wretched. He looked back at her once; their eyes met and held, and then broke away. He turned, pushed through writhing bodies and disappeared into the crowd.

The lift rose unhindered before grinding to a halt and for a moment all is silent in the Lift bay. Not a sound emerging from the beleaguered Wheel Rats or the spectral Pups. Though eyes turn and flash and gather.  Take Furiosa in, from the littlest details of her skin, to the coating of dust on her clothes. They eye the blood at her side, the blood on her hand. And they know it is Joe’s blood, Gods blood.

It is one of the Home Guard who moves first, long barreled rifle slung across his back, hollow point bullets forming a collar around his neck. He raised his arms, his fingers crossed, and his head dipped and bowed.

“Hail Furiosa.” His voice rasped.

“Furiosa!” The pups echoed, voices stuttering around her in an echo.

“Don’t Honor her!” A Lift Boy snarled, his rotund muscles jittering in distaste. “She killed him! Killed Immortan Joe! She’s a Traitor!”

“Furiosa killed the Immortan! By the Old Rules what was his is hers!” Home Guard snarled, hand slashing the air from shoulder to hip.

Cheedo whined and shivered against Furiosa’s side, eyes wide, adrenaline crashing.  “Why are there War Boys? Didn’t they all go with Joe?”

Even with the Wives support Furiosa found it a struggle to stay upright, her legs long gone numb and shaky beneath her. “No. No, not all, some would have stayed, couldn’t just leave the Citadel entirely -.”

Furiosa faltered then, knees buckling beneath her and Capable let out a surprised gasp at the deadweight suddenly transferred to her arms.

The War Boys eyes flashed to Furiosa, harder and encompassing, even Home Guard had paused in his affirmations, watching her with stilted breath. They were so intent, those watching eyes. Eyes that saw her weakness and knew that if they offed her then they would have top spot, that they would be the new Immortan of the Citadel, controller, and Ruler of every scrap of metal, every drop of water, that could be seen from those high, tall rocks.

Heavy boots edged closer, fingers wrapping loose around knives, and spanners, and screwdrivers, eyes flicking white and wide and feral.

A body shoved through the circling figures, wiry muscle and black stained fingers. Diagram after diagram was scarred into torso and back and arm. The thin pink lines crawled up neck and nestled behind ears.

“Just going to stand around and let the Imperator Rust Out.” The words could have formed a question, were it not for the flat disdain that left Fletch’s mouth. “All of ya is slag.”

Furiosa’s head of Repair strode towards them, sparing no more than a glance at the Vulvalini, at the Wives. He pushed past Cheedo and Capable to wrap his arm around Furiosa’s torso, and heave her weight against his shoulder.  Fletch’s blackened hand coming to rest hard and insistent against the hole in her side.

“You stay away from her!” The Dag snarled, fingers curling to sickles by her side. Stepping forward out of her group of Wretched.  

“I-It’s alright.” Furiosa wheezed.

The Repair Boy snarled at The Dag, powering over Furiosa’s remark. “You gonna to stop me?”

“Anyone here gonna try to stop me?!” The next part was lobbed at the crowd as a whole, an aggravated pitch to his voice “You gonna try and fang the Imperator? My Imperator? “

The eyes that met his quickly flicked down and Fletch took his first step forward, heaving Furiosa along as he went.

Fletch walked her through the crowd, a glower on his face, and uncharacteristic flash of tooth bared from under thin lips.

The Vulvalini and Wives followed.

Followed him through the narrow halls, and past skittering Pups, and lounging groups of Repair Boys. Followed him to the corkscrew stairs that could be taken up, twisting for stories to the Imperator’s Hall, and the wider stone carved steps that led down into the bowels of The Citadel. Down to the Organic Mechanic and the Flesh Shop.

It was there the Vulvalini waylaid him, Mari wrapping a firm hang around Fletch’s bicep and pulling back, stalling him with her weight.

“Where you taking Furiosa?”

“What’s it matter to you?” The Boy snapped.

“It matters a lot to me.” Mari said, her chin tipping up, jaw settling firm. “And the rest of the Girls too. So you best get to talking, before the six of us decide you’re not worth listening too.”

“It’s okay,” Furiosa slurred, “Fletch is chrome, h-he’s good. Trust- trustworthy.”

“Ah-Priciate you sayin’ so Boss.” The Repair Boy said to his Imperator, though she could feel the rumble strum up from his chest more than hear the words cross his lips.

Janey piped up next, breaking her silence. “Still didn’t answer Mari’s question, Chrome Boy.”

“Boss needs a Patch up.” Fletch said in response. He started forward again, slower now that he was more dragging Furiosa than supporting her, but just as swollen with agitation as he had been through the entire ordeal.

“The Flesh Shop is down those stairs.” Toast said, voice growing hard in realization.

“The Organic Mechanic’s domain. A Butcher Shop.” The Dag added.

“No.” Said Mari, her trigger finger jittering down the haft of her pistol. “I’m fixing her up. Not some damn Sawbones.”

It was Mari’s words that seemed to put the Repair Boy over the edge. His hand jerked like electricity pumped through his nerves, fingers curling like spiders, biting sharp into the flesh of Furiosa’s side. “Then why haven’t ya slagging done it!”

Furiosa snarled, revitalized by the flash of pain, shoving at her boy with her half arm. “Stop it, enough! No Flesh shop! Take me to my room, now.”

“Ok, alright boss.” The Repair boy seemed to deflate at Furiosa’s words, his aggravated bluster leaking from him like air from a tire.

The Repair Boy turned a hard eye to Mari and Janey, before pulling Furiosa against his chest, wrapping his arms under her legs, and lifting her like a child. Her arms crossed around his neck, and her face slotted into space by his ear, so as he took to the stair, she could watch the women who followed.

Fletch led them high into the Citadel, through a narrow stair where the women’s shoulders rubbed the stone as they walked side by side. The Wives back’s growing tense and their steps jittery as their ascent brought them closer and closer to the Vault.  

Fletch kicked open the fragile wood door that separated Furiosa’s space from the Imperator’s Hall, and entered to lay her on her cot.

The sheets, Furiosa saw, were still mussed from where she and Ace slept all those mornings ago, her worn out boots remained by the footboard and her sagging pillow in its place under her head. She struggled to raise a hand to brush along Fletch’s shoulder, approval of a job well done.  When her flesh had left his, he stepped back, though his eyes never left her face, not when Mari shoved him back farther still, or even when his hand rose to his chest and left a large smear of red over flaking white paint.

Fletch watched as Mari stripped Furiosa of her belts, her shirt, all the trappings that marked her Imperator. He watched the bones under her skin and the blood drip from the hole in her side and fall in little puddles against the sandstone floor.

Watched until the shortest of Joe’s wives turned to him with a snarl, waved a snub nosed pistol in his face and demanded he look away.

“Get out.” The Dag agreed, rising wraith like and caustic at Toast’s side, to stare him down with pale hateful eyes.

They forced Fletch back with frigid looks, and the Immortan’s Protection, for all that he was dead. One did not touch a Wife, One did not Harm a Wife, One did not…

No, Fletch though, No.

Furiosa was growing blurry with distance, though he could still hear her labored breath. She needed him. He needed to be there. They couldn’t just- Even if they were Immortan’s Wives- They couldn’t send him away, not from his Imperator, not from the Boss.

They couldn’t act as if he weren’t cataloguing all of his Imperator’s Hurts. Growing knowledgeable in all the ways she had bled and suffered, and existed in the three days he was without her.

He was a Repair Boy, he wanted to explain, one of the best. Hand chosen by The Ace, kept on by Furiosa. All he wanted to do was fix her. Fix her like he did his cars, to drive back the rust, the leaks, the signs of age, and wear and battle ware. Make her like new with a bit of knowledge and the right parts.

He wanted to explain but could not with him limited words, could not give sense to that which they do not want to hear, and it is with a gun to his stomach and a firm wall of body that forced him from her room, into the Imperator's hall, to see the door thunk shut, and hear the slide of rope lock, and metal tumbler fall into place.

He stood outside that door for long moments, staring down the battered wood as if it would open before his eyes. Fletch waited until he was sure that Furiosa would not call for him, then turned and ghosted down the stairs. His hands are covered in chalk, and grease and blood and he knows what he must do, just as he knows what will be on his hands tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

He goes to the Flesh Shop. He goes to find the Ace.

Chapter Text

“We die a little every day and by degrees we’re reborn into different men, older men in the same clothes, with the same scars.”

-3- The Roots that Clutch-3-

The Ace could hear the growling rumble of water. Felt it through the rock, as the gargantuan pipes rumbled forth frothy waves of white.  Could feel them run, on and on and on, far longer than the Immortan would allow. Far longer than was safe.

It was then, when he knew surely, that it was not by the Immortan’s word the water fell.

Something was wrong here. Something had changed in the Citadel. Something he was not privy to and that, that, was a very dangerous thing.

One hand pressed against the rock wall of the Flesh Shop ledge, the other resting against Twobit’s fevered skin. He could not see the rise and fall of his lancers chest in the near dark of the Mechanic’s liar, had to feel him out instead, had to listen for him, amongst all the other labored breaths of suffering War Boy. Had to suss it out from the sound of his own.

The Loblolly’s had left them, hours ago? Days ago? Endless untold seconds. Left them to rust on the ledge, their jobs completed to the best of their knowledge, with no Mechanic to lead the way. Kept them topped off with a blood bag until the wounds on their sides crusted over. All thick scab and dusted skin.



 Fletch returns to the Ace; he vents his anger, and his growing hate of the Vulvalini, his distaste of the wives. Their weakness their hiding away. Ace starts to bring him to his side, citing Furiosa’s betrayal of crew, of her weakness, of her hiding with the wives the women, how she lost her strength.

Fletch leaves and begins to sow seeds of doubt when he speaks with the other war boys.

Ace is doing poorly, has to get his news from other sources, hears of the Milkers letting loose water, of Corpus hiding away, of the workers of the Citadel trying and failing to maintain the necessary jobs without leadership, without the support of the rest of the War boys.

(Character Note)Ace does not give many descriptors of others, in the most case (he interacts with Warboys, who have become unified by conformity. They are separate as to who they are, but because they are so samey, it doesn’t matter to Ace what they look like). The only one Ace has bothered to describe in detail is the Junk Master because he is such an outlier.

Furiosa will give descriptors of things, even though the boys paint themselves the same, individuality matters to her, and she notes how the boys have marked themselves as such.

(Post Reclamation) Day1-Warboys begin to congregate around Ace with lack of Furiosa/ other Imperators to guide them. Ace directs them to do their best to make the remaining cars run. Though hurting, he leads them; initial rumblings between Wives and Ace start here. They are suspicious, wary, watching.

Wives want to release the Bloodbags, Ace argues against it. They do so anyway. More boys will die.

 Ace hears of wives attempting to gain access to Corpus’s rooms. They are unsuccessful. He notes that the water has been running freely from the spouts. There are Wretched within their halls.

Ace is going to betray Furiosa. Hates her for what she did to him, but she calls to him, alone in her room. and she apologizes, and he can see it in her eyes. Her love for him. How tore up she was by shoving him away. He cannot help but return that love. He forgives her. Just this once. Makes it known that if she ever betrays him again, he will ruin her. Will ruin everything she stands for and make her watch as he does it.


Day 2- Furiosa calls for the Ace in her fever dream. He is brought to her, angry, vicious, he is tempted to kill her there and then, but holds back, for killing her unaware will bring him no satisfaction. He will wait until she can see him clearly as he comes for her.

Ace over hears wives and Vulvalini talking about Corpus’s hide out, the necessity for them to gain access to him and his knowledge. They have released the Milk Mothers, the Breeders.  They speak of gardens, and other lofty plans. They do not acknowledge what must be done first.

The Ace forces himself into and takes control in the ways that he can. He calls Home Guard to him, has them retake the Water Room, has them meet up with Corpus’s Crew, has them gather the Milkers, puts them back to pumping, gathers the green thumbs, has them make a report of supplies, and product, and the next weeks of schedules. He meets with the loblolly’s, has them talk supplies, of Bloodbags, of wounded boys. With the repair boys, the lift crew, the war pups.

He gathers his army, and when Furiosa calls for him. He is ready.

-He himself, shuts the water lever, ignoring the cries of the Milkers, “What are you doing!” the Wives ask him, voices rising, high and sharp in their anger.

“Only what’s necessary.” He rumbles.


Day 3- Ace tells Kilo to take a scavenging group to the mountain pass. They return late that night with wounded, and three salvageable vehicles.  Return of the Warboys makes the Wives realized that the War party is not far behind. They try and make contingency plans, but Furiosa is still out of it, and the others don’t know enough about the Citadel to do so.

The Vulvalini turn to Ace. He begins to consider a takeover. He’ll play their game for now; get them complacent before he rips the control from their hands. He shows them how the first denizens of the Great rock holed up. He brings up the Wretched now wandering the halls, and siege rations, and garden out puts, and how they have to stop feeding the Wretched if they expect to live. They don’t have enough to feed everyone. Its simple math.  The Vulvalini call him callous, monstrous, and inhumane.  “Just wait and see.” Ace says, “You’ll see that I’m right.”

Day 4- Furiosa is not well, but forces herself into action.  

When Furiosa returns to her room she isn’t surprised to find the Ace already there. Waiting, sprawled out on her thin mattress, thick arm laid across his brow, shielding eye. He was, and always had been, the only one brave enough to invade an Imperator’s space.

“Your own kip not good enough?” Furiosa asked The Ace.

She leaned in her own doorway, (replacement arm) metal arm crossing under chest, the heavy hand resting in the crook of her flesh arm. Watched him stir from the deep sleep that held him, watched his arm brush eyelash, and grease paint, and smear streaks of black down his forearm.

“What now?” Voiced low and rough.

“Why are you here Ace?” Furiosa said as she stepped into her room and pulled the door shut behind her.

“Mmm.” The War Boy sat up, slouched over himself. “Those Wives-Sisters got it in their heads to round up the Pups for a cleaning. Too much ruckus to bother with.”

A truce is struck between Furiosa and Ace. He plans to play her like he did Immortan Joe. To make himself necessary, an invaluable asset. He offers to draw out Corpus.


Ace goes to Corpus alone, no backup, talks his way past his guards and into Corpus’s graces. Talks of how they can rule together, Ace’s power and skill, Corpus’s knowledge and economy. How they can retake the citadel, establish themselves firmly, become the new rules of the waste.  A deal is made and struck.

The Wives have gathered their own supports, the Vulvalini, the Breeders, and the Wretched. Furiosa is amongst them, though she edges away from the politics, fit to watch, to observe, has no interest in taking hold of it herself.

The Warboys lose faith in Furiosa, turn to Ace, he takes them, and guides them under his hand, as he has always done. He makes moves to oust the Wretched, to retake the Breeders, the Blood bags, the Milkers, all the necessary parts in the machine. Furiosa is blinded by her guilt, and her old loyalties.


(CHARACTER NOTE) The Ace is selfish. He is hurt irreparably by Furiosa’s betrayal, by the woman he worked so hard to raise, who he thought would always have his back. She has become his new Joe, his newest hated thing. She has wounded him deeply. Only when she is at her lowest, and will still call for him to be at her side, will he reconsider his anger towards her. She must prove his necessity to her that he is amongst her most precious things. He needs safety and security and an iron clad knowledge that she will never try to hurt him again. He wants her to beg for his forgiveness.


Fury calls Ace to her room, calls him to her bed, and lies with him, eye to eye. She is weak she is hurting, she is remorseful. She is ridden by her guilt, her murder of her old crew. She tries to explain her decision, but can’t make the words come, especially when he starts to demand answers- why didn’t you tell me, let me help you, why couldn’t you trust us? Were we not a good crew, not loyal, not YOURS?

She says she couldn’t chance it, too many aspects in play, was their love for her more than that for the Immortan? Would they stand by her, support her with the Immortan still alive and their brothers coming down upon them like hells gate? “You especially, you were his Ace long before you were mine? “

“I was never his. He only thought I was.”

“Like me? Like I thought you were mine? “

 “I don’t forgive people who try and kill me.”

“Yes, I understand, would you at least be willing to work with one who did?”

“If it’s you. I suppose”

-Ace plays Corpus and Furiosa, gathers his support, his supplies. Plans his moves against them both.

Ace’s betrayal is found when Furiosa takes the removals of Corpus into her own hands. She finds marks of Ace’s revenge all over. She is feral, ferocious, disgusted.

Ace is unaware of this and does not expect the attack when it comes. He is knocked out and brought to her, bound and helpless.

They talk, throwing examples of hate and betrayal, of opposing world views, of old never forgotten hurts.

She attacks, they struggle.

Somehow she feels the scars from joins lashing on his back, remembers how the Ace got them, what they stood for, what they meant and mean. The loss of protection, of power, and standing, pain and rape and failure. She realizes the scars are the embodiment of all he still fears, realizes her ruler ship would have meant more of the same. The breaking and removal of one of the only things he could call his, one of the only things that he knew.

“You never failed me ace. I’m sorry. I failed you. For so many years, and now again, I can fix things if you let me. If you will be my Ace. I’ll protect you, keep you safe, and keep you working. No more lies, no betrayal, just us. Like the old days, when you did the same for me. I can do that for you, can you for me?”

A truce is struck, the Ace brings his faction to hers, realizes how well they fit together, how much of it he was building for her, unintentionally. She sends him out to regroup with the rest of the Warboys, knowing he is her, and he will do his best to protect her in turn.

He will stand by her until the end of all days so long as she will stand by him.


“Today the tyrant rules not by club or fist, but disguised…he shepherds his flocks in the ways of utility and comfort.” Marshall mcluhan



Character Notes-

Toast- rough, determined, fear of capture being held down (learn to fight) Bullet Farm

Capable-caring, accepting, stubborn (tries the hardest to merge with the Warboys) Gastown

Cheedo-unsure, flighty, apprehensive, unenthusiastic, healing, citadel born, best with the pups, and other citadel workers due to her childhood.

Dag-the waste- gardening, half-finished projects. Sharp, witty, observant, strong beliefs of right and wrong.

Mari- healer, sniper- confrontational, outspoken,

Janey- horticulture, pistols- a perfectionist, sincere, helpful, empathetic, observant.

Fletch- repair- dependable, bright, self-confident, generally laid back, stress makes him vicious, loyalties Ace+ Furiosa. Never says no.

Twobit- absent minded, determined, honest, dislikes being alone, no personal space,  loyalties-Ace, all brawn no brain--



Retaking of the Citadel

 Politics and internal fighting

 What is right vs what is necessary- Wives changes to the Citadel- the Ace’s opposition to this (Morality vs necessity)

 The Betrayal- Furiosa trying to regain the Ace.

  There are arguments over the last of the army (likely to be making it round the mountains in 2+ weeks. Ace believes they will rejoin under Furiosa’s rule, for she killed Joe, and therefore gets his stuff, old Imperator rank taking law. Wives are fearful of the Warboys, untrusting of Ace and the others that remain, try to talk Furiosa into turning away the returning boys) Ace attempts to wrest power from Furiosa. Plays her to obtain the highest position. Cannot fully cover the hate gained by the betrayal.

Furiosa pulls him into meetings, puts her weight behind his comments, his knowledge, his plans for the future.  They will rule the citadel as they were always meant to. Side by side, together, forces of power. They will do so because they must, because no other will be respected enough to hold the position. Power and legacy are still important; you can’t brush that away quickly.

They make a council, try democracy in their decisions, for Furiosa does not want the top spot, just understands that she must hold it.

Ace fights to let the remaining Warboys rise. They need them, need to bolster their strength. Power must be upheld.