I was having a break from my dissertation and needed to write something based around Furiosa. I'm sure that when the comics are released we'll find out about her past but until then this is one of my head canons for her and her arm. (The other being that her mother removed her arm to stop Joe from using her as a breeder, but that's another story!) It was only written quickly because I have other stuff (poems, ugh!) that need to be written an so it has a few plot issues that I'll work out when I have time to, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.
In the first few weeks none of the women had time to mourn. There were too many people to deal with, Wretched to feed and War Pups to house. They knew they had to bring a swift and final end to Immortan Joes tyranny, and with it the beginning of something fresher, cleaner for the citizens of the Citadel. After they had appointed a crude sort of council and restored a skeleton crew to patrol and scout, the Wives (taking the new collective name of Sisters) and Furiosa finally had the ability to mourn the dead.
The Sisters started with their fallen sibling, the Splendid Angharad. They lit candles in her honour and spilt tears and words over and over for her. They wrote her name on the Vault's wall and drew sprouts and flowers around it. The Dag planted a seed in the skull of a dog for Splendid, and left it in a little spot of sunshine away from the main produce area. They all said that Splendid would be proud that she had helped to create this Green Place, and that they would honour her memory by keeping it alive. Furiosa watched and said her own words, hoping the young woman had found her way to the greenest place of all. After all the candles had burnt to nothing and there were no more tears to be shed, the Sisters all left the vault in their own time and Furiosa was left alone.
The Splendid Angharad was a brave woman; that much Furiosa was absolutely certain of. She was proud to have ridden the Fury Road with her, and in other life and another place maybe they would ride together again. Furiosa put her flesh hand to the wall and held there for a long moment before bringing it to her chest in a fist, turning away and following the Sisters out.
Later that evening Furiosa was doing her nightly rounds (old habits die hard, even harder when peace had yet to be fully introduced to the Citadel) when she heard sobbing from the inside of the vault. Instantly on alert, Furiosa slipped in the doorway and peered inside. She expected to see the Sisters around Splendid's name, not yet finished with their mourning, but instead she found Capable kneeling on the other side of the room, in front of another, very different, name.
"NUX"
She must've found the War Boys supply of silver spray because there it was, his name all shiny and chrome, displayed for the world to see. Under the name there were no flowers of budding leaves, just oily finger smudges. Furiosa nodded in understanding. Nux had wanted to 'be witnessed'. This may not have been the War Boy way, but it was Capable and the Sisters' way of standing witness to the dead. If there was any Vahalla out there, Furiosa knew that this tribute would send Nux flying through the gates and into the realm of heroes. The red headed woman heaved another sob and drew more dirty smudges under the name. The action brought Furiosa out of her head and back into the present. Capable was safe, that was what mattered. She would leave her to mourn in private.
When Furiosa reached her living quarters, she found herself unable to settle into sleep. Her missing arm ached something awful that night, a pain not even she had learnt to ignore. Her tired mind mixed with a strange feeling of aching loss left her uneasy and nostalgic. It was as though someone or something was trying to lift itself out of the furthest recesses of her mind. The lay claim to that slice of sadness rolling in her chest and windpipe.
She had missed her mother deeply for many hundreds of days after their kidnapping and her mothers subsequent death. She did not need to mourn for her mother anymore. Her homeland had been gone for a long time and while it was rusted and metal and not green at all, the Citadel had become a sort of home for home. She did not need to mourn her homeland. The Vuvalini, while her sister in both arms and clan, were not people she could mourn for. She did not know them well enough and the remaining Many Mother's who had returned with them had done so when they first arrived. Then who was it that clung to her bones so deeply? Another pain ran through her missing arm and she knew. She knew so completely and so suddenly that it was as though no moons had passed at all since she'd last seen him.
The War Boy had been called Gunner and she had hated him at first. He was tall and muscular and full of scars and everything a wife of the great Immortan Joe was told to despise. Furiosa hadn't held the title of Imperator then. Instead she had been one of the lucky few picked out to be a breeder and while her temperament hadn't made her the ideal candidate, her clean genes and healthiness took precedence over character.
Gunner had been a favourite War Boy of Joes. He drove in the front of the raid and his bravery was known by all. Five times he'd been called to the gates of Valhalla and five times he had returned to the Citadel, scarred but triumphant. He was a half-life but the gates weren't ready to open for him yet, was what he said.
"There is more glory waiting for me in the Wastes!" he bellowed, and the War Pups screeched with the closest thing they knew to delight. This was before Joe had taken to hiding is wives behind vault doors and rock walls, and Furiosa with her fellow Wives were made to stand out on display during every speech. A clever young girl, Furiosa didn't remember her name but her skin was darker than anyone's she'd ever known with eyes like chips of amber, said it was to boost moral or something. All that Furiosa knew was that just seeing Gunner made her sick to her stomach. The War Boy caught her eye as he was lifted up in the air by the platform with the War Rig, and he smirked at her. She spat in his direction and his grin only got wider.
The rest was harsh words, soft touches and stolen kisses. Once in one of their few moments he asked her if there was any place left that Joe hadn't touched. Furiosa replied her hands, for why would he touch her hands when all he needed was her 'gash and breasts'? After that Gunner would only leave after kissing her palms and saying, "He has no use for these hands. These hands are mine only." She would kick him and say "mine only, I just lend them to you", and he would let a laugh grate up from his chest, like some unoiled gear shift.
Of course they were found out. There was no happiness and no love in the Citadel, only war and blood. Furiosa remembered them dousing Gunner in guzzoline and throwing him to the Wretched, still burning. Everyone turned their heads as he screamed "witness me" and waited until the hoards of hungry Wretched poured over him. Then came Furiosas turn. Joe said he would graciously forgive her, but she needed to be taught a lesson in order to set an example for the other wives. The Organic Mechanic was called and a branding iron set in coals, but in front of the entire Citadel she struggled free, stealing a sharp knife from a War Boy that got too lazy with it. Holding it to her throat, she kissed the palm of her left hand, held it out over the balcony and cried:
"THIS HAND IS MINE ONLY."
The blade did not cut through cleanly, but the work was quick enough and soon she watched her arm falling down to the masses. The Pups were in a frenzy and Furiosa could hear hollering from those Down Below. The Organic Mechanic was ordered to keep her alive, whatever the cost and Furiosa knew nothing about the rest. Darkness stole over her mind quickly as the adrenaline wore away and the pain coursed into her like molten metal in a war forge.
Furiosa knew she had been exceptionally lucky not to die from (or have been killed for) her actions. She had never been sure as to what it was exactly that saved her from death at the hands of the Immortan. It wasn't his good will that was for sure. Furiosa had always wondered if her act of defiance had riled the War Boys up so badly that Joe was worried that killing her would sending shockwaves through his loyal-to-the-end troops. After all, it takes a lot of chrome to severe your own arm and life to tell the tale. Either way, the War Boys respected her and listened to her more than Joe had ever done. Furiosa took particular pride in the day she was given the title Imperator. She had long ago turned the white linen rags of her wives garb into a warrior's shirt, stained from oil and desert muck, and Joe looked fit to die as he made his speech. It was a shame the other Wives had not seen her, but that had been the start of the Vault days for those labelled 'breeders'.
Lying in her bed inside the High Towers of the freed Citadel with the echoes of crying as each Sister finished her own mourning, Furiosa realised something. She had never grieved for her own War Boy, Gunner. No one did. He was never witnessed and so, in War Boy lore, he will have never reached those chrome gates and passed through into the hall of greatness beyond. Furiosa sat up and reached out for her mechanic arm. There were things she needed to do.
The next day Capable entered the Vault, aiming to clean up any leftover chroming spray and oil from the night before. She wasn't embarrassed by her grief but she didn't want to leave a mess in a place she felt was going to change from a place of nightmares to a place of memories. Capable was surprised to find there was no mess left. All the cans had gone and the oil that had dripped onto the floor wiped up. Wondering at who could have done it, Capable noticed something in the corner of the room. A simple memorial with the name 'Gunner' written underneath an impression of a hand, as though someone had placed their arm up against the wall and sprayed over it with chrome, leaving a sort of silvered shadow on the wall. Capable was going to ask her Sisters about it over breakfast but when she saw Furiosa with the remains of chrome paint flaking off her right arm, she knew to say nothing at all. Some stories are best left for the dead.