"Please," Angharad begs. "Take us with you."
All the wives beg – beg, tease, snipe and flatter – because words are their weapons. They wield them like a War Boy's lance and they aim for the weakest point.
Immortan Joe's weak in the pride and that's the only reason Furiosa is standing in the vault now, scrapings from the old world bundled on her back for his brides to coo over: he thinks there's no way, no possible way, that his property could be stolen.
Or run off on sandhoney-smooth legs all on its own.
Without bothering to reply – they've given her no reason to spill words – she pries the straps from her shoulders and holds out the bag.
Toast snatches at it with a hunger. Usually she's nose deep into the books before Furiosa's even made it to the door, but with a glance to Capable and under the unblinking stare of The Dag, she lets her shinies fall.
They're not about to be distracted, Furiosa notes, grudgingly interested. Not about to be bought. Despite herself she's engaged; knows she's been foolish enough to let it show when The First takes aim again.
"Please," Angharad repeats, gaze level, but soft. No challenge. None needed. Always so steady: so sure, so brave. Even as a little thing. The Splendid Angharad.
The other wives say nothing; she speaks for them. Her unborn is their shield, and in the trailing silence her unspoken "this time" finds its way to Furiosa's throat and snaps taut as a garrote.
She swallows; nods to acknowledge the hit. 'Respect the weapon,' her mother said, six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine days ago. 'Whatever it is.'
"All of you?" Her voice is a rasp compared to Angharad's: road choked. The vault means full life, but the road means alive and she lives a little further every day.
Angharad's hand rests lightly on the swell of her belly. "All of us."
"You have no idea what it's like out there."
"We'll learn," Capable says confidently.
"We're not useless," Toast adds. "We can take care of ourselves."
Her chest aches. "Ready to kill? To die?"
"We won't kill," Angharad says firmly; Toast and Capable murmur their agreement. "No one has to get hurt. We have a plan. It's a good plan," she forges on quickly. "When Joe makes the Aqua fall, everyone will be too busy to pay attention to us. We'll sneak onto the War Rig and ride with you."
"To Gas Town?"
"No, not that far. You can just stop and let us out and –"
"Bury what's left of your bones on the run back."
Cheedo gnaws nervously at her lip, gaze darting from face to face.
"What happens to us isn't your problem," Capable says. "Just get us out of the Citadel."
The wives beg – beg, tease, snipe and flatter – because they don't know they've never had to beg anything of Furiosa. Because they don't know how much she owes them.
She makes no apology for her ambition: to raise herself high in Joe's esteem, become so trusted that he bestow on her the wheel of the War Rig and her one, great gleaming shot at the green place.
'Survive,' her mother said, six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six days ago. 'Promise me.'
She makes no apology for what her ambition cost, but the wives are part of the price she paid and she feels the weight of it.
"I eye one little spy," The Dag mutters, and raises a finger to point. "Miss Giddy rises."
Skin tattooed with ink and time and memory; all full of history. Miss Giddy stands in the arch of the bedding rooms and looks square. Her lips tighten as if she knows what Furiosa did, but they don't leak secrets.
"Take them," is all she says. "Get the hell out."
She won't see the green place again. Furiosa knows it in metal and bone, but trying had to mean something. Had to.
A flock of brides won't increase her chances, but something like, very like hope begins to wind an unfamiliar path around her ribs.
"Tomorrow," Furiosa agrees. "When the Aqua falls."