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They had a lot to do, everyday, all day, day after day.  First things first, they had to clean the Citadel of Immortan Joe's filth - this was both a practical and a philosophical task.  They had to reintegrate the War Boys; that ended up being much easier than she'd thought, especially once Capable demonstrated how quickly they reacted to the most simple displays of affection and kindness.  In fact, she had begun to think that Capable's chief occupation these days was in the generous application of hugs.  Then there was the water situation, of course; the drama of the waterfall notwithstanding, they had to come up with a better, more efficient, and above all, less wasteful way to get water to everyone.  The problem occupied many of her thoughts, and very soon thereafter, most of her dreams.  She couldn't complain about those dreams at all, not after some she'd had in her life.

There were the defenses to build back up, too.  Gas Town and the Bullet Farm had licked their wounds and were now sending out scouts, testing their perimeter, already thinking about how they might attack.  If they hadn't been able to take down her war rig after all they'd gone through, she had no idea how they thought they might attack the Citadel.  That being said, she certainly wasn't going to give them an opening with which to try.

And there were a hundred other little things, minor issues that in the fifteen minutes she spent looking at them, threatened to loom as major crises.  Expanding the gardens; building new hydroponics trays; dealing with Joe's surviving children; finding keys to the many obscure locked doors.  She relished each puzzle, throwing herself into them with total abandon, needing something to fill each and every nook and cranny in her mind.  If not, she had a tendency to start thinking about things.  Other things....

But every morning, Furiosa walked to the balcony.  She looked out over the other two towers of the Citadel, the already-greening land at the base, and then out at the ruddy expanse of the Wasteland all around.  The sun seemed to rise in fits and starts, and she would sweep her eyes from north to south, surprised by how the shadows had shortened so quickly, the details of the landscape seeming to jump out from one moment to the next.  She looked and looked, sometimes using the scopes, but usually just standing there as still as stone, waking up as she watched the day begin.

Her hair had grown a little too long for her liking, just long enough that the tips were starting to make whorls and rings.  The hairs at the base of her scalp stood up now, and Furiosa knew someone was standing behind her.  She drew in a long, slow breath, inching the fingers of her right hand toward the blade at her belt.  Just before she got her grip around its hilt, though, she heard whispered words at her back.

"What're you looking for?"  Furiosa let her fingers fall limp, let the breath seep out between her clenched teeth.  The Dag crept forward on her silent pixie toes, and Furiosa could see her in her mind's eye, as clearly as if she were looking at her in truth; she could see the way The Dag would tuck her chin down, the way her hair would hang down around her face, and the way her eyes would flash.

"Are you looking for him?"  The Dag reached out and pinched the skin just above Furiosa's elbow, a pinch with the bite of nails, and then just as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone.  Furiosa would have answered that she wasn't looking for him, of course; she wasn't looking for anything at all.  She was just looking.

But, as she climbed back down from the balcony, as she began her day, she knew that wasn't true.  She wasn't looking for him, of course?  No, no - of course she was.  Of course.  "His name is Max," she muttered to herself, trying to remember where she'd put that wrench.

January 2017

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