Chapter 22 : The Five Wives' Choice
The Vault looked different without chains on the doors.
The chamber where Joe had kept his "treasures" had been stripped of its cushions and silks, its perfumed oils and golden bowls. What remained was a stone room carved into the Citadel's heart—a space that could have been anything, now waiting to be claimed by the people it had once imprisoned.
The Five Wives sat in a circle on salvaged crates. Furiosa stood near the entrance, her mechanical arm folded across her chest. I took a position against the far wall, trying to be present without dominating.
Toast spoke first. Her voice carried the flat authority of someone who had already made her decision and was simply informing the others.
"The workshop is mine. Engineering, fabrication, vehicle maintenance, all of it." She didn't ask for approval. "We've got two hundred people who need tools, vehicles that need repair, and infrastructure that's been neglected for twenty years. I know how to fix things. I'm taking that responsibility."
Capable nodded slowly. "Medical ward for me." Her hands twisted in her lap—not nervousness, but the restless energy of someone who had spent too long being passive. "I've been studying Miss Giddy's books. Basic surgery, wound care, infection treatment. The War Boys have a half-life philosophy because they expect to die young—but some of that's treatable. Tumors that could be removed. Infections that could be cured." She paused. "Someone should try."
The Dag's voice came soft as falling sand. "Gardens. The green spaces." She touched her pregnant belly. "The Keeper of the Seeds gave us seventeen viable specimens. Pre-war strains that might actually grow in irradiated soil. Someone needs to plant them. Someone needs to make food that doesn't come from Joe's hoarded stores."
All eyes turned to Cheedo.
The youngest of them—barely eighteen—sat with a water-damaged book in her lap. One of Miss Giddy's primers, salvaged from the vault before the rebellion. The cover showed faded letters in bright primary colors.
"Education," Cheedo said quietly. "The Wretched children can't read. The War Boys can't read. Miss Giddy taught us, but she couldn't teach anyone else while we were locked in here." Her fingers traced the alphabet on the book's first page. "Someone should change that."
These weren't requests. They were declarations.
Furiosa's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted—the subtle release of tension I'd learned to recognize over the past two weeks. The Wives weren't asking for permission. They were building.
"The Network," I said, and every head turned toward me. "Toast and the Dag are already connected. It lets us share knowledge, coordinate without words." I looked at Capable, then Cheedo. "I can offer the same to both of you. Engineering skills, medical knowledge, whatever exists in the connected minds."
Capable's jaw tightened. "No."
The word hung in the air.
"I want to learn," she continued. "Actually learn. Struggle with it. Make mistakes and fix them. I spent my whole life being given things—given food, given shelter, given a 'purpose' that was just another cage." Her eyes met mine. "I want to earn what I know. Not download it."
Cheedo nodded, the book clutched to her chest. "Me too. I'm going to learn the slow way. The real way." A small smile crossed her face. "Besides, if I already knew everything, what would I teach?"
I felt Toast's relief through the Network—a wash of something that might have been gratitude. She'd been carrying the weight of being connected, of having her thoughts bleed into mine and mine into hers. Knowing that not everyone had said yes made the burden feel less like a trap.
"Respected," I said. "The offer remains open if you change your minds."
Furiosa stepped forward, breaking the circle's intimacy with the weight of her presence.
"Roles are settled. Now the real problem." She looked at each woman in turn. "Two hundred War Boys. Combat trained, vehicle capable, no purpose and no faith. Some are cooperative—they're working in the tunnels already, following orders because orders are the only thing they understand. Some are catatonic—the trauma of watching Joe die broke something in them. And some—" Her voice hardened. "Some are whispering about avenging their Immortan."
The room went cold.
"We can't function without them," Furiosa continued. "They're the labor force. The defense force. Half the people who know how to maintain this rock's systems were raised as War Boys." She paused. "But we can't trust them either."
"Network connections," I said. "For the willing ones. It would let us know their true intentions. Share purpose instead of demanding obedience."
Furiosa's mechanical arm whirred as she turned to face me fully. The servos clicked and stuttered—the same interference pattern I'd noticed whenever she stood too close.
"You're not converting my soldiers into your followers."
"That's not what I—"
"Isn't it?" Her voice cut like a blade. "The Network connects them to you. Their loyalty flows through you. You become the center of everything they feel and know." She took a step closer, and the Armor stirred against my skin in response to her hostility. "Joe built his power the same way. Made the War Boys need him. Made their identity depend on his approval. And you're offering to do it again, just with different tools."
The accusation landed hard.
I wanted to argue—to explain that the Network was voluntary, that it shared rather than controlled, that I wasn't trying to become another tyrant. But the words died in my throat.
Because she wasn't entirely wrong.
"Think about it," I said finally. "We can discuss protocols. Safeguards. Ways to prevent exactly what you're describing."
Furiosa's eyes didn't leave mine. "We'll discuss it. After you've proven that the Network doesn't make you the new Immortan Joe."
She left the Vault, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
The Wives sat in silence for a long moment. Then Toast pushed herself off her crate and gathered her tools.
"Workshop's waiting," she said. "Come on, Dag. We've got pipes to lay."
One by one, they dispersed to their chosen domains.
Cheedo lingered, the alphabet book still pressed to her chest. She opened it to the first page and traced the letter A with her fingertip, her lips moving silently as she practiced the sound.
In four corners of the Citadel, four women began building—Toast with a wrench, Capable with bandages, the Dag with soil, Cheedo with an alphabet. For the first time, the Citadel made something instead of taking it.
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