Just an idea I've had since I saw the movie. A lot of the War Boys don't out right die, they fall off the vehicles and are lost in the sand and while ya, a lot of them don't make it back, I fid it plausible that a few of them live and end up walking home, a practice that War Boys have been doing since they started making runs out of the Citadel and guys falling off isn't always a death sentence. Plus, I wanted Ace to live! I have a lot of headcannons about his involvement in Furiosa's life and how they ended up tag teaming on the War Rig, so put on your war paint and WITNESS ME.

Against the pale backdrop of morning, the Citadel towers are just a bit taller than the Ace's thumb as he closes one eye and tries to discern the distance. Maybe half a day's march if he doesn't get picked off by the buzzards or drops dead from heat exhaustion. But the Walk of Shame, as many of the War Boys had taken to calling it, wasn't a new concept by any means. If you survived the fall from one of the vehicles, you either prayed to V8 that one of your brothers hoisted your rusty frame up onto their ride as they raced by or you trekked home.

Some thought that the walk was its own rite of passage, having survived the Salt and coming back shinier from the sand blasts and blistering sun. The Lift Operators would recognize the boys with their worn, white paint and embarrassed, broken egos and let them back up into the towers to sulk and tinker. Depending on when and where they took the fall, some didn't return for days, a week at most. Then they would stumble in like specters, their crew, who had already said their goodbyes and made their peace, scared awake when the gritty, shivering boy wound his way into their sleeping spaces. As a rule, after a week had passed since a boy fell, their things were divvied up accordingly, their position filled, the promotions moving War Boys up through the ranks in odd, understandably somber ways.

Morsov, may he rest peacefully in Valhalla, had a tendency to hop around the convoy vehicles and found himself slipping into the sand almost habitually. The first time, Sprocket had been able to swerve beside him so a polecat could heft him out of the way of the War Rig but, more commonly, he tuck and rolled and wondered if this would be how he was witnessed until he lifted his head from a dune and watched the convoy grow smaller and smaller, out of reach. Ace taught the pups not to expect any kind of handouts on the Fury Road, remembers when one of the older ones rose his hand and asked, 'What if you get left?'

"Then you gotta make the Walk of Shame."

Ace hadn't ever had to make the trek back on foot and without the War Rig's hiss and grind, the gentle sway of her bulk underfoot and with his paint faded and flecking, he felt almost naked. His pants were ripped at the knee where he had caught the side of the rig in his fall and his lip was crusted with blood from that organic swing Furiosa had taken in defense.

The Citadel crept closer, the sand packed and sturdy as he found the main road they took for runs to Gas Town, and never had he felt more terrified to enter. Furiosa had done something terrible, the evidence of her guilt clear in her short, vague answers, the red rims of her eyes, even the way she hadn't slept soundly the night before. But he couldn't comprehend what she had planned. He picks his brain as if he's scouring for a loose screw, trying to figure out how she had gotten this past him.

There's a flick of memory, of the day before their run. They were down in the garage where the engine work is easier with the sun bleeding through a carved window. Furiosa was more fond of doing her own tune ups but she needed extra hands to fit into the intricate spaces where belts wound, so Sprocket, Flare, and Miles were all crowded around the cool, looping steel. She heard Ace enter and wiped her organic hand on her pants before she went to him, standing at his side to watch the boys work.

She didn't speak, instead, let him fill the space with a sigh as the alcove grew loud when a War Pup tested the gas pedal so the Boys could find out where the squeaking was coming from.

"Crew's ready with the new braking system." Ace reported. "Just need to get belts of bullets for the guns on the rig and change out the tires for the bikes and we'll be set."

Sprocket cussed as he dropped a wrench into the middle of the mechanical quagmire and the pup stopped revving the engine as Flare tried to fish it back out. Furiosa didn't meet his eyes as she said, "Was thinking of letting the second string crew have a go at this one."

"Boss, the boys have behaved themselves and built this second motor almost from the scraps up. I say they deserve this run; bit a fresh air will do 'em good." Ace had raised enough pups to see the signs of stir-crazy setting in. It'd been over thirty days since a proper run, most of their extra energy being burned off scrapping in the pits, arm wrestling in the mess hall, and in Morsov's case, testing how long he could keep picking at Slit before the lead lancer finally tore out his throat with his teeth. And Ace couldn't deny it; he was looking forward to stretching out in the sun. He wasn't sure how much longer he had before his half-life was up and, while he wasn't chasing it on Fury Road, Ace worried each run would be his last.

Furiosa had shrugged, her eyes intent on the pit crew as they started sniping back and forth. But her voice was stoic as shecontinued, "It's just a milk run, won't miss anything. But it could be a good endurance test for the newer crew." Ace ducked his head and made her look at him. She searched his face for a bit but didn't change her mind.

"Ok." He agreed after noticing her jaw clench when she turned away, "I'll go tell the boys."

Breaking the news wasn't hard and they took it like he knew they would, kicking and screaming. But Imperator orders were law and if she wanted them here, then they'd stay. They bitched through lunch, grumbled through refitting the engines, and by dinner were resigned enough to form half plans on what to do with their schedules open. That night they still tip toed into her room while she sketched out a new design for her arm and settled in the mound of threadbare blankets and thin pillows they had scavenged over their time as a crew. They had slept like they always did before a job, like the pups that were tanged together in the lower levels, close and warm and heavy on each other. Furiosa had brushed her hand, the warm, skin and bone one, across their foreheads where their black war paint had been washed off. She wasn't usually so deliberate but Ace thought maybe she was apologizing for not letting them go with her.

Ace remembers how she had woken that next day, leaving without a word, and something in him wouldn't have it. He woke Morsov and Sprocket, who were spooned together and drooling in the warm spot their Imperator had left, and together they all dressed and painted, walking through the crowded, bustling corridors like they were supposed to be here.

When Furiosa watched Sprocket's car be roll out, Morsov climbing on back with his pail of tools and lancer sticks under his arms, she had grit her teeth and barked for them to stand down, they had been given orders to stay. Ace had stepped up, his arms crossed, all her blind fury stopping as she got nose to nose with him.

"I don't trust them out there with you for a week. I'd feel better if you at least had us here, ok?" As the War Boys scattered around fussing over the last few details before the Immortan came to bless them, Ace knew she didn't have the time to argue his decision.

Now, as he finally reaches the outskirts of the Wretched encampments, he wishes she had.

Good evening, my goodness its been literally years since I've done anything on here. Wow.

Ok, so Mad Max: Fury Road has gotten me back in the mood for writing, so here's a little piece I hashed out after a few days of thinking. Hope ya'll like. Becasue there will be more. :)

P.S. Since almost everything in War Boy culture is up for argument, I'm just gonna throw my own headcannons in. There's been evidence floating around that the War Boy on the back of "Elvis" (the orange Ford 3 Window Coupe 1932) is Morsov. He's throw when the vehicle catches the trap, and the idea is he was picked up by the motorcycle he is later helped off of. And then of course the delightful Russian War Boy throws himself at the Buzzad's car, so I alluded to that. There's also a bunch of cool fan ideas that are all over AO3 and Tumblr so go check it out! Hope I don't step on any toes! Please correct me if you see something that isn't right!