Furiosa laughs at his observation, a short bright sound like a fox barking. That sounds like something she'd have said to the Sisters a few years ago, if she'd cared to give them as many of her words as they gave her of theirs. Her perspective has changed since then, but his isn't wrong, either. Demonstrably, harshness allowed her to survive this long.

"I don't now," she says with an almost nostalgic smile. "Sometimes we get into the habit of striking first when we might not have to strike at all. No one ever calls you out on that because they're too dead to, but that doesn't mean it's right. If there even is such a thing as right and wrong."

Furiosa's Wasteland might not be a great example. What passes for a season there is the difference between occasional violent storms and a whole hell of a lot of violent storms. Wind season. A desert on a healthy planet would be different.

"'It simply is'," she repeats thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm getting old. That used to be enough for me."

She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. "Not on purpose. I've come through with it clinging to my clothes and wrung them out into the cisterns, but I never filled a canteen with snow. Maybe I should. It'd be nice to drink half-melted. Cold."