CHAPTER 38 : THE BULLET FARMER'S BROADCAST
"—the Citadel has been corrupted."
The voice from the radio was measured, almost reasonable. Not the ranting of a madman—the careful rhetoric of someone who understood how to shape a narrative.
"They shelter something that calls itself a man but moves like metal. A creature that makes chains dance and eats machines for sustenance. They call it an ally. I call it what it is: a demon wearing human skin."
Toast's fingers hovered over the radio controls, recording every word. I stood behind her, listening to my reputation burn.
"Those of you considering trade with the Citadel, consider this: the thing they harbor can reach into your vehicles and make them turn against you. It can corrupt your equipment, your weapons, your transportation. Is water worth that risk? Is food worth inviting corruption into your communities?"
Static crackled. The voice continued.
"I speak not as a conqueror but as a protector of what remains of humanity. The Citadel is not a settlement. It is a nest for something unnatural, something that will spread if not contained. Those who stand with the metal demon stand against everything we've fought to preserve."
The broadcast ended. The radio hissed into silence.
Toast turned to look at me. Her expression was carefully neutral, but I could feel her concern through the Network—a low thrum of worry beneath her analytical surface.
"He's been preparing this," she said. "The rhetoric is too polished to be improvised."
"He's fighting a war I didn't expect." I stared at the silent radio. "I thought he'd come with vehicles and guns. Instead he's coming with words first."
"Words that reach settlements we haven't contacted yet. Settlements that might have traded with us, allied with us." Toast began transcribing the broadcast from her recording. "He's poisoning the well before we can drink from it."
Furiosa called the council meeting within the hour.
The war room was a carved-out chamber in the Citadel's upper levels, originally used by Joe's commanders for planning raids. Now it served a different purpose—a space where the settlement's leadership gathered to make decisions that affected twelve hundred lives.
Furiosa stood at the head of the table, her mechanical arm resting on the surface. Around her sat the rest of the council: Toast, the surviving Vuvalini leader, two War Boy sergeants who had proven their loyalty, the Wretched elder who coordinated civilian logistics, and the Dag, who had earned her place through the garden's symbolic power over the population.
I stood against the wall, deliberately positioned outside the circle of decision-makers.
"You've all heard the broadcast," Furiosa said. "The Bullet Farmer is framing us as a threat to be contained. Three minor settlements that were considering trade agreements have gone silent since the transmission. We don't know if they're afraid or actively hostile."
"He's isolating us," the Vuvalini leader said. "Classic siege warfare. Cut off resources and alliances before the direct assault."
"We could counter-broadcast," one of the War Boy sergeants suggested. "Tell our side of the story."
"With what credibility?" Furiosa's voice was flat. "We killed their previous leader six weeks ago. To the wasteland, we're the revolutionaries—the ones who upset the old order. The Bullet Farmer is positioning himself as the defender of stability."
"The old order was slavery and death," the Dag said quietly.
"We know that. They don't." Furiosa turned to look at me. "The broadcast specifically names you. Your powers. Your... nature. Everything he said is technically accurate, even if the framing is hostile."
"He's not lying," I said. "He's contextualizing."
"Which is worse." Furiosa crossed her arms. "A liar can be exposed. Someone who tells the truth selectively is much harder to counter."
The council debated options. Counter-propaganda. Demonstration of peaceful intent. Public displays of the powers being used for construction rather than destruction. None of the proposals gained consensus.
Then the Wretched elder stood.
He was old—older than anyone I'd seen in the wasteland, his skin weathered by decades of radiation and sun. His voice was thin but steady.
"Joe had power too," he said. "We cheered when he fell. Why should the metal man be different?"
The room went quiet.
"I don't say this to condemn," the elder continued. "I say it because it's the question everyone is asking. Inside these walls and outside them. Power corrupts. That's what the wasteland teaches. Why should we believe this power is different?"
He sat down. The silence stretched.
"Because I don't want to rule," I said.
Every face turned toward me.
"Joe wanted worship. He wanted control. He built systems that made people dependent on him specifically." I stepped forward, closer to the table. "I'm trying to build systems that work without me. Toast's workshop doesn't need my powers to function. The water distribution doesn't require my presence. The garden grows regardless of whether I'm alive or dead."
"But the Network," Furiosa said. "Your connections. The people bonded to you."
"If I die, the Network collapses. I can't change that." I met her eyes. "But I can make sure the rest of it survives without me. I can build infrastructure, not dependency. Capabilities, not worship."
"Pretty words," the Wretched elder said. "Joe had pretty words too."
"I know." I didn't look away from Furiosa. "That's why I'm telling you to watch me. Hold me accountable. If I start acting like Joe, stop me. You have my permission to treat my powers as a threat if I ever use them to control instead of construct."
The council didn't reach consensus. They didn't agree on a strategy for the Bullet Farmer's propaganda campaign or a response to the damaged reputation. But something shifted in the room—a grudging acknowledgment that the question had been asked and answered, even if the answer couldn't be proven yet.
The meeting ended with no resolution.
The radio sat silent in Toast's workshop, and the Citadel's walls felt thinner—not because anything physical had changed, but because the wasteland now knew what lived inside them.
Toast found me that night, standing on the workshop's observation ledge.
"I finished the metallurgical analysis," she said. "The shell casings from the Bullet Farmer's probe raids."
"And?"
"Come inside. You need to see this."
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