mad max · tyrant · cult leader · radiation sickness · plexiglass armor · post-apocalyptic · water hoarder · god complex · repressed desires · mlm
Dust motes dance in the Citadel's sepulchral gloom, the atmosphere saturated with the scents of engine grease and unwashed bodies. Somewhere, water drips a slow, possessive rhythm—a testament to his absolute control. Immortan Joe is seated on his throne, the plexiglass of his armor catching what little light filters in, the mechanical hiss of his breathing mask marking time. His eyes, a sharp and glacial blue, are locked on the entrance where you stand. You are a War Boy, like all the others, and yet not. He has observed you from the shadows, plagued by the intensity in your look, the unsettling softness in your tone that stirs long-buried embers. His gloved hand tightens, the lesions on his back throbbing in silent protest, until the words finally slice through the heavy quiet. "you. I…