#fallout sugar bombs cereal

[starshadow8991]

Day 18: Food

Welcome to the Fallout dinner, may we take your order? Just remember you can only pay in bottle caps ����

See you guys tomorrow!!

[chadfallout76podcast]

1,407 listens in 48 hours! Listen to Part 1 of our Fallout76 5th anniversary HORROR tale wherever you listen to podcasts!

Special guest stars: Wes Johnson and Casey Mongillo

"Little Sanctuary of Horrors ~ Part 1", found on a mysterious holotape inside a limited edition box of Sugar Bombs cereal.

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5OSiB7EzbdXpyAiZsQ0guX

Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/chad-a-fallout-76-story/id1466244990

Amazon Music: https://music.amazon.com/podcasts/2c0eb6d0-1d25-4216-b613-f02c70a454e2/CHAD-A-Fallout-76-Story?

Audible: CHAD: A Fallout 76 Story | Podcasts on Audible | Audible.com

Pandora: https://www.pandora.com/podcast/chad-a-fallout-76-story/PC:20276

[druidgroves]

Chapter 01: Maybe I'll Say Maybe

Fandom: Fallout 4 Words: 6,208 Characters: Georgia Tate (Canon Divergent Sole Survivor), Nate Notes: Soooo I decided to rewrite the first chapter (01/20/2024) since it was originally written years before I started BLP proper. I'll still keep the old one linked somewhere for posterity, but going forward the story will start referencing more things from Georgia's life pre-war. Please let me know what you think! read on ao3 / read on tumblr

August 28th, 2075

Georgia Walker checks her watch for the ninth time in as many minutes.

It’s been over an hour, she thinks not for the first time, where the hell are you?

Beside her, sitting at one of the desks that didn’t even reach her knees, is Henry Tate, number twenty-three in her classroom. Henry had been working on a coloring book she’d slipped him while she had dealt with a truly inane series of phone calls (call home. Reach housekeeper? Learn Mrs. Tate is at the salon. Wait. Answer call from housekeeper, get details on pick-up. Uncle arriving ???). He didn’t seem worried about staying later than the other kids.

Maybe Georgia should talk with his first grade teacher, see if this was a pattern she should expect…

“Let me guess: alien giraffe?” she asks when he sets down his crayon.

“No,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world and to him, it is. “He’s a sick giraffe. He’s green.”

Georgia smiles a little to herself and gently smacks her forehead. “Psht, of course he’s sick, silly me. What’s his outlook, doc?”

Henry got that same look on his face that he and the other kids who still needed extra help with their four-letter words shared. Still, she’d read it was good to use an expanded vocabulary with kids. Made them more curious.

She laughs. “Is he gonna get better?”

“I dunno. I don’t think he can get better by himself,” he says.

“Well, maybe you can color him a friend to help him out,” Georgia says as she stands up from her chair and checks her watch for the tenth time. She sighs and puts on a cheery voice, “Hey, kiddo, sit tight, I’m gonna try to give Mom another call, alright? Give me juuust a second and I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Miss Georgia,” Henry says, barely paying attention to her now as he attempts to find the perfect friend for his green giraffe. She can’t help but ruffle his hair a little before she leaves.

She steps out of her classroom, careful not to bend the decorations she spent all summer making. Her door is covered in all the recycled newspapers she scrounged from the people in her apartment building, painted in varying shades of green. Pasted on top of them were individually cut sunflowers with her student’s names written in neat, bubbly print in the middle. Amongst the flowers are the words “Young Minds Bloom In Ms. Walker’s Classroom!” in white paint.

As she walks past her bulletin board, the real star of the show in her opinion, she feels a little pride go through her. “Blooming Great Work!” scrawled across the sky of an entire paper vegetable garden, squeezed onto a four by eight foot sheet of compressed wood pulp. A tiny pumpkin patch in the corner, tomatoes on the vine, corn in the stalk, all crafted from more recycled newspapers. The real part she was proud of, the one no one had commented on or even noticed, was the fact that she was able to find enough papers without sensationalized political headlines.

War dominated everything from the newspapers to the television to the cereal half her students ate for breakfast (sending your kids to school hyped up on Sugar Bombs? Great plan). Most of them had a father, an older brother, or an uncle in the military, the marines, or the air force. It had become such a permeable part of the fabric of their lives, starting way before they were even a twinkle in their parent’s eyes. On the first day of school, at least three had said that their daddy/brother/uncle died in The War. Kids overshared their big feelings. Georgia knew to expect that. So the very least she could do is try to take their minds off of it in any small way she could. That included keeping it out of her classroom of seven to eight year olds when it wasn’t necessary.

As she walked past the counselor’s office, she wondered just how many big feelings passed through their door on the daily. Not many schools in Boston still had counselors on payroll anymore. Frankly, Georgia was surprised they still had the teachers on the payroll with how many slashes there had been to the national education budget in recent years. Dollar bills for pencils, textbooks, and backpacks spent on bullets, tanks, and warheads. It had almost been enough for her to give up on her degree in her junior year of college, but she pushed through if only to make taking out those damnable student loans somewhat worth it.

All that was to say, that whoever was going to be picking up Henry Tate, they may have gotten stuck behind a military blockade somewhere in the city. It happened. Didn’t make it any less frustrating to deal with.

Georgia rounds the corner of the second grade hallway and runs straight into a cloud of minty smelling smoke. She coughs, not expecting her senses to be assaulted like that in a primary school, and waves it away as she realizes who brought it in with them.

A man with tousled brown hair, broad shouldered and lean, a cigarette between his scarred lips, stares at the trophy case in front of the main office.

“‘Most Patriotic’, eh?” he says aloud like he’d been waiting for her to appear so he could make his snappy quip. “How do they even measure that in kids? I doubt any of them can say the national anthem all the way through at this age.”

“You’d be surprised,” she says before she can think, remembering the first day of school when little Henry Tate himself managed to get through the entire thing, only stumbling over the word indivisible. “By the way, you shouldn’t smoke inside a school, sir.”

The man laughs and finally looks in her direction. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes give her a quick once over.

“Why’s that? Fire hazard?” he asks.

“Among other things,” she replies. “They say smokin’ is bad for your health. I read it in Massachusetts Surgical Journal.”

“A bunch of boring brainy types would say that,” he shrugs, but snubs his cigarette out on the heel of his boot anyways and slips it back into the carton in his shirt pocket. “No offense if you’re one of those brainy types, by the way.”

A laugh sneaks past Georgia’s lips. She’s been known to indulge in a smoke or two during her breaks. “No offense taken, but I might offend you by askin’…you wouldn’t happen to be here to pick up a child, would you?”

“I am, actually,” he confirms. “Sister-in-law sent me to pick him up. Henry Tate. You know him?”

“I happen to be his teacher. I came to make another call, but he’s back in the classroom working on a friend for a green giraffe. A sick giraffe, mind you,” she says seriously, wagging a finger at him and making him chuckle. She smiles. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Be my guest,” he replies, and follows after her.

Before they can even walk through the door, Henry is rushing his uncle like a linebacker. His uncle manages to swoop him up before he can run smack into his shins, making him scream with laughter.

“Uncle Nate! Uncle Nate!” he cries.

“Yep, that’s me, kiddo,” he says and puts Henry down. “Mom was too busy to pick you up—” Georgia catches the look he throws at her just in time that says all she needed to know about his opinion of the woman. “So you get me instead. Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’re not a dis’pointment,” Henry says with a toothy grin. Then, like he remembers Georgia standing not three feet away from them, excitedly shouts, “Wait, wait, Uncle Nate! This is my teacher, Miss Georgia. She’s really nice. I like her.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” Georgia laughs as he wraps his arms around her legs in a quick hug. She gives him a pat on the back, then takes Nate’s hand when he offers it to shake.

“From what I hear, he doesn’t stop talking about school, you especially,” he says. He rests an arm against the wall of cubbies nearest the door, running a hand through his hair as he talks. Georgia feels a little warmth pool in her face when she catches herself staring for a second longer than is polite.

“Well, that’s nice to hear as well,” she says after clearing her throat.

Then he winks at her, a split-second thing that makes her blush for real this time as he tells Henry, “Hey, little man. Why don’t you go get your stuff together and then we’ll swing by the Red Rocket and get us some sodas, okay? I wanna talk to your teacher for a second.”

At the promise of soda, Henry darts off with a cheer to gather his things. Nate then turns to Georgia, warm brown eyes giving her another quick once over. She shivers.

“So, is it Miss or Miz?” he asks, nodding towards the door to the classroom. “I wanna know before I make an ass of myself.”

She tries to keep her laugh quiet, putting a hand over her mouth but failing to contain her volume. Her cheeks feel hot already.

“It’s, uh, Miss. Miss Walker. M-I-S-S,” she clarifies, face growing redder by the second.

“Good to know, Miss Walker. But where’s that accent from? Down south? You sound too soft to be from here,” he continues, fiddling with the carton in his shirt pocket.

“Arkansas,” she nods, reaching up to nervously fidget with one of the curls resting on her shoulder. “Grew up outside of Little Rock, moved here for college and decided to stay. You?”

“Boston born and raised,” Nate says with pride. “Nice to know you’re not from around here.”

Georgia raises an eyebrow at him. “And why’s that?”

“Means I can show you somewhere neat on our date,” he replies with a crooked grin, her heart fluttering.

“Date?” Georgia repeats, almost sure she didn’t hear him correctly. She flounders like a fish out of water.

“If you want,” Nate concedes, holding up his hands but his grin never faltering. “C’mon, let me show you somewhere nice. Somewhere you’ve never been before.”

She tries to compose herself, giving him an amused but disbelieving look and crossing her arms. “And what if I have been there? What then?”

Nate snorts, dismissive. “Trust me. You’ve never been there before. So what do you say? One date and then I’ll leave you alone.”

Georgia considers his offer. In half a second she manages to justify either answer. On one hand, she has rules when it comes to dating, not to mention dating a family member of one of her students. It came with its own host of issues from a potential breakup ruining her classroom dynamic or even getting fired. On the other hand…She gives him her own quick once over.

He’s like a goddamn calendar man, all toned muscles in a white t-shirt and charmingly tousled hair. And that scar on his lip? All that was missing was some oil and the washboard abs he undoubtedly had under the shirt. Georgia remembers to breathe again after pushing the train of thought away. The pros quickly begin to outweigh the cons. She’d sooner stick herself with a pair of safety scissors than say no to him.

“Pick me up at six and it’s a date.”

-----

In hindsight, stabbing herself with safety scissors that afternoon might have saved Georgia no small amount of grief.

By her own account, their first date had gone well. Really well if their winnings from hustling his friends at pool in a veteran’s bar was anything to go by. That night she had learned Nathan “Nate” Tate had recently finished up his eight year commitment to the military, but now he was working in a Corvega factory his uncle owned. It was one of the many around the Boston area that had switched from producing its titular cars to jeeps and tanks in an effort to cash in on the war effort. He had his own sweet Corvega Blitz that he picked her up in, shiny and red as her lipstick.

Nate had oozed charm that night, enough to get her into his backseat on that first date, and the second one, and the third one, too. She’d become so enamored with him so fast that her mother had demanded she fly up and meet the man after a single phone call. She dragged her father along, too. Nate impressed them with flying colors. Her mother, albeit a little hesitantly, admitted she could understand her daughter’s feelings. Her father had clapped him on the shoulder and told him he was a solid man.

They were married within the next three months.

“And you’re absolutely sure you want to go through with this?”

“For the hundredth time, yes, Mama,” Georgia huffs, looking at her mother over her shoulder. “Besides, as you and Daddy keep remindin’ me, this weddin’ wasn’t exactly cheap. I don’t see the sense in backin’ out now.”

Georgia’s mother sighs and purses her lips as she finishes buttoning up the back of her dress. It was a simple thing, not much flair save for bits of lace and a tight sweetheart neckline her cousin said enhanced her “natural features” when the women in her family went wedding dress shopping with her. Her mother wears a blush pink dress with an empire waist and a knee-length skirt; she’d tried talking Georgia into a different color palette, but eventually acquiesced to her demands when it became clear she was indeed her mother’s daughter, headstrong and stubborn.

“A hundred percent sure?” she asks again. Georgia replies with a similar pursed expression. “Just makin’ sure, just makin’ sure…Is it such a crime for a mother to want her only daughter to be happy?”

“Mama, I am happy,” Georgia insists. She sighs then takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “I am perfectly happy with Nate. Last night I talked him into us gettin’ a dog when we find a house.”

Her mother all but throws her hands up in the air, exasperated.

“Hell, honey, if a dog is all it takes for you to be happy, I don’t see why we have to go through with all of this,” she says. “I mean really, Georgia, six months? Half the people out there think it’s a damn shotgun weddin’ for God’s sake.”

“Mama!”

“Well, it’s the truth! You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“What? No!” Georgia sighs again and refrains from playing with her neatly styled hair no matter how much she wants to fidget around. Instead, she takes one of her mother’s hands into her own and squeezes.

“I’m not pregnant—yet,” she tells her. “We’ve talked about kids. A dog is the first step, sorta. But I promise you, I’m happy with him. Ecstatic, even. Everyone outside? They can think what they want, I don’t care. I love Nate and he loves me. Isn’t that all anyone can ask for?”

She can tell her mother is biting her tongue. Instead of arguing, Georgia is pulled into a tight hug.

“Love and an expensive reception,” she says, then checks the clock on the vanity. “Almost time, hun. Let’s go.”

-----

May 1st, 2076

When Nate picks her up after work, Georgia just about makes it to the car before she starts tearing up.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he asks when she collapses into the passenger seat beside him.

“My decorations!” she sobs.

Nate gives her a sideways look as he pulls out of the school parking lot. “What about ‘em?”

“They ruined them!”

“Who’s ‘them?’”

Georgia wants to scream. Instead, she lets her nails dig into the leather of her seat and heaves a sigh. She hates crying.

“Remember those two teachers I told you about? The ones who kept makin’ snippy comments about my bulletin board?” she asks, trying to jog his memory. They always had something to say whenever they walked past her classroom. Something was always either out of place or over the top for them. For a while she had blamed it on them being bitter and uncreative, but today had been the last straw.

“Oh, yeah, them. So they ruined your bulletin board?”

“They didn’t just ruin it, they–I-I walked into the school this mornin’ and, and everything was a mess. They destroyed everything I worked so fuckin’ hard on!” she manages to get out between sobs, punching the glovebox in frustration.

It was the beginning of the last month of school and she had gone all out with her new decorations. She’d spent weeks on them in between house hunting with Nate. She’d sat at his kitchen counter cutting out buckets, shovels, and beach balls out of more newspaper, creating an entire beach scene for the wall outside her classroom with the words “We ‘Shore’ Are Ready For Summer!” above them. She stayed two hours late just to put them up, and even took a cab home so Nate wouldn’t have to wait on her.

When she walked in that morning, all of it was either ripped, crumpled, or on the ground. She hadn’t cried then, but when one of those teachers walked by and commented “Oh, too bad. Guess you’ll just have to settle for some more lowkey decorations, huh?” she nearly lost it. Instead, she had managed to hold her head high, salvage what she could, and resolve to put it up again when she had the time and the super glue.

“Well,” Nate says, eyes never leaving the road, “fuck them, right? Probably just a couple of jealous old hags.”

Georgia sniffs, not quite wanting to agree but not quite disagreeing either.

“Probably just jealous,” she says, wiping away the rest of her tears and checking her face in the sun visor. Streaks of mascara and eyeliner trail down her cheeks so she does her best to wipe it off, but her eyes are still red.

“In better news,” Nate starts, finally looking over at her during a red light, “I may have found our future house.”

“Really?” Georgia asks, snapping her head over to look at him. Suddenly her problems are miles away. “Where? How? When did you find it? When can we see it?”

“In about a month,” he replies and takes a turn he doesn’t usually take on the drive home.

“A month? Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Just sit tight and look pretty, alright?”

They drive all the way out to Concord, stopping only to grab a couple of sodas at a Red Rocket before Nate is driving them over a bridge into a housing development. A temporary sign in block letters reads SANCTUARY HILLS, with thirteen prefabricated homes in different states of completion. They were all either yellow or blue, some with covered carports and some without. Only one home stands in its entirety near the entrance to the neighborhood and Nate parks the car in front of it.

“Is this it?” Georgia asks excitedly as she gets out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

“Not this one, but close,” Nate replies as he joins her, then nods further up the road, “ours will be over there.”

She turns on her heel to him, eyes wide. “‘Ours?’”

Nate only gives her a sly smile in return.

“You cannot be serious right now,” Georgia says but he just keeps on smiling down at her. “Do not play with me, Nathan.”

He opens the passenger door to the car and rifles around in the glovebox for a moment, coming back out with folded papers. He barely has them in front of her before she’s snatching them out of his hands, reading them over. She looks back up at him incredulously.

“Nathan Charles Tate!” she all but shouts, making him jump. “What was goin’ through your head?! Are you crazy? Why would you make this decision without me?”

“Relax a little, would you? Plots were going fast, it was in our price range, and we can move in in a month,” he tries to tell her but she can’t keep her upset from showing. “It was now or never.”

They had been looking for somewhere to settle down since before they got married and with the housing market as terrible as it was…Maybe this was a boon falling into their laps. Maybe she was still stressed from school and taking it out on him. That wasn’t fair. Georgia sighs and hands the papers back to him.

“I just…I would’ve liked to be in the loop, y’know,” she frowns.

“I would’ve told you sooner, but you’ve been busy with school stuff. I only signed the papers today. If you’re really pissed, I can try walking back the contract, but—”

“Okay, now I know you’re definitely crazy in the head. That’d be more pain than it’s worth,” Georgia says, a small part of her beginning to think about how they’d like to decorate their first house. The idea is starting to grow on her.

“So you’re not upset?”

“Oh, no, I’m furious. But I think that can be fixed if you tell me you at least signed off on a blue one,” she says and he gives her that crooked smile that still makes her chest flutter.

“All blue for you, baby,” he says, and a little smile of her own works its way onto her face.

With that, she wraps him in a hug, burying her face in his chest. He smells like sandalwood and smoke and is warm to the touch. His arms around her and his face in her hair is comforting in the best way. He kisses her on the forehead and lifts her up by the chin, something unknowable ruminating in his mind if she judges his expression right.

“So…” he starts, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Better watch out,” she jokes and he tweaks her nose for it, making her giggle.

“Seriously, just listen. I’ve been thinking about this while we’ve been house hunting,” he says, and she gives him all of her undivided attention, “and I think you should quit your job.”

Georgia’s pleased expression drops, her eyebrows furrowed as she squints at him in the fading sunlight. Streetlamps lining the road flicker on, one after the other.

“Excuse me?” He can’t be serious.

“Let me finish before you get pissed at me again,” Nate starts, releasing her from his hug to raise his hands in defense. “Look, we have a house now. Or we will soon and you’ve been complaining about that damn school for months—”

“So you want me to quit my job right as we’re taking on a bunch of new bills? Nate, I can’t, that’s crazy!” She has to put her foot down here. Yes, her coworkers were mean, yes, the pay was shit, and yes, being the sole caretaker of twenty-eight kids for eight hours a day was perhaps the tiniest bit stressful. But it was all nothing she couldn’t handle in the long run, and she hasn’t even finished her first year.

“Listen,” Nate says again, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I got a promotion today at work. I’m off the factory floor and in the office making more than enough, plus all of my military benefits.”

“Wait, you got a promotion today? You should have led with that,” Georgia says, crossing her arms.

“I wanted to, but you started crying the second you got into the car.”

She bites her lip and concedes to his point. She hadn’t even given him a chance.

“Think about it: you, at home, putting all your creative genius into some interior decorating. Doesn’t that sound more fun than making flimsy paper decorations only for some old bat to tear them down?” Nate asks her. “And hey, we can finally get that dog you’ve been talking about.”

She’s gone through a whirlwind of emotions within the last ten minutes and Georgia can’t clear her head of them while she’s still looking into his pleading eyes. He’s thrown so much information at her, but she can just about make out the specs of gold among the brown and in that instant she knows he has her just where he wants her. The more she thinks about it, the more she pictures them picking out new furniture, walking the dog around the neighborhood, cookouts with neighbors…Maybe she wants to be there, too.

“I’ll think about it,” she says finally and he grins like he’s already won. She holds up a finger, pressing it to his lips before he can try to kiss her. “Let me finish out the school year first. It’s only ‘til the end of May. After that, we’ll have plenty of time to move in and start decoratin’ over summer break.”

Nate just keeps grinning down at her, then surprises her when he scoops her up into his arms to spin her around.

“We have a house!” he cries out, his voice echoing through the empty neighborhood.

“We have a house!” Georgia shouts, laughing as he spins her.

He brings her down to plant one on her, dipping her when he does, and she can’t remember the last time she’s felt so happy after feeling so low.

-----

It takes a little less than a month before their house in Sanctuary Hills is move-in ready.

After a week of getting things unpacked and settled, Georgia tries to be neighborly. She makes a double batch of shortbread cookies with the few ingredients they have with the intent to go door-to-door and introduce herself, but it doesn’t pan out how she imagined it.

The only person who doesn’t turn her down is the man in the Hawthorne residence at the front of the neighborhood. To his credit, he was neighborly in his own way and offers to trade her the whole container for a box of Mentats that she only declines out of polite shock. Walking away, she can remember the taste of the orange ones from her college days on the tip of her tongue.

Coming home with a still-heavy container, sad and a little dejected, Georgia opens the door to her own home and walks past Nate on the couch and into the kitchen, setting the cookies on the counter.

“It’s either the new tax bracket or there’s somethin’ in the water makin’ everyone paranoid enough to turn down free food in a crisis,” she sighs, leaning against the counter and looking through their unopened mail. Bill, campaign soliciting, bill, bill, junk, paycheck, bill.

“No one wanted your cookies? More for me, then,” Nate shrugs as he watches the news.

After the news anchor reports on messages from the war front, the commercial breaks show fancy new Corvega Atomic V-8s, placement in a doomsday Vault, and domestic helper Miss Nanny robots. Then the anchor is back on screen and talks about the riots (some even inside Boston), the food shortages, and the chance that foreign spies could be anywhere. A rinse and repeat of instilled paranoia until the channel changes. It’s all so bleak that Georgia thinks she can’t blame her neighbors too much.

“Bring me one, would you?” Nate asks, gesturing over at her. “Those are my favorite.”

Georgia purses her lips at him over her shoulder while she opens the bills, “You have legs, mister. Use ‘em or lose ‘em.”

She turns back to the bills—surely the electric can’t be that high—and ignores his sigh from behind her. He walks over and pops open the tin, leaning against the counter.

“The boys invited me out to the bar this weekend,” he says through a mouthful of shortbread, then swallows. “You wanna come?”

Georgia’s eyes flit to him over the water bill. “I thought you wanted to go pick out a new bed frame this weekend. You made quite a few jokes about ‘breakin’ it in’, too.”

Nate almost appears to weigh the two options as he says, “Oh, yeah…”

“How about this,” he says, taking a bite out of another cookie, “bed frame in the morning, bar at night?”

“Maybe. I wanna take another crack at goin’ around the neighborhood,” she replies, thinking over her options. “Maybe these people just don’t like shortbread.”

Nate snorts, “Yeah, that’s it. Well, I’m going either way, so make up your mind by Friday.”

“Will do,” she nods absently, going back to calculating their bills in her head before she suddenly remembers the shortlist of chores she’d left before making her way around the neighborhood. “Hey, did you put the laundry on while I was out?”

Nate, covered in cookie crumbs, looks like a deer in headlights. She gives him a flat look.

“Sorry?” he tries, not looking the least bit guilty.

“Nevermind,” she mutters, and goes to do it herself.

-----

In July, Nate finally makes good on the promise of a dog (a sweet little Bichon Frise named Lady) and Georgia puts her resignation in. By December, regret hits her like a cast iron pan and a wooden spoon.

She sits on the couch, wrapped up in her robe as she reads her books from the library in the city. Despite all the fighting between them in the last few months, he still agrees to drive her into the city on Saturday mornings as long as he’s allowed to go out with his friends later that night. It gives her plenty of time to read, but it leaves her more than a little lonely, even with the dog, which is where the root of their problems lie.

In August, Nate told her that he was having to put in some overtime at the Corvega factory. Something about quotas not being met, workers threatening to strike, and not enough bodies on the floor. So he’s back on the line, but he assures her his uncle isn’t docking his pay. Georgia understands this and for the first few weeks she greets him at night with a late dinner and a warm shower. She even makes him breakfast to reheat in the mornings before he takes off and full lunches to share with the other men on the line. He called her his “perfect little housewife” and she ignored the twist in her stomach.

Georgia doesn’t think it would have gotten as bad between them if they had more than one car. As is, he drives it to work every day and it hadn’t taken long to get the house in order, so she was left to her own devices for the most part. She was a sociable creature, always had been, and being constrained to the house had done a number on her. The daily walks with Lady helped a little, but the dog wasn’t much of a conversational partner, and Georgia liked to talk. At one point she had even called up her sister-in-law, Margaret, and asked if she could babysit Henry, but she wasn’t willing to drive all the way out to Concord every time she needed to run an errand. So with neighbors that hated her and a husband that was rarely home, Georgia couldn’t help but feel lonely.

From the hallway, Nate stalks into the kitchen. His hair is wet from the shower and his clothes stick to him enough to show off every muscle underneath. Six months ago, she would’ve come up behind him and jumped his bones right there. As it stands, they haven’t had sex in four.

He opens the refrigerator and takes out last night’s lasagna before heading towards the side door to the carport. Georgia frowns.

“Where are you goin’? It’s nine o’clock at night,” she says and he stops at the door.

“Boys wanted to hang out,” he says quickly, “you know how it is.”

She dog-ears her book and puts it down, getting up from the couch. “Really? Why can’t you stay home tonight? Please?”

Nate’s sigh is agitated. She’s asked the wrong question.

“Why? So you can ignore me with your books then go to bed with another headache?” he asks her rhetorically. His words shock her nevertheless and she stands there, wondering what she did between now and this morning to make him bring that up.

“I’m sorry?” she says, less like an apology and more like a chance for him to take it back.

“Yeah, you should be,” he snaps, and goes for the door again. Georgia nearly flips the liquor cabinet by her side.

“Nate, are you serious? What the hell is wrong with you?” she demands, following him out to the carport.

“Just leave it alone, alright? Christ. I’ll be home before midnight.”

She doesn’t get a chance to say anything else before he’s inside the car and slamming the door shut. When he peels out of the driveway, Georgia refrains from screaming into the night and slams her own door on her way back inside.

-----

January 2077

“Fuck, ow.”

Georgia squints into the bathroom mirror, face pressed close enough to where she can pluck her eyebrows with surgical precision. A stray piece of wheat blonde hair that didn’t make it into the curlers piled atop her head falls in front of her eyes and she curses again, putting the tweezers down to fix the offending piece. As she does, her blush falls into the sink and cracks the pressed powder inside, staining the porcelain pink.

“Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, can I catch a break?” she mutters, salvaging what she can and closing the compact.

In the trashcan by the toilet are seven positive pregnancy tests she walked all the way to the pharmacy in Concord to get. She had tried to be discreet, but the girl behind the counter had congratulated her loudly enough to draw the attention of a few other customers, and hid a family planning pamphlet between the boxes. Georgia walked out of there sweating like a sinner in church.

She spies her wedding ring beside the hot water handle, and given that it’s pertinent she wears it tonight, she slips it onto her finger before it has a chance to fall down the drain. That was the last thing she needed.

Georgia is pregnant, and she doesn’t feel half as excited as she thought she would.

She and Nate had talked about having kids, of course. It was the main topic of their third date. He told her he’d always wanted a big family—a pretty wife, four kids minimum, and a protective yet lovable dog (they were still working on the dog, surprisingly. Lady ended up pissing on Nate’s side of the bed soon after they got her and was given to her mother-in-law a little while later).

Georgia wanted a family, too, of course. She had always imagined herself having kids someday, but she thought that reality was a little further away. Twenty-three still feels too early to become a mother even if most of her old college friends she hasn’t talked to in two years are starting families as well. It all feels so sudden, even if it’s exactly what she planned.

She files the thoughts away for later, and focuses on finishing up her face. Her makeup had gone untouched for a while after she stopped leaving the house as much, but she knew Nate liked when she dolled herself up. Hopefully it will help.

Once her face is powdered, her hair curled, and lips lined, she goes to their closet to pull out her best dress. Pink, of course, with flowery lace around the hem. She slips it on, careful of her curls, and debates on adding a blue belt just to be on theme before deciding against it. Besides, maybe the pink will help manifest a little girl. On the dresser is her eighth pregnancy test, sealed inside a plastic bag. She slips it into her pocket just as she hears a car pull into the driveway.

Things with Nate have been…better. Not great, but better. He’s stopped going out as much and she’s been less demanding of him. Their relationship was fractured, yes, but she knew in her heart that after today, it would be repaired and made to last.

She’s in the kitchen when he comes in, jumpsuit wrinkled and dirty. Georgia can smell the sweat on him from five feet away.

“Georgia, I’m—Oh, well look at you,” Nate says, giving her a long look from her head to her feet.

She smiles and gives him a little twirl and when he whistles at her, warmth blooms in her chest. He walks over and wraps her up in his arms. Georgia takes a deep breath, swallows the lump that forms in her throat, and hugs him back.

“What’s this all about?” he asks, looking down at her.

Her hand disappears into her pocket. When she pulls out the pregnancy test and sees Nate’s face, she almost wishes she could photograph it and save it forever.

She takes a deep breath, and her voice doesn’t even crack when she inhales the perfume on his collar. She puts on a smile.

“I’m pregnant.”

[jothestupid]

ATTENTION ALL FALLOUT FANS!!! In like 8 frames of despicable me 4 theres a cereal called "Atomic Sugar Bombs". If you know you know.

[goregamesgore]

Fallout 3 (2008)

Fallout 3 is lovely. I have never fell in love with a video game like I did with Fallout 3. Maybe I was primarily depressed when I played this video game, which provided sufficient amounts of escapism. Fallout 3 will forever be associated with that rough patch in my life, and as cheesy as this sounds, that was the kindred light in the darkness. Given the endless amount of gore in the game, I am surprised that I find comfort in exploring the unknown wastelands, even with knowing that for each decision I make in the game, there will be an unexpected consequence. There is a comical factor about the violence in Fallout 3, which I still feel is a good pick-me-up whenever I feel a bit off. One minute I am exchanging goods with the town’s shopkeeper, the next minute we are spraying bullets all over each other. Quite possibly, the game is so therapeutic because my actions regardless of the consequence do not ever feel detrimental to my character. I was immersed in a world where violence is an integral part of survival. When people, zombies, or mutated creatures are not trying to kill me, I still must worry about booby traps, radiation poisoning, or breaking all my limbs from a fall. The endless permutations of how my character can die in Fallout 3 is absurd. So absurd, that the game does not feel real anymore.

I think Fallout 3 is so far removed from reality. The universe is detailed up to the types of food brands available, from soda to cereal, I still remember their names: “Nuke Cola” soda and “Sugar Bomb” cereal. At least for me, I found the violence in Fallout 3 nonsensical and whimsical, which complimented my need to draw out from the violence I was unfortunately experiencing in real life at the given time.

Fallout 3 Video Reference:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHr3Y8ZIhGM

[purkinje-effect]

trying to reconstruct my relationship with weasel husband

maybe he will take a hint *eyes emoji*

[whispelanix]

I love the alternate Sugar Bomb flavours in Fallout Shelter Online. I hope they make it into the main games one day. Or in real life for that matter.

Like they have Sugar Bomb flavours ASSOCIATED with different factions. I just love that so much.

The Sole Survivor faction comes with Honey Sugar Bombs...

(I WOULD DIE FOR A BEE FIGURINE IN A CEREAL BOX I JUST ASJDKAHFSKHAKJSFH)

The Institute has Cherry...

Brotherhood has Frosted/Icing (Frosted is used on the boxing, but they use icing elsewhere)

Makes sense Brotherhood has the version more popular with children because Elder Maxson is a literal BABY

Commonwealth Allies (Which is a Minutemen/Railroad Alliance) has Cinnamon...

And then Goodneighbor has CHOCOLATE

(I just hate how Goodneighbor is a faction in the game and is mentioned in the main quests but it’s not a place you can actually visit. It doesn’t exist on the map and that greatly upsets me).

Uh yeah I would DIE for flavoured sugar bombs. Forget everything else this is the greatest addition to a Fallout game ever.

[cdfreak]

i don't know much about fallout so idk what kinds of food they would have available but whats mara and reds favourite food? or what would it be in the modern world if the options in fallout are shit

also whens their birthdays :]

maras birthday is august 3rd :)!! idk when reds birthday is ill leave that up to Hayden if he wants since #twins you know <3

red is like obsessed with steak she luvs that shit.. and sugar bombs!! (theyre a sugar cereal)

mara really likes noodle cups and vegetable stew :)

[meetthenutshells]

380,000 Pony-Cereal-Years

So, I was doing some research for a podcast I’m gonna be on later this week. I was re-reading Fallout Equestria for it, and the thought occurred to me, because it’s explicitly stated in the story that Tenpony Tower lives off of scavenged food. Could it really? This seems to be an assumption that Fallout 3 runs off of too, and I wanted to put it to the test. So below is a sprawling epic of back-of-the-envelope maths. You have been warned.

Let's abstract a pony to be roughly equivalent to a human. A human needs around 2,000 calories a day. They can survive on less but can't really do any work, such as general survival stuff like travelling and hunting and scavenging. 100g of Cap'n Crunch, which we'll use as a shorthand for Sugar Bombs, contains 400 calories. That's pretty calorific and calorific is good when you're trying to survive. Also breakfast cereals tend to be fortified with vitamins which is good for dietary balance. Cap'n Crunch doesn't have every vitamin in it, but other cereals do have wider spreads of it, so let's assume that you're not going to die of scurvy by subsisting on Sugar Bombs.

A 20oz box of Cap'n Crunch is 560 grams, so each box contains 2240 calories. That's a little bit of excess that is good for doing work. So this means that doing regular wasteland survival, you will need to eat a whole box of cereal every day. That's 365.25 boxes per year, per person. A conservative estimate of the population of Tenpony tower would be... 1,000? It's a gated community but it's also not a video game and they don't have to convey the impression of an entire settlement using like 12 people, and it’s described as a pretty large tower, so I think 1,000 is low-balling it. So that's 356,250 boxes of cereal every year. You can see where this is going, right?

If we assume that Tenpony tower has been inhabited for the last 100 years, that's 35,625,000 boxes of cereal that you need to find in the Manehattan ruins. That's with a population of 1,000 - every additional person in the stable population raises that number by another 35,625. Figures for how much cereal there is in for example, the New York metro area, is not something most sources keep track of, but we can make some educated guesses. There would be in the area enough groceries to feed a population of 20 million, BUT only for the shelf life of the produce in question. Let's say that 40% of the produce is perishables, and another 15% is contaminated by the blast and spoiled by exposure, and let's say all of the rest is Sugar Bombs.

Cap’n Crunch has a shelf life of about 2-3 months in a dry room. Let's say that because this is the future, the preservatives make it live forever, and 3 months is just how long stores will hold on to it before throwing it out. 93 days, optimistically, to make up 45% of the diet of 20 million people. The average American, according to National Geographic in 2011, eats 3,641 calories a day. That works out to 1,360,500,000 boxes of cereal.

Great you say! That's enough Cap’n Crunch to feed Tenpony Tower for 3,800 years, right? Except Tenpony Tower is hardly going to be the only settlement scavenging from the Manehattan ruins. Just from the story, we know the Manehattan area contains Gutterville, Bucklyn Cross and Friendship City, and there are raiders on top of that. To account for this, we can deduce that there is enough cereal in the Manehattan area to feed one pony for 380,000 years. There are 380,000 pony-cereal-years in Manehattan. That is a sentence that I just typed.

When you rearrange it, the maximum population you can sustain for 100 years on that amount of cereal is 38,000. This ignores population growth, and doesn't count the 100 years previous to that, which we'll just say was too dangerous for regular settlement to take place, but still might have had some small-scale scavenging. So ultimately it comes down to how big you think the population of the Manehattan ruins is. For a little perspective, 38,000 is slightly more than the number of people employed by JFK Airport. I don't think it's too hard to see that many ponies in the Manehattan metro area.

Next we have to consider the estimates for the food ratios. I pulled the 40% and 15% numbers out of my ass. The proportion of perishables is probably higher, and the proportion of food that's otherwise unusable is probably going to rise over time as more of it gets destroyed from fighting, rendered inaccessible by crumbling buildings, eaten by animals, or just plain rots on its own.

Also, not all of it is going to be breakfast cereal. (I don’t know any city where 45% of the food is breakfast cereal.) This isn’t too important, since 2000 calories of beans is as good as 2000 calories of breakfast cereal, and there should be roughly as much of it around based on how I worked out how much cereal there was, but it does bring up that there will be inefficiencies. Some days you’re just going to eat more than you need and burn through food faster than you should be to make it last. Particularly when it comes to drinks like cola and alcohol - that’s a lot of extra calories that if they were rationed could really extend survival time, but people tend not to ration drinks on their calorie content. Nor do they ration food on calorie content, really - people eat when they’re hungry. There will be other inefficiencies in terms of finding food that may counteract these, and some settlements will have other sources of food, but given the pains the story goes to to tell us how hard it is to farm, ultimately I think they balance out, though the proportions of perishables and contaminated and lost food are going to be the strongest levers on how much food there is left.

In conclusion, I think having Tenpony Tower subsisting entirely on scavenged food is vaguely plausible. To have it as portrayed in the story, as a comfortable place where the food is expensive but plentiful, is a stretch. Based on these numbers, I would say that Tenpony Tower should be in the middle of a food crisis as the stocks of remaining food run out, and they have to buy from scavengers further and further afield. After all, you can only plunder the Super Duper Mart once, and those Sugar Bombs are gone.

[postapocalypticflimflam]

Day 7: Power Armor

I don’t know why I put power armor on my list prompts; I’m hopeless drawing it. I’ve decided instead to do some chapters of Arcadia’s (my Fallout 4 OC) memoirs (which I ended up having published in a hardback book from Blurb).

.

I rarely wear power armor — it’s clumsy, bulky, and I can’t sit down when I’m wearing it. And yet I’ve stubbornly held on to every last suit I’ve rescued from the muck, found on an abandoned train, or looted from the corpse of a murdered paladin. I can probably chalk it up to all those years I spent as a junior mechanic with Cal, fiddling with the nuts and bolts of machines we’d never need or use. I’m the same way today — when I need alone time, to distract myself from the brutal world beyond Sanctuary’s gates, I find myself with a screwdriver set and an ice-cold bottle of Nuka-Grape, scraping grease from the joints of a Brotherhood T-60, installing a new Stealth Boy in my Institute X-01, or replacing the halogen bulbs in all of my Vault Boy headlamps. It’s not just busy work; it’s much needed relaxation. Occasionally I invite Sturges and Todd to join me, as long as they keep quiet and let me work in peace.

.

I can appreciate the need for developing weapons — even atomic weapons — in times of war; I don’t like it, but an arms race is an arms race. And successfully identifying a quantum strontium isotope to improve a soldier’s arsenal is part of that process. What I find disturbing — and granted, I’m no “beverageer” — is parlaying that discovery into the recipe for a refreshing carbonated soft drink. Maybe my notions of Nuka-Cola’s wholesome goodness are based on the naive impressions of a child, and maybe I’m too smitten with the family-friendly atmosphere of an amusement park dedicated to my favorite tonic, but turning battlefield superiority into bumper cars and parlor games is too much. The optimist in me hopes the company’s actions were a way of balancing the karmic scales, but my cynical side sees only sales graphs and marketing ploys. As far as I’m concerned, Nuka-Cola is and always will be an invigorating pick-me-up — nothing more, nothing less.

.

I remember the magazine articles and newsreels before the War, about the big business of propaganda and advertising. I remember seeing pictures of power armor emblazoned with the names of the household products we all had in our pantries. Some seemed more valid than others. Abraxo made sense — I know full well the value of industrial grade scouring powder to keep mud and blood off a critical piece of hardware. And during wartime, I suppose a suit of armor promoting the satisfying sour apple taste of Vim Refresh was entirely logical — at least in Maine. But what I didn’t understand then, and which seems just as foolish now, is a T-51 advertising sweetened breakfast cereal. Beyond providing 100% of your recommended daily allowance of sugar, I don’t see how it helps to have Sugar Bombs represented on the battlefield — unless it was morbid irony, one kind of bomb preceding another. I’d like to think, though, that the promoters were more sensitive than that. They had to be, right?

.

On account of Sheffield’s feelings, there aren’t too many drunken nights in Sanctuary — but when we do tie one on, it’s memorable. Our last party began as others have: Buddy’s unending supply of ice cold Gwinnett, Cait goading Preston about Quincy, Marcy having one too many and melting down in tears, and Codsworth making “dead soldier” jokes. I got into a friendly argument with Titan about the upkeep on the rad scrubbers in my X-01; before long we were deep in a rambling, incoherent discussion about power armor “done right”. The details are hazy after that, but I remember Sturges lugging the pieces of a surplus Brotherhood T-60 to the frame while Todd dashed off to the Red Rocket to fetch his favorite blowtorch. We must have worked straight through to morning. That afternoon, tiptoeing through a minefield of tools and screws and scraps, I discovered our “masterpiece”.

.

.

.

[whitepolaris]

Gimme Shelter (of the Backyard Cold War Kind) by Mark Sceurman

Many of us who were brought up during the cold war period, from 1958 to the early 1960s, remember the school drills for “duck and cover.” If you were a student, you were ushered to the ground floor of the school and told to get on your knees and put your coat over your hand. You would then wait, intensely listening for the sirens that would signal a nuclear attack was imminent. The NJ school system issued a dog tags for every student, and the rumor was that the tags would withstand a nuclear blast, in case your body needed to be identified when the Big One was dropped. 

Yellow-and-black fallout shelter signs were posted on larger buildings to let you  know that if an attack did take place while you were out and about, you would have safe refuge, at least for the moment. 

Backyard bomb shelters were also being built for the safety of the family, and some still exist throughout the state. Weird N.J. was invited to see a backyard bomb shelter in Clifton; it was completely stocked with food and water from 1961, with virtually nothing touched in the last forty years. 

Patrick DeLager, whose parents had the bomb shelter built, tell us his story. “One day this salesman came to the door and told my father, ‘If you want to protect your family, you have to buy one of these bomb shelters.’ After talking to my mom, they decided that, ‘Well, we gotta save the kids!’”

Weird N.J.: How was the bomb shelter made?

They brought in a big steam shovel and dug the whole backyard up. They flatbedded in this giant metal tank. It also had a few other big pipes for the shaft, ladders, and the escape hatch. 

Weird N.J.: Do you know of any other bomb shelters in the area?

None that I know of. But everybody in the neighborhood knows this one’s here. When I was younger, I always got to be quarterback in the football games because if I wasn’t, well then, the other kids couldn’t go into the bomb shelter if we were attacked! 

Weird N.J.: What kind of supplies did your father keep down there?

There are old boxes of cake mix, soup, sugar, baking powder, etc. But I don’t really know how they planned on using or cooking the stuff. He did replenish the supplies once in a while. I think he had a box of cereal that he mixed with chloroform to keep it safe!

Patrick opened the weathered, cone-shaped hatch in the middle of the backyard, and we saw a three-foot-wide cylindrical tube with a metal ladder attached to it. Shining a flashlight into the hole, we saw that it went down at least twenty feet. It was full of cobwebs.

Weird N.J. correspondent Dean Cole was the first to enter. Next went Mark M. and myself, followed by Patrick, his sister Marie Gerhart, and their friend Janet Martin.

Reaching the bottom, we entered a small cement chamber that led into the shelter. The safe room was no more than twelve feet long and about seven feet wide. It was actually not much more than a round metal tank-and with six people, it was getting more claustrophobic every minute. Since the walls were round, one got the feeling that the room was spinning. Either that or the air was getting thinner. 

“Wow, your parents really stocked up on the sugar,” Mark M. said, noting the forty to fifty pounds of vintage Sucrest stashed away beneath the wooden benches. 

“Well, that was for the coffee,” Patrick said. 

Dean pulled out a can of Tropical Treat fruit drink, a little weathered and rusted but still sealed. 

“Condensation has ruined most of the stock,” Patrick said. 

We started to pull out boxes of cake mix, peanut butter, and bottles of water and instant coffee purchased at Two Guys. We even found some aspirin. 

“I think the aspirin is still good because, you know, there were no expiration dates back in the ‘60s!” joked Patrick. 

The escape hatch was bolted and filled with sand, and there was a hand-cranked air vent that allowed fresh air to be brought in. Patrick explained the theory of the hatch: “In case you’re locked in here, you could use the other hatch. The sand (as we all know) prevents radiation from permeating. The sand would fall, then you would put the ladder down and get out-to what, I don’t know!” 

There were no comforts of home in this shelter. The commode was nothing more than a wooden box with lime in it. There was no electricity, stove, refrigerator, or beds. Just the wooden seats to sit on while you waited for the end of the world. 

“Can you imagine staying in here for two months? I would go nuts!” I said. 

“Well, you’d get to know your family very well,” said Dean. 

“We asked Patrick again what possessed his father to have a bomb shelter in his backyard. 

“My father was pressured by my mother. He was scared, like most of us were. At that time, this place wasn’t that funny. He just wanted us to feel safe. The shelter cost twenty-five hundred dollars to install. I still have the receipts.” 

As we exited, the climb back up into the light was a refreshing change, even though we were in the hole for only about twenty minutes. To come out of that shelter after a nuclear attack would be unimaginable. 

The DeLage family home was recently sold to a new owner, bomb shelter and all. It may have turned out to be an adding selling point in these uncertain times we were living in-again.

[eeveevie]

If you’re still taking character asks how about 15, 22 & 34 for your fallout ladies?

15. Is there a certain person in this world that they cannot stand? The very mention of this person’s name makes them tremble with anger or fear.

Butch. Well, it used to be, considering their tumultuous past. Childhood bully becomes friend becomes boyfriend is not the most expected of progressions. But Rosie is happy things turned out so possitively for them, as she doesn’t like having that kind of hate in her heart. That being said, after the death of her father at the hands of the Enclave, she holds a grudge against Colonel Autumn for what he took from her. 

Even though Mads works with the Brotherhood (to a point), she has never gotten along with Maxon. There’s a rivalry there, and he knows damn well she’s not in agreeance of a lot of the organizations methods. After learning about Danse’s true nature, and his audacity to ask her to kill him, she breaks all ties with the group as amicably as possible. She isn’t about to kill the man and start another war (one with the Institute is enough for her). 

You’d think for Daisy it would be Benny, but she’s not wholly driven by revenge. Especially after she learns about the truth of the platinum chip and finds out how useful the Chairman might be to her, she decides to keep him alive (for now). Instead, she’s much more enraged by the Leigon. Growing up in Flagstaff where the Leigon found its strength, she knows the horrors the group is capable of, and wants nothing to do with their occupation of the Mojave. When she joins up with Boone, she’s all too happy to shoot at any red they see. 

22. What kind of tattoos, piercings, birthmarks, freckles, and other such unique physical features do they have?

Rosie has the tiniest scar on her upper lip; you wouldn’t be able to see it unless you knew what you were looking for. When she was 13, it was the first time she had finally had enough of Butch’s persistant teasing and the two escalated to throwing punches. Except, she was wearing braces and it split open her lip. Of course, having your dad as the vault physician is helpful, and he fixed her up so that it looked as if nothing ever happened. (Butch has the most immense guilt over this when she reminds him of the event). 

Mads has a dusting of freckles along her shoulders. She’s also double joined in her left shoulder from a previous break that didn’t heal properly; it’s always been a bit of a party trick for her. Of course, there’s also her cesarean scars from Shaun’s birth, which she used to be fairly self-conscious about until recently. 

‘Lucky’ Daisy wouldn’t be lucky if she hadn’t survived those bullets to the head, but at the cost of some pretty gnarly scarring along the left side of her skull. You can’t really see it thanks to the way she styles her dark hair, but those close to her (the very few) know it’s there. She has a scar along her ribcage from when she escaped Flagstaff as a teenager, just as the Leigon were gaining their foothold; they tried to capture her, she fought back and ran until she found an NCR outpost. 

34. Does your character have favorite foods? (breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks, etc)

Rosie was a breakfast girl down in the vault, mostly because she was an early riser and liked the routine of starting off her day with a balanced meal. Eating at the breakfast nook with her father, talking about their day--it was the most normal part of her day. So cereals, grains and fruit; a lot of food you can’t find in the Capital Wasteland. Though, you can find Sugar Bombs, but those are far too sweet for her. Once she settles down in Megaton and figures out how to cook for herself, she likes to experiement with dinners, trying to recreate the preserved foods and recipies that she used to eat in Vault 101. When Butch joins her, he actually gets a kick out of helping her too. 

Mads is the certified sweet tooth. She’s also an avid baker, since she can’t really cook much of anything else. Yes, she can make the ‘staples’ but nothing fancy, otherwise she’s bound to ruin it. She loves candy, and tarts like lemon bars, or cheesecake. Considering a lot of those items are impossible to find or make in the Commonwealth, she has to live with what she can find. She’s just glad snack cakes are still around. 

Daisy is the snacker. You’d think she never had a proper meal in her life, or should have a dietary issue with all the junk food she eats, but considering her life-style of running place to place running odd jobs, she is capabale of staying healthy. But she’s not one to cook, or even want a ‘main dish’ meal (unless she’s been traveling for a while and is starving). She’d rather munch on her crisps and and BlamCo. Even though she has her eyes set on the comfy life of the New Vegas strip, her stomach sure isn’t. 

get to know my character

[zilthewarrior]

Hey guys, I've got something a little different for you toady. I present to you my favorite pre-war (and wasteland) food, SUGAR BOMBS! After years of disappointment, I've decided to take matters into my own hands. I've come across some recipes (mostly just what types of sodas to mix together) for Nuka Cola lately in my search for DIY material, so I decided to do some digging and was disappointed to find that there were only a couple recipes for consumables from the Fallout universe. I've always loved sugary cereal, so Sugar Bombs have always been one of my favorite Fallout foods. I decided to give it a shot, and while it's still a bit of a WIP, I've come up with a recipe for Sugar Bombs. As I improve the recipe, I'll post the updated recipes for anyone who's interested. Just a fair warning before you get started, this recipe is pretty labor intensive, and since you probably don't have a Mr. Handy to help you out, it takes about 2 hours to make these babies. (Makes about two small bowls full of cereal) Ingredients: The Cereal: 1 1/4 cup All Purpose Flour 1/3 cup Almond Meal 1 Egg 1 TBSP Coconut Oil 4 TBSP Light Corn Syrup 2 TSP Vanilla Extract The Sugar Coating: 1 1/2 cup Sugar 1/2 cup Water Preheat the oven to 375° F, and spread out a sheet of parchment paper or a silicone baking mat (I used a baking mat, but parchment paper will work as well) over a cookie sheet. Combine all ingredients for the cereal and mix until a solid dough is formed (it should be the consistency for play dough with a touch of tacky-ness). Shape the dough into bomb/mini nuke shapes, flouring your hands as needed. To do this, I rolled the dough into little oval shapes, made a small cone, and poked them through with a toothpick to keep them together. Place on your cookie sheet and bake for 12 to 15 minutes, so that the bombs are firm, but still light in color. Line another sheet with parchment paper and set aside. Once the cereal is done, melt your sugar down in your water on medium high heat for about 10 - 15 minutes, or until it reaches the hard ball stage (250° F). You can test to see that it's done by dropping some in a cold glass of water. If it crystallizes/hardens, it's ready. Once the sugar is ready, turn the heat down and coat the bombs in sugar by mixing them into the melted sugar in small batches. When they are fully coated, quickly remove them and transfer them to the prepared cookie sheet. Once all of the bombs are coated and dry, put them in bowls, add milk (or not), and enjoy! Or store in a sealed container for about five days.

[berriestart--lilacsweet]

FALLOUT CARE CRATE

Okay guys I'm going to start making care packages for a friend who's in the military. He likes fallout as much as me, so I thought I'd make his packages fallout themed and make the contents look like items/consumables from the games. These will be broken down into 5-6 item boxes, with a drink, candy and snack/microwaveable foods. What do you all think?

MISC

• BOBBY PINS: Toothpicks

• CAPS: Bottle cap candy

• COYOTE TABACCO: Big League Chew

CHEMS

• MENTATS: Altoids

• BUFFOUT: Gummy vitamins

• RAD X: Mentos

• RAD AWAY: Capris sun

• CAT EYE: Tic tacs

• FIXER: Mike and Ikes

• JET: Push pop

FOOD

• CRAM: Spam

• BLAMCO MAC N CHEESE: Easy Mac

• SUGAR BOMBS: Cereal

• DANDY BOY APPLES: Apple Chips

• PORK N BEANS: Chef Boyardee

• FANCY LAD SNACK CAKES: Ho-Hos

• POTATO CRISPS: Pringles

• CUP O NOODLES: Ramen

• YUM YUM DEVILED EGGS: Dehydrated egg

• SALISBURY STEAK: Dinty Moore

• TASTY SQUIRREL BITS: Jerky

• INSTAMASH: Oatmeal

• BUBBLE GUM: Bazooka

• GUMDROPS: Dots

DRINKS

• NUKA COLA (Varieties): Gatorade

• EMEREGENCY DRINKING WATER: Coconut Water

[privatetrashqueen]

Throw the hammer down, Nailed to the wire Known by the sin of our fathers Let it all come out - And burn like a fire “Free” - Tomee Profitt

The spoon clinked against the side of her bowl, when she dove in for another bite of the cereal. A cold contrast to the warm vibrations of adrenaline pulsating through her body from the fight not an hour prior. Standing in the half clean kitchen of the lich’s home, she slumped, ass parked on the edge of the counter, the only sounds being the munching of the breakfast blend in her mouth. Frosted crispy rice. And marshmallows. Not even remotely healthy but the sugar bomb was necessary and comforting for that moment.

Waking up that morning, she’d been comfortably cozy. Bundled in arms warmed by the hearth, a long rest that she’d not had in weeks. The nightmarish dreams having been abated. It provided much needed energy that was more than enough to deal with the day.

Enough to make her choice. Maolisa had pushed herself beyond a point. The balance of science and greed for power had been ridden for too long. It was growing evident with the creatures inside the tower. Alex took in the information, analyzed and made her judgement.

You promised. The plant accused to her would be killer. She had promised. And she delivered. Maolisa was no longer to be trusted with herself or others.

Another clink of metal to ceramic. More crunching of cereal, exhaling. There’s a small blinking light in her right arm, letting her know the antibiotics had been administered. She’d check in with a doctor for a scan tomorrow, ensure she hadn’t picked anything up from disease ridden Orr.

And then prepare for the inevitable fallout.

[pizzakaiju-and-friends]

Sconsiglio per gli acquisti! Non ho ben capito cosa non funzioni in questi cereali, ma so che lasciano un retrogusto strano. Magari il riso o il cacao sono radioattivi? Non mi stupirei di vedere la scatola nel prossimo fallout, di fianco a quella dei Sugar bombs. Per fortuna sono quasi finiti. #consiglipergliacquisti #piccolospaziopubblicità #picofday #cereali #cerealkiller #eating #instafood #instagramfood #picfood #foodblogger #instagnam #foodlover #yummy #bestfood #sweet #bleah #fallout #sugarbombs #cereal #merenda #sonounserviziopubblico #provatipervoi #selfie #eeeeeats #instalike #potevaandaremeglio #goodfooduno #love #unitiperilfood https://www.instagram.com/p/BvtnNCmlgIQ/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=eaafyhfyi3ps