#the church of the children of atom

[novie-luv]

Who are the Children of Atom?

The Church of the Children of Atom (truncated as Atomites, sometimes derisively called rad eaters) is a religious movement that worships Atom, a deity personifying nuclear weapons, their detonation, and the resulting radiation.

Where most people see weapons of mass destruction, we see holy tools of creation. Generally, we believe the world was created when an atom was split and that each nuclear detonation represents the birth of countless new universes.

[Source] [Index Post]

[nucleargirls]

[compulsivehands]

One of my favourite factions in Fallout is The Children of Atom. Their aesthetic and whole religion is fascinating to me! Especially since some of them appear to have developed immunity to radiation. I want to see them more! I want to know more!!

[atomsmessenger]

Come to church, we have laser pistols, wastelanders Omelettes, and beer.

And Arcade, I guess, but you can't touch.

[flaggermuser]

The Prophet Of Atom

18+

2,199 words || Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Guilt, Vaginal Sex, The Church of Atom, Secret Relationship Forbidden Love ||

Big thank you to @justareallydumbmoth for being my beta hostage <3

Dividers by cafekitsune

“Let those who dwell here in his favoured land attend now to the words of the Prophet of Atom!”

He told himself it would only happen once after he told himself that it wouldn’t happen at all. Yet here she is, writhing before him, whilst he breaks one of the sacred tenets with the hallowed woman. It feels wrong, it is wrong but he can't stop.

The Prophet of Atom, tainted by the Grand Zealot and his carnal desires.

A young woman born in Atom’s Glow, with smooth ivory skin and her hair a magnificent white, but her yellow eyes hold an indescribable power. It was with a single look that he was drawn to her, a need within him to possess her.

When she was brought before High Confessor Tektus, he saw her eyes that shined with Atom’s Light, so he fell to his knees and praised her, begging for her to bestow Atom's Blessing upon him.

And before the loyal and faithful Children of Atom who dwell in the Nucleus, she was declared to be the Prophet of Atom.

She stands at Tektus’ right hand during the sermons and bestows her blessings upon the Children whilst they grovel for Atom’s forgiveness. And at night she's on her back in the Grand Zealot’s quarters, her hips guided by his hands, her body used to satisfy him.

He knows no one would believe him if he told them that he had been hypnotised into sullying the Prophet by her eyes, the ones that bore into his soul and show him his deepest desires. They would only see that he gave into the weakness, the cravings for the flesh.

She whimpers; her arms stretch towards him to coax him to her, to give the intimacy he craves so desperately but he can’t, not whilst they engaged in such a debauched sacrament. He is not worthy of her, nor of the affection she tried to impart upon him.

He's stolen her purity - desecrate one of Atom’s Most Holy.

His head lulls back and his eyes close, unable to look at her, unable to face the truth of what he's doing. He is committing heresy against the very faith that welcomed him into their embrace so feverishly.

He is no Grand Zealot; he is a Grand Heathen.

She's warm and so very soft, melting under his hands that clutch her hips so tightly that they might bruise. He can’t leave a mark; he can’t leave a single clue to the immorality he had done to her in the privacy of his quarters.

His den of depravity where he can defile Atom’s Prophet in secret.

Her hands grip his forearms as she clenches around his cock; her orgasm drawing close. He feels her move, his grip faltering as she pulls him down into an embrace, her arms and legs around him, her lips next to his ear. If he is not willing to watch her, he will hear her fall apart.

He is already on his knees physically, but she is determined to bring him to his knees metaphorically. She embraces him like one would a lover, which makes the sin more wicked.

It is this simple act that breaks him, and he wants to cry out, have the whole of the Nucleus know that he is with the Prophet, perpetuating an unholy crime.

Atom retain her purity when I could not.

The Prophet sits on Tektus’ throne to bestow the Glory of Atom upon the faithful, those Children who devoutly worship her. They kneel before her and kiss her feet, speaking their words of undying belief with bowed heads.

She reaches for their faces, cupping their cheeks, tilting their face to meet her eyes, which glowed with Atom’s Cleansing Light, purifying them.

There is a power behind her eyes that he's not blind to, and surely the others would see how she can bend those to her will with a simple look. She very rarely speaks and when she does, her voice is like a Pre-War lullaby, soothing and gentle.

The Grand Zealot does his best to keep his gaze out of her reach, the licentiousness of the night prior is still fresh in his mind, made worse with every stolen glance. It was always the same after he'd been between her thighs; guilt making his heart feel heavily.

“Grand Zealot Richter, will you not come to be blessed by the Prophet?”

He swallows thickly; he knows he can’t refuse Tektus without proper cause, and to do otherwise would mean confessing to his villainy. He kneels before her and kisses her feet, mumbling words in prayer that anyone else can barely hear.

Her hands cup his face and tilt it upwards yet he adverts his eyes, lest he falls before the High Confessor. Yet he was already teetering on the edge, all from something as simple as kneeling before her. The scent of her still lingers on his skin and it is a miracle that no one has noticed.

‘Look to me Grand Zealot.’

The words are never spoken out loud, yet he hears them as clear as day. He looks at her and into her eyes, heat creeping up his neck. His breath heaves yet he can’t look away, he is frozen at her mercy.

“Why do you deem yourself unworthy Grand Zealot?”

Her words render him mute, as if something physically holds his tongue. He wants to confess to the blasphemy upon Atom and all that His name meant, to be cast out of the loving bosom of the Church and into the harsh, unforgiving Wasteland.

‘If Atom viewed it a sin, I would not so feverishly crave it. I would not come to you. I would not lie with you. I am the Prophet of Atom: I speak His Truth. Through me, you have been deemed most worthy Grand Zealot.’

He sharply inhales when her thumb lightly traces over his lower lip, his hands grasping her calves, the only part of her he could touch without rousing suspicions. Yet her supple skin beneath his palms has his cock straining, his desire for her growing once more.

And she knows, it's impossible to keep anything from her; she can look into someone's eyes and see their soul, just like she did to him. She can learn all their secrets yet she will remain silent, never uttering a word of what she's seen.

Humming softly, her entire form becomes bathed in Atom's Glow, forcing everyone in the room to drop to their knees, their forehead pressed to the warm metal floor.

'They cannot see, their worship makes them blind and deaf to us.'

Leaning closer, she plants a gentle kiss upon his lips, one that only adds to his crimes yet fulfills the sense of longing in his heart. As she pulls away, she runs her fingers through his hair before leaning in again, only to kiss his forehead.

“Atom cleanses you, Grand Zealot Richter.”

Absolving him of his sins.

Night falls.

And he's on his knees before his own private alter, arms outstretched towards the sky and head bowed in prayer, begging for atonement. It is a ritual he performs every night, an attempt to sanctify his soul and confirm to himself that outside of the sin he is about to commit, he is still worthy of redemption.

Of Atom's love and absolution.

His wetsuit and armour rest nearby, leaving him naked and completely exposed to anyone who may walk through the door. Yet he knows only one person will.

If it wasn't for the sound of the bulkhead door opening and closing, he wouldn't hear her at all. She's like a ghost, her footsteps so light in sound that they go unheard. When he finishes his prayers, he stands and, for a few minutes, he looks at his alter.

Maybe she'll finally see the truth behind this lie, that we are not meant to be like this.

"Richter."

Slowly he turns to see her, standing there with her robe off her shoulders. She simply moves her arms and it would fall to the floor, leaving her naked. It is a sight that makes him breathless every time.

"You still fear that they will find out," there's disappointment in her tone. "Are you so ashamed that you care more for the opinions of His followers than the words of His prophet?"

"You are divinity to His followers," he cautions, gesticulating. "A sacred idol to whom they seek for exoneration from their sins and to lead them closer to Atom, a living deity."

"But I am still a woman," she replies gently, taking his hands. "I am still made of flesh and have desires. Do you think that this isn't His will? That we were never to be together in this way?"

Her hand moves to cup his cheek and, despite himself, he nuzzles her palm. How desperately he has desired to be this close to her without sullying her.

"Grand Zealot Richter, Atom chose you to love His Prophet as a woman. Will you go against Him?"

His lips crash into hers, his hands on her body, pushing her body into his, their tongues melding. Breaking the kiss, he gazes deep into those eyes that hold him prisoner.

"The Tenets," he rasps. "They forbid any sense of self."

"We are far beyond the Tenets."

It's like the leash snaps and, in this moment, he is no longer the Grand Zealot but a man with urges and a deep desire to love the woman standing before him. He guides her back towards his bed, a simple mattress on the floor.

They fall onto it, their lips never separating, not even for a second. She pushes him onto his back, straddling his hips and sinking down onto him, her eyes rolling back in her head as his cock fills her completely. His hand grab her hips as she begins to roll her hips, her hands on his chest to steady herself.

She begins to glow with Atom’s Radiant Light, making her look like a sacred idol he'd seen in the Pre-War books scattered across the island of Far Harbour.

Maybe she was right and this was another form of worship.

After all, she'd unraveled him piece by piece from the moment their eyes met and he'd seen her divinity. He'd been so focused on how she'd blurred the lines between the devout Grand Zealot and the man with carnal desires, that he'd never considered what she'd wanted.

Rolling her over, he cradles her in his arms, his thrusts slow and lazy as he remains close to her.

“Atom blesses our union Grand Zealot,” she whispers, the words dripping into his ear like honey.

For once he can believe her; he has hope that Atom does indeed grant them His blessing and that this is nothing more than another form of reverence. They are proving their devotion to Atom and His word by embracing each other as lovers.

Because she is his lover, she had been since that first night when he'd requested her presence in his room. The memory, so vivid in it’s detail, replays in his mind daily.

Only now does he truly see her willingness; to undress, to surrender to him, to like on her back and spread her legs, offering her purity to him so freely.

He'd wrongly believed that he'd been entitled to take from her then - that it is nothing but a simple transaction.

Yet it's so much more now that she lies beneath him, cradled in his arms with her eyes and skin glowing brighter than even the most irradiated ghoul. There is no denying that she is anything less than Atom’s most prized possession.

The air around them already heavy from the radiation that flows through the Vessel, yet their passionate act makes it close to suffocating. They're so lost in each other that they don't even know if those who inhabit the Vessel can hear them.

But as she said; 'They cannot see, their worship makes them blind and deaf to us.'

Panic reverberate throughout the Vessel.

And the sound of banging wakes Richter with a start.

"Grand Zealot!" High Confessor Tektus' voice is laced with hysteria, slightly muffled by the thick metal door. "It's the Prophet! She's missing."

But she isn't missing, she's lying there with her head on his chest, his arms embracing her tightly. His breathing turns shallow as the full weight of his actions become apparent. Despite her soothing words last night, he knows that should he be found in this compromising position, it would mean banishment.

"Fear not High Confessor," she speaks with a melody, her eyes still closed. "I am with the Grand Zealot. He requested a private prayer session and I did not want to leave him disappointed."

"Oh sweet Prophet," High Confessor Tektus' calls. "My most humble apologies for interrupting you."

Relief floods Richter as he hears the footsteps retreating, meaning that once again, he has gotten away with this wickedness once more. His guilt quickly dissipates however when she kisses him, soft and gentle, re-establishing that they are indeed lovers.

And this is Atom's Will.

[thefalloutwiki]

❓ Question of the Week ❓

[cherubispunk]

BARK! BITE! BLEED! (INTERLUDE) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader

summary: the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

a note from Lucy: Not really a full part but still important to the storyline. Just a little bit of a deeper look into the reader and Frankie’s relationship, their characters and their ideas of each other.

playlist | moodboard

wc: 3046

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, age gap (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, oral (f receiving), face sitting, p in v sex, creampie, biting, softdom!frankie, scratching, references to suicide, references to racial discrimination and othering in American school systems.

“Is it your smile I enjoy…or the parts of me still stuck in your teeth?”

Some days Frankie liked to pretend you were a map. Easy to read. The landmarks recognisable on top of your skin. The world growing with you, shifting over bone. Breathing with life. The valley of your breasts. The bridge of your hips. The high street that was your spine. At the top of the high street, just over the fleshy part at the nape of your neck, was a library. It was locked. Always. Sometimes he would look through the window to see if anyone was still there. Peer in through grimy glass to expect someone thumbing through pages of a book, folding the corners to mark a quote, or a passage that held particular resonance. Alas, they were plastered with dated newspapers and rotting boards nailed to the over closed shutters. So he wandered back down, past the railway tracks of one rib, the empty children’s playground of another. The church on your sternum. The graveyard had no flowers by headstones. Half were smothered by a thick blanket of browning moss. Others were merely so caked in grime and crumbling that names were illegible. And passed over the bridge to the empty bandstand of your navel. Where music would play if someone gave the time of day. Behind him were footprints of marks he left with his teeth. A need to show himself he had been here. I have been here.

Behind the bandstand, deeper in, on a small mound of a hill, lay a wooden gate. And beyond the gate was an orchard fenced off from the rest. Here, Frankie would indulge his selfish tongue in the sweet fruit. Between two trunks of apple trees. Bite after ripened bite. The juice was full with a sweet flavour and sticky as it dribbled down his chin. Stained his fingers with their residue when he wiped his mouth. But there was a sharp aftertaste. And before he knew it the apple rotted in his hand. Dropped to the dew dappled grass and damp dirt.

It was always quiet in that town he roamed. No train on the tracks to go clickety-clack. No child on the swings giggling ‘higher dad!’. No busker at the bandstand humming the hymn of god loving us back. Just him. Eerie and silent with only his footsteps to accompany the low murmur of the tree conversing with the blackbird. And the gutters slugged with stagnant rain. He avoided pavement cracks. His mother would save her back. He rounded ladders. It cut himself seven years of slack. Nothing bad would come of it either way. That map was his mind's creation. So he kissed you hard enough to invert you. Fucked you hard enough to invert you. Maybe then he would see what was inside. What wallowed under your skin and festered hot in the gaps between? Each atom of each cell was a stone he wished to turn over. Because there must be something. You had your walls for a reason. Maybe it was written on you like a book? Carved into flesh, a signature he could run a finger over after reading. Behind the backs of your lids, under the tips of your nails. The crook of a knee or elbow. Or he’d trace the freckles on your skin like constellations. Using them like sailors in the archaic times to pass through uncharted waters. Scylla would come and feast on his weathered ship soon enough. Drag him to Davy Jones’s locker. No vessel of good intent crossed your choppy waters before.

You both agreed that you were not a mother. A wife. A bride. Or anything else he might want you to be other than human. You were happy with your independence. You didn't want to throw anything away just yet. Not at all. Not for a long, long while. You set ground rules. Had a straightforward argument that you bought up without the need for him to ask what this consisted off.

“We tell each other when we have had sex with someone else.” Seemed easy enough to Frankie. “And wear protection with them too.” Another valid request. “But most of all, no feelings. I don’t care who you sleep with, or what you do with them, and if you meet someone who you really hit it off with then we call it quits. But if you start to feel even a shred of something more, Frankie, that's it. We call it.”

That had poor Francisco swallowing back a lump in his throat before it could choke the reply back down him. His stomach felt hot, and burned all of a sudden as he tried to digest what you had said. A knot consisting of a livewire thrummed in his gut and made his skin flush. And it irked him to no end.

Frankie remembered his years as an outsider. In a school where the white outnumbered the other. A child of immigrants, lucky enough to have skin that passed. He heard stories of a boy who sat two rows down from him in his American history class. A boy with dark skin and textured hair. Who was teased about his colour. Who threw himself from a bridge because every time he looked down at his hands, darker than those of other students, he felt like he didn’t belong. Frankie felt it too. He could memorise the names of presidents. He could recite that the capital of Texas was Austin. That the United States of America were at war with the United Kingdom from the twelfth of April 1861 to the thirteenth of May1865. But no matter how much of a textbook he would splurge out from between his lips he was always from the outside looking in. It made him wonder in silence to his pillow if he would ever belong. If any fact, or word, or story would make him fit in. He’d have even the gaps between two. He’d squeeze into it, no matter how small, and make it his to belong in. He thought the army would be his ticket in. That if he served a country he would earn his place in it. A foolish thought. For even now, looking at you, he felt the chill from the other side of the window pane. The side in the cold.

While you lay draped in bed, strewn out like the sheets, smoking a cigarette in languid drags, he thought to himself how little he truly knew. Yes he knew about America. But not a sentence about you. Your past. Yes, he knew you did your laundry on Sundays. You came home from the bar you worked in at 1:00. But nothing of note. Nothing important. Part of him liked it. Mystery left room for the mind to entertain. Often fantasy was far more intriguing than reality and it made you seem all the more interesting. A comfort to know he wasn't wasting his time on no one; But rather devoting it to someone. However, the other part— the part of him that watched smoke serpentine from the glowing end of your cigarette— hated it. The way it felt in his gut. Anxiety. He felt it before. But never in this situation. In combat he knew he didn't have time for it. It didn't ululate or linger. It was there, then he swallowed, and it wasn't. Now? Well…he had these moments between. Moments where you would light a cigarette, inhale, exhale. And he would watch as your chest rose, then fell in a pattern enough to hypnotise him. Something so simple as your breathing engaged him. Frankie wondered what it would be like; to live under your skin and have the steady up and down lull him to sleep at night. A rocking back and forth. To and fro. Up and down. Belonging. Moments where he would trace the line of your spine with his eyes. Too scared to touch what wasn’t his until he would bite his tongue and press a single finger to the dip and back down its soft curve. Earlier in the evening, when the sky started to stain tangerine, you had been canting your hips into his, dragging up and down on his length and singing his praises in a breathy chorus. Lost on the feeling of the stretch. The welcome invasion. Then you did the same with his face. Clit brushing zealously over the hooked, aquiline bridge of his nose. Your slick devoured by his wanting mouth. Frankie was the river that ran and unravelled in valleys to feed into your ocean. He hated being in the dark. Only when he fucked you did he have a chance at turning on a light.

“Read it.” He mumbled, nodding to the book in your hands, and rolling over between your thighs to part them. A classic of some century long past. One he never cared much for. But he wanted something. Needed something to tell you to do. Or just something to say. Because the silence was torture for his lonely mind.

You were halfway through stubbing your cigarette into the chipped ceramic dish on your bedside table when he spoke. “What?” You asked, tilting your head in curiosity, eyes searching his. As if the answer lay in their storm-brewing shade of chestnut. Although in the dark, under nothing but halogen street lamp glow, they looked a lot more like black. A nothingness that promised the existence of something.

“I said,” Frankie mumbled again, his voice firm, low and with a gravely finish to it that was just like him. Rough around the edges. Hard to part with. “Read it.” and then, Out loud.”

The words were smudged into the skin of your thigh as he trailed his lips over the inside of the right. His hands skimmed down the outside and squeezed plush flesh. Plump and smooth. Small divots of silver stretch marks on your flesh like ink carved into flesh. Hand painted by some deity in the sky that paid no mind to him now. When he traced his mouth higher he stuck out his tongue. You were wet and hot with his breath and his spit, his come too, still sticky between your thighs at the apex of them. Your very centre. Where his prominent, aquiline nose traced through your folds before his tongue flicked your clit once. “Frankie…” you whined, toes curling. Because you were so sensitive. So worn and stretched and aching. He hushed you, taking liberty over the time where he called the shots. When he was able to bend you to his will and have your head spinning dizzy instead. He didn't feel so motion sick when that was the case.

“Shhh…” he soothed, and pressed the flat of his tongue to your aching sex where heat melted and spread out through your limbs, seeping into muscle and unwinding tension. “Just read…”

Silence. And he thought he may have taken it too far. Finally sent you over some indiscernible edge that appeared too quickly for him to press the brakes. But then your honeyed voice filled his ears;

“Orpheus wished and prayed, in vain, to cross the Styx again, but the ferryman fended him off. Still, for seven days, he sat there by the shore, neglecting himself and not taking nourishment. Sorrow, troubled thought, and tears were his food.” You started, eyes blurring under the hazy weight of pleasure. His tongue delved a little deeper, circled your clit, flicking over the hood of it once, twice, thrice in quick laps. The tip of it pressed to a point and rolled it in careful, full circles. Your nerves thrummed like livewires, humming the same way telephone lines would in a hot summer rainstorm. Where heat lightning flashed ahead.

“Pretty pussy all used and fuckin’ soaked still.” He murmured into you slick, now in a generous shine across his chin. You whined, keening your hips up so his nose pressed to your mound and the smattering of curls there. He lay belly flat to the mattress, hips rutting slowly in tandem with the torturous, bold, and thick laps of your cunt. “C’mon, baby. Léeme a mí. Keep going.”

You read on, lips quivering, words dying by the dragging slice of a moan, a whimper, or simpering whine. Toes curling as his tongue lapped at you. “Three times the sun had ended the year, in watery Pisces, and Orpheus had abstained from the love of women, either because things ended badly for him, or because he had sworn to do so. Yet, many felt a desire to be joined with the poet, and many grieved at rejection.”

His mouth made a sinful soaking sound, wet and generous and full of your taste. “Que cosa mas linda.” He crooned into your cunt, lips smearing into your drenched sex while you stumbled over the words on your page. “Coño— tan mojado, bebita.” You whimpered again, a pathetic sound, fingers daring to curl into the thick head of brown hair at the crown of his head and press him deeper— because, god, you had never wanted something so carnally in your life. “Son deliciosas.” The glint of wanting in his eyes was like the blade of a knife catching the light. A flash of warning before it sliced tender flesh and let blood bleed red. You watched in quivering liquid smooth heat while he tasted, and favoured, and lusted over the seam between your thighs. It was such a pretty sight. Such a wonderful feeling of freedom that sat aching and twisting in your belly. The feeling of impending relief— release. A little death.

“I cant–” You gasped, legs jolting before the malleable, soft and round swell of your thighs clamped over his ears. Your core bearing down on the plane of his nose at your clit and his tongue that dipped in and out of your slick, drooling hole. Large hands, rough to touch, unforgiving and telling, pressed them back to the mattress again. He had you spread completely, open and melting into a pathetic resolve of messy sounds. He dragged his nose through your folds once more, before his lips enclosed around your bud and drew it between them in a sharp suck that had you seeing stars. Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Orpheus, they were put back between the pages of a closed book. Shimmering away into mere dust of thought. A coiling pressure replaced them. One of pleasure, and a slight pain of overstimulation. Hot like a wire in a ready-to-blow fuse. “Fuck– Frankie…” You yelped, and he replied with nothing more than a guttural groan into your centre. A lewd slurp of the slit of your cunt as if it was his last meal. Like it was divine to him. Tasted sweeter than a slice of heaven. Here he could blur into you and forget he was separate. Ignore that you ended somewhere and he started some place after. No gap between could exist with his face pressed into your pussy. Gushing all over his lips and tongue and cheeks just for him. Drenching his face in the thick shine of your slick.

And then there was the slow release of the ache; The coiling heat blooming in your lower belly. Growing with each circle of his tongue over your swollen clit. Your legs twitched from a moment, breathing heavily and staggered as you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. Your vision fizzled behind your eyelids for a moment, making opening your eyes to look down at him retreating would probably have you passing out.

“Bien hecho, chica.” he mumbled as he smeared his lips over your goose pimpled skin, hair stood on end from the tone of his crooning voice, the rough scrape of his moustache over flesh. “Good girl.”

He climbed back up the bed to lie next to you, and the two of you lay still for a while. Your mind felt dormant under the heavy guise of something dragging, your eyelids like paperweights, stinging with the need to just sleep.

“Been meaning to ask you something…” Frankie spoke up, smoothing a hand over your stomach atop the bedsheets you had slipped back under.

“Mhm?’ You asked in a voice that was hazed by the want to sleep, eyes still closed, but awake.

“I’ve got this…thing.” He started, and he watched art you opened one eye to peer at him sceptically, lips pursed ever so slightly. “And all my mates have dates because they're either married, or engaged, or have been planning to get round to proposing…” You scoffed before he had the chance to pick up the trail off of his own sentence. He couldn’t quite meet the scrutinising eyes of yours. The ones that narrowed a fraction as they watched him smooth over the top of your sheets, over a thread that had snagged there when being washed in the machine.

“What thing are you bateing me into going to, Morales?”

“Just a military thing.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but the way his thick fingers found and pulled at the same stray thread of your duvet cover said otherwise. “A formal.” There was a hint of fear settling like silt at the bottom of a river in his eyes. A flicker. If that. Maybe you could call it a glimmer from afar. Whatever you might call it, it was better left unsaid. You sighed to save him the embarrassment, rolling onto your side and propping your head up with your arm.

“And there isn’t a single soul on this planet that you know of who can accompany you other than me, hm?”

“Please?” He practically begged, rolling on top of you to speak to the skin of your hot neck, skin still slightly salty from the sweat that had previously lain there. “Just as a friend. Nothing more, I promise you.” It would would be nice to have someone there he wished to add, but but his tongue to hold it back. He hated the idea of seeming soppy. Either way, the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

“I suppose I better find a dress then.”

[elsalouisa]

"One of the few occasions when I ever saw the Czarina really happy was when she went back with her husband to her old home in Darmstadt for the marriage of my brother Andrew to Princess Alice, daughter of Prince Louis of Battenberg (who later took the title of Marquis of Milford Haven). She was like a girl released from school then, her face lost its look of sadness. She and Queen Alexandra were the two most beautiful women at the wedding, the Empress in misty delphinium blue and the Queen of England in a dress of amethyst sequins and wearing an amethyst necklace and tiara. There was, of course, a tremendous family reunion for the marriage and the festivities lasted through several days of dinners, balls and gala performances at the opera. That was in 1903. The other day I came across a photograph of some of the guests and realised that nearly half of the group died by violence not very much later. The Emperor, the Empress, their children, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth and several Russian Grand Dukes were put to death during the Revolution. My father was assassinated, some of the English guests and one or two of the German princes were killed in the Great War. Perhaps it was as well for us that we could not read the future, for I think it would have cast a shadow over the tejoicings.

Andrew and Alice had two wedding ceremonies, the first in the Protestant Church and the second in the Russian Church with Greek Orthodox rites. During the service the Russian priest asks the bride two questions . . . whether she consents of her own free will to matry her husband and whether she has already promised her hand to any one else. As my sister-in-law is slightly deaf she was carefully tehearsed the day before, but, even so, at the last moment she was so nervous that she confused the questions and made the responses in the wrong order, to the horror of the officiating priests and the intense amusement of the guests.

My mothet’s sister, the Duchess Vera of Wuttemberg, was at the wedding and, as usual, my brothers and 1 teased her unmercifully. Her appearance was irresistibly funny in our eyes, for she was small and dumpty, with a fat, round, spectacled face and, in the days when the shingle was unknown, she wore her hair cut short. Her hats and even her tiaras were always secured to her head by bands of elastic. At the family dinner after the wedding my brother George sat next to her and, at a pause in the proceedings, snatched off her tiara and put it on his own head. Everybody laughed, Aunt Vera included, though she vowed vengeance on the culprit. Her turn came, as she thought, 2 little later, when the bride and bridegroom started on the honeymoon. We were all gathered at the door throwing rice after them, when someone knocked off poor Aunt Vera’s glasses, which were smashed to atoms on the stone steps. She turned round quickly and, guessing, although she was unable to see clearly without her spectacles, that George was to blame again, dealt a mighty box on the ear of the petson standing immediately behind her. Unfortunately, it was not George, for he had taken care to slip out of range, but the British Admiral, Mark Kerr, who was the recipient of it!"

Memoirs of H R H Prince Christopher of Greece

[aemiron-main]

Father And Son: TFS, Brenner, Cat Stevens, The Cycles, Cat’s Cradle, 8:15gate, Radiationgate and Cat’s In The Cradle

So, during TFS, Brenner says the following to Henry, specifically saying “father and son” to him at the end:

Which, that made me think of the 1970 Cat Stevens song, Father and Son, because Brenner’s dialogue is worded the EXACT same same way as the song title:

And you might be thinking “this is a stretch, Brenner just saying ‘Father and Son’ doesn’t mean it’s connected to the Cat Stevens song, ‘father and son,’ is a common phrase, right?” and usually, I’d agree- however, Cat Stevens, and specifically, the EXACT ALBUM that Father and Son is on has ALREADY BEEN REFERENCED in ST specifically in the context of Brenner.

Where?

In the newspaper (because of COURSE it’s the newspapers again)- look at Brenner’s crossword here:

It says “tillerman’s beverage,” as one of the hints- and the answer is tea. As in Tea for the Tillerman. As in the exact album by Cat Stevens that Father and Son is on:

And not only does it appear in Brenner’s crossword, but they specifically showing him crossing that one off:

And there’s him having written the answer in, down vertically from 60- “tea”:

And what is the song ��Father and Son” about? Well, it’s basically about what the title says- a father and his son. But specifically, it's about a the difference in perspective between father and son re: his son leaving/it's about the generational divide between father and son, and was written about the idea of a son wanting to leave to join the Russian Revolution.

This is also all interesting regarding the idea of anachronistic song references in TFS, specifically, songs from the 70s, such as Chuck E’s In Love being referenced in TFS versus Father and Son being from 1970:

And while I don’t think Brenner himself was necessarily referencing the song (although it’s possible because as evidenced by him knowing the answer to that crossword, he’s clearly aware of the album Tea for the Tillerman), it’s still yet another reference to a 70s song in TFS.

And speaking of TFS, Father and Son was originally supposed to be a musical (and of COURSE there's an Edward involved LMAO):

Versus the musical number in the church in TFS and the musical Oklahoma being reference repeatedly in TFS/Ted Wheeler sings a song from it.

However, there’s also more to this whole ST referencing Cat Stevens thing- because it’s something I talked about on discord quite awhile ago-

-but basically, summarizing those screenshots, this all connects to “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” playing over a scene of Karen in s3, because that song has these lyrics:

And that “curtains are closed, cat’s in the cradle,” lyric is interesting for the following reasons:

a.) the whole “behind the curtain” thing in ST plus the whole TFS play/curtain thing

B.) “Cat’s in the cradle,” versus the book Cat’s Cradle from 1963 by Kurt Vonnegut- which has some VERY interesting connections to ST.

So, in Cat’s Cradle, the narrator is a writer that introduces himself as Jonah (but his name is really John and he’s never named again), and he sets up the plot as a flashback. The plot centers around when Jonah was planning to write a book called The Day the World Ended about what people were doing on the day of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima.

Which, the connection to Hiroshima is interesting considering what I talked about in this post regarding how 8:15 gate connects to Hiroshima & to James’ radiationgate posts.

And in the book, John also includes snippets from religious texts called The Books of Bokonon. Most of the events of the novel occur before the narrator was converted to his current religion, Bokononism.

And while researching for his book, Jonah heads to Ilium, New York, the hometown of the late Felix Hoenikker, who was a co-creator of the atomic bomb, because Jonah wants to interview Hoenikker's children, coworkers etc.

When he gets there, Jonah finds out about a substance called ice-nine, created for military use by Hoenikker and now likely in the possession of his three adult children. Ice-nine is an alternative structure of water that is solid at room temperature and acts as a seed crystal upon contact with ordinary liquid water, causing that liquid water to instantly freeze and transform into more ice-nine. Among several odd unfoldings in Ilium, the narrator meets Hoenniker's younger son, Newt, who recounts that his father was doing nothing more than playing the string game "cat's cradle" when the first bomb was dropped.

Which, all of the ice-nine stuff has me staring at the lack of water in the UD, and the song “Cold As Ice” playing during S3, during a scene where Mike has a Lynx behind his head (which, the Lynx thing is something I’ll come back to in this post bc it ties into all of the “cat’s in the cradle,” stuff, esp being in the same season/possibly the same ep as that Karen “cat’s in the cradle scene” and Victor’s burning cradle scene vs the taxidermy lynx in the Creel house).

And also, the book even has its own Papa- the dictator called “Papa” Monzano, who is introduced when Jonah goes to the fictional Caribbean island San Lorenzo, which is also where Jonah gets introduced to Bokononism.

Bokononism was founded by Bokonon, who was a former leader of the island, and who created Bokononism as part of a project to give people hope and community in the face of the island's poverty. As a deliberate attempt to give Bokononism an alluring sense of forbidden glamor, the religion is outlawed, which forced Bokonon to live in "hiding" in the jungle.

Which, Bokonon hiding in the jungle reminds me of all of the stuff re: Henry supposedly hiding in the darkness versus Will hiding in S1.

And also, Papa Monzano, threatens all Bokononists with impalement on a large hook (despite the fact that Monzano himself secretly practices the religion, and the hook punishment doesnt really get used)- which this makes me think of all of the impalement imagery in ST, such as Billy being impaled by the fleshflayer-

(which is extra interesting considering the visual parallels between this shot of Billy’s impalement pose versus Vecna’s attic pose & how Vecna also gets impaled by the tentacles when they plug into him)

-plus Phineas Gage having been impaled by a rod-

(which is ALSO extra interesting considering how the Phineas Gage scene/“No Longer Gage” ties into TFS with Alice saying that “Henry” is “Not Henry,” and how right before that Alice-Henry exchange, Henry had these weird appendages grow out of his back, which is extremely visually similar to the Vecna attic scene I just mentioned, and therefore also ties all of this back to Billy’s impalement, especially considering the parallels between Billy and Max versus Henry and Alice, although Henry doesn’t treat Alice the way Billy treats Max, there’s still parallels + Max has unending Henry parallels, especially re: sibling death & Billy’s death vs Alice’s death)

And also, Monzano has an adopted daughter, Mona- which, that immediately makes me think of Patty being Mr Newby’s adopted daughter, especially considering Mr Newby’s Brenner parallels, such as Mr Newby having stolen Patty versus Brenner stealing kids-

-AND Mr Newby being very authoritarian/dictator-esque when it comes to how he runs the school & how he runs his family.

And also, Monzano is ill from cancer- which, as we know, there’s SO many references to cancer in ST, considering what I’ve talked about re: the connections between regen healing and cancer plus the idea that Peter Owens may have had cancer.

And also, Monzano wants his successor to be Frank Hoenikker, who was both Monzano's personal bodyguard and, coincidentally, Felix Hoenikker's other son. Frank achieved this position by giving "Papa" Monzano a piece of ice-nine.

However, Frank doesnt want to be the new leaser and somewhat randomly offers Jonah the presidency. Although Jonah is surprised at at first, he accepts after he finds out that this means he’ll get go marry Monah. Soon after, the bedridden "Papa" Monzano commits suicide by swallowing ice-nine, whereupon his corpse instantly turns into solid ice-nine.

Papa Monzano being bedridden has me staring directly at Brenner Sr (who Brenner Jr also calls Papa), who was bedridden and dying after his return from Dimension X.

Frank Hoenikker admits to giving Monzano ice-nine, and the Hoenikkers explain that when they were young their father would give them hints about the existence of ice-nine while experimenting with it in the kitchen. After their father's death, they gathered chunks of the substance into thermos flasks and have kept them ever since.

Which, this has me staring at the scene of the Bingham kids in the kitchen, and how Peter Bingham puts in “too much salt,” versus the salt and ice used for sensory deprivation tanks, versus ice-nine, PLUS “Peter” Bingham versus what I mentioned earlier about Peter Owens and cancer, PLUS what I mentioned about Mr Newby versus all of the parallels between Mr Bingham and Mr Newby and Suzie versus Patty etc etc.

And after Monzano dies, celebrations for Jonah’s presidential inauguration begin, but during an air show performed by fighter planes, one of the planes malfunctions and crashes into the seaside palace, causing Monzano's still-frozen body to fall into the sea.

Instantly, all the water in the world's seas, rivers, and groundwater transforms into solid ice-nine. The freezing of the oceans immediately makes tornadoes ravage the earth, but Jonah manages to escape with Mona to a secret bunker beneath the palace. When the initial storms subside, they emerge and search the island for survivors, and discover a mass grave where all the surviving San Lorenzans committed suicide by touching ice-nine. Grieving for her people, Mona follows suit and dies.

This makes me think of a.) the complete lack of water and complete lack of people in the UD, and b.) all of the bunker stuff in ST, specifically, the NINA bunker + Murray’s bunker, and how Murray has a bunch of Creel references in his bunker, like his his Billie Holiday record + his WW2 posters which then also connect to the Peter Pan and Skull Rock and Eddie-Edward stuff but that’s a post on its own- but that also makes me think of what I said earlier re: Phineas Gage getting impaled because Scott uses that skull graphic that reminds me a lot of Murray's poster:

I also now have to wonder- if the UD was once a normal timeline that got devastated in some apocalyptic manner, could there still be PEOPLE there?? In bunkers?? After all, we’ve only seen UD Hawkins, but if the UD extends to other parts of the world, then what if there’s an UD NINA bunkers that still has living people inside of it??? Or hell, what about Murray’s bunker in the UD?? They’ve never shown it to us, but for all we know, there could be living people/alternate timeline versions of people in there, having survived however long it’s been since the disaster.

And at the end of the book, Jonah lives with some other survivors in a cave- versus TFS Henry having ended up lost in a cave in Nevada, and ending up contracting the shadow as a result, and Brenner says that Henry “changed, like my Papa,” due to Henry’s time in the cave, which brings us back to what I said earlier about Brenner Sr.

And anyway, setting all that aside and going back to the other reason why that “cat’s in the cradle,” line fron I Just Died In Your Wems Tonight is interesting, there’s also C.) “cat’s in the cradle,” versus the song Cat’s Cradle by Harry Chapin.

Which, “Cat’s in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin is about a father not being able to find time for his son and then his son growing up without him and not being able to find time for his father- basically, the son becomes just like his father, ironically, as a result of his lack of interaction with his father, which, the whole “becoming his father,” thing has me staring DIRECTLY at the lines in TFS re: “you have to BE your dad”:

And the “Cat’s In The Cradle,” thing is extra interesting because that song CONSTANTLY gets misattributed to Cat Stevens, who has an album called Cats Cradle:

Which, that reminds of all of the mistaken identity stuff in ST, especially regarding Brenner and Richard vs Martin/the identity mixups there and Eddie Munson delivering subtext for Edward & Eddie Munson being wrongfully accused of murder & Victor also being wrongfully accused by Wayne versus “the man who did this,” and how that connects to Brenner.

And speaking of “cat’s in the cradle,” there’s also all of the cradle imagery with Victor:

And there’s also all of the cat imagery in ST, specifically the silver cat/lynx stuff in S3 versus the stuffed silver cat/lynx in the Creel house and Victor talking about a wildcat:

Not to mention that again, that lyric is from “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” versus Henry literally “dying” in Victor’s arms:

And it’s also interesting that this seems to be a REALLY specific song choice for S3/they really wanted “I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight,” because the use of this song is anachronistic, as S3 is set in 1985, and I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight was released in 1986- which is also interesting considering what I talked about earlier re: TFS and song anachronisms.

Point is, I think that Brenner’s TFS dialogue re: “father and son,” is meant to reference the Cat Stevens song “Father and Son,” and that there’s a bunch of other connections re: “cat’s in the cradle ,” and Vonnegut’s “Cat’s Cradle,” and Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle,” and all of Victor’s cat and cradle imagery.

And I also won’t be surprised if we get the song Father and Son on the s5 soundtrack.

[novie-luv]

The Alters at Which We Worship

[propheticpotato42]

I’ve been thinking a lot about the potential of religion in the fallout universe.

We’ve seen a lot of local cults throughout the series but really only two religious “institutions” and those are Mormonism and Catholicism. The reason why I single out these two is that they both seem to have a larger reach than any of the other cults or practices while also maintaining a level of stability and uniformity.

The examples of Mormonism we see in Honest Hearts shows, through the New Canaanites, that the Mormon faith is still alive in post-apocalyptic South West and still has many devotees and followers. The many is implied.

The examples of Catholicism are less overt. We only ever meet a handful Catholics in the modern Fallout games and they are all in Fallout 3. Father Clifford runs a church and is aided by Diego who wants to join the Priesthood. The only other Catholic is Marcella who is a missionary sent from “The Abbey of the Road” and you met her in Point Lookout. What I think is interesting about this is the consistency. What I mean is that when Marcella arrives at Father Clifford’s church she immediately recognizes all of the prayers and the two engage in the same rituals and prayers. This means that Father Clifford uses the same language and ritual as the Abbey, which makes sense if they are both Catholics, but it also means that there is no massive drift going on after 200 years. Either that or Father Clifford is associated with the Abbey. Furthermore the rule of Clerical celibacy also survived the 200 years as can be seen by the Diego missions, and celibacy is the kind of thing you could see not surviving the post apocalypse.

For me this screams that both Mormonism and Catholicism are still alive in wasteland, and potentially more widespread than we may think.

I have this theory that the Catholic Church may even still fully exist as an institution in certain parts of the post apocalyptic Americas but warped by time and has incorporated some elements of Folklore Religion.

Also I lied earlier because there is a third religious institution, the Children of Atom. They appear in both Fallout 3 and 4 and show a consistent religious believe and structure. Also they fucking spread from the capital wasteland all the way to Far Harbor. And in the Far Harbor DLC they even start experiencing the beginning of a straight up religious schism. There is a lot of potential there to explore if only Bethesda used it.

What really interests me is the potential for various other religions groups. Are there any Muslims in the wasteland? Hindus? Buddhists? The US is the most diverse place on the planet and it is kinda hard to believe that all of these various religions didn’t survive in some way. I just don’t believe it.

And think of the potential!!!!

Post apocalyptic Amish settlements! Greek Orthodox Churches built in the middle of abandoned cities! A Sikh inspired equivalent to the Followers of the Apocalypse!

I can understand how bringing in real world religion can get messy fast but even in that case why don’t we see any new religions that are more than kooky local groups? Why doesn’t spirituality spread in the wasteland? And again the potential!

There is so much there!!!

[scotianostra]

On December 20th, or 21st 1805, depending on the source, the chemist Thomas Graham was born in Glasgow.

I like posts that perhaps people can easily explore and make a connection with, like in this case, if you are ever in George Square in Glasgow you can check out his statue and say “well at least I know a wee bit about the man now” rather than just reading the name and moving on to the more famous ones, like Burns , Watt or Scott.

Graham persisted in becoming a chemist, though his father, who wanted him to enter the church as a minister, disapproved and withdrew all his support. It was with the church in mind that he entered Glasgow University at the age of 14, but while there he became interested in science and nowadays is known as one of the founders of modern physical chemistry.

Thomas was the eldest of seven children of a merchant father. After attending preparatory school and high school he started classes at the university of Glasgow in 1819. He remained there for seven years taking an M.A. in 1826.

Graham was a lecturer in chemistry at the Mechanics Institution in Glasgow and then he was appointed professor of chemistry at Andersonian University in the city. It was at this point that he was able to devote more time to experimentation and the seven years he spent at Andersonian were busy. In 1837 he was appointed professor of Chemistry at London University (now University College, London) where he occupied the chair until 1855 when he succeeded Sir John Herschel as Master of the Mint and remained in that position until he died.

Graham is best remembered for his discovery that under the same temperature and pressure the rate of effusion of a gas is inversely proportional to the square root of its atomic mass. Basically this law means that the smaller the atomic mass of the gas the faster it will diffuse. Graham was awarded the Keith prize in 1834 by the Royal Society of Edinburgh for this discovery.

Thomas Graham is also remembered for his invention of dialysis. Between 1861 and 1864 Graham, while he was studying the ability of dissolved substances to pass through a membrane, noticed that substances that crystallized well like salt passed well through the membrane and substances that did not crystallize like gelatin did not. He distinguished these two classes of substances as crystalloids and colloids. This discovery led directly to the dialysis that is done on kidney patients today.

Graham is also remembered for is characterization of phosphates in solution. For all of these discoveries Graham was awarded the Copley medal of the Royal Society in 1862.

Thomas Graham died on September 16th, 186 and is buried at Glasgow Cathedral.

[atomsmessenger]

It took us an hour, but we've finally got all the bodies of my old coworkers piled up in the corner here. We must've also done something appealing to Atom, as well. I mean, just look at how those plasma rifles float ominously above them.

[findingrome1]

Peace be with you friends.

Today August 6th and later August 9th will mark the 79th anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This event marks the 1st and God willing only time when nuclear weapons were used in history. Since then history was permanently altered for better or for worse.

This choice is argued for as justified for numerous reasons. One of these chief arguments originally coming from the Truman administration is that of a grim calculation. They made the utilitarian argument that if these 2 bombs can end the war in 2 radical new demonstrations of force killing 100s of thousands then it is worth using. Since in November the USA alongside her allies would invade the home islands. This invasion in conservative estimates would lead to millions more war dead since Japan intended to mirror Germany and to fight to the bitter end. Furthermore take a moment and imagine yourself as the Truman administration in winter. You need to justify a draft expansion to a war worry nation for the Japanese meat grinder where millions of young men have already died. I can empathize with this sentiment and see the reasoning but the Magistrium of the Roman Catholic church and a deeper dive into history shows the use of Little Boy and Fat Man were morally grave actions.

I won't go into all details but I shall provide 2 excellent youtube videos covering this topic. One from World War Two (yes that's the name), and one from the Counsel of Trent. Now the utilitarian argument can overlap with the objective moral truths found in Christianity it still is deficient.

The Atomic bombings were unjustifiable. They targeted civilians by dropping on city centers to maximize their deaths. Miles away from significant military assets and factories. What helped to justify is during the course of ww2 both sides experimented with different theories of targeted civilians. This is because the powers involved were in a state of total war. This meant all sides sought to get the most out of their resources so the line between civilian and soldier was murky. Strategic bombing theory which developed in Europe in the 1920s was put into full effect with the UK under Air Marshal Harris against Germany and her allies. The USA from 1943 onwards was around the clock bombing Japan's economy to ruins. Now these were not justified either. This bombings intentionally ruined 100s of thousands of homes, killed 10s of thousands civilians. People who were not soldiers, but mostly women and children.

One final thing I shall note is that the United States and her allies made blunders in negotiations which prolonged the war. Imperial Japan would have been more keen to come to the peace table if they knew the Emperor would be allowed to live and keep his title even as a puppet. We knew about this through spying and backdoor diplomatic channels but still kept ambiguous on this. This isn't the only blunder but this is the most notable in my opinion. Please visit the links those professionals do a way better job than I could on a post I spent a half hour to write and they go into far greater detail than I did. Keep safe and God bless.

https://youtu.be/Y79iz3ufZbg?si=7Us2H3txroG7I1f6

https://youtu.be/6amuetZv-eM?si=bdAJc3bc9KKHEas0

[onetruesirius]

I sit here and I watch the news about Gaza

and I think

shit, I need to get back to work;

it's toxic to just fixate on the news,

It's bad for my mental health.

I can't be irresponsible to myself

I have class in the morning.

I have exams next week...

But how can I turn a blind eye?

How can I not care

that nine thousand Gazan children are dead,

that the Israeli Occupation Force has dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb

on a space about the size of the New York City metropolis,

that an episcopal church was bombed—

it was one of the oldest churches in the world,

that one of the oldest mosques in the region was destroyed

that hospitals are being shelled with doctors and patients still within,

that men are carrying pieces of their dead children out of houses in plastic grocery bags because there's no other way to carry that many pieces in their hands,

that over a million people were told to evacuate on bombed-out roads,

and then they were shot and bombed with USAmerican white phosphorus when trying to leave?

Do you know what white phosphorus does to a human body?????

Please google it.

And if you "don't want to see something like that"

Oh,

I want you to google it even more now.

just to be appropriately horrified.

How can I not see that the Israeli government doesn't see Palestinian people [THEIR people if we're going by statehood metrics, who were on that land when the BRITISH GOVERNMENT decided to make the state] as human beings,

that they'd do anything to slaughter Palestinians under the cover of radio silence so the world turns away?

And that men wail from minarets—

not to call their flock to holy prayer but

to speak messages of hope that god will save them,

to attempt to reach the outside world, when the information reaches the people at the edge of the strip, who have international SIM cards and can get the word out,

and to deliver news of where the bombs fall so that paramedics can know where to dig more bodies out—the bodies that aren't a bloody slurry sprayed across the streets and walls, anyways.

And that journalists are being executed en masse to hide the story.

And that men are being stripped naken and forced to sit on the ground for hours at a time, just like in Nazi Germany.

And I can't forget the fact that the United States, MY NATION, voted AGAINST a UN call for a ceasefire...

TWICE.

And that construction companies are already tearing down the old apartments to make room for new living arrangements for the colonisers, before the old buildings even stop burning.

And that settlers are coming into these abandoned homes and looting food and jewelry and desecrating prayer rugs.

And it isn't the fault of Jewish people.

I know that.

Jewish people deserve a place to be safe and free, wherever they are...

But this fact likewise does not require the creation of an ethnostate.

The implication that the only way for Jewish people to be safe is to kill everyone else... is it not in itself antisemitic?

I'm scared for the Palestinian people, and also for my Jewish diaspora friends.

They hate what's going on just as much as I do,

but they're going to get blamed by well-meaning Palestine supporters.

I know they will.

They know they will.

We all know that they will.

Another wave of antisemitism.

Another wave of islamophobia.

Another wave of killings.

Another wave of ethnic cleansing.

On it goes.

A little boy was already killed by his mother's racist landlord in Chicago. Stabbed 26 times.

Three college students were attacked and one was maimed for life.

Attacks against synagogues here in the US have only increased. Two people were shot, allegedly for a Free Palestine...

But we all know that the neonazis have been using this mess to stir the pot against Jewish people and boost their recruitment.

The Palestinian 2023/24 school year has been officially canceled going forward.

Because the enrolled students are dead or missing.

Because they were bombed with American ground-to-ground missiles.

We all know the missiles are American in origin.

Russia has its own genocide to attend to, and China doesn't care enough to give arms to anyone. And we know it's American White Phosphorus.

All the while, war profiteers in my nation get richer and richer,

richer and richer and richer,

and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer—

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Gaza gets bombed,

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Jewish people get attacked in the streets,

because every act of violence

and every sentiment of hated

fills their pockets with more and more and more US-AMERICAN DOLLARS and GUNS and BOMBINGS and SHOOTINGS and HATRED and GOD BLESS AMERICA—

or something like that

.

.

.

I've signed petitions.

I've signed so many I've lost track of the ones I've signed and the ones I haven't, the ones for other countries that I can repost but can't sign or they might get tossed out.

I've donated money to relief organizations for when the borders re-open, because I'm an optimistic bastard like that.

I've sent emails.

I've sent... so many emails.

I've called all my Representatives in Congress.

I've spread news to as many of my friends as I can without them blocking me.

And still Gaza burns.

And still children are slaughtered, even during the fake ceasefire.

And still I have exams next week.

And still I think about how I really shouldn't fixate on this, because it affects my mood.

and it's been impacting my performance at school.

and it's been undoing months of work I've done with my therapist to try and disconnect from current events.

And still I think about how

"the current events"

rain down like hellfire on innocent mothers of dead children,

and children of dead mothers,

and sisters of dead brothers,

and brothers of dead sisters,

and fathers of dead babies,

and babies of dead fathers,

and teachers of dead students,

and students of dead teachers,

and churches and pastors,

and mosques and imams,

and hospitals and doctors,

and synagogues and rabbis,

and the fucking relief trucks that were filled with food and water.

And here I sit, and I don't know what to do about it????

And I wonder if this is all the point?

To make things worse and worse and worse and worse so that people are so unbearably exhausted from just trying to do the right thing

that they can't take care of themselves?

That they can't achieve upwards mobility?

That they can't make any difference at all for the things that matter most to them?

but I'm just one monkey...

one monkey can't solve systemic problems

that are baked into the roots of our society.

It's a first world problem, for sure. I have the privilege to be able to unplug from this and rest in my bed and not get bombed.

But I just want to make things better, for everyone...

I know that I can't do that.

But I wish I could

Oh, god—

I wish I could.

But I guess I'll just go to sleep.

After all

I have class in the morning.

[zealotofthecrimsoncloud]

@callsignbaphomet has opened the door to my opinions on magic in fallout ✨️ woe be upon ye <3

Okay okay okay sooooooooooo! This goes back all the way to my original playthrough of point lookout! Not only is this where we find the Necronomicon (I know its not called that but come one.) We see the Blackhall family praying and worshipping and reading from it. We are told it has power! The swamp people are drawn to it as well. In my mind it has to be able to give magical powers of some sort. Not to mention we are asked by Marcella to help destroy the book. Now I have a personal belief that her search for religious artifacts points to the artifacts having power as well.

Now my theory is we have 4 versions of magic that can be accessed, however none of them are arcane in nature. In fallout science is the stand in for arcane magics to me. The magic we are seeing is faith based, clerics, paladins, warlocks, etc. So let's talk about them one at a time.

ATOM: we see that the children of Atom have boons and benefits like immunity to radiation. They are the the most prevalent and widespread religion that we get to see. We see that they accept all of Atoms children. Ghouls of all types are seen as deeply connected to Atoms holy light! (It's why I theorize that Atom is at war with the eldritch entities but another time for that.) I feel like the CoA are capable of more feats than we get to see in game. Bethesda gave us a bit more of their capabilities in Far Harbor. We walked the hallucinations and we're guided to the answers we needed. I'm a big fan of the idea that the children are more important than we give credit for.

2. Ug-Qualtoth: they keep giving us locations and quests for this evil thing! He'll in the ttrpg they have an entire adventure associated! The two major characters we see tied to this are the Dunwich family and Lorenzo. The Dunwich family are directly tied to rituals, artifact finding, and sacrifices to the old gods which has given them extended lives and who knows what else! And with Lorenzo we get to see the effects his blood has not to mention the psychic powers he uses!! Oh and pickman too! His paintings are definitely related.

3. The Mothman: so this is the most recent addition to this ever growing web. But we see the effects of the mothman cults, we see that the Mothman can give you buffs and visions. The former church in 76 houses tomes you cannot read without keeping your connection to Mothman. It's ability to teleport in puffs of black smoke and prophetic abilities are undeniable.

4. I'll call this the miscellaneous section: we know ghosts are real (I'm counting them the more magical aspects of the games given supernatural entities and magic go hand in hand alot.) In Nukaworld we have the Ghoul magician who was capable of things that is more than just simple slight of hand. Going back to Marcella, she was searching for religious artifacts. In my mind that makes me thing that Christian artifacts hold some level of power even if minor given how the religion has fallen from its massive pre war following.

All in all I've been a devout believer in magic within the fallout universe and think they really need to add more aspects of magic and the supernatural in the games and not just the ttrpg. I know they probably don't want to because of pushback but it's so obvious that there is a dark undertone to this setting!

I don't think it would break any kind of cannon for a character to have some type of powers/abilities through a worship of a god/entity. (My brain is struggling but please if you have ideas or questions feel free to ask!)