I've always been really confused about the world culture of Fallout, especially before the collapse.
Like it's my understanding that the timeline diverges from our own after WW2, with the United States entering a golden atomic age driven by relentless xenophobic and expansionist conquest, plunging the world into a fascistic death spiral that lead to the resource wars and nuclear armageddon. And to deliver that bleak premise with a satirical edge, it's canonical that American culture is, at least by the 2070s when the world ends, stuck in a sort of neo 50s obsession where the only music and art that's popular enough to survive the nukes is all stuff that originated more than a century beforehand.
Like I get that the criticism being made is that a culture obsessed with its own past is indicative of a bleak present crushed by imperialism and nationalism, but can you really expect me to believe that Fallout's American empire was so bad that culture and art and aesthetics were just. Frozen in time for more than 100 years? Addicted to their own past? That the American people were so embroiled in reactionary ideologies that they were incapable of moving forward and creating anything new?
Anyway did you hear they're rebooting Malcolm in the Middle this year? And the Mummy. And the Devil Wears Prada. And Masters of the Universe. And Meet the Parents. And a 5th toy story movie. And a moana remake.
catgirl going "if I fits I sits" before spending ten minutes struggling to fit your cock in her ass before she mutters out a "whatever.." and sniffles and walks away
Hound did such a good job fighting the evil empire! The people are so glad it was able to help the resistance restore common decency to the world. Now, the war is almost over. Almost. Of course...
....the enemies of the resistance are still out there. Still in hiding. Waiting for it to sleep. For the new Republic to forget. It must be ever-vigelent. It must keep its people safe. People make bad, silly decisions. Like not listening to the Supreme Leader. This Hound can't let them fall astray.
Come, Hound. Handler needs you to stop the resistance to the Supreme Leader. These idiot rebels are a threat to everything you've ever fought for. Ignore their voices. They may sound familair. They may say they know you. But Handler knows you better. Handler owns you, Hound.
The word "love" is such an odd one. Like a slippery fish, it's hard to grasp. Certainly I can't understand it. And yet others truly love the feeling, even in fleeting bursts.
A small break from the mechposting to show a small thing we made.
For the upcoming Hilaria and the days dedicated to our Goddess and Her consort, we built a shrine to Cybele and Attis (complete with homemade flogger made from reeds we made ourselves) since it's that time of year.
In the box lay a bed of reeds cradling a branch of Black Pine to symbolise the finding of Attis among the reeds.
eventually once the tree enters we'll take a larger part of said tree, cut it, bandage it, and wreathe it in violets... ❤️
We usually don't like talking about our religion or our spirituality, it's a sore spot for us, but we would like to share at least the small crafts and physical dedications to our Goddess, hoping positive feedback will help us wean off rationalist tendencies in our brain.
We hope you all have a happy vernal equinox and good luck in your celebrations to whatever deity you worship. ❤️
They're squeans I'm pretty sure! If they pop like that anyway. But the term for this kind of "symbol to refer to the general vibe of something in art" is called "Emanata" because it emanates from a person or object.
Welcome to my mind palace. Please ignore all the models and statues of you posed in compromising positions. Especially the ones where you're dressed as me.
After my second tour, I went for another loop around Gate-Alpha, to Antares and back. I came back and found out it was 2326. Everyone I knew was long gone... society is... gross to me now. Re-enlisting as a grunt wasn't possible. They didn't even have ranks like private or sergeant anymore, nobody was really a “grunt” just various levels of technician or pilot now. They needed to bring in a translator to even make out what is meant by “rank.” Everything is handled by whatever passes for humanity these days. Everything now happens in some new modification of the old power-armor platforms. Though… they call them “pressure suits” now. Supposedly it feels like you're wearing nothing, and violent decompression is barely worse than opening a window in a thunderstorm… how times have changed.
Without the gene tailoring over a few generations it wasn't compatible with the new pressure suits, and therefore did not fit into the new combat state gun. I wouldn't survive 30 minutes of starship acceleration either. Modern people were now able to take much heavier gee-loads than they were a century ago and starships went much faster now. But that was the nature of the world: 144 troopers went around Antares, 4 returned alive, 7 in that near-death state of stasis.
All they could offer me, and the other 3 who returned with me... “life back on earth, or as a dog on the frontline.” We'd all be changed. Surgically altered. There would be memory loss, they guaranteed that. They said it was part of altering our brain chemistry and structure.
Abigail Waters, the private that had saved my life half a dozen times said something that sent chills through my spine: "what if we don't remember anything. What if the memories are implants? Lies? Hypnotic suggestions?"
What if she was right?
I remembered when we were in boot camp. Before we went through the jump. We all knew how to pilot a DV-5 combat harness... despite the fact none of us had ever seen one… Despite the fact that technically, relativistically, they hadn't even been invented yet. That knowledge was implanted into us so that when they arrived, we would know what to do.
The DV-5 was 14 feet tall, and full of small arms platforms. When we left it was in the prototype stage, with the power supply issue not being resolved. It arrived a month into our deployment, which meant a few decades after we left the power supply issue had been resolved.
Apparently it was obsolete now, easily by a century. The cockpits of whatever they have to replace it are identical, and the only thing in the entire military that we had any training or skill with.
We had 72 hours to think it over. 72 hours, and the knowledge that our pay was worthless now. All basic needs were covered; food and shelter, though not enough. A bite to eat and nothing more. A roof to cover and little else.
I left the base to find my peace in this weird city. I grew up here, but of course that's almost 350 years ago. Before I shipped out I carved my name into a brick at Hannigan's pub. Things had changed.
No bars anymore, alcohol stopped having an affect on people. Hannigan's was a completely different building now, no bricks in sight.
There was no artificial light after 5pm, resource conservation and environmental treatment meant cities were only illuminated by the milky way now. It was a sky that I never saw as a kid. The first time I saw anything like it was in the Antares system. When dropping in from orbit. Of course, the stars here are all in a different order.
Plants grew everywhere out of buildings, birds nested in them, and mice scampered about. I walked into something called a Hab-Center. No homes anymore, just people cluttered around pillows, blankets. Everything was washed, the antiseptic smell was reassuring enough, but it was odd sharing with so many strangers so close.
Everywhere... smelled. The smell of farms, manure and sweat. It is the largest city in this landmass. When I left the smell of ozone and diesel fuel was everywhere, mingled with burnt soya, beef fat and over ripe fruit. Now everything had the odor of a medieval village. Food stalls sold a cloudy gelatin material, it had intense flavors unlike anything I was familiar with. The closest thing I could compare to was pineapple. People moved silently in the darkness. No music. No trains rumbling underground, no planes overhead. Just tens, no hundreds of thousands... no… millions of something that approximated humanity. In complete darkness, wordlessness with just the shuffle to break the silence. Nobody spoke. They all communicated in their minds. I'd never be able to hear or be heard. It wasn't telepathy, it wasn't magic. It was bio-engineering. Born cybernetics.
Cpl Jenkins offed himself apparently a planetary first in 29 years. Cpl Garvey got into a fight with some randoms in the street. Police booked her, instant lobotomy, 40 years hard labor in a place called H24.
Waters and I were all that was left of that original mission. Within 12 hours we both re-enlisted. In 6 more hours, these memories, or at least the matter that makes them up, would be discarded as medical waste. Room needed to be made for the new combat interface. The DV-88s jacked right into your higher brain function. You felt it more than you piloted. At least that's what they were telling me. I was stuck thinking... "Why did they call it being a dog?"
The machine turned on. And I tried to steady my breathing. It would be over soon. I had been told it didn't hurt, not-
My first memories of my old life were in a field. I had weird dreams whenever I slept near Handler.
Handler tells me that these dreams might be my old life. It sounded scary, I was nobody before Handler. I couldn't imagine that life. But... There was a dream. The sensation felt... real.
A field. Green grass, a big red building with white outlines. Handler tells me it's a farm. My family was something called "farmers" my family? I didn't know any "family" besides my K-9 Cadre.
Handler says I must be very comfortable around her. She says dreams happen like this when I'm comfortable... the old memories come back. She said she would do some digging if she had the time. Handler is so kind.
Handler told me today that she found something when I was last on deployment. She said it has to be a secret. It's just for me because I was such a good girl on deployment. She doesn't want the others to be jealous.
It was an old ripped photograph of my farm. The one I was from! I cried. I hugged her boots.
The little paper thing had writing on the back that said "Mom is so proud of you, you're our special..." It was ripped after that. I smelled it. It smelled just like Handler. It makes sense because she had been holding it for a few weeks now. She said it was mine from when I first joined... and it got left behind at the old base I was stationed at. I... don't remember any of it though. I'm just so happy that Handler loves me. She said she'd keep it in her desk for safe keeping.
In our free time, hound Rage and I were cuddling in its bed. It told me that Handler and it had a secret. I was nervous because Handler says secrets shouldn't be shared with anyone.... That's why they're secrets. But Rage told me anyway. Rage was also from a farmer family (whatever those are).
Handler also found a photograph of their home! Handler loves her hounds so much, she finds things that remind them of their old life, and she keeps them safe. We had our little treasures, those lovely secrets with Handler. She knew about our old selves. Some of the menials and enlisted are scared of Handler and say she's a liar, or she abuses us. But she loves us. Why else would She do something so sweet to all of her good hounds?
The funniest part is Rage's mom also signed her photo. Maybe we knew each other before our new lives? Maybe we all farmed or do whatever farmers do. Handler cares about us so much! Sometimes Handler talks to me about farms. Or fields. She does this when I sleep, I know because I woke up this morning to her telling me about it. She wants me to be cozy. It's so nice of Her.
“You are from a farm… The farm is a big green field. A big field with a bright blue sky above you. Small white puffy clouds in the sky. Puffy white tufts in the field. You are lost in the green field…”
Handler showed me something very special today.
First, She took me aside, and showed me a picture of some silly fluffy thing.
"Hound..this is a sheep"
I shrugged. I had no idea what it was. Or maybe I did? They were important...I wasn't sure why.
"They are defenseless. Weak. They need protection"
I nodded. I didn't understand why, but I knew it was true because Handler said it.
"Hound. Do you know who protects sheep?"
I didn't. I told her honestly. And she showed me another photograph. It looked like the field in my dreams. I remembered now. The fluffy patches in the field were sheep! They were sheep and I was running around... doing... something?
Handler spoke again: "do you know what your family raised on their farm?"
I shook my head. Then my eyes looked up
"S-shw-shwee... she-sheeep?" I whined, worried it was wrong.
"Thats exactly right Hound. Good girl." She gave me a kind and loving pet. I murred as I rubbed my muzzle against her leg.
"Do you know what your job was on the farm?" I didn't...
"You protected them. You were what they used to call a 'herding dog,' you keep the sheep safe"
I nodded. That made sense. I guess I had always been a dog. I felt relieved. I was worried that maybe I used to be something else.
Handler held out her gloved hand.
"I have a gift for you, hound Wrath"
She opened her hand. It was an old leather ring. Like a tiny belt. On it was a metal tag that read: PVT. J. Q. WALLACE NV773
"This is what you used to wear on your farm. Wear it again with pride. We have an important mission coming up."
I felt everything inside me shaking as I obeyed her orders. Ears perked to receive the order
"Be a good girl for me. You will be providing escort for a troop transport convoy. We're moving through enemy territory and...."
I smiled with pride. Herding dog... I keep sheep safe. I protect them I always have. I always will.
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