Following a production by r pointing of this episode contains depictions of drug use. A second Oil Atlas station, take a lifetime of tension between landsfolk and recombined, and seal it all up in the depths, crush it beneath three D atmospheres worth of pressure, see what happens close quarters and an extreme environment. Those factors alone were probably enough to generate a certain amount of enhanced cohesion US, no matter how long the download lines, no matter their thirst for surface media, Atlas was cut off, perhaps not so much the bottom of the world as the very edge of it. I began to see what Veil was after, and despite all the crap, maybe it really was there for the finding. I left Hoffman to his atrium. I expected to run right back into Jack's, but it appeared I was chaperone free, not that they needed a physical guard to keep tabs on me. There were cameras everywhere, which of course made the situation with Bouklyn all the more grating. Footage existed, or had existed, to tell us just where Golden Boy had gone. Command suspected the Triton's. They'd been pretty explicit. I wasn't sure what Hoffman had to do with it all, but he knew more than he led on. I ignored his advice on the virtues of cleanliness and a good night's sleep. The basilisk drug wouldn't let me settle just yet. Anyway, I headed back to the bazaar and squeezed my way into the barrel eye. It was as much bar as you could possibly cram into a space so narrow, just bar and stools and a wall of glittering bottles, all beneath the neon glow. I poured myself through the crowd. They eyed me with suspicion. Even with my tattoos covered, I stood out in such a tight knit community, and word had likely spread. Perhaps that's why a spot opened up at the bar so quickly I took it and caught the bartender's double lidded eyes. What are you having whiskey? You want the good stuff with the cheap stuff? You have good stuff down here? Well, hey, you never know when a fresh face is going to show up, probably with a company spending account. Sure top shelf. Let's say it's more middle a double then, gotcha. Before I could ask him anything more useful, he moved over to another patron, so I drank. It didn't matter how confident the black drug made me feel. I still needed something to do with my hands, a prop, a reason for squirming into a place like this and asking inconvenient questions. I had another. I showed off one of my blades to a plastered a u V Tech, but refused to do a knife trick. That's more of a drink six thing. The crowd swelled, hot with mingled sweat and the saccarin breath of the Inebriated, I brushed off a bramble bearded worker's offer for an other drink and rose to follow the bartender out through the bead curtained rear exit. The room was tight. I worked my way out into the bazaar's back alley, just in time to watch him slip into a toilet pod. I stalled and pretended to check out a handful of ragged flyers plastered to the rear of the bar addiction services, a prayer group of some kind. I glanced back down the row of pods and saw a familiar face. It stared back at me from the crowd, behind a trio of cavorting drunks by a tobacco machine. It was vail. I kept a poker face, but began moving my way toward her through the crowd. After all, why wouldn't a nosy newcomer like me chat up a random blonde with a staring problem. I was just glad she'd made it out of the crate. I'd scarcely closed half the distance before she ducked away. I followed, pushing my way through the drunks, but I lost her almost immediately. I stood there a moment, scanning the crowd as it moved around me, until the jostle of bodies became too much, and I just moved with them. I didn't blame her. Chatting with me was trouble. Chatting with her was trouble. I was just a little too intoxicated to think about it. Honestly, I was a little too intoxicated in general. I gave up on the bartender and whatever dead end tips might have come of it, and I had no interest in anything else he might be peddling. I kept walking. Mm Hmmtoric, ye heaven, and ye that dwell in them, whoa to the inhabitors of the earth and of the sea, for the devil is calmed down? Unto you, Having great wrath, because he knoweth that he has but a short time. And I stood upon the sands of the sea, and Saul beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy. See, my children, it is all foretold the inhabitors of the earth, the inhabitors of the sea. The Book of Revelation spoke to this very day and age, as we gather as a people on the very threshold of armor, getting for it is written. And the second Angel poured out his vial upon the sea, and it became as the blood of a dead man, and every living soul died in the sea. And the fifth Angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast, and his kingdom was full of darkness. And they gnawled their tongues in pain. For in one hour, so great riches has come to night the Word of God. Praise Jesus and blessed him who rocked above the water, and not blow these the Holy book. God is still speaking to us. Can I get an amen? Can I see those calm units in the air? God, He's still speaking. God, he still seeing God. He speaks, He speaking God's silos speaking sickle speed, still sickness, God sick is sleeping. Jana Bari first made her splash in Atlanta's art world five years ago. Her latest work explores the recombined experience in America. Tabitha Vale has more. Jana Bari Studio in South Atlanta occupies the gymnasium of a former elementary school. Look closely and you can still see the lines of a basketball court on the wooden planks. It also once provided shelter for climate refugees. Now it's home to a series of six concrete wall fragments from around the country, each once part of the nation's coastal fortifications against a growing recombined population. This one's from Louisiana. So I'm trying to incorporate the right mixture of immigrant cultures and the murals. So it's a lot trickier than you might think. You've got centuries of cross cultural and multi lingual heritage there, all before the oil crisis. Of course. A Bori made her name in the art world with the use of decay primed meta pigments, creating murals that aged and eroded mere minutes after exposure. For her walls project, however, she's depending on traditional paints and practical materials. This wall segment is my favorite. See this smugglers doors board right through the concrete and that's why they discarded it. The boy grew up in Atlanta, one of some ten thousand transgend children legally adopted by sister and parents before the outlaw of the practice. Through her art, she attempts to communicate the transgend experience to a wider audience, and in doing so, explore her own roots. I never fit in anywhere growing up, and when people found out, they treated me like I was exotic, or told me that I belonged on a trawler at least on the other side of these walls. I mean, even friends tried to convince me that I should just be content and be grateful. But I'm not. I mean, are you, I'm not content. I wandered through the crowded avenues of the bazaar, A complex I came to realize wasn't a single large module, but three of them lined up beside each other, all within the vast sprawl of Atlas. The second elongated chamber was much like the first, composed of overlapping spheres and stuffed with cheap, prefabricated structures to create the semblance of a crowded cityscape. It was mostly more of the same food stands and vending machines. A stall where a recombined tattoo artist inscribed someone's back with a graph inc scanner a noisome arcade. But it wasn't all commerce and consumption. In the Atlas Bazaar, I passed by divination machines as gaudy as any pachinko or slot. Their palm raiding panels and ore a lens is smudged with the oil of countless fingerprints. The mechanical hands of an e ching machine moved beneath a plexiglass bubble to flip coins and position yarrow stalks. A mere app couldn't cut it, we like our ancient fortune telling physical the machines gave way to slender alcoves devoted to deities and spirits from a dozen cultures. Recombined Jesus as well as his predecessor, the Schwissien lords of Water, Mary, Ganesha, Ma Trea, and the Buddha. Their gold leaf glistered in the light of glow sticks and artificial candles littered round their bases. I even spied an altar to the mother and father. Abstract coral figures not worshiped till the advent of the Second oil Age. The faithful clustered about. They were all races, all creeds, all genders, both branches of human genetic lineage. Bald heads bowed into gild necks, just stalls away from their landsfolk, compatriots, all reaching out for something to hold their hand through the chaos. I admired their devotion, their ability to find solace in a demon haunted world and distill hope from silent stone. And at the same time I despised them for their certainty, the very strain of madness that my mother absconded with to the Christ of the wilderness society and their landlocked compound to await some fabled rapture or return. I stopped and caught my breath beside an empty vestibule. It's God removed for repairs, no doubt, I meaned against the wall. The basilisk was wearing thin. I felt for the applicator in my jacket, and since the subdermal doses inside me each just a mental exercise away from deployment. But no, I needed actual sleep. If I was going to face marsh and keep her naiads out of my head apatheis conditioned or not, I needed rest. I looked up into the darkness of the alcove. For a fleeting second, I sensed someone lurking watching me from within. I strained my eyes and saw that the stall was occupied. After all, A shadowy saint stood in the murk. The substance of the statue somehow geologic eroded, like something warped in the deepest thermal vents. I pushed myself up off the wall and left her. I let the communit guide me out of the bazaar through twisting corridors and past recombined workers, still glistening with seawater, just returned from their toils in open ocean. I reached the habitat module and scanned my way into a spherical room. In doing this, from the perils of the design, weapons and were imperfections. You didn't think of it as a control the se an ideal of tentative to No, not now, I'm not doing this now. I stripped out of my gear and stumbled into the rooms shower pod. I let it wash over me, burning the grind him and sweat from my body in a cloud of billowing steam. They are relentless. They open is very fun, but you too have been pretty men. Stop stop a rash, exceed, come off just a bit more. No, I'm not ready. Three, No kud I need now. The second oil Age was produced by Robert Lamb, Alex Williams, Lauren Vogelbaum, and Josh Thain. This episode featured on Joel Masters as snow Pond, Lauren Vogelbaum as Tabitha Vale, Julie Douglas as Janny Bory, Jed Drummond as Pastor Obelisk, and Chuck Bryant as the Bartender. Supporting voice work by Gina Rakiki and Alexander Williams intro Altro, and supporting music created by the weirding Mondule. Learn more at Module dot band camp dot com, pass Shire Radio, visit the Heart radio app, Papple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.

Following a production by r pointing of this episode contains depictions of drug use. A second Oil Atlas station, take a lifetime of tension between landsfolk and recombined, and seal it all up in the depths, crush it beneath three D atmospheres worth of pressure, see what happens close quarters and an extreme environment. Those factors alone were probably enough to generate a certain amount of enhanced cohesion US, no matter how long the download lines, no matter their thirst for surface media, Atlas was cut off, perhaps not so much the bottom of the world as the very edge of it. I began to see what Veil was after, and despite all the crap, maybe it really was there for the finding. I left Hoffman to his atrium. I expected to run right back into Jack's, but it appeared I was chaperone free, not that they needed a physical guard to keep tabs on me. There were cameras everywhere, which of course made the situation with Bouklyn all the more grating. Footage existed, or had existed, to tell us just where Golden Boy had gone. Command suspected the Triton's. They'd been pretty explicit. I wasn't sure what Hoffman had to do with it all, but he knew more than he led on. I ignored his advice on the virtues of cleanliness and a good night's sleep. The basilisk drug wouldn't let me settle just yet. Anyway, I headed back to the bazaar and squeezed my way into the barrel eye. It was as much bar as you could possibly cram into a space so narrow, just bar and stools and a wall of glittering bottles, all beneath the neon glow. I poured myself through the crowd. They eyed me with suspicion. Even with my tattoos covered, I stood out in such a tight knit community, and word had likely spread. Perhaps that's why a spot opened up at the bar so quickly I took it and caught the bartender's double lidded eyes. What are you having whiskey? You want the good stuff with the cheap stuff? You have good stuff down here? Well, hey, you never know when a fresh face is going to show up, probably with a company spending account. Sure top shelf. Let's say it's more middle a double then, gotcha. Before I could ask him anything more useful, he moved over to another patron, so I drank. It didn't matter how confident the black drug made me feel. I still needed something to do with my hands, a prop, a reason for squirming into a place like this and asking inconvenient questions. I had another. I showed off one of my blades to a plastered a u V Tech, but refused to do a knife trick. That's more of a drink six thing. The crowd swelled, hot with mingled sweat and the saccarin breath of the Inebriated, I brushed off a bramble bearded worker's offer for an other drink and rose to follow the bartender out through the bead curtained rear exit. The room was tight. I worked my way out into the bazaar's back alley, just in time to watch him slip into a toilet pod. I stalled and pretended to check out a handful of ragged flyers plastered to the rear of the bar addiction services, a prayer group of some kind. I glanced back down the row of pods and saw a familiar face. It stared back at me from the crowd, behind a trio of cavorting drunks by a tobacco machine. It was vail. I kept a poker face, but began moving my way toward her through the crowd. After all, why wouldn't a nosy newcomer like me chat up a random blonde with a staring problem. I was just glad she'd made it out of the crate. I'd scarcely closed half the distance before she ducked away. I followed, pushing my way through the drunks, but I lost her almost immediately. I stood there a moment, scanning the crowd as it moved around me, until the jostle of bodies became too much, and I just moved with them. I didn't blame her. Chatting with me was trouble. Chatting with her was trouble. I was just a little too intoxicated to think about it. Honestly, I was a little too intoxicated in general. I gave up on the bartender and whatever dead end tips might have come of it, and I had no interest in anything else he might be peddling. I kept walking. Mm Hmmtoric, ye heaven, and ye that dwell in them, whoa to the inhabitors of the earth and of the sea, for the devil is calmed down? Unto you, Having great wrath, because he knoweth that he has but a short time. And I stood upon the sands of the sea, and Saul beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy. See, my children, it is all foretold the inhabitors of the earth, the inhabitors of the sea. The Book of Revelation spoke to this very day and age, as we gather as a people on the very threshold of armor, getting for it is written. And the second Angel poured out his vial upon the sea, and it became as the blood of a dead man, and every living soul died in the sea. And the fifth Angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast, and his kingdom was full of darkness. And they gnawled their tongues in pain. For in one hour, so great riches has come to night the Word of God. Praise Jesus and blessed him who rocked above the water, and not blow these the Holy book. God is still speaking to us. Can I get an amen? Can I see those calm units in the air? God, He's still speaking. God, he still seeing God. He speaks, He speaking God's silos speaking sickle speed, still sickness, God sick is sleeping. Jana Bari first made her splash in Atlanta's art world five years ago. Her latest work explores the recombined experience in America. Tabitha Vale has more. Jana Bari Studio in South Atlanta occupies the gymnasium of a former elementary school. Look closely and you can still see the lines of a basketball court on the wooden planks. It also once provided shelter for climate refugees. Now it's home to a series of six concrete wall fragments from around the country, each once part of the nation's coastal fortifications against a growing recombined population. This one's from Louisiana. So I'm trying to incorporate the right mixture of immigrant cultures and the murals. So it's a lot trickier than you might think. You've got centuries of cross cultural and multi lingual heritage there, all before the oil crisis. Of course. A Bori made her name in the art world with the use of decay primed meta pigments, creating murals that aged and eroded mere minutes after exposure. For her walls project, however, she's depending on traditional paints and practical materials. This wall segment is my favorite. See this smugglers doors board right through the concrete and that's why they discarded it. The boy grew up in Atlanta, one of some ten thousand transgend children legally adopted by sister and parents before the outlaw of the practice. Through her art, she attempts to communicate the transgend experience to a wider audience, and in doing so, explore her own roots. I never fit in anywhere growing up, and when people found out, they treated me like I was exotic, or told me that I belonged on a trawler at least on the other side of these walls. I mean, even friends tried to convince me that I should just be content and be grateful. But I'm not. I mean, are you, I'm not content. I wandered through the crowded avenues of the bazaar, A complex I came to realize wasn't a single large module, but three of them lined up beside each other, all within the vast sprawl of Atlas. The second elongated chamber was much like the first, composed of overlapping spheres and stuffed with cheap, prefabricated structures to create the semblance of a crowded cityscape. It was mostly more of the same food stands and vending machines. A stall where a recombined tattoo artist inscribed someone's back with a graph inc scanner a noisome arcade. But it wasn't all commerce and consumption. In the Atlas Bazaar, I passed by divination machines as gaudy as any pachinko or slot. Their palm raiding panels and ore a lens is smudged with the oil of countless fingerprints. The mechanical hands of an e ching machine moved beneath a plexiglass bubble to flip coins and position yarrow stalks. A mere app couldn't cut it, we like our ancient fortune telling physical the machines gave way to slender alcoves devoted to deities and spirits from a dozen cultures. Recombined Jesus as well as his predecessor, the Schwissien lords of Water, Mary, Ganesha, Ma Trea, and the Buddha. Their gold leaf glistered in the light of glow sticks and artificial candles littered round their bases. I even spied an altar to the mother and father. Abstract coral figures not worshiped till the advent of the Second oil Age. The faithful clustered about. They were all races, all creeds, all genders, both branches of human genetic lineage. Bald heads bowed into gild necks, just stalls away from their landsfolk, compatriots, all reaching out for something to hold their hand through the chaos. I admired their devotion, their ability to find solace in a demon haunted world and distill hope from silent stone. And at the same time I despised them for their certainty, the very strain of madness that my mother absconded with to the Christ of the wilderness society and their landlocked compound to await some fabled rapture or return. I stopped and caught my breath beside an empty vestibule. It's God removed for repairs, no doubt, I meaned against the wall. The basilisk was wearing thin. I felt for the applicator in my jacket, and since the subdermal doses inside me each just a mental exercise away from deployment. But no, I needed actual sleep. If I was going to face marsh and keep her naiads out of my head apatheis conditioned or not, I needed rest. I looked up into the darkness of the alcove. For a fleeting second, I sensed someone lurking watching me from within. I strained my eyes and saw that the stall was occupied. After all, A shadowy saint stood in the murk. The substance of the statue somehow geologic eroded, like something warped in the deepest thermal vents. I pushed myself up off the wall and left her. I let the communit guide me out of the bazaar through twisting corridors and past recombined workers, still glistening with seawater, just returned from their toils in open ocean. I reached the habitat module and scanned my way into a spherical room. In doing this, from the perils of the design, weapons and were imperfections. You didn't think of it as a control the se an ideal of tentative to No, not now, I'm not doing this now. I stripped out of my gear and stumbled into the rooms shower pod. I let it wash over me, burning the grind him and sweat from my body in a cloud of billowing steam. They are relentless. They open is very fun, but you too have been pretty men. Stop stop a rash, exceed, come off just a bit more. No, I'm not ready. Three, No kud I need now. The second oil Age was produced by Robert Lamb, Alex Williams, Lauren Vogelbaum, and Josh Thain. This episode featured on Joel Masters as snow Pond, Lauren Vogelbaum as Tabitha Vale, Julie Douglas as Janny Bory, Jed Drummond as Pastor Obelisk, and Chuck Bryant as the Bartender. Supporting voice work by Gina Rakiki and Alexander Williams intro Altro, and supporting music created by the weirding Mondule. Learn more at Module dot band camp dot com, pass Shire Radio, visit the Heart radio app, Papple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.