There’s no decline in their productivity, they can toil around the clock without food or water, and if a fire breaks out or Raiders invade, they do the sensible thing and run away. Mums-to-be in Fallout Shelter get a spiffy yellow t-shirt, unbridled happiness and, oddly, the gift of immortality. Maybe I should feel bad about the bulk of my workforce being in its third trimester, but frankly, I can’t see any downside to it. There are two blokes in the doorway with rocket launchers and body armour, waiting to repel any would-be invaders my most virile dweller is mooching around in the living quarters, serially impregnating everyone who happens by, and about three hours ago I sent one lucky chap out into the irradiated wasteland, though I’ve just remembered I haven’t checked on him since. I’ve got seventeen pregnant women operating pumps and heavy machinery, serving food, broadcasting radio signals and churning out medical supplies.
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