IT'S FINALLY HERE! Right, so. You can still submit OCs, I still need a few. But It will be a slow start to the beginning of the story so expect this to be your timeframe for even more submissions. So, I do not own Fallout or its characters, ideas, ect. The concepts are property of Bethesda and some characters, excluding the protagonist, are fan submitted. Europa is my Original Land in this world. Enjoy Fallout: Europa!
God bless, JPLegends
FALLOUT: EUROPA
CHAPTER ONE: Welcome to the Continent
'Damn it, Austin,' the man said to himself. 'How the hell did you get in this mess?' Austin Hyperion sat in the cargo hold of a Brotherhood of Steel ship headed off to God knows where. The worst part is that Austin kind of pissed off the Brotherhood back in the Commonwealth, the area that is now a paradise thanks to one man. It is second only to one area, the Capital Wasteland, which is where Austin got in this hell hole to begin with. It was tough. The Brotherhood and Railroad, the latter of which supported by the newly revived Minutemen, were in the middle of war and Austin needed an excuse to feed the colony the Minutemen were supplying. So Austin ran off to attack a Brotherhood controlled colony, in which his plan went south in the most colossal way. He ended up having to steal a vertibird, torch the colony and run as fast as he could with the entire Brotherhood on his ass.
Austin got away-only after his vertibird got shot down-and fled to the Brotherhood ran Capital Wasteland. With the entire Commonwealth and Brotherhood after him due to the hefty price of caps put on his head, Austin was forced to hitch on a ship headed to wherever. It took him a year to infiltrate the cargo boat headed from there and back, but he made it after a ghoul managed to sneak him on. Now all he has to do is wait. After three months of constant sailing, Austin felt the boat lurch and stop. Austin finds this to be his call and looks back at his gear. He swings his pack over his shoulder, covered by a few leathers he got from some raiders he killed during his time in the Capital Wasteland. In the pack were a few essentials: stimpaks, pure water, a few bits of roast, ammunition and a few hundred bottle caps. Matching the ammo is a ten millimeter pistol. Reliable but not effective against anything less than a simple humanoid or creature you would find in the wasteland.
Austin gets in some specifically heavy cargo, mostly weaponry. He waits there, weapon at hand until he hears the clanking of something walking nearby. Likely a Brotherhood member in Power Armor here to take the cargo away. He hears more and more clanking of the insanely strong armor, and Austin prays he does not get caught. His wimpy pistol will not be able to put a dent in that armor. Eventually, the crate Austin is taking shelter in is lifted and carried for several minutes. Austin takes in the surroundings through sound, which is hard to do over the sound of the clanking of the Power Armor in desperate need of an oiling. He hears the sound of an ocean hitting rocks, the quiet sound of business related things and then the loud beating of propellers. Austin's crate gets put down, and he doesn't need the sounds to know that he is in a Vertibird. Austin gets out of the crate, and keeps low. He gets out of the small dual propeller military chopper. He looks around, seeing a small fence nearby with plenty of people outside. Austin looks around and runs straight for the fence.
He bounds and climbs up the wiring, effortlessly making it over the gate. He takes a deep breath and blends in with the crowd. He seems to be in a village of sorts, or a city. Behind him is the Brotherhood boat he was just on and apparently a military station. Minutes later, five vertibirds take off and sail into the distance. 'Thank God,' Austin thinks. 'I'm staying away from those guys for as long as I can.' He takes in his surroundings even more, the rusting of the buildings and the bizarre accents that the people speak. The sea salt in the air was pungent with the smell of radiation and the stink of people desperately in need of a shower. He sees three people looking about his type. Austin decides this is his chance to ask where he is. You can never trust anyone after the bombs dropped, and Austin learned this quickly growing up in Boston.
"Excuse me," Austin says, tapping one of three men on the shoulder. "Sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing, gentlemen. I'm new here and I just need to know exactly where I am and what is happening." The first man is slightly taller than Austin and wearing practically the exact same clothing. The only difference is that this man, all three of them for that matter, are sporting combat rifles. This man has sandy blond hair with green eyes and freckles. The second is ginger with combat armor and brown eyes, only two inches smaller than Austin. The third wears raider wear with brown hair and blue eyes. He has heavy scars crossing his face that seem to have healed. The first man turns and grins.
"Absolutely, my friend," He says in an Irish accent. "You're in Europa. Welcome to the continent! I imagine you know how to live, considering the pistol on your hip."
"Yes," Austin answers. "What do you mean by 'the continent'?" The second man straightens up and smiles.
"You're in the remains of Great Britain, apparently," He says. "Those guys apparently loved tea and ruled by a monarchy. Hard to tell though." Austin gets a bit fidgety. These guys are getting more and more suspicious.
"What about the Brotherhood?" Austin asks.
"Yes, well, you know the Railroad?" The first man says slyly.
"I thought they were a tall tale," Austin says, taken aback. "They're real?"
"They exist," The third man says. "And are much more prominent here. They get the synths here and protect them until they can start over again with lives." Synths. Austin always never thought how to thought of them. The Railroad always proclaimed that they are living beings, even though they were created in a lab by the Institute, the Boogeyman of the Commonwealth of Boston. In some cases they are. Austin ran with a man named Woodroe for a solid five months until everyone in the group realized he was a synth. Austin had never suspected that Woodroe was a machine. He seemed so human. He damn well had thoughts and emotions. It was hard to tell how to feel about them.
"What does that have to do with the Brotherhood?" Austin asks.
"The Brotherhood were recently at war with them and it never really ended," The first man says. "Now they're here, and they seem to be hell bent on annihilating every last one of the poor bastards." Austin steps back a bit from the three, as the first man's tone gets more abrasive. "There's also a group of freedom fighters founded a while ago. The Sentinels, if I remember. I've got a trip to them. It'll only take about a thousand caps." Aside from the fact that Austin doesn't have a thousand bottle caps, the fact that the three man seemed to offer a way out of the port they're in out of nowhere is suspicious enough. They'll probably drop him when they get the chance. Austin decides this is the best chance to back away.
"No thank you," Austin says. "I'll find my way." Austin tries to walk away until the first man grabs his arm. His eyes are sly and wild.
"You won't survive for a second out here, friend," The man says. "If you want protection and an escort, that'll be a thousand caps." Austin decides quickly that Austin has to take the hard way out. He spins and clocks the first man in the face. The man winces, but Austin's hand is hit with a fiery pain out of nowhere, a popping sound emanating from his wrist. Austin screams out in pain, grabbing his wrist and the man looks at him with malice. "That hurt." He says. Austin looks from man to man in a flash of a second, and focuses on the third man's scars. He realizes they haven't healed. His flesh has been torn like paper, with no muscle or blood.
They're synths.
"Shit." Austin says, thinking rapidly. The synths pull their combat rifles, which are far and away more effective than Austin's ten millimeter. Austin lunges at the synth he is closest to, forcing the rifle in the air. The synths have the rifles in the air, which means Austin has only a few seconds left. He pulls his own pistol and puts the barrel to the grappled synth's artificial stomach. He squeezes the trigger, and the bullet passes straight through the synth's stomach with a painful metal scraping sound. The synth drops his rifle, screaming in agony, and Austin uses the opportunity to throw the machine into the other two.
Using his opportunity, Austin could see the crowd panic at the sound of the gunshot and turn wild and panicked. Austin dives into the crowd, running down the street as fast as he can. He hears the synths behind him gather themselves and run after him, not firing back. Austin's heart is beating out of his chest. He looks around and dives into a building. It's a bar.
Because of course it is.
He goes to the bar and sits down, hoping the synths don't find him. A scrappy and rusty Mr. Handy approaches. The machines used to help with chores back before the war. After, what was left took to themselves and did whatever they could to survive. Quite surprising about them is that they keep the personalities they were programmed with and sometimes grow into sentience. Austin knows this well. It's happened to Assaultrons, Mr. Gutsys (a military version of the Mr. Handy) and hell, even a few Sentry Bots, the massive bastards. "What will you have, sir?" the robot says in a suave and charismatic British accent.
"If you have disinfected water, I'll take that." Austin replies. The robot rotates its three limbs. These things usually look like three legged octopi, except there are also three eye stocks and a rocket protruding from its bottom. It cleans a glass, fills it with clear water and places it on the table.
"Five caps if you will, sir." The Mr. Handy says. Austin doesn't let the politeness exterior get to him. The fact that there is a rusted buzz saw on one of the arms means that it would be wise to pay. Austin gives the currency of the wastelands, five bottle caps. What surprised Austin was that the price was so low for disinfected water, which is usually extremely hard to come by. "Thank you, sir." The Mr. Handy says, floating away to serve another customer.
"It's so cheap because there's water everywhere on the coast," the gruff voice says. "Water purifiers all over and the water is shipped all over. Probably unlike wherever you're from." Austin looks over to see a ghoul. A ghoul dressed in a black t-shirt and torn jeans. His face had the usual features of a ghoul. The sickly yellow wrinkled face and similar colored eyes, sockets where the ears and nose should be. These are the humans that survived the radiation and kept their brains intact. The ghouls who had their brains melted are rather feral, to be pleasant.
"Boston." Austin said. The ghoul nods.
"I watched you jump that fence, start the fight with those synths," The ghoul says, taking a sip of the liquid in his drink. "Not the smartest idea. Welcome to the continent, Mister…"
"Austin Hearve," Austin replies. "And you are."
"The name's HC Greene," The ghoul says. "Any questions?"
"So, synths are real?" Austin asks. Greene replies with a cough, immediately followed with a sickly cough.
"Of course," Greene replies, after getting over his fit. "The Railroad usually sends them here to lead a normal life. They would usually be safe, until recently. The Brotherhood arrived for some probably fucked up reason."
"Yeah," Austin says, the gears turning in his head. "They recently lost Boston to the Minutemen and Railroad." Greene laughs again, followed again by more sickly coughing.
"Shit, man. Never thought I'd hear of the Minutemen again," The ghoul says. "Thought they were extinct. And strong enough to take down the Brotherhood." Austin nods.
"So, why are those synths out there…." Greene suddenly turns grim.
"The synths are usually a nice development around here," Greene says. "Some join the Railroad and the Paladins, some come to be a part of society. Hell, a group of synths came together to form a rather solid company. Clean trading, security, innovations, weapons. That's the Elefther Corp. They're damn good at what they do. And then some turned crooked, thinking everyone is out for them and they run attacks and raids on everyone else. Damn raider group is what you just ran into. They're the Secure Synth Society and they're bastards."
"What's up with the Paladins?" Austin says. Greene puts his empty glass down and puts it upside down.
"Enough questions," Greene says, standing up. "You're about to have the Synths run straight up your arse. Prepare yourself." Greene walks away, and Austin swears. A few seconds later, the synths gather around Austin. One puts his hand on the table and looks down at Austin, who is sweating trying not to make eye contact.
"Eh, bartender," the lead synth says slyly. "What's the damage deposit?"
'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.'
Austin stares straight at the glass Greene left upside down. He stares at it fiercely. He puts his hand on the glass discreetly.
"Two hundred caps, sir." The Mr. Handy says, sounding cross. Austin takes the glass and stands up. He spins around and slams the glass right into the synth's jaw.
FALOUT IS HERE! WOO!