A/N
When I started writing "Fallout: The Dominion", I found myself thinking 'why stop there?'. For all the vastness of Fallout's Post-Apocalyptic America, I just realized that it's a bit unfair to not shed some spotlight on the rest of the world. Like, the lore just mentions a European Commonwealth existing next to the American Commonwealth, which dissolves some time before the nukes decimated every country in the world. There's a tidbit here and there about some surviving the aftermath.
And then... nothing.
So, dear readers, here we are. The story of Fallout: Europa, told through the eyes of the survivors of Post-Apocalyptic Europe and possibly Central Asia ( maybe, we'll see ). Since this particular story will involve multiple faction-building, I decided to put in an indicator for the change in POV so it doesn't feel too jarring for a read. The timeline flows in parallel with "Fallout: The Dominion", with the European factions growing in tandem with my little brainchild faction across the Atlantic.
Any help and suggestions from fellow history-buffs, and non-history-buffs, are welcome. I'm always just a PM away.
As always, it's very important to state the disclaimer. I don't own Fallout, just my OC's.
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October 24, 2077
For most countries, when the Sino-American War reached its end, the bombs fell on a cold autumn day- a proverbial prelude to the winter of civilization.
For The United Kingdom of Great Britain, it was on the early morning of October 24, 2077. The bright lights over the horizon arrived a little too early, and when they did, they claimed over half the population in nuclear fire. Missiles and bombs saturated the island nation, targeting locations pre-marked by Chinese spies, particularly the sister-palaces at Westminster. Even with its sophisticated anti-missile defense systems, London fell, and with it the government itself.
One by one, communication systems and primary modes of information were cut off. National news outlets broadcasted their last messages before falling silent forever. In the wake of the devastation, a near-palpable darkness consumed the islands of what remained of the European Commonwealth. The other half of the population, already put on-edge with the fear of nuclear armageddon and no longer held back by the beleaguered law-enforcers, took to the streets. For days, riots and looting went unchecked.
Not even the earth was spared from the horrific changes brought upon by the untamed power of the atom. Around the still-smoking craters cut into the face of the island nation, known as ground-zero, the air became choked with toxic clouds. Temperatures dropped in the advent of the first nuclear blizzard. Men and beasts who had the misfortune of surviving the initial blasts, and emerged into these contaminated regions, soon found themselves irrevocably altered at the molecular level. These mutated abominations now stalk the ruins of the shattered cities, preying upon hapless survivors and each other.
The world went beyond the tipping point, there was nothing to aspire to other than survival.
And so began the two hundred years of blood, sweat and tears. A future that historians would come to know as the 2nd Dark Age.
November 7, 2077
Fourteen Days Later
Beachley Military Garrison, Gloucestershire UK
A faint flash illuminated the dark clouds gathering above Gloucestershire, followed by a soft rumble of distant thunder.
Henry Mayne adjusted the goggles on his chemsuit hood and looked up just as the first droplets landed on his head. The hood was clammy from the sweat of his brow, and the heat of his body made it feel like the inside of a sauna. He knew better than to take the hood off. The rain was contaminated, and to expose oneself to the elements was to die a slow and painful death. At least, that's what the base medical staff told them, along with the newly issued primers they printed out on the subject of 'How to survive a nuclear fallout'.
It raised awareness on the dangers of nuclear contamination, at the very least.
Britain was well known for its overcast, damp nature with seemingly perpetual rain and endless precipitation throughout the year. The people there hardly saw the sun, especially after the climate changed to a hotter shift due to generations of toxic emissions, which further increased the frequency in extreme weather manifestations. And now, following the destruction brought by China's last-ditch effort to drag the whole world with it to hell, extreme made a turn for freak weather.
Henry had been watching the skies for hours now. After the lights in the distance faded and the once busy comm channels gave way to empty static, he couldn't help but worry over the scope of the devastation wrought by the attacks. Like everyone else at the Beachley garrison, Henry's concern lay primarily with his family. Although, it would be double the weight for Henry in particular, as his family's wellbeing went hand-in-hand with the wellbeing of the country itself.
Royal blood flowed through his veins. And if the attack, as he could only assume was well-coordinated, did a bang-up job with its targets, his family would be part of the long list of civilian fatalities.
"Cap'n!" Sgt. Barry Sings ran up the aged stone stairs to reach his commander at the barracks ramparts, "Sir, the lads are ready to move out."
Henry looked over his shoulder to have a quick glance at the convoy of military humvees assembled in the main courtyard. British IFV's would lead the convoy out on a run through the countryside, set up checkpoints to guide refugees back to the garrison, and slowly secure a direct route from Gloucester to London. Nothing too serious or heavy of firepower to scare the locals, but enough to put down any troublemakers. Protocol dictated that in the event of a national catastrophe, like nuclear armageddon, martial law was to be upheld regardless if it was officially declared or otherwise. The Army, including the Reservists, was to ensure the preservation of the existing government and protect the civilian population- more or less in that specific order.
Normally, Henry would've tasked Barry or some other officer to handle the mission themselves. But the captain was anxious to see what was going on in the world outside the garrison. As much as he'd like to follow protocol, and as far as the chain of command went, it was his job as the highest ranking officer to get a good perspective on the situation. "What's the word on the supply drop, they due to come any time soon?"
Barry shook his head, "No sir. Nothing on any channels."
The garrison was well stocked, but with the amount of base personnel and the growing number of refugees flocking to Beachley, Henry knew it was only a matter of time before they ran out of supplies. Getting a hold of the Royal Logistics Division, on top of securing the routes in and out of the garrison, would improve their odds at stabilizing the region.
The captain made a note of his objectives and passed on his orders, "Sergeant, take a squad into town and rally the constabulary. We need to have the townsfolk assessed for contamination. Naturally, at this point their restlessness will turn to violence. I want you to get ahead of that before it happens."
"Yes sir. But... if you don't mind me asking, what's the ROE?"
The sergeant knew the typical rules of engagement in a time of martial law, but he knew his captain better. Henry Mayne had a different mindset when it came to civilians. "The civvies may try to rough you up, so you have my permission to respond in kind. Remember, you're there to let them know we've got things under control. Don't shoot unless absolutely necessary. They're still our people, and I don't want to help the commies by reducing the population any further than it is now."
Barry saluted the captain and left for the barracks. Henry joined the convoy by boarding the humvee rolling out behind the lead vehicle.
Once the captain was stowed away, the gates were opened and the convoy started off down the road. Outside the garrison was a hastily set-up refugee camp, full of plastic prefab shelters and tents closed-off by a perimeter chain-link fence. In the fourteen days since the incident, Beachley had accumulated a total four hundred and thirty-three refugees, hailing from all over the country. A third of them were 'tourists', which meant that they were foreigners and were at the bottom of everyone's priorities.
The two-thirds were mostly old men, pensioners and retired veterans from the Middle-East Resource Wars. There were women and children too, but little to no young men. Henry's best guess as to why that is- the Army drafted them all when the communists were bearing down on the borders of Ukraine.
The captain peered through the armored slits of his window to look at the kids gripping the links of the fences, his eyes met each little one's gaze as the convoy passed the checkpoints and his thoughts drifted towards home. The camp medical team had distributed respirators to protect the refugees
Henry was a widower, with two boys and a girl living with his parents in a faraway castle in Bristol. Their names were Nigel, Jack and Emma- ages nine six and four. He hadn't seen them for a year, he would've gone the first chance he got to visit but with the nation put on high alert it was impossible for him to leave the base for whatever reason.
This time, he was going to see them. Bristol was a few hours drive from Swindon, which was where the convoy was headed. Once they finished securing the town, Henry planned on taking a squad with him to his family home so he could bring them back to the garrison with him.
With all his priorities in order, the captain turned his attention to the road. Scattered all over the asphalt were bird corpses, dozens of them, ranging from crows and pheasants to the common pigeon. The air was poisoned, a thick impenetrable shroud of radiation and death that sent every winged creature to the ground. Pretty soon, even the earth would become as deadly as the skies.
The convoy passed more refugees fleeing on foot from the countryside in droves. The main gunners on the escort IFV's pointed them in the direction of the garrison while the convoy drove by. The more desperate of the lot attempted to block the road, begging for the soldiers to take them along.
"Oi! Get outta the bloody way!" The driver of the lead vehicle roared, thumping hard on the horn to warn the civilians that unless they made way he was going to ram them. "Move, or get run ova! Choice is yours!"
Henry considered getting out of the vehicle to direct the refugees towards the garrison, but he knew better than to delay the mission any further than necessary. He blocked out the terrified screams of the women and the furious cries of their men as the humvee charged forward into the crowd. Thankfully, no one was killed. Pretty soon, the people dispersed without a fight and the convoy was back on track. The captain reasoned that eventually those same people will find their way to Beachley, and that the convoy couldn't stop for them. When they got to their op zone, they could help more people that way- better than picking up dead weight like the refugees.
Getting into Swindon, the largest town in Southwest England, the soldiers of The Rifles 1st Battalion discovered that the place was in a bigger mess than Gloucestershire. Swindon was burning, not from the bombs but from two commercial airliners that got knocked out of the sky and crashed into the town. Taking advantage of the confusion, the notorious Southwest Wesselton Syndicate and the Paxton Mob stirred the citizens into a riot that swept Swindon into eight days of wanton violence and unchecked looting. As expected, police were overwhelmed and their armories pinched by the mob when they stormed the stations.
By midday, about the time when the Rifles got to Swindon, the air was choked with smoke from burning tire stacks and fire-bombed cars.
And swinging from the iron bars of the highway overhead sign hung the corpses of three dead men, stripped naked and suspended by their necks with barbed wire- the signature of the Paxton Mob. One of them was recognized by Henry's driver, "Fuck me. That's Mayor Versson." That bit confirmed the captain's worst fears. Swindon just got taken over by the gangs, and it was the Rifles' job to take it back.
"Alright lads, listen up." Henry got the convoy on the radio, "This town's gone to shit, but we're gonna make sure it doesn't stay that way. Number One, roll out."
"Copy, Ringleader." The lead vehicle's commander acknowledged.
Every other vehicle acknowledged his command, and every man relished in the opportunity to clear out the scum of the earth. Armageddon may have taken away much of the world they knew, but Britain was there to stay. The Rifles headed into the main streets of Swindon, weapons out and ready to fire. Blood mixed with water formed dark red puddles all over the ground, splashing the woodland camo paint of the humvees with stark crimson when their wheels rolled across the asphalt. They came through the living district, connected with the market that split into two lanes leading into Havelock Centre, the centermost part of town and most defensible area in Swindon as it was located near the Christ Church.
There wasn't a building they came across that was untouched in some way or other by the gangs. Paint tags decorated the walls with crude iconography mixed with expressions of the underworld subculture. Depictions of St. Mary, for instance, had bullet belts around her head like a halo and her bleeding hands clutched barbed wire wrapped over and under her fingers like a rosary. Blood splatters from the victims gunned down in the first days of chaos merely added to the sentiment.
Whole clusters of gangsters roamed the streets on foot or by car, forcing the few good people in Swindon to barricade themselves into their homes all day for fear of the mob. As it so happened, the Wesselton Syndicate and the Paxton Mob started a war over a few territorial disputes. Armed with a new arsenal of weapons, courtesy of the plundered armories of the Wiltshire Police, they were able to wage it effectively over the week.
The convoy chanced upon a crossfire between the two gangs, on a street sandwiched by a collection of buildings ten meters from each other. From window to window, gangsters poked their guns out and shot at the opposite building on the other side of the street, all the while trading obscenities as the body count rose steadily over every passing minute.
"Ringleader, what do you think? Should we ring the bell?"
Henry frowned, checking his SA80 rifle. It was a relevant question, the gangs hadn't noticed them round the corner yet. Announcing their arrival might mean two things; that they would cease fire, or that they will turn their attention to the one thing all gangs hated in common- the government. The latter was looking all the more likely, so the captain decided it was best they used the moment to their advantage. "Negative on that, Number One. All units, weapons free."
The Rifles announced their arrival another way, the American way- by storming the streets of Swindon guns blazing.
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