Disclaimers:

I do not own Fallout or most OCs mentioned in the story.

This fanfic includes: Sex, Blood&Gore, Dark themes, Extremely coarse language, Substance use and addiction, Psychological Disorders. For this reason, it is rated M.

FALLOUT : PARAGON

War. War never changes.

James Brunmel looked over the bay, breathing the frigid wind only Alaska would bear, smelling the lingering scent of corpses in the air, air raid sirens blaring and crumps of AA guns erupting in the distance.

This was the last time he was ever going to see his home again. He had fought, sacrificed, killed–and now, none of it mattered. 120 years ago, his grandfather had fought for the Wehrmacht in the Second World War, for the Nazis; for fascism, a lost cause; 120 years later, James himself fought for a radically different cause, democracy. But now, it was apparent that both causes were just as futile.

One Chinese bomber flew overhead, dropping an incendiary flare. Heralding the start of it.

"Fuck…" James would rush down a makeshift metal staircase to a waiting ship, labeled with UN insignia. A refuge for the fortunate, the wealthy, and the quick.

"All on deck. Ahead Flank!"

The ship, unanchored, would speed away from the port. The sirens in the distance wailed, then it was pure quiet. The veterans on ship, most of them junior officers, leaned over the quarterdeck, watching the last of the city. The AA guns would fire their last salvoes, and quiet down. Nothing except for the droning of engines, and the splashing of waves. Someone vomited over the railing.

"I see a bomb there–!" Someone shouted. "No, bombs, there are dozens of them–" Another cried.

A mushroom cloud erupted over the horizon. Marking the end of the Battle of Anchorage. The shockwave washed over the waves, stopping to a strong wind when it hit the frigate, desperately trying to flee the destruction.

"All personnel retreat to preservation pods, bearing inputted. Bon voyage. Skipper out."

The frightened people rushed down to the bowels of the ship, wrestling each other for the pods while the room was steadily flooding. In the melee, James threw himself into a particularly cramped pod that already contained his belongings beforehand, and pulled the glass hatch closed. Someone banged on it, screaming.

"Goodbye, America. Goodbye, Anchorage."

He pulled the lever marked "Release". Ejecting him on a course through the Bering strait.

"Finally."

The cryogenic preserver hovered over his face, and he was out.