Fandom Fallout: Seattle

[TheEvanCat]

FALLOUT: Seattle​

Synopsis:​

The year is 2292, and a coat of stifling rain and fog blankets the once-bustling city of Seattle. Years of conflict with China ended abruptly in nuclear fire over two hundred years ago. In the wake of this war, civilization struggled. The atomic weapons destroyed much of the city, with societal collapse continuing to degrade what remains. Forest fires lit by the nuclear attacks blanketed the ground with ash that was soon turned into grey-green slurry by the radioactive rain. Dams breached by massive explosions flooded the city’s outskirts. Mutant monsters prowled in the night and the fog and presented a constant threat.

Throughout this, people survived. Some banded together in tribes, retreating to the forests and mountains east of the city. Others became raiders, looting and pillaging to further their own self-interests. Settlements grew from prewar towns, some constructing walls against the monsters and raiders alike. Over the years, a trickle of activity arrived in the strategically important city. The Brotherhood of Steel set up their operations at Fort Lewis to the south near Tacoma. Advance parties from the New California Republic established a small outpost at Seattle’s international airport. The Enclave, battered from their defeats in California, skulked around old government facilities far from the eyes of the locals.

The dramatic events unfolding in California and Nevada have pushed more people northward. Seattle hides a bounty of prewar technology under its foggy haze. Advanced technologies such as aircraft, warships, robots, personal computers, artificial intelligence, and more were designed and manufactured in this center of technological development. Government laboratories pushed the boundaries of physics and medicine. There are rumors of one thing, however, that will make Seattle a candidate for long-term settlement: a weather control device, able to push back the rain and fog. Refugees from the NCR seek a new home. The Brotherhood of Steel wishes to control the technology like all others. The Enclave has more nefarious plans. Other local groups are keen to find this device as well.

You are a survivor in the Seattle area in September of 2292. The weather is getting colder as you prepare for yet another winter. You have heard rumors of multiple parties seeking out a weather device and that a larger conflict may be unfolding soon. More information can be sought in Pike Place, the largest settlement in Seattle. It is clear that something big is on the horizon, and it is up to you to choose which path you take. Because despite the circumstances, one thing remains certain: war never changes.

Player Information:​

Mechanics: The roleplay is purely narrative – there are no dice rolls, game mechanics, or other factors besides collaborative writing and storytelling. There are no limits to player numbers, and anyone is free to join/leave/change characters if desired.

Posting Expectations: The writing expectations are flexible in terms of frequency and length, with the only requirement being at least a short paragraph of work in a post. As there are no “game-isms”, writing in a way that makes sense and is considerate to others and the story as a whole is important.

Characters: Player characters can come from any background as long as the request is reasonable and not game/lore-breaking. Generally, there is broad flexibility for any player to choose who they wish to play. Characters can operate independently, but it is encouraged to band together and write with others.

Additional Information: The Pacific Northwest is portrayed in some canceled Fallout projects such as Project V13. It also appears in mods like Fallout New Vegas and Fallout 4. Modded content is not considered for this setting, but some elements of canceled official games (such as released concept art of Seattle) may influence the roleplay.

Other Threads: An OOC and Character Sheet tab are linked at the top for those posts.

Discord: Linked here.

Character Sheet:​

Name: Self-descriptive. Place these in the Character Sheet Tab.

Description: An overview of the character’s physical appearance, clothing, equipment, etc. This can be as detailed as a PC likes. Picture descriptions are not mandatory, but also not prohibited.

Background: An overview of the character’s personality, skills, history, faction ties, etc. This can also be as short or as long as one likes.

 

[TheEvanCat]

NCR CAMP DESTINY NORTH
SEATTLE-TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT



Rudy would always sleep in after coming back from the caravans. Being out on the road for days was exhausting, but caps were caps. The alarm bell rang – Rudy kept it out of arm’s reach on the other side of the room to make him get out of bed and silence it. He wasn’t a morning person. He threw on the clothes he could find, his uniform was long since tattered beyond repair. He grabbed his trooper’s service belt that held a nine-millimeter handgun before heading out the door. The base wasn’t as secure as it used to be, especially since troopers had started renting out barracks rooms to the locals for extra caps. Of course, they were all reasonably screened – nobody wanted a raider next door. But petty crime was an ever-present issue for the soldiers there.



Soldier. Rudy wasn’t sure if they could be considered soldiers anymore. Nobody had heard from the NCR in months. He had stopped wearing the uniform, as had most troopers on the base. He only heard his rank and surname, Corporal Mitchell, when he went up to SeaTac’s air traffic control tower to talk to the brass. Those officers tried desperately to carry on the veneer of NCR military service, but Rudy mostly just saw them as actors in costumes. He didn’t even work for them most of the time, which is why he pulled caravan guard duty off the base when he needed money. He exited his dingy, run-down barracks building and headed for breakfast at the mess tent. Same as usual, some eggs, fried tato slices, and a small palm-sized piece of brahmin meat that looked practically burnt.



As Rudy finished eating, a peculiarly out-of-place soldier appeared and headed straight for his table. He was clad in full NCR battledress, ironically out of place compared to the grizzled rabble in the mess tent. An armband read “ADJUTANT”, indicating that he worked in the air traffic control tower with the commander and his staff. “Corporal Mitchell, Rudy?” he asked authoritatively. Where did they even find these guys anymore?


“Yep, that’s me,” said Rudy as he cut another piece of brahmin steak. He didn’t get up, but just looked at the soldier.



“There are orders for you, Corporal!”



Rudy scoffed. “Orders? I haven’t seen orders in a long time. Where are they from?”


“The, uh, tower, Corporal,” replied the adjutant. He cocked his head confusedly.



“Well I know that, but do we have communication with higher again?”


“Not at this moment. But there’s a plan going around. I don’t know what. Just read the papers, Corporal.”



Rudy took the papers from the adjutant, who promptly left. He had a messenger bag slung around his torso – probably delivering other orders. Whatever it was, something big was on the horizon. On official letterhead, a first for Rudy in a while, the orders were simple:



REPORT TO DR. ALINGGA (CIVILIAN STAFF, OSI) FOR SPECIAL TASKING. SPECIAL TASKING ORDERS WILL BE DELIVERED VERBALLY UPON REPORT. THIS ORDER SUPERCEDES ALL OFFICIAL DUTIES. FAILURE TO REPORT WILL RESULT IN PUNISHMENT UP TO STOCKADE IMPRISONMENT.



Rudy scoffed again. They still had a stockade and Military Police to man it? He supposed it was more for the drunks, since there wasn’t much to do anymore except get hammered and cause trouble. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone was actually prosecuted for desertion – everyone was half deserted already. Rudy finished up his meal and re-read the order, sighing. He’d heard the name before. Alingga was notorious in OSI circles for being a bit of an eccentric weirdo. She was a roboticist and had begged Rudy’s superiors to let him take one of her robots on a scouting mission. An old repurposed Enclave eyebot that was supposed to act as an advance scout with a camera. Good idea in theory. The eyebot ran out of battery and crashed into a radioactive swamp – Rudy didn’t feel like recovering it and taking the radaway shots later.



He returned his dishes and headed out from the tent. So much for a relaxing Saturday getting drunk and playing cards later in the evening. He had to remember where the OSI office was, somewhere in the main terminal building. He started his walk over.

 

[ThylmaesaStarshield]

NCR CAMP DESTINY NORTH
SEATTLE-TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT



For all of her strangeness, Alingga and Rudy shared on particular thing in common: she hated Seattle.

Not all of it, granted -- there was a great bounty of technology to be uncovered here, from the aircraft factory just minutes away from the local NCR headquarters to the bounty of computer parts in Redmond, but the facilities she was effectively forced to work in were insufficient in nearly every way imaginable, especially compared to her hometown of San Fransisco. Her office was frequently victimized by the freezing rain that frequently flooded Seattle, whether or not she had proper heating was determined by the whims of whoever had the unenviable job of maintaining the temperament, aging steam plant that supplied SeaTac and its surroundings, equipment was at an all-time low entirely dependent on whether or not the ragtag NCR troopers felt like scavenging that day, and, worst of all, the Brotherhood was, in all likelihood, prancing about nearby.

She hated the Brotherhood more than anything else. They claimed to be protecting humanity from its own hubris, but in her mind, they were little better than raiders. The only real difference was that they maintained a veneer of discipline and a few shiny coats of chrome paint.

At least she had her robots.

Her precious, beloved robots, who she oftentimes felt were the only people that understood her in this bleak, post-nuclear, post-Shady Sands wasteland. Today, she found herself stooped over a particularly beloved example, and a longtime project of hers that she found to be in constant need of improvement: a late-model, as-of-yet unpainted sentrybot, standing practically limp in the corner of her workshop-slash-office. Awkwardly squatting behind the robot, she quietly worked away at its computing unit with a soldering iron, her face clad in protective gear that was probably well-below standard... Not that she wasn't willing to take the risk of inhaling incredibly toxic fumes to make sure her baby would, one day, be in working order, gatling lasers and all.

When Rudy did finally find her room, he'd be greeted with a heavy, all-metal door, as if faced with the entrance to a solitary confinement cell. That may as well have been the case, considering how infrequently Alingga bothered to talk to absolutely anyone. Before he'd have the chance to open the door himself, it was flung open for him, leaving him face-to-face with the freshly-painted shape of a Mister Gutsy, Colonel Barber.

"WELL, DON'T JUST STAND THERE AND GAWK, MAGGOT." It barked, notably well before Rudy could be reasonably said to have been gawking. Barber had a reputation for being belligerent -- somehow, even less sane than Alingga herself.

"Oh, leave him alone, leave him alone!" Alingga scoffed, dismissively waving at the floating robot from where she was working. "Rudy! Er- Corporal Mitchell!" She coughed, peaking out from behind the inert war machine with a disconcertingly enthusiastic smile. "I'm guessing you've received your orders. Two questions: first and foremost, have you ever heard about Project ATLAS? Wait, no- don't answer that yet. Can you keep a secret? I mean- I assume you can, if they've sent you here, so... No, no, you don't have to answer that either. Back to the first question: The ATLAS Program! Ever hear of it?"

 

[EdgyCryptid]

NCR CAMP DESTINY NORTH
SEATTLE-TACOMA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

The bold “generosity” of the likes of the NCR never failed to impress them. Perhaps the brazen amount of oversight even more so.

Phoenix didn’t mind, not as much as they likely should’ve. Keeping their head down and avoiding notice meant a bed and consistent meals — in the post-apocalypse, there was little else someone could ask for. Sure, the outpost was mundane and lacking in interest, but after the life the ghoul had led, that wasn’t such a bad thing. It did help that few knew the appearance of the infamous Ash Ghoul, and fewer still that were alive to remember it. They would move on eventually, but for now, breakfast was calling.

One thing they did despise was the need to wake up so early for any guarantee of food. Most days, they shambled in much like a feral would and snatched up what they could before the soldiers dug their heels in for scraps. It was wake up early, or miss out on the tato slices — they loved those tato slices. Their sense of taste was null and void, but they swore the texture was enough to inspire memories from long, long ago. It was almost good enough to cause them to tune out the rest of the world. Almost.

The adjutant pulled them out of any sort of reverie. It was easy to ignore games, conversation, arguments — the usual hubbub of a cafeteria adjacent space — but someone trying to sound official in a place that was threatening to become lawless? That demanded some kind of attention.

Phoenix turned their head to sneak a look, mostly wanting to see just how serious this joke was trying to be. Catching the whole military getup, they couldn't help but snort before they returned to their food, keeping only their ears towards the conversation behind them. If something was coming, they were going to get the hell out of there. By the sound of the back and forth though, it was just two men annoyed at the other for one reason or another. If there were orders coming to a place like this though, something had to be up, it just wasn't desperate enough to warrant panic.

How curious.

Maybe it was time to snoop around for something besides chem supplies. The ghoul didn't think they would get too far of course, but the malaise of the outpost had undoubtedly made the soldiers lazy. Who knows, maybe they would be lucky? Regardless, Phoenix was in no rush. They took their time enjoying their tasteless meal to the fullest. It wasn't until they finished off their last tato slice that they moved to stand and return their fork and plate; they had to be an upstanding wastelander and all.

It was then that they left the way they always did, but instead of turning for the city, they curbed their path towards the airport itself.