Chapter Text
You know you fucked up when your country gets bombed.
Over years, the human race showed to never be able to change. Not completely.
I don't know why I'm surprised. With humans, two things stay the same. Power struggles are inevitable. War never changes.
In the prewar era, a saying flew among the numbers like a swallow. "A scared dog always bites." Humankind could never do as much damage as a dog on their own. Not physically. Nations scared of losing their sovereignty, or authority, they will fight. Oppressed always uprise, cause a ruckus. One action taken too far destroyed a continent, reduced it to nothing. No culprit revealed, but instead, conspiracy theories cultivated among recovery. Since the dawn of humankind, when our ancestors before any god came to be first discovered the killing power of rock and bone, blood has been spilled in the name of everything; from God, to justice, to simple, psychotic rage. In the year 2077, after millennia of armed conflict, the destructive nature of man could sustain no longer. The world was plunged into an abyss of nuclear fire and radiation.
It's a surreal thing, should thought be put into it. At one moment, life cannot get any better. Or any worse. And yet it's all gone in the blink of an eye. Where there would be grass, green, vibrant and alive, now there's yellow stalks on cracked and dried ground. The birds that flew in the morning would be stiff on the ground, poisoned by the ash and radiation that flooded once fresh air. Not even the strongest of men could stand the sights of small bones and tattered fabrics near the tricycles and jump-ropes. How anyone can mess up this bad and think things can go back to normal remains a mystery.
It was not, as some presume, the end of the world. Instead, the apocalypse was simply the prologue to another bloody chapter in history. For man had succeeded in destroying the world, but war, war never changes. Reasons may be different from each side. Rebellion, pretentious belief of rightful ownership, revenge, or defense. Still people killing each other. In the early days, thousands were spared the horrors of the holocaust by taking refuge in enormous underground shelters, known as vaults. But when they emerged, they only had the hell of the wastes to greed them, all except those hidden.
For that, when green spores, red rain and smoke in the air from fires, the giant steel door of vault 101 slid closed, never to open again. It was here I was born. It is here I will die. Because in 101, no one enters or leaves. Those who try never existed.
Meet Fern Carrow. A 19 year old vault-dweller in vault 101. The girl with the target on her back, the odd one out. She had gotten used to her life underground, but maybe her dad hasn't been entirely honest with her.
But everything happens for a reason.
Doesn't it?