Fallout

Ground Zero

a part of Fallout, by The Afterman.

A shanty town made from salvaged scrap metals and other material.

RolePlayGateway holds sovereignty over Ground Zero, giving them the ability to make limited changes.
161 readers have been here.
2,482 readers have visited this universe since The Afterman created it.

Setting

Ground Zero is the center of dirty deeds in L.A.
You have slavers, raiders, murderers and the like all over the place. It is the home for all sorts of wastelander scum.
It's a medium-size shanty town with top sections built for extra facilities.
Buildings and stores include:
Merv's Guns
The New Retro Saloon/Diner
Clinic
GZ Supply Co.
Berser's House
Calamity's House
Merv's House
Jenna Betheson's House
Gordon and Girdy Mason's House

Ground Zero

A shanty town made from salvaged scrap metals and other material.

Minimap

Ground Zero is a part of Los Angeles Wastelands.

3 Characters Here

Evelyn "Ratchet" Brooks [1] "Was that an invitation? No? Go away."
Roger Reeds [1] "The best way to solve a problem is to make it go away."

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#, as written by Guest
The Ranger drifted into town, looking at all the passers-by. He scoffed at their cheery smiles and "Welcome friend"s. He didn't care too much for these people. He protected them, that was about as much affection they would recieve from him. The dried up, sandy ground crunched beneath his western-style boots. The sloppy architecture of the buildings irritated him for an unknown reason. They always did. He had been here before, and knew exactly where he was headed. He was taking his caps and drowning himself in his miseries. He grew tired of sober thought, because it was rational and actually meant something, made him remember the shittiness of his life. Sure, the pay for headhunting was good, but his life still got the shit-end of everything: he had no home, no family, and no friends. There was no one to take him in, and he had a tendency to piss people off with his shut-out personality. He had but one hope that kept him from putting a .44 round in his head: maybe, just maybe, they'd invent a stronger whiskey.
He was headed for the saloon at the end of town in order to piss away what little money he had in order (or at least try) to get smashed, shit-faced, hammered, drunk off his ass, blitzed, destroyed, piss drunk, loaded, juiced up, plastered, obliterated, or any other synonym for drunk there is. He kept his eyes low and his hat pulled down. He made no eye contact, he just headed for his drink fest.
He arrived at the saloon, looking around at the familiar and new faces. He took a seat and waited for Calamity to walk over. "The usual, Ranger?" the tall, burly, hairy red-headed woman asked him. The Ranger nodded, slapping down ten caps on the counter as calamity practically shoved the whiskey bottle into his hand. He eyed the bronze-colored liquid before draining the bottle within seconds. "Hit me", he said as Calamity turned back to the booze shelf. "You keep this up and I'm gonna be down a customer", Calamity laughed. The Ranger snarled. "Shut your hole you sow and gimme my goddamn drink!" he said irritatedly, slapping down another ten caps. He drained that bottle, too, and turned in his stool to look at the crowd behind him: A group of raiders was huddled in the corner, and The Ranger saw one in particular that every Regulator in the wastes was looking for: Bethany Grier. "Bethany" was actually in fact a man, given the name as a cruel trick from his son-of-a-bitch father. He was a muscular guy, bald, and quite petite to be the evil little shit he is. Twenty-seven years old and full of nothing but contempt for everything. The Ranger stood, walking over toward where Bethany sat, smirking at the name all the while.

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Micheal's power armor felt slightly comfortable on him, as it bought him a large amount of reassurance. He was going to need it greatly for his current environment. He walked through a small settlement snugly situated within the vicinity of L.A. Micheal calmly walked through the main gates, and into the medium sized shanty town. Micheal felt the gaze of two armed men burning into his back, as he walked past them slowly. His imposing structure, and armor would both cause him as much trouble as it would save him the hassle of certain wastelanders. Though there were groups of people, irrational people that felt it necessary to pick fights with men that were bigger than them, or people that simply harbored a grudge against the brotherhood would hamper his progress.

Micheals power armor rustled ever so slightly every time he took another step. Sometimes more unwise men would be ready to start trouble, but would stop before they saw Micheal's sheer size, and the types of weapons he was packing. Micheal's large mini-gun sat ever so menacingly as Micheal kept his hand on his hammer strapped to the left side of his hip. He walked quietly through the main walkways until his eyes rested on the Saloon. No one could see it, but Micheal had a small ghost of a smile on his face. A continuous flow of information flowed through saloons in any settlement within the wastes. Micheal had received a tip a few weeks ago that his target had come this way. He just hoped he could find her soon. Failure seemed to be looming over his shoulder whenever he looked back at the path he burned across the wastelands of North America.

Micheal's hand gripped his Super Sledge as he stepped through the door into the saloon. The blue streaks on Micheal's armor set him apart of nearly any uniform Brother Hood paladin, he just hoped that most would infer he wasn't looking for trouble. He would be in this shanty town for only a day or so, as he scoured the land for traces of his objective. Silence filled the air when Micheal entered. Silence was never a good sign. Micheal approached the bar, and sat down slowly. He met no gazes, which slowly resulted into mostly everyone going back to their conversations. Micheal let out a quiet breath, and squared his massive shoulders, which were evident even under his armor.

He decided he would rest his feet for a bit before he started asking around. He had been walking nearly the whole day, and he needed to refill his canteen. He always wanted bottles of clean water in his possession at all times in case of emergency. He would need it for the traveling he would be doing, so he established getting more water on top of refilling his canteen would be a safe and good idea.

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Ethan had almost broken into a run when he heard the sound of gunshots coming from his destination. "What the hell am I doing?" He asked himself, as he pulled out his .44 magnum and slammed his back against the wall next to the door way. "Oh yeah I'm bored and a gunfight could be interesting" He answered, When the sounds of shooting paused he kicked the door open and slid quickly inside aiming his gun and scanning the room. To his dissapointment all he saw was a man put two .44 magnums into their holsters and three slavers lying dead on the floor. "Dammit!" He said out loud and placed the gun in the holster. He sat on a barstool and threw the bag on the table. "Hey barkeep got your gun here all fixed up."

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Woken by the ringing of nearby gunshots, Demo rolls out of his bed and grabs one of his sawed-off shotguns and points it at the door. "Come on assholes." After a few seconds pass he realized that the shots have stop. "What the hell just happened?" he thought "Better yet, WHO THE FUCK WOKE ME UP!" While putting on his talon merc armor he straped his grenades and mines onto his belts, packed up his supplies, then he pulled both of his ammo belts across the front of his armor into a crisscross pattern and took the army helmet of the table an placed it on his head. He then put his guns in their holders; sawed-off shotguns on the sides of his chest, the 10mm. SMG on his right leg, and his trustworthy baseball on his back. He rested his combat shotgun on his shoulder and walked downstairs. As soon as he reaches the ground floor he starts shouting, "WHY THE HELL ARE YOU MAKING SO MUCH FUCKING NOISE THIS EARLY IN THE FUCKING MORNING? CAN'T A GUY GET SOME FUCKING SLEEP IN HERE WITHOUT SOMEBODY SHOOTING THEIR GUNS OFF? HUH? I MEAN COME ON!" He strolls over to a guy with two .44 caliber magnums and yells, "WHERE YOU THE ONE WHO STARTED THIS SHIT?" All he gets is a glare so he walks away to the man near the door. "HOW ABOUT YOU DICKSHIT, YOU DO IT?" Another glare so he turns around. "WHY CAN'T YOU A-HOLE JUST SIT AROUND AND TALK QUIETLY? NOOOOOOOOOO! SOMEBODY SHOOTS SOMEBODY JUST BECAUSE HE/SHE GOT BORDED? DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ALL ARE GONNA DO BUT I WANNA GO BACK TO SLEEP!" He then walks up to the bar and politely asked the barkeep for a bottle of wine.

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Micheal seemed passive about the whole situation, as he sat by the bar A seemingly drunken man dispatched a few others with quick precision. Another Walked in, kicking the door open with his weapon drawn. When realizing the action was all but over he put his gun down as well, and continued to tell the barkeeper that her weapon was fixed. Micheal was about to get up and leave, but soon another one; angrier, and louder. He ran in screaming at the man with the magnums. A foolish mover yelling at someone who had no problem with killing any-one. Micheal simpley moved to a secluded booth, and proceeded to sit down packing a few waters he had bought moments before the commotion began. After this was done Micheal quietly set his mini-gun on his table.

Quietly Micheal began to clean the weapon, while still able to keep tabs on any more commotion out of the corner of his eyes. His helmet hindered his vision only slightly, but he would sacrifice 10 percent of his whole vision range at the sake of being encased in power armor. He set his mini gun down next to him after he was satisfied with how it was looking. He continued to pull out a different rag this time when he set his super sledge on the table. The hammer had dried blood caked onto one of the sides. Micheal simply began to clean most of it off.

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Micheal calmly slowed down on his cleaning job when another man with a sniper rifle sat down across from him. He didn't speak at all, no greeting, nothing. Micheal wasn't too great at breaking the ice, but he quietly gave the man sitting across from him a slow nod for a greeting. Going back to cleaning his sledge Micheal had almost but completely gotten the blood off of it until another man walked over. The one who had killed three people with ease. He sat down too, Micheal wasn't one to turn away company, so again he gave the man with the pistols a steady gaze as he spoke.

"Don't you guys get hot in those tin cans?" He asked.

Micheal pondered on this question, some days were worse than others. He preferred to walk most of the day, Sure after a few hours it got hot, but heat was something Micheal got used to a long time ago.

"Sometimes." Micheal boomed in a deep rough voice. "To tell ya the truth, you get used to it after a few years." He commented again. Micheal had stopped cleaning his Super Sledge, and continued to rest it against the mini-gun, Small talk never bothered Micheal. On most occaisions though he never really got to talke to many people. He was always on the move, never stopping for a quick convorsation. It was almost relaxing in a way. It made Micheal feel like the world wasn't suck a fucked up place any-more.

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Micheal intently listened to the person that spoke with him. He slightly commended the man for his ability of deduction on the weapons part of his reasoning. Most would assume he was just another Brother hood member. His knowledge of how a brother hood of steel squad worked was impressive to say the least. As the other man continued to observe his own sniper rifle Micheal spoke, the speakers on his helmet giving him a slight metallic touch to his voice.

"I was a former Palidin in the brotherhood." Micheal stated. He had been the designated gunner for his squad, but Micheal found it useful that a hammer didn't rely on ammo. He would usually use his hammer on softer, and targets that held small arms. He continued to speak, not afraid of divulging information about himself. "I thought the blue would set me apart from the brotherhood, and outcast alike." Micheal explained. Way too many people had some hatred towards his former affiliated group.

Micheal decided it would be best to introduce himself. He extended a large armored hand across the top of the table slightly open for a handshake.

"The names Micheal." His voice rumbled

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Character Portrait: Roger Reeds Character Portrait: Evelyn "Ratchet" Brooks Character Portrait: Lui Tinoco

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#, as written by lui.t