vault tec’s plan with vault 28 was to see how long a population could survive amongst one another when forced into the same environment, but each focused group speaking a non - english language. the original dwellers, excluding the overseer, had been immigrants from the non - english speaking countries of germany, france, spain, russia, and china. there was no separation between the dwellers, though it only took weeks post - bombs for cliques to form between the different nationalities in a particularly cult - like fashion. the german speakers would not interact with the chinese speakers, while the chinese speakers would not interact with the french speakers, and so on. the only one outside of their respectively formed groupings they spoke with was the vault’s overseer, who was, unbeknownst to their dwellers, multilingual. this left each viewing the overseer as someone who was on their side, when in reality, he was only willingly interacting with each grouping of people as he waited out the tasks vault tec had set for him in the next coming years. per his instructions, there would be no opening the vault door, and the clique - like dwellers appeared to agree with this sentiment between one another. in short, the experiment of vault 28 is meant to measure the possible social interaction between not only immigrants who are unable to speak their new home’s national language, but are also unable to verbally communicate with one another due to the barriers metaphorically between them.

just as once suspected upon its conjuring, the different native tongue speakers broke into a hierarchy sort of division in a rather short span of time. people are due to interact with those who share something similar with them, be it an interest or in this case, a language. the german speakers were granted control over the vault's clinic, its more construction or industrial work, and the athletics department. the spanish speakers take the lead in recreational activities, cosmetics for others and the vault itself, and any task under the branch of animology. the chinese speakers took over scientific matters of botany and general food production, programming for the vault's technological assets, and going about regulating the portion control of others. french speakers took on the education of their fellow inhabitants, run the vault's cafe and carry most of the cooking on their backs, while also containing waste management under their belts. finally, the russian speakers run the likes of the vault's private chapel, boast their weight on having 28's security, and accomadate for the public safety of others. on top of all this, there exists the overseer, a man by the name of jerome woods III who's been in the position since 2251. he's multilingual as every overseer that'd come before him, floating between each native speakers grouping and giving them praise, allowing them and only them each time to believe he was on their side. of course, he's only ever been on his own: or perhaps, vault - tec's.

long before the great war had even officially started, america found itself struggling to keep alaska in check. with its oil supplies draining, and often isolated populations in a panic, there wasn't much they could do besides send in troops in a ploy to keep the people out of harms way. of course, in reality, this wasn't exactly going to be the case. with the likes of operation anchorage unfolding mere weeks before the bombing of the country, and the invasion of both chinese and russian soldiers on alaskan territory due to the little oil supply it still possessed, the land was a hot bed of activity right up until the final moments of civilisation as we know it. many aggressors aimed their nuclear weapons onto the more open and reachable portions of the united states, hoping to possibly salvage whatever alaska had going for it, yet that didn't keep the state entirely safe from harm. once the chaos of it all began to unfold, sirens blaring to alert its residents and military guards rushing to escort them to whatever designated vault they'd gotten into, they suffered just as much as any of their more connected counterparts.

these days, the remaining members of alaskan civilisation find themselves struggling to survive each year. the nuclear winter only seems to become colder and colder, more snow dropping upon them than they'd ever seen before. hail storms are commonplace, causing enough damage to tear down wooded buildings and rip any human or other living creature to shreds if they're unable to find a safe spot quick enough. animals evlove with the shifting of the weather, ever titular deathclaw even garnering a shaggy coat to keep itself warm throughout the long months. the sun often appears to stay down even longer than it once did before the war, if pre - war texts are truly to be trusted. their main source of trouble aside from mother nature herself appears to be their pestering divison of the enclave. much akin to their brothern in america's far warmer climates, they seek to rebuild and repopulate, but not before wiping out the wastelanders who have been calling the place home since their pre - war ancestors. they strive to destroy wildlife, cut off their puny winter food supplies by capturing the creatures for themselves, chopping down the nearby trees a settlement would surely need for firewood and construction. a raider gang sporting the likes of old world hockey jumpers are known around the more western parts of the territory, often taking refuge within the likes of an abandoned ice rink to make use of weapons such as sticks and skates. anyone can tell you when the alaskan aces are stalking about, locals turning up with bashed in skulls and flayed open throats. their more mobile counterparts consist of the wildstars, a grouping of raiders that boasts their use of juped up snowmobiles and off roading cars. with news being unable to travel very quickly by foot alone, single settlements are prone to being completely wiped off the map before a warning can even be ushered to them. despite the struggles they currently face, not everything is in vane. settlements are growing by the minute, becoming populated with carpenders rebuilding and hunters trapping food for the citizens. they're simply trying to survive on the last frontier, is all.

sometimes, family isn't always the easiest to deal with. in fact, they may just push you to do things you never once considered prior. same saying goes for the fischer clan, the remaining three members of which are a trio of brothers. the relationship between them is nothing short of frighteningly strained. teddy, the youngest brother and perhaps one of the most altruistic people, strives to keep the three of them together through thick and thin. running a farm together isn't the easiest task to begin with, especially so when his elder two siblings find themselves bickering and berating not only one another, but himself included. sawyer, the eldest, is perhaps the most volatile. he's recently returned from a several decade long stint in the confederate army, having spent years of his life climbing the rants with his precision scoping skills. all that thorough effort came crashing down rather horrifically before his very eyes, a heavy and sudden reliance on alcohol granting him a dishonourable discharge and a one way trip back to the fischer farm. he's hardly ceased his drinking, has in fact doubled it over the last few years. wyatt, the middle sibling, is possibly the most disconnected. he's always been the black sheep of the family, sandwiched between the likes of his overachieving older brother and an adoring baby brother who wanted nothing more than his copious amounts of attention. he was quick to grow distant from their father with age, prone to getting into screaming matches about what he could do with his life and how the senior fischer had no authority over him. with the passing of their father but a few years prior, and the farm being given in teddy's name, it was no thought at all where his aggressions could be directed. sawyer implodes upon hearing the news, takes the legal documentation and spits upon it in anger. he felt as the eldest, the farm should be gifted to him, no matter how poor he was at taking care of the place.

the wars between brothers are always going to be bitter, and the fischer trio exemplify this perfectly. teddy had found himself heartbroken with the passing of their late father, but entirely enthused with the idea of taking care of the farm for the rest of his life. the elder two fischers disagree with his sentiment, lash out with both violence and emotional attacks alike, beating him down until he's little more than a farmhand to them. lacking an education that would allow him to read and write, sawyer knowingly keeps teddy from ever gaining the knowledge, aware that his ability to sign off on the documentation would mean the farm was officially in the possession of his youngest brother. the mere thought drives him to drink more and more, does nothing but laze about on the sofa and scream at teddy until every chore is done perfectly with the precision he seeks, both outdoors and indoors. wyatt is little more than his lap dog, the sheer hilarity of having gone from arguing for adult freedoms from his father to mutely following his eldest brother's commands not entirely lost on him. teddy, day in and day out, endures abuse at the hands of his loved ones. they're still his family, and still his blood, and the farm still needs him. though, this doesn't quite stop his gaze from befalling a local georgia known outlaw who begins taking ever so kindly to the little rancher and his poor sibling squabbles.

the quiet little community of purity stands out among its rowdy counterparts for being a surprising hub of justice despite its rather minuscule size. the town's justice system is always praised with managing to hunt down and take out any desert outlaw who may be giving other communities trouble, and all without a single word of how they manage to do it. no one would think twice on their town except to bestow it an array of compliments, and its citizens like to keep it that way. a normal western settlement that was built directly from the ground up, its inhabitants have always been coined as somewhat strange by visitors. some hide away at the sight of a thoughtless trader, while others will welcome them with open arms. it's generally choked up to the fact they much prefer to stay private, keep to themselves and only themselves, purity having always had a rather strict set of ideals to it that mainly revolve around ignoring the rest of civilisation. everyone has their theories for why this is, some more outside of the plausible box than others; ex - criminals who need a place to stow away from the arizona lawmen, a cult of cannibals who like to keep their practices out of the spotlight, rangers working undercover to spend their days hunting down the most wanted of desert criminals. more and more of these preposterous propositions are continually cropping up each day, following suit in the sudden spikes of popularity purity is seeing due to their recent efforts in wrangling down crews of outlaws. despite the whispered jokes that float in the stiff air, from the outside looking in, there wasn't anything to see but a quaint town looking to cement itself.

of course, it could never be so simplistically laughable for the citizens living within its limits. they could never crack the same jokes, forced to play along to them with a far too stern look to be found in their eyes. they've always been off, in one sense of the word or another. something was never right about the town, about them. the tales of numerous wolf packs that supposedly share their hunting ground with purity are practical legend, dozens of corpses retrieved from the barren land once the carcasses were picked clean and discarded. many insist upon seeing the ferocious creature with their own eyes, watched the four - legged beasts prowl the sands for something to eat. others argue it was nothing but a legend, created for the sole purpose of bringing more attention to the sleepy community. everyone looks to purity for their input, and they were only ever awarded with silence. that was meant to be their little secret, and nobody else's. no town could be so quaint in nature and lack something to be uncovered, and they are no exception to this rule of thumb. they are a town of lycans, better known to the spare few who bothered to put their time into reading folklore as werewolves. purity has begun to tear itself apart at the seams from the inside, and a mad scramble for power is enthusing among its people.

those who remain among the living population remember the day as if it was only yesterday. oh, its been a few years now, but one hardly ever moves on. it'd been in janurary, a particularly roasting month for the likes of australia. in fact, some even mention among their tales how it'd been the hottest on record before the world went to shit. it started with an ever noisy notification on everyone's phone, one that some even managed to ignore directly off the bat. that didn't last for long, that ignorance, the usual blare of a broadcast message interupting radio feeds and blasting itself across television screens, compelling all to listen. this wasn't one of their monthly tests, nor was this a preperation drill of some kind; nuclear armagedon was on their very horizon. there's admittance to the public that whatever the trajectory of the weapons may be, it was unbeknownst to them at the moment, and ended up staying that way til the very last minute. they weren't even sure which country had taken it upon themselves to set their launch first. no matter the case, it wasn't going to be ending well for anyone. there was a method to the madness, it now seems, an aim for icecaps absolutely devistating them beyond belief. their crashing into the ocea is followed by an immediate flood, the melting of ice, the forcefullness of newly churned waves that push their way into tsunamis. using mother nature's ailing ecosystem against itself was a horridly proper way to pull a punch, and it's a big one. in fact, it's cataclysmic. the flooding seems endless, families huddled together as water lines do nothing but rise and rise and rise some more, threatening to push them from their already ruined homes and electrecless hiding spots. in a stint of a few short days, the world as everyone once knew it ceases to exist, and people find themselves left with flooded island sanctuaries and endless spans of beaches.

as the years tick on since the incident, the more nuclear changes begin to rear their ugly heads. creatures that would never be caught dead in the water prior now find themselves enjoying it, others managing to garner gils for themselves. wild animals are forced to adapt, hunting grounds they once had diminished, leaving them to be far more fearsome and contained in small portions of dry land and better their ability to swim. supersized sharks with two heads, murmurs of originally radiation ill humans developing fins and mermaid tails to survive in the new world. the stories go on and on, and will only continue to spawn. abandon buildings find themselves swimming with fearsome sea creatures, travelling by boat at almost any given instince the only true method of moving about. even an athletic swimmer is bound to become tired. people strive to gather their bearings, pick up the remains of their society in the best ways possible. raised islands and originally boat dwelling cities become far more populated than they ever were before, solid attempts from their new citizens occuring to kick some manner of order back into gear. while this is an idea that would seemingly be universally accepted, it shouldn't be hard to guess that not all see a positive out from the situation. there's groups who kill and pillage to take supplies for their ships, gun down innocents in all for what they say is survival. these days, it's hard to decide who may be friend and who may be foe. after all, there's really no telling what's out there anymore. the earth hardly belongs to humans as of late.

doveport is a town unlike any other. due to its piping levels of hospitality, of course. that is, if you're due to believe the likes of their bright eyed mayor. many who live there call the suburban spot the best place on this side of the world. they seem to be living the same as they have for decades now, the population staying marginally small and lacking when it comes to new additions in recent years. entering the city limits nets you a feeling you can't quite shake. there's something nostalgic about this town you've never been in before, oddly enough. there's hardly a place more quaint, grocery stores closed each sunday and the children spending their days biking wherever their parents will allow them before curfew. the schoolhouse is laughably puny in size, the sole diner of doveport looking just as spick and span as it used to during the eighties. one is almost compelled to stay themselves, had it not been for that unexplainable twist of guts one is going to encounter. it begins with that nostalgic sense for the past, the town's slow lifestyle and simplistic living causing an almost endorphic rush of memories. perhaps, even of one's own childhood. it seems to evolve the longer someone stays in town, a fogginess sat within the front of your suddenly shaken brain when you finally pack your things and continue on with your destination. in fact, a visitor may even stop by again while passing through. that is, if they're able to remember the place.

not everything is going to be as it seems, and the lovely countryside of doveport is no exception from this rule. its otherwise lacking population sports a nasty surprise; they're those supernatural creatures you've heard so much about. they're harmless, really, only looking to live their day to day lives in what they believe is the safest way possible: as a little pack of their own. they fear no human, gushing each time one arrives yet becoming seeminlgy antsy the longer they stay. having someone go around screeching their secrets wouldn't exactly be great for their attempt at tourism. nonetheless, some people persist more than others. russell and sierra kane, the newest and first addition to the town in decades. it's mumbled amongst the more supernatural populous how such a thing could have ever happened. hadn't some old witch charmed their town long ago to keep humans from staying? perhaps, it's worn out. whatever the case may be, the human couple and their trio of children don't look like they're going anywhere anytime soon. in fact, russell insists he's seen things. there's howling each night unlike any other he's heard, piercing from the nearby woods and settling uncomfortably within his bones. that shopkeeper, the man tells his rightfully nonbelieving wife, she's surely brewing up some manner of potion in that smelly store of hers. the townsfolk he speaks to on the matter laugh each tale off, remind russell he's now living in a small town; doveport simply does things different. as of late, this seems to be working less and less on the man as his sense of paranoia spikes. if nothing is done about the kane family, the original residents risk having themselves and their own families forcibly exposed worldwide. oh, but they've never been trained to deal with a situation such as this one. they're simply suburbians.