Here in England, we watched the devastation from within our fallout shelters. After the NWII (The Second Nuclear War) it was pretty much standard for everyone to have large shelters underneath their homes. Massive storage with freeze-dried, dried, pickled, candied, canned – all in all, so much food that in the event of war, the citizens of Great Britain would survive at the least.
I didn’t know at that moment how many others had successfully managed to get to their shelters, but I feared for my family and friends, even my enemies.
Back in the year 2020, Britain had cast off from European ties, although, not from choice but from dismissal from a group of peers. Britain was the little cousin with the snotty nose and annoying voice that the family didn’t speak much about since they peed in the pool last summer. Ok, more of a state of corrupt politicians with too little power for their liking and an adapted view of democracy who lead the whole of Europe into the First Nuclear War. That war lasted only six years but ground over half of Europe into ashes and memories, hardly more than one eighth of Britain was damaged let alone gone altogether.
Europe had tried to be rid of Britain since and there was always a horrid of taste of hate that floated across the Channel ever after we were dismissed.
Soon after we were dismissed they built that station. We were unable to access that power and many people immigrated to Europe, looking far back along their genealogy until they found some European blood so they could be accepted to the country as a legitimate immigrant. If you couldn’t find any in six generations on one of the sides of your family they turned you away, and as ‘pure’ English, you were even unable to travel into the continent to go elsewhere.