I wake up to Codsworth humming some old-timey bullshit and sweeping radioactive leaves like the HOA's about to show up.
For a moment, I forget I'm a dog. Then I stretch, catch sight of my tail, and remember that life is pain and the universe is a comedy.
And of course, Codsworth has to come over to chat but I suppose that's understandable, he has been alone for over 200 years.
Huh, just realised I've been thinking nothing but negative thoughts about Codsworth. I loved the guy in the game and he hasn't actually done anything wrong to me this whole time.
"Oh, you're awake! Splendid! I was beginning to think the radiation had gotten to you."
I kinda wish he had a face. He is a little unnerving to look at, but also endearing in his own way—like a chrome Mr. Potato Head designed by DARPA.
"I've taken the liberty of surveying the neighbourhood. It is in a dreadful state. I'd hate for Sir and Ma'am to come back home and see it like this."
I don't have the heart to tell him they probably won't be coming back. Not the way he's imagining. But hey, maybe if the Sole Survivor is anything like my last playthrough, they'll go full brotherhood, build ten settlements, and take over nuke a world.
"I fear the local wildlife has grown… hostile," Codsworth continues, one of his arms clicking open to reveal a frankly disturbing buzzsaw. "Would you mind lending a paw?"
I stare at him.
He stares at me.
Well, okay, he hovers at me. Same vibe.
I'm a dog. With no thumbs. No weapons. No armour.
But sure, let's take on radioactive insects with just my teeth and a dream.
I give the smallest, most defeated bark I can manage.
"Wonderful! Let's begin with the homes to the west. My sensors picked up movement and I heard the unmistakable sound of buzzing earlier. Dreadful little things."
I am going to die full of bloatfly maggots and regret.
We head toward the first house, and the second I step inside, I hear the unmistakable wet buzz of oversized insect wings. One bloatfly hovers like a disgusting balloon in the living room, and another hums angrily from the back bedroom.
Before I can even consider a plan, Codsworth launches himself into the room like an overcaffeinated blender, buzz saw whirring.
"I've got a buzz saw with your name on it!" he announces, like this is a polite duel and not a bug massacre.
The bloated thing fires a few maggots at him—gross—but they splatter harmlessly against his metal shell. Perks of having no skin, I guess. No flesh, no infestation.
One clean slice from his saw and the bug is pulp. Honestly, Codsworth is kind of terrifying.
Why the hell did anyone think these freaks were safe to have around babies and toddlers? Wasteland parenting must be wild.
The other bloatfly floats in from the hallway and immediately opens fire, if you can call vomiting parasitic grubs "fire." Codsworth turns to face it, but I dart forward first. If I'm gonna be a dog, might as well lean into it.
I leap up and clamp my jaws down on the damn thing mid-air. It's surprisingly not rancid—still gross, but more like leathery tofu that's been marinating in evil.
One bite. Crunch. Dead.
I drop the twitching carcass and spit a wing out of my mouth, gagging slightly. Might've been a bad idea. Still, I did something. I helped.
Progress?
Codsworth hovers nearby, sounding oddly impressed. "Good show, old boy! I daresay you've got a knack for pest control."
Yeah. Great. I'm a four-legged exterminator with a taste for irradiated bug meat.
Living the dream.
"Nothing like a little dust-up to get the oil flowing, eh? Well, the day is still young! We still have a few more houses to cleanse—let's go, pup!"
And with that, he's off again, floating toward the next house like a nuclear-powered Roomba with delusions of grandeur.
I follow, not far behind, and we repeat the process like some bizarre pest control duo. Codsworth always charges in first, buzz saw revving, taking all the hits—if you can call maggot goo "hits"—while I hang back, wait for my moment, and then lunge in to crush bugs in my maw.
There's never more than three bloatflies per house, which works fine for me. Less chaos means I can dodge the flying grubs and avoid the absolute horror of feeling one burrow under my skin.
Seriously, I do not want to find out what that feels like.
"Ha ha! My sensors aren't picking up any more movement. We've cleared the infestation! Now then—time for a good old-fashioned spring cleaning!"
And just like that, Codsworth is off again, casually scooping up bones—human and otherwise—and dragging them outside into piles. Even the bloatfly corpses get stacked. He's humming cheerfully the entire time, like he's doing light dusting and not collecting irradiated skeletons.
Meanwhile, I'm just kinda standing there, paws on cracked linoleum, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. There's only so much a dog can do without thumbs.
Still, I can't help but notice something weird.
Why didn't Codsworth ever do this before? I mean, in the game, he just floated around the original house, occasionally swatting at flies and complaining about tarnished silverware. But now? He's cleaning up the whole damn neighborhood. Piling bones. Sorting debris. Acting like he's on a mission from God—or at least the Ministry of Clean Kitchens.
Did I cause this shift?
Did my presence, my… I don't know, inspire him to expand his duties? Was he just sitting there, in standby mode, waiting for something—someone—to give him a reason to act again?
Also, while I'm on the topic—why the hell is the wasteland such a dump?
Like, seriously. Why is every settlement built on top of garbage? Empty bottles, cans, and crumpled paper everywhere. You'd think someone, anyone, would want to clean up at least the patch of dirt they sleep on. Build a little compost bin. Stack some bricks. Sweep. Something.
Even the raiders live in filth and they choose to be terrifying. It's not a branding thing—it's just laziness at that point.
Hell, maybe that's my job now. Dogmeat: Sanitation Consultant. Coming soon to a shack near you.
But really—two hundred years, and this is all that's left?
Little to no progress. People still living in collapsed houses, surrounded by bones, bugs, and broken toilets. The human race really has fallen. Hard.
I shake my head (well, as much as a dog can shake their head in disbelief) and trot over to where the workshop is in the game. You know the one—big red toolbox, vaguely magical, centrepiece of your settlement dreams.
And—yep—it's still here.
It would be nice if I could actually use it like in the game. Fat chance, right?
Still… no harm in trying.
I place a paw on it. Nothing.
Then I think about using it—just concentrate, like I'm trying to boot up a menu in my brain—and bam.
The HUD pops up in front of me. Transparent orange wireframes, little icons, the works. It actually fucking works.
No. Fucking. Way.
I've got the workshop HUD in my view. As in, real-time. As in, I—a literal dog—can now apparently build walls, turrets, beds, and god knows what else through sheer willpower and a weird UI interface baked into my skull.
Is this just me? Or is this actually normal here?
Because if everyone can do this and still decide to sleep in mouldy bathtubs and pee in hubcap buckets, I've officially lost all remaining faith in humanity.
They could have rebuilt so much more. Hell, I'm a dog and I already have better urban planning instincts than half the factions in this hellscape.
What the actual fuck.
I really need to stop complaining.
Sure, I've been reincarnated as a dog in a post-nuclear hellscape, but I've also apparently inherited some kind of god-tier interface powers. Swings and roundabouts, right?
So, I guess I'd better do what any responsible wasteland mutt would do—start scrapping everything in the settlement like a raccoon with a demolition fetish.
From what I can see in the workshop HUD, I've only got access to the base game and DLC blueprints. No fancy mods, no Sim Settlements, no Snap'n Build. Bit of a letdown—I was kind of hoping for a "build your own IKEA hell-prison" kind of freedom—but hey, I'll work with what I'm given.
Steel buildings are probably my best bet. The wooden walls and prefab shacks might as well be damp cardboard for all the protection they offer. Radiation, rain, raiders—nothing says "please rob me and give me tetanus" quite like an open-frame shack with half a roof.
I start marking everything I can for scrapping—rusty cars, old fences, bits of busted furniture—and then—
Wait. A. Fucking. Second.
If this works… does VATS work?
Oh my god.
I need a Pip-Boy.
Because if VATS works, then stats probably work. And if stats work, that means I can level up. I might even have an inventory! Crafting stations! SPECIAL points! Skill perks! Glorious, game-breaking, min-maxing potential!
Suddenly, the apocalypse doesn't seem so bad. I could be unstoppable. Mutant-hunting, settlement-building, junk-salvaging, power-armour-wearing DOG GOD of the wasteland.
I probably look like an idiot—or adorable, depending on who's watching—tail wagging, ears perked, tongue lolling out like I just discovered bacon-flavoured tennis balls.
I don't care. This is the best day of my second life.