I was just about to begin preparations for my glorious conquest of Concord—tail wagging, plans forming, dreams of glory and loot dancing in my head—when I heard it.
"AS I live and breathe, it's you! It's really you!"
Oh.
I turn my head, ears perked, and there he is.
Mister Sole Survivor himself. Fresh out of the fridge. Looking only mildly haunted.
"Codsworth? You're still here… that means others might still be alive too."
Ah, yes. The classic Protagonist optimism. Ten out of ten delivery. A+ hopefulness in a nuclear hellscape.
Codsworth is over the moon, of course. He practically shudders in midair with excitement.
"Well, of course, sir! You think a little radiation can deter General Atomics' pride and joy, do you? However, you do seem a bit worse for wear. Best not let the wife see you like this—ha ha! Speaking of, where is the missus?"
Yeah. That's gonna be a fun talk.
I already know exactly how this goes, so I hang back, staying out of the drama. Let them have their awkward grief reconnection moment. I've got plans. Dog plans. Bigger than this heart-wrenching pre-war tragedy redux.
As soon as they're done, I'm making my move.
Vault 111's going to be my next stop after Concord—because I know exactly where our newly-thawed meat popsicle is headed. Plus, I've got unfinished business up there. Real important stuff.
Like testing whether power armour auto-sizes to fit me.
And, more critically—I need a Pip-Boy.
Because if I'm going to play this game for real, I want to see my stats.
And maybe my health bar.
If I have one.
It sounds like our protagonist passed a Charisma check without even trying. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it to hit that hard—but hearing Codsworth's voice crack like that? Yeah, that one got me.
"—Thank the gods the pup came along… I-I swear I was just about to give in…"
Wait. Codsworth was suicidal?
That stopped me cold. For a second, I just… stared. I don't think I ever thought about what it must've been like for him. Alone. For two centuries. Waiting. Slowly losing his mind in a collapsing dream of 1950s optimism and ash.
"Pup? What do you mean, Codsworth?" the Sole Survivor asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Codsworth turned, his voice warming ever so slightly. "He's been remarkable, sir. The things he's accomplished have astounded me… Also—I found this. I believe ma'am intended to give it to you."
He extended a claw, holding out a worn Holotape. It was taken with careful, almost reverent hands.
"Thank you, Codsworth."
"You're welcome, sir…" There was a long pause. A static hum. Then—Codsworth straightened slightly, like he was physically shaking off the moment. "Now! Enough of this emotional bother!"
But the weight wasn't done. Not yet.
"Though, sir… me and the pup, we've cleared out all the buildings around here. They… they're gone, sir."
Gone. Flattened. Ash and scrap and empty lots where homes once stood.
"Thanks for trying, Codsworth," the man said softly.
"Don't give up, sir! What about the city?" Codsworth said suddenly, his voice rising with a touch of desperate hope. "Concord is nearby! And the people there have only shot at me a few times!"
Which, frankly, is a better reception than most places get.
I watched from across the street, still quiet, still processing everything.
Turns out, even post-apocalyptic toaster-bots can break down when left alone long enough.
And here I thought I was the one who didn't belong.
"Oh great," the Sole Survivor muttered, tone dry as cracked asphalt. "I like these people already."
Codsworth, ever the cheerful war-era optimist, either didn't catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. "Splendid! Perhaps they'll assist you in locating young Shaun. In the meantime, I shall defend the home front with unrelenting vigilance!"
He hovered a little closer, giving the man a pointed look—well, as much of one as a Mr. Handy could manage. "Why don't you take the pup with you, sir? He's been quite resourceful—and I daresay you could use the company of a loyal hound."
The Sole Survivor blinked, glancing over at me. I sat a few feet away, tail giving a single, deliberate thump against the cracked driveway. I gave him the kind of look that said "I might be a dog, but I'm not just any dog."
"…Right." The man sighed. "Alright, boy. Let's go see what kind of hell Concord has to offer."
I stood up, stretched lazily, and started walking.
Because hell? Hell, I can handle.
As long as I don't get shot in the ass.
—
MY ASS.
I GOT SHOT IN THE ASS.
The literal second we set paw and boot into Concord—bam! Raiders. Just like in the game. Only this time they apparently had a sixth sense for new arrivals and an unhealthy fixation on dog buttocks, because I barely cleared the street corner before someone ventilated my hindquarters.
And no, I did not whine like a bitch. I may have yelped. Loudly. With dignity. And then immediately launched myself behind the nearest half-collapsed mailbox to lick my wound in peace like a seasoned war vet licking their emotional trauma.
The bullet went clean through, which I guess is good? No lodged lead. Just pain. Searing, hot, why-is-my-butt-bleeding kind of pain. Ten out of ten, would not recommend.
Meanwhile, Mister Sole Survivor was returning fire like a damn action movie extra. His 10mm barked out short, panicked bursts, each shot dropping a raider or at least convincing them to duck. He moved like someone who'd held a gun— well I suppose he was in the army.
Unfortunately, one of the raiders decided to play melee hero and charge right at the mailbox I was cowering behind.
Big mistake.
The second he was close enough, I launched out from cover like a furry missile and clamped my jaws around his throat. He shrieked and dropped his tire iron, flailing and clawing at my sides as I dug in deeper, snarling through a mouthful of windpipe.
He went down hard.
And when he finally stopped twitching, I stood over him, blood dripping from my muzzle, ass still bleeding, eyes wild.
I liked this. The adrenaline. The rush. The way pain got shoved to the back of my mind like an annoying pop-up window. My ass still throbbed, sure, but it was a distant throb. Right now, I was a living missile wrapped in fur and vengeance.
So I made a call—screw cover.
I bolted out, charging straight at the bastards still pinned down behind some half-busted cars and sandbags. Honestly? They got lucky with that first shot. Either their aim sucks or their homemade guns do. Probably both. Raiders don't exactly get top marks in ballistics engineering.
One of them did land a hit though—clipped me in the side. Stung like hell, but I didn't stop. Couldn't. I was already on him before he could chamber a second shot.
I lunged low, jaws snapping around his leg. He screamed and hit the dirt, hard, his pipe pistol flailing up toward me. I wrestled against his kicks, scrambled onto his chest, and went straight for his arm—sank my teeth in deep until I felt the crunch of bone under pressure.
He howled, thrashing like a man trying to fight off a chainsaw with anxiety.
Perfect distraction.
The Survivor and Preston—yeah, that Preston—took the opening and lit up the rest of the raiders. Between the screams and gunfire, it was over in seconds.
And me?
I stood panting, bloodied and bristling, half on top of a guy who was definitely never walking straight again.
Turns out, I'm very good at being terrifying.
He was cowering beneath me, whimpering, hands useless and slick with blood, trying to crawl backwards through solid asphalt. I stood over him, teeth bared, muzzle soaked, low growl rattling in my throat.
Then—crack.
A clean shot. Right through the head. His body jerked, then stilled.
The Survivor had pulled the trigger. Guess he didn't like leaving people to suffer.
That's when the adrenaline started to wear off.
Pain came crashing back like a truck full of regret. My side throbbed, my leg was on fire, and my ass—still—hurt. I whimpered despite myself, tail low, and limped off the body. I was too tired to be proud.
Then I felt a sharp jab in my back.
I spun around, ready to rip someone's face off—and nearly lunged at the Survivor before I realised what he'd done.
He'd stabbed me. With a stimpack.
And just like that, it kicked in. The pain dulled. My muscles stopped screaming. I watched in faint horror and weird fascination as the bullet actually popped out of my side, clinking to the ground like a spent piece of metal guilt.
Cool.
I gave him a look. You know the one. The "you better warn me next time, asshole" look.
But I didn't growl.
He'd earned that one.