Just before the Sole Survivor could loot the fresh pile of bullet-riddled corpses, a voice rang out from above—urgent, desperate, and echoing through the empty Concord street:
"Hey, up here! On the balcony! I've got a group of settlers inside! The raiders are almost through the door! Grab that Laser Musket and help us! Please!"
The guy let out a long, tired sigh. Like someone who was already fed up with the apocalypse and barely a day into it. Without a word, he holstered his pistol, picked up the musket and trudged toward the Museum of Freedom like a man clocking into a shift he didn't want.
I, however, had no such sense of duty. Or at least not enough to go charging in right after him.
I gave it a solid minute.
Let him deal with the heavy lifting. I already got shot in the arse once today—I wasn't in a rush to make it a matching set.
By the time I finally wandered in, the Sole Survivor was already clearing the first floor like he'd done this a hundred times before. Which, y'know, he technically hasn't—but main character privilege is a hell of a drug.
Me? I had other priorities.
I slunk off to the side, down to the basement level, right to that locked terminal most players ignore until they get stuck outside a power armour frame without a fusion core.
And guess what?
Turns out I can hack.
Don't ask me how. Psychic dog powers, maybe. Or just video game logic. Either way, my nose-to-brain interface is apparently on par with a seasoned hacker, because I cracked that terminal on the first try. Eat your heart out, Vault-Tec.
The security door slid open, hissing dramatically, and I padded in to find the fusion core—still nestled in its housing, glowing faintly with nuclear promise. I clamped it carefully in my jaws, resisting the urge to chew on it (no promises if I get bored later), and trotted back up the stairs.
By the time I reached the upper floors, most of the raiders were already cooling on the floor, courtesy of Mister Vault-Boy over there. I think there was maybe one left—probably hiding behind a filing cabinet and praying to Atom for a miracle.
Not my problem.
I kept moving, bounding up the final flight of stairs, then leapt the broken floor gap like some kind of canine action hero. The door to the roof loomed ahead, and I nosed it open, fusion core still clenched tight.
Time to see if my power armour theory actually pans out… or if I'm about to bite into a glorified tin can and cry.
In front of me stood the prize I'd been dreaming of since waking up in this crazy, irradiated simulation: the crashed Vertibird… and my glorious, beautiful, majestic, totally-not-dog-shaped power armour.
This was it. My moment.
I padded up, tail probably wagging like a lunatic.
I stood in front of the frame. Nothing happened.
Okay, fine. Maybe I had to trigger it. I tried nudging it with my paw. Nothing. I pushed against the leg. Still nothing. I even tried thinking about accessing the inventory like in the game.
Nada.
It's. Fucking. Bullshit.
I didn't whine. I absolutely didn't start barking and headbutting it out of spite. That's a lie and you can't prove it.
The sole survivor came just in time and also got to see me doing that… lovely.
Deep breath.
Okay. I knew this was a long shot. Not everything was going to magically work out just because I wanted it to. I'm a dog, not a dev console. Fine. I'll make my own damn power armor.
Sturges is basically a mechanical wizard—he could help. Or maybe Proctor… Quin? Quine? Quinnie? Whatever, she's with the Brotherhood and knows her stuff. Worst case scenario, there's always the Instant-Noodles—I mean the Institute. Whatever. Later problem.
For now?
Sigh… fine.
I trotted over to Sole Survivor and dropped the fusion core at his feet like a loyal retriever.
Here, go be the hero or whatever. Kill the raiders, scare off the deathclaw, and look cool doing it.
Then I'll go check out Vault 111 after this mess is cleaned up. If power armour won't come to the dog, then the dog will go full Fallout MacGyver and build one himself.
Right now though there is no way in hell I'm fighting that Deathclaw.
I may be a transmigrated, half-immortal, possibly video-game-coded dog, but I am not suicidal. Raiders with rusty pipe guns are one thing. Giant lizard with knives for hands and the personality of a blender on bath salts? That's where I draw the line.
So while Mister Vault Boy plays Iron Knight and takes the glory, I'm taking the sensible route.
I trot back inside and plop myself down next to Mama Murphy, who is—unsurprisingly—vibing hard in her chair like she's already halfway through a chem-induced astral projection.
"Hey there, pup," she says, not even looking at me. "I see the Sight brought you too."
Okay, that's a little weird. Not the creepiest thing I've heard today, but close.
She pats my head gently and mutters something about glowing eyes and a silver thread of fate. Or maybe it was dog hair. Hard to tell.
Honestly? If I'm stuck here, I might as well learn what it's like to take drugs in a Fallout body. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? I get addicted and chew through an entire stash of Jet?
…Actually yeah that sounds exactly like something I'd do.
But for now, I'll just sit here with the creepy oracle grandma and wait for the explosions outside to stop. Let the protagonist earn his XP.
I'll just be here, contemplating the metaphysical implications of dog chems.