You know, it's weird. I haven't really thought about my old life much. My mum, my grandparents… I always figured I'd be gutted if I ever moved away. Like, proper homesick.
But… I don't miss them. Not really.
I don't miss my job. I don't miss my barely-decorated flat that always smelled vaguely like damp and regret. I don't miss the way my mum would always say I could be doing more, like ambition was a subscription service I hadn't paid for yet.
The few friends I had? Nice people. Mostly. But if I vanished from their lives, they'd probably just assume I ghosted them and shrug it off with a "classic."
And my body? I thought I'd mourn it more. But apart from the obvious loss of thumbs—and okay, opposable fingers were a vibe—I don't actually miss it that much.
I mean… this one works. Sort of.
Maybe it says something kind of depressing that turning into a dog in the apocalypse isn't actually the worst thing that's ever happened to me.
I didn't really have a life before. Just… existing. Day by day, paycheck to paycheck. No plan. No savings. No future. Just grey carpets and overpriced instant noodles.
This might actually be the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Sad, really.
But hey—maybe I can actually make a difference here. Affect people's lives. Be more than background noise in my own story.
Hell, maybe I'll become General Dogmeat of the Minutemen. Wouldn't that be something? I'll be out there giving rallying speeches with my tail wagging and a bandana around my neck like some kind of scruffy war hero.
…Right after I finish turning an entire neighbourhood into scrap.
Speaking of which—
Codsworth is now setting his corpse-and-bloatfly pile on fire with his flamethrower. Pretty sure he poured something on it first because holy hell, that thing is going up like napalm on a barbecue.
I just stare at it for a second, unsure if I should be impressed or horrified.
Maybe both.
He is way too cheery for what he's doing. Just humming and sweeping up scorched bones and melted bloatfly goo like it's bloody Sunday brunch prep. Meanwhile, I'm elbows-deep—wait, I don't have elbows. I'm shoulder-deep in trash and rusted-out post-apocalyptic nonsense.
Anyway, I keep at it. Scraping. Tearing down fences, collapsing mailboxes, and disassembling broken-down bathtubs. Every can, every door, every fence, every vaguely physics-enabled object gets lovingly vaporized into raw materials by the workshop.
It took me all fucking day.
By the end of it, I'd scraped the entire settlement down to the studs. Sanctuary Hills looks less like a quaint suburban ruin and more like someone tried to speedrun minimalism.
But damn if it wasn't worth it.
Over 3,000 wood, 1,200 steel, hundreds of concrete, plastic, rubber, glass, and cloth—I basically own Home Depot now.
And the rarer stuff? 17 gears, 19 aluminium, springs, circuitry, adhesive—I'm basically one more bloatfly carcass away from inventing a Tesla coil.
This is enough to get me good. Maybe even build a defensible shack that doesn't look like it was put together by a half-blind raider on a time crunch.
Maybe this is where it really starts. Maybe I'm not just a mutt in a wasteland anymore.
Maybe I'm a builder now.
A very fluffy, radioactive builder.
Well, at least until I actually build something.
Which… I'll do right now!
A sleeping bag. Just a ratty old blue one, plopped right in the middle of the Sole Survivor's bombed-out living room like it belongs there. It smells faintly of mildew and scorched polyester, but you know what? It's mine now. My weird little bedroll of dignity.
I circle it a couple times—because instincts are a bitch—and finally flop down. My paws ache, my head's still trying to wrap itself around this whole "video game HUD is real" situation, and Codsworth is still out there somewhere, probably singing Sinatra to a burnt-out mailbox.
Whatever. I'm done.
I curl up, let my tail wrap over my nose, and finally let sleep take me to see Lord Morpheus in his plush, pillow-filled realm.
If I dream of anything, I hope it's warm food and opposable thumbs.
-
I stretch, limbs stiff and tail twitching, then yawn wide enough to unhinge a bear trap. My jaw makes a little pop sound and Codsworth, ever vigilant and uncomfortably chipper, immediately clocks that I'm awake.
"Ah! Good morning, pup!" he floats over like a hovering kettle of sunshine. "You'll be delighted to know I've managed to salvage what I believe to be food—technically! A delightful medley of pre-war cereal flakes, and the less-exploded bits of bloatfly. Quite the breakfast smorgasbord!"
He proudly presents a rusted tin plate full of… well, something. It looks like a war crime. Smells like one too. Somewhere between burnt sugar, death, and old shoe.
"I call it… Bug à la Breakfast! Bon appétit!"
I stare at the offering, then at him. He's so earnest, it's painful. He honestly tried. I give it a tentative sniff.
It could be worse. Could be Cram.
I take a bite.
It crunches.
There is… texture. Unpleasant, yet strangely compelling. Like someone deep-fried a cicada and sprinkled it over stale dog food. But honestly? As bad as it is, I'm pretty sure this isn't the worst thing out there. Not by a long shot.
So I eat the whole lot.
Dignity's dead, and I'm hungry. We don't exactly have a Sainsbury's nearby.
Once my noble feast is devoured, I stretch again, lick a leg clean for the illusion of hygiene, and trot off to get started on the real work—building my very first base!
Which I… promptly half-ass.
Don't judge me.
Instead of carefully placing walls or planning out some grand post-apocalyptic fortress of solitude, I just slap down one of those big metal prefab buildings straight out of the workshop menu. One click, bam, it lands like a prefab UFO squashing the hopes of subtle architecture.
Codsworth nearly drops his buzzsaw.
"My word!" he blurts, jetting backwards a full meter. "What in the name of General Atomics just happened?! Did you build that?!"
I look at him, tail swaying innocently, and give the canine equivalent of a shrug. What, never seen a dog materialise a shed from thin air?
"It's… structurally sound," he mutters, floating cautiously around the perimeter. "Though I must say, I've never seen construction like this. No tools, no nails, not even a hammer! And yet… There it is."
He peers down at me, a little worried. "Pup… are you possessed?"
I give him a deadpan look and trot inside like I didn't just bend the laws of physics with one thought. The place is empty and echoey—cold metal floors, no furniture, just a shell. But it's mine. My very own shoddy little prefab castle.
And best of all?
No rent.
I start with the basics. Decor. Because if I'm going to be a sentient dog in a radioactive hellhole, I'd like my feet to not feel like they're being assaulted by tetanus and bad decisions.
So, rugs.
Simple, faded blue rugs—stitched together from what I'm assuming used to be someone's curtains, funeral clothes, or possibly a Vault-Tec welcome mat. I lay them down across the cold metal floor. My paws immediately thank me.
Next up: a bed.
A real bed. Metal frame, ancient mattress, the kind of thing that would be considered a health hazard in my old life but is now basically luxury real estate. It creaks when I walk on it, but it holds, and that's more than I can say for my mental state.
Then I go full HGTV apocalypse edition and hang some naked light bulbs from the ceiling. Because nothing says "post-nuclear chic" like exposed filament mood lighting.
And—because I'm apparently cosplaying as Preston Garvey's fever dream—I slap a Minutemen flag on the wall. No real reason. It just felt right. Like some weird primal instinct to wave blue fabric around and pretend I'm organised.
Now, lights need power, and we're not savages, so I step outside, plop down a small generator, a power line pole, and a big chunky switch. I connect it all together with a couple of nods and a mental click, and bam—the lights inside hum to life like magic.
And I do mean magic.
No wires. No soldering. Just Fallout logic working in real-time. Thank God I don't actually have to wire anything properly. If I did, I'd probably electrocute myself and become the world's first glowing German Shepherd.
All of this? Done in five minutes flat. No tools. No hands. Just willpower, a UI menu, and a lot of leftover cloth.
Throughout this entire process, Codsworth just stares. Floating a few feet off the ground, the buzz saw idles, flame attachment hanging limp. If he had a jaw, it'd be on the floor. If he had eyes, they'd be wide. He's hovering like he just watched a house be born from a sneeze.
"I…" he starts, then stops. "Pup… did you just build electricity?"
I give him a look. You're damn right I did.
"And the flag? And the… the bed? The rugs?"
I nod. Tail wag. Very professional.
"I… I was not informed that dogs could do that."
Neither was I, buddy. Neither was I.
Sadly, there are limits.
Turns out, even in a magical wasteland where I can build a fully wired prefab house with my mind, some things are still locked behind progress walls. Specifically, perks.
I can't build turrets. I can't set up advanced defences. I can't even make a decent water purifier without the game gently patting me on the head and saying, "Sorry, sweetie, come back when you've got Science! rank 1."
And to get perks? I need to level up.
And to level up, I need a Pip-Boy.
Or, as I'm now calling it: a Pup-Boy.
(Patent pending. Branding is everything in the apocalypse.)
The problem is, the only one nearby is in Vault 111. And I can't exactly get in there unless Nate or Nora pops out and the vault finally lifts lockdown. Not unless I want to chew through a metric ton of titanium alloy and hope the Overseer forgot to lock the back door.
Spoiler: He didn't.
So for now, I'm stuck with basic tools, basic building, and a suspiciously advanced knowledge of how to make electrical circuits work using psychic dog powers. It's fine. Everything's fine. Totally normal.
At least Codsworth probably sees me as more than a mutt now. I think the moment I lit up the prefab with working electricity, a small part of his pre-programmed brain had an existential crisis.
He's still floating around the place muttering things like,
"Dogs… weren't on the compatibility list… were they?"
Good. Let him stew.
I lounge a bit longer, watching the lights flicker overhead like budget fairy lights, but eventually, the thought creeps in: Maybe I should head to Concord?
There's loot. There's XP. There's a path forward.
But also: gunfire.
And raiders.
And the very real possibility that I'll end up with so much lead in me I'll weigh more than a Brahmin and set off every Geiger counter from here to Nuka-World.
So… maybe not yet.
Maybe I'll loot the rest of Sanctuary first. Maybe I'll see if there's anything else I can build. Maybe I figure out how to craft dog armour and lean into this whole post-apocalyptic Lassie-meets-Bob-the-Builder thing I've got going on.
Or maybe I just nap on my new mattress and pretend I'm not about to become a chew toy for the Concord raider gang.
Both sound like valid options.