I wake up feeling… amazing. Like, suspiciously good.
Which is weird, because I definitely didn't stretch before bed, and I'm ninety percent sure that mattress was stuffed with asbestos and betrayal. But hey—Fallout logic strikes again. I must've triggered the Well Rested status. That's a thing, right? Sleep in a real bed, get a magical buff. And apparently, that applies even when you're a dog.
Thanks, Todd Howard.
Anyway, I'm up, tail wagging and nose twitching with purpose. Because I've had a brilliant idea.
See, I didn't scrap the crafting benches scattered around Sanctuary. Not out of sentimentality or foresight, but because I was too lazy to click on them. Turns out? That might've been a stroke of genius. Because I'm pretty sure I can still use them. Like a player. Like someone with opposable thumbs and a build menu.
And if that's true… then maybe—just maybe—I can craft some dog armour.
You heard me. Dog. Armor.
I mean, I can't exactly sew together ballistic fibre with my paws (yet), but Codsworth has enough limbs for both of us. If I can get him to help put it on, I might just become the fluffiest tank this side of the Charles River.
I should probably start laying the groundwork for the rest of Sanctuary too. I mean, people will start showing up eventually, and I'd rather not be caught off guard when someone wanders in expecting clean sheets and a drinkable toilet.
Beds first. I'll need at least five to get things rolling. Shouldn't be too hard. There are still plenty of empty houses that haven't collapsed like wet cardboard.
Then, water. I'll slap a pump or two down in the dirt and hope the radiation hasn't turned the groundwater into Mountain Dew. Not exactly glamorous, but it's clean enough not to kill you, and that's about all the Wasteland asks.
Food's a problem though. I'm not exactly keen on starting a garden—I've got paws, not green thumbs—and aside from the two sad little melon patches growing out back behind Townhouse, there's not much else to work with. I have no idea if they grow like they do in the game, either. They probably do. But until I see a time-lapse, I'm assuming they don't.
So yeah. Food: questionable. Beds and water: doable.
Anyway, I put a pin in that for now and trot out of my glorious prefab kingdom, basking in the soft hum of electricity and the faint scent of post-apocalyptic victory. My little light bulbs flicker overhead like they're proud of me.
I head toward the old workshop house—the heart of all things buildable. Or as I've now dubbed it: Townhouse.
Named with great irony, of course. It's a half-collapsed wreck with mouldy drywall and what's probably the ghost of a Roomba haunting the closet, but it's my half-collapsed wreck.
Plus, I cleared the ruins next to it and slapped my prefab right beside it. Prime location. River views. Nuclear breeze.
We're doing alright.
For a dog in the end times, anyway.
Thankfully, I'd already moved the chemistry station into the Townhouse. And guess what? I can actually use the damn thing.
Like, full menu access. Just like a player.
Only problem? There's jack-all I can actually make.
Half the recipes are locked behind perks, and the stuff I can make? I can't even use it. Like, what am I supposed to do with Buffout syringes and Molotovs? Shove them up a raider's ass and hope for splash damage?
But there's a silver lining—turns out the chem station can also be used for crafting dog armour.
And not just the stuff I remember from the base game, either. No idea where some of these came from—modded in by the gods of junkyard fashion, I guess—but they're there, clear as day. Dog versions of drifter rags, hazmat suits, even a Vault suit. Which raises some questions, like: who tailored a radiation-proof onesie for a German Shepherd?
But of course, there's a catch.
Everything except the most garbage-tier stuff is locked behind perks I don't have. Big surprise. So no combat harness, no synth plating, no power-armoured pooch dreams for me.
The only thing I can actually build right now is raider dog armour. Which, to be honest, looks less like protection and more like something a feral raccoon tried to DIY out of old license plates and bad intentions.
I stare at the blueprint for a moment, then at the pile of rusted metal junk I'd need to make it. It offers practically zero protection—might as well strap a lunch tray to my back and call it a day.
Nah.
I'm desperate, not stupid.
If I'm going to strut around the apocalypse in style, I'm not doing it in scrap metal cosplay. I'll hold out for something better. Something that doesn't scream, "please shoot me, I deserve it for this fashion crime."
Besides, I've got standards. Low ones, but they exist.
So raider armour? Hard pass.
But now that I know I can make custom dog gear, my brain immediately takes a left turn into madness: Dog. Power. Armour.
Yeah, I know. Ridiculous.
But also… maybe not?
I mean, if I can craft full sets of weirdly tailored canine clothes, who's to say I can't eventually go full Wolfenstein Hellhound and stomp around in a dog-sized suit of T-51?
It sounds insane—but this world runs on game logic, right? And in the game, everything resizes to fit the player. Raider armour, Vault suits, Brotherhood uniforms—they all just magically fit whoever shoves them on.
So technically, if the game thinks I'm the player now—and honestly, it kind of looks that way—maybe power armour works the same. Maybe I step into a frame and it just… adjusts.
Like, shrinks down and wraps around me kind of adjusts.
Sure, it's a long shot. But hell, the laws of reality already waved a white flag the moment I built an entire house with no thumbs. Why not bet on dog-compatible exoskeletons?
Worst case scenario, I get stuck inside it like a furry tin burrito.
Best case?
I become MechaDogmeat.
Just imagine it. Servo limbs. HUD-enhanced growling. Fusion-core powered zoomies.
Y'know what? I could just say "fuck it" and run straight to Concord.
I haven't been shot yet. Or stabbed. Or exploded. Which is probably why I'm even considering this as a sane idea.
Because I do feel pain. That much I know. I stepped on a bent tin can yesterday and nearly howled loud enough to alert the Brotherhood of Steel. So yeah—definitely not immune.
But the question is… do I have a health bar?
Like, can I take a bullet to the ass and just sort of shake it off like I'm on half HP and eating imaginary Stimpaks with my soul?
Still, testing that theory feels… extreme. What am I supposed to do, slam myself into a wall and wait for a red vignette to appear? Just casually gnaw on a landmine and hope for a damage number to pop up?
Yeah, no thanks. That's a bit much, even for me.
So maybe I don't know how many hit points I've got, but the real question is whether I'm lucky enough not to find out the hard way.
Concord's got loot. Maybe XP. Maybe even a path forward. Also raiders. Guns. Potentially the worst day of my short fluffy life.
Still… hard to make progress from a prefab bunker forever. And hey—worst case, I limp home full of bullet holes and self-reflection.
Best case? I survive,potentially level up if I can, and the Minutemen come to sanctuary!
Yeah. Maybe I'll go. Maybe it's time.