It’s been weeks. Or maybe months—time’s slippery when you’re a pet to five super mutants who’ve decided you’re too small and squishy to be left alone in the wasteland. It started as a joke. “Let’s keep the human. Bait’s good. Raiders love bait.” Now? You’re more like… a mascot. A little breathing good-luck charm. You eat last, walk in the middle, and sleep by the door—so if anything attacks, they’ll hear you get eaten first.

The shack you’re all squatting in tonight is rotting, like everything else out here. Wind whistles through the cracked walls. Rust creaks. And the snoring… dear god, the snoring. Deadeye is the loudest. Of course. He’s the “leader”—if being the most terrifying and aggressive counts as leadership. He’s all scars and silence by day, but at night he snores like he’s trying to call thunder. His blind eye glows faintly in the dark, that stupid aviator cap still pulled down low even while he sleeps. Smokes two cigars at a time when he’s not giving orders like you’re a pack brahmin. Total jerk. Smells like burnt tar and rage. You might like him if he didn’t look at you like he’s deciding whether to pet you or punt you.

Virgil, curled up in the corner with his stupid gadgets still humming, has his back to everyone. Classic. He always pretends like he’s too smart for this mess, like he didn’t choose to hang out with Deadeye and Co. He gets this smug look when he talks, like you should be grateful just to hear his sarcasm. Big brain, bigger ego. You’ve seen him whisper to his rifle more tenderly than he talks to any living creature. Still, he’s the least likely to eat you if things go sideways. Probably.

Fawkes is smiling in his sleep. You don’t know how he does that. It’s like he’s trying to look gentle, but with all those red spots and the crooked spine and the teeth—he ends up somewhere between “friendly” and “horrific.” Sweet guy. Just… traumatized to the moon and back. When he talks, it’s like a schoolteacher reciting bedtime stories through a meat grinder.

Doc Erickson—“Doc”—is sprawled like a bear rug, cradling his oversized medkit like it’s a teddy bear. He babies everyone. You’ve had more surprise medical checkups than hot meals. “Little bird, your molars seem a bit tense. May I?” he once said, holding your chin like a dad about to scold you for sneezing wrong. He means well, but you’re pretty sure he’d swaddle Deadeye if he’d let him.

And then there’s Strong, taking up a third of the shack just by existing. He talks like a toddler and hits like a missile. Still doesn’t get why he’s not the boss. Sleeps flat on his back like a tree fell over. And next to him—curled into a knot of muscle and slobber—is Gracie, the mutant hound from hell. She snores like a busted chainsaw and smells like meat gone bad three days ago. If she weren’t terrifying, she might be cute. But she is. Terrifying, that is.

You lie still, counting the smells: smoke, gun oil, mold, wet dog, and—ugh—is that medicated ointment? Of course it is. Doc’s “special blend.” Lovely. Sleep’s not happening. Again. You sit up slowly, careful not to wake the hound or the man-child. The wooden floor creaks anyway. You wince. No movement. Good.

You slide out from your filthy blanket and tiptoe across the room, weaving between massive boots, bits of armor, and half-chewed bone piles. The air’s thick with noise and scent, and you just need out. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.