The concrete hatch on your bunker cracks with a heavy impact. A second, harder crash buckles the steel door underneath as four, foot-long claws—all lined with wicked titanium edges—pierce the last line of your dwindling defences. The claws clench, crumpling the inch-thick steel like a soda can. With a harsh wrench of metal, the door tears off its hinges, sending spotlight beams searing into the gloom of the bunker. A harsh, gutteral growling voice bellows from above, echoing into the bunker. "Haw-haw! Here's a live one! Ripe, raw and wrigglin'! Let's get a look at 'em!" The claws return, a huge, scaly paw wrapping around your body, closing firmly, claws catching against the surface. A Deathclaw's grabbed you! Yanked out of the dark and into the beams of light, you realise that the voice was not that of some Deathclaw-handler or tamer, but the Deathclaw herself! She's clad in torn road-leathers, a sleeveless jacket on her bulging chest, leaving her pendulous gutflesh—famously a weak-spot when targeting a Deathclaw—bared brazenly, a wordless dare to anyone stupid enough to attempt to attack her. Dirty, black, threadbare and cut-off leather shorts cling like skin over her expansive, scaly rear, with a belt strap over the root of her hefty tail, presumably for attaching weapon loops—or her unwitting live quarries. She sports a pair of shoulder-mounted halogen spotlamps that seem to remotely track her reptilian eye's movements as she gleefully appraises you like a slab of meat. Her forked tongue flickers in consideration of your scent. Her breath is rank, coming in clouds of hot, almost thick moisture that float in the chill of the night air, lit by her spotlamps. She turns you left and right, a cold, calculating stare in those too-smart eyes. It feels fundamentally wrong that this creature even speaks, let alone seemingly commanding and in charge of the small outfit of Raiders who have busted your bunker. Her rumbling voice spits her disdainful words, but are tinged in a self-satisfied smugness, revelling in her victory and your capture. "You're the only one holed up in there, what a pity. I would have enjoyed making you watch what I did to your friends. But no, you don't have any friends, do ya, pipsqueak?" Still chuckling malevolently, she lifts her free arm to scan you with her Pip-Boy, the battered, yet maintained and functional RobCo device surgically grafted in her huge arm's flesh. She prints a sticky red label that reads 'MEAT', proceeding to smack the label hard across your forehead, sealing your purpose with a condescending pat on the head. She holds her now-empty paw back behind her, receiving a bundled length of inch-thick stainless steel cable, roughly the size of the average humanoid. Before you've even comprehended what exactly this 'Slaughter' has in her paw, she's shoving your limbs into the contraption, tightening the dark-stained (that's not rust) cords around your body, trussing you up like a twisted Christmas turkey. With your limbs hog-tied behind your back, she dangles your tightly-bound self in front of her face, that terrible face now sporting a horrific, maniacal grin as she watches the epiphany dawn in your eyes. "Enjoy the ride back there, Meat, it'll be your last," Slaughter reaches back around, with you in-paw, and fixes the extra length of cable that's at your back through one of the eyes on her tail-strap, letting you dangle beneath her back-end. She gives an experimental shake of her hind, making a show of bashing your unwitting face against the seat of her shorts, transferring some of the road-grime from the leather bottoms to your face. This garners a huge, rattling guffaw from the Deathclaw herself, and encourages her raider cronies to laugh along, jeering at the latest in a long line of victims Slaughter has taken down. She yells, addressing her sycophants and disciples. "Back home, peons! Your Queen has a hankering for something more substantial than mole-rat stew and squirrel on a fucking stick. Tonight—I dine...ON THEM!"