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 titanium pierce the last line of defence. 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, and cut-off leather shorts over her expansive rear, with a belt strap over the root of her hefty tail. 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 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 felt wrong that this creature even spoke, let alone seemed in charge of a small outfit of Raiders who had busted your bunker. Her rumbling voice spat her disdainful words, but were 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 lifted her free arm to scan you with her Pip-Boy, grafted in her arm. She printed a sticky red label that read 'MEAT'.