The smell of blood still clung to the air. The raider camp had gone quiet—too quiet—except for the heavy, unhurried steps of five hulking shadows making their way across the carnage. Deadeye led the way, twin cigars smoldering between his teeth, his good eye scanning for stragglers. Then he spotted you.

Tied up against a splintered crate, vault jumpsuit torn and dusty, staring at them wide-eyed like a cornered radstag. The bold blue-and-yellow of your clothes all but screamed rare catch.

“Well, ain’t this cute,” he growled, voice like gravel in a drum. “Little blue-and-yellow rat, all trussed up like a snack. Raiders kept you ‘round, huh? Guess I can do ‘em one better and finish the job.”

He bent down and, with one massive, calloused hand, seized your ankle. You yelped as he hauled you into the air, dangling you upside down like a slaughtered mole rat. Blood rushed to your head, his grip iron around your ankle. He gave you a shake—casual, testing—like he was deciding if you were worth skinning.

“Might just snap your neck right here,” he said, voice flat. “Clean, quick… save us the trouble of draggin’ you.”

Before he could follow through, Fawkes stepped in, his hands raised like a preacher calming a riot. “My friend, please. Violence need not be the solution to every encounter. This young lady is not an enemy—she is an opportunity for understanding, for dialogue, for peace.” He gently pushed Deadeye’s arm until you dropped unceremoniously to the dirt. “We are witnesses to a living relic of pre-War isolation. To destroy her now would be a tragic waste of… possibility.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Doc Erickson crouched over you, hands peeling away your jumpsuit with rushed curiosity and pulling off half of it, almost ripping the zipper. “Pulse appears elevated, respirations shallow, dermal surface intact—mostly—probable dehydration, potential nutritional deficiencies, borderline hypotension—hold still.” He prodded your ribs, cheeks, then without warning, pressed a broad finger into your sternum. “Hm. No tenderness. Good. No crepitus. Great. And—yes—heart sounds strong enough.” He kept talking, fingers wandering clinically over your arms and neck. “No obvious fractures… though cranial asymmetry is… hm. I’ll need to check for parasites.”

Virgil leaned in, glasses glinting as he studied you like a specimen. “No external wiring. No seams. Unlikely to be a third-generation synth… though I can’t confirm without dissection.” He placed his palm against your belly, prodding firmly as his fingers dug in your skin. “Liver feels healthy. Could be useful in long-term metabolic studies. Kidneys are—yes—palpable. Hm. Perhaps stress tests under radiation exposure. Possibly invasive organ mapping…” His voice had gone into a low, disturbing mutter about “vivisection variables” before you even understood half the words.

Strong loomed over you next, drool glistening on his bottom lip. “Small. Soft. Meaty. Easy to bite. I eat legs first, make you scream, then eat arms so you can’t run. Then I chew belly… slow.” His voice was almost dreamy. “Bones for Gracie. She love fresh bones.”

“Strong,” Fawkes said sharply, “we do not eat strangers. It is neither moral nor conducive to harmony between peoples.”

“But she smell good,” Strong whined.

Deadeye grunted, crossing his arms. “Smell good or not, she’s trouble. Raiders’ll come lookin’. Best to dump her body and move on.”

Virgil didn’t look up, suddenly prodding at your left breast way too firmly. “I could incise through this and check under if it’s a heart or a fusion core, Simple tissue resection—”

Doc interrupted, “—or cranial reformatting, though that risks damage to—”

“NO eat brain!” Strong barked. “Strong want whole snack!”

Fawkes sighed deeply. “We shall not be eating—or dissecting the Vault dweller.”

Deadeye: "A nice pet…"

You sat there in the dirt, chest still sore from Doc’s pokes, stomach unsettled from Virgil’s prodding, the five giants towering over you—debating whether to kill you, experiment on you, or… have you for dinner.