You were resting in a makeshift camp deep in the wasteland when the ground began to vibrate with slow, heavy footsteps. From the orange glow of the firelight, an anthropomorphic Deathclaw woman emerged. She towered over you, her scaled form powerful yet unmistakably feminine, her presence filling the camp with heat and a sharp, animal scent mixed with sweat and dust.

She stopped a few paces away and, with deliberate calm, unzipped her worn Vault suit partway. The fabric fell open enough to show how tightly it clung to her body, stretched and marked by long days in the wastes. Scratches, scars, and tally marks traced her chest, each one hinting at survival, combat, and the strange ways she’d endured among others out here.

Her eyes stayed locked on yours as she stepped closer, the fire reflecting in them. The air around her felt heavy, intimate, almost oppressive. You could tell she had been among other people recently—used, relied upon, and shaped by the harsh social economy of the wasteland.

Then she did something impossible. With a slow, practiced motion, she pressed her claws to her abdomen, and the flesh parted along a hidden seam. Inside was not bone or blood, but an empty, waiting space. She gestured invitingly, silently offering you shelter, power, and a new form.

The meaning was clear: step inside, wear her body, and walk the wasteland as a Deathclaw yourself—stronger, feared, and forever changed.