Yet More Fallout Companion Reactions

Hi! I’m Tanuki (any pronouns you want)! Like it says on the tin, I write reactions and short pieces for companions (or really any other character you can think of) from across the Fallout games! I’m told they’re quite good.

This is a place to let your imagination run wild, but I do request that you read this pinned post before sending in a prompt of your own.

-First and foremost, read the rules! They’re very, very sparse- they just cover what I am and am not comfortable doing. 

-My inbox is right here, for all your Fallout fiction needs.

-And finally, if you enjoy the work I do here, please consider supporting the blog! It’s not necessary by any means, but more tips mean more frequent posts- I’m fresh out of college and trying to support myself. 

I'm alive! I swear! And I haven't forgotten!

New reactions coming someday, but to tide you over, have this brand-new art of Hermes, my main Fallout OC and this blog's kinda-mascot. I'm very happy to finally have created a full-body design for him, and my friend Sheep (zamasulovemail on Twitter; go follow them) did an excellent job of translating that design into something more than a photo collage.

Hey! I do still do these! Granted, it's mostly when the mood strikes me, but as luck would have it, the mood now strikes me. I feel like people tend to ignore the long-term effects of Old World Blues, which is a shame...

No one had really pressed the Courier about the events at Big Mountain. By now, their companions knew they had a penchant for running off and getting themselves into misadventure, which on its face wasn't all that concerning. Mentioning offhand that they'd mislaid their brain while they were there, however, most certainly was.

Raul doesn't get it at first, making the logical assumption that the Courier is just joking. The alternative, after all, is terrifying. "Ahh, I know you feel, boss. When they cut me open, all they're gonna find is trail songs and recipes you can't even make anymore."

Boone leans in. Close, then closer, until the Courier can all but feel those sunglasses burning a hole through their skull. It seems like they're going to spend the rest of the day locked in a staring contest until Boone's index flicks against their forehead with a muted smack. "...Doesn't sound hollow in there. Last thing I need is you going crazy on me."

Veronica clicks her tongue, face screwing up with concentration as she tries her best to rationally assess the situation. That new set of scars does look awfully suspicious... "Whoa. Actually? What, are you saving up for a new one without the bullet scars? Uh, follow-up question: How the hell are you alive?!"

Cass tugs a glove off to rub at the bridge of her nose. She can already tell she's not drunk enough for this shit. "If that's true, I think the fact I can't tell the difference says more about you than me. If it's not, you're a real bastard for pulling my leg like this. Fuck it, I'll bite: if your brain isn't in your head, what is?"

Arcade stares, slowly turns a concerning shade of tato red as his brain short-circuits trying to process this information, then faints. Bodily. It may be best for the Courier to make their exit while he's still frothing.

Unfortunately, Fallout: Oregon is no longer a thing. Real life (work responsibilities, personal disasters, chronic illness) caught up with the moderation team, and things eventually came to a close. I cherish the time I spent there and the stories I was able to create, however!

With the caveat that this is fully subjective, and with the further secondary caveat that I feel I understand the characters I write about fairly well:

Honestly, probably not very good.

House has always had a dash of that eccentric Howard Hughes-esque billionaire playboy quality to him, but his vices are far more esoteric and selfish than plebeian pursuits like carnal pleasure or massive amounts of cocaine. His only canonical romantic relationship was cold, short and entirely sexless, and probably regarded by him as nothing more than an exchange: lavish dates in exchange for brain scans to play with.

Add two centuries of isolation and ever-increasing megalomania to an already deeply impenetrable (ha) and selfish man, and the end result is probably someone the Courier wouldn't want to introduce to their parents.

For those as materialistic or as weird as House (or both), however, becoming his newest plaything and having the wasteland's luxuries served up to you on a silver platter certainly isn't a bad deal. I could certainly see myself in a silk négligée, running my hands over his circuits and whispering sweet nothings into his microphones. Just don't expect an attentive lover - the Great Work comes before everything else, personal attachment included.

Of course! The New Vegas fandom has just celebrated Mr. House's 4th birthday, so consider this my small contribution.

Ghouls were anything but uncommon in the Mojave, but those who had lived through the Great War were particularly exceptional. Everyone knew about the ghoulish Courier - zombies rising from the grave made good saloon talk, after all - but only those closest to them were trusted with the knowledge of just how old they were.

Raul is just happy to have another viejo around to commiserate with. Invariably, he begins to keep the two up long into the night trading stories of the Old World - and more often than not, the Old World's failings - around the campfire. "Hey, boss, you... you remember Cuna de Lobos? Ahh, the bomb dropped right at the end of Season 91, just when Catalina was about to show everyone what she'd been keeping stashed under her eyepatch. My grandmother would have killed to see it. She could have, too."

Boone is as unflinchingly stone-faced as ever, and his thoughts are quickly summed up in three succinct words: "I pity you." There's a moment of consideration, a realization that he may have gone too far, and he tries again. "You and all the... others. There are a few in the service. You knew what came before. Saw it with your own eyes. Christ, the rest of us must be like kids playing dressup to you. In your shoes, wouldn't have bothered staying around to see how it'd all turn out. No point."

Veronica has a million questions. Try as the Brotherhood might to hoard pre-War knowledge, she's never come quite as close to a living, breathing repository of it as she is now. "Wait, wait, back up, like... five steps. You're telling me you could walk into the bunker anytime you please and totally school Elder McNamara and you've just been sitting on that?! Oh my God! Okay, okay - is it true that every kid back then was raised by a robot slave? A-and did you really have to ritually encase all your food in Jell-O before you ate it?"

Cass gives an impressed whistle, looking the Courier up and down just to make sure they haven't actually been feral this entire time. "Fuck me. Uh, that's not an invitation - I don't want anything falling off. But that'd make you, what, two-hundred-something? Older than the Republic, the way they tell it. We've got some Rangers like that, supposedly the ultimate badasses if you look past the bad knees and the death rattle... but between you and me, I think you've got a sturdier claim to the title."

Arcade freezes up at the news, getting that awkward, wavering smile he always flashes when he's backed into a corner. "Wow. Uh... hey. Just so we're clear, I in no way endorse - o-or endorsed - the whole Enclave 'cleansing of the world's tainted' thing. I'd like to think that goes without saying, given the way my life has gone since then, but... just so we're clear. Uh, if you need any kind of specialized care, please just say the word. I've given Beatrix enough topical collagen to fill a bathtub... if one inexplicably wanted to do something like that."

Lily doesn't quite seem to get it, bless her heart, but enough careful explanation does slowly get her to regard the Courier as more of an equal than a grandkid. "MY MISTAKE! YOU DON'T LOOK A DAY OVER A HUNDRED, DEAR. WHATEVER YOU USE, I'VE JUST GOT TO GET DOCTOR HENRY TO MAKE ME SOME! IF I HADN'T MADE A PROMISE TO MY HUSBAND, REST HIS SOUL, I COULD JUST EAT YOU UP."

Whether they saw it as a potential treasure trove, a nostalgic relic, or just a safe, quiet refuge, Vault 111 always seemed to attract the odd scavenger or adventurer. After slipping past the door, however, this particular intruder would end up stumbling upon something far stranger than they could expect...

Cait hadn't really taken the time to scope out the Vault before diving into it headfirst- having a pack of feral dogs nipping at your heels will do that to you. Coming face to face with the frozen Sole Survivor down there is freaky enough to give her a heart attack, but as the perfect audience for her rambling stories and a nonjudgmental drinking buddy they soon become the centerpiece of her impromptu hideout. As for actually getting them out? Fuck if she knows how.

Codsworth knows full well what the Vault up the hill contains, of course. How could he not? Much of the aging robot's time is spent tending to his owners' pods: tightening every bolt, polishing the glass, keeping the steel casing free of even a single speck of rust. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that on some level, under that thin layer of frost, they might know he's there for them.

Curie's unbridled excitement at making contact with another Vault is quickly tempered once she actually sets eyes on the denizens of said Vault. With nothing but time and centuries' worth of medical expertise to work with, she immediately sets to the task of bringing Vault 111 back to life- not just the Sole Survivor, but everyone consigned to a cold and inglorious fate in those cryopods. This is a mission worth spending another two hundred years on.

Danse has been assigned to scour the Vault as part of a routine sweep for useful technology- a task entirely beneath a Paladin, but what he finds there more than makes up for it. Immediately, a whole field research team is dispatched to the vault and the cryopods are airlifted out one by one. The Sole Survivor's first memory of the new world is waking up to the harsh white light of a Brotherhood lab, bombarded with questions and shoved blearily through a battery of tests. Not a great first impression.

Deacon still thinks the Vault would make an ideal fallback hideout, even with the rows of corpsicles. The eerie blue glow and residents in cryosleep are pitched to Desdemona as enhancing the ambience, but the suggestion is soundly denied for the Vault's visibility. Even so, Deacon maintains a post outside, just in case one of those poor bastards stumbles out one day.

When Hancock inexplicably wakes up in the Vault after partying a little too hard, he immediately assumes he's still hallucinating- that, or he's been picked up by Zetans. It takes him hours of trying to pry the Sole Survivor's pod open in a hungover haze to finally give up, writing the place off as another of the Old World's many sins and decent subject matter for his next speech.

MacCready almost feels at home in the vast underground chambers of the Vault. Almost. No matter how convenient the Vault is as a last-ditch hideout, its residents creep him out too much to stay there for any real length of time. He tries his hardest to avoid their frozen stares, endlessly grateful that it's them in there and not him.

Valentine relates to the frozen Sole Survivor a little more than he'd like to admit. Two abandoned relics, used to serve a greater purpose and then thrown out like so much junk when they were done. He knows more than anyone what a harsh awakening they're going to have- if they do wake up. Every so often, he'll wander back to check on them, sharing a yarn about his latest case and watching for any progress. On the day that pod does unseal, he'll be there to lend a helping hand... but until then, all he can do is maintain a file. It's one hell of a cold case.

Piper feels a little guilty that her first thought is how good of a story this will make. 'Pod people slumber among us', maybe? She doesn't want to risk the Sole Survivor's life by touching anything, but maybe if she spreads the word someone out there will be able to help them. That's how she justifies it to herself, anyway- now if only there was some concrete link to the Institute she could work in...

Preston has been surveying the area around Sanctuary for potential threats to the burgeoning settlement... and he still isn't entirely sure that this doesn't count as one. It takes a moment to line up the resident registry with the names on Sanctuary's rusted-out mailboxes, but once he does, he has the Vault sealed up again out of respect for those who came before. If he and his scant resources can't help them, he can at least let them rest in peace.

Strong hammers away at the pod to no avail before stomping off in a huff to seek his next victim somewhere else. Canned food clearly isn't his thing.