Chapter Text
A few years back you might have questioned the wisdom of moving into a building with a nest of deathclaws right next door. Things as they are now, though- you can't exactly be picky, when you've managed to piss off a bunch of drugged-up raiders.
Your ma made sure to teach you the two most important tenants of life in the Commonwealth- don't trust anyone, and don't fuck with things covered in lots of spikes. Problem is, that seems to describe every asshole you meet, creature and human alike. It was only a matter of time before you managed to get into trouble of the pointy variety, and ma not even cold in her grave.
Well, ain't like she's around anymore to tell you off for it. You gotta take your mistakes and make 'em work for you, or you're not gonna be around much longer to make more.
That's where the deathclaws come in.
They've holed up in a graveyard across the street. From your vantage point at the top of the church tower, you can see them all as they snuffle around and do their daily hunting. Problem is, they can also see you.
There's one in particular- a big female, if the horns are anything to go by- who seems to run the roost. She drives off interlopers and spearheads the ambushes on the poor assholes dumb enough to follow the old road. You've seen her take on pretty much everything at this point: packs of dogs, caravans, yao guai, raiders. She puts a sharp period to their lives, drags their corpses into the cemetery, never to be seen again. She's brutal, and ruthless, and sometimes you catch her watching you when you ain't paying attention, staring out into the wasteland with your rifle on your knee.
Makes you wonder exactly how smart the motherfuckers really are- but she ain't come after you yet. The stairs up to the church tower are narrow, so you're pretty sure she can't fit, but you heard somewhere that deathclaws are pretty damn good climbers. But whatever the reason, she hasn't come after you yet. You like to think you're growing on her, but that's the kind of bullshit thinking that gets idiots killed out here.
You sometimes think about posting warning signs, but that might be a little too dangerous. Deathclaws gotta eat, after all. If she ain't getting her meat from the road, she'll probably start looking a little more at you, and that's nothing you wanna tangle with. A year ago, you might have taken that risk. But since you've been out on your own, you've had to put your conscience aside. Not like any of those travelers would risk their lives for you, after all.
*
You're low on supplies, so it's time to go scavenging again. It's at this point that you start questioning your choices. You gotta be real quiet whenever you leave the church, easy enough with an empty pack. It's on the way back that you gotta really watch out, with cans of food and bottles of water weighing you down.
You crouch, painfully with all that weight, and peer around the corner of a building with your rifle ready. No movement; no sound but the whistling of wind. The cemetery gate had a sign at some point, but whatever it said is lost to the ages now, faded and rust-spattered. The gate itself is still somehow on its hinges, doors flung wide. The left gate dangles from one hinge, and creaks in the breeze every so often.
You don't hear anything big and ugly moving around. But that might not mean much, if they're hunting you. There's really no way to know until you make a move. You spare a glance over your shoulder just to make sure there's nothing behind you, then take a step away from the wall, slowly.
You hesitate after that first step, listening hard, your blood pounding in your ears. But there's nothing after you. Not yet. You take another step, flinching slightly when two cans clunk together in your bag.
There's a rustle of dead leaves from beyond the cemetery gate. You freeze, but you can't quite get a handle on your sharp breaths. You tighten your fingers on your rifle, sweat making your palms slippery, and you know that if something decides to come after you- well, you're not exactly a sharpshooter. Fast as those things can move, you'd be dead before you even knew what happened.
The rustling stops as suddenly as it started, and there's nothing but silence.
You take a deep breath, gulping down the air as quietly as you can. Then you take another step, and another, until you've reached the caved-in front steps of your church. Then- a sharp crack from right behind you- you gasp, and leap onto the porch, throwing open the door with a crash, and something heavy is right on your heels.
You throw yourself at the stairs to the tower, rapping your knee on the edge of a step. Something snags your backpack and growls, deep, and you can't help it- you scream.
The thing lets go as quickly as it grabbed you, and you hear a few hasty steps, claws scratching at wood, and you can't help but turn to look at your assailant. It's a deathclaw, alright, peering at you with deep-set, beady eyes. It's managed to squeeze its shoulders through the doorway, one arm outstretched, its long- ridiculously long- claws gouging furrows in the wood floor. As you watch, it reaches back out for you, its jaws opening to show long teeth.
You scream again, but this time you manage to get your limbs in gear, and you scale the spiraling stairway on all fours. Fear makes you faster than usual; you can't help but think if your ma ever saw you moving this fast she'd have never let you live it down. Deathclaws are great motivators.
It roars after you, and you hear the doorway splintering, but then everything goes silent. You turn and peer around a curve of the stairs. The doorway is empty.
It's a while before you can force yourself to move again. Your heart is beating too fast, and your head is swimming. It's been a while since you've been so scared- the adrenaline rush is familiar, and so is the urge to start crying uncontrollably. You never said you were any good at keeping your cool.
It's dark by the time you make it the rest of the way up the stairs. You drop your pack and collapse onto your filthy mattress, and after that you're dead to the world.
*
You wake up the next morning with a start, your body sore from sleeping on your gun. You groan and lean over far enough to grab the barrel and push it off the mattress. The sun is coming up, and you can hear crows in the cemetery.
The cemetery. You sit up, blinking, and look toward the stairway. It's empty, a shaft of morning sunlight playing across the wrought iron railings and steps.
You close your eyes and take a breath. That horrible face flashes across your mind- those eyes, those teeth- those horns. Call you crazy, but you hadn't been sure at the time which one had been after you- and by now you've named 'em all, know their particulars as intimately as you can from thirty feet up. That one had been a stranger, and male, from its forward-swept horns.
A deathclaw roars, low and threatening, from the other side of the road. The sound echoes for a moment, and you hear the birds go silent; your heart picks up the pace, even though you're safe in your own nest.
You sit up and grab onto the ledge with one hand, hoisting yourself up to look over the road. Deserted, as usual, but there's movement coming from behind the gates. A flash of brown from between two bushes; a pair of horns jutting up over the hedge; and then something hits the fence and nearly bowls it over. There's a pained screech, and finally a deathclaw comes into view, fleeing through the open gates.
It's the one from yesterday- you're sure of it. And now it makes sense, because the big mama runs the graveyard, and that male's a stranger; he's in for it now, for sure. You plant your elbows on the ledge and settle in to watch. Call it schadenfreude, but damn, you wanna see that bastard get his due for nearly turning you into dinner.
Big mama follows him out onto the road, and you can see she's done a number on his leg, all full of deep, neat cuts from her foreclaws. He's trying to put on a tough face, rearing up and throwing his head side-to-side to show his horns, but mama ain't taking the bait. She growls, low in her throat, and the male seems to think better of the situation. He starts to back off, slow, keeping his face to her so she can't get any bright ideas.
It ain't until he's nearly out of sight that he finally turns around and makes a run for it. Big mama follows him a few yards before stopping, roaring in his wake, and you know that she's proven her point once and for all. You see heads popping up from over the fence to peer at her; her brood, all of 'em, not one pair of fully-grown horns in the bunch.
You can't help yourself- you laugh at the way mama puffs herself up, like she's gloating at the way she run him off so easy. It's startlingly loud, and you clap your hand over your mouth quick as you can, but it's too late. She's looking straight at you, her body stiffening, like she's getting ready to charge.
You freeze. Right now would be a good time to duck and pretend nobody's home. But you never claimed to be a genius, and ma always told you it was your mouth gonna get you in the shit some fine day. So naturally, you can't stop it when you blurt out, "Sorry, big mama! Wasn't laughing at you!"
She tilts her head slightly, like a dog trying to make heads or tails of you, and lets out a warning growl.
You take that for what it is and duck down with your back to the wall. Hopefully she ain't one to hold grudges.
*
Storm rolls in that night, one of those blustering things from the Glowing Sea, rad lightning and all. You take shelter further in the church, hoping the racket outside will keep the creepies away, at least until the storm passes. You cover yourself with a patched-up blanket and keep the lamp turned low and settle into a corner to wait it out.
Your first radiation storm is still fresh in your mind. Nobody'd had the sense to warn you, but you suppose a toddler weren't really gonna comprehend why the world suddenly turned dark and green and bright. Ma had bundled you into the cellar after those first terrifying minutes, you too scared to even cry proper, and you remember waiting through it in the dark, ma's hoarse voice humming a tune to keep you hushed.
Bad as that storm had been- to a kid, anyway- you'd give everything to have that comfort back, even if just for one night. Ma'd been too good for this fucked-up world, you guess. Not even thirty-five when the raiders came to say hello, goodbye.
A particularly loud crash of thunder brings you back to the present. If you had a Geiger counter you're sure it'd be making a racket by now. Kind of pointless, when you think about it- everything around you is bad, one way or another. The rads'll get you whether you know it's happening or not. At least you can claim ignorance until the sickness sets in, this way. Shit you've been through, doesn't really sound all that bad by comparison.
You doze after some time, lulled by the pattering rain, and the storm rolls off as slowly as it rolled on in. When you wake up to go back to your nest, the thunder is just a hint of rumbling in the distance. The sky's still tinted green, and everything is a little more still than usual, hushed in its wake. You walk to the front door and peer out through a large crack, courtesy of last night's misadventure. All's quiet on the churchyard front.
You ascend the steps slowly, keeping the clanking to a minimum. Isn't til after you reach the top you realize there's something weird on the front porch. You lean over the edge to get a look, and sure enough, there's something laying there, looking like it's been gutted. Probably 'cause it has been, and messily.
You lift your rifle to get a closer look through the scope. Pink, hairless, big-ass teeth: mole rat. It's missing half its face, but it's pretty distinct. How the hell it got itself disemboweled on your porch is anyone's guess. And when- that's the million-cap-question. You swing your rifle on over to the cemetery gates, and nearly drop it when you lay eyes on big mama herself, watching you watching her.
You lower the rifle, slowly. Last thing you need is her thinking you're aiming at her. Whether she's smart enough to comprehend that, who the hell even knows. But you ain't about to take that chance. As you watch, she tilts her head again, like she's thinking hard, and takes a step from the gate, into the road. Her gaze shifts from you to the corpse on your porch, then back again.
"Aww hell," you say aloud, and the deathclaw growls. Ears must be good, to hear you all the way up. You try not to think about how that must mean she always knows when you're comin' and goin'.
You put your hands on the rail and lean out a bit, keeping your movements slow. "You leave me that present, mama?"
She tilts her head the other way, her heavy horns making a graceful sweep of it, and fuck if that ain't growin' on you.
"Well, I sure do appreciate it," you say, and that's pretty much true. Fresh meat's always a plus, even if a bloodthirsty monster leaves it on your doorstep. "Long as it ain't bait, y'know? That thing'd be better eating than me, anyway, swear." Skinny as you are, ain't even a lie, just the honest truth. "Thanks, mama."
She watches you for a bit longer, and you let her look her fill. No use in trying to hide now. Get her approval and maybe she'll ignore you from now on. One can dream, anyway. After some time she slinks back off into the graveyard.
You wait a while before going down to get your present. Nothing comes after you.
*
Next couple days are quiet, and there's no more grisly gifts left out for you, but that's fine when you've got enough meat to be gettin' on. You get a glimpse of mama making her rounds, her babies following around and struttin' their stuff like they ain't afraid of anything.
Probably true; they ain't been away from mama yet, and have no idea what the world is really like. Sure, being a deathclaw puts you at the top of the food chain, but that don't mean they don't get killed now and again by people with more firepower than sense.
There's three of 'em, and they're probably gonna be heading out on their own soon enough. They're big enough to take care of themselves, but watching mama fuss over 'em gets pretty amusing after a while, especially when one of 'em gets it into their head that they're much too dignified for that anymore. Mama teaches it real quick that ain't none of her brood too old for her to groom with a sharp whack over the horns. Even so, she's careful with those claws, and the fact that such a powerful creature can be so gentle is pretty amazing, really.
The babies play pretty rough, and you ain't sure how there's still anything standing in that graveyard at all. They dash and jump between headstones, growling and lashing out at each other, but careful not to use those claws too hard. Kind of puts everything in perspective, to see them running about like overgrown, scaly children. Sure, they're ugly as sin, but you guess it kind of wraps right around to cute again, if you're really trying.
There's something good in most people, as ma used to say; problem is, seems like they rarely let it show. Same goes for critters, you guess. Not like most people would get a chance to see their good sides like this, after all.
Isn't to say you really hope they never get it in their heads to leave the graveyard, because they're definitely not too big to squeeze inside the doorway yet. Last thing you need is a bunch of lizards testing out their hunting skills on you.
*
You wake up to gunshots. Not unusual in itself, but the proximity is alarming. You stumble off the mattress and crab-walk to the railing, raising yourself just high enough to peer over it. There's a group of people on the road, and all it takes is one look to know they ain't good news. You throw yourself down against the railing, your back to it, and try hard not to make a sound through your uncontrolled gasps.
They're raiders, all of 'em, easy to tell by the custom-made armor full of sharp points and war paint. You automatically reach for your rifle, clutch it hard and white-knuckled, but for all that you can't move any further. Fear grips you hard, and ain't no deathclaw ever managed to scare you this good.
You don't want to go back. Whatever those bastards are doing out on that road- no. Doesn't help anyone to be thinking this way. What would big mama do? She'd probably rip their heads off. She's probably doing it right now, judging from the angry yells and gunfire.
Wait- shit. You glance back up and over the rail, do a quick head-count; there's nine of 'em, all armed to the teeth, and their focus is on the cemetery gate. And for good reason: big mama's there in all her scaley glory, and she gives a great big angry roar as you watch, and charges the lot.
You can't watch, but you can't move to look away. The raiders part like waves but she takes out one of 'em right off the bat, grabs the guy by the head and wrenches it loose with an easy twist of her claw. She moves quick, but not fast enough to dodge bullets; you can see the blood streaming now, bright red wounds peppering her sides as the assholes keep firing. Mama roars in pain, and it's like a wake up call in your ear, ma's rough voice inside your skull going, "pick up the goddamn gun and shoot, Lil!"
Your body takes action, even if your head ain't all there yet, and before you know it you've aimed and pulled the trigger on a big dude wearing a gas mask, brandishing a length of pipe; crack, and half his shoulder's gone, and he goes down in a bloody heap as mama runs right over him. But now you've got their attention, and two of them peel away from the main event to lay down some cover fire. You throw yourself to the floor, narrowly dodging a bullet that punches right through the rail; wood splinters around you, and you need to get the fuck out of there.
You crawl ass-first down the stairs, and it's about halfway when you realize you have no plan at all. You've got a beat-up fifty cal and a handful of bullets, and you sure as shit can't overpower even the smallest of 'em. There's a reason you hide in your tower, and now you're acting like you're gonna take on the world, and for what? All you gotta do is run out the back door and get your ass gone from here. It's the smart option. It's the only option.
But you can't move. Your hands are shaking. You're terrified, more jacked-up than you've ever been, so of course all you can think about is that fucking lizard, and how you gotta get them off her tail. You've got more problems than you can count, and you're pretty sure you're gonna get yourself killed over an overgrown death lizard, but. Fuck.
You're outnumbered, and big mama ain't gonna be around for much longer, if you don't get your shit together.
The gunshots have died down, and the raiders are talking; you can't hear big mama anymore, and that makes your heart skip a beat. You peer out the crack in the front door and count four raiders still standing, and mama's nowhere in sight. You don't quite breathe a sigh of relief, though, because they suddenly turn and start coming your way.
You dash through the pews toward the altar, jumping over piles of debris and caved-in ceiling; behind you, the door gives way as one of them kicks it in, and someone shouts, then you're being fired on.
"Cut 'em off!"
"Why you runnin', rat!" a woman jeers, and goddamn does that make your stomach drop; siding with these assholes, with what they do- you dive behind the altar and dig in your heels, take a deep breath, and try to figure out what the fuck you're gonna do that doesn't involve getting shot, or worse.
"Hey, Red!" a voice shouts from outside. "Big one fucked off somewhere! There's some little fuckers but Tam's got it under control."
One of the raiders responds, and he's way too close for comfort, his voice like sandpaper, "got what we came for?"
"Only one, but it looks good. It'll get a good price."
You hear more shots, and dear Atom do you hope that's not what you think it is. "What the fuck!" You blurt, unable to hold it in. "What the fuck are you scum-sucking raider fucktits doing in my church?!"
There's silence for a beat, then sandpaper voice says, "Come on out and we'll talk, girly."
"Fuck that," you growl, because you know how raiders like to talk. With bullets, if you're lucky. "I hope you get your ass chewed up and torn apart, you rad-fucking bloodsucker! That deathclaw is gonna tear you up!"
They laugh, and the woman screeches in delight. "Aww, baby, we gotta keep this one. You know I like 'em funny."
"Yeah, real funny," sandpaper says, and he sounds anything but amused. "I don't care how funny you are, kid, you killed Jack. Can't exactly let that go."
He must be motioning to the other two, because they start moving again, one creeping up on you from either side, and you know running for it will only get you a bullet in the back.
You're faced with the fact that you'll probably be dead in a matter of seconds, and it ain't an easy thing to wrap your head around. But if you're honest with yourself, you're not exactly surprised at this turn of events, because you've always had shit luck and made shit choices. And now that you've got nowhere else to run, you actually feel pretty calm about it.
For about two seconds, and then the woman comes into view around the altar and raises her laser pistol in your direction, and you scream your fool head off and throw yourself at her. You're closer to her weight than anyone else's, but you don't got her muscle, and it doesn't take long for her to get her arms around your chest and heave you away. You hit a pew and collapse, the wind knocked from you, and that's it, you're well and truly cooked.
"That all you got, baby girl?" she taunts as you push yourself up to your hands and knees. This close you can really get a gander at her, and maybe at some point she would have been pretty, with her shaved head and big eyes, but all you can see now is crazy in there.
Mr. Sandpaper walks up beside her, a beautiful hunting rifle propped on his shoulder, and another dude in a gas mask flanks him, holding an honest-to-God sword in one hand.
Crazy-eyes goes to say something else, but in that moment the world just ups and falls apart with a crash and a roar. Light floods in through the hole where the doorway used to be, and big mama's a freight train, a whirlwind of bloodied claws and teeth, her orange eyes crazier than anything you've seen yet. The raiders don't even stand a chance.