It had taken Alden time to recover from his three days of nigh non-stop fighting and killing. No man could take so many deaths in stride with any level of contemptuous ease, after all. Thirty five deaths in just three days was nothing to turn one’s nose up at, either.

‘Unless you’re an Undead,’ Alden reasoned to himself, sitting cross-legged in front of a campfire he’d made just a ways beyond the castle ruins. He looked down at the cooked Deathclaw meat in his hand. ‘...Normally I’d be jumping for joy at trying new meat, but...this just tastes bland to me.’ Sighing, he bit into the flesh of it nonetheless. ‘Well, not like I should be surprised. Undead probably don’t have taste buds, if what they eat so often in the games is any indication.’ He swallowed, then snorted. “Friggin’ maniacs eat moss, after all. No way that’s healthy.”

He sighed and took another bite of his meat, staring into the crackling flames of his campfire. After finishing his dinner, he looked down at himself and patted his stomach. “I didn’t feel hungry before, but...doesn’t feel right to not eat. Guess that’s gonna be a hard to kick habit.” He chuckled morosely. “Though it’s not like I plan on kicking it.” He looked to the side, where his prized rifle lay. His silver eyes seemed to cloud over like a Fall morning as he faintly recalled how he obtained the rifle.

“So, this is the old family gun?” Alden asked, looking from the case to his father. He’d known it was the family gun, thus his question was redundant, but he asked it all the same.

His father, a man with a powerful yet wrinkled build and graying hair and beard, nodded, unlocking the case and picking the gun up. “It is.” He offered it to Alden. “You’ve done admirably by our family, son. And, with me getting on in years, I think it’s high time you started to take care of Sport.”

Alden looked to the gun, then his father, and back. Slowly, he gained a grin, taking the lever-action rifle engraved with its namesake. “I’ll make sure to not spoil ‘Sport’.” There was a dead silence in the room after that, Alden’s father giving him a raised brow and overall unimpressed look. “What? Not sporting enough of a joke?” His father gained a frown. Alden rolled his eyes. “Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“Just take care of it, son. Don’t let the legacy down, alright?” Alden’s father urged.

Alden gained a more genuine smile, nodding. “Of course, Pops. I’ll take care of her, I promise.” He put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You can count on me.”

Alden felt like he should be crying. But he wasn’t. No liquids of sorrow issued forth from his silver eyes. No shudders of woeful pain stole his strength. He felt nothing, physically. Mentally, he just felt...tired.

Sighing, he grabbed the gun and pulled it into his lap, looking it over. Ivory made up most of the stock, and tiger hide strips were wrapped around it. Gold embellishments ran along the barrel, coalescing in one area to form the words, ‘Sport’ in archaic cursive script.

He frowned under his mask.

“I guess I’ve stopped being human in more ways than one…” he mused gently. Chuckling ruefully, he added, “Then again, I never really was human before. Too awesome to be a simple human. Subrace more like.” His smile slowly morphed into a frown, and he clutched the treasured gun tightly.

No other words were spoken. He knew the truth well enough.

“Excusez-moi, but can I sit here for un moment, monsieur?” came the voice of a woman from behind him, albeit a sort of...growly, rumbly one.

Alden, in a fit of shock and instinct, lifted his gun and aimed it at the direction the voice came from, all in one swift movement. However, he stopped cold as what he saw registered.

A Deathclaw whose body and eyes glowed a rather familiar shade of blue, and with...what he could only describe as the outline of a rack protruding from its chest behind a ragged cloak made from some kind of banner. Wide hips led down to powerful, muscled legs and a tail that could (and had on at least one occasion) whip his head off.

Instead of ripping his head off or eating it while he was still alive, the Deathclaw waved its...her arms in front of her, “N-non non! I mean no harm, monsieur!”

Alden stared at her in shock. “Did...you just talk? In French?”

“Oui,” the Deathclaw nodded, arms dropping to her sides. “I learned how to speak it...a little of it while in one of those ‘libraries’ your kind made. Mostly, I speak English.”

Alden lowered his rifle a tad. “How? Deathclaws aren’t even supposed to have vocal chord-” He stopped, looking her form over again. “...Nevermind, you’re probably different from the rest, considering you’re infused with Quantum Nuka-Cola.”

“Yes! When I was un petit bébé with my mère these…’hyoomans’ in grey fur or black shells visited my family in the nest we had inside of a ‘Nuka Quantum Bottling Plant’ and jabbed us with these...pokey things that went through our scales. The connards did it at least...every month or so?” the Quantum Deathclaw said, bringing a clawed hand to her chin in thought. “...Oui, oui, it was every month. My brother and sisters were...not as changed as moi, but I suppose I was always different from them to begin with. It’s how I knew what the bottles said, and how I read the library books.”

Alden lowered his gun further, relaxing just a bit. “Well, at least you haven’t ripped my head off. Way better start than the first ‘Claw I met.”

“Were they just as simple as the rest of the crétins in my nest? No anglaise or speech?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

He nodded. “Nah, nothin’.” He slowly turned back to the fire, then jabbed a thumb to the ruins in the distance. “You can find all twenty-six of their corpses in there.”

“Ah, I see. Self-defense, I presume?” she asked dryly, gently parking her scaly behind just across from him by the fire. “Seul Dieu sait that I’ve had to do that often with the idiots back at my nest.”

“How many are yours?” Alden asked genially, putting his gun gently in his lap.

“Only the ones in the town over there,” she replied, pointing with a claw off to his north. “The town is ‘Ponyville’, if the sign with the weird warping symbols are true.”

Alden blinked. “Well heck, that’s where I’m headed.”

“Vraiment? Well, how would you like to join me in ‘Gold Oaks’? There’s a lot of books you can read,” the Deathclaw suggested with a toothy ‘grin’ that wasn’t as scary as he would have expected.

Probably because she was glow-in-the-dark, but whatever.

Alden hummed, cupping his chin, “Well, sure is a temptin’ offer, Miss…?”

“Annette,” the Deathclaw- Annette supplied, standing up and kneeling slightly with her hands holding the sides of her cloak to the side in a curtsy. “Ravi de vous rencontrer.”

Alden, in response, tipped his bycocket to her. “Alden, Alden-” He paused, blinking. “-Actually, I...don’t remember my last name. Huh.”

“Then can I come up with one?” Annette asked, her long tail swishing behind her.

Alden stared owlishly at her, then smiled under his mask. “Sure,” he gestured for her to go ahead. “Give it a shot.”

“How about...‘Rose’? ‘Alden Rose’ has a nice ring to it, non?” the Deathclaw suggested with a tilt of her head.

The Undead cupped his chin once more. “Alden Rose, huh?” He smiled. “Yeah, that works.” He slowly took his mask off, allowing her to see how rotted his visage was. He smiled, not seeming to care. “Just don’t make me regret taking the name, yeah? Got a reputation to keep.”

“Dieu m’en préserve!” Annette replied, waving a hand dismissively.

Alden tilted his head. “Uhhh, what was that? Not fluent in French. More of a Finnish guy.”

“I said ‘perish the thought,’ you silly little man,” Annette chuckled behind a clawed hand, then let said appendage fall back down to her side. “So, would you like to come with moi to my home? I promise I’ll keep the crétins in line.”

Alden smiled again. “Sounds good to me. I have to clean that town of Muties anyway, according to my orders.”

“What are ‘Muties’? Do you mean the ugly green connards that attacked and yelled at me like animals?” Annette asked, muzzle curling up in a low snarl at the thought of them. “They almost blew up the library!”

“If they’re big, green, and almost as big as you and yours, then yes,” Alden replied, nodding.

“...You clear out these ‘Muties’ and I’ll be in your debt, monsieur,” Annette replied, suddenly reaching and pulling him into a gentle hug.

The man stiffened at the gesture at first, unsure how to respond, but eventually relaxed into it and patted her back as best he could. “You got it, Anny.” He looked up at her. “Now, uh, much as I like funbags, mind not squishin’ me into yours?”

Annete blinked, but let him go with a puzzled expression, “What do you mean? What are ‘funbags’, Monsieur Alden?”

Alden scratched the back of his head, thankful that being rotted meant he did not blush. “Weeelll, they’re the things you use to feed your young.” He pointed to her chest. “Men like me have a lotta names for them, I just prefer to be less crude, if I can.”

Annette blinked and looked down at her cloak-covered chest, “...I...don’t use these for feeding my bébés, monsieur. They’re just...there, to be honest, and started growing after the ‘hyoomans’ in grey and black shells started injecting me with those…’sirengees’, I think they’re called?”

Alden looked up at her quizzically. “So...they don’t have milk in ‘em, then?”

“...Oh! You mean this?” Annette said as she grabbed her breasts through her cloak and squeezed, two glowing blue splotches immediately forming on her cloak. “They start leaking from time to time, so I just squeeze until it’s all out.”

Alden stared for the longest of short moments, then shook his head forcefully. “R-Right, well,” He cleared his throat, coughed into his fist even, just to keep his voice from breaking again. “For human females, and other females with teats/breasts, they are used to feed young. The young, uh, well, they latch on and kinda just...suck, ya know? Milk is usually what’s in them, so since milk is good for growing children, it’s kinda normal for mammals to breastfeed, as they call it.”

“...Oh! One of my earliest memories is of my father bringing me to mi mère’s chest and me taking something into my mouth, but it was only for a minute or two and then she never did it again. That was ‘breast-feeding’, non?”

Alden nodded. “Y-Yeah, that’s probably it.”

“But hers were the size of you if I recall correctly, and she couldn’t move much, so...I’m not sure if breastfeeding sounds...enjoyable, if it means being that immobile,” Annette continued with a small frown.

Alden chuckled nervously, “W-Well, to my knowledge breasts only get bigger with each child you bear, but, hey! Who knows? You’re a different species, after all!” Alden walked to where he put his mask and put it back on.

“Well, my mère had had...thirty-eight of us when I was born, and had thirty-seven more after that, so...it would explain why her breasts grew to the size of those metal carriages I’ve seen around,” Annette said aloud with a small hum.

“AAAAnd we’re moving on!” Alden interrupted, picking up his rifle and slinging it on his back. He then started to march stiffly towards the north. “Come on! Time to get movin’, Anny!”

“...But my name is Annette, monsieur,” the Quantum Deathclaw said with confusion, but followed after him nonetheless after putting out the fire with a quick burial.

“It’s a nickname!” He called back. Alden sighed quietly to himself. 'Well...at least I have company now...'

EDIT: Intro/theme changed.

Say hello to Annette, and her creator, Nova_Eclipse, my brother from another mother!