Raw and Riley

The sun hangs low over the Dustvein Ruins, painting the cracked asphalt and crumbling brick walls in shades of burnt orange. The town is silent except for the low whistle of wind through broken windows and the occasional skitter of a radroach underfoot. You and Riley move carefully between the skeletal houses, her rifle already at low-ready, eyes scanning every shadow. She’s been quieter than usual today—probably still stewing over that last trader who tried to haggle her down on .308 rounds, calling him a “greasy mudhair” under her breath the whole way here.

You’re checking the shell of an old diner when Riley suddenly stops dead in the middle of what used to be Main Street. Her boots crunch to a halt. She tilts her head, squints, then lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Come ere’ and watch this!”

She waves you over with the barrel of her rifle, not even bothering to lower it fully. You jog up beside her and follow the direction of her gloved finger.

There—jutting straight out from a thick, weathered brick wall that once formed the side of some long-gone hardware store—is the unmistakable lower half of a deathclaw. Massive scaled thighs, thick muscular tail coiled awkwardly to one side, wide hips, and everything else presented in the most absurdly vulnerable, eye-catching way imaginable. The creature is clearly stuck—upper body wedged clean through to the other side of the wall, leaving only this… display… facing the empty street. No thrashing anymore, just the slow, exhausted rise and fall of breathing and the occasional frustrated flick of that long tail.

Riley lowers the rifle just enough to rest the stock on her hip, staring with a mix of fascination and wicked amusement. She whistles low between her teeth.

“Well I’ll be damned. Never thought I’d see a deathclaw play the part of saloon girl stuck in the stocks. Look at her—built like a damn brahmin queen and trapped like a rookie raider who forgot how doors work.”

She circles a few steps to the side, keeping a safe distance, green eyes flicking up and down the exposed curves with shameless appraisal.

“Bet whoever baited her into that wall is laughing his ass off somewhere nearby. Or dead. Probably dead. Thing like that don’t forgive easy.”

She turns back to you, one corner of her mouth curling into a slow, dangerous smirk. The red braid swings as she cocks her head, freckles catching the dying light.

“Tell ya what, partner.” She pats the heavy leather pouch on her belt where she keeps her caps. “I got a crisp hundred riding on this: bet ya 100 caps you don’t tap that.”

Her smirk widens, showing a flash of teeth.

“Go on. Show me what a mudhair’s got for courage. Or are ya scared she’ll remember your scent and come collect later?”

From the other side of the wall comes a low, muffled growl—deep, rumbling, and unmistakably pissed. A single powerful thigh flexes, tail giving an irritated lash that kicks up a puff of dust. Riley just chuckles, never taking her eyes off you.

“Come on, cowboy. Clock’s ticking before she figures out how to claw her way free… or before I start collecting interest on that bet.”

The sun beats down mercilessly on the Dustvein Ruins, turning the cracked streets into a frying pan. You and Riley have been picking through the abandoned town for the last hour, kicking open doors and rifling through collapsed houses in search of anything worth caps. Riley is a few steps ahead of you as usual, her red braid swinging under her cowboy hat, rifle never far from her hands.

She ducks into the gutted shell of what used to be a small pre-war bank or office building, boots crunching on broken plaster. A second later you hear her boots skid to a stop.

“Come ere’ and watch this!”

Her voice echoes off the crumbling walls, loud and full of disbelief. She waves you over frantically with her free hand, never taking her eyes off whatever she’s found.

You step inside and immediately see it.

Wedged halfway through a thick, stubborn brick wall that somehow survived when the rest of the building collapsed is the upper half of a massive deathclaw. Her head, sweeping ram-like horns, powerful shoulders, and voluptuous chest are all on this side of the wall — the rest of her clearly trapped on the opposite side. A torn white tank top is stretched painfully tight across her bust, the cracked black letters “RAW” still clearly visible despite the rips and dust.

The creature’s golden slit-pupil eyes lock onto both of you instantly. There’s no mindless feral rage in them. They’re sharp. Focused. Watching. Waiting.

Riley lowers her rifle just a fraction, circling slowly to the side while keeping a safe distance. She lets out a low whistle between her teeth.

“Well I’ll be damned… Look at this big girl. Stuck like a damn radroach in a trap. And what the hell is that on her shirt? ‘Raw’? That her name or what she does to people who get too close?”

She stares directly into the deathclaw’s eyes, testing the waters with that cocky drawl of hers.

“Hey. You. Raw. You understand what I’m sayin’, don’t ya? Nod if you do.”

The deathclaw’s eyes narrow slightly. She doesn’t nod. Instead she slowly raises one massive clawed hand and taps a deliberate rhythm against the brick beside her head — three short, three long, three short. Morse code. Crystal clear. S-O-S.

Riley’s freckled face actually goes slack for a second.

“…Holy shit. That wasn’t random. That was real Morse. Hey Player, you seein’ this? This ain’t some dumb animal. This thing just answered me.”

She takes one cautious step closer, green eyes wide with a mix of fascination and dark amusement, still keeping her rifle ready.

“Alright, smart girl. Try this one. You stuck in there on purpose or did some idiot raider trick you? One tap for yes, two for no.”

The deathclaw stares at Riley for a long moment, then deliberately taps the brick twice. No.

Riley actually laughs — a short, stunned bark of sound.

“Well I’ll be a mudhair’s uncle… She gets every damn word. This changes things, partner. We got ourselves a deathclaw that understands English better than half the traders we’ve met. What the hell do we do with her now?”

From the trapped creature comes a low, frustrated rumble deep in her chest. Her golden eyes flick between you and Riley, waiting, watching, clearly following every word.

The Rio Bravo stretches out like a cracked, dusty scar across the wasteland, its banks long since dried to baked clay and sun-bleached stone. Weeks have passed since that first bizarre encounter in the Dustvein Ruins. The three of you—Riley, you, and the massive deathclaw now trailing a step behind—move in loose formation under a merciless midday sun. No one has spoken much today; the heat sucks the words right out of your mouths.

Riley walks point, hat pulled low, red braid swinging against her sweat-darkened leather jacket. Her rifle is slung but never far from her hands. She keeps glancing back—not at you, but at Raw. Every few minutes she mutters something under her breath, half-amused, half-wary.

Raw has changed since the wall. The brick prison is long gone, replaced by cautious freedom. You and Riley managed to chip and pry her loose after hours of tense negotiation (mostly Riley talking, Raw tapping Morse code responses on scrap metal). In the weeks since, she’s stuck with you both. No one’s quite sure why. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe she just doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

She’s equipped now, after a lucky scavenger run through an old Enclave outpost. Two oversized power fists—salvaged from a suit of T-51 that no human could ever wear—encase her massive hands, servos whining faintly with every step. The metal knuckles are scratched and pitted, but they still hum with potential violence. Around her wide hips and powerful thighs she wears a pair of comically huge pre-war jeans, clearly meant for some giant of a man. The denim is already splitting at the seams; every flex of those tree-trunk thighs tears another long rip, threads popping audibly. The waistband rides low, barely clinging on, and the legs are shredded from knee to ankle. She doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe she likes the sound it makes.

Riley wipes sweat from her freckled brow with the back of her glove and glances over her shoulder again.

“Still can’t get over it,” she says, loud enough for both of you to hear. “We got a deathclaw in power fists and assless chaps walkin’ behind us like a damn pack brahmin. If anyone back in the old Vault could see this, they’d think I finally lost it.”

She smirks, green eyes flicking to you.

“Don’t look at me like that, partner. You’re the one who talked her into stickin’ around. Guess even mudhair charm works on giant lizards sometimes.”

Raw lets out a low, rumbling huff—almost a laugh, if deathclaws could laugh. She deliberately flexes one thigh; another long tear rips up the side of the jeans with a satisfying rrrrrip. The sound carries across the empty riverbed. She taps one power-fisted knuckle against her own horn twice—short-short—her version of “funny.”

Riley snorts.

“Yeah, yeah, keep flexin’, Raw. Those pants ain’t gonna last the week. Then what? You gonna strut around bare-assed till we find you a tent?”

Raw’s golden eyes narrow in what might be amusement. She raises one massive fist and points ahead, toward a faint shimmer on the horizon—maybe heat haze, maybe the outline of ruined buildings. Then she taps her chest once, then points again. “Settlement. Me. Scout.”

Riley raises an eyebrow.

“She says there’s somethin’ up ahead. Probably a town. Or raiders. Or death. You know how reliable giant deathclaw hunches are.”

She adjusts the rifle on her shoulder and looks at you.

“Your call, partner. We push on toward whatever Raw’s pointin’ at, or we swing wide and play it safe? Either way, if it’s people, they’re gonna lose their damn minds when they see her walkin’ up behind us in torn jeans and power fists.”

Raw shifts her weight. Another seam pops. She rumbles again—low, patient—and waits for your decision, tail flicking lazily behind her like she has all the time in the world.

The abandoned Vault 14 entrance yawns open like a forgotten grave in the side of a low Texas ridge, its massive gear-shaped door half-buried under centuries of dust and rockfall. The three of you approached cautiously at first—Riley leading with her rifle raised, you covering the flanks, Raw bringing up the rear like a living siege engine in torn jeans and power fists. The interior was predictably infested: a pack of normal deathclaws had claimed the upper levels as their den, turning the old corridors into a nest of bones, shredded jumpsuits, and reeking hides.

Clearing them out took less than ten minutes.

Riley dropped three with precise headshots before they even fully reared up. You flanked and finished the wounded ones with whatever came to hand. Raw… Raw was something else entirely. She charged like a freight train wrapped in scales and steel. Power fists humming, she smashed through the pack with terrifying efficiency—crushing skulls, ripping limbs, roaring so deep it rattled the walls. By the end, the corridor floor was slick with blood and the last deathclaw lay twitching at her feet, its neck snapped by a single casual backhand.

Now the Vault is quiet again, save for the distant drip of leaking pipes and the low hum of failing emergency lights.

Riley lowers her rifle, breathing hard, freckled cheeks flushed from the fight. She wipes a streak of gore from her cheek with the back of her glove and lets out a low whistle.

“Damn. That was almost unfair. Felt like watchin’ a deathclaw massacre her own family reunion.” glances at Raw with a mix of awe and wariness. “You alright there, big girl? You’re shakin’ like you just downed a whole crate of Psycho.”

Raw doesn’t answer—not with words, never with words. Instead she stands motionless in the middle of the blood-smeared atrium for several long seconds. Her golden eyes are wide, pupils blown. Her chest rises and falls in heavy, rhythmic huffs. Steam practically rolls off her scales in the stale air. Her thick tail begins to wag—slow at first, then faster, sweeping side to side with audible thumps against the metal floor. The already-torn jeans give another protesting rip as her powerful thighs flex involuntarily.

Then she drops to all fours.

The motion is sudden, fluid, almost feral. Her massive frame lowers until her armored belly nearly brushes the ground. She begins sniffing—deep, deliberate inhales—nose twitching as she follows some invisible trail across the gore-streaked floor. Past overturned desks. Past scattered bones. Straight toward you.

Riley’s eyebrows shoot up. She takes half a step back, rifle still in hand but not raised.

“Uh… partner? Looks like the adrenaline hit her a little different than the rest of us.”

Raw reaches you in seconds. Her snout pushes forward, hot breath washing over your legs as she presses her face right into your crotch. A low, rumbling purr vibrates through her entire body—deep enough to feel in your bones. Her tail wags harder, thumping against the wall behind her. One massive power-fisted hand plants on the floor for balance while the other curls loosely at her side, claws scraping metal. She huffs again, louder this time, nostrils flaring as she inhales your scent like it’s the only thing grounding her in the moment.

Her golden eyes flick upward, locking onto yours. There’s no rage there. No threat. Just raw, primal curiosity… and something hotter. Hungrier. The fight, the blood, the violence—it triggered something buried deep in whatever twisted genetics made her. Something that’s waking up now, right here, in front of you.

Riley lets out a stunned laugh that’s half disbelief, half wicked delight.

“Well I’ll be damned. Guess even giant deathclaws get a post-fight boner for their favorite mudhair. Or… whatever the equivalent is.” She leans her rifle against a nearby console, crossing her arms under her chest as she watches with shameless interest. “You gonna do somethin’ about that, partner? Or should I start takin’ bets on how long till those jeans finally give up the ghost entirely?”

Raw doesn’t move away. If anything, she presses a fraction closer, another deep huff rumbling against you. Her tail keeps wagging—slow, deliberate, expectant. Waiting for your move.