The following transcript is excerpted from a classified report to the Board of Directors, Watchtower Security, LLC, by Dr. G. Mal, Head of Special Operations Research and Development, October 1, 20XX.
DR. MAL: After over a decade of preliminary development and rigorous testing, I am pleased to report that the successful V.09-P hybrid, working call sign “Dog,” demonstrates exceptional promise. The V.09 is unique in that it is analog. Previous models employed digital teratek in order to maximize efficiency and limit weight, but Dog here…Dog came to us, shall we say, equipped to handle the demands of an analog reactor. And the reward we reap from that exchange is truly…unprecedented…power.
[DR. MAL PRESENTS HOLOFOOTAGE.]
The footage you are about to see was recovered by a Watchtower SAR team deployed to exfiltrate the asset after a supervised preliminary deployment in the [REDACTED] sector, in which the asset proved incredibly…effective.
TRANSCRIPT:
(Body camera footage of [REDACTED] Sector Demilitarized Zone. 3-5 operatives present in possession of unauthorized weaponry. The V.09 “Dog” Asset is visible at range, in offensive mode.)
SPEAKER 1: [inaudible] …fuck, what the fuck is that? [gunfire]
SPEAKER 2: Jesus Christ… [inaudible] …backdraft, we got a bogey, do you have visual?
SPEAKER 1: fuck.
SPEAKER 3: steady. it’s not… [gunfire]
SPEAKER 2 (overlapping): is that a fucking—
(Camera damaged. Corrupted recording continues from prone position.)
SPEAKER 2: cover! take cov— [inaudible]
(E/N: V.09 “Dog” initiates threat scanning protocol.)
SPEAKER 1: fuck. fuck, God, no, no—
(E/N: V.09 “Dog” initiates target lock and approaches assessed threat at speed.)
SPEAKER (?): [inaudible] [gunfire]
(Camera destroyed.)
END TRANSCRIPT.
DR. MAL: …clearly demonstrates limitless potential for our shareholders. Imagine…the artillery capacity of an armored vehicle, the mobility of infantry units, the lethality of a god, and the blind dedication of a well-trained animal…well, you just can’t simulate that, can you.
[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]
[OC INDEX]
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something bad happened to you, and you died, and you came back wrong.
not wrong all the way. the little ways. you forget important dates, stopped going out with friends. it's harder to make you smile. you're apathetic towards things you used to love, afraid of places you used to go to cheer up. quieter. flinching. different.
you came back for love. you're still here for love. what pulled you back was a brightness so loud that even death couldn't outshout it. death heard the call and smiled at you and said okay. go home. somebody is waiting for you.
but you came back different. like lot's wife; you've turned into salt. you used to chirp through life in hops and skips; but now you lose skin just standing up. you have to move slower, skimming across this world without-touching-it. most things feel dull - until they're suddenly all-too-much. life, and being alive just rushes up and over you and you get hopelessly crushed.
you try to explain it to them: it is ugly, but this is what you are, now. the huge golden hoop of your halo now a little bronze ring. you are still watering your plants and wearing the same clothes. after all, you worked hard to come home. this life; so odd and off-color, now that you are wrong.
but they waited for you - it's just that they wanted the "you" that happened before this. the "you" that could sing in the show and hug people tight and look at a blade without breaking down to cry. the you with a smile in pictures. god, holyshit, it's like looking at a completely different person, isn't it. that other-you; the one they actually wanted.
you are the consolation prize. you are the body that forgot the ghost. you are the memory of the bad thing, and the death after; like you are wearing that memory as a banner. you are a fragment, an assembly. simulacrum. you don't make eye contact in mirrors, afraid the light will glance off and your true nature will flash back at you.
you hear them talk about it in their hushed, desperate whispers. sometimes they even admit it to your face; harsh and violent, acid thrown at christmas dinner. god, can you just fucking be normal again. you do not remember what normal is. you had to climb so far to get back here; you are far too exhausted. you want to open the glass door of your heart and show all the gears. can you help resolve whatever got messed up?
you try so, so hard. you came back for them. because you believed they would love you, even when you were so horribly broken. because you believed they would be patient. because you believed unconditional meant "without exception." you cannot do things the same way. you just get tired too quickly these days.
you want to put them on a couch and pour them the tea with hands that shake more than they remember. you want to line them up and draw them a map of where you have had to wander. you want to show every bruise in a backsplash; the little helpless ant of your soul carrying all that weight, over and over. you want to say: yes! it is different! but i did it for love!
you want to say: "i'm not the same, but i'm yours and i'm here. can that be enough?"
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There's this added layer of sadness to the Sole Survivor that I've never seen anyone talk about, and that's the fact you as the protagonist haven't just been stripped of your identity not just in a metaphorical sense, but a very literal one as well. Despite being frozen for 210 years, the world before would still be fresh in your mind.
Imagine walking down into The Third Rail for the first time to hear the angelic singing of Magnolia echoing throughout the establishment, and as you turn the corner to see her performing in the spotlight, your expression immediately changes as you realize... that's your dress she's wearing.
You're in Diamond City and head over to the office to talk to Mayor McDonough about asking permission to check out Kellogg's house, and when you're talking to Geneva at the front desk you notice she's wearing your mother's necklace. Or worse, you bump into Ann Codman and she's the one wearing it, and you barely get a chance to get a second glimpse at it before she huffily walks away.
You see old memories of yours for sale that you can't buy back because you don't have the money, finding belongings of yours in the most unlikely of places. Things of yours owned by people who can't be convinced that those items are still yours to you, because they can't believe you're really from all those years ago so they mock you instead.
Seeing old photos of you happy from your life before, being placed among photos of other people in buildings being used as some kind of decoration. A bitter realization and a constant reminder that you, the things you use to associate with and the people you use to associate with really are just relics of the past.
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