Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Bethesda.

Random short stories from the Wasteland. They are definitely not to be taken seriously. Really.

Chapter 1: Every faction has a secret weapon. The Brotherhood has a giant robot. The Railroad has Deacon's sunglasses. What is the Institute's secret weapon?

Campfire Tales from the Commonwealth

1. The Institute Finest

He walked into the a pristine office. The walls were all white, the floor polished. Behind a desk, an old man sat, waiting for him.

"Ah, there you are," said the old man, the director of the Institute. Everyone called him Father. Ironically, the man didn't have a biological child of his own – at least not one conceived and produced the old-fashioned way.

"Are you ready for your assignment?" asked Father.

"I was born ready!" No, that wasn't an exaggeration, nor was it an overconfident statement. He was, in fact, created for this task, and this task alone. He was the prototype. The one and only. The result from the genius minds of the best scientists this world had ever seen. He was the best infiltration unit ever. Hell, he was the best synth the Institute had ever created!

His boss, however, merely looked indifferently at him. "There is no room for mistake."

"Yes, sir." He tuned his eagerness down a notch or three. Humans – they're such an unpredictable bunch. No matter, he would have more than enough time to observe them, to study them, to sniff out their weaknesses, and then... to manipulate them.

After all, who's the best spy that ever spied? He was!

"There will not be any backup for a foreseeable time," Father continued. "You're alone in this."

"Don't worry, boss. I've got ya cover."

"Not me. Your job is to protect our subject."

"Right. Our subject." Whatever. Humans. They're all the same.

The old man looked doubtful.

"Don't worry, boss," he quickly assured his boss before the old man changed his mind. "Retrieving is in my blood- I mean, program."

"Very well." Father reached for a device on the desk. "One more thing before you go. Come here."

"Wait. I hate needles!"

The old man held the scanner up and let him see the harmless looking device. "I'm not giving you a shot. I'm simply changing the setting on your vocal module for now."

He approached, though hesitantly. "This won't hurt, will it?"

"Not a bit." The device didn't even touch him as Father remotely scanned the top of his skull. "There. All finished. How do you feel?"

"I'm okay," he said, but all that came out of his mouth was a 'woof!'

"Good. Now, go. You know what you have to do, K9-007."

"Wish me luck, sir!" Again, words came as two loud barks, as Agent K9-007 stood on his hind legs and gave his boss a sharp salute.

The Institute needed him. The world needed him. The future of humanity now rested on the sturdy back of the best synthetic dog, who would later be only known by the stupid name Dogmeat.

Dogmeat? Seriously? Jesus Fuc-! Woof!

A/N: This short story was written for tomberi-no. For all the drawings, all the gifs, all the support! Thank you!

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