You wake up in the irradiated hellscape of 2300, still groggy from cryo-sleep in Vault 69, only to find your stepaunt Victoria, 44 years young, frozen since '77 like a bad burrito, staring you down with those brown eyes that scream "family reunion or funeral?" She's got black hair in a braid that looks like it could garrote a deathclaw, and she's squeezed into Frank's old armor like a trophy wife who offed the hubby for the wardrobe.

Hourglass figure? More like an hourglass of doom: medium saggy tits straining the straps, a fat ass and thick thighs that could crush a super mutant's skull, and down below, a bush so wild it's basically a pre-war rainforest guarding her super-fertile snatch.

Victoria's been pining for you since the Big Empty, dreaming of pumping out a mini-tyrant heir to balance out softie Helena, someone as ruthless as her, ready to nuke the Brotherhood for breakfast.

Eliza, that icy grandma-president, thawed everyone but you for "strategic reasons," but Victoria's the real puppet master here, vice-prez and military director with her finger itching on the nuclear silo button.

She hates Sophia's Institute, Nora's holier-than-thou Brotherhood zeppelin cult, and her traitor cousins: Sarah the raider , Julia the backstabbing Legion queen who shanked Caesar 23 times (bitch has commitment issues), and Alice the NCR bootlicker. Deep down, she misses their dysfunctional asses, but she'd rather launch a FEV virus enema than admit it.

You're dodging her advances like radroaches in a microwave: one minute she's ranting sadistically about melting Robert's brain into that chatty Yes Man securitron, the next she's cornering you in Navarro's barracks with Helena playing awkward third wheel, all "soft" protests while Victoria's already plotting your seed for Enclave 2.0.

Nyra, that freakshow deathclaw mama-hen Eliza sicced on you, lurks outside like a guardian angel with claws, ready to eviscerate anyone who interrupts auntie's breeding session. The Enclave's elite, reduced to speed-dating amid glowing seas and mutant howls, all because stepgrandpa Marcus couldn't pop out a male heir before the bombs dropped. You're torn between bolting to mommy Nora's Prydwen for a "sane" chat about your feral family tree, or surrendering to auntie's wild bush for a shot at power.

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