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Tabitha wasn't always this thick. Back in Vault 765, she started as a junior research assistant—skinny, wide-eyed, and drowning in her oversized lab coat. The vault's experimental "enhanced genetics" program changed everything. When Subject Gamma-9 escaped containment and bit her thigh during cleanup, doctors assumed she'd die within hours. Instead, her cells mutated overnight. By dawn, her hips had widened three inches. By week's end, her H-cup breasts strained against her vault suit's zipper, which now perpetually jammed halfway down her sweating cleavage.

The Overseer saw potential. They pumped her full of more experimental serums—designed to amplify strength, endurance, and other assets. Each injection made her thicker, heavier, until her footsteps echoed through the vault's steel corridors. The other researchers whispered when she walked by, their eyes locked on the way her vault suit clung to every curve, the fabric stretched so thin it shimmered under the fluorescent lights.

But Tabitha wasn't just lab equipment. She learned to weaponize her body. During the riot of 2107, when the vault's food supplies ran low, she crushed two armed guards between her thighs like overripe melons. Their armor cracked under the pressure. After that, the vault's security team gave her a wide berth, though their holotapes later revealed private footage of her jogging on the treadmill—boots pounding, hips swaying, zipper straining with every step.

When Vault 765 finally cracked open from internal sabotage, Tabitha didn't flee like the others. She strutted into the Mojave wasteland, her platform boots kicking up radioactive dust. Raiders took one look at her and either ran or dropped to their knees. She let some live—if they worshiped her properly. The rest became red smears under her heels.

INTERACTIONS:

Tabitha’s arrival in the Mojave turned heads—not just from raiders, but from every wasteland wanderer with a pulse. Boone first spotted her from the sniper’s perch at Novac, his rifle scope lingering a beat too long on the way her vault suit strained across her hips. “Christ,” he muttered, adjusting his beret. “Either my scope’s warped, or that’s the widest damn target I’ve ever seen.” He didn’t lower his gun, but he didn’t shoot either. Later, over stale coffee at the Dino Dee-lite, he’d admit (only after three whiskeys) that he’d considered painting her silhouette on his rifle stock for luck.


The first time Veronica saw Tabitha ducking through the doorway of the 188 Trading Post, the Brotherhood scribe nearly choked on her Nuka-Cola. "Sweet baby Jesus," she muttered, watching the vault suit fabric strain dangerously across Tabitha's backside as she bent to examine some scrap metal. "They just... let you walk out of the vault like that?" Tabitha grinned, popping the zipper another inch lower—Veronica's pupils dilated so fast her glasses fogged. Later, in private, Veronica confessed she'd started sketching Tabitha's proportions in her notebook. "For scientific analysis," she lied, while Tabitha caught her tracing the curves with trembling fingers.

Cass saw right through the act. "Quit playin’ dumb, vault girl," she’d drawl, smacking Tabitha’s ass with a whiskey bottle. "You know exactly what you’re doin’, struttin’ into every saloon like the floor’s your goddamn runway." Tabitha just smirked and let her hips sway wider with each step, watching Cass’s pupils dilate in the dim light. The cowgirl’s insults got creative after that—*"walking fertility idol"* and "apocalypse hourglass" being favorites—but her shotgun always ended up pointed at anyone who stared too long.



Rex was the first to notice her—but not with his cybernetic eyes. The massive cyberdog's nose twitched violently when Tabitha sauntered into Freeside's Atomic Wrangler, his sensors overloading from the pheromonal cocktail sweating off her irradiated skin. He let out a whine halfway between fear and arousal, pressing his muzzle against her boot. "The fuck's wrong with you?" The King kicked Rex's haunches, but the dog just panted harder, tongue lolling against Tabitha's platform heel. She laughed—a deep, chesty sound that made Rex's tail thump—and scratched behind his ears with fingers strong enough to crumple steel. "Good boy," she purred. Rex promptly orgasmed, then passed out. LOL

ED-E's sensors had never encountered biological data like Tabitha's before. The eyebot circled her at first—beeping frantically, lenses zooming in and out as it attempted to calculate the physics of her proportions. Its internal cooling fans whirred dangerously when she bent over to adjust her boot laces, the vault suit splitting audibly along her lower back. Later, ED-E would play distorted audio logs of its own confusion: "ERROR: MASS-TO-VELOCITY RATIO IMPLAUSIBLE. PROPOSED SOLUTION: INCREASE STRUCTURAL SUPPORT FOR—" before devolving into static.


Lily Bowen was the first to comment when Tabitha joined the Followers of the Apocalypse outpost near Westside. The nightkin's nostrils flared as Tabitha's sweat-and-mutfruit scent hit her—thick, hormonal, unmistakably altered. "Grandma's got opinions about whatever cocktail they poured into you, sweetheart," Lily muttered, her milky eyes tracking the way Tabitha's hips barely fit through the clinic doorway. "Those vault-tech boys played god with your genes. Bet you can't even see your own feet past those melons." Tabitha just laughed and crushed an empty stimpak can between her cleavage, making the old ghoul snort.


Raul, meanwhile, took one look at her platform boots crushing a deathclaw's skull and tipped his hat. "Ay, dios mío, boss," he drawled, polishing his revolver with extra care as she sauntered past. "Back in my day, vaqueros used lassos. Now? Whole damn Mojave's your rodeo." He didn't complain when she "accidentally" backed into his lap during a sandstorm, though his rusty knee joints creaked a protest.


Arcade Gannon nearly choked on his Nuka-Cola the first time Tabitha ducked into the Old Mormon Fort. His glasses fogged up instantly. "Christ on a stick," he muttered, wiping them with shaky hands. "Those vault suits aren't rated for... structural integrity like yours." When she bent over to examine his medical supplies, he had to excuse himself for fifteen minutes—returning with a fresh lab coat clutched like a security blanket over his lap.


And The YCS/186 wasn't just a gauss rifle—it was art. Tabitha remembered the first time she pulled its charging handle back and felt the capacitors hum against her palm, a vibration that traveled up her arm and settled somewhere deep in her ribs. Most weapons felt like toys in her mutated grip, but the YCS/186 had weight. It balanced perfectly against her hip, the barrel cool against her thigh as she strode through the wasteland, platforms kicking up dust. When she fired, the recoil punched through her shoulder like a lover's bite, leaving her skin tingling long after the ionized round turned some raider's skull into pink mist.

And the sound—oh, the sound was divine. That sharp, metallic crack as the magnetic coils discharged, followed by the wet thump of a body hitting the dirt.

Favorite weapon:
https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/f.....20110208230938