(no subject)
It only occurred to Fawkes relatively recently that there was no great harm in attempting to look a little neater than he usually does. Given that no one on his side of the door's been willing to say anything about the ripped remains of his Vault suit, he's more or less let it pass. Clothing, like many other things, is transitory at best.
But when you travel the Wasteland regularly, you get shot at or attacked a lot, and that results in a lot more damage than simply being stuck in a Vault with the occasional beating or shoving-around, the way his life had been before. And while nobody's bothered to say anything to him about it, Fawkes is reasonably sure that most people in the Capital Wasteland wouldn't say anything to him about his attire on the grounds that they probably think he'll eat them. Obviously, steps are going to have to be undertaken to correct that impression.
The thought process involved is a little convoluted, but the end result is this: there is a nine-foot-tall, green-skinned, heavily muscled fellow seated at one of the larger tables. He has a pile of scraps of inexpensive fabric, a number of spools of thread of varying weights, a tapestry needle, and a copy of Vogue Sewing open to the 'learning basic needle techniques' pages. And he's trying to follow along.
When your fingers are the size of German sausages, the process can be harder than you'd really like.
But when you travel the Wasteland regularly, you get shot at or attacked a lot, and that results in a lot more damage than simply being stuck in a Vault with the occasional beating or shoving-around, the way his life had been before. And while nobody's bothered to say anything to him about it, Fawkes is reasonably sure that most people in the Capital Wasteland wouldn't say anything to him about his attire on the grounds that they probably think he'll eat them. Obviously, steps are going to have to be undertaken to correct that impression.
The thought process involved is a little convoluted, but the end result is this: there is a nine-foot-tall, green-skinned, heavily muscled fellow seated at one of the larger tables. He has a pile of scraps of inexpensive fabric, a number of spools of thread of varying weights, a tapestry needle, and a copy of Vogue Sewing open to the 'learning basic needle techniques' pages. And he's trying to follow along.
When your fingers are the size of German sausages, the process can be harder than you'd really like.