Remember this goober? He's one of the first people you talk to in Fallout 4. This is the same weasely huckster that comes to your door and asks for you to sign up for a spot in Vault 111. Known only as the Vault-Tec Rep, he's not important enough to have a name, and yet without him you would have never made it to that cryogenic chamber so important to the story of Fallout 4.
The last time you see the Rep is outside the gates to Vault 111, as he pleads with one of the guards for entrance. From what little you can gather, it sounded as though the Rep was assured entrance for his faithful service, only to have that promise ripped away from him at the worst possible moment.
It was easy to assume we'd never hear from him again, but lo and behold, look who we found on the third floor of the Hotel Rexford:
Yep, that's our Rep, some 200 years later. He didn't die when the bombs fell after all; instead, the radiation mutated him into a hideous but immortal ghoul. The Rep remembers you when you talk to him, and all the sorrow of the last two centuries comes pouring out. Since Judgment Day, he's had no one and nothing, just another lonely ghoul roaming an unforgiving wasteland. At best, he could chill out with Codsworth for a while, but barring that, it seems like everything in his life was blown to hell like the rest of the world. Vault-Tec just left their faithful employee to die without as much as a "Sorry." Despite assurances to the contrary, the Rep was never meant to be saved, and living with the knowledge that he was purely disposable broke his spirit in half.
The Rep's story can have something of a happier ending, if the player decides to recruit him to help out at Sanctuary. You might do well to add him to your ranks -- maybe you can ask him how he kept his suit so immaculate in the post-apocalypse.
Not many places were actually improved by the war, but you could make a case for Big John's Salvage. Take away the super mutants that infest it now, and it's basically a junkyard with a cool treehouse. It was a humble but comfortable home for a couple and their two kids who lived on the lot. The Millers' home was destroyed either by the bombs or the sands of time, but it looks as though they had an escape plan.
A terminal (what else?) reveals that the Millers had a secret bug-out bunker with a surprising amount of security. Not accessible through even the sturdiest bobby pins, the trap door is only opened via a switch elsewhere on the premises. Though that mechanism was easily found by anyone who can follow a wire, it appears as though nobody else had been down to that shelter. Nobody but the Millers.
It's hard to miss Mr. and Mrs. John's Salvage as you walk into the bunker. They're huddled on a bed together, embraced in eternity on a dirty mattress on top of some sandbags. Cause of death isn't immediately discernible, but it's easy to assume your typical famine/thirst that might occur in an atomic dystopia. But there is a log entry from John, who's concerned about the ventilation problems in the bunker, and how it might affect the kids. Right, the kids...
Just a few feet from mom and dad are two small mounds, adorned with a baseball glove and a teddy bear, right next to a shovel still dug in the ground. The Miller parents not only didn't survive the apocalypse, but they had to bury their own children before dying in each others' arms, on top of a dirty mattress, on top of some sandbags. When you put it that way, being disemboweled by a Deathclaw seems like a mercy.