I didn't remember exactly what happened. I remember being tied up, the rope cutting into my wrists through the leather gloves I had on. I remember a checkered coat, the gleam of a pistol in the moonlight, and the words "Truth is… the game was rigged from the start."

I didn't see the flash, or hear the bang of the gun.

Being dead wasn't what I thought it would be. There were great swaths of darkness, with a few images coming up in between. There was dirt, some kind of cowboy flickering on a screen, and then an elderly man with medical supplies doing something to my head, my vision jerked back and forth several times, and again it slipped to darkness. I felt no pain. At least not any pain that I remember. Just… darkness.

Eventually, the images came up more and more often. They were clearer, and I could actually tell there was noise around me.

If this is death… I am sorely disappointed.

My eyes open, and a wooden ceiling comes into focus. A rotary fan turns lazily out of the corner of my eye.

"Oh hey now, you're awake." A friendly voice comes from beside the bed I become aware I'm lying in. I try to sit up, unsure why I'm alive, and the world turns hazy again.

"Easy now…" The voice comforts me, and I can feel a pair of hands steady me. My vision clears after a moment. It's an old man, balding and white haired, but kindly enough. He says something more, but I'm trying to see clearly and his mustache keeps coming into and out of focus.

I realize he is waiting for me to respond. "Buh?" I manage to get out. My throat is incredibly parched.

The man looks saddened, but tries again. "What's your name son?" he asks.

I try to remember my name. It's fuzzy, and I can't focus.

"It feels like my head's full of cotton." I think I say.

The man sighs in relief. "Well, I had to replace your stuffing with something, after having survived a shot to the head like that."

I smile. "Heh."

"Do you remember your name?" he prodded again.

The clouds part long enough for me to snatch my name before it is lost again. "I think my name is Buck… Uh…" My last name escapes me. I know I have one.

"That's fine enough for now, Buck." He says. "I'm Dr. Mitchell."

I wave a hand half heartedly in greeting, trying to ignore the fading afterimages of movement. "Hi."

"Now I had to go rooting around there in your head to get all the pieces of the bullet out. I take pride in my needlework, but why don't you have a look and tell me if I left anything out of place." He said, picking up a mirror that was leaning against his chair.

I hold the mirror, and at first I almost drop it. I wasn't holding on tightly enough. But I look myself over. It was almost like looking at the face of a dead man. My tan had paled from being in bed for a long time. My face was scraggly; I haven't had a shave in some time. I try to guess based off the hair growth, but the fogginess has yet to recede. My eyes, baby blue, were a little bloodshot, but seemed okay.

My hair was shaggy, loosely swept back and steel gray. It wasn't because of age, I'd always had gray hair like that. Well, last time I had looked in a reflection I wasn't missing a several inch across patch of hair right across my hairline. It had grown out some, but I could still see a nasty looking scar across my scalp, the brush of short hair doing little to conceal the angry red stitched up slash on my forehead.

I shouldn't complain. I mean, I'm alive. That's something more than I thought I had before the guy shot me. A sharp spike of pain shoots through my head just thinking about the man. I knew who he was. I think. It's… It's gone now. "Bastard." I whisper.

"What?" Dr. Mitchell asked, surprised.

"Oh no, not you." I calm him down as quickly as I can. "You didn't shoot me in the head." I look over the injury. "That's some pretty fine suture work there. I didn't think much people remembered old world techniques like that."

Dr. Mitchell blinked in surprise. I did too. "It seems you know something about medicine." He observed. "In fact, yes I learned some of those tricks. I grew up in vault twenty one."

"Oh. A vault dweller." I respond. "That must have been nice."

"It was good enough, but I've made my home here." He replied, a sad smile on his face.

"I'm grateful you did." I say quietly.

"Well, you've been in bed long enough, let's see if we can get you standing." He helps me wobble to my feet. My head pounds again, and I think I'm about to black out, but it fades again.

"Why don't you make your way over to that vigor tester over there. Take it slow now, this ain't a race." He says. Walking over to an old style vigor tester machine.

I grab the electric squeeze handle of the machine, half to get started and half to keep me from falling over. I squeeze as hard as I can, taking breaths as I try to even my heartbeat. Things are falling into place in my mind, and by the time it buzzes its completion, I feel much more confident.

"Well, you could have come out a whole lot worse." Dr. Mitchell observed my sub par physical scores. "But be glad that isn't a normal diagnostic tool."

He walks off into another room, muttering about being nutty or something. I give the machine a second try. Even when I squeeze as hard as I can, I still don't get even an average in vigor. Muscle atrophy from being bedridden? Nerve damage from the bullet?

I realize that while my body seems woefully sub-par so far as vintage electronic toys are concerned, my mind seems to be more or less intact. I seem to have a hard time remembering everything directly, but I seem to be able enough to use what I learned by repetition memory. Either that or the bullet to the brain made me smarter. I didn't want to start thinking about that.

I walk over to the Dr. "Look, Dr. Mitchell, do I have to go through all this. I can tell you what I am comfortable with."

Dr. Mitchell sighs. "Well, if you can impress me, I'll toss the normal mental exam out."

"Okay." I say, taking a deep breath before launching into it. "You have a chemistry lab in the back of the room I woke up in. I would estimate by the colored chemicals and the acrid odor you were mixing up a few extra stim packs in case I had any complications. I know you stitched my head up with a fine surgeons suture, and from the color of material you didn't have anything that would fall out on its own so I'll have to pull them once its healed enough." I point back into that room. "You had an AEP 7 laser pistol on a shelf near the vigor tester, and a broken submachine gun near the foot of the bed. The slide cylinder looked to be gummed up, since it was half out. Clearing the slide and resetting it would fix that. The laser pistol… well, it needs batteries."

Dr. Mitchell whistled. "Well, it seems you have a knack for all manner of intellectual pursuits, I'll tell you that." He flips through the pages on his medical clipboard. "Well, I guess all that's left then is the medical history page then." He holds it out to me, and I grab it as I sink down onto his couch. "I mean, it's not like I expect you to have a family history of getting shot in the head." He jokes.

I take the pen he handed me and quickly scratch my information down. I hand it back to him moments later, and he glances through it before setting it aside. "Well, you definitely have some skill, and you don't seem the sort to pick fights. Wonder what led to you getting shot in the first place."

"Yeah about that doc." I say, stretching my neck. "How did you find me anyways?"

Doctor Mitchell shrugged. "That robot, Victor. He saw what happened and dug you up soon as the men cleared out."

"Really?" I ask. "I'll have to thank him."

"Yes. Well, do you think you're ready to move on your own?" he asks.

"It's a bit sudden, doc. I just woke up." I stand up. "But you know, I feel pretty good. I should at least head outside, and figure out what to do next."

Dr. Mitchell stood as well, smiling. "Well, if you talk to Sunny, she may have some stuff to get you re-accustomed to the wasteland." He explains. "She should be in the saloon about now."

I nod gingerly. "Sure thing."

I walk with him to the front door.

"Here, I want you to have this." He says, handing me a bulky device. I flip it over in my hands as I fiddle with the buttons and knobs. "It's a pip-boy. Everyone in the vaults had one. I don't have much use for it, and it seems you could use it more than I could."

I slip the thing onto my arm, and slide my fingers into the attached glove. I close the brackets, and feel the interior padding adjust to my arm. Click. It biometrically seals to my arm, a safety feature that most people don't talk about. RobCo secrets. But where did he get this one? He's still got his attached to his arm.

"Are… you sure about this, doc?" I ask.

"Yeah." He replies. "I think it will see more use with you than it would have sitting in a trunk." He holds out a bundle of clothes and a small pack. "These were yours. Sorry about the clothes, but your other stuff was too tore up to keep."

I zip up the jumpsuit, finding it interesting that the vault jumpsuits were pre made with the pip-boy in mind. Its sleeve on the left side terminated at the elbow, where it would bunch up against the pip-boy. Made sense, there was no way I could get a sleeve over the bulky thing.

The pack holds a few stim packs, two bottles of water, a handgun, and a courier slip. I hold it up with my left arm, and am surprised when the third button flickers to life briefly before going silent again. I could faintly hear the sound of the screen idling. I read over the slip before pocketing it.

I hit a few buttons on the pip boy, turning the control knobs and running it through its paces. It has the Pip-Boy 3000 firmware, pretty solid. RobCo knew what it was doing. Of course, they probably didn't intend for the thing to be used in other methods, but it was possible to improvise using loops in the code… I shake my head. Well, that shouldn't be surprising, but I don't remember where I learned so much about this, but I do. I turn over to the notes section of the pip-boy and start logging my thoughts. Hopefully I can piece together whatever is missing from my shattered memory in time. This device, this tool will certainly help. I also note that it seems to have scanned the courier slip and has a copy of its form on its memory. Handy, that.

"There isn't much on this thing right now." I observe.

"I erased its memory after its last owner… no longer needed it." He replies. "Too much personal stuff on it."

I nod, noting my headache is fading rapidly. "Gotcha." I reply.

The handgun is weathered and worn, but it feels unfamiliar in my grip.

"This was mine?" I ask, bewildered.

"Was with the rest of your stuff, I s'pose someone could have left it after shooting you." Dr. Mitchell reasoned. "I guess if you can find some energy cells for the laser pistol or can fix up the gun, you can have those as well."

I walk back into the other room. I scoop up the laser pistol and turn it over in my hands. Something… feels right about it. I realize after the fact that I not only cleared and replaced the nearly depleted energy cells, but I practiced taking aim down its square barrel. "Yeah." I comment to myself, or perhaps no one in particular. "This feels about right."

The submachine gun was in poor shape, but I manage to remove the slide, clear out the gunk and dirt that was jamming up the springs, and reconnect everything. The clip had six bullets left in it. It didn't feel as familiar as the laser pistol, but it felt alright.

"Thank you, doc." I say one last time as the doctor holds the door open for me.

"You're welcome, Buck." He replies, waving me out. "Come on back soon, just not for business."

I smirk as I step out into the hot Mojave sun. Maybe the game was rigged from the start, but now it's a new game, and I'm the one holding the cards.