Atia's mind was wholly occupied by thoughts of the man she had left behind in D.C. as she walked up the winding path to the small town of Goodsprings; therefore, when a strange-looking robot carrying what appeared to be a dead body went whizzing by her, all she could do was stare at it. However, after her brain processed what she had seen, she went running after it, plasma pistol drawn; nothing good could come out of what she had seen.
She tried to aim as she ran, not wanting to hit the limp form in the robot's arms; she couldn't be sure the person was dead, and she certainly didn't want to accidentally finish the job. The robot moved purposely through the town, and finally stopped outside the door of a larger house, banging loudly on the door with one metal arm.
Atia finally caught up with it, and was taken aback by the image of a cartoon cowboy on a flickering screen that seemed to be the robot's "face." "Sorry, ma'am, but my hands are a bit full at the moment," it said in a stereotypical western accent; she had heard its like before in the movies they used to watch in the vault.
The light from the screen illuminated the person the robot was carrying, and Atia almost dropped her gun in shock. Just then, the front door swung open, revealing an elderly man wearing pajamas. "Victor? What on earth is going on?"
"Sorry to bother you at this hour, doc, but this poor fella's been hurt something bad," the robot said, wheeling past the doctor into the house. The doctor and Atia looked at each other for an instant before both following the robot, entering the other room just in time to see him laying the young man on a cot.
The doctor immediately rushed over him, pulling on a pair of gloves before examining the perfectly circular hole in the man's head, pushing his matted bloody hair out of the way. "Miss, please hold his hair back for me," the doctor said calmly, now digging through a drawer and retrieving several metal tools.
Atia hesitated for half a second before putting on a pair of gloves and carefully pushing his hair away from the wound; she almost felt as if her father was with her, praising her for helping to save a stranger's life.
"The bullet's in his left frontal lobe," the doctor muttered to himself, picking up what looked like a large pair of tweezers. "If we get it out of there and stabilize him quickly, we could save him. I'm going to pull it out; I want you to put pressure on the wound as soon as the bullet's out, okay?"
The doctor handed her a bunch of gauze, and Atia nodded silently, noticing that her hands were trembling slightly; she watched the doctor carefully extract the bullet with steady hands, and was once again reminded of her father.
Blood welled out of the hole as soon as the bullet was out, and Atia quickly pressed the gauze against it, watching as it soon became soaked with blood. She saw the doctor holding what looked like a small piece of metal and a stapler, and diligently held the man's hair out of the way as the hole was stapled shut.
The doctor sighed, taking off his bloody gloves and throwing them away. Atia couldn't tell if this was a sigh of relief or defeat, and timidly asked, "Is he going to be okay?"
"He should be," the doctor said, injecting the man in the neck with Med-X. "You were very brave, young lady."
"My name's Atia," she said, holding her hand out to shake his, and then pulling it back quickly when she realized she was still wearing the blood-covered gloves.
"I'm Doc Mitchell," he said, holding out the garbage can for her to throw her gloves into. "Victor, did you see what happened?"
"Can't say I did," the robot piped up, wheeling over to them. "I was out for a stroll when I noticed a new grave in the cemetery; didn't take me long to realize this poor fella was buried there."
"Well, he obviously has an enemy," Atia said softly, studying the unconscious man's face; he didn't look to be much older than she was.
Doc Mitchell searched the pockets of the man's dirty and bloodstained clothes, retrieving a laser pistol, a few stimpaks, and a piece of paper that was so soaked with blood that it was almost illegible. Reading over the doctor's shoulder, Atia could make out the words "Courier Six," "Primm," and "Mohave Express." She had passed Primm on her way to Goodsprings earlier in the day, but had kept her distance due to the NCR's presence. She had no idea what the Mohave Express was, but figured it was safe to assume that it was some sort of delivery service, and that the young man was a courier in its employ.
"It would've been helpful if this had his name," Doc Mitchell muttered, laying the paper on the table to dry. "He may not remember it."
"Well doc, I'd best be going," Victor said, his voice as cheerful as ever. "It was lovely making your acquaintance, ma'am." With that, he rolled out of the room, closing the front door behind him.
"I'd be glad to offer you a place to sleep, Miss Atia," Doc Mitchell said. "You were a great help to me; I may not have been able to save him if you weren't here."
Atia felt that this was a bit of an exaggeration, but nonetheless felt her cheeks flush slightly. "If you don't mind, doctor, I'd rather stay here; I want to be here when he wakes up." She wasn't sure why she felt so strongly about not leaving the courier's side, but she suddenly couldn't imagine even leaving the room.
"Suit yourself; don't hesitate to call if you need anything." Once Atia heard his footsteps go down the hall, she dragged a chair next to the courier's bedside and sunk into it, exhaustion washing over her. She removed her leather jacket and boots, but figured she should leave her pants and bra on.
Scooting her chair closer to him, Atia took the opportunity to truly examine the courier for the first time. With his slightly upturned nose, sensual mouth, and long eyelashes, his features could almost be called pretty; however, his strong jaw and the stubble on his face made up for this in terms of masculinity. His hair was a mass of golden brown waves, although a good portion of it was matted with dried blood. Atia figured that he was about six feet tall, and she couldn't help but admire the muscles visible under his clothes. She realized with a jolt that he was exactly her type; in fact, he looked uncannily like her former love interest.
Grumbling to herself, she went over to the sink and wetted a towel before carefully washing the blood off of the courier's face and hair as best as she could. She knew that D.C. was a few hours ahead; he had probably just gotten off patrol. Atia pictured him removing his power armor, his golden hair in a damp tangle, sweat shining on his muscular chest and arms. He would collapse in bed and fall asleep instantly, something that she always used to find rather aggravating. Trying to comfort herself, she reasoned that at least she didn't have to spend her nights lying awake listening to his snores any longer.
Atia's angry thoughts were interrupted when she noticed steady streams of blood flowing out of both of the courier's nostrils, dripping down his neck to stain the cot. "Fuck," she muttered, wiping the blood off his face with the already blood-soaked towel she was holding, and then pinching his nose with it.
His mouth fell open a few seconds later, revealing a particularly nice set of teeth for a wastelander. His breathing came in labored gasps, and Atia whispered a steady stream of useless apologies, periodically checking to see if his nose had stopped bleeding while stroking his drying hair away from his face. Just when the bleeding finally slowed, she saw rivulets of blood coming out of his left ear.
"You're a real fucking mess, aren't you?" she sighed, trying her best to stop each new spurt of bleeding as it occurred. Both his eyes were blackened, as if someone had punched him in each eye; however, she knew that this, along with the nose and ear bleeding, were all indicative of a brain injury. She had read many of her father's medical books while growing up in the vault, and made a point to continue educating herself in medicine during her travels through D.C.
All the bleeding finally seemed to stop, and Atia curled up in the chair next to his bed, listening to his ragged breathing and watching his chest rise and fall through half-closed eyes.