"You've made your last delivery, paley. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene. From where you're kneeling it must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck."

"But, truth is...the game was rigged from the start".

His eyes popped open as if he was stabbed while sleeping. But he wasn't – the pain came from somewhere else: his head. His head hurt. It hurt really bad.

For a moment, he had no idea where he was, or what happened. He was in that period between dreaming and snapping out of it. Slowly, everything came into place though, and he could tell dreams from reality.

He was lying in a bed, looking up, the light hurting his eyes and giving him a wicked headache. A single ceiling fan was swirling the hot desert air around. He was almost sweating through his blanket.

"You're awake. How 'bout that," said the voice suddenly. His hand shot to his hip where the gun… There was no gun. There was nothing on him, just his shorts and an old rug covering him.

Feeling extremely hot and sweaty, he looked around, pushing the blanket from his bare chest. He was in a town house: old pre-war wooden paneling and wallpaper on the dusty walls. In front of him was a metal table with wheels – an operating table. Was this a hospital?

In front of the bed was a chair, and in it was sitting a bald, elderly man with a mustache, watching over him. The owner of the voice that startled him. He seemed harmless with his suspenders over a black shirt, a brown (might have been red once) neckerchief around his neck.

He decided the man was a small town doctor. Maybe someone found him after…

He had a thought and sat up without warning. Dizziness hit him immediately, so hard that he almost vomited.

"Whoah, easy there," the doctor said, supporting one of his shoulders with a hand. "Easy. You been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings."

He leaned back to the wall, put his hands on his temples and waited for the fog to roll away from his eyes. He fought back the vomiting, cleared his throat which came out suspiciously like a groan. Dammit.

"Uh. Where the… What…" he tried to say as his vision slowly got back and the figure of the man who helped him became clearer once more. The doctor was leaning forward and looking at his eyes, squinting.

"Don't make any sudden moves," he said in his slightly gravelly voice. "Trust me, you gotta wait a bit before you go prancin' about. First, let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

"Uh…" he said, and felt silly for a moment, having to think to remember his own name. Fortunately, it didn't take long. "I'm Vincent. Vincent Connell."

"Huh," the man's brows went up. "Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's your name, that's your name."

"What do you mean?" Vincent asked, rubbing his teary eyes.

"Well I'd 've guessed you were a Bill. Or a Bob?" the doctor said with a hint of a smile under his white mustache.

"Good guess," Vincent nodded, not quite ready to smile or show any emotion yet. Instead, he looked around the room again, and saw that he was indeed in a doctor's room. There was the operating table, another, leather-cushioned examination table farther away, some charts lying around on a table with a worn typewriter. The room was spacious, not just because it was large, but because it didn't have much furniture in it at all.

"Now, would you mind telling me where the hell I am?" he asked, just to clear up the details he couldn't have deducted from his surroundings.

"Welcome to Goodsprings. I'm Doc Mitchell."

Oh. Goodsprings. Vincent knew Goodsprings. But then again, he knew most of the settlements in the Mojave.

"Doc. Is that a first name, or are you a doctor?"

"Heh," Mitchell chuckled. "What do you think?" Then his face went serious. "You been shot in the head, Vincent."

"Yeah… What happened?" Vincent asked, leaning forward and trying his legs. They were numb like hell, but they worked.

"You been brought to me four days earlier. Victor pulled you out of the grave. You been shot in the head, left there to rot in the cemetery," the doctor explained.

"Yeah, I remember that…" Vincent said, looking away. He did remember, more in every minute. And he was getting angry, as he pieced together what he was doing here and what the facts were. His ears were ringing and he felt weak, but his mind wasn't blurry anymore.

"You're one lucky fella," the doctor said, oblivious of the rage building up in Vincent. "Bullet missed all the parts that would've killed you dead. Victor saw the fresh grave, dug it up, saw you was alive, he picked you up, brought ya right to my doorstep."

"Who's this Victor? Must be a strong son of a bitch to lift me. After digging up a grave."

Mitchell chuckled again.

"He's one of 'em robots. A machine fella. Rolls around like an escaped wheelbarrow, you know the type."

"You got a robot here?" asked Vincent, surprised. He had never been to Goodsprings, but he knew it was a small town, not the most technologically advanced place. Working machines weren't exactly the most common sights in the wastelands.

"Yeah," shrugged the doctor. "Been here since ages, helping out in town and all. His owner died a while ago, but he stayed. Guess he didn't have anywhere to go. He's a nice fella, maybe you should talk to him, see if he saw anything he didn't tell me."

"Like where that bastard who shot me is."

"Yep, maybe," Mitchell said, getting a bit suspicious. He squinted a bit and his head turned to the side, trying to see what was going n is Vincent's mind. "You remember who he was?" he asked.

"Well, yes, and no," Vincent frowned. He let out a small sigh, then explained: "I remember a checkered suit. New Vegas-type milk-drinker. Had this smooth, smug baby-face. I could tell that fucker apart from anyone, but I have no goddamn idea who he is."

"No?" It was the doctor's torn to be surprised.

"No," Vincent replied, shaking his head and getting a sting of headache for his trouble. He continued, not showing the pain. "He just attacked me with these goons, Great Khans by the look of it. Son of a bitch made those junkies do the dirty work. They dug up the grave, and then, well. A bullet later, I ended up here. Thanks to a robot, in the edge of nowhere."

Mitchell seemed embarrassed for a moment, looking away, a frown forming on his face. He bit his moustache, then said to Vincent who was looking at him quizzically: "Er, there was a note on you when Victor brought you here, and I gave it a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin. But it was just something about a platinum chip. Does that have somethin' to do with these goons?"

"Yeah, that's it," Vincent nodded. "It was business. I'm a courier at the Mojave Express. But now it's personal, unfortunately for that motherfucker."

The doc caught on to his anger now, not that it was well-concealed. He lifted his hands in a gesture to try to calm him down. "Well, I understand your frustration, but I'd say you gotta calm down for a bit, at least until I see if you're all right."

The courier heard himself and did cut back on the visible rage a bit.

"Don't worry, I won't vent my anger on you," he said with a small, lopsided smile.

"All right," the doc nodded. "I'd be no match for you if you decided to use me as a punching bag. You would also appear rude, if I might say so."

"I'm only rude with people who deserve it. I promise I won't misbehave."

They both chuckled to themselves, and Vincent's tension did cease a bit. This Doc wasn't half bad. Nice old fellow.

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out," Mitchell changed the subject. "I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place."

With that, he leaned to the side and produced a mirror from under his creaking chair. He gave it to Vincent, who lifted it in front of his face, bracing for the worst…

But his reflection didn't differ from the last look he took on it. His skin was still a bit hardened and brown from the Sun, his shoulder-length hair and full beard and moustache still had the same amount of grey in it (which was more than a half now, being past his fortieth birthday a good while ago), his eyes were the same shade of light blue. There seemed to be one extra scar on his forehead, but he already had scars on both of his eyebrows and under his mouth too.

"How'd I do?" Mitchell asked scratching his moustache.

"I see a new scar," Vincent admitted. "But I had plenty of those before I came here. One more won't make any difference."

"Yeah, I saw those. Couldn't do anythin' about 'em, didn't wanna mess up your skin too much."

"Been at some dangerous jobs around the desert. Never had to be pretty to do 'em."

"I can imagine," Mitchell said with a warm smile.

"Yeah," Vincent said, looking behind the doctor's shoulders with a contemplative gaze. "Been at the job since I was twenty."

"How many years is that?"

"Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight." Vincent shrugged. "Hell knows the exact date. As you can see, I ain't a fresh youngster. But I can pull my worth just fine."

"A healthy attitude," said Mitchell, nodding.

There was silence for a moment. Vincent looked down on himself and realized for the second time that he was half naked. He had a scar on his chest too: his right nipple almost came clean off once when a machete was swung at him by some drugged-up raider. He had the huge scar ever since.

"Where's my clothes?" he asked, looking up at Mitchell again. "Don't tell me I was in that grave in my underdrawers."

The doctor spread his hands for a second.

"Well, you'll be disappointed, but yes, you were. You had this undershirt, but it was so grimy I had to wash it. Your backpack didn't have any extra clothes in it. Oh, and those socks? They're mine. On the house."

Vincent looked down on his feet, and sure enough, he was wearing black socks, one of them slipped down a bit. He pulled it back up on his ankle.

"So you been watching over me while I was half-naked?"

"Easy," Mitchell lifted his hands as if he was threatened with a gun. "I'm a doctor, remember? I had to check you out, see if you got more wounds. You didn't. But putting clothes back on an unconscious man ain't as easy as taking 'em off. So even if you had all your clothes I couldn't 've dressed ya up.

"If you say so, doc," smiled Vincent. "I can see you're probably not into men anyway."

"Indeed I'm not," Mitchell said with a huge nod, almost a bow. "So, I got most of it right anyway. Stuff that mattered. Your face, I mean."

"Yeah. Yeah," said Vincent, then he looked around for his backpack, sticking his neck out. It was not in the room. "You got that undershirt here by any chance? Getting' uncomfortable here."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," the doctor said, and he stood up. "It's over here." He walked to the other examination table and picked up the gray undershirt. "Here you go," he said, walking back to Vincent and handing it to him. Vincent noticed the doc had a limp.

"Thanks," he said, not mentioning the bad leg. He put on the fitting shirt, immediately feeling a bit hot. He ignored it.

"Okay. No sense keeping you in bed anymore," Mitchell said, standing next to his chair. "Let's see if you can get on your feet."

"I should hope so," Vincent said. The dizziness passed, only the headache remained, but he figured that would remain for a long time, after having been through brain surgery.

He leaned on his thighs and stood up. His knees and some of his fingers cracked, but he could lift himself without much trouble. He felt his left thigh tremble a bit, but that was probably just the blood coming back to his strained muscles.

"Good," Mitchell said. "I did move your muscles a bit so you wouldn't get so cramped. I had no idea when you'd wake up, could have been a month even. Muscles tend to go bad when they're not used for a long time, ya know. Well, all right. Why don't you walk down to the end of the room? Over by that vigor tester machine there."

The doc gestured at the machine at the other end of the room, near a door. It was a peculiar construct: shaped like some cabinet, it had a metal lever on it, and other than that, only a bunch of flashy signs and slogans. VIT-O-MATIC VIGOR TESTER, and also TRUSTWORTHY for good measure, all in a funny arrangement over the machine. The rest was a large panel which looked like it could write out different things with the help of some rotating letters… And a lot of light-bulbs. What the hell was it? He started through the room to check it out.

"Take it slow, now. It ain't a race," the doctor worried. But Vincent reached the strange machine without much trouble. The first steps were a bit slower than what he was used to, but the last ones were almost normal. His knee creaked a bit again, but no pain came with it, so it was fine.

"Looking good so far," Mitchell said, relieved. Then he nodded at the vigor tester. "Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. We'll learn right quickly if you got back all your faculties."

"How does it work?" Vincent asked, staring at it.

"Beats me. It's a machine." the doctor said, stepping next to him. "When the light turns on, you pull that lever, as strong as you can, as fast as you can. The machine gives an estimate about how strong and fast you were. That kind of thing."

"I see. Well…"

"I'm turning it on," Mitchell said and he flicked a switch in a secluded part near the back of the machine. Then he looked at Vincent, who was looking at the light that was pointed out to him. Nothing happened.

Then suddenly, the light turned on. Vincent grabbed the lever and yanked on it. It didn't have much give. Did he pull it hard enough? Or was it like this deliberately?

"All right," the doctor nodded. "Pay attention, it's gonna turn on again."

Vincent stared at the light again, bending his fingers into a fist for a few times. When the light came on, he jerked the lever again. It felt better this time. His second pull was definitely harder.

"Very good," Mitchell said with folded arms. "One more time, and it's done."

This time the bulb lit up a bit later than expected, catching Vincent off guard. He swore under his breath as he performed his task for the third and final time.

Suddenly, the machine binged five times, and a bunch of words came up on the intricate display, showing a line with markers on them, representing his score in strength, perception, agility… Didn't seem like a very reliable machine to Vincent. Looked like some funfair attraction.

"Yep, that's a pretty standard score there, for a fella your age," Mitchell said, looking seriously at the figures. "But after what you been through, I'd say that's great news."

Vincent shrugged. "So I can go?"

"Well, we know your vitals are good," Mitchell patted the machine after turning it off, "But that don't mean that bullet didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping. It went right through your brains after all. What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple questions? See if your dogs are still barking."

Vincent frowned. Was this really necessary? He felt fine.

"Well, whatever. All right."

The doctor led him to another room with a dusty couch and a smaller seat in front of it. This room was a little homelier. It had a few bookshelves, some more couches and chairs, even a fireplace. The decorations were mostly doctor's tools, although there were two small photos on the wall too. There was also an old television set, but it seemed to be completely broken.

"All right," the doctor said after they both sat down facing each other. He picked up a book and opened it on a page marked with a piece of paper. There were other markers too jutting out from the worn pages. Vincent had no time to read the title.

"I'm gonna say a word," the doctor said. "I want you to say the first thing that comes into your mind."

Vincent's brows went up.

"Really?"

"Really," Mitchell nodded, then put his index finger on a line in the text.

"Dog," he said.

"Cat?" Vincent replied with a startled expression on his face.

"House."

"…Shelter," he said, taking some more time.

"Night," came the next word.

"That would be… The stars? I dunno."

"That's not the first thing that came into your mind," Mitchell said, looking up from the book. "You thought about it for too long."

"Ah, fuck it," Vincent whisked, irritated. "This is bullshit."

"No, no. Just say what the first thing was," Mitchell touched his shoulder for a moment. "There ain't no problem in a li'l mistake. You just woke up."

Vincent sighed and looked at the cracked ceiling, but the thought eluded him.

"I forgot. I don't remember."

"Well, like I said, ain't no problem. Let's move on."

The doctor looked at the book, examined it for a second, then turned a page.

"Enemy," he said.

"Shoot," came the answer from Vincent, without hesitation this time.

"Now that was the first thing," Mitchell said with a strong nod, then looked up at his patient. "If a li'l violent. But I can't say I blame you, after what happened to you. Let's move on."

"All right."

"Light."

"Dark."

"Mother."

"Father. … I'm just saying opposites, ain't I?"

The doctor smiled.

"That doesn't matter," he explained. "What I wanted to see is if you can think quick enough."

"Hope I can," Vincent shrugged. "I feel like I can, that's for sure."

"That's a start. And I didn't find no problem either. I was also looking out for some odd answers, and you didn't give no odd answers at all. So I guess that about does it."

"No more tests?" Vincent asked, looking up from his lap.

"Eh, I've got this here old psychology book," Mitchell lifted the book he was reading from. "But I ain't that kinda doctor, so what I do is look at what the book says. Couldn't give you an accurate reading myself from these all questions. Got them ink spot tests and all kinds of questions, drawing exercises… Beats me how it works. I got more from talkin' to you, and I say you're fine."

"Hm. Thanks for the confidence, I guess."

The doctor closed the book with a visible thud.

"Well, that's all she wrote," he said, then smiled with a lift of his brows. He put the book down next to Vincent's spot on the couch. Then he touched his bad leg and rubbed on it for a second, then he rose from his seat again, inviting the courier to do the same.

"Come with me, I'll see you out."

He led him through a largely empty corridor to what seemed like the front door. The Sun's light crept in under it, illuminating the dust gently swirling over the floorboards. The doctor stepped to a small shelf which had a bag on it – Vincent's bag. He pointed at it.

"Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in."

"Took my clothes but not my bag, huh, those idiots," the courier said, looking inside the duffel. It had his pistol in it – piece of junk, couldn't sell it for two caps, but it still worked – along with some scattered bobby pins, and nothing else. Except, there were five stimpaks – syringes filled with medicine – thrown in too that weren't his.

"The stimpaks are from me for the road," Mitchell said. "If your muscles decide they don't wanna play properly after all, you give 'em a prick with one of those. Helps the bloodflow. And speaking of clothes," he pointed at a heap of blue cloth next to the bag, "put that on, too, so the locals don't pick on you for lacking modesty. Never was much my style anyway," he added.

Vincent looked at the clothes. It was a jumpsuit, blue, with the number "21" on its back. It looked ridiculous, but it beat going out to the desert in his underpants. He didn't want to be rude and ask the doctor if he could have spared some of his normal clothes – maybe all he had was on him. Didn't seem like a very rich fellow.

"Thanks," he said as he pulled on the clothes. "What is this, anyway?"

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for," Mitchell said with a smile. "And the jumpsuit, well, it was mine. I grew up in one of them Vaults made before the war."

"Ah."

"Speaking of which…" Mitchell said, looking back to a doorway leading presumably to his bedroom, "Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this. Wait here."

He passed Vincent and limped out of sight. Vincent could hear him open a creaky drawer, then pull open a drawer. He appeared soon with a cylindrical piece of metal in his hands. As he brought it closer, Vincent could see it had a rather large display screen, whatever it was. He had a guess though.

"They call it a Pip-Boy," the doc explained, and Vincent nodded. Thought so. He didn't see one up close before, never used one, but they were around in places. They cost shitloads of caps though, so people who had them out there didn't really walk around swinging it into people's faces.

"We all got one, in the Vault," Mitchell continued. "Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you."

Vincent took the rather valuable gift, and looked the doctor in the eye. For a moment, he thought about asking about that last comment – Mitchell showed some unexpected sorrow for a second there… But the doc stepped closer and prevented him to speak up, grabbing his left hand.

"Here," he said. "You slide your hand through it, and fasten this here belt, and… there you go, it works. It monitors your blood pressure, has a map in it, you can read computer stuff with it, files and all. Make notes, if that's your thing."

It wasn't. In fact, Vincent didn't really think the Pip-Boy would help him in any way. But what the hell, it was worth a try. If it didn't work out, he could always send it back here with a thank-you note. As he looked at the screen showing his vital signs, he realized the thing was rather heavy, and it had a bit of a strong grip, maybe too strong… Not a good start. Maybe he'd take it down and put it on only when he needed it.

"You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town," the doctor said, snapping Vincent out of staring at the Pip-Boy with knitted brows. "She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. I mean, to get back on your feet. See if you can still shoot as well as you could. She's a nice girl."

"I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself, doc," Vincent said, and pated the old man's shoulder. Mitchell seemed a little embarrassed.

"Well, anyway, if you wanna meet her, she'll likely be at the saloon. And I reckon some of the older folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta the grave."

"I'll talk to him," Vincent said as Mitchell opened the door and let a whiff of hot morning air in with a bit of dust. After the white shock of sudden light left his eyes, the town of Goodsprings appeared before the courier's eyes. The visible houses were mostly in ruins, but a little further something colorful was flashing on one of the buildings.

"That the saloon?" he asked.

"Yep," the doctor said but pointed at it too, just in case. "Can't miss them flashing letters."

Vincent nodded and stepped out the door. He turned back to the doc though.

"Thank you for everything, Doc. I guess I owe you my life. I'm not used to that kind of thing, but… thanks."

Mitchell smiled again, shrugging humbly.

"If you ever get hurt out there, come right back. I'll fix you up," he said, the friendly smile remaining on his face. Then, with a mischievous glare in his eyes he added: "But try not to get killed anymore."

Vincent contemplated his words with a few nods, then looked behind him, at the town. Dust swirled around on the cracked concrete road, the wind whistling through heaps of rubble, a door slamming shut somewhere in the distance.

He turned back to Doc Mitchell one last time and looked him in the eye. His voice was low, but every word rang clear in the old man's ears:

"Oh, it's not me who's gonna get killed dead, doc. Not this time around."