Plenty of people say that when your life is about end abruptly; everything you've ever done flashes before your very eyes. But for Joan, the only thing that was before her very eyes was the barrel of a 9mm pistol and the tacky looking suit behind it.

Blood and saliva seeped through her gag and dripped off the side of her chin. The cold Mojave breeze kept her awake. This was no time to sleep. Not after all of that. The indent on the back of her skull burned as Joan struggled to keep her eyes open. Taking a quick glance at her surroundings, she recognized the armor of five of her captors.

6 people…5 people in front…1 digging a grave…looks like a gang of Great Khans and their leader…

Joan couldn't make anything of the mysterious man. He stood there pointing the gun at her head, as if relishing the coup de grace. The sound of iron meeting sand was the only thing that kept the night from going silent. After what had seemed like hours, the man finally lowered his gun slightly. The corner of his mouth twitched as it turned into a smirk.

"You made your last delivery, kid." He said apologetically, "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."

The gun rose up again to Joan's forehead. The only thing going through her mind was to shout at this man about how his mother must be ashamed of giving birth to a son with no fashion sense. But with the gag in her mouth, all her insults sounded like muffled whimpers of remorse and fear. The mysterious man pulled the hammer back on the pistol.

"From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."

18-karats huh? At least I'll know how many of them I'll need to shove up your ass when I kill you.

"Truth is," he said with a chuckle in his voice, "the game was rigged from the start."

There was a flash of light, the sound of an oncoming train, and then darkness.

A cold sensation spread across Joan's body slowly, but stopped at her head. It stayed warm up there for a bit. She couldn't explain it, but it felt comforting in its own way. She felt the warmth in her head grow hotter and grow hotter until it became excruciating. She scrunched her face as the pain from the heat became unbearable. And with the pain, she screamed. Screamed until all of the air in her lungs were gone. Begging, hoping, that the pain would go away.

Joan's head then rocketed upward and slammed right into the old doctor's face. Sounds of pain and profanities echoed through the empty old house from both parties.

"GOD DAMN IT! OH SHIT! FUCK!"

The old doctor rolled on the floor screaming with an ophthalmoscope stuck on his left eye. Joan panicked and tried to get up from the bed and escape from the scene of the crime. As her feet touched the floor, she realized that her leg muscles were on strike and had sabotaged her coordination. She slammed onto the floor causing the IV stand next to her to tip over and land on the doctor's other eye. For a while, the two laid there, one mumbling, one screaming, but both in a ridiculous amount of pain.

"I take pride in my needle work." Doc Mitchell said as he held a cold slab of Bighorner meat against his black eye, "but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place."

Sheepishly, Joan took the Reflectron from the Doc's hand. It had only been an hour since their little accident and both of them had only just gotten the courage to speak to one another.

"Y-yeah you did fine, Doc," Joan said, "Didn't miss a stitch and you managed to let me keep my hair too."

"Couldn't bring myself to cut it. Reminded me of my wife's. Nice and long, but don't you think that you've been out in the radiation for a bit too long? I've never seen that color grow on anybody before."

Joan rolled her eyes. Though she couldn't blame Doc Mitchell for his comment. Her neon blue hair was probably the most noticeable thing about her.

"Thanks, Doc."

The silence reigned true for another moment or two. It was no longer an awkward silence that plagued the house moments ago, but more of a "let's never speak of this again" kind of silence. Joan sat on the mattress, fiddling her thumbs, while Doc Mitchell studied the bits and pieces of the lead on the table in-between them.

"Hey Doc, where's my stuff?"

Mitchell looked up from his work confused for a slight second.

'Wha-? Oh right."

A rather large beige backpack landed on the metal table with a loud CLUNK. This backpack had been with Joan for as long as she remembered. There were tiny patch ups here and there, bullet holes, and a few felt badges as well, but the bag had always held its own against the Wastes. It was like a companion to her. As she sat reminiscing of her adventures, Mitchell stretched out his shoulder and gave off a few grunts of pain.

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

She gave off a small smile. The smell of gun powder and brass filled her nose as she reached for the bag.

"Smells like home."

However, an unfamiliar smell quickly mixed in with the scent of home. It reeked of pine and gum and soon it became overwhelming. Joan quickly pulled back her hand, searching her brain for the answer to this mystery.

No wait, she thought, it IS familiar. But what is it?

Silence reigned the air for a while longer as Joan became deep with thought. Doc Mitchell kept staring on, waiting for Joan to pick her bag up from his table. The clock ticked on, as well as Doc Mitchell's patience.

"You gonna pick the bag up yet?" he said with a hint of concern, "Afraid that something's gonna come out of it?"

Joan shook her head and shooed the Doc away. The mysterious smell was beginning to irritate her conscious.

Okay, think back for a bit. What were you doing before you got shot? There were the deathclaws, then the raiders at Bonnie Springs, then the caza-

Her eyes widened. She had completely forgotten about the cazador egg that she nabbed from one of the nests. The smell was soon accompanied by a large noticeable stain pooling at the bottom of the bag.

"DOC, GIVE ME A GUN!" Joan yelled.

"Wha-?" Mitchell started.

"JUST DO IT!"

A laser pistol quickly landed on her lap and she wasted no time in pulling the trigger. The bag burst into an inferno and a very different threat came to light.

Literally.

"GET DOWN!"

Joan leaped off the mattress and swung Mitchell behind a wall. At first, there was nothing but the soft sound of a fire crackling. Then, a loud BANG reverberated inside the house followed by a bullet whizzing by, barely grazing Mitchell's hairless dome. Several minutes cruised by, each minute increasing the amount of bullets zipping by their cover. The deafening sound of a .50 MG going off gave the all clear. The two peeked slightly around the corner to take a look at their trigger-happy adversary. What was left of anything inside, or outside, of the bag was now nothing but smoke and ash. Glancing at the devastation, Joan rested her face on her hand and sighed.

"I just put another patch on that thing too."