For those new, this is a story about the Courier. I've done my best to remain true to the story of New Vegas, but I have given it my own spin. As the chapters progress, you'll see more and more that isn't in the game (but perhaps should have been, in my opinion). This is my first attempt at a fanfiction. It will be about 30 chapters long when all is said and done. There will be some points that you'll be asked to refrain from reading further until you get around to reading the DLC chapters. I am not going to include them as chapters within the main story, but instead as their own works. Each DLC should be between 12 and 15 chapters. I'm not sure I'm going to be doing Old World Blues though - as much as I enjoyed it, the story was just a little too bizarre for my taste and I do not believe it will fit well with the story I'm trying to create. I encourage you to leave feedback: reviews, suggestions, or just a little bit of praise now and then. Helps keep me motivated. And now...the story:
Blackness, spinning, nausea. Three figures standing above him, blurred, but there. Each moment offered a dull thud from the inside out. His head pounding like the steady beat of a drum. He could hear them now. Muffled and miles away, but still close enough to smell. "You got what you were after," one of the figures spouted. "So pay up."
"Baby, your words are like knives. I never doubted you would," a second voice answered. "But we'll talk about your pay when I'm safely nestled back on the strip with a classy dame under each arm and a bottle of scotch in my hand."
With his vision starting to clear, he struggled to get to his feet. He strived to part his legs, but to no avail. They were numb and all of his strength had escaped him. Now on his knees, he gazed down at his hands – they were bound. "Hey, guys. Guess who's waking up over here?" One of the men taunted.
The other two turned towards their captive. One raised a cigarette and took a long draw before tossing it to the ground. He looked at his captive, his eyes shining with some combination of pity and remorse. He wore a checkered suit and his hair was slicked back. His demeanor suggested he thought highly of himself. His wardrobe set him apart from his company, whose attire suggested a nature far more grim than the man in the checkered suit had himself. After a beat, he exhaled the smoke into the night air around him. "Time to cash out."
"Let's get this over with already," the first man said. The man in the checkered suit waved his arm dismissively; his eyes never leaving his captive.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink. Dig?" The man replied. His voice was smooth and confident. He cast his gaze upon his cohorts for a moment before returning it to the man bound in front of him. He reached into his jacket – the captive felt his stomach sink, as he knew the end was near. But what the man withdrew was not a firearm. It was merely a small round item, a poker chip. The man in the checkered suit casually rolled it between his fingers. "You made your last delivery," the man spoke softly. "I'm sorry you got twisted up in this scene. I really am." The man returned the chip to its resting place within his pocket, and when his hand re-emerged it wielded a sterling silver 9mm. The pistol sparkled in the moonlight. "From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18 karat run of bad luck," the man continued. "But the truth is…the game was rigged from the start." The captive felt that sense of trepidation creep over him again. With a single, swift, motion the man in the checkered suit raised his pistol and fired.
Blackness again. A beat. A bright white light. How much time had passed? Was he still alive? A sound…strange, rhythmical, motorized. His vision began to clear. He began to gain focus. A fan. Where was he? A voice answered his thoughts. "You're awake, how 'bout that." He tried to sit up…a hand caught his shoulder to assist him. "Relax now...You've been out for a couple weeks. I'll be honest with you, I didn't expect you to pull through. Do you know where you are?" the voice asked.
"No," he responded.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
"I don't. I don't remember anything," he said, his faculties had returned to him. The man that sat before him was elderly, balding. What little hair he had lost all its color. A silver handlebar mustache perched itself on his upper lip. The old man looked at him, his face contorted with worry.
"What about your name? Can you remember your name?" The old man asked.
"I don't remember," he replied. "Who are you?"
"The name's Mitchell. Most people here just call me Doc. You're in Goodsprings, a little ways south-west of the strip," Doc told him. Doc nodded towards a shelf across the room. "Those are yours. Everything you had on you when you was brought in. Why don't you go ahead and get dressed. We'll talk after." Doc stood and helped his patient to his feet. "Easy. Easy now." The patient walked across the room with little effort. "That's good. You seem to be gettin' around just fine. Most patients don't get out of bed after being shot and then move like they was in perfect control."
The patient stopped just short of the table, "Shot?" A flash of silver and ivory flickered to life in his mind momentarily before disappearing; a memory?
"Yessir. That's what I treated you for. A gunshot wound to the head. I'm not surprised you don't remember." Doc made his way across the room disappearing into the hallway. "Get dressed, I'll find you something to eat and then we can talk a while."
The patient made his way to the table; before him, neatly placed along the table, laid an assortment of goods: a broad machete, a slightly weathered 10mm, a set of binoculars, a canteen, and a shotgun. He also found his clothing – a lightly worn set of overalls, a tan pair of gardening gloves, a blue flannel shirt, and a tan courier pouch embroidered with the number six. He looked at his clothes despairingly, they were covered in blood…presumably his own. "Fuck…"
"Here," Doc had returned. "I found one of my old vault suits and my pipboy. I used to live in a vault…but that was a long time ago, never was much my style. Anyhow, these ain't much use to me now, but I'm sure you can put them to good use."
"Yeah," the man replied. "Thanks for patching me up, Doc."
"Don't mention it, fella. It's what I'm here for," Doc told him. "I don't have much, but feel free to have a look around. If you see anything you need, it's yours. When you're ready, I'll be in the kitchen. I put on some bighorner steaks and some instamash. There might be some scotch in the pantry." With that, Doc disappeared into the hall again.
The man traced his hand along the bag, "Six…" he muttered to himself.
Doc Mitchell sat at his kitchen table awaiting his patient-turned-guest. He casually cut into his steak – it bled beneath his fork. "Just right…" he said aloud. A tap at the kitchen door caught his attention, "Ah. Have a seat. You know, I was thinking about your predicament. This is a good chance for a fresh start. No name, no memories. Ultimate freedom." The man stood in the doorway opposite of Doc. "But, of course, that brings up a pretty big issue. Folk are gonna expect to call you something. Have you given it any thought?"
The man paused a moment, once again running his hand along the embroidery on his pouch. "Six," he replied after a moment of silence.
"Six? Well…I can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's the name you want," Doc motioned for him to sit once more.
Six sat down and eyed the proverbial feast that lay before him. "Can you tell me anything about my attacker? Or about how I got here?"
Doc eyed Six for a moment before pouring him a shot of scotch. "Can't say that I can. That metal fella, Victor, he was the one that brought you to me. You might try asking him. Or you might try the saloon up the road. The bartender there, Trudy, she'd be a safe bet for information. If anyone saw anything, after a few drinks they'd likely tell her."
Six nodded before cutting into his steak. The meat was surprisingly tender and Doc had seasoned it well. "Victor?"
"A curious fella, really. A robot. He keeps to himself. I can't really tell you too much about him. He was already here when I arrived in Goodsprings. I can't say that I know much more. But he does have a shack down by the schoolhouse on the southern end of town."
"Goodsprings?"
Doc laughed. "Yeah. Quaint little place. It gets its name from the natural springs where we get our water, just a ways south of town. It doesn't have much. I'm the town doctor, as I'm sure you've figured out. There's a little general store run by a man named Chet. He doesn't have a lot, but he's usually got the necessities. Then there's the bar. Goodsprings is just a little place where we try to get by, really."
"So what about you, Doc? What's your story?" Six downed his scotch and Doc poured him another shot.
"I used to live in a vault…as I already told you. I was a traveling doctor for a spell…I got to help a lot of people, which was fine by me. But I eventually went back and married my childhood sweetheart. That was before I made my way here."
"Where's your wife now?" Six asked.
Doc was quiet for a second. "I find it's best not to dwell on the past," he downed his own scotch and stood. "Well, I'd recommend bed rest for a couple days. But I can tell you got no intention of sticking around. I'd recommend you talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She'll probably have some tips for traveling. If you experience any lasting symptoms come back to see me."
Six stood and nodded to the good doctor. "Thanks again, Doc. I don't have any caps on me right at the moment, but I'm indebted to you. I took a doctor's bag, some stimpacks, and anti-venom. You'll hear from me again soon. I intend to repay you." Six extended his hand.
"Well. Try not to get yourself killed," Doc Mitchell smiled and shook Six's hand lightheartedly.
