It took him nearly a month and a half of solid walking, only breaking to take a sip of water, to escape the Wasteland in DC. He headed west, the east he saw the greater of two evils. His Pip-Boy was trashed. It was quite literally shattered after a Super Mutant swung at him with a Super-Sledge. He thought it would be a good idea to use his arm to block it. His arm managed to set itself right with a self made sling but the scars along his flesh still remained. His father, James, taught him everything he knew when it came to medicine and his own experience in the Wasteland gave him more then ample opportunity to practice but he was not perfect at it.

Nevada, more specifically the Mojave Desert, when he arrived was more intact then he ever dreamed of. It even gave him a job as a Courier. It put him point A to point B, don't ask questions sort of agreement. He knew when not to inquire, earned some easy caps, and drank most of them away. It was a good, easy life and allowed him to forget the Wasteland and how it tortured the twenty-three year old man. Most of that torture revolved around the Enclave and his father. He was ready to move on, forget it all.

Yet there was a group of men in front of him now as he came to. One stood in a checkered coat and two were on either side of him with very raider like armor on. The man in the checkered coat took a long drag of a cigarette. He oozed class, even to the way he held himself right down to the slightly lofted brow that brought attention to his dark eyes. The one with the shovel in his hand stared dark bullets at him. The third seemed impatient, looking around wildly. For all the Wanderer knew he was on something.

"You got what you paid for," the third gruffly said, "now pay up."

"You're crying in the rain, pally." The coated man said with the smallest of scowls.

"Heh…guess who's waking up over here, ah?" the wastelander with the shovel pointed out.

The Courier managed a good look before the others noticed. Something he was thankful for really, would make it easier for him to hunt them down.

"Time to cash out," the de-facto leader said, almost sadly as he flicked the cigarette to the ground.

"Will you get it over with?" the dark skinned, impatient captor said.

The man held up a finger, and to the Courier's surprise it wasn't the middle one. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"

Kill people? Panic and bile started to gather in his throat, his bladder tightened. He hadn't felt this scared since he first killed the overseer. Amata never forgave him for that but justice's hand was never a soft blow. He then tried to stand, but legs felt numb, he tried to pull his arms apart, but rope was tied roughly about his wrists. He then remembered the blow to the back of his head, He still felt a bit sluggish but he still managed a glare to the man in the shovel who gulped and looked away. The dark haired leader reached into his breast pocket inside of his jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a poker chip.

"You made your last delivery kid," he then placed it back, "sorry you got twisted up in the scene."

He then pulled out a gun plated in silver, something that looked pretty when it killed. The panic started to tear at his lungs, telling him to cry out, but he said not a word, only stared wide eyed.

"From where you're kneeling must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck," he then aimed the handgun at him loosely, "the truth is; the game was rigged from the start."

He then pulled the trigger, fire entered his mind and then he felt nothing.

His eyes shot open and he coughed, a hand pressed against his chest to keep him from bucking and rolling about.

"Easy, easy…" the voice said, loosely accented, "you're mighty lucky you know."

He looked over at the source of the voice. He was an older man, wearing a beat up pair of dark overalls and a bandana tied about his neck. He had a thick mustache, but a kind face. His eyes showed a youthful sharpness which reminded him faintly of his father.

"W-Who-?"

"Name's Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings. Most just call me Doc though…You've been through a lot, not many can uh… survive bein' shot in the head."

"I-…I was shot? W-Where's Goodsprings? Where am I?"

He then remembered the checkered coat, the poker chip. His head throbbed and he scowled, resting a hand at the side of his head and rubbing at his temple.

"Let's start with something simple," the doctor said with a frown, "…Do you have a name?"

He nodded, rubbing at his temple still. "Connor Gray."

"Good to meet you, not exactly what'd I name ya, but a name's a name, right?"

Connor managed to smile a bit at that.

"Now for your other two questions Goodsprings is in the Mojave Desert and you're right now in my home," the doctor reached under the chair, trying to find something, "I had to get up in your noggin there to remove the bullet and some of its fragments… You should consider yourself lucky, the bullet managed to strike the left side of your head, broke in two. It uh…well, it will leave a scar."

He was handed a mirror and Connor peered into it. He was very much the same as he was in the Wasteland, albeit a few years older. His cheekbones were noticeable, and higher then normal on his face. He had a slim but powerful jaw. His bedraggled hair was a dark brown, near black and now it seemed he had a rougher beard on his chin. His fingers traced over it, finding that he liked it. His eyes were a pale hazel, nearing a steely color. The scar the Doc talked about was a grim red line that began at the left side of his head and cut sharply along his brow down the side of his face nearing the bottom of his ear.

"You did fine work, Doc. I can barely see it."

"Still, there will be a scar," he then reached over, gripping his shoulders gently in a firm grip, "now come on, you can't spend all day in bed. We'll take it slow."

The world spun and white flickered into his vision as he tried to stand. Connor quickly widened his stance and blinked rapidly to clear the dots. Some faded while others floated. He took a deep breath feeling the blood rush along his body. Doc Mitchell moved to a large, rustic looking machine as he frowned slightly in concern.

"Baby steps, make your way over to the Vit-o Matic, we can see if everything is up to snuff, eh?"

Each step was slow, but more and more Connor gained a bit more confidence. He then stumbled, feeling a sudden weakness wash over him and his hand gripped the so called Vit-o-matic for dear life. One of which gripped the small metal rod that was near the console. He felt a brief jolt of electricity and he released the grip. Doc Mitchell was there in an instant, gripping his arm and back to keep him upright.

"Your body might still be a bit sensitive, figure—Oh would ya look at that."

Connor stared at the screen as he rubbed at his twitching hand. His brow lofted, staring at the scores of his alleged strength, perception, endurance, charisma, intelligence, agility and luck. Strength was at 6, giving him the 'Barrel Chested' mark. Perception scored 5, 'Wary Trout'. Endurance was 5, 'Stain Resistant'. Charisma was 6, 'Cheery Salesman'. Intelligence was 7, 'Smartypants'. Agility was 6, 'Catlike'. Finally, the last indicator of luck blipped on the screen at 5, 'Coin Flip'.

At the last one Connor frowned. He remembered someone's words saying the game was rigged, he supposed that his coin flip was double tails so the house always won. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling another wave of nausea and another headache starting to pound at his skull.

"Seems you're healthy enough," the Doc said with a slight smile, "now, why don't you follow me and I can do my follow up, just a few questions. I need to see if your memory is intact, and if you can still form a coherent sentence."

Connor gave a mute nod and followed along. He gladly sat on the couch for as old and beaten as it was it was still far more comfortable then standing.

"Now, I'm going to saw a word, you say the first that comes to mind. Dog."

"Train."

"House."

"Shelter."

"Night."

"Dream."

"Bandit."

"Stab."

"Light."

"Torch."

"Mother."

That gave Connor pause and a frown touched his lips. "Regret."

Doc Mitchell had a frown on his lip as well. "Now, I have a few statements here, you can say strongly agree to disagree, alright?"

Connor nodded. His headache throbbed and a hand went up to put pressure against his skull.

"Conflict ain't in my nature."

"Agree."

"I ain't relying on others to give support."

He shifted, remembering his companions in the DC Wasteland. "No Opinion."

"I'm always fixing to be the center of attention."

Connor gave a quiet laugh then. "Disagree."

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Disagree."

"I charge in to deal with my problems head on."

Connor was always a careful thinker, but he did not mind getting his hands dirty. He rubbed the back of his neck. To him nothing sounded sweeter then hearing a well oiled round blasting from the barrel of a gun. "Disagree."

Doc Mitchell nodded and then gestured over his shoulder. "I'm going to show you a couple of images, and I want you to tell me what you see, alright?"

He gave a nod and as the first was revealed a brow lofted. He never received this sort of examination before but he let a hand rub at his bearded chin. "Mmn…an oozing wound."

The second was revealed now and Connor stared for a moment. "A priceless work of art."

Doc Mitchell pulled the second down. "Last one."

"A light in the darkness."

"Good, one final thing. Just need you to write down some things concerning your medical history. This isn't going to effect anything, I doubt that it there's a family history of getting shot in the head." He gave a soft laugh.

No, Connor thought, just letting yourself be burned by radiation in a last ditch effort to save the world. He simply smiled at the doctor however and wrote down his basic information before handing him back the clipboard.

"Alright then, you should head out there and head to the Prospector Saloon and look for a girl named Sunny Smiles. I think she can show you a few things on how to survive out here."

Connor nodded but before he could Doc Mitchell held up his hand. "Ah, almost forgot just sit here a moment."

Doc Mitchell disappeared a moment before returning with a folded jumpsuit and a familiar looking metal gauntlet, wristband and computer. "Now, I used to have these things in the Vaults, but I don't get much of a use for them anymore considerin' what I'm doing now. I think it might be best for them to be put to good use. Besides, rather not have you going out there in your skivvies, eh?"

Connor offered the smallest of smiles. "Thank you, Doc…For everything."

The old man smiled. "Ah, don't mention it. It's what I do."

Connor slipped the rather worn jumpsuit on and then attached the Pipboy 3000 to his right hand. He was a lefty, and found his needed more room for his hand to hold a pistol and squeeze the trigger then have a nice chunk of metal in the way. After he shook hands with the good doctor Connor made his way outside, into Goodsprings, and into a new Wasteland. It seemed Connor was out of the DC frying pan and into the Mojave oven.