Blinding pain.

The woman in the bed could attest to the fact that it can be a literal statement. She could hear people and the sound of a clock, feel sunlight and shade on her face even but she couldn't see. Or more accurately it hurt too bad to even think about opening her eyes. Moving didn't seem to be an option either, she wanted to lift her hand to the bandages she knew were there, to trace her fingers over that ball of fire in her head and try to make sense of it. Her hands just felt too heavy, weighed down by drips and more bandages combined with a pure lack of strength. It was both bewildering and annoying.

They didn't seem to be aware that she was awake. Nobody spoke to her as she concentrated on breathing, just spoke over her head in hushed tones that required concentration to understand. For the most part she didn't bother, occasionally grasping words such as "stable", "blood pressure" or other medical terms. It amounted to the presumption that she was going to live.

Which was good, the utter lack of the ability to recall her own name was not so good. There was no memory there, whenever she tried to think about who she was, what had happened there was nothing. She knew she was in a quiet room, that it seemed to be in the Mojave and even a rough idea of time of day but nothing personal. Nothing that would help make sense of it and so she went back to counting breaths and attempting to move her hand or at least a finger.

"When can we expect her to wake up ?"

"Maybe in a few minutes, maybe never. By rights getting shot in the head should mean the latter."

The single exchange between the deeper male voice that she knew was the doctor and the soft female voice caused the woman in the bed to stop trying futile movements and listen harder. I have been shot in the head.

Well fuck.

It at least explained the blinding pain but in doing so it made the desperation to remember something even worse. Tiny fragmented images flitted across the movie screen behind her eyelids. A man in a check suit, a gun….more pain and a bright light. There were other images too, things further back of battles and walking, forever walking and never being able to rest. It all got too much and the woman let herself shrink back into the cool veil of unconsciousness.

There were dreams, fevered echoes that faded and reappeared. The doctor watched them cross her face, some of them more obviously nightmares. He considered bringing her up and out of sleep, the stimpacks and drugs would be worth it to hear how she had ended up being pulled out of her own grave and deposited on his doorstep. He had noticed the wiry build and scars, although young this chit of a girl had been through other wars before this one. It intrigued the old man.

It was another full day before she actually regained consciousness. It happened in an instant, the doc surprised as the girl suddenly gasped, her eyes flying open as she sat bolt upright. A half snarl escaped her lips, shaking the old man as he put an arm out to calm her before she bolted completely.

"Woah, take it easy now. You've been out quite a while. What's your name ?"

There was a pause, her head cocking to one side as she considered the question. Her head throbbed and keened, more memories than she cared to think about coming back although something in her appeared to have changed. There had been many names, some she had chosen, others given to her. The original was long since lost, the ones who had given it to her were dead, the others that had known it had cast her out. In the end even those she had helped had done the same and so she had wandered further and further away until the bomb damage had become less obvious, there was grass and trees. Even here she had never belonged. Knowing the man was waiting she took a moment to take him in.

The doc was old true but the eyes were sharp and there was no sign of frailty on him. The room was cool and shuttered, her own blood staining the sheets and floor. Medical supplies littered the workspace. She owed this man her life.

"Angel. My name is Angel."

"Well it's not what I'd have picked for you but if its your name…I'm Doc Mitchell."

There was a pause as they awkwardly shook hands and he took a moment to explain about how she had reached him, the robot called Victor and that she was in a town called Goodsprings. He gave her the pack that she had carried and Angel noted that her weapons were long gone. He then handed her a mirror.

"Took some work getting that lead out your brain, see if I got things right or at least if you recognise yourself."

Angel stared at the reflection. Her hair had been shorn to nothing where the scar snaked back in the path of the bullet. The remaining side remained longer and still black. The green eyes were the same, many having mistaken the elfen features for a sign of naivety and weakness. They had been wrong then and they were wrong now. Even Angel herself was as yet unaware of the important changes that had been irreversibly started by the evisceration of brain tissue and bone. She smiled, an almost eerie sight in one so pale and still only a breadth from death.

"I've looked worse. Thanks doc."

The spent the next hour in physical and mental tests until the doctor was happy that at least for now he could let her go with strict instruction to avoid any heavy lifting or fighting. The psych exam worried him, the girl was too cool and calm for someone that had been through what she had been through. Angel was focused, using the test to gain information of her own. The gaps were smaller now but she had no memory of being a courier or what she had been carrying. It was embarrassing enough to realise that one goon and his chums had almost accomplished what so many back east had not.

The jump suit and pip boy brought back the memories of betrayal and made her reluctant to take either but to find the men who had so nearly taken her life they would be needed. She thanked the doc again and paused in his doorway to take in the small settlement and the roads beyond.

None of them would know her legend. The Lone Wanderer, the victor of the war against the Enclave, saviour of the Capital Wasteland. The messiah who was spoken of in hushed tones from the Republic of Dave to Tenpenny Tower. The angel of mercy to the weak, of death to the murderer and raider. A burden for one so young and damaged to carry and it had nearly broken her.

A job that had been finished by the bullet.

For now this was no messiah. The morals and truths of her father had been erased and something new had taken its place. Something darker that cast a shadow now over the Mojave and if any among them had known what had been unleashed they may have called upon their gods and got out the way. Courier Six, the Angel of Death, would now walk among them and change things forever.