GOODSPRINGS

JULY 14

19:56

Pale sunlight peering in through broken shutters. Ragged breaths tainted with the taste of blood. Leaden muscles, pounding head, beating heart.

"What the-?"

The pain hit her like a charging bighorner, dragging an agonised cry from her throat. It was a trail of fire through her veins, a violent crackle of lightning down her spine. She was paralysed. She was burning. Someone was drilling holes in her skull and she couldn't even scream, couldn't even kick or curse or beg for the pain to stop. It was all she knew, all she was. It was chewing her up and spitting her out, it was-

It was over as quickly as it had come. No more agony. No more fire. Just a steady throb in the background of her muddled thoughts.

Where am I?

She could feel a hard mattress scratching against her bare arms. A whirring fan blew a light breeze over her skin from somewhere overhead. She traced the bumps on the mattress with the tips of her fingers. She wiggled her toes. She mumbled a few incoherent words. Despite the throbbing in her temples, she managed to turn her head slowly to one side. When she tried to open her eyes, a flash of white pain sealed them shut again. But she wasn't dead. She didn't know why this was such a startling realisation, but the knowledge that she was living and breathing made her heart thump just a little bit harder.

She wasn't dead.

A sudden voice, male and gruff, lifted the heavy weight of silence.

"Well, I'll be damned." She detected the sound of feet scuffling against dry floorboards. "Welcome back to the land of the livin', missy! I sure didn't expect to see you twitchin' any time soon. Guess my sewin' skills ain't so bad after all."

She groaned as the stranger released an excitable hoot. Each word was like a blunt knife tearing through her skull. Experimentally, she cleared her throat and managed a weak croak. "Could you-? Could you ju-?"

"My apologies, ma'am," the stranger replied. "I don't expect you to get up there an' tap-dance for me or nothin', but you've been out cold for almost a solid week now. Forgive my excitement an' all that, but I'd like to at least see you open them eyes."

Her eyes snapped open. Her vision was a confusing haze of blinding colours, but that didn't stop her from trying to force herself up. Her arms were weak and trembling; her stomach lurched the moment she tried to pull herself into a sitting position. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, shuddering with disgust before falling back down with a thump of defeat.

"Hey now," the stranger warned, "I didn't mean you had to get up right this second. I know you're eager, darlin', but it's gonna be a while before you're up and doin' the Charleston." She heard the creaking of rusty springs as he sat himself down at the end of her bed. "'Least I know your brain's still functionin'. Thought I might have a breathin' corpse on my hands, if you get what I'm sayin'."

She didn't reply.

"You should be a little more enthusiastic, miss. That damn bullet shoulda killed ya."

"Bullet?" She asked.

And then she remembered.

"I'm done, Francie. I'm out."

"Last time I'm ever gonna set foot in that place, Ben. I've found it. I've found my way out, just like you said I would."

"Who's there? Step out and I might kill you quickly."

"Who brought me here?"

"You can thank ol' Victor for that. Dug you outta your own grave and wheeled you on over here right and quick. Stupid drawlin' moron's good for somethin', at least. And the man who shot you must have been the most cock-eyed son of a gun in the Mojave Desert. Only managed to get the very left side of your skull. Didn't even make a scratch on the ol' brain, but it sure rattled it 'round quite a bit. Even still, another few minutes and you woulda been a goner for sure."

Memories flickered behind her eyes, clearer and clearer with every word. She could hear fragments of conversation - something about birds and packages. She remembered looking straight into the barrel of a pistol aimed right between her eyes. Or slightly to the left, perhaps. She couldn't remember the finer details, but that bastard in the chequered suit hadn't intended to let her live.

"A chequered suit," she mumbled. "Slicked back hair. A cigarette, he had a cigarette, he-"

"Woah, woah, slow down there. Gettin' a little ahead of yourself, don't ya think? Let's not worry about the who and the why for now, not 'til you're back on your feet. That was some damn nasty business though - whole town's been talkin' about it. Me, I was the only one who went and made mysel' useful when that robot clean dropped y' in the middle of town. Managed to get all the bits of lead outta your skull right and quick, though I can't say nothin' about how pretty it's gonna be when that bandage comes off."

"Fantastic," she grumbled. "How bad is it, really?"

"Well, uh, it was mostly 'round your temple and very left side of your forehead where you took most of the damage. Your hair should probably cover a little of the scarring once I get the bandages off, but I'm afraid the darker tissue will be visible all the way up to your eye socket, most like. Hope you've still got your vision there."

"Sure, sure."

The stranger got to his feet with a theatrical groan. "I think your face is probably the least of your concerns, miss. Doesn't look like you'll be walkin' anywhere for some time. Guess you're stuck with me 'til those legs start itchin' to tango. You alright to stay awake a little while longer while I look at 'em for damage, or would you rather I knocked you out for a bit?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Alright, knock me out."

He chuckled. "Don't you worry, miss. I'm a certified doctor from ol' Vault 21, so you won't have to worry about a creepy old man doing anything to ya while yer drugged up and all that. Now just sit still and keep your muscles relaxed while I put this in."

"Yeah. That doesn't sound creepy at all."

He gave no indication that he'd heard her. "I hope you don't mind, but I'd like to ask you just one question before I put you out again. You alright with tellin' me your name?"

"It's Brianna," she replied. At least that was one thing she could remember. "Brianna O'Reilly."

"Nice to meet you, Brianna. I'm Doc Mitchell, and it's a damn fine pleasure to welcome y' to Goodsprings. Great to finally meet y' after all."

"Pleasure's all mine."

She was out before the needle left her vein.

"You don't understand, Doc- he was here again yesterday, and you know he isn't just asking anymore! If we don't hand that poor man over, Cobb's gonna gather his little friends out there and burn this place to the ground, and I am not gonna sit around and wait for that to happen. We've been doing that for way too long, and I'm sick of it!"

Brianna's eyelids flickered, a young woman's voice melting away the vivid pallet of her dreams until she returned to painful consciousness once again.

"Miss Smiles, I am a fusty old man with a bum leg. I don't know what you expect me to do, but-"

Fireflies zipped behind Brianna's eyes as they flickered open, allowing her to finally take in the doctor's office for all it was. The place was clean and quaint, illuminated by the light of a swinging bulb overhead. The bookshelves lining the walls were littered with old journals and thick volumes, leaving room for a few medical kits and some dusty photo frames. Test tubes and chemistry sets were scattered across a long desk by the door, where Doc Mitchell was standing with his arms folded. After a moment, he turned on his heels and shuffled back into his office.

"Ah, looks like my patient's finally awake," he announced loudly, glancing over his shoulder.

"Oh, really?" A woman piped from across the room, her voice bubbly and high-pitched in her excitement, but not unpleasantly so. "That's great!" The anger seemed to melt off her as she hurried into the room. "Hey! I've been dying to meet you!"

She mumbled something unintelligible in response, propping herself up slightly to get a clear view of the woman. Brianna guessed that she was biracial - Caucasian and Hispanic - but she couldn't be sure. She was pretty enough, with large brown eyes, lightly sun-kissed skin, full lips and a short, pointed nose. Her armour hugged her curves nicely, made from frayed leather clearly patched up in places. She wore her hair in a loose ponytail, and its strawberry blonde colour paired with her short body and beaming smile simply radiated a sunny disposition.

"It's not every day you hear of someone returning from the dead, y'know?" She continued. "And, well, I kinda wanted to know what happened to you. We don't see much action 'round these parts, so you eat up whatever news you can get. And you don't really look like the dangerous sort."

"Might have something to do with the hole in my head."

"Fair point, fair point. So, uh, are up for some storytelling yet? Ready to debunk the rumours about you climbing out of your grave with guns blazing? I personally like the one where you're covered in blood, wearing nothing but a leather thong, but Bethany thinks you're a scheming raider who cheated a huge amount of caps out of some New Vegas hotshot." She cleared her throat, seeming to realise that she was rambling. "But, uh, whatever the story is, it's nice to see you pulled through." She stuck out a hand. "I'm Sunny, Sunny Smiles. Great to meet you."

She managed to reach out and give Sunny's hand a weak shake. "Sunny Smiles? You're kidding."

"My parents were a couple of hippies, what can I say? Well, it's great to meet you, anyway. I'll be happy to help you out once you're up and out of here. I know a pretty good deal about surviving the wasteland if you're interested. Maybe I can help you to not get shot in the head again?"

"I'll think about it," she lied. "But you gotta tell me who Bob is first."

"Cobb," she corrected. "It's nothing. The guy's been hanging around here for a while now- just trying to cause trouble, we think. He's nothing but a big guy with empty threats and a pistol, hardly anything to worry about." She gave a reassuring smile. "Believe it or not, we're used to it out here. Every town gets its fair share of assholes, no matter how small it is."

"Yeah, nice try. I mean, he's only trying to burn this whole place to the ground, right?"

"Oh. You heard that?" She released a sigh of defeat. "Well, okay. He has some interesting friends. Powder Gangers, they call themselves. Bunch of convicts that escaped the NCRCF while you were knocked out. Didn't take long for them to get together and start up some stupid gang. Turns out giving dynamite to prisoners is a pretty bad idea."

The doctor pointedly cleared his throat. "Sunny, I'd appreciate it if we dropped the subject of escaped convicts and dynamite. Don't want my patient tryin' to play do-gooder so she can get herself shot again. Or blown up."

"I know," Sunny defended, "but I was thinking-" She turned to face Brianna again, hands clenching into fists. "Look, I don't make a habit of asking strangers for help - especially not the ones who go 'round getting themselves shot at - but something big's happening. Something really big. I'm just worried that the Powder Gangers might, you know, try to take over the town. Sounds crazy, I know, but it's not like they haven't threatened to do it before. If you're feeling better sometime soon, maybe you could-"

"Help you?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not saying you'd have to get rid of them for us or anything like that, but if the town's attacked we could use all the help we can get. Even if you can't fight for us, I'm sure there are lots of other things you could do. We need someone to-"

"Sunny!" The doctor snapped. "That'll do."

"But, Doc-"

"That's enough, Miss Smiles. I know you wanna help, but we can't afford to mess around with those people. You know as well as I do what they're capable of."

"I know, I know, but-"

"What? You think you can turn a bunch of farmers into an armed militia?"

"I'm saying we could try! Think about it! We have Chet's armour and guns, Trudy has a ton of friends down at the saloon, Pete's got his stash and you're here to patch us up if things go bad."

"I thought Trudy told you-"

"That we should hand an innocent man over in the interests of a quiet life? Doc, you know I don't want fighting. You know I'd hate to see anybody get hurt, but Ringo, he's-"

"You think we should risk our lives to protect a stranger that just came blunderin' in from nowhere because you've gone all doe-eyed on him? That is enough, Sunny. Now get. I have a patient to attend to."

For a moment it looked as though Sunny was going to protest further, but she offered only one more comment. "You know exactly why I want to help him," she hissed, before turning around and flouncing out of the doctor's office. There was a long, lingering silence before the front door slammed shut. The doc slumped down on the plastic chair at her bedside, groaning in defeat.

"She's a strange one, that girl. Never asks for any help and when she does it's because she wants to turn the whole damn town into an army. That just a woman thing?"

"Sure is."

"Ah, I get it." He clapped his hands together. "So, girlie. How y' feelin'?"

"Like shit. Can't keep my eyes open for more than a minute at a time. I've got the headache version of Syphilis and my memory's in bits."

"Headache and symptoms of Glaucoma," he replied, mostly to himself as he scribbled down her ailments in a notebook. "Probably temporary. Your legs are alright, though. Probably workin' just as they always did, but you'll still find it hard to walk for a little while. Dizziness and nausea can be expected. Possible-"

"I wanna try it."

"Pardon?"

"Let me stand up."

"Darlin', you can barely open your own eyes."

"I just want out of this bed, alright?!"

Ouch.

Maybe shouting hadn't been the best option. Even her own words sent stabbing pains through her skull. But she had to get up sooner or later, and later meant less time to sort herself out and focus on getting out of this dump. What was the worst that could happen?

"Well, if you think you're up for it. I got a nice bath waiting for ya just across the hall, in fact. If you can get up and make it to my living room just out there," he gestured to an open door just a ways from the foot of her bed, "then you can answer me some questions so I can get an idea of your mental health. Hell, maybe I'll even spare you my last bar of soap."

"Fair enough."

"That's the spirit! Ready when you are, doll."

The doc extended a wrinkled hand to her. She took it, biting the intense pounding in her head and forcing her unwilling muscles to cooperate as she hauled herself up. The pain was becoming almost too much to bear, but she clenched her teeth and heaved herself forward until she was finally in a sitting position, already out of breath.

"You alright?" The doctor asked, taking a step back.

"Fine," she insisted.

"C'mon, don't give up on me now, girlie."

She groaned, twisting her body around until she was facing the hallway. The Doc hurried in front of her, ready to steady her if the dizziness became too much. Blinking against the harsh light of the bulb overhead, she continued to bite the pain and shake off the overwhelming disorientation, slowly putting one foot on the floor. Then the other.

Her muscles screamed and shook as she shifted her weight onto both legs and gripped the doctor's hand with the rest of her strength. Dark spots danced across her vision; sweat rolled off her bare skin as she lifted herself off the bed. She wobbled. Steadied herself.

And she stood.

"Well I'll be damned," the doctor breathed. "Ain't that somethin'."

Brianna's stomach heaved. Her line of sight tilted drastically. She didn't realise that her body had been close to following suit until she felt the doctor pulling at her hand to keep her upright.

"Alright, this way now."

He guided her towards the living room, only a few paces away. The trip proved difficult enough with her trembling legs, but eventually they reached it. It was much the same as the room behind her, with a few tidy bookshelves lining one wall. A couple of busted old chairs surrounded an oddly shaped wooden table with rounded corners. A similar chair sat in the middle of the room, positioned to face a long, lime-coloured couch just a bit ahead. A small end table stood between the two seats, stacked with notebooks and pencils.

"C'mon," the doctor encouraged. "Get yourself sittin' down there and we'll all be laughin'. C'mon, that's it."

Before she knew it, her feet were brushing against the red carpet in the centre of the living room. The couch was just a few paces ahead. She wobbled, head swimming as she reached out to find purchase on the couch's arm. She allowed herself to fall down on the seat, burying her head in her hands and groaning.

She could hear the doctor's footsteps as he sat himself down opposite her. "By God, girlie, that ain't somethin' you see every day."

"I figured that," she mumbled.

"Alright, alright. I guess I'll be lettin' you stay here for the rest of the day. Can't imagine you have the strength to make it back to the other room?"

She shook her head.

"Alright then. Now, I just have some questions here." He began to pull out a couple of pages from his notebook. "Nothin' too stressful, I assure you. Just a few statements, and I want you to tell me if you agree or disagree."

"What's this for?"

"I just need to get some idea of your personality."

"By 'personality' do you mean 'mental health'?"

"Nah, nothin' quite so fancy."

"Guess that's alright."

"Okay, first one: Conflict just ain't in my nature."

"No opinion."

"I ain't given to relying on others for support."

"No opinion."

"I'm always fixin' to be the centre of attention."

"No opinion."

The doctor frowned and set his papers aside. "Girlie, I'm gonna need you to take this seriously. There isn't anything you're hiding, is there?"

"I just rose from the dead, Doc, I don't wanna sit here and answer a bunch of stupid questions."

"Look, this is a psychologically-based test designed to check for any signs of mental health issues and to give some indication of your emotional well-being." He held up the papers for her inspection. "These are rewrites from a few medical books I managed to find. I'm not sayin' there's anythin' wrong with y', but you did just get shot in the head. Thought it would be best to look for signs of anxiety, panic disorder or Post Traumatic Stress. Understand?"

"Seriously? All from a few stupid questions?"

"That's right."

"Fine. Disagree, agree, disagree. Continue."

"Thank you. I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Disagree."

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

"Agree."

"I always think about myself before I consider others."

"Agree."

"Now, isn't that telling?"