At first, all the Courier saw was white.
Fading into view shortly were the spinning blades of a Vertibird.
Was he back in Shady Sands?
Suddenly, a voice.
"Huh...you're awake. How about that."
The Courier suddenly sprang to his feet, the first actions since his long slumber. His senses kicked in, immediately scanning the room for danger. His eyes adjusted to his new whereabouts. A seemingly regular, yet quite dusty, household room. He could see the mold growing on the rotten wooden floors. He identified the ugly, brown wallpaper. The "Vertibird blades" turned out to be a simple ceiling fan. Suffice to say, there was nothing noteworthy besides the startled old man sitting across him whom he had scared as he jumped out of bed.
"Woah! Easy there, easy. You've been out cold a couple days now."
Suddenly, the Courier was overcome with a sudden bout of dizziness, as the center of his mind went white. The room seemed to be falling apart, and his normally catlike balance was gone. He stumbled backwards. Before he could fall over, the old man sprung up and caught him.
"Woah there! Careful now, you might hurt yourself some more. Just relax a second. Get your bearings," piped the old timer, slowly setting the Courier back down on the bed.
"Where am I?"
"Easy there fella. You're in Goodsprings. I'm Doc Mitchell," replied the doctor, smiling amicably.
"...Goodsprings?" the Courier mumbled. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. He was confused, disoriented, and his head beat like a drum.
"Yep. You've been here for about a week" Mitchell leaned forward, inspecting his patient. "You look alright...your colors good. Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"
A seemingly simple question, but for whatever reason, the Courier was struggling to come up with a suitable answer.
"I...I don't know," he frowned. "I can't remember."
The cheery expression on the older man's face vanished upon hearing him. "Yep, it's just as I feared. Seems like you've got some retrograde amnesia...it's to be expected, I suppose."
"Why? What happened?"
"What happened?" Doc Mitchell repeated, chuckling. "Son, you've been shot. In the head."
The kindly doctor expected the young man's face to contort into an look of fear upon hearing that he had taken a bullet to the brain, as would be the proper response. Instead, all he was met with was a blank stare. Not one that said, "I'm in total shock of what just happened and am unable to express it." But rather, the kid had a look that said, "A bullet to the head ain't the worst thing that's happened to me." Doc Mitchell sensed it right away. The kid had miles on him. Hard miles.
"And uh...well, not so many people survive that kinda thing. Kid, you can count yourself one lucky son of a gun."
"How's my face?"
Doc Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "Beg your pardon?"
"How do I look? Does it show?"
"Err...well, I uh...did the best I could," the doctor replied, pulling a small mirror from his bag, and handed it over to his patient. "I had to root around in there, get the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you better tell me if I left anything'...out of place."
The young man took the mirror and began to vainly inspect himself, as Doc Mitchell watched. His face still possessed a natural, youthful look, smooth and bright, not looking a day over twenty. His short, dark brown hair looked more akin to a light shade of black. What Doc Mitchell particularly noticed were the young man's eyes. Sharp, quick, catlike, always moving, always looking out for trouble. He had deep, steely eyes that could bring men into a shuddering heap and force women into a swooning mess, all with a simple glance. To finish off his look, the Courier had a thick, black goatee, which he stroked carefully. His beard, even after seven days without care, looked so well-groomed that Doc Mitchell suspected the young man attended to his facial hair regularly, possibly carrying around with him some pre-war beauty products. After a few seconds of careful deliberation, the Courier's found the sewn, bumpy ridges Doc Mitchell had made on the top of his forehead as he played with his hair. He slowly traced the scars with his finger.
"That's where the bullet entered. Dug itself in there pretty deep, but thankfully, managed to avoid a good part of the brain." The doctor motioned to his head. "You're lucky. Few more centimetres down, and we wouldn't be having' this conversation. I reckon your would-be-killer didn't practice aiming' too much."
The Courier said nothing, only nodding slowly with the same blank expression as he continued to inspect himself in the mirror. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Doc Mitchell coughed and spoke up.
"Well? How'd I do?"
The young man put the mirror down. "I don't know. Can't remember how I looked before."
"...Right."
"At least the scars aren't too visible..." he said, poking tenderly at his stitches.
"Right." The casualness of the Courier did little to put Doc Mitchell at ease. He cleared his throat. "I got most of it right. Stuff that matters," he added.
"Well, back to the matter at hand, you're likely suffering from some head trauma, which could be causing your amnesia. I'd like to do some tests, some evaluations. Make sure your dogs are still barking."
"That won't be necessary."
Doc Mitchell sighed. "Look, I realise you want to get out there as soon as possible, but the fact of the matter is, you're looking at a serious mortal injury. You need rest. And recovery."
The Courier put the mirror down. "How many times have you treated someone with a bullet to the head?"
"Well...a few times, I suppose."
"Right. And how many of those people lived?"
"...None," Doc Mitchell rubbed his hands awkwardly.
"So I'd say I've recovered pretty well," said the Courier, raising the mirror to his face again. "You've done your job, doctor, and a good one at that. I appreciate it, but it's done."
"Listen son, I need to know you're registering' all this. I mean, a bullet to the head is a serious matter. Amnesia is a serious matter. I ain't sure you understand the gravity of this. You're likely not going to be remembering' much for a while, if at all. Hell, I don't even know if you're about ready to leave this place yet. I certainly can't let you out into the wasteland not knowing your own name?"
"If anything happens, I'm sure I can handle it," the Courier replied, still looking at himself in the mirror.
"No, you can't. Listen son." Doc Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, trying to maintain the Courier's attention, who's eyes suddenly snapped to Mitchell as his brain registered movement. Taken aback by the Courier's harrowing stare, the doctor instinctively moved way.
"I need to know if you're ready to get out there or not. I need to know you at least know your name before I let you go. How do I know you're okay?"
At first, all the Courier remembered was waking to the night air. Cool, and crisp, like a breeze on the ocean. He then remembered the coarse sand he lay on, how the tiny grains had stubbornly embedded themselves within the hairs on his chin. The sky was lit with the stars of the midnight range, and right in the middle of it all was that beautiful blue moon. Yet it was hard to appreciate what a beautiful night it was when one had their hands bound. He looked up, his vision slowly returning to him. The fuzzy figures in front of him seemed to be talking about him.
The images before him changed and distorted. Two men in leather vests, wearing bandanas, one holding a shovel. Great Khans. He had run into them a few times before, but never like this. Truthfully, he had no love for the violent band of quasi-tribals, and even less so now. To the Courier's right, a large hole had been dug in the sand.
It was his grave. He was in a graveyard.
Between the two raiders stood a well-groomed man with a devilish face, in a bright checkered suit, smoking a cigarette. He looked strange- his flashy good looks and expensive looking duds didn't fit in with the raiders he was with. The Khan to the man's left appeared to be having some sort of dispute with him.
"...and I think it's about time you paid us," argued the mustachioed raider.
"No dice, McMurphy. The deal was you boys would get paid once I got back to the strip." The man's spoke with a smooth, sly dignity, someone who fancied themselves a high roller. Most likely a gambler, maybe a casino-hound.
"Fuck that. You owe us, especially after what happened to Chance."
"And that was my fault?" The well groomed man chuckled. "No way, baby. Deals a deal." He took another drag from his cigarette. "Tell you what. You go ahead and take that fancy looking helmet we got off our friend here. Should be worth a little something."
The Courier's eyes flashed to where the man was pointing. A Great Khan was inspecting the Courier's old ranger helmet. A small flame ignited in his stomach.
The raider to his right holding the shovel tensed up nervously. "No way. That's fucking NCR gear. We don't touch that shit."
The strange man rolled his eyes. "So take whatever caps he has in his pockets then. Matter of fact, take whatever you want from him. I already got what I need."
"You got what you were after. So pay up," demanded the Khan named McMurphy.
"You're crying in the wind, pally."
The Courier struggled with his restraints. If he could just wiggle free, he could roll right off the hill, maybe all the way into town before the men could raise their weapons. However, the shovel wielding Khan had noticed his frantic shuffling.
"Guess who's waking up over here?" he taunted.
The strange man turned his attention to the Courier, and for the first time, his eyes met with his. The man gave him a devilish grin, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"Time to cash out." The well groomed man flicked his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out, pacing forward to meet the Courier.
"Would you get it over with?" interjected an annoyed McMurphy.
The man raised a finger, calling for silence. "Maybe Khan's kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"
He then proceeded to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out an object. The shiny, Platinum Chip.
Suddenly the Courier was struck with a throng of memories, rushing through his mind like fast-moving wind. The Platinum Chip. The Mojave Express. The Couriers, assigned to deliver strange objects across the accursed, desert wasteland. He was the sixth, and the most important one of all. He carried the chip. What it was worth, he didn't know, but it somehow made a simple delivery job take a turn for the worse.
The strange man's words interrupted his thoughts. "You've made your last delivery kid," he said, flashing the chip at him.
The ropes around his wrists began to loosen up. He could feel himself coming free in a matter of seconds.
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene…" the man stated, putting away the chip, and instead replacing it with a gun. The Courier identified it. Browning Hi-Power. Decorated in jewels.
He was almost out of his restraints, but he needed to plan his next course of actions. If he picked up some sand and threw it in the man's face, it would buy him a couple seconds to escape, maybe even knock the man out and retrieve the chip. He'd have to deal with the Khans after, though. Before he could finish formulating his plan, he found himself staring down the barrel of the jewel-encrusted gun.
"From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck," smirked the sly, well groomed man.
The ropes began to shift and weaken against the Courier's wrists. Any second now.
"Truth is…" He levelled the gun at the Courier's head.
His left hand came free.
"...The game was rigged from the start."
In the distance, the moon shone brightly in the cool, night sky.
Bang.
"Son? Can you hear me?"
It just occurred to the Courier that he had been silent the whole time. Doc Mitchell anxiously waved his hand in front of the Courier's face. He blinked.
"Well, alright, that settles it. We gotta test you for more head trauma. You're clearly not okay," sighed the elderly doctor.
The Courier's mind raced. Every second that he wasted in this dingy little house was another second the man got away from him. He could be miles away by now. Within his mind's image, he saw the clear outline of that shiny, platinum chip, held between the fingers of the man who had shot him. The Courier could still see his smug face, grinning down at him. It was clear to him now what his next course of actions were. He made a quick mental list.
Kill the man. Get the chip. Complete the delivery. The Courier's three step plan to success.
However there was still the matter with his health, but he didn't consider it an issue. It was true, he didn't remember his name, but he never needed it before. He couldn't remember much about his past, but it had never held him back before. All he knew was that he had a job to do. And whatever he knew about his past, the Courier knew he always completed a job. But back to the matter at hand.
Was he okay?
He took in the doctor's words carefully, formulating a response.
"Your concern for my wellbeing is welcoming, and I appreciate the hard work you've done to make sure I survived."
"Well, thank you, but-"
"And you seem like a really nice guy, and I regret any time or resources I may have wasted. I promise, I'll return sometime later and compensate you for service."
"Oh, well that's not necessary-"
"But your job is done, Dr. Mitchell, and I have a job to do. You'd like to know my name, and my business in these parts, but none of those things concern you. Fact of the matter is, I have a job to do, and the more time I sit here with my thumb in my ass, the less time I have to finish it."
"Now hold on!"
"BUT if you're dead set on making sure I'll be fine out there in the wasteland, let me reassure you. I'm a Courier. I know the wasteland like no one else, and it's my job to navigate it. I've probably crossed through the fucking desert more times than you've ever stepped outside of your little town. I was hired by the Mojave Express to deliver a package, and now I need to get it back. You want my name?"
A memory raced back through the Courier's head. The sixth order. The sixth name on the list.
"I might not remember it now, but trust me, I learn pretty damn quick. For the time being, you can call me…Six."
He paused to take a breath.
"Well? Anything else?"
The doctor sat in his chair, silent. Suddenly, he spoke up.
"I'd still like to do some tests, all the same."
The fan blades spun overhead, yet it did nothing to cool off the anger growing within Six as he was subjected to psychiatric test after psychiatric test. He anxiously played with a little bit of loose cotton of Doc Mitchell's couch in his living room, while the doctor compiled the data.
"So...how'd I do?"
Doc Mitchell quickly scanned through the notes he had taken while testing Six. He had aced about every physical test, and had answered competently, albeit strangely, to Mitchell's psychological evaluations (some of his answers confused him, like when he referred to a specific inkblot test as "two bears high-fiving"). But for all intents and purposes, besides the amnesia, Six was as fit as a fiddle.
There was something oddly intimidating about the Courier. Even sitting there on the couch, wearing an undershirt and boxers, utterly defenceless, Doc Mitchell sensed that this man had a dangerous side, and the more time he kept him here, the closer he'd come to seeing it.
Six spoke up again. "I said, how'd I do?"
"Let's see...lightning quick reflex time...peak physical condition...impeccable eyesight...yep, you're a Courier all right," he mumbled, scratching his head thoughtfully. "I guess that explains how you're still alive. You're built solid as an oak."
"Hmm."
"And as for the memory loss...seems like the only thing you forgot was your name. How's that for convenient?"
"Yeah…" Six pulled some cotton out of the couch, bored.
"You seem awfully young to have such a...risky job. How old are ya?"
"Uh…" Six struggled to remember. "Twenty eight."
"Good lord! You ain't even grown!" the doctor chuckled. "Surely, there's gotta be a safer way of making a cap!"
"You're telling me."
"How'd you get into it? If you don't mind me asking'."
"I do actually." The Courier's eyes flashed quickly.
"Oh." Doc Mitchell cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry. No offence." In truth, Six didn't really mind that much, but he couldn't remember, and didn't really want to answer any more questions.
"None taken," replied Six, rising from the couch. "Where did you put my stuff?"
The older man sighed and reached behind the chair, retrieving a small wooden box filled with a few miscellaneous items: a dusty pair of binoculars, a beaten up canteen, a few stimpaks, an assortment of different kinds of ammunition, a few maps, a compass, a notepad and pen, a lighter, an almost empty pack of cigarettes, a rusty looking knife, and a weathered pistol.
"This was all you had on you when ol' Victor dug you out of that hole," answered Doc Mitchell, placing the box on the table in front of him.
Six quickly scanned through the box, distinctly noticing the absence of a certain small, shiny, round object. The Platinum Chip was gone.
"You didn't happen to find a shiny poker chip in there, did you? Like a...platinum one?"
"Well, uh, no…" Then, the old man's face lit up as he suddenly remembered something. "Actually, come to think of it, I did find a note talking about some sort of 'Platinum Chip.' I thought it was something that could tell me more about you, like medical information, maybe a next of kin, in case...you know. You know, all sorts of soldier and mercenary types nowadays carry some sort of card or tattoo even…"
Six took the note from Doc Mitchell's hands, interrupting the old man's rambling. "Thank you." He squinted to read the tiny note. "And I'm not a mercenary," he added.
"Right, right, of course," replied Doc Mitchell. "So, what is it?"
Quickly scanning the note, Six recognised the barely visible faded watermark on the top left hand of the paper. It was the logo for the Mojave Express Delivery Company.
"It's a delivery order. My delivery order."
"Ah, I see...so...you have to deliver a 'Platinum Chip' to The Vegas Strip...what's so important about a Platinum Chip?"
"I don't know." Six tucked the note away. "What about a helmet? Did you find a helmet?"
"A helmet?"
"An NCR ranger helmet. Has some writing on the front."
"Uh, no…" The doctor rubbed the back of his head. "You might want to check out the place where Victor dug you up, just on top of Goodsprings gravesite." He motioned out the window, to the large hill in the distance. On top it stood a tall windmill.
"You should go back, see if we missed anything. Ranger helmet huh? Sounds valuable."
Six bit his lip.
"Yes it is."
Doc Mitchell was kind enough to have had the Courier's lightweight leather armour cleaned and polished, and his raggedy old duster washed. The only problem were the sleeves. They were torn and mangled, and they were full of sand. So the Courier took his knife and carefully removed the sleeves.
"Stylish," remarked Doc Mitchell.
The old doctor also provided him with a couple of extra stimpaks and radaway, and a few spare rounds for his pistol. As he led the Courier to the door though, he had one more gift in store.
"Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this," sighed the doctor, pulling a strange contraption out from his bag. It looked like a large, brown watch with a large, squared face.
Six recognised the object immediately. He'd seen them on the markets, selling for very high prices, and on the arms of wealthy travellers. Few owned them, and those that did, didn't own them for long, until a bandit cut their throat while they slept and stole it off their corpse.
"They call it a-"
"A Pip-Boy. I know what it is," Six interrupted. "You're too kind, old man. I can't take that from you."
Doc Mitchell shrugged. "Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you've been through."
Six gingerly took the Pip-Boy, and put it on his wrist. He turned it on. The cheery face of the Vault-Boy stared back at him, giving him a thumbs up and a wink. Six smiled. He always wanted one of these.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. I wanna help you, kid. I know what it's like, having something taken away from you," Doc Mitchell said quietly. There was a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"I owe you a large debt, doctor. Anything I can do to repay you, I will," Six replied, tinkering with his new toy.
"Well...actually, there may be a way you can pay it forward," said the Doctor, scratching his beard.
"How so?"
"We have something of a...hostage...crisis. Talk to Trudy, she'll tell you more. She runs the Prospectors Saloon, it'll be impossible to miss."
Six immediately regretted asking. He figured this would take a while.
"Oh, and uh, you should probably talk to Victor. He's the one who dug you out of your would-be grave."
"Victor, huh? What's he like?"
Doc Mitchell smiled coyly. "He's a bit...eccentric. Trust me, I'm sure you'll get along just fine. Ready to go?"
Six nodded.
The good doctor opened up the door for the Courier, letting the sun bathe them both in the light of the new morning. In front of him, lay the sleepy town of Goodsprings. Six scanned his surroundings. Bighorners grazed peacefully in the small ranches of the farmhouses. Children played by streets, chasing each other, laughing. Men walked to and fro, the sweat wilting their collars. If this town wasn't as docile as Mitchell made it out to be, he couldn't see it. Six turned to the doctor.
"So what's your plan going forward?" asked Doc Mitchell.
"Kill the man. Get the chip. Complete the delivery," replied Six.
Doc Mitchell chuckled. "Sounds like quite a list. Well, I won't stop you."
Six reached out to shake the doctor's hand."It's been a pleasure, Doc. Thank you, once again."
"Likewise kid. Likewise. It's been interesting," he said, returning the gesture. Doc Mitchell looked out onto his beloved town.
"So...I guess the journey of...Six…" Doc Mitchell said his name with hesitation. "...continues."
"You don't like Six?" the Courier asked.
The doctor chuckled. "I can't say it's the name I'd have picked for you, but if that's your name, that's your name." He turned to the Courier. "Are you sure you're going to make it out there?"
"Trust me, Doc. I pick things up pretty fast."
"How'd you figure that?"
Six gave him a toothy grin. "I have a photographic memory."
And so, the Courier, risen from the dead like an Old World legend, set out into the unforgiving wasteland to take back what was his.
Song: Ballad of Paladin by Johnny Western.