The sun was just peaking over the Mojave horizon, filling the sky with blood, gold, and a million shades of blue. Wiping his hands clean, Doc Mitchell took a seat on his porch, resting his legs. It was a beautiful sight, but no distraction for what he just went through. The operation had lasted the night, but she would live despite everything he knew about science and medicine. You didn't just walk away from two bullets unchanged. He didn't know who that woman had been yesterday, but she sure as hell wasn't the woman asleep on his operating table. Not anymore.
"What's the word on the little miss?" The Securitron asked in a low drawl, even in the early morning hours concerned that they might be overheard.
"She'll live. Can't say for certain what kind of life it'll be till she wakes up, though." He replied with a sigh, rubbing his temples.
"Mister New Vegas will be keeping our guest's recovery hush hush, I trust you will do the same?"
There wasn't much the Doctor could say, not much about the past twenty-four hours was believable. "No one will even see her leave my house. It'll just look like she wandered in from the desert. But what should I tell her when she wakes up?"
"Tell her she had a run in with some bad men, and that they were headed in the direction of the Strip most likely by the way they were dressed. After all, that's the truth."
'The truth maybe, but not the whole truth,' Mitchell wiped the sweat from his face, but didn't say any of that. Instead,
"You know, part of my job here is to do no harm, and I can see a lot of harm in encouraging this one to track down her killer."
"Would-be killer," Victor clarified, his screen flickering for just a moment. "And if she can make it that far on what she's got, I may have more use for her than originally planned. Just make sure she can walk on her own, talk and feed herself, then your job is done."
The southern accent was still there, but the words didn't quite match up. Too cold, too refined.
The doctor nodded, and Victor handed over a suitcase filled with far more caps than anyone in Goodsprings had any right to, by profession. He then rolled off to patrol the town as he usually did, but not before adding,
"I'm trusting you to remain discreet. I don't allow for loose ends."
The next few days were by no means quiet. A caravan man named Ringo came into town, stirring up trouble with the Powder Gangers on his tail. Goodsprings would have long since thrown the man out, if it weren't for Sunny Smiles growing sweet on him. Mitchell stayed out of it, hardly able to leave his home what with his patient taking up most of his time anyway—
Watching her, feeding her through a tube and cleaning out the bed pans. Her fever finally broke sometime after the second day, and he was woken from a nap on the third by the sound of a heavy thump against the worn wooden floor.
"Easy now, easy," he soothed, helping her back into bed, but she refused to lie down. Her eyes scanned the room, arms shaking as she struggled to stay upright.
"Who are you?" she croaked, voice sore from disuse.
"I'm Doc Mitchell. You took quite a hit there. Now get back into bed, you should really take it slow."
"How long was I out?" She barely got through the question before a fit of coughs interrupted her. Mitchell passed her a bottle of water.
"Only a few days, but you haven't had any solid food in that time. So how about we test those legs with a short walk to the kitchen and I'll fix you a plate?"
Not trusting the man, but having no better options in her current state, she took his hand, immediately getting a headache once she was on her feet.
"There we go…Now try not to take this too hard, but there's no better way of putting it: You were shot. Two bullets scrambled your brain pretty good, but what kind of doctor would I be if I didn't find a way to bring you back anyway?" He chucked, trying to lighten the mood.
The smock hung from her thin body, muscles atrophied to barely anything and her hair hung heavy with oil about her face.
"Shot?" She was incredulous, but couldn't quite piece together an alternative explanation for why she was in this man's house. Mitchell set her down in one of the chairs, and the room was quickly filled with the savory scent of roasted Brahmin meat. He cut it into tiny pieces so her mouth wouldn't have too hard a time. Serving them each a plate with some yucca and buffalo gourd, he sat down across from her.
"We can get into that later…but first, how about your name? You got a name?"
Her brow furrowed in concentration, but nothing came to her.
"What about where you're from? Haven't seen you around here before."
Nothing. Panicking, she began shaking, covering her mouth to keep a sob from escaping. Mitchell put his hands up.
"Hey now, there's a good chance all that will come back in a few days. For now, try to get used to eating again."
It took time, but eventually she finished, leaning heavily against the table by the end of it. Swallowing was difficult, her throat and tongue swollen from disuse. Even picking up the fork was a challenge, so she settled for eating with her hands, as much as the mess disgusted her. While she ate, he asked her a series of questions, clearly psychological.
"Enough. Can I at least see what I look like?" The meal was doing nothing to ease her nerves. She wanted to run, to get away, but where could she go? She didn't even know where she was, or what was out there.
"Alright, alright…I understand your frustrations, but let's try to stay civil." He left, returning shortly with a metal tray, the bottom thoroughly polished, enough to see herself.
She didn't know what to think, looking at her reflection. There was nothing familiar, but it could have been worse.
With the help of a cane, she was able to move into the living room, where there was a duffel bag. But it was completely empty.
"Sure seems unsportsmanlike of your would-be killers, but that seems to have gone the way of civilization—extinct like damn near everything else."
She scoffed, taking another bottle of water from Mitchell, continuing to walk about and stretch her legs.
"The sportsmanlike thing would have been to leave me the hell alone," she growled, sweat soaking through her smock.
Looking over to the bag, she sighed. There was no changing things now.
Doc Mitchell made her go through several other tests, including an IQ test, questions that mostly boiled down to common sense, science, mechanics, it was oddly very thorough. The only thing he didn't test her on was how to use a gun, for obvious reasons. But she remembered all the same, even if she couldn't remember herself. There was a sort of muscle memory in her responses. Finally he handed her several books.
"Now while I'm sure you'll get your memories back eventually, but I also think I should refer to you by something a little nicer than 'hey you', at least for now. Read through these, find a name you like. After that I won't keep you here—although you're welcome to stay as long as you need—but try to leave when there aren't many around to spy you. I don't want talk spread about the old doctor housing some pretty young stranger."
It was strange, to him. Or rather, she was. She had very light skin despite the sun. Not even a single freckle. He would have pegged her for a vault dweller had it not been for the courier note he found in her pocket. And there was something else…something in her eyes. A hardness, and sadness…regret that in this state she couldn't even begin to fathom.
Giving her privacy, he went to bed and she was left to find herself among two-hundred-year-old tombs. Most of them were histories, celebrity magazines, or fiction. The cover of one such novel caught her eye. Fasti. It was filled with strange names and stranger people. The way it was written was far different from the other books that were strewn about her feet as well. It was hours later into the night, her eyelids heavy and her head nodding when she got to the chapter titled May, and the origin of Flora. The first name that didn't take several tries to guess the correct pronunciation. Visions of spring filled her mind as she read about the Nymph turned goddess.
Trees…flowers…cool wind and thick grass that sent chills up her legs as they gently brushed her ankles. Everywhere green and lush. Her heart filled with love and happiness, so quickly willing to forget what chased her.
But the grass withered, the trees died, there were no flowers here as two men overpowered her, throwing her to the ground as the third dug through her bag. Sand and grit was kicked into her eyes and nose and mouth as she struggled but it was no use and her arms and legs were bound. The world became darkness as a sack was thrown over her head, and she was make to kneel. A fire was started, she could tell by the warmth that washed over her front. They argued for a time, about which route to take now that they had the chip. The long way was safer…no need to go through the Quarry, no rush.
At last she was allowed to see, looking into the eyes of her captor: Brown. Calculating. Somehow conveying smugness, reluctance…but she couldn't quite make out his face. She squinted, tugging desperately against her bindings, but her body grew heavier until she was falling to the side. As if in slow motion, the world went sideways, with the words echoing in her mind,
"The game was rigged from the start."
Sometime later, she woke up, head in excruciating pain from the bullet wound and the bruise that would surely form on the other side of her head. Groaning, she struggled up, grabbing her cane and heading for the kitchen. In the deepest corner of his cabinets, she found coffee grounds. Mixing agave honey into the black liquid, she thought back to the night before. If the tests were any indication, she was smarter than the average wastelander.
'Not smart enough to avoid getting shot, apparently,' she thought with a grimace.
Good with tools, at least. She eyed herself in the mirror some more, occasionally eating leftovers from the day before.
Brown eyes that looked tired, a plain nose, low cheek bones, and a pair of full pouting lips. Her hair was sticking out at all ends…she needed a shower.
"I was hoping on saving that stuff for a special occasion," Mitchell stood in the doorway, pointing at her mug before going to pour one for himself. "But I suppose bringing someone back from the grave is special enough." The atmosphere cleared slightly when she smiled at his remark, and he was relieved to see the bullet hadn't completely destroyed her sense of humor.
"Flora, I think," she said, fingers tracing the cover of the book she had brought into the kitchen with her. "I…don't know who I am, but until I do, I want to be called Flora."
Mitchell eyed it suspiciously. Not many out there would recognize the origins of the name, but all the wrong people likely would.
"Sounds fine, just don't go spouting off Latin, people are on edge enough as it is."
The newly self-christened Flora gave him a questioning look. With a sigh, he went on to explain the two major factions that had been eating into the Mojave on both sides, as well as a few more littered across the desert.
After a shower, Flora wore a dress and a hat that Mitchell had given her with nothing else to her name except a hand full of caps (also donated by the doctor) and the tattered leather armor she was found in.
"I think you should visit Victor down the way. He's the robot that pulled you out of that shallow grave. He might have some other supplies to spare, get you back on your feet." He managed not to slap his head as he remembered what Victor had instructed him to tell her. "By the way, some folks saw a man in a fancy checkered suit head south from here with two other guys. Probably taking the long way back to the Strip to the north of here. I'm not saying you should hunt that son of a bitch down…but I'm not going to stop you either."
Flora gave him a funny smile, but nodded, taking her bag from him. "Thanks, Mitchell. Really." She threw on a pair of sunglasses and walked outside.
As much as it felt like she should be mad at her killer, Flora was more curious than anything else. Why was she killed? Apparently she had been a courier; what was the package that was worth a life—her life?
The robot wasn't much help, seeming to switch often between his usual drawl, and a different pattern of speech, even if the accent was still there. It made her suspicious, especially when he pulled a pip-boy out of his shack.
"It was buried with one of the unlucky fellas out there on that hill." He explained. "Seemed a waste to let something so valuable stay buried."
"Were you grave robbing when you found me?" she asked.
"Not exactly," he chuckled. "I saw those men burying you. They were too much for little old me to take on, so I waited for those nasty men to clear out. As luck would have it, my scanners picked up on this pip-boy while I was digging you up."
That raised a flag. "Why bother digging up a corpse?"
There was a pause, Victor's screen flickered several times before he replied. "Those men attacked you for a reason. You must have been important; someone would be looking for you. If some family or friends came by, they would have every right to know your fate. You surviving two shots to the head was a down right miracle, miss. I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth if I were you."
It was a perfectly logical response, but it still set her on edge, especially when he added that last part. There was a warning in his voice.
"Doc mentioned they were headed south, but the Strip was their destination…Where would you suggest I go?" She asked carefully.
"Well, darlin' I don't want to go leading you on a leash, but I know if someone stole something from me…I'd want it back." His screen flickered constantly throughout his reply.
In the end, he gave her some odds and ends to sell, mostly scrap and old computer parts, but also ammo. Ammo for guns she didn't have.
The general store wasn't much better. The sun managed to get in her eyes through the cracks in the walls, dust filled her throat, but most of all Flora had no patience for the man who seemed to sell everything marked up due to the 'high quality of the stock'.
"Straight from the Crimson Caravans," Chet insisted, "we even have specialized ammo; incendiary, hollow point, you name it."
"I don't want anything fancy, I just need a gun to defend myself and something a little more durable than this!" Flora grabbed her skirt in a fist, shaking it slightly as he strained her patience further.
Chet scoffed. "That'll cost extra, miss."
"Don't you have any discounted goods? Maybe something falling apart already?"
The shopkeeper was offended that she would even suggest that, but he sold her leather scraps to repair the armor she already owned, some food and a shovel. Victor had given her an idea.
The tired traveler took a sip from his glass, casually brushing dirt from his clothes. The drink before him didn't contain any alcohol, but the rest of the patrons didn't need to know that, they just needed to believe it—that he was just like them, maybe a few more caps in his pocket, but otherwise the same as everyone else. His eyes scanned the bar, watching in amusement as the barmaid argued heatedly with the man, Joe Cobb and his associate. The Powder Gangers would be so useful if they weren't so…opportunistic. Their crude sense of loyalty that never extended to dying for the cause, that only went so far as to maybe fight for one another, but never to the point of risking one's own mortality. It made him sick. As Joe made to leave, he bumped roughly into a woman coming in, he sneered something that should never be repeated in polite company to her before going on his way. She gave him an odd look and a small smile but didn't say anything.
The sunlight seemed to create a halo about her that set her hair alight in amber flame. It was only after she cleared the threshold that it settled into a dark rosewood tint. There was a certain luminescence to her skin, light seeming to peek through the dirt that caked her legs. Dust and sand followed her in from outside, and while it certainly seemed to bother her, she didn't do much about it but wipe some off onto her dress. But that wasn't what caught his eye.
She was quite pretty for a wastelander, and always seemed to be smiling, in a knowing secretive sort of way, eyes wise beyond her apparent years. The only thing that marred her countenance was a blotch of red garish tissue around her left temple, but even that seemed to add rather than take away, at least in his opinion. Any other man like he was pretending to be would offer to buy her a drink, but that would eventually require him to consume some himself to avoid drawing suspicion. And that was by no means an option.
Flora was tired, physically and emotionally. The grave…her grave. It was so hard to think about, to conceptualize. But it had been right there at the top of the hill, along with the rest of the departed and buried. The doctor and Victor had explained it all…and it made a sort of sense. But there was no changing the fact that she died and came back. That even in surviving, there might have been something permanently wrong with her mind. All Flora could do was wait until some potential trigger showed itself. And then what would happen?
The Sarsaparilla Trudy gave her tasted incredible; vanilla, sugar cane, and something tangy and citrus. The bottle was cool against her neck as she scanned the bar. It was a welcome distraction, but she needed more. She immediately caught sight of the man in a suit, surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the people in the bar. He was eyeing her coldly, but didn't look entirely unwelcoming. She decided to sit down across from him at the booth.
He watched her silently, not sure how to approach the issue, and more than a little annoyed that she had made the first move. They stared each other down. He took in the slope from her neck, down her shoulders. The trail of sweat that cleared the dirt and delved between her breasts. Flora eyed him right back, the thin pale lips that turned down slightly. The tiny crow's feet, lax now, framing powder blue eyes as the corners of his lips tightened.
"Want to talk? I've had a bit of a long day and I need a distraction," she flashed him a smile, different from the one she had given the powder ganger. No, this one felt like he was holding a gun and it had misfired: disarming. Not waiting for his reply, she sat down across from him and took a sip from her soda. He didn't turn her away. He couldn't speak.
"You have a name, don't you?" Flora broke the silence, elbows on the table. Her breasts pushed together and even with the filth that covered her body, it was difficult to ignore his own bodily reactions.
"Vincent Fox…but a woman like you can call me Vincent…as much or as loud as you'd like." He smirked, trying to gain the upper hand.
He expected her to blush, but all she did was smile wider, moving from across the booth to sit closer to him, played with his coat. Flora wasn't really sure what she was doing, but it felt right, somehow. She was enjoying the warmth of his body and it helped take her mind off of everything else.
"I'd like that, Vincent." She smiled at the way it sounded on her tongue. He was so fake, but she didn't know how, only that he was. He flirted right back but remained completely reserved. The smile he wore was about as genuine as her own. It seemed fun, pushing him this far and wanting to know how far he could go. This was a game she could win. After all, what did she have to lose?
Vincent put an arm around her, eyeing the dress strap that was sliding down her shoulder. His character had time for a night of fun and so, certainly, did he. Besides, he reasoned with himself, it would look odd for him to walk away from a proposition from such a pretty girl.
"What shall I call you then?" he asked, leaning in to nibble gently at her ear, feeling her squirm against him and cross her legs. He watched her dress slide up, the faded black cotton specked with grime in some areas. A sigh escaped him as her hand squeezed his thigh, stroking up and down his leg while the rest of the bar remained oblivious.
"Sarah." She said after a split second. If he was a fake, she wasn't going to be honest either—he didn't deserve it. No, all she wanted from him was his body, and it certainly looked like a nice one. He felt lean through the suit, and his tongue felt good against her neck…Flora wanted it elsewhere.
"So, Sarah," he mused, "Where are you from? Goodsprings isn't your home, I would have seen you before today. Hard to miss such beauty in a place like this." His voice turned cold in regards to the town, so cold it sent a chill down her spine.
"Close by," she replied, trying to think of someplace Mitchell had mentioned. "Sloan."
Vincent scoffed incredulously. "A desert rose it seems, well aren't I the lucky one to have such company?"
She died. It didn't feel like it, but in a way it also did. There was a cold emptiness inside her and Flora wanted—needed to know what she was capable of, beyond the tests and quizzes that Mitchell put her through, that her body was still her own, and that she could control it. And also feel pleasure in it. She needed to feel alive, warm in a way beyond the Mojave heat beating upon her skin.
"Do you have a room, Vincent?" she asked sweetly, hand slowly climbing up from his knee.
Vincent practically threw Flora onto the bed, hurriedly stripping her of that dress and throwing it to the side along with her underclothes before leaning back to pull off his jacket and shirt. The last to go was his hat, revealing short dark brown hair. The dim lantern light played across her unmarred skin…that was even more…peculiar. His brow furrowed slightly, but Vincent filed that away for later, pressing her into the bed and kissing her hotly, running his hands up and down her sides. With the radio broken by the town's recent ruffians, there wouldn't be much to hide any noise they would make, but that didn't stop Vincent from trailing down to her breasts, taking one in his mouth as he squeezed and tweaked the nipple of the other. He groaned in surprised arousal as Flora dragged his other hand between her legs, gasping as he worshiped her body, but clearly impatient for more. Fingers delved deep, curling expertly as his palm teased her clit with dull pressure. It was hard for Flora to keep her moans quiet, especially when his teeth came into play. Sucking lips and thrusting fingers broke her, covering her mouth to muffle most of it, but Vincent was quick to hold her hands above her head.
"Let them hear us," he panted with need, "if music be the food of love, play on. Let them feed on our duet."
Suddenly he was filling her to the hilt, making Flora yelp, helplessly shaking with post orgasmic sensitivity as he drove into her. Letting out an animalistic growl, Vincent released her wrists, pulling back to hike one of her legs over his shoulder.
Flora groaned, frustrated. It felt amazing but there was something missing. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Rolling them over, Flora ground against him urgently, tits bouncing as she dug her nails into his lower abdomen, riding him shakily in a desperate attempt to reach that finish line so far in the distance.
Vincent didn't expect her taking control would turn him on so much but it did. It made him want to prove himself, to conquer her and make her scream his praises.
"Oh…ugh, Sarah." Vincent pushed forward, sitting up to worship her neck, taking in as much of that perfect supple skin as he could as he thrust furiously into her molten heat. He riddled her neck with bites and red marks in impossible to hide places as she moaned louder and louder, shuddering as she got close.
"Vincent, more please, fuck…me..." Flora couldn't keep it down, flushed knowing that everyone downstairs could hear them.
She screamed as he bit down on her breast, easing the pain with his tongue and humming deeply against her. "Ah, fuck! Ohhh…" Flora came, clinging to his shoulders as she came apart in his arms.
Relief washed over Vincent as he pulled out, grinding against her folds before coming across her belly and chest. Grunting in false exhaustion, he fell backwards, pulling Flora with him. He would never be truly used up from a single encounter, but she didn't need to know that. Flora smiled up at him tiredly, completely ignorant of who he really was. He smiled, affecting warmth.
As the orgasm high wore off, Flora was reminded of the heat of the room, of the dirt turned to mud from sweat that caked her legs and arms. She had been fulfilled yet left unfulfilled. What was missing? Frustration burned in her throat as she sat up and climbed off of the fake man. He silently watched her get re-dressed, not even tired from the coupling. Flora avoided looking at him until all her things were gathered.
"That was nice," she said with a smile, her mask playful. "I'm gonna go wash up, but…it was nice to meet you, Vincent."
That was odd. His eyes widened slightly. Odd and entirely unexpected. He had never slept with a profligate without learning a little more about them than a name and a hometown.
"And you, Sarah." He purred what he thought was her name, licking his fingers and surprised to realize she tasted quite good, sweet even. It was a rare occurrence for him, but Vincent regretted not tasting her more thoroughly.
"Perhaps our paths will cross again sometime."
Flora nodded non-committedly before slipping out of the room. He waited a few minutes before following her silently down the stairs so he wouldn't be noticed, listening in on her quiet conversation with Trudy about the issue regarding the Powder Gangers.
Odd that a stranger would get involved like this rather than disappear into the night. He held a glass against the wall, pressing his ear against the base, trying to pick up the voices over what must have been Flora repairing that damned radio.
"Why not give them what they want? Who even is this Ringo?"
"We have a bit more hospitality here in Goodsprings than wherever you're from…where did you say that was again?"
" Sloan. I didn't mean anything by it, but it just seems odd, risking the entire town for one man."
"Sunny took a shine to him, they've been sweet since he arrived a couple weeks ago," Trudy explained, watching Flora work with mild interest, politely not mentioning the bruises that must be forming on her shoulders and neck by now.
Flora's lips pressed into a thin line, trying to concentrate on her work while also idly thinking of solutions to the town's problem. It would be easy to convince the town to help in a fire fight, if the need arose; it was pretty clear they were all loyal and willing to help anyone who came into their town; Mitchell was a clear enough example of that.
But bottom line, she needed supplies. And Flora doubted even helping the town from a bomb happy gang would get her decent armor.
Flora lay in bed in Victor's shack, staring at the snow globe she had found on the hill where she was buried. It was sunset by the time she completely raided all the graves, finding little more than some spare ammo for guns she didn't have and spare caps that would hardly buy her a meal. She had seen the lights of the Strip turn on from that hill. They seemed so close but she knew it would take a week at least by foot. Flora couldn't imagine what must be behind the walls of that great city, but she did know that if she couldn't afford a gun, than she sure as hell couldn't afford Vegas.
Victor watched her, or rather, his screen was on and he was facing her. He didn't say anything, screen occasionally flickering, and Flora wondered if he could think, what would be going on in his mind. Why had he bothered to save her, and now let her stay in his shack? Endless questions filled her mind, but it was eventually crowded out by the sheer distraction of the Mojave climate.
She hated the dirt and the heat, she wanted a breeze that didn't dry her eyes out, roads that didn't kick sand into her shoes with every step, and buildings that didn't look like they were going to fall apart if kicked too hard. As she thought of all these things, a solution and goal formed in her mind. She refused to stay like this forever, she would change—become better. She changed once, she could do it again, surely. She wanted lights and music and pretty people to surround her.
She wanted…Vegas.
