Journal of a Courier

Holotape discovered in the home of Doctor Mitchell, resident of Goodsprings.

Date of recording- October 19th 2281 09:00

Testing, one two. My name is Darron, and I am a Courier.

I woke up in a doctor's office today. Was almost blinded by a light on the ceiling. Why the fuck would you put a light above a recovering headshot patient? Surely, retina scorching would be further down the list of priorities on a doctor's aftercare checklist?

Yeah, I got shot in the head. Twice. Normally I would call that overkill, but in this situation I'm just happy it wasn't three times. It didn't hurt as much as you would imagine. In fact, I didn't feel a thing. Can't really remember much about it. It was some city-slicker type with a golden gun. I can still see it glistening in their firelight. What a pretentious bastard. A golden gun. Seriously.

Asked the Doc about him, but he was thin on details. Doctor Mitchell is the guy who saved my life. Seems as surprised about it as I am. He's a nice guy all around, didn't even ask for a fee. Just as well, my entire personal wealth has dropped to the princely sum of 18 caps. Strangely smooth skin for an older gentleman, but it crinkles around the eyes. What little hair he has sits in a halo around his head. Bald as a Nightstalker egg on top. Hell of a moustache though. Anytime I try to grow one I end up looking like a sexual predator.

Doc says I got dug out of a shallow grave by a cowboy robot named Victor. Had to shake my head a few times after that, thought the Doc must have left a few bullet fragments in my skull. (Reminder- Stop shaking my head. Hurts way too much.) I remember walking towards Goodsprings, in the middle of the night, desperate for somewhere to sit down and relax, when everything went black. Next thing I know, I'm staring up at slick and his Khan buddies. Didn't know where I was, but Doc says I was just up the hill from Goodsprings, where they bury townsfolk. Well, I got my rest all right. I got more rest than I'm ever like to want again.

Doc let me look at myself in a reflecto-tron earlier. His stitching is amazing, everything looks right, though there are sure to be a few sick looking scars. Hopefully they get obscured by my hair. Stubbly at the minute, but on long runs it comes out a fiery red. My jagged and many times broken nose is still a little swollen, I can feel it through my bandages. Big, amber mournful eyes hidden by heavy purple lids. Lips covered in cuts and peppered with sand. As I mentioned, bandaged up pretty heavily. That's why my voice might sound a little muffled. Doc suggested I keep a journal, both written and spoken. Even gave me a number of pencils, pens and journals. Says it'll help keep my faculties sharp.

Sounds good to me, but goddamn, this thing is heavier than I thought it would be. Can barely lift my arm as it is without this fucking Pip-Boy weighing me down. Doc attached it to my central nervous system while I was out. Said it substituted for his malfunctioning medical equipment, helped him track my recovery via the Vault Boy grinning out of the screen. The thing is, once it's on, the only way it's coming off is with the rest of my arm. According to Mitchell I'd be dead without it. I'll play around with it soon, but the light is hard to look at just now.

Better be worth it. Feel like an idiot yammering away into my wrist.

Can't fault his aftercare though. Got me on my feet and helped me stagger over to a Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester. I recall using one back west, but for the life of me I can't remember the results. Shame really, because I'd love to have done a comparison. No surprises this time around, anyway. Intelligence lit up, because I'm a genius. Agility was okay, probably helped by the fact that I've got a small frame. "Little spit of a thing" is the technical term, I believe. Got me out of serving though, which seems a fair trade to me. NCR's loss, my gain.

My Luck was highest all of all though. Sort of self-explanatory. I got blasted at point-blank range and I managed to avoid all the common ill effects associated with that condition, including a terminal case of the deaths. I've seen unfortunate fellas go down after just getting clipped by a stray bullet, and I managed to take two slugs right between the eyes and live to tell the tale.

My Perception was average, but when I find a pair of glasses it'll be better. Never could see worth shit without them. My natural charm shone through, meaning respectable Charisma. Always found it easy to get on with people, could usually make them go along with me. Wasn't uncommon to have a number of strays trailing behind me from settlement to settlement, drawn by my magnetic personality. Or maybe it's because I paid them. One of the great mysteries of life, I guess.

Few matters of concern though. Have to start working out again, because my Strength needs to be higher. At this rate I'd have trouble pushing open a saloon door. To be honest, I'm just too small and intelligent to do the heavy lifting. I can pay people to carry my shit. Or just buy a brahmin. Brahmin usually smell better than the mercenaries I can afford to hire.

On that note, maybe I should do some long distance running or something. I won't last long out there with Endurance like mine. You would think being a Courier would require you to have the endurance of Vault City filibusterer, but I managed to muddle along well enough all these years. Everyone got their letters, or their cases of water. Never failed a delivery yet. Until that asshole stole my Platinum Chip. I didn't walk all the way from the Hub to Primm to be murdered. Everyone swore by these Mojave Express guys. "Johnson Nash is a good guy," they said. "Easy job, and you can gamble in Vegas when you're done." Didn't even meet the guy, place was empty, package on the table. Should have stayed in NCR. Should have stayed in the Hub.

Doc says I've been out for a week now, but that isn't going to stop me finding slick and those fucking Khans and finishing my delivery. After that, I'm finished with courier work. Maybe I'll go back to Reno, become a fluffer. Anything's better than getting shot in the head.

Mitchell seemed pleased though, made a few jokes. Said the bullets must have done my brain some good. Cheeky bastard. When I was done, he put me (mercifully) on the couch. Hit me with some Rorschach Blot Tests. Followed it up with some word association and made me fill in a form about my medical history. He said he wanted to build a picture of my skills and weaknesses, and then he could see if anything has changed because of the shooting. See if my behavioural tendencies have altered. It was all a bit fascinating to be honest- Well, it would have been if my head hadn't been covered in blood-stained wrapping and I was scratching it like a Deathclaw tearing at a Brahmin.

Anyway, Doc was spot on. He had a list of skills, and tagged a few that I excel in and a few that I could do with improving. I carry an old combat knife that I looted from the very first raider I killed on my belt, but all I can really do with it is flail wildly and hope I slash something important on the other guy. Mostly I use it to open Nuka-Cola or the warm, cloudy piss that passes for beer these days. As for hand-to-hand? My brother was the fighter. Big into Pugilism Illustrated, always sparring with anyone he could get his meaty ham-fists on. Used to knock me about something awful, until one day I shot him with a BB gun.

Explosives, as well. Keep them as far away from me as possible. Remember the first time I tried to kill a Radscorpion with dynamite. Nearly blew my own hand off. I seem to recall this was before my parents realized I needed glasses, even though I was bumping into walls everyday. Nothing like the very real threat of imminent dismemberment to sting your guardians into action.

Doc said I was good natured, preferred talking it out to killing people. It's one thing being able to fight, but all that blood… Do you know how many perfectly good trench coats I've had to get rid of because some idiot raider's face ended up splattered over the length and breadth of it? Honestly- flattery, bribery and straight up intimidation are just so much more elegant. "The gift of the gab," Ma called it. Pops had it, and my ass-wipe brother definitely did, but theirs was a sort of down-to-earth one of the guys camaraderie. Nothing like my intellectually driven reasoning abilities. That's why Doc tagged speech and barter. Always wondered if I should have been a trader, but the incredibly low life expectancy always put me off. Granted, courier isn't a much safer life. Two bullets in the head's proof.

Thankfully, I'm not entirely useless in hostile situations. Give me a good old fashioned pistol any day. Nothing like a good six-shooter, drawn quick and fired so fast the other guy is dead before he can shit himself at how incredibly unlucky he is to be facing me. As for a rifle? I'll hit any target you want. Growing up in a military family definitely has it's advantages, first and foremost being that I can shoot just as well (if not better) than any soldier. Thing is, I always get very nervous around energy weapons. Don't know what it is, but anytime someone hands me a laser or plasma rifle I feel like it's going to blow up in my face. Collect the ammo though, whenever I come across it. Microfusion cells, energy cells and electron charge packs are worth a shit-load of caps if you find the right buyer.

Doc says because of my high Intelligence my scientific knowledge has real potential to be developed. Never really had a problem hacking those old RobCo terminals, the termlink code is laughable at times. Come across the odd one which has a difficult to pin down password, but not often enough to be a problem. I love finding out what's on them, even if it's just old shipping details from Pre-War companies or a few sordid e-mails between lovers. Between the 'Disengage Lock' commands and my quick hands, coupled with my sharp (glasses assisted) eyes, only the most difficult locks are beyond my skills. I've made more money with my screwdriver and bobby pins than I have in any job.

As for medical matters... Well, Ma was a doctor from the Boneyard. And when your brother is an overbearing bully, you learn right quick how to stem a bloody nose and set a sprained ankle. That said, treating headshots is a little out of my range. I thought it was out of everyone's range, but apparently not.

Fuck, am I tired. Unfortunately, much as I would like to get up right now and start on the long and winding trail to slick, I wouldn't get very far. Doc says rest, and tomorrow he's going to put me to work. Sounds vaguely ominous. Maybe he's a slaver. That would be hilarious, if slightly depressing.