Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Fallout 4. Except this version of the Courier.

Author's Note: To any of you following my other fanfics, please do not be alarmed by the fact that I am working on three at once. I just can't work on the same story constantly, so once I get a few chapters out on one, I cycle through to the next. Don't worry, I won't be starting a hundred new ones and never finishing. In fact, I'm more or less working on IW&L at the moment, but I wanted to get this story posted while I can (while the error glitch is gone, I mean, who knows how long this window will last).

That said, I really hope anyone reading this really enjoys it. I'm going to take some liberties with the plot, but it'll be generally the same-ish story. No major huge changes except for bits of this chapter and something that happens in Nipton later down the road. Also, I actually found out how far these places are separated in real life, for accuracy purposes, but on some of them I had to guess too. Anyhoo, read on and leave a review if you like.

Chapter One

The Girl in the Mirror

Darkness. Pain. With every passing moment they were the only constant. The only two things that distinguished life and death. She knew with a certainty that she was alive, and so she searched for the light.

Time did not exist in this world. She did not know how she had come to be trapped here, or just how long she had been lost in it. As she searched for a way out, she was only aware of how much faster her energy drained away with her efforts and oblivion would pull at her once more. It didn't matter. When she was strong again she would take up the search anew. There was no other thought. No other reason for existing.

Then, finally, the darkness started to break apart, and light began filtering through. She rushed toward it, and as the light grew brighter, the pain sharply intensified and overcame her senses. She heard a hoarse voice cry out in anguish, and then, to her surprise, another voice answered.

"Whoa, easy there," it said in low, calming tones. "Don't push yourself. Easy does it."

She listened to the voice and followed its advice, patiently waiting as, little by little, the darkness continued to melt away and brightness surrounded her. At first it was almost too painful to look at, but just as she would have tried to block it out, it began to dim, then it flickered... bright to dim to bright... on and on, never ceasing, never changing... The darkness moved in a circular pattern before her. One-two-three-one-two-three. Around and around. It was hypnotic, but her concentration was interrupted by the voice that had spoken to her what seemed like hours ago.

"Well, now, you're awake," it said. "How 'bout that?"

The voice was very close by and distinguishably male. His tone was gentle and held an air of pleasant surprise. Though her head still ached unbearably, her eyes were drawn toward the sound. As soon as she moved her head, the room split in two and began to spin sickeningly around her; even closing her eyes didn't make it stop.

"Shh, shh," he said quietly. "I said go easy. There's no rush. You've been out cold a few days now. Just relax. Get your bearings."

She took his advice and waited for the world to right itself again before opening her eyes. The room remained blurry, but she waited patiently as the colors and blurs became shapes, and the form beside her became an elderly man watching her with a kindly astonishment. His thin, smiling lips were topped with a full, gray mustache that looked as though it had been trimmed with a straightedge, and what was left of his white hair was neatly groomed around his huge, shiny bald pate. Despite his immaculate appearance, he wore plain, roughly-hewn clothing in dull, nondescript colors. As she quietly observed him it dawned on her that she was viewing him at an angle; she was lying down. Her first, foolish reaction was to try to sit up. Even as her head lifted from the bed an overwhelming weakness surged through her, and she soon fell back with a groan of pain.

"Easy," the man repeated. "You're safe here."

She struggled to open her eyes yet again, but did not attempt to move.

"Well, let's see what the damage is," he went on quietly. "Can you tell me your name?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but was brought up short. Her name... what was her name? She thought she'd known it just a moment ago.

"I –" Her first word came out with difficulty; her throat and mouth felt parched. She experimentally cleared her throat. "I don't know."

The man frowned. "No?" he said. "What about your mother's? Father's? Do you know where you're from?"

Again, she tried to think about it, and again, there was only a vague emptiness.

The man's frown was even deeper now. "I was afraid of this, even if you did make it through –"

"Make it through what?" she asked suddenly. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're in the town of Goodsprings," he said. When the name sparked no recognition in her, he elaborated. "We're about thirty miles due south of New Vegas." She shook her head, not recognizing that name either, so he moved on to her other question. "You were found half-buried in a shallow grave with two fragmented bullets lodged in your skull. You barely had a pulse, but you were breathing on your own, so Victor dug you on up and brought you to me."

"Who are you? Who is Victor?"

"I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Doc Mitchell," the man said. "And Victor's what you could call the town robot."

She nodded slowly and fell silent, her mind slowly sparking back to life. She had been shot? In the head? Twice? She swallowed hard, trying to think of another question to ask, but all she could settle on was, "May I have some water?"

With gnarled hands the Doc helped ease her into a sitting position, and immediately she felt a dull ache in her side. Once she was reclining as comfortably as possible against the wall behind her, he left her to catch her bearings again while he left the room. Barely a full minute passed before he returned, bearing a tall glass of water. He helped her hold it steady until she could drink from it on her own.

"I want you to drink as much as you can," he said, resuming his seat. "But don't go chugging it down, it's been days since you've put anything in your stomach."

The girl nodded and drank tentatively from the glass, her gaze drifting around the room as she did.

Doc Mitchell continued to watch her thoughtfully, stroking his mustache for several moments before he spoke. "Well, now that you're awake, I imagine you'll be needing a name. Perhaps... perhaps Eve would be appropriate, at least until you recover your own?"

The girl nodded hesitantly, still drinking continuously from the water.

Doc Mitchell smoothed his mustache a few more times and said, "Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin' around in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. While I take pride in my needle work, perhaps you ought to have a look and make sure nothing's outta place."

Eve nodded again, suddenly ill as her mind filled with gruesome images of a mangled face; nevertheless she accepted the small, circular mirror from the Doc with trembling fingers. Steeling herself, she glanced at her reflection, and was immediately shocked by what was shown to her.

The image before her was neither mangled nor misshapen, though two long, jagged diagonal wounds marred the left side of her forehead; they were stitched closed and nearly healed. All the same, there was nothing about the reflection that sparked any recognition in her. The girl in the mirror was young... too young to have been shot in the head. She was not a child exactly, but neither could she be called a woman. The girl's eyes were wide in her face, tilted up at the corners and a deep, inky black, with dark shadows under them that made her skin look pale and waxy. Her face was small with delicate angles around her chin and cheekbones, and a childlike softness lingered about her cheeks; her lips were slightly unbalanced by a full lower-lip. The face was framed by a messy halo of white-blonde hair that hung down her back in lank, dirty clumps.

"The bullets were fired at point-blank range, entering one inch apart on the left side of your frontal lobe, but they shattered on impact and the shrapnel didn't penetrate as deep as I would have expected. I got as much out as I could find. There was also blunt force trauma to the back of your head, and you have three bruised ribs. You'll need to be careful of those for a few more days. You also have some bruising and lacerations around your wrists and ankles, but they're mostly healed by now."

Eve nodded, staring mutely at her reflection for another minute before putting the mirror aside. Then the next obvious question came to her.

"Who did this?"

"Can't say I know. You'll want to ask around town once you're on your feet again. It happened just up the hill. Maybe someone saw something."

At the thought of trying to stand, Eve immediately swayed on the spot, the room spinning dizzily again.

"You should lay back, get some more sleep," Mitchell said, taking the empty water glass and gently easing her back down onto the mattress. "You've been through the mill and you're not going to be at one-hundred percent the minute you regain consciousness. We'll see how you're doing in the morning."

Eve murmured in assent, consciousness fading from her before her head touched the pillow.

When Eve awoke next it felt like coming out of a long tunnel, and once she reached the other side she found herself completely alone. For several minutes she lay still, taking her surrounding in as best she could from her bed. She felt pleasantly warm, and the air around her had a dry, sweet scent to it. At her head and to her right was solid wall, and at her feet was a screen that blocked off the lower corner of the room. To her left was an examination table and a few feet off the foot of that was an operation table.

As she stared at the surgically pristine object with a sense of dread, the elderly man she remembered from her the tunnel entered the room. She watched him uncertainly as he walked in carrying an armload of rags and smiling at her genially.

"Good, you're awake again," he said. "It's been a couple of days, but you're looking better for it."

Eve gingerly sat up, on her own this time, wincing as both her ribs and her head ached. She clutched the thin blanket to her chest, and for the first time she became aware that she wore nothing beneath it. She looked down at her bare shoulders then up at the doctor in alarm.

"Ah... yes," Mitchell said, looking somewhat abashed. "Standard procedure to check for other injuries. It'd do no one any good if you survived the bullets but succumb to infection from some other wound."

"So it was all true," Eve said quietly. "I had wondered, you know, if I was just dreaming... and I still don't – don't –"

"Never mind," Mitchell said bracingly, "your mind will heal like your body. Just give it time."

Eve took a deep breath and nodded, then swung her feet down from the bed, planting them firmly on the floor and testing her weight on them experimentally.

"Hold on a moment, let me take a look at you before you go gettin' ahead of yourself."

Eve waited patiently as the Doc stuck a thermometer under her tongue and shined a light in both her eyes. Finally, he declared her fit enough with "all things considered" and helped her to her feet, holding her by one elbow until she was standing steady enough on her own. When Mitchell saw her adjusting the blanket wrapped snugly around under her arms, he sprang into action, hobling across the room with a noticeable limp.

"These are the clothes you were wearing when you were brought in," he said. "I washed them, but there's some blood stains that'll never come out."

He picked up the bundle of rags he'd been carrying and shook them out. There were a worn pair of blue jeans, a short, faded blue-denim jacket, a white cotton shirt with long sleeves, brown leather gloves, and a pair of woolen socks. On the collar of the denim jacket were several rust-colored stains.

"And your boots and belt," Mitchell continued, gesturing at a pair of rugged leather boots that stood side-by-side on the floor not far from the examination table. On the wooden work table beside them was her belt. "They're still in fine condition."

Eve glanced at them and immediately walked the few feet across the room to pick them up. Her first steps were slow and unsteady and she could feel the Doc watching her progress with a trained eye, but she made it without falling and carefully bent down to pick up the boots that had apparently passed through the grave with her. They were dusty and well worn, made of brown leather with a tasseled fringe around the top and a small heel. Then she picked up her belt; it was black and leather, and looped to it was a plain holster carrying a weathered pistol.

"Very good," Mitchell said encouragingly, clearly stunned and pleased with her progress. "Just remember, go slow. This ain't a race. I expect you might appreciate a bath? And some food maybe?"

At the mention of food her stomach gave a loud, long snarl that seemed to rumble through the entire room. The Doc smiled again and gestured for her to follow.

Doc Mitchell lead her down to the end of the hall, and she followed slowly, clutching her boots, belt, and gun to her chest. He opened a door that revealed a small, clean bathroom.

"It's not much," Mitchell said. "But the taps on the sink and bathtub both work, and the toilet even flushes s'long as the tank's full."

Eve nodded. "I'll manage."

The Doc nodded and placed her bundle of clothes in the sink against the wall opposite the door. "There's soap and a clean rag in the box beside the tub, and a clean cloth to dry yourself with on the back of the door.. Just holler if you need anything." His patient only nodded again and Mitchell shut the door behind him as he left.

Eve stood silently still for a moment, taking in every detail of the tiny little room. The tub was against the left wall, the sink across from the door, and the toilet to the right with a plunger and a clean bucket right beside it. Everything was pristine white and clean, with perhaps a little wear from age. The worst was the bathtub, where the porcelain was stained and worn in some places, and a broken mirror that hung on the wall behind the door; one large shard of glass remained intact enough for her to see herself clearly. The girl in the mirror looked pale and a little frightened, though the shadows under her eyes, the dirt smeared on her skin and hair, and the healing gashes in her forehead did nothing to lessen the effect. She certainly looked as though she'd been through the grave and back.

With another glance at the door she dropped the blanket she was wearing on the green, threadbare rug partially covering the wood floor and, after plugging the drain with a rubber stopper, began to fiddle with the tap over the bathtub. Immediately water began to pour from the spout and fill the tub. While she waited, she carefully examined her own body. She was small, that much was obvious. Her head had barely reached the Doc's shoulder as she'd followed him back here. Her shoulders and hips were narrow, and her breasts were two gently sloping curves that just barely obscured her view of her flat stomach. Beneath her left breast was a large, greenish-yellow bruise that covered the surface of her ribs and part of her stomach. Desperately, she tried to recall how it had happened... tried to remember her name again, her age, where she'd been born, anything, but again, there was nothing.

Sighing in frustration, she gingerly climbed into the tub. The water wasn't hot, but it was comfortable enough and it felt like heaven against her dirty, sweaty skin.

It took a half-hour's concentration to bathe herself, but when she was finished she found she could breathe easier, and even the pain in her head had lessened to a dull ache. She drained the tub of the muddy, filthy water and filled it again to properly rinse herself off, then rested for a moment. As she soaked in silence her eyes were drawn to the yellowing bruises around her wrists. What could this have been from? A glance at her ankles showed the exact same bruises. She had obviously been struck twice, in the ribs and on the back of the head, but how would she sustain these injuries?

She climbed out of the dirty water and used the cloth hanging on a hook on the back of the door to dry herself, then gratefully pulled on her clothes, looking at them closely as she put them on. As she shook the jeans open a delicate set of undergarments flew out of them and hit the wall before falling on the floor. Eve picked them up and looked curiously at the scraps of fabric. Both were made from pale-blue cloth and were obviously well-mended and cared for. She slipped them on, then followed with the shirt, then the jeans, which tightly molded to her body but were well-worn and easy to move in; she looped the belt and the holster onto the jeans, placing her gun automatically on her right-hand side. She paused before putting on the jacket, running the tips of her fingers over the blood stains on the collar; it was only a few splatters barely as large as the tips of her fingers, but they sent a chill up her spine, reminding her how close she'd come to death; inside the jacket, in the place that would be just over her heart was a small, hidden pocket, but it was empty. She pulled the jacket on; the hem ended above her waist and the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and she looked in the mirror to carefully smooth the collar. She looked a lot less terrifying now, if still a little pale. When finally she had her socks and her boots on, she tucked the gloves into her back pocket and left the small bathroom.

Once out in the hall she became aware of noises coming from the open archway directly opposite the bathroom. Cautiously, she poked her head through to investigate and immediately saw the doctor milling about a small kitchen. In the center of the room was a wood table surrounded by four chairs, and on it was a white plate bearing bits of meat and a strange green, bulb-like fruit. The meal was completed by a glass of water. Her stomach gave another long snarl.

"You're looking much better," Doc Mitchell observed when he saw her standing in the doorway. "Come in, eat. You must be starving."

Eve sat down on the chair and pulled the plate of food closer, but did not immediately begin to eat.

"That food hasn't been poisoned, you know," Mitchell said with a smile, joining her at the table. He watched her take a first tentative bite, then she relaxed and began eating normally, if a bit voraciously.

"Take it easy," he reminded her again. "You'll make yourself sick. And be sure to drink that water. Dehydration sets in easy in the Mojave."

Eve slowed down and watched the old doctor from across the table. After a few moments he reached out of his back pocket and drew out a piece of paper. "You had this note in your pocket when you were brought here. Now, I hope you don't mind, but read it. I was hoping it would help me find a next-of-kin, but it's just something about a delivery for a platinum chip."

Eve stared at the note he slid across the table, then picket it up and unfolded it, reading it's contents.

INSTRUCTIONS

Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and collect payment for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

Bonsus on completion: 250 caps.

MANIFEST

This package contains:

One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum

CONTRACT PENALTIES

You are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express Package until delivery is complete and payment has been processed, contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver the proper recipient may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said reclamation efforts.

Eve read it over and over several times, trying to let each word sink into her mind, trying to rekindle some lost memory, but when that didn't work, she finally looked up at the kindly doctor.

"I'm a delivery girl?" she asked, frowning.

"Most call it 'courier'," the doctor said, fighting back the urge to grin. "Like a drifter, but someone who delivers things like mail and packages to make a living in the process."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. "Sounds like a dangerous way to make a living."

"Intruiging that you should know that," the doctor said.

Eve looked up at him with wide eyes. "You're right, it is," she said quietly. She knew the world was dangerous. That was a start. She read over the contract again.

"'Mojave Express Agency'," she read. "Where is Primm?"

"It's a town about 15 miles down the road heading south," Mitchell said.

"If I go there, maybe I'll find someone who knows who I am," Eve said, staring at the words.

"Well, now, hold on a minute," the Doc said repressively. "You just said yourself its dangerous work, traveling from place to place. If you're gonna go out there, I'd suggest you take the time to prepare. There's a girl in town, a little older than you; name's Sunny Smiles. Tell her I sent ya, and I'm sure she'll help you learn how to survive in the Mojave."

"What is the Mojave?" she asked.

"It's a vast desert that stretches for hundreds of miles," the Doc explained. "And it is a dangerous place. Just go taking off and you'll end up right back in my office, if you're lucky."

Eve nodded. "All right, I'll head out to find her. Then I'll head to Primm. It's a sure bet that someone at the Mojave Express will recognize me." She glanced back at the letter again. "Where is this platinum chip?"

"It wasn't on your person when you got here," he said. "It could have fallen out of your pocket when Victor pulled you out of your – out of the ground."

Eve inwardly winced, knowing he'd almost said out of your grave. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see the place she had been buried, but it looked like she was responsible for this chip, wherever it was, and she didn't have much of a choice but to find it. She tried to remember it, but instead there was only an empty void to greet her, and something about it left her feeling sick to her stomach.

"I need to find out how this happened. And why."

"I'm sure you'll find some answers from the folks around here. You were buried just outside of town. It's likely that whoever did it stayed here."

Eve nodded and got to her feet. "All right. I'm going to go ask around."

"Hold on," the Doc said, "I've got a box of your belongings in my office."

They walked back down the hall, and just inside the infirmary the doctor opened a metal box on one of the storage shelves, and inside it was a courier satchel that appeared to be made of nothing but pockets, and constructed from from what looked like animal hide. Eve pulled it out of the box and rummaged around inside. It appeared custom made, designed to hold each item she'd need in a specific place. One both sides of the pouch were several slender pouches; two of them were empty, but the bottom four held a extra clip each for her pistol. Eve reached for the gun in her holster, and her fingers curled instinctively around the body, her thumb coming to rest expectantly on the hammer. She pulled it from the holster and released the clip. It was full, so she pushed it back in and pulled back on the slide, displaying one round in the chamber. With a vague feeling of satisfaction, she moved the slide foreward and enabled the safety before replacing it in it's holster.

"Good to see you still know your way around a weapon," Mitchell said. "At least you know it's all still in there somewhere."

Eve smiled but didn't comment as she continued to rummage through the satchel. She found a handful of bobby pins in one pocket, and a few Stimpacks in another, which the Doc explained would heal most injuries, and could regenerate tissue, bone, and blood when necessary.

"Doesn't help much if you lose any entire limb, though," he cautioned. "And be cautious, they don't remove bits of lead either."

She also found a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches, and a small plastic comb. She flipped open the pack and saw it was half-empty. She instinctivrlu removed this and added it to the small pocket inside her jacket along with the matches, then quickly pulled the comb through her hair and slid that in next to the cigarettes. Next was a burlap drawstring pouch large enough to fill the interior of the satchel; several bottle caps jingled merrily around inside it. Eve looked at them, remebering a portion of the contract.

"Caps," she said. "Like the contract said." Then she counted them. Eighteen. "I don't have much to pay you with."

"Oh, don't worry none about that," Mitchell said, brushing away her concerns with a wave of his hand. "I'm a doctor. It's what I'm here for."

"Thank you," Eve said, dumping the caps back into the pouch before pulling the strings to closed and stashing it back in the satchel. "You saved my life. Ruling out another bullet to the head, I won't forget it. I'll pay you as soon as I have some money."

The doctor smilled sadly and closed the empty box before opening the first aid kit on the shelf above it. "Take these with you, too. More Stimpacks and some Med-X. The Med-X will help if any pain flares up, and can save your hide if you get injured while fighting for your life. The drawback is they make you a little intoxicated and blur your judgement if you take too much, and can make you drowsy or knock you unconscious if you take more. They can also become addictive. Use them carefully."

"Got it, Doc," Eve said, adding the Med-X syringes into her satchel.

"And one more thing," he said. He reached onto the top shelf and took down another metal box, set it on a lower shelf and opened it. "Since you're headed back out there, I wanted to give you this. It used to be mine when I was younger, and it might help keep you alive. I always found it useful, at any rate."

He produced a small, sleek wrist mounted computer he called a "Pip-Boy". It had a few dials and buttons with a screen that would sit on top of her wrist, and it was linked to a glove for her left hand that had a short, thin needle protruding inward from the palm.

"This is not easy to take off once you put it on, but I will show you how," he said. "This needle enters into a tiny vein and reads your blood. It also has a cable for linking to a computer from here should you need to do so. It comes with a computer hacking program, and monitors your vitals. You can records logs and records, read holodisks, and generally manage your affairs."

"Sounds useful," Eve relpied. "Go ahead, put it on."

"I'll need you to roll up the sleeve of your shirt."

Eve did so, rolling the cotton neatly up to her elbow, and held out her arm. The Pip-Boy slipped on painlessly; she didn't even feel the tiny needle. After loading for a minute or two, a screen flickered on, showing a miniature model of herself, detailed down to every nerve and capillary. All her healing injuries were perfectly noted and highlighted, and it kept track of her vitals just as the Doc had said. She quickly flipped through the rest of the screens and then pulled on her own leather gloves, perfectly ready to get out to her search.

"If you get hurt again, come back and I'll fix you up," Mitchell said as he lead her to the door. "But try not to get shot."

"I'll do my best," she said dryly.

He put his hand on the doorhandle, then stopped. "By the way, you'll probably want to try talking to Trudy first. She runs the Prospector Saloon down the road headed east. It's not far. She knows everybody and will have noticed and newcomers in town."

Eve nodded. "Thanks again. I'll see you around."

"Take care," Mitchell said, and he opened the front door, filling the entryway with blinding sunshine.