A/N: Yes, another Fallout fic. This time however, I skipped putting it in as a cross-over fic. For those of you who have no idea what Fallout is, no worries, this fic can probably stand alone without all that info. For the Fallout geeks, if you haven't played and/or beaten Fallout New Vegas yet, this story will contain major spoilers! You've been warned. Undertaker, Kane, Melina, Shane McMahon, John Cena, and Shawn Michaels are just *some* of the cast I'll be throwing in.

Part 2 in the Fallout: Anthem of Angels series.

08/18/12: This chapter has been edited for misspelled words, poor grammar, improved reading, and whatever else I might have changed. No details to the plot have been changed unless they were conflicting.

1: 18-Carat Bad Luck

The Mojave, 2281

It was supposed to be just a simple delivery job. All she had to do was deliver a rather expensive, overly large poker chip that was made of platinum. It shouldn't have been so hard to do.

Somewhere south of Goodsprings however, things had gone very bad…

"Guess who's waking up over here?"

"Come on man, just get it done."

She could hear several voices; two men seemed to be pushing a third towards 'getting the job over with', and that did not sound too good for her. She wished she could see who was talking, her attackers. Some kind of sack had been placed over her head though, allowing nothing but dim orange light to somewhat pierce though.

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?" The third voice sounded smoother, the accent placed the speaker as someone from the Strip.

Panicking now, she began to try freeing her arms, mentally cursing at whatever was tying them together.

"Fine, just kill her already!"

Ears straining over the sounds of her own harsh breathing, she listened as footsteps approached. Her entire body tensed as two hands harshly grabbed at her, hauling her up onto her knees. A second later, the sack was removed. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust but when she did, she could see that two of the men were indeed Khans.

Both of them were looking anywhere but at her.

The third was a man in black slacks and a black and white checked sports coat. His hair was black with a hint of grey coming in at the temples. There was a hint of both pity and amusement in his dark, beady eyes as he surveyed her.

She watched as he reached into his coat, eyes narrowing when he withdrew the poker chip.

"You made your last delivery, kid." He said, sounding almost sincere as he tucked it back out of sight. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." His hand did not come back empty; he was now holding a pistol. "From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-carat string of bad luck," he sighed, shaking his head. "But the truth is… the game was rigged from the start."

Before she could muster enough air to scream, he fired the gun.

"You awake yet?"

Groaning, she pried open one eye, the lid feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Then the second. She stared straight ahead, everything was so white it was blinding; and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes again. After several very long moments where she was concerned she might actually be blind, color began coming in as well as the shape of something above her.

It was spinning.

It took another long moment to realize that it was a ceiling fan, flickering in and out of focus.

Groaning, she braced her palms on what was definitely a bed of some sort and pushed herself upright, closing her eyes automatically as everything went spinning; sending a tidal wave of dizziness crashing over her.

"Whoa there, honey, not so fast."

She frowned, hesitantly looking again to find a man crouching besides the bed staring at her intently. She couldn't make out what he looked like too well because he wouldn't hold still, he was out of focus too.

"Easy now." He urged, steadying her gently before moving back and sitting in a chair. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at her.

When everything was back to the way it should be: no spinning, in focus, and no dizzy spells, she stared right back at him. He wore a plain blue work shirt and brown leather pants, most likely Brahmin hide. His face was tanned and lined, but his eyes were kind.

"Relax a second, get your bearings." He suggested, settling back comfortably, giving her time to adjust. "You've been out cold for a few weeks now…"

She tried working up enough saliva to swallow, to ease the dryness in her throat.

When it seemed like she wasn't about to plummet off the bed, the man nodded and smiled. "I'm Doc Michaels, but you can call me Shawn." He introduced himself, holding out his hand to her.

She just stared at it, her brows furrowing together. That action drew her attention to the fact that her forehead felt odd, the skin over her right eye felt tight. Frowning, she reached up to feel it. It felt smooth compared to the rest of her, and it was… odd shaped. A scar.

Shawn had withdrawn his hand and just stared at her, watching as she tried assessing her situation and felt pity stirring in him. "Why don't we check the damage?" He suggested gently, getting her attention again. "Can you tell me your name?"

Her mouth opened as if to say it then she hesitated.

He arched an eyebrow.

"I- I don't remember." The woman admitted, her voice as low and husky as his but definitely more feminine. "I…" Her face screwed up, thinking. "Courier, call me Courier."

"That's not your name." Shawn said slowly, knowing she was probably suffering amnesia. All things considered, he wasn't surprised. But the fact that she had chosen Courier for a name told him that it wasn't totally a bad situation. "It's your job."

"My job?" She echoed, the confusion in her deep blue eyes only growing.

He nodded, standing up and turned to a table behind him. "Yes, your job. I will explain everythin' I know to you but first there are some things we need to go over."

All Courier could do was nod.

"Now I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin' around your head a bit." He turned back to her with a stained mirror in his hand, smiling apologetically. "I had to get all the bits of lead out."

Her fingers brushed that odd, patchy, spider webbed scar again. That explained it.

"I'm pretty good with a needle," there was a hint of pride in his tone. "And I sewed you up as best I could, but... you're goin' to have to look and tell me if that's your face." He held the mirror up.

Courier peered into it almost hesitantly, expecting to see a deformed face covered by a network of scars. Instead she found that the majority of damage was limited to the right side of her forehead.

"I used the last of my synthetic skin to make it look better."

She nodded, tracing a finger down the slim nose that apparently belonged to her. The mouth was nice, it looked like it could be friendly, or stingy. Her lips were thin, it could go either way.

Like him, she had tanned skin, she assumed that meant she spent a lot of time outside, though her complexion wasn't as weathered as his, hers still enjoyed the elasticity and smoothness of youth. The eyes were as blue as deep waters, she had seen a lake before, it had been so blue she almost thought it was black, or maybe a very dark purple.

Or maybe that had been a dream.

She couldn't remember.

When Courier just shrugged and nodded, Shawn knew she probably didn't remember or hadn't seen her own face very often in her life. That wouldn't have been such an odd possibility, there were lots of folks who had never seen what they looked like.

"Well Courier," He set the mirror down in his now vacant chair and moved closer to her, gently taking her hands in his. "No sense in you layin' down anymore, let's see if we can get you on your feet."

As soon as he pulled her up into a standing position, the dizziness was back along with things sliding in and out of focus. Panicking, she clutched his hands tightly.

"It'll pass." He soothed, guiding her slowly across the floor. "Just baby steps, honey, that's all."

"What happened to me?" She asked, closing her eyes against the spinning.

"You were shot." Shawn said flatly. "In the head."

That explained a lot.

"Alright, I'm going to let go now. I want you to try crossin' the room and touchin' the wall."

Her eyes flew open as she looked to where he was pointing. She knew in reality it wasn't really that far of a walk, just a few feet… but… it seemed to stretch on and on. Taking a deep breath, she let go of him and toddled forward on wobbly legs.

Shawn watched her, following along slowly just in case she toppled. With a few days of slow but steady exercises, she'd be back delivering letters and packages in no time.

Though it was his professional opinion that she might want to retire, before someone shot her again and this time didn't leave the job unfinished.