A/N: I've been obsessed with Fallout: New Vegas lately. This fic is going to be a complete dramatized playthrough of the game, with actual character dialogue (except for the courier's, which will be written by myself) and my own written in. I'm hoping this will be a lot of fun for me and you, the readers. Enjoi.

She remembered. A dead fiend surrounded by lights. Mr. New Vegas, charming her without even being seen. A checkered coat. A gun. Hate, so much hate, and confusion. Someone, some smarmy voice, some dark hair, someone, someone….

"The truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

BLAM.

Who had said that?

"The truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

And then pain, and then dirt in her face, heavy breathing (was it her? Or someone else?), and then quietness.

She was dead. She knew that. But, then, how was she also alive?

Things felt wrong. Like she was meant to be gone by now. But she wasn't ready…she had a job to do…but what was that?

She went over what she knew. She was a courier for the Mojave Express. She grew up in the wasteland. She was twenty-six years old. Her brother had been a ranger. She was lucky, or she'd be dead by now. She had a job to do. But what was that job?

And then, as if watching from far away, she saw her body lifted out of the shallow grave she'd been put in for reasons unknown. And then, only when she knew, somehow, that she'd be all right, she let the world slip away.

Finally, she opened her eyes. God, her head hurt so bad. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't quite get her mouth to work. Her eyes focused, slowly…a fan? Spinning. Like her head.

"You're awake," said a voice, a man, older and kind sounding, if a little surprised. "How about that." The courier reached an arm out to push herself off of the bed she'd been laying on, but found herself weak, nearly collapsing back onto it. "Whoa, easy there, easy," said the man (she could see him now, sort of: he wore dark clothes, but the rest of him was just shapes and movements) as he reached out to steady her. "You've been out cold a couple of days now." There, her eyes focused. The man sat in a worn wooden chair across from her bed. His skin was weather-beaten, but his eyes were bright and kind. He was bald, with a thick gray mustache across his upper lip.

"Why don't you just relax a second. Get your bearings," he said, with the air of someone who'd done this many times before. "Let's see what the damage is. How about your name?" He paused for a moment. The courier caught sight of the way he looked at her, a question behind his eyes. "Can you tell me your name?"

Her name…what was her name?

"Charlie…that was my brother," she said, touching her head on the right side of her forehead, where a puckered scar marred her once lovely face, like a volcano on the surface of a tropical paradise. "My name…was…." What did he call her? "Artie! Artie Marsh! Short for Artemisia."

The man let out a short laugh, closer to a sigh than an actual sign of mirth. "Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you, but if that's your name, that's your name. Honestly, I'm just happy you can talk."

"I like my name," Artie huffed.

The man chuckled again, humor still present behind his blue eyes. "I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."

"Goodsprings?" asked Artie. "Where's that? I've never heard of it."

"We're a little town west of Sloan," Doc Mitchell explained. "Small, but tight-knit, you know? Prettiest town in the wastes."

"Sloan…that's by the quarry, right?"

"That's the one."

"That's the last place I remember before…whatever happened."

"Well, young lady, I don't know who you got mad at you, but whoever it was, they sure did a number on your pretty little head," he said with a small smile. "Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything outta place." He reached under his chair, pulling out a mirror and handing it to her. "How'd I do?"

Artie stared at herself in the mirror, trying to remember the last time she'd looked in one. She seemed to look like she'd remembered: blue eyes, long, dirty blonde hair, muck under her nails. Thin, underfed. Pale. Perhaps beautiful, once, but now only tired and hungry. Yes, same as ever, save the bullet scar on her forehead.

"Your friend missed the important bits," Doc Mitchell said. "You came close a couple of times, but I had a little bit of electric here and I got ya back. So is everything okay?"

"I look the same as I remember," Artie said, giving the mirror back. "But I don't remember much."

A flicker of concern passed over Doc Mitchell's face. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember…hurting," Artie said, slowly lowering her legs, resting her bare feet on the floor. "The game was rigged from the start. I remember that."

"What's that mean?

"I don't know," said Artie, holding her head. "But it's what I remember from that night."

"What about before that?"

"I remember all that. My brother, my mom, my childhood, all that. And I remember walking towards Sloan…then a bag went over my head…and that's all I remember. The game was rigged from the start."

Doc Mitchell stood, slowly and painfully, and Artie realized how old he really was. "Well, I got most of your looks right, anyway. Stuff that mattered," he said, looking uncomfortably at her new scar. "Okay, no sense keeping you in bed anymore. Let's see if we can get you on your feet."

Artie took the hands he offered her and wobbled up; her eyesight faltered for a moment and she thought she might collapse again, but managed to right herself with Doc Mitchell's help. The room spun uncomfortably, but then snapped back into clarity. She looked around at all the doctor's equipment around her and couldn't help but wonder why someone as talented as Doc Mitchell had ended up in a nothing town like Goodsprings.

"Good," said Doc Mitchell, smiling. "Why don't we walk down to the end of the room, over by that Vigor-Tester machine, there." He took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. "Take it slow, now. It ain't a race." Artie walked with Doc Mitchell across the room at a snail's pace, only tripping and needing to be caught once. She was unaccustomed to feeling so clumsy and slow, but she wanted to get well and get out of Goodsprings more than anything. The doctor kept pace with her; never hurrying, but at the same time, letting her walk mostly on her own. With each step she felt stronger.

When they reached the old arcade game (Artie recalled seeing another one, once, a long time ago), Doc Mitchell said, "Why don't you give it a try? We'll learn right quick if you got back all your faculties."

Artie reached forward and gripped the handles of the game firmly. After a few moments of blinking lights and clicks, the machine spat out a score she was familiar with: high perception and charisma, low strength and agility, and average intelligence, luck, and endurance. She remembered the score from when she'd tried the machine before with Charlie; he'd gotten almost the exact opposite, so he'd joined the rangers.

"Yup, that's a pretty standard score, there," said Doc Mitchell, snapping her back into reality, "but after what you've been through I'd say that's great news." He began walking into an adjoining room (what looked like a living room, with a couch and hideous pink chairs), motioning her to follow him. "Well, we know your vitals are good, but that don't mean the bullet didn't leave you nuttier than a bighorner dropping." Artie chuckled at the crude joke. Doc Mitchell smiled as well, perhaps pleased that someone liked his jokes at all. He gestured to the pea-green couch. "What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple of questions. See if your dogs are still barkin'." Artie giggled again, and Doc Mitchell beamed, pleased he could still make a pretty girl laugh.

Doc Mitchell sat, heavily, in the chair across from Artie. "All right," he began, leaning over and taking a clipboard and pencil from the table next to the couch. "I'm gonna say a word. I want you to say the first word that comes to mind. Don't pause or nothin', just say the first thing that pops into your head. Ready?"

"Sounds simple enough," Artie breathed. And then, like shots firing, they were off.

"Dog."

"Cat."

"House."

"Home."

"Night."

"Dream."

"Bandit."

"Shoot."

"Light."

"Dark."

"Mother."

"Fiend."

"Okay."

"Um…" Artie said, faltering for the first time. What could she say to 'okay'?

"No, no," Doc Mitchell said, smiling and waving her words off. "That means I'm done with this part of our talk. Now, I've got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you'd say. Okay?"

"Got it," said Artie with another small smile.

"First one," Doc replied, holding up one finger. "Conflict just ain't in my nature."

"Well, I mean, I think I disagree," said Artie, hesitating slightly. "But not a lot. I mean, if I have to fight, I will."

"I ain't giving to relying on others for support," said Doc Mitchell, holding up a second finger.

"No, I like having others around. Makes things less lonely." Artie laughed, harshly. "Maybe if I'd had a friend around, I wouldn't be here in the first place."

Doc Mitchell held up a third finger. "I'm always fixing to be the center of attention."

"Well, sorta, yeah," said Artie, a blush creeping up to her cheeks.

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"No. I mean, except for energy weapons. Could never get the hang of them."

"Last one: I charge in to deal with my problems head on."

"It depends on the problem. Generally, though, I think it out. Sometimes I overthink."

Doc Mitchell chortled. "I know how that is. Okay, I got a few pictures to show you, then we'll see where we are. You ever hear of Rorschach?"

"No, who's he?" asked Artie as Doc Mitchell got up and got a few poster-sized pieces of plywood with shapes painted on them and set them up on the music stand behind him.

"Pre-war psychiatrist," said Doc Mitchell, settling himself back into his chair. "He did a thing called ink-blot tests. He had people look at pictures like these and it would tell him about their personality, or subconscious. I've got three I want you to look at." He gestured to the first one. "Tell me what you see here."

Artie squinted at the picture before deciding, "It looks kind of like a necklace with a broken chain at the top, see?"

Doc Mitchell took the first piece of plywood down and revealed a second. "How about this one?"

Instantly, Artie blushed and replied, "I'm too embarrassed to say what it looks like."

Doc Mitchell laughed at that, a real, full laugh, as he uncovered the final painting. "Last one."

"It kinda looks like two bears high-fiving," said Artie, tilting her head slightly and squinting.

Doc Mitchell tilted his head and squinted as well. "I could see that." He made a few more notes on his clipboard, then said, "Well, that's all she wrote." After a moment more of staring at his clipboard, confusion slowly trickling down his face, he sheepishly added, "I don't have nothing to compare it to, so maybe you'd rather just have a look at the results. See if it all seems right to you."

Doc Mitchell handed her the clipboard and she saw it looked strikingly similar to the typed out skills she had on her Pip-Boy (where was that thing? She'd finally realized it wasn't in its usual location on her wrist), just on paper instead of digital. He'd made tic marks in the boxes beside the words "Speech", "Medicine", and "Barter".

"You have a skill sheet!" Artie said, pleased.

"I had a Pip-Boy once, too," Doc Mitchell said, her good mood rubbing off on him. "So was I accurate enough?"

"Change Barter to Guns and you've got a deal," said Artie, handing the clipboard back. "I never was good in the shops; paid full price every time."

"Me too," said Doc Mitchell with a conspiratorial wink. "Before I turn you loose, I need one more thing from ya. I got a form I need you to fill out so I can get a sense of your medical history. Just a formality," he said soothingly when Artie warily eyed the form he proffered. "Ain't like I expect to find you got a family history of being shot in the head."

Artie took the form, finally, and filled it out, putting down her small frame and other general medical problems. She handed it back to the good doctor, and he reviewed it, checking everything off that needed to be checked, signing it, and clipping it back to his clipboard. "Well, I guess that about does it," he said with an air of reluctance. He stood and offered his hand. "Come with me, I'll see you out."

"Just like that?" asked Artie.

"Just like that," Doc Mitchell agreed, escorting her to the door. "I don't doubt you'll be able to find help in town to do whatever it is you need to get done. You can always come stay with me, too. You gonna go after the fella that tried to kill ya?"

Artie thought for a moment, then said, "I have a job to do. I think I have to go after him."

"You gonna kill him?"

Artie paused again. "I don't know. I'll figure that out later."

Doc Mitchell nodded curtly at her, then picked up a backpack he'd put on a bookshelf by the door and handed it to her. "Here. This is yours. Was all you had on you when you were brought in." Artie opened the pack and found six bobby pins, four stimpacks, a 9mm pistol, some ammo, two books, and (best of all) a delivery order. "I hope you don't mind, but I gave that delivery order a look," said Doc Mitchell as Artie read the note. Apparently, when she'd been shot, Artie was supposed to be delivering something to the north entrance of the Vegas Strip. "I thought it might help me find a next of kin. But it was just something about a platinum chip." A platinum chip. Why did that sound so damn familiar?

"If you're heading back out there, you'll also need this," he added, holding up a familiar metal armband.

"My Pip-Boy!" Artie squealed, snatching it and deftly pulling the glove on, fastening the metal part back onto her arm. "Thanks, Doc!"

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get it? You're too young to've grown up in a vault."

"It was my mother's," Artie said fondly. "She gave it to me when I got my job. So I would have a piece of home that was actually useful."

"Well, put this on, too," Doc replied, handing her a jumpsuit. It was a ladies cut, much too small for Doc Mitchell, and Artie decided not to ask about it. She slowly put it on, lacing up her boots and finally turning back to Doc Mitchell. "You look great," he said, smiling (a little sadly) at her.

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc," Artie said, giving Doc Mitchell a hug.

The doctor, a little surprised but not displeased, hugged her back. "Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for," he replied fondly. "You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too." He released her, finally, and added, "And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you out of your grave."

"Metal fella?"

"Yeah, that'd be Victor. Curious fella. Sorta odd." He hastily added, "And I don't mean 'cause he's a robot. He's real friendly, don't get me wrong. You just get the sense that ain't the whole picture. Just a feeling."

"I'll drop by and thank him anyways," Artie decided. "One more thing before I go, Doc. Do you know anything about the man that shot me?"

"Didn't see him or the men with him," Doc Mitchell said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You might ask around town, though. Could be someone saw which way they was headed." He thought for a moment, then amended, "Your best bet would be Trudy, the bartender at the saloon up ahead. If anyone saw anything, she'd know about it."

"Thanks, Doc," said Artie, giving his hand one last squeeze. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder, opened the door, and let the sunlight hit her for the first time in God knows how long.