Chapter One: Welcome to Goodsprings

I couldn't recall much of what happened – a black and white checkered suit…a package of some sort. That's about it. I struggled to roll over on my side; a sharp pain burst through my skull, making me wince. My eyes were still closed. I thought that the longer I kept them shut, the sleepier it would make me. My entire body thumped with tired achiness. A desperate need to sleep for a couple days washed over me. At least I was lying on a mattress…haven't done that in a while.

The smell of dust and cleaner filled my nose. There was a soft whirring noise somewhere near me. Where was I? There was a faint metal scraping sound, and I couldn't tell if it was near me, or miles away. I couldtell there was another person near me, and my instincts yelled at me to jump up, open my eyes, and get away from here. The blood rushing in my head and the pounding in my ears told me to stay. I could at least crack my eyes open a bit…

There was an older gentleman sitting on a chair only a few feet from the side of the bed. He had an air of knowledge about him, and the wrinkles around his eyes told me he laughed a lot. Good. Enjoying life isn't something you see much of out here. He was bald and had a gnarly white mustache. I fully opened my eyes and we stared at each other for what seemed like hours, his soft blue eyes into my bright green eyes. Finally, I tried sitting up.

He reached an arm out to steady me, "Whoa, hold on there. You've been out cold for a good five days, now."

Fuzziness washed over my eyes, and nausea racked my stomach. I vomited stomach acid right on his hardwood floors.

"Eh…well, maybe you should lie back down?" He suggested. Judging by my stiff neck and aching back, that was the last thing I wanted to do. My head thumped, and with it, my vision got blurry then clear, blurry, then clear.

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a towel and a mirror. The bile made my throat burn and mouth sticky. I held my head in my hands – mostly from embarrassment, but partially because the room was doing insane tricks, like spinning around in circles. I wanted to tell him I was sorry, but I couldn't get my vocal cords to work. After a few tries of just moans, I finally croaked out an "'orry."

He looked up at me and had a genuine smile on his face, "Dear, you'd be surprised how many people get sick on my floor. Trust me, you're not the first."

I guess that sentiment made me feel better, but I was still pretty embarrassed. I tried to pull my elbows of my legs, and they stuck with sweat. Oh. My. God. I'm only wearing panties? Engage embarrassment mode…again.

"Uhm…mister -"

"Doc Mitchell," He quickly corrected.

"Can I…get dressed?"

He laughed heartily; he could tell I was embarrassed. I'm not sure why I was, to be honest. Back home, both the men and woman went topless. Maybe it's because he wasn't family? He broke me out of my thoughts by telling me my leather vest was covered in blood. I raised an eyebrow in question, and my skull sent a shock wave of pain through the rest of my body, almost as if in response. He sat back down in his chair, rooting through an old footlocker.

Okay, so my leather gear had some blood on it? It looked like he tried to clean it off, because it was smeared in circles. Still perfectly wearable. Just bloody.

"You look a little smaller than my wife…I've got an old vault jumpsuit of hers if you want it," He offered, kindly.

"Why am I here?" I asked, still sounding like a frog was stuck in my throat.

"Well that metal feller, Victor, brought you here. You was half dead, shot right in the head. Lucky you survived."

"What…?"

"Well, Victor, he's the town robot. Some say he belonged to Mr. House at some point. Anyways, he's a nice enough guy. Said a feller in a real nice suit and a couple o' thug looking guys was arguing up in the cemetery. When you finally woke up, the guy in the suit said a few words to you, then shotcha right in the head."

I tried to pull up the memories in the fuzziness. It made my head thump in protest, but I got some to come in clear. A checkered coat…the man in it looked real clean and proper. Probably a New Vegas type. I struggled to bring the other two men into view, but I was focusing on checkered suit's hand. He was absentmindedly turning something over in it. It was round and shiny, that's all I could see from my position on the ground. He held it up and it was a…platinum poker chip. I was delivering a platinum poker chip to Freeside. I heard him say a few words, but all that stuck in my head was "rigged from the start." He pulled the trigger, and a flash of light went off before everything got dark.

"Doc…What did I have on me when I was brought in?"

"It's all in this footlocker here. But first, maybe you should have a look yourself. I take pride in my needlework, so lemme know how it looks." He put a mirror in my hand and pushed the footlocker towards me.

I looked at myself and gasped in surprise. Was I really the same Courier delivering a poker chip five days ago? Both of my eyes had clearing bruises and my cheek bones were even more sunken in than usual. The thing that really caught me off guard was my hair. Thick, dark red, down to my waist, and poker straight – and half of it was shaved! I could understand why – there was a row of stitches from my temple, leading to the middle of my head. In the middle of the right side of my head, there was a large square-ish shape of stitches as well. Every time I blinked, I could feel the skin pulling on the stitches. It didn't hurt, it just felt strange. I let out a moan, half of my beautiful hair! It was probably the best thing about me.

Doc Mitchell seemed startled, "What's wrong?"

"My hair! Half of it's gone!"

He let out a hearty chuckle, "Had to do that to get the bullet out. Apparently, your assailant was a crack-shot. It scraped your temple before embedding itself right in between your brain box and your brain. Most of the bullet was sticking out, but I had to cutcha open to get the rest of the scrap metal out. It was incredible – missed your brain by less than a hair! You're very lucky…but I still knew you'd be cross with me," His smile touched his eyes as he poked fun.

"You're right," I said half-jokingly. I couldn't be too mad – a half a head of hair was a very small price to pay for my life. Back home, women of power were to let their hair grow. Only one of us was allowed to shave it, and that was Tyler. She was a very special case – but her story will come later, at a more convenient time.

"That mark on your arm…mean something?" He asked.

"Oh..uh, yeah," I reached up to touch it, "I…I come from a small tribe in Utah. We're given tattoos when we're old enough to distinguish which village we're from." I almost hated admitting I was from a tribe if I didn't know what the other person thought of tribespeople. For some reason, it seemed like the people of Nevada didn't take well to tribals.

"You sound embarrassed. Nothing wrong with being from a tribe. I heard tribespeople are the mightiest warriors around. And you must be to survive a bullet in your head."

I puffed out my chest proudly, but my cheeks reddened when I realized I was still shirtless.

"I should let you get dressed," He said, helping me up. Another wave of dizziness washed over me, and I was surprised I didn't get sick again. "Meet me in the kitchen. You ain't had nothin' to eat since you were brought in to me."

I dug around in the footlocker and pulled out my old duffle bag. Inside was my 9mm pistol, that I usually only used when my Caravan Shotgun (named Romulus) was out of ammo. I had a cleaver, a bag of maybe 50 bottlecaps, a couple of empty plastic baggies, a box of matches, bobby pins that I used to pull my hair back with, and ammo for both of my guns. I pulled on the long sleeve white undershirt, strapped the vest on over top of it, put on the matching leather pants, and strapped my boots on, taking my time. Every unplanned jerk or movement made my head swim in protest. I headed out to the kitchen, making the wall support me.

"Everything in order?" He asked.

"I guess…I can't remember much, though."

He slid an old, yellowing, wrinkled note across the table at me. I raised an eyebrow, and he simply nodded towards the note. The smell of cooking meat was wafting through the air, and it made my mouth water. I wouldn't say it out loud, but I definitely hoped it was for me. He got up to retrieve it off the stove, which amazed me that it still even worked. It was most likely jury-rigged and it smelled weird, but hey. It cooked food, right?

I took a look at the note that said, "Courier Six" on the front. I unfolded it to reveal a lengthy message on the inside; "INSTRUCTIONS: deliver this package 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 pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

Bonus upon 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 the 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 to 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 any reclamation efforts."

I thought on it for a minute. I was still delivering the package, and I was making awesome timing if I do say so myself…so he wasn't a reclamation guy. Too clean for the job anyways. The last line made me snort - "not responsible for loss of life."

Doc Mitchell startled me from my thoughts as he plunked a cup of coffee and a plate of brownish meat with corn and carrots down in front of me. I was scarfing my food down so fast, I barely got a "thank you" out between mouthfuls. He let out a bit of a laugh, and said after I ate he wanted to do some sort of test to "make sure my dogs are still barking." It was silly stuff like "what's the first thing you think of when I say…" and inkblot tests. He said I seemed fine…maybe I had a bit of an anger problem, aside from all the thumping in my head. He said that was normal and I could stick around until I felt okay.

"I honestly feel fine. I really appreciate what you've done. I only have 50 caps, but I'll bring you more later."

"It's perfectly fine. I couldn't just let you die out there. This time, it's on the house. You know…I never did get your name."

I looked at him for a minute. My name was the only thing I owned and I hated giving it out. But…he did just save my life. I owe him that much, I suppose. I was so used to being called "Courier" for the last five years, or "Courier Six" as of late, that it just kinda stuck. I didn't mind it. But my mother named me after her mother. It was strange that I struggled to bring even her into view. A tall, skinny woman with long brown hair and hands worked to the bone. Since I've become a courier, I haven't really even been home. Now, I have a score to settle, and I hoped that even after all of this, I'd be home to see her.

"My name is Harley. My great-grandparents grew up in a vault that had a lot of Pre-War motorcycles in it, still in damn near perfect condition. They really liked the ones called Harleys. So they named their daughter, my grandma after them. And I'm named after her."

He looked at me kindly, his smile touching his eyes again, "I think it's a nice name. If you're gonna go back out there, you should have one of these," He handed me a strange glove with a computer screen on it. It had three buttons, labeled "STATS", "ITEMS", and "DATA." There was a knob that clicked with whole way around and a dial that clicked up and down. "I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. Issued one of those to everyone. Ain't got much use for it now, but I don't know how you got along without one before."

I pulled my sleeve up and slipped the glove on. It locked into place and I felt a bit of pressure on my arm – like it had poked me with a needle, and the screen lit up a bright blue color. A little smiling man appeared on the screen, indicating that I was healthy. Apparently it couldn't sense the thumping in my head or the rolling of my stomach. I clicked through, and it actually kept track of my weapons and items? Holy shit.

I was almost speechless, a rare thing for me, "Thanks, Doc," I whispered.

"If you need help getting back on your feet, Sunny Smiles is your girl. She's probably down at the Prospector Saloon."

"Thanks again for all your help, Doc. See you around," I plopped the bag of caps on his table before briskly walking out. I didn't want him catching up and telling me to take them back.

"Not too soon now, you hear?" He called as I opened the door.

I nodded to myself, Definitely. I don't plan on getting shot in the head again anytime soon. The sunlight made me double over from the pain in my head, my eyes felt like they were close to bursting in my skull. Holy shit, I forgot how bright it was out here. The wind made little dust tornadoes swirl around my feet, getting my boots dusty. Doc Mitchell said something about a robot? That's the only lead I got, other than asking this Johnson Nash guy mentioned in my delivery invoice. What's so important about a Platinum Chip that someone was willing to kill me for it?

I'm gonna make sure I'm the last courier he ever fucks with.