Bright light flared, and I heft my arm up to shield my eyes. It's going to be a while until I get used to the extra couple of pounds the pip-boy strapped to my wrist. The sun burns across the baked dirt and cracked asphalt around the town. So this is Goodsprings. I lower my arm after the dazzle in my eyes fades.

The town was old, run down. Worn shingles on rooftops, with planks of wood crudely hammered over holes. A few of the homes were destroyed, nothing but rubble and the rotted wooden ribs of the structure clawing at the Nevada desert sky. A few of the not quite livable homes had their doors boarded over. Even the ones lived in were coated in faded, chipping paint, dingy and beaten up mailboxes, dried and dead tufts of grass.

A wrecked, gutted and rusted truck sat tireless along the road. I take the few steps off doc Mitchell's porch. That's when I see the robot rolling by.

The thing was faded blue, with accordion-reinforced arms. It rolled on a single wheel, very likely gyroscopically balanced. It would have been impossible to stay upright otherwise. Its body was a single shape, bulky shoulders and no 'head' but a screen in its face, giving it the silhouette of a hulking soldier or old world sportsman. The thing had a face flickering on its screen as it passed by, some kind of cartoon cowboy.

I let it pass, watching as it rolled off to my left. I glance at my pip-boy. North. That way is north. I walk off after it, hoping to get some more information from the robot. It continued on, oblivious of me, so I have to jog to catch up. Bad idea, I'm winded far too quickly, and I end up having to lean against a bighorner pen. One of the smelly beasts snorts the air near me but quickly turns away.

"Hey, you're that guy doc Mitchell was patching up, aren't you?" I hear from nearby. It's one of the settlers. From the checkered shirt, overalls and rubber boots, I wouldn't be making too far of a guess to say he was about to work in the pen.

I push off his fence, taking a few steps. "Yeah. Just stretching my legs." I reply halfheartedly. "You know, getting a feel for living again."

The man gives a short laugh before clambering over the wooden fence. "Yeah. I didn't think you were going to make it, honest. That doc's a good man."

"Yeah, couldn't have done it better myself." I joke. "You know where that robot goes?" I ask, pointing up the hill where I had seen it roll off to.

The farmer looked up the hill. "Oh Victor? Over there's the Goodsprings cemetery." He explains. "That's where he dug you up. That robot, he rolls around the town once and a while."

"What for?" I ask, squinting in the sunlight. In the distance I can hear the not too far off rat-tat-tat of automatic fire popping.

"That." He says. "Sometimes some of those irradiated critters wander on up there. He helps out, puts 'em down. Trudy says he's suspicious but I've never seen him do anything out of sorts."

Oh. Well isn't that nice of him. Sounds like a security protocol, but why out here?

"Thanks. I'll go have a chat with him." I say, walking off. I think they guy waves. I'm not sure, I wasn't looking his way.

"Sure thing."

The hike up the hill wasn't as tortuous as I thought it would be, but the Nevada sun is hard. I unscrew the cap of one of my bottles of water and take a sip. My throat is still parched, but I somehow restrain myself from drinking it all at once. Drink gradually, or you'll make yourself sick, and the last thing you need is to get sick on the road where no one can help you.

I know this. But I can't remember how. I can figure I've done a lot of traveling on foot in my life. My legs aren't even burning from the short hike up the hill. I realize the remaining water in the bottle is reflecting sunlight into my eyes, and I blink away the spots. How long had I zoned out? I finish off the bottle and put the empty back in my bag. Who knows when I may need it again?

I find Victor in the middle of the cemetery. Several dead flys of extraordinarily large size lay all around. Bloatflies. Victor turns to me as I approach, the sound of gravel crunching under my boots alerting him to my presence.

As his screen comes into view, I catch a glimpse of a face that makes me take a step back. The cartoon cowboy face, for a split second, looked pissed. It's smiling now, but I could swear I saw it. Maybe it was just a distortion or lens glare from the sun. Yeah, and people always die when you shoot them in the head.

"Well howdy pard'ner!" The robot says cheerfully, his voice sounding almost real, not synthesized like I've heard the Protectron or Mr. Gutsy models sound like. "Might I say you're lookin' fit as a fiddle!"

I give the robot a smile. "Thanks Victor. You know, for digging me out and everything."

"Oh don't mention it!" he responds, his voice inflections sounding very much like a real person. I notice there is an H&H Tools Co. plate underneath its communications screen. Maybe I could learn more about them there. "I'm always willing to help a stranger in need."

"Well, I'm glad you did." I say, walking around the cemetery. I find several graves here, but only one it empty. Standing over it, I can see a spray of darkened earth nearby.

"Is this where it happened?" I ask. I know the answer, but I have to hear it from someone else.

"Yep, I was takin' a stroll up to the old bone orchard that night and saw some unsavory types. I laid low until they left, I was able to dig you out and carry you down for the doc to have a look at you."

I gingerly touch the still healing scar over my head. "Yeah. Good thing you did. I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't rescued me." I look around the area. Shell casings lay around the area. I stoop down and snatch one up. 9mm.

"Hey, Victor," I begin. "What kind of robot are you. I don't remember seeing any of your kind before."

He waves a three clawed hand. "I'm a Securitron," he responds matter of fact. "RobCo model 88b. If you see any of my brothers tell them Victor says howdy."

I smile. "I'll do that, Victor."

It rotates around on its wheel, taking in the surroundings. "You planning on rolling out there soon?" he asks.

I shrug. "Must have been unconscious for a few weeks. I should get moving. Got to find the guy who shot me."

"Ah, that guy looked all hat and no cattle, if you know what I mean." Victor jokes. "But you were only out of it for eight days, countin' today."

"Eight days?" I ask. "That's pretty remarkable for head trauma.

"I don't know much about that." The robot responds. "You should ask doc Mitchell if you want to know more."

I imitate tipping my hat to him, since I don't have one to tip. "Thanks again Victor."

"Think nothing of it." He responds.

As I turn to leave I see a glint of light coming from a corner of the cemetery. When I get close I can see it's a snow globe, tucked up against the side of a wooden cross.

It has the Vault-Boy in it, the funny little Vault-Tec mascot inside, and I can see part of Goodsprings in it. Who the hell would make a snow globe of the desert?

"Hey, this is a snow gobe." I say aloud, holding it up. "You see this here before?"

Victor seems to look at the snow globe an awfully long time before he responds. "No, I reckon I haven't seen one of those here before." He says. "You might want to hang onto it. I hear there's people around these parts that would pay big for a collectable like that."

"You don't say." I comment, sliding it into my pack. It didn't look particularly fragile, but I am going to have to find something to wrap it with just in case.

"Well, I'm going to talk with Sunny." I finish, walking away from the cemetery.

"Say howdy for me." Victor says.

As I walk down the hill, I think hard about what has happened. I feel strung out a little, but as I move about I'm feeling better. The water definitely helped. I think I figured out how the doc got me on my feet so quickly. A steady regimen of med-x during the surgeries and super stim pacs after would account for so quick a recovery. Still, I might be sitting on a whole rattler's nest of crazy brain damage just waiting to happen. But for now I seem to be intact. I can feel, move, I'm as coordinated as I think I've ever been. Any depreciation of my abilities is immeasurable, without someone else who could compare me to before.

And here I am, with a new lease on life, years of scientific and medical knowledge under my belt, and no idea how I got to that point. I can do things by rote, but even just actively trying to remember things starts prodding along a headache and makes me lose what tentative grasp of skill I had.

The only two buildings of note in Goodsprings, other than Dr. Mitchell's house and the ruined gas station, were the saloon and the general store. Coming out in front of them from the back, I walked the open space between the buildings. Work tables were carelessly shoved to the side, as well as crates sitting abroad without so much as a person's name on them.

Sunset Sarsaparilla. Well, don't mind if I do. I pry open the lid of one of the crates. It doesn't take much work, it had been opened several times before. Inside I find a couple of bottles. I pluck two of them out, put one in my pack, and open the other right there. The sound of the bottle cap releasing, and the pop-fizz of the drink seems strangely comforting.

Ah, sweet, warm carbonated goodness. Its flavor sluices down my throat, and though it isn't cold it's still the best thing I tasted in quite some time. Well, best thing I ever remember tasting. I chuck the whole bottle, and toss the empty into the crate with some of the other empty bottles. I pocket the bottlecap. Caps are local currency here. I've got to collect some cash since that bastard with his checkered coat took all of mine. Well, one cap down, nine hundred or so to go. It would have been easier out west. NCR cash is handy; it takes up less space and can have bigger value. Oh well.

I look at the general store and the saloon. I consider going into the general store, but immediately my stomach interrupts by growling quite fiercely. It seems I haven't eaten in a while. Saloon it is.

As I walk past a couple of old world motorcycles, I realize they look mostly intact. Maybe they can work. That would make traveling the Mohave a little easier, and safer. I put a note in my pip boy, and decide to look into it later. I look up from my arm, and see an old man sitting on a rocking chair in the saloon's long porch. His weathered and sun-beaten face takes me in as the breeze can barely shift the thick white beard on his face.

"Uh…" I begin… unsure what to say. "Hi."

"Howdy." The man says, but otherwise seems intent to stay in his chair… quietly.

I can't waste time talking it up with everyone. There's food to be had. I push through the doors into the saloon.

I immediately hear a burst of barking and see a large black dog advancing towards me. I almost stumble out of the saloon on my ass.

"Cheyenne! Stay!" A woman's voice calls, and the dog's growls cut off immediately. I finally wrench my eyes off the dog and see who kept it at bay. A woman. A rather good looking woman at that. Red hair bound up in a ponytail, clean face, and leather armor. Hardened leather pads on the shoulders and elbows. A rifle in her hands, bolt action. No idea beyond that. She's petit, but her body is fairly muscular. I'd guess she was Hispanic of some sort.

"Don't worry." She assures me, smiling the kind of smile you give someone you aren't sure is a friend. "She won't bite, unless I tell her to."

"I'll keep that in mind." I say, holding up my hands.

She takes note of my newly adorned pip-boy. "You must be that man doc Mitchell saved." She observes, slinging her rifle on her back. "I'm Sunny, Sunny Smiles."

Ah, this was the girl who was could help me get started again. "I'm Buck." I say, smiling. Doctor Mitchell says you could help me get started again."

"Sure I can." She says, looking me over. "We should probably start with the basics." She says.

I shrug. "Might as well, who knows what got blown out my head."

She gives a half-hearted chuckle. Okay. Well at least now I know I'm not terribly funny. My stomach growls again, and Cheyenne responds in kind before Sunny silences her with a faint touch.

I look down at my stomach and up at her. "Maybe I should… have something to eat first."

"Yeah." She says. She points to my left. Over there. Talk to Trudy, she should be able to get you something." She gave me a small smile. "I'll be over here by the jukebox. Come get me when you're ready."

I go around the partitioning wall. A classic saloon bar greets me, and this early in the afternoon only a single man sits at the bar. A woman in a pale flowery dress stands behind the bar. She perks up as she sees me walk up and pull myself onto a stool near the bend in the bar. She comes over to stand near me. It's almost funny, when I think of a bartender, I think of them perpetually cleaning glasses, which is what she does as she talks with me.

Trudy was an older lady in her forties. Her deep brown hair was swept back from her head, cut short but clean. Her clothes while ratted and worn, were well kept and clean.

"Look at you, all cleaned up." She commented. "You look like a younger doc Mitchell, 'cept with more hair."

I smile. She had already put me at ease. "I guess that's a compliment?" I ask good naturedly.

"Sure was." She says. "He was a looker in his time." She says with a wink. "And you're all dressed up like one of his vault buddies." She gestured with the washcloth. "You even have one of those pip-boys." She gives me another reassuring smile. "So, what can I do for you…" she trails off.

"Buck." I supply.

"What can I do for you, Buck?" she finishes.

"Eventually, answers." I start. "But for now, I just… I just need something to eat!" I exclaim, holding my stomach.

Her eyes widen in mock surprise. "Well, I have just the thing to fix that kind of hunger." She says conspiratorially. "You got anything to trade?" she asks, leaning in.

I open my pack, rummage around in it, and dump its results upon the wood. A meager twelve caps sit across the bar top. She looks it over, humming to herself. She reaches down, plucks up ten of them, and scoots the remaining two back to me.

"There," she says. "That'll get you a decent enough meal." She says.

The meal turned out to be more than I thought. A steak and a flat bottle of whiskey in a bottle with a long ago scraped off label. I dig in, and I feel like I'm in heaven. The food, while a little funny tasting, isn't bad at all. I grab the whiskey, but stop with the mouth of the bottle touching my lips. Perhaps now isn't the best time to drink. I've been bedridden for days. I screw the cap back on and bag it, instead pulling out the other bottle of Sarsaparilla. I pop the cap off with a twist I must have practiced dozens of times before. I set the cap on the bar, and take a swig of the drink. Still warm, but still fantastic to a tongue that has gone dry for so long. I set the bottle down and grab up my fork and knife again.

"So what's this made of?" I ask. "Brahmin? Bighorn?"

Trudy, who was fiddling with a radio that wasn't making so much more than static, looked up at me. "Oh no. That's gecko." She smiles. "The Brahmin costs a bit more than that."

"Gecko?" I ask. "… That's some big geckos."

"Oh yeah, they're pretty big, but they can get bigger." Trudy explains. "Sunny hunts them when they get too close to home. They're actually pretty good for a few things. Their hides make good leather."

I set the empty plate and flatware in front of me and finish off the bottle of sarsaparilla. I pick up the cap to add it to the other two I have left. Oh yeah, I have one in my pocket. I can feel it biting into my thigh. I pull it out but pause. It looks different than the other three. It looks the same, but the cap has a blue star over the Sunset Sarsaparilla Company logo. It shimmers, and seems to be light reflective.

"Huh." I mutter, tucking it back into my pocket. Might as well keep it separate; maybe it is worth more or something. I glance up and catch the other man looking at me. He pulls his red baseball cap further down and turns back to his scotch.

I stand, belching. Two bottles of bubbly syrupy goodness and a hearty steak seems to be enough to quell the hunger in my stomach for now. I should keep an eye out for more of those soda bottles. Not only are they delicious, they're money once I'm done.

Sunny is exactly where she said she would be. I pause for a moment as she seems to be deep involved in her song.

She sat in a chair, the sun's hazy light shedding through the dirty salon windows, particles of dust drifted lazily through the sunbeams. Her head rested on one hand, propped up on her elbow, while the other was idly scratching Cheyenne's head, who seemed pleased with the arrangement.

Big Iron… Big Iron… The jukebox played, its speakers dim, but not nearly dead yet.

I waited for a moment, watching her. She seems a picture of peace and happiness. Just a girl and her dog and a favorite song in a friendly saloon at home. It seems remarkably calming, yet for some reason it makes my chest ache. I involuntarily touch my chest. But it's not a physical pain.

Did I have someplace to call home? Some…one? Now I've found another thing to both find out and find vengeance for. Both find what I had lost, and pay back that son of a bitch for taking those memories from me.

She notices me standing nearby, and smiles as she stands, the song fading into some kind of announcement.

"Hey, you ready to get started?" she asks. I nod. "Good. Meet me out back."

I follow her out through the back door. I had walked by it before, but didn't know it was unlocked. We go out back and she has me stand thirty feet back. She rummages through some crates and sets six empty soda bottles on the rail the fence along the back of the saloon.

Standing next to me, she looks at me. "Well, let's see if you can shoot." She looks me over. "You have a rifle?"

"Like yours?" I reply. "No."

She unlimbers her rifle and hands it to me. "Here, take this one. I'll get my spare. Cheyenne, stay."

While she's gone, I look at the rifle and the bullets she gave me. It's a bolt action 5.56 mm ammo. So it's not for vermin; more for larger threats like varmints. Makes sense, if those geckos are as big as Trudy said. I pull back the bolt, and eject the clip. The small box holds only five rounds. She had also handed me a dump pouch with another clip and twenty spare bullets. Ten rounds before I have to sit down and refill the clips.

Sunny is back quickly, and she sees me struggle to get the bolt back into place.

"Sorry, that one's actually my spare." She apologizes. "Still works though."

"Yeah, but you got grit in the bolt, and there's a lot of soot built up in the barrel." I respond.

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, you know enough about what's wrong with the gun; let's see if you can actually shoot it. Take a few shots at the bottles."

I heft the rifle and immediately I know this isn't going to turn out well. The first shot I make nearly hits the bottle to the right of where I aimed, hitting the wooden plank.

"Tsk." Sunny clicks her tongue. "Try aiming down the sights."

I do so, but a thought goes through my mind. "Should we be shooting at the saloon like this?" I ask. "I mean the bar's right on the other side of this wall."

Sunny grins at me. "Yeah. It's fine. After the first time someone used this place for target practice Trudy had a steel plate hung between the planks."

I do notice the wood wall behind the rail for two feet above and below the rail was extra thick. I take a breath and sight down the rifle. This time the bullet hits the bottle, sending glass fragments spinning through the air.

"Great!" she says. "Try crouching or dropping to a knee. You can make a more stable shot this way."

"I think I get it." I say. I think I know how bad my aim is, if I need to drop to a knee to hit what I'm shooting at, I probably would be better served by running. Preferably away.

Sunny shrugs. "Alright." I turn to her and hold out the rifle.

"Well," she begins, not moving to take the gun. "I know you need some work, and I was going to go out today and clear out some geckos over by the water source. If you want to come with, I can split some of the caps with you." She pushes the rifle back into my hands. "You can even keep the spare."

Well now. Some caps, a gun, and bullets to help with something she could do on her own? Sounds good to me. "I'm in." I say smiling.