October 20, 2281
Goodsprings Medical Office, home of Agustin Mitchell, Md.
0700 hrs
A thunderous, reverberating beating sounded, filling his hearing and drowning all senses besides. The sound was rhythmic and held a constant pattern: two beats, pause, two beats again. Other than the drumming, all sound was mute; all feeling an empty void. The sound was his own heart, but other than its motions of life, he felt nothing; no pain nor emotion, or sense of the world.
Light stung his eyes as he tried to open them, succeeding barely to open his lids a millimeter before closing them once more against the light. But it was enough to begin reestablishing his other senses. Sound returned slowly, smell following close behind. What first caught his attention was the creak of an old fan motor as it worked against two hundred years worth of wear. The second was a strong smell in the air, a pungent roasted smell both new and old. The new smell hung in the air, bringing his senses further to awareness; the older was seeped into the environment surrounding him.
Attempting again to open his eyes, all vision was blurred. A circular motion on the ceiling revealed the location of the fan; morning light filtered through windows covered in desert dust caked over time. Someone took his left arm and held two fingers at the wrist. The feel of another person touching him caused a reactionary jerk, a failed attempt at taking the hand back. "Whoa there, son; you're in good hands" at the sound of a voice, he turned, trying to see who it belonged to. Vision still blurred, the only detail to be made out was flesh and white hair.
But the voice was calm, with a smooth drawl, and he believed it. Attempting to relax, the rapid beating of his heart against the rib cage slowed progressively to a semi-normal rhythm. Once calmed, the blurred vision receded. Details of the room become apparent: two breathing tanks and a mask stood at the foot of the bed, various medical tools lay on a nearby table. Beside the bed, an elderly man sat at vigil over him, book in hand and a mug of something steaming on a bedside table.
The man had white hair, from the temples around the back of his head, an equally white mustache, and his faced had wrinkles and liver-spots; a thin figure, but fit and healthy. He stared at the old man, and the old man stared back. "Glad to see your finally awake, son; been in and out for over two weeks now", setting the book down, the old man pulled his chair closer to the bed. "I'm Doc Mitchell, by the way". Pulling a pencil from a shirt pocket, Mitchell positioned it an inch directly above his nose, "follow the pencil with your eyes".
Mitchell checked his eyes followed properly as he moved the pencil back and forth, followed by testing his periphery vision. Next came touching his thumbs to each finger, back and forth three times, each faster than the last. "Can you curl your toes for me?" he did, then rolled his ankle to show off a little. The doctor nodded, scribbling notes in an old journal. "Good 'nough; stay right there, I'll get ya something you might keep on your stomach", the doctor turned to leave, but he felt a rush of irritation at being bedridden. He sat up and swung his legs over the bed; far too fast.
Vision swam in a cloud of disorientation, clouded over; he felt as though his intestines were squirming within. He would have retched, but nothing came out except a dry heaving. "Hey now, you shouldn't try getting up," Mitchell chastised as he returned to the bed. Laying his hand on the young man, he gripped the forearm and looked into the doctors' face. Concern was etched into the old face; he laughed derisively, "young people, always trying to speed things along" Sitting back down, the doctor looked him square in the eye.
"Son" he said as though speaking to someone he cared for deeply "you've been through a hell of a lot recently, and you need to take it slow to let your body recover. Put yourself at ease knowing you're alive and in a safe place" that eased the tension within his gut. He sat on the bed as Mitchell went off to another room of the building they were in. He returned holding some fruits and bottles of water. Upon seeing the food, his stomach growled, alerting to his hunger. Mitchell gave a small laugh "guess almost dyin' gives ya' the hunger pains, huh"
Laying the fruit and water down, Mitchell raised a finger to his face "small, slow bites, and chew as well" with that he left the room again, mug in hand. Taking an apple, he bit into the flesh. It was sweet, crunchy, and juicy with a slight sour flavor. It was heaven. Following the doctors' advice, he took small bites, and chewed slowly. Even so, the apple was gone within a minute with a water chaser. Next was a cactus pear and water, finishing up with toasted pinyon nuts.
Mitchell had returned as he ate, settling back down in his chair with a full mug of something black and steaming. He returned to reading his book; the spine held a name, but it was indecipherable. Did he know how to read? judging by the squiggles on the book he guessed the answer was no he could not read, or he at least had forgotten how.
He asked Mitchell what the words said; the doctor turned to see the spine "To Kill a Mockingbird" he said "it's a classic story from well before the war; made it into a movie too, but not as good". The doctor returned to the book and black drink, waiting in silence for his patient to finish.
The two remained silent for the duration of his breakfast; once finished, Mitchell finished off his drink and set his book down. "How's your stomach?" the doctor asked; considering a moment, he shrugged unsure what to say "feels alright, not queasy". Nodding, Mitchell leaned forward "do you remember anything from before you woke up?" Attempting to recall, all that came to mind was the image of a man, face blurred but his suit was distinct "a man in a checkered suit" then he recalled what the man had shown him before his botched execution "a…poker ch…" the last word was a struggle. "Poker chip" Mitchell supplied. Nodding, he looked to the doctor, confused.
Mitchell shook his head "can't say why anyone would shoot a young Courier carrying a simple poker chip. What else do you remember?" Trying to recall the memories, he felt nothing but a sluggish murk where memories once occupied. 'Not even pitch was as dark as his memories were' he thought, then 'why pitch, of all things, for comparison' "All I can remember was the checkered suit, not even the man's face, and the chip" But the chip was strange. Looking at Mitchell again, "how big is a poker chip?" he asked. Holding up thumb and forefinger, the doctor made a circle three-quarter of an inch wide.
Shaking his head "the chip I saw was bigger" using his own fingers to demonstrate "and shiny as well, with red and black paint". Nodding with a twitch of his lip, Mitchell sat back in his chair "well if you can remember minute details such as that, there's hope for your memories already". The words left him feeling slightly better; perhaps not everything he once was is lost. "Do you remember your name, son?" He opened his mouth, but uttered nothing. All hope sank as he realized that his name was vacant. Whereas the details of the man and chip were clear, his name was gone.
Seeing his distress Mitchell simply nodded "I feared this would happen, but maybe this will help" pulling a sheaf of paper from a breast pocket, the doctor unfolded it and held it up. It was a form of some type, but the block text made little sense. Catching his mistake, Mitchell turned the paper around for him to read. "Mojave Express Courier Service; Date August 10th, 2281. Delivery of Package to New Vegas" skipping a few lines, the doctor came to the box he'd been looking for "Name of Package Carrier: Alex Hugh, age twenty-seven".
Folding it and handing the paper off Mitchell said "nice to meet you Alex Hugh" Staring at the paper, at the indecipherable text, he thought 'sounds familiar, but it doesn't…fit properly'. Sounds of movement drew his attention back from the thoughts; the doctor held a machine to his face, a small screen showing a reflection of, what he assumed, was his face. Dark-chocolate brown hair, eyes a shade of lighter brown, prominent cheek and jaw bones. A pale scar, from right of the frontal lobe area of the skull to the temple, cut a wide path across the tan skin of his face. "Had to go rooting through your grey matter to remove all the bone fragments to rebuild that part of skull, but I got most of it"
Besides the scar, his skull looked normal. Nodding, he handed the reflector machine back to Mitchell. Stowing the device in a desk drawer, the doctor turned his gaze on him again, saying nothing, fingering an end of the bushy white mustache. "I've never had a case such as yours before, so I'll defer to what you think you're capable of. Do you want to try standing; not walking just standing and we'll go from there?" So much had already happened, and it was a sheer luck to be alive, but pushing his body beyond its limits would impede recovery. 'Still,' he thought 'to stand on my feet, know that I'm close to finding answers to this situation, is worth the strain; isn't it?'.
'Alex Hugh' the name was familiar but it did not register, 'if that is my name, I must know why it sounds hallow, and if it is not then I must find someone who knows my name'. If his luck so far held, he may just find someone who did know his name. "I want to stand" Alex said; as it was the only name he had, it might as well be what he answers to. Mitchell nodded; approaching, the doctor pulled a wheelchair and set it next to the bed; "an aid, if ya' need it".
Kneeling to his right, Mitchell stuck out his forearm to offer assistance. Alex took it, but sat still as the doctor leveled a heavy gaze upon him. "If you feel dizzy, I'll set you back down at first sign of distress" nodding, the two braced for the effort.
Mitchell rose on his knees, leaning away to lever Alex onto his own legs; working the muscles of calves and thighs, he followed the doctor. 'So far, so good' no rush of vertigo or queasiness; "damn, son, you're a tall guy" Mitchell breathed, face going red from the exertion. Finally, both stood upright.
Mitchell was breathless, face red; "are you okay?" Alex said. He guessed his weight was more than what the man had expected. Waving off the concern, the doctor straightened with a huff, "ah, don't mind me, just an old man who thinks he's still twenty-five". A minute passed before he straightened up.
"How do ya' feel? Queasy? Vertigo?" Besides the gunshot wound and memory loss, he felt healthy. "I feel alright, all considered" Mitchell nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Sit back down and rest some more, and don't think about tryin' to walk an inch, or else" the doctor looked so serious, Alex did not wish to know exactly what '…or else' meant. Nodding once, he sat back down on the bed. Mitchell left the once more, and came back dragging a pack; literally dragging it on the floor.
"This was found not far from where you were dumped; from its contents I'm guessin' its yer's", with a grunt, Mitchell heaved the bag and set it against the bed frame. "Will you be okay if'n I leave ya alone for a bit, coffee isn't the only thing I have for breakfast, just to get me started for the day" Nodding again, Alex took one of the pack shoulder straps in hand and hauled it up beside him.
Agustin Mitchell left his house and patient for the Prospector's Saloon. It was a warm day, dry as is often the case in October, but cooler than the summer certainly. The dry air assaulted his nose and eyes, already sucking out moisture. Moving easily despite his bum-leg the doctor entered the shelter of the saloon.
It was shadowed inside - Trudy usually kept most of the lights off throughout the day. Sunny Smiles sat at one of the tables just inside, reading a True Police Stories magazine. She enjoyed those immensely, and bought any from traders. Her dog, Cheyenne lay at her feet. A good girl that one, loyal and protective; Sunny had found the dog when it was a pup, being chased by geckos. She'd killed the geckos, and the pup had never been away from her once ever since.
Mitchell remembered that day, because Sunny had come into his office bitten and chewed on by the critters. She'd just got a small hunting rifle to shoot with, a piece known around as a Varmint Rifle 'cause of its small size. She was happy about killing the geckos but had yelped and squirmed when the stitches went in. Cheyenne consoled her the whole time, until the last thread of gut was in and tied off.
Sunny looked up from her magazine, saw him, and stood. She strolled over and gave him a hug, "mornin' doc, how's the patient?" A peck on the forehead and a return hug, Mitchell said "woke up this mornin' almost an hour ago now; already able to stand on his own". When the Courier had been found, it was him and Sunny who'd dug him up, the other one…couldn't actually dig.
Sunny broke the contact and gave him a look. "No, you cannot see him yet, he's still recovering", to that she quirked her lip to show her disappointment. "Breakfast is ready for ya' in the oven to keep warm" Reminded of the fried gecko egg, cut of gecko meat cooked well done, cottage fries and cactus pear juice, his mouth watered up. Tipping an imaginary hat, Mitchell said "thank ya', darlin'". She just rolled her eyes at him and returned to her chair and magazine.
Rounding the corner to the bar top, Mitchell saw Easy Pete in the middle of his own breakfast. The barkeep and owner of the saloon turned and smiled; lovely women, Trudy, reminded him of his wife at times with that smile, and her cooking. "Mornin' doc; how's that boy you dug up doin'?" she asked. "Woke up this mornin', in fact; able to stand already but can't remember his name".
Sidling onto a stool, Trudy took his meal out. The smell assaulted his nose before it was in front of him; a mix of egg, potato, meat and spices all melded together by skilled cook. Setting the plate down, Mitchell would have dug in immediately had it not been the woman's penchant for her patrons to have manners while eating. She set next a napkin with a fork, and poured a generous glass of pear juice.
Mitchell ate slowly, savoring the flavors, rinsing with sips of juice. Easy Pete finished off his plate, dropped a few caps on the counter, then exited the saloon to sit outside on one of the porch chairs; that was the man's want these days, eating, drinking and sitting out watching the small world of Goodsprings go by.
Finishing off the last bit of egg and meat followed by the last bit of juice, Mitchell paid his tab and left. Easy Pete was on the porch, but not alone; a younger man sat in another chair. Younger, around late thirties, maybe into his forties; the man wore a duster and cowboy hat, carrying a guitar on which he presently strummed out a tune. Pete had a harmonica out and was playing along with the tune. It was a good sound, no lyrics, but an easy and slow song, which seemed to suit the slow pace of the wasteland before them.
Nodding, with a short "gentlemen" as a greeting and farewell both, Mitchell stepped off the porch back to his house. Almost to his fence, the other compatriot who'd rescued the Courier approached. "A fine good mornin' to you, doc. How's that boy we found doin'?" it asked. The robot, Victor it identified as, unsettled the doctor. He recognized the model from descriptions given by travelers to and from Vegas. A Securitron it was called, he thought.
"He woke this morning, and was still awake when I left for breakfast about twenty minutes ago" Mitchell said. In all of its time here, the machine never took an interest in anything before the kid…except mowing down geckos, cazadores, even a Deathclaw once. The skull of the beast was now mounted in the saloon. For keeping those critters out, most folks respected the machine; but, having been born in a vault, the doctor didn't accept the benefits of technology at face value. Tech always had a hidden edge, a demon in the wiring.
"YEEHAW! DOC; that's some mighty fine news, I tell ya wat'" replied Victor; that damn picture of a cowboy and that accent also put Mitchell on edge; it was too comical for a machine. Wanting to leave, the doctor gestured at his combination home and office "I gotta get back to my patient now" taking long unhurried strides so as not to provoke the machine, he entered the house.
Alex removed the contents of the pack and set them down in various places arrayed in ordered rows on the bed. He sat in a chair, and was currently cleaning a nine-millimeter pistol. Though no memories inhabited his mind, the actions were familiar. Disassembling the weapon had happened as a blur, each part arrayed perfectly, moving from one to the next with oil and rag found in a side pocket.
'Twenty-gauge, breach-loading, two round shotgun, colloquially known as Caravan Shotgun; old, fine condition well maintained. Ten-millimeter, twelve round magazine, pistol; old, beaten, properly oiled, no signs of wear on machine; frame is scoured and beaten. Forty-millimeter, breach-loading grenade launcher; stock is beaten and scratched, otherwise perfectly functional.' These observations raced through his mind as he picked up, inspected, and cleaned each weapon. There was purpose to the analysis. Taking stock, perhaps an inventory of everything?
Without memory of his actions, the actions alone eased the troubled state of his mind. During the inventory-taking of his pack, he'd found food, clothes, medicine, a couple of books, magazines on differing subjects. And armor. Those he set to one side of the bed, two suits, one of leather and the other metal-plated. Trying on neither, already knowing they would fit comfortably; the suits were a question of which no answer was forthcoming.
Ending the task, Alex sat back in the chair, staring at the assortment of weapons, supplies, clothes and armor. 'Armed well enough to assault a small force, supplies to last several weeks; does a Courier carry this type of equipment?' Without answers, questions continually arose into his mind. All he knew was the answer to those questions had to be found.
The front door opened; footsteps echoed down the hall. Doctor Mitchell came around the corner; either ignoring him being in a chair or otherwise occupied, the man made no comment to him being in a chair and not in the currently crowded bed; walking over, the doctor nodded in greeting before considering the supplies and munitions on the bed.
"Any of this make some sense to ya'?" Mitchell asked; "none" Alex said. Turning to the doctor, he gave the man a fixed stare. "I need to get better, by tomorrow at least"; a doctor's instinct would have been to flat out refuse, having no idea of the potential complications. But the look on his face halted any protestations.
With a sigh of resignation, Mitchell face took on a critical expression, as though making an assessment for major surgery. "You want to try walkin', now?" he asked. Alex nodded in confirmation. Another sigh and the doctor offered his right hand. Turning the chair, both men grasped around the others forearm.
Mitchell pulled and Alex pushed out of the chair. Standing, he took a step: no adverse reaction. Another step, nothing; soon he was walking around the room with confidence, and then other rooms adjacent to the medical office, ending with a full circuit in the living room. The two men sat opposite each other, him on the couch and the doctor on a chair.
They played at word and behavioral association, but produced little result. Then came the pictures; most triggered no reaction, a few caused his head to pound, as though memories locked away were smashing upon the bars of their cage, attempting escape. The last brought forth an image, but vanished without gleaning any detail.
"Well I was never one for all this psycho-babble medicine, so I don't know what to make of this" Mitchell said, chart in hand and chewing on a pencil. Shrugging, he set the chart down and gave Alex a serious look. "I understand you want to get out here and find the fella' who done this to ya', but as a doctor I can't let you out of here without further assurance that you're at least out of the worst of it".
Chafing under the old man's worry, he would have said something he'd later regret, but held his tongue and settled for diplomacy. "As you have said yourself, you know little of psychology and by extent the effects of trauma on the brain. Beyond my show of physical capability so far, I can't give you more assurance than what you already have. The best solution would be to find someone who has more knowledge and ability in this".
Mitchell nodded. Finally looking up at his patient, he twisted one end of the curled moustache, considering. Deciding the doctor stood and left the sitting room, leaving Alex behind. Going to the bedroom, and pushing a cabinet aside, he knelt at a floor safe. Entering the combination (the day he'd married), the door opened with a pneumatic hiss.
I never thought to see this again. Retrieving the sought item Mitchell shut the door, automatically resealing and locking itself. Back in the sitting room, Alex waited; he looked over as the doctor reentered, and took notice of the thing-some kind of machine-in his hand. Taking the seat again he held the machine out, in addition to a glove.
"Put this on, it'll give me a better idea of your condition" the machine obviously was to be worn on the wrist, stopping two inches below the elbow. Allowing Mitchell to affix the glove and device, nothing occurred when the doctor sat back. It sat on his arm, cuff open, the screen dark.
"Activate: Personal Information Processor, model 3000; code input: 1-7-7-6 / November-7 verification – In the darkest of days, in ignorance, guide my path into the light and truth" The machine came alive then. The cuff sealed and squeezed, almost painful; numbers and text scrolled across the screen, and a low hum grew into an electronic cry. A sharp pain beneath the device shot up his arm and traveled throughout his body. And there it suddenly ended: no more pain but an acute awareness which subsided back to a 'normal' perception of the world.
Alex could not take his eyes from the machine. Playing with the controls he found what looked to be basic functions: a map, notes page, compass. Other functions were more archaic, such as the one displaying every detail of his physical condition, even finding areas where bones had broken and re-healed years ago. Heartbeat, brain telemetry, lung capacity; one in particular was fascinating: the area between the frontal lobe and right temple was highlighted in red, and flashing. Indecipherable text scrawled across the screen, suggestions for treatment he guessed.
Alex might have been angry at Mitchell for the discomfort, but the device fascinated him. "It's called a PIP-Boy, P-I-P capitalized for reasons; lemme have a quick look there" he glanced at the screen, snorted a laugh and sat back in the chair again "a machine tellin' me what you already said. Don't know if that's supposed to encourage me to let ya' go or worry the machine agrees with its master and wants to leave" Mitchell had a smile on his face, but a slight infliction gave away his annoyance.
Alex looked first at Mitchell then the machine, Pip-Boy, he told himself. "Master?" that's all he could think of for a question. The doctor nodded, and held up a hand to forestall the protestations. "A Pip-Boy may only have one owner. I had it for years; kept me alive for many years out in the wastes. But I took it off after my wife passed; we lived in one of those vaults you see, and I took it off because it reminded me of our home before it was taken away, before…"
The doctor had stopped in his telling; Alex saw a far-off look in the old man's eyes. He was remembering his own youth. Mitchell shook off the recollection, and though hiding it well his eyes held back tears and his voice sounded as though speaking around a lump. "It's taken you now, so unless you take it off and give it to someone else, it's yours. And taking it off ain't easy: you need the right phrase, or computer know-how and I have neither". Nodding, he looked down at the device. It was a fascinating piece.
Alex sat on a bed in the spare room of the doctor's house-"recovery room" as Mitchell called it-waiting for the man to return from the saloon with lunch. By the clock on the Pip-Boy it was noon thirty minutes ago, and he was starving. After toying with the machine, it revealed a radio function. Flicking through the ones available, Radio New Vegas seemed to grant news and music, both appreciated to fill the curiosity of the world outside the office and the boredom. He particularly enjoyed the one called 'Big Iron'.
Mitchell had asked him to stay the day and night for recovery and observation; as an enticement they would go to the saloon for supper, after most of the town was finished, however, to avoid the curious from overbearing him.
For some reason his body felt tight, and not from hunger. Muscles long without use felt slack, others tight as steel coils. Sitting up, he stretched, but stood when that proved ineffective. Bending back, his vertebrae popped…four times, the last between the shoulder blades. Need more.
Deciding on physical exertion, Alex sat on the floor. Moving on muscle memory, he pushed his body to its limit through several routines. The effort drenched his body in sweat, the heat of muscles burning away the tension. For once, the pall of shadow where memories should be was distant in thought; this felt right, these things he knew without the need to remember.
The front door opened, but Alex did not hear it. He only realized someone was in the house when the door to the room opened and Mitchell stood in the doorway, gaping. At first, the doctors' bewilderment was strange. Until he realized that the world was upside down, no, that's me who's upside-down.
Tipping forward, Alex landed on the balls of his feet. His body was no longer stiff and taught but flexible. The doctor still looked at him funny, but now there was annoyance in the look as well. "Doctor's orders were to take it easy, so who's the doctor around here, hm?" he didn't know why, but the admonishment both chastised and shamed him. This man had treated him and taken care of him for over two weeks and he'd paid that back with disobedience.
Alex, head down, said "I'm sorry", which surprised Mitchell; he shook his head, muttering "youth". "I got some food from the saloon, sorry it took so long. Word of your recovery has spread throughout the town; you're the talk on everybody's lips right now". The doctor left the room and he followed into a small dining room where they sat down to a lunch of well-done gecko steaks, potatoes and Sunset Sarsaparilla. The drink was magnificent, sweet with a spicy tingle with a hint of mint as well.
"Good stuff, huh" Mitchell said after a swig from his bottle, "don't know where they come from now, but most people don't complain because it's not irradiated". Their meal done, Alex and the doctor attended to themselves. Alex sat in the room, continuing the maintenance of the weapons from the backpack. The 10mm was intriguing; it was modified. Toying with a switch, a blue beam shot from a small diode affixed to the weapon. Deactivating the laser, it is a laser, for targeting, he ejected the magazine.
By its design, he could tell it was a high-capacity magazine holding sixteen rounds. Disassembling the machine revealed a built-in silencer; a 10 was a relatively quiet pistol, but the added silencer would render it barely audible even within a closed environment, more akin to a cough than a gunshot. This pistol, among all of the weapons, was the only modified piece. Setting the pistol aside, he counted the ammunition for each.
The day moved slowly in the sitting room, a clock, an old mechanical piece in fine condition, rang out every hour. Alex was engrossed within his thoughts, either cataloguing his supplies or oiling his armors to prevent them drying out as the earth beneath the sun over the Mojave Wasteland. Even in this house, in good condition despite two-hundred years of negligence, was dry as a skeleton. A knock on the door drew him back into reality.
Mitchell stood at the door, a coat and hat on, "it's about seven; I'm headin' over to the saloon if'n ya wanna join me". The doctor took in his patient's state of dress, or relatively lack thereof as he still sat in the same shirt and drawers from this morning, the same he'd found the lad exercising in. "Might wanna consider something more comfortable, and warm; the Mojave gets cold at night". Leaving Alex to change, he stood by the front door to wait.
Alex came from the recovery room, old jeans with a plain leather belt, boots, button-down shirt tucked in, and a trail-worn duster missing the sleeves. Outside the house, twilight colored the sky in reds and orange. The distant mountains, jagged teeth of the earth reaching toward the sky, were framed in the pre-dusk light. The light, quiet of the wastes, and small town rendered the environment peaceful, belying the outside world of violence.
Down the road and up the stairs of the saloon, the doctor turned to Alex, "Sunny Smiles, something of a tom-boy and critter hunter around here, spends a lot of time in the Prospector, she might ask questions; also has a dog, Cheyenne, sweet girl but starts yappin' at anyone she doesn't know. Just let her smell your hand and she'll quiet down. Don't try anything else, though, she might bite". Nodding in ascent, the two men entered the bar.
As forewarned, a black and white Husky rose on its legs, haunches raised and head down, a snarl on its lips. The dog barked, but did not approach; a young woman stood from a chair, setting down a magazine. "Cheyenne, calm" the dog relaxed, but kept its eyes on him. The woman, closer to a girl really, approached; "so you're the guy Doc and I pulled out of the ground; nice to meet you without all that dirt".
Alex considered this girl, Sunny Smiles. She stood up to his chest, a slender build, red hair, brown eyes, and a dusky complexion. Faded jeans, leather boots and jacket clothed her, accentuating her figure. She's attractive he thought peripherally. Stepping back, he bowed, which surprised her "I thank you for saving my life; I am in your debt".
Sunny looked to Mitchell, perplexed, as Alex stood upright again. The doctor shrugged, indicating he couldn't give a reason to this show of gratitude. She looked back at this man, this Alex as she'd heard Doc say at noon. He was tall, damn tall, by a head and a quarter next to her. She stuck out her hand, "Sunny Smiles, nice to meet cha'".
He considered her hand for a moment, and then took it. A fine grip, confidant, calluses on the palms and fingers, scar on the forearm-a bite mark, stitched together with precision. "Alex Hugh, or so I've been told", they let each other go, Sunny talking a step back. "So you really don't remember? Not a thing". He nodded, affirming the question and statement. Sunny quirked an eyebrow "well if you're up for it, and Doc let's ya, I can help get your trigger-finger back".
"I hadn't realized I'd lost it" Alex said with a smirk. Sunny looked taken aback at the remark, but said to Mitchell "I thought we saved a Courier, not a comedian" she shook her head, a small smile on her face. "Trudy's got dinner for the both of ya". Both men nodded thanks; moving around the wall to the bar of the saloon, he found a woman in her mid-forties reading from a book. Her black hair, tinged with silver and spreading, and the sweater over the conservative dress she wore evoked a matronly appearance. Her worn face held a loving nature and a strong resolution both.
The woman, Trudy he guessed, looked up from her book as the two approached. She smiled and stood, setting her book down; "evenin' doc, so this' the boy you been tending to?" she said, appraising Alex. Straightening his spine, squaring shoulders and feet apart in an easy stance, he stood beneath her scrutiny. She approached, hand out, and he took it in his; her fingers were dainty, wrinkled from years of keeping her bar clean and her patrons supplied with food and drink. Mother's hands, he thought; do I have a mother? Alive or dead? A father or siblings?...do I have family worried for my safety? No answers he could find, and that saddened him…until he smelled the meal.
Meat and potatoes, roasted maize, grilled mushrooms, diced, their juices drowning the generous cuts of Brahmin steak. His stomach churned, mind blank as the smells registered, and his mouth watered. Miss Trudy released his hand; Alex made for the nearest stool, but was stopped by Mitchell, hat in hand. "Hang your coat; Trudy enforces manners in her place, she may come off nice but break a rule she'll gave a fierce tongue-lashing" Nodding, he divested himself of the coat and hung it with the doctors' on a rack at the end of the bar.
The two men sat, the old one sitting forward, relaxed, the young with a straight back and strong posture. Not many carry themselves with such a proud aire, Trudy thought as she brought their meals out of the oven. Setting down the plates beside napkin, fork and knife, she turned as the radio began to emit static before dying out, "damn it" she said, fiddling with the nob. With a sigh she gave up "Jeff'll be in bed by now, have to wait til' mornin' to get it looked at". Still looking at the beaten piece of crap radio on counter, "do you mind if I take a look at it?" she turned, seeing Alex standing, plate of food untouched.
Mitchell was looking at the young man with interest, wondering what the lad had up his proverbial sleeve. Alex just stood, awaiting an answer; Trudy shrugged, "if'n ya think ya got the skill, go ahead; if ya can't fix it don't break it more than it already is". Nodding, the young man came around the bar counter and bent forward to inspect the old radio. Not really sure of what to do, but feeling that he did, he took it in both hands, intending to look at the back. An electronic burr eschewed from the PIP-Boy accompanied by a light which encompassed the old machine he held.
Dropping the radio, Alex backed away, his backside hitting the bar counter. Whatever was had ceased. "What the hell?" Mitchell said gaining his feet, looking between the lad and radio. Looking down, he noted a series of sentences across the screen. Turning to show the doctor, holding it out to inspect, the older man read "PIP-Boy 3000, new function active: RobCo Dynamic Scanner – allows user to analyze any mechanical or electronic object and suggest repair methods" a second line read "Warning! Scanner interrupted, replace gloved hand upon object to begin scan again".
Looking up at Trudy and Alex, Mitchell gave a shrug "these old things had all kinds a' bells and whistles. Some were more useful than others" letting go of the young man's hand, he sat back to the waiting dinner. Looking back at the radio, he shrugged, replacing the gloved hand. The blue-white light reappeared, a spinning white line circled the exterior, and bells and whistles rang out acknowledging the machine had done its job.
The screen displayed a three-dimensional graphic of the radio, to the right text scrawled across the screen, unreadable. But the display showed the radio, and virtually disassembled it revealing the workings inside. Two parts were highlighted in red; turning to Trudy "do you have a screwdriver?" he asked. She retrieved one, and with he removed the casing. The problem was apparent, with or without the scan. A couple of fuses and vacuum tubes, connected directly into the receiving antennae, were burnt out. Removing the parts Alex looked again at Trudy "are there any spare parts or a place to get some?"
She nodded, "I have some old junk in the back, and if there ain't any of what ya need, Chet the general store owner will have some; miserly bastard is a mag-pie and prob'ly won't sell cheap, but I'll cover any expenses". She gestured then at the plate of food left untouched, "but you don't worry 'bout that; eat now, fix later" Alex nodded before rounding the bar once more and setting down to eat. Before digging into his meal, however, he activated the radio function of the PIP-Boy. Trudy jumped a little in surprise eschewing behind her; instinctively she looked at the radio, registered it was broken, then turned to her customers, where upon she saw the fluctuating telemeter of the gadget on the boy's wrist.
"I thought a temporary replacement would be welcome" Alex said to the surprised woman, then set down to the meal. It was pleasant, sitting with Mitchell, eating steak and listening to easy music. Halfway through a potato, the music stopped and a voice came over the speaker, jovial and jocular, "Good Evening, this is Mr. New Vegas. It's gonna be a blustery night folks as we move further into the fall; according to the ol' weather machines here we got a projected fifty degrees with winds gusting at twenty-five. Onto the news: Legion forces hunkered down at The Fort have been unusually quiet as of late; activity in and out of Cottonwood Cove has nearly ceased. Speculations by NCR officers say the Legion is waiting for an opportunity to move against the Mojave, but do not specify any location".
Music followed the news broadcast, and the air of the saloon held a tense quality. Trudy let out a breath she'd been holding "I don't wanna think what'll happen when those Legion boys start causing trouble", fidgeting, nervous, she grabbed a pack of cigarettes from below the counter. Before she could pull one free, Mitchell stood and put his old hand atop of hers. "Trudy, don't; it's not worth fillin' your lungs with this crap".
Still holding the pack, Trudy looked at Mitchell, and he with his hand still on hers, looked back. "You're old enough to know better and young enough that you got many years ahead of ya, but not with this". Eventually the pack was under the counter again and the doctor back in his chair, but still staring at the woman before him, who smiled "you know full well I'm near on thirty now". "And still as lovely as the day I came into town, eh how long ago now?".
She laughed, dispelling her tension from the news, at the same time as Sunny came around the corner, rolling her eyes, "get a room you two". Trudy gave the young woman a hard look "Alejandra Amanda Anderson!, were you just eavesdropping?". Alex looked up from his plate of food at the young woman Alejandra Amanda Anderson, he thought. She was looking anywhere but at the barwoman, whose crossed arms and stiff posture rendered a forceful appearance to a person he had originally taken as matronly, but now looked more of a lioness.
Sunny-or Alejandra-threw her arms in the air in an exaggeration of exasperation "these walls don't stop sound, I can hear you both easily, damn", she stalked back to the other room. Returning to the plate, three-quarters empty now, he felt something nudge the back of his pants. Turning, Alex saw the dog, Cheyenne, eying him with curiosity and guarded caution, and his meat with ill-concealed greedy hunger. Shrugging, he took a piece of meat and held it above her head. "Sit" he commanded; she sat immediately. Raising an eyebrow, "roll over", she did once then stood on all fours'. "Speak" came next: Cheyenne barked once. Impressed, he dropped the meat and the dog caught it effortlessly.
Mitchell, Trudy and…Sunny, until he asked had stared the for the whole affair. "Very smart dog you have, Miss…" he didn't know how to address her know, knowing two names existed. She rolled her eyes, "Just call me Sunny, or Sunny Smiles if you prefer something proper; but no one calls me Alejandra Amanda Anderson; I don't let no one call me that,…"-she glared at Trudy, who raised her hand "Anyone, Alejandra"-"…unless I let them, which I don't, usually".
Walking over to her dog, Sunny did smile as the dog turned a toothy grin at her. "Yeah, Cheyenne's the sweetest girl ya ever did meet, smart as whip and bold, always chasing down rascally critters who came at our water", she knelt and took the dogs' head in her hands, rocking back and forth grinning wide. The dog reciprocated with rapid swishes of tail against the dusty floor, sweeping fine grit away in a fan-shape.
Finishing their meal, Alex and Mitchell stood, the doctor paying the tab for both of them. Before retrieving his coat, Trudy, took him into a back room, where among much junk and refuse, he found the necessary parts, just the right type. Connecting them into the radio was simple, the case easily replaced. Testing the radio, sweet music played over the speaker. Gratefully, Trudy paid him for the work, fifty bottle caps, plus an extra twenty-five to "help ya get back on yer feet". Surprised at the generosity, he gave her a bow and "Thank you, ma'am", before grabbing his coat.
Outside was very cool and the wind made it slightly cooler; dust swirled in lazy airborne waves on the old cracked road of the town. Mitchell withdrew a thin handkerchief and held it over his face, the diaphanous material easy to look through in places, worn it was with age. Alex followed close, arm over his eyes to try and keep the dust out.
Inside the house was mercifully draft-free. Hanging their coats and Mitchells' hat on a stand, they both proceeded to their rooms; it was getting dark outside, and the house had few lights, and little electricity to spare. In his room, Alex sorted his clothing and armor, stowed most back into the pack, and laid out others for the morning. The weapons he also stored in the pack; but the 10 millimeter…he felt disinclined to put it away.
The old machine felt natural in his hand, its old frame scoured from years; the grips, some kind of wood, also scratched but shining from constant use. Giving in, despite feeling safe in this place, Alex slid the pistol beneath his pillow. Disrobed, he crawled into bed, lying on his side, left hand touching the pistol grip. The position was comfortable and the presence of the pistol an assurance he did not understand the need to satisfy, but soon sleep claim all thought.
In the night, as Alex lay asleep, the PIP-Boy came alive, its screen streaming numbers at great speed, too fast for the eye to catch, but the screen soon went blank. Two seconds before it lit again, this time with text:
ANALYZING…
SATELLITE CONNECTION ESTABLISHED…
OPERATING SYSTEMS SCAN…COMPLETE
HOST PHYSICAL SCAN…
…
…
…
COMPLETE – HOST 99.95 PERCENT CAPACITY…
ACCEPTABLE…
ACTIVATING PROGRAM: UNITED STATES SPECIAL FORCES ASSISTED TACTICAL SYSTEM…
OPENING PACKAGES…
SNIPER PACKAGE…ACTIVE
ELECTRONIC WARFARE PACKAGE…ACTIVE
AUTHORIZATION – NOVEMBER 7…ACKNOWLEDGED
UPDATING SOFTWARE…
…
…
COMPLETE, UPDATE 10-20-2281 – 2100 HRS…
SLEEP MODE…
The light of the PIP-Boy faded, leaving its new owner unaware.
Author's Note:
Good Evening Constant and Faithful Readers,
Finally done, a long time since the first chapter, but just today I wrote a mid-term paper due the next morning, that and general laziness all-around concerning college life. But now this is done. This was enjoyable to write, especially the completely non-Fallout canon bits, all dialogue is my own, nothing from the game, period. It's hard to tell what was the most difficult to write in this chapter with how much detail I put in, but 'totally worth it'.
For those of you who did not catch them, there are some Bioware, specifically Mass Effect references in this chapter, specifically the November 7 bits. That is NATO Phonetic there, standing for "N7", the Alliance Special Forces, highest rank. I am a diehard ME fan, so odes to the greatness that is Mass Effect.
Same policy of reading and reviewing as last chapter: well thought out critiques, notes of encouragement are welcome. Naysayers and haters may leave.
Goodbye for now,
Tutor Veritatis
