First Hand – First Joker

2nd October 2281

"Don't recognise you. Which one are you?"

"Courier Six."

"Good thing you came in when you did," he said, striding along the counter and turning away to examine the shelves supporting a number of delivery orders, both fulfilled and pending.

Johnson Nash, owner of the Mojave Express, turned back a moment later with a scrap of paper characterised by his unmistakable chicken scratch. Numbers were scribbled all across it, with the names of possible couriers to carry packages. Looked like a mass delivery for a number of different items. Interesting.

The old man's face scrunched up again. He scratched his shaven head. The wrinkles on his face only compounded as he slid the paper over the counter into my waiting hand.

"Bit of a strange one, but you don't just go turning your nose up at a payment like that, now do ya?" he said finally, as my eyes scan over it, then back up at him.

Nash had come into possession of the company some time ago after the previous owner took a nasty spill one day out wandering. Some people had raised objections to Nash's takeover claiming he was the reason the previous owner was dead, but few had ever really substantiated the claims; it was just easy to blame the man who was benefiting from another's death.

His aged face showed he'd been surviving for a long time though; long enough to lose some hair and gain more than his share of wrinkles over his sun-blasted skin, well-tanned from his days out in the Mojave sun to the point that he looked almost perpetually sunburned, and his tired brown eyes saw the world with a kind of gentle weariness that one almost had to admire.

His features swapped again for the paper though, and my own eyes slid across the numbers on the page.

"This is a lot of caps for a…" I began, before letting my eyes roll down the page to see what exactly was being delivered once again. "…A poker chip? What, is it supposed to be a gambling trophy or something?"

Nash shook his head and gave a shrug before leaning down under the counter. The radio sitting atop it continued to detail the latest happenings in the Mojave, courtesy of the tinny but charming voice of Mr. New Vegas, some radio personality from the Strip who always seemed to know exactly what was going on.

Today he was talking about the Legion getting bold; Nelson was under their control, leaving the NCR camp north of it at the very brink of despair. Aptly enough he added the camp's name was 'Forlorn Hope'.

Nash returned over the counter with the item in question: a platinum chip, looking similar enough to a coin, if a bit thicker. If it weren't for the way it flashed in the light it'd be just another poker chip.

"So who ordered it? All it says here is deliver it to the Strip's north gate by way of Freeside, but how am I going to know the agent when I see 'im?" I asked, picking up the odd delivery item in one of my gloved hands and turning it over. There was a name emblazoned on the reverse side: 'The Lucky 38'.

"Don't know," Nash replied. "Whoever wanted it sent a robot to let us know and fill out the details, so obviously they're not the most popular character about."

"Next thing you know I'm shaking hands with Caesar and handing him a pretty coin," I laughed, sliding the chip into the inner pocket of my coat.

"When you get back you oughta see what you can do about that little bot there too," he added, gesturing along the table.

I looked over at the strange object. A spherical ball of metal lay on the table, with various antennae sprouting from around the speaker mesh at its front, reaching back like wiry tendrils. Attached to its bottom was something akin to a radar dish. I'd always been pretty handy with fixing things, so I figured I'd give it a go and try and fix the old thing.

Stuck to the back with something I couldn't see – magnetism, bolts, gum, whatever it was it stuck hard – was an old license plate, the likes of which you'd normally find on the numerous corpses of cars that to this day still littered the roads of the world. '2ED-E59' was written on it, though the numbers had been scuffed and worn, leaving the little machine to be designated 'ED-E'. According to another bumper sticker stuck fast to the robot's back, its child was an honour student some two hundred years ago as well.

"You got it," I agreed, and stepped towards the door, flicking the chip from my pocket and flicking it through the air to catch it again. Heads.

"You take care of that now, it's worth more than all your other jobs put together," Nash warned. "Hell, you weren't even the first choice of courier for it, truth be told. We had another guy requested."

"Oh yeah? Guess he decided it wasn't worth the money, something this weird," I replied, making sure I had everything I'd need before I left.

"Maybe he did. Saw your name and took off pretty quick, like he was in a hurry to do something important," Nash said.

My curiosity held over this man who had seemingly been scared off just by my name. As if I were a boogeyman. "Is there something you're not telling me about this package?"

The old man spread his arms in a shrug once again. "There's a lot about this job I don't get," he admitted. "But that's a fact. He saw your name, made sure it was real, then decided to let you carry it," he explained.

Suspicion boiled up. A weird job like that, all sorts of variables. Whoever the interested party was, he was clandestine. He'd heard stories of paranoid Vegas Families. Maybe it was a deal with the Omertas.

"Well, I better hope nothing goes wrong. I'd hate to disappoint any fans I might have earned over the years," I said, concealing the niggling feeling of unease with a little humour, which didn't entirely convince Nash.

"Make sure you come back in one piece then," he said. "Maybe you'll meet up next time you're competing for a delivery."

"Maybe," I stated, my mind slipping over the horizon to some place beyond.

I left the Nash residence resolving to do a number of things upon my return, so I decided to take the quicker, riskier way to Vegas: straight up the Interstate 15. It went past Goodsprings and Sloan, both nice enough places, before heading past Quarry Junction and then joining the mesh of streets that made up Outer Vegas. A highly dangerous section of road, but I'd be able to take a quick rest in Goodsprings and then get past Sloan before anything would try to kill me.

~ The Lucky 38: Take her for a spin! ~

19th October 2281

Vision was blurred, but amidst the confusion and pain the courier slowly opened his eyes. A ceiling fan, slowly rotating, came into view against the ceiling of some old house. The paint was cracked all over, flaking away to reveal the wood underneath, but it was certainly a roof over his head.

A kindly voice alerted him to a presence other than his own. The voice was old, worn at by the winds of time, but no less a soothing soul for the journey.

"You're awake. How about that."

Grunting with effort, the courier reached behind himself and pushed his body up into a sitting position. The blankets around his waist dropped to reveal he was wearing nothing but his boxers underneath the coverings, and he turned to see where the voice had come from. His head protested with a drumming within his skull. Or maybe something was drumming on its top instead. Either way, he had a headache.

"Whoa, easy there, easy!" the figure warned, slowly coming into focus as the courier looked at him. His arm stretched out and helped steady the courier as his body threatened to topple back against the mattress. "You been out cold a couple o' days now. Why don't you just relax a second, get your bearings?"

He could see his newfound friend clearly now. An old man, his hair long greyed and vanishing from the top of his head, leaving only a pale ring going from ear to ear in a 'u'. His moustache whittled down into points spearing towards his cheeks. Around his neck was a red bandanna with some design over it. He wore black overalls over a dark grey long-sleeved shirt, his lower body covered with the same kind of dark grey pants and his feet protected in simple brown shoes.

A humble picture, the courier mused, wondering whom this man was, before another blast of pain seared through his mind. He'd dreamed while he was asleep… dreamed of a few days ago, when he'd accepted a delivery order, and then… the evening at the cemetery came back to him.

"Let's see what the damage is," the man said finally, as the courier's mind slowly began ticking over. He could almost hear the figurative cogs and gears beginning to turn once more. "How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

He cast a hook back into his mind, searching for the vital piece of information that defined him. A name: everyone had a name, no? Nothing returned to him. He tried harder. He must have a name; he was, as far as he could see, a human. Parents tended to name their children at birth, or not long after. Parents? Oh no, another enigma. It dawned on him what had happened: that night at Goodsprings he'd been robbed of more than a platinum chip.

His dream fluttered back to him in stretches. He'd been given a title. Close enough for now. Somewhere down the road he'd pick up the truth.

"Six," he rasped, realising quickly he was dehydrated. "Let's go with Courier Six."

The old man paused a moment to register it. "Huh. Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you, but if that's your name, that's your name," he replied eventually, clearly confused by the young man's response. A little worried too, the way his brow creased. He softened again after a moment and seemed to accept that things may be a little jumbled around.

"I'm Doc Mitchell, welcome to Goodsprings," he offered, identifying both who he was and why Courier Six was here. So a doctor had somehow found him. Alive. After being shot in the head.

Before he could be puzzled further, the good doctor continued. "Now I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin' around there 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 out of place," he explained, reaching down to grab something leaned against the leg of his chair.

The should-have-been-dead courier took the opportunity to steal a glance around the room. A semi-transparent screen set at the end of his bed, which no doubt would have been used to screen him from any other visitors during his time 'asleep'. Behind Doctor Mitchell a gurney leaned against the wall, slightly rusty but still in good condition. Sitting atop it was an old typewriter and above that, hanging on the wall, was a clock, the hands of which were missing. Useful.

The floor, like the ceiling, was wood; planks arranged in neat rows to provide a surface for walking over, and sitting beside his bed the courier noted a stand, hanging from which was a bag of some kind of fluid. An IV drip, which he apparently no longer needed, judging by how his bandaged arm wasn't connected to it.

To the right of the gurney the wall shrunk back to accommodate more of the room, his vision blurred but two doorways were distinguishable, and sitting against a far wall was some odd kind of shape. Rectangular, stretching upwards, with the bottom half jutting forward like a stack of drawers.

Then his attention returned to the thing the doctor was pushing into his hands, and the courier took it, letting his eyes refocus. It was a slab of metal, a square with rounded edges and two handles formed out of bumps on either side. A panel at the top read 'RobCo', the name of an Old World company that produced many of the artificial intelligences and robots around America. Many of them remained functioning, though corrupt patches of data were not uncommon, and many had to be forcibly deactivated.

A large circular screen dominated three quarters of the object, starting from the top left corner and rolling out over halfway. To the right the word 'Reflectron' identified it as some kind of high tech mirror, and underneath a secondary screen, this one touch activated, contained prompts for editing the figures appearance.

The image captured in the screen showed Courier Six as Doctor Mitchell had put him back together, and though his memory was unclear, he could at least remember that this was close to how he had once looked.

His hair, a deep, dark black was swept back from his face, resting thick over his ears and growing down his neck a little ways. He'd never really let it get far down his neck; he preferred to keep it short and out of the way. His skin was paler than he was used to, but the tanned tinge of a Mexican heritage from one of his parents remained evident in his tone. His jaw was wide, covered in a layer of thick black stubble that to his amusement spoke of a sort of rugged wanderer vibe. It wasn't always that thick, but he wasn't the sort of man to obsess over grooming when he could have his entire face ripped off for not paying attention to the roads. The Mojave wasn't the sort of place that beauty or handsomeness would win your battles for you: a quick trigger finger, a working knowledge of which things to shoot in the groin, and at least two escape strategies would lend themselves to your continued survival far better.

He was pleased to see that his physique had remained, muscular and tall, sculpted out of a life of lonesome roads and situations where running fast and punching hard would ensure another hour's survival.

His eyes met themselves on the screen, a dark brown colour that watched with some trouble at the world. The source of their strain was evident above. Two scars rested on his forehead, both circular, where bullets had impacted his head, yet somehow not killed him. They overlapped, like an eclipse. Death must have been furious, Courier Six imagined.

"I don't recall those scars being there," he joked.

"Well I got most of it right," Mitchell responded, taking the reflectron as Six handed it back. "Stuff that mattered anyway. Thought you might like to keep your souvenirs there, a nice little reminder not to go provoking up the wrong people. Okay, no sense in keeping you in bed anymore. Let's see if we can get you on your feet."

The doctor stood up and offered an arm. The courier pushed the blankets back, let his legs slide over the edge of the mattress, reached out to grasp the Doctor's arm, and pulled himself up onto his legs. For a moment he wobbled, then his centre of gravity found itself once more, and he let go of the doctor's arm and stood still a moment.

"Good, why don't you walk down to the end of the room, over by that 'vigour tester' machine there? Take it slow now, it ain't a race," he instructed, stepping back to give the courier some room.

Giving himself a moment to keep steady, the courier began to stride forwards, slowly measuring each step. He moved faster as his confidence grew, and after a few moments testing himself he happily strode towards the thing that had looked like a set of drawers from far away. It came into view as a vigour tester, a funny little machine that supposedly took readings of the person's abilities and gave a read out from one to ten on a few aspects of their being. A way of testing if a man preferred brawn to brain, for example.

"Looking good so far!" Mitchell congratulated, directing him to the machine. "Go ahead and give that vigour tester a try. We'll learn right quick if you got back all your faculties."

The courier steadied himself on the tester as his vision blurred again. Already he knew what it would say about his perception, but that would return in time - he hoped. Grasping the handle on the machine he went through the motions described on the little screen, watching the lights flicker to supposedly tell him what kind of human being he was.

"Yep, that's a pretty standard score there. But after what you've been through, I'd say that's great news," the doctor commented as he observed the lights flicker and denote the courier's capabilities. He noted an above average score on the quick IQ gauge and a damaged perception score. He added, "Look at that, maybe them bullets done your brain some good."

Courier Six turned to him and cocked an eyebrow. Thankfully they were both still there. Just for a moment he adored the lines of hair that topped his eyes.

Doctor Mitchell changed the subject. "Well, we know your vitals are good, but that don't mean those bullets didn't leave you nuttier'n a Bighorner dropping. Whaddya say we take a seat on my couch, and we'll go through a couple o' questions? See if your dogs are still barkin'," he offered.

"Just a tick, doc," the courier replied, doing a few more experimental paces around the room.

"Of course. Take your time," the doctor replied. "I'll be just through here, come join me when you're ready."

Leaving him alone for the first time since the accident, the man who by all accounts should have been dead paced along the wooden floor. It was cool on his feet, soothing in a way. He let his mind wander to questions that had been put on hold while the doctor evaluated his condition. He'd been shot in the head. By who?

Flickers of the night were still in his head, but it was like the bullet had torn a great deal of his mind to pieces. The second one had scattered the shreds to the far recesses of his cranium. Still, he could remember bits. That night was one, and he'd dreamed of a day or two before the ambush as well. So he hadn't simply popped into existence then. That was nice to know. He did have parents, maybe even siblings. There was a life before he was shot in the face. It's the little things that comfort you, after all.

His attention slipped back to the material world as he noticed the bench that sat on the other side of the screen, and the few crates stacked against it. Invisible from the bed, sitting on top of the crates, was a gun, and immediately a spark ignited in Six's brain. He slipped over to it with pleasing coordination and picked it up. Immediately he knew it was broken. Just as fast, he could see what it was that needed fixing. A simple issue, the trigger had somehow been dislodged from the mechanism. It looked for the most part fine but the angle of the trigger was wrong. Instinctively the courier cast an eye around to look for something narrow, and spied a scalpel sitting on the gurney. Retrieving it he promptly jammed it into the narrow opening the trigger slotted into and twitched it a few times.

A click told him he had a gift for this sort of thing, and he grinned. Returned to working order, he allowed himself to take the weapon in. A submachine gun. Nine millimetres. A rustic looking weapon, black metal creating an 'F' with the barrel forming its base, and a little tunnel mounted over the weapon's maw allowed for more accurate aiming. Not that something that fired thirty rounds in ten seconds really needed accuracy.

He checked the clip, and noted it was empty. It wouldn't alarm the doctor if he walked into his office with it then.

"What the hell are you doing with that!" Mitchell demanded in shock, leaping from his seat, eyes widened.

Okay, so maybe he was incorrect.

"It's empty!" the courier quickly affirmed, disconnecting the empty clip and tossing it down on the table. "I just noticed it was broken, and I fixed it!"

More warily than he had at first, the doctor looked him over and slowly sat back down. "Well... that's... a relief," he managed, a little shaken by his patient suddenly producing a machine gun out of something that hadn't worked for about a year. "At least we know one of your skills other'n eating bullets. Here, uh, take a seat. We'll do a quick evaluation."

Apologetic, the courier moved over to the couch and sat down, again letting himself take in the new room. It looked like a living room, a fireplace jutting out from one wall, the couch he now sat on and a separate chair the doctor held being centrepieces, with a small square shaped table connecting them in an 'L' shape. Behind the courier's seat was a doorway, open, that led into a hallway, and opposite where he had come in was a bookshelf. While a painful number of books had since become ratty, torn and burned husks that could no longer share their knowledge with the modern world, a collection of Pre-War books still survived in the modern day and age.

He'd like to collect that knowledge, Courier Six thought to himself. To store the books safely and preserve the knowledge, and also to absorb it himself, to give him glimpses of a world he never knew. At the thought, a profound sorrow washed over the man, and he leaned back on the couch, letting out a heavy sigh. Was it just the thought of a world without the struggle just to survive to see tomorrow that had brought that on, or something else?

Doctor Mitchell continued to scrutinise him as his thoughts wrapped his mind up. He offered a small smile as Six turned back to him. A courier who spent too much time cooped up in his head. You'd think a couple of holes in the head would make it harder to stay in there. For most people it did anyway.

"Alright, I'm gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind," Mitchell explained. The courier nodded, and he continued. "Dog."

The courier's mind ticked over a moment as he concentrated. Dog. Images of a chain link fence appeared, and a shaggy black animal prowling on the other side. "Companion," he answered. Dogs don't stay cute little puppies forever.

"House."

Images of a creaking structure the years had not been kind to. A hole gaped in one wall, letting the cold air in. Something growled, its vocal chords raw and decayed over too many lifetimes. It was coming through the wall, something outside that wanted in. As long as it didn't reach the side that lay exposed, all would be okay. They were safe. "Shelter."

"Night."

Inky blackness in the sky, made more stunning by a beautiful crescent moon. The feelings that surged back then were incomprehensible: too many at once. A flicker of incredible contentment came first, happiness he wasn't sure was possible without drugs, like an ocean. Time froze it, solidified it. Made it immovable, unbreakable. Then the sense of panic rushed in, sending fissures through it. It escalated, a despair-filled panic that pounded in his ears and sent his head ringing with agony again. The ocean, the great ice shelf that once contained all the happiness of the world exploded, raining down like the stars themselves, and in its place was only sorrow, gradually turning bitter. Hatred frothed within, and fuelled by emotional torment it grew enormous. All because of a single night. "The moon," Six forced through gritted teeth, bringing one hand up to rub his forehead.

The doctor sensed his distress, and paused to let him regain his composure. Giving a nod and a sigh, the courier motioned for him to go on. "Enemy," he said.

A female figure sitting beside him, talking. He couldn't hear the words, yet somehow he knew exactly what she was saying. He smiled as he thought of those flashes of memory. Whoever she was, he'd hung on to every word. He still did now, even though she didn't make a sound. "Ideology."

"Light."

His response was automatic this time. No thought, just words: "Dark."

"Mother."

Again, a profound sorrow. Loss. Not the loss of life, but a loss all the same, followed by confusion and emptiness. An acceptance that sometimes things happened, that what will be will be. That people were never truly constant in this world.

"Regret."

The questions continued for a little while, moving from word association and ending at several ink tests. The doctor scribbled it all down in one of the books that still had good paper, presumably what he kept records in. Every now and again the courier's hand would rise to his forehead and rub it awkwardly, the eclipse scars on his head causing a throb of pain.

Finally, his examination complete, the doctor seemed satisfied. "Alright, that about does it," he said, standing up and gesturing to the doorway into the hall. "Come with me, I'll see you out. Oh, and feel free to take that old shooter. You fixed it up, you might as well keep it."

Looking down at it, the courier shrugged. "It's okay, doc. I don't have much love for automatic weapons. No skill involved. I think I was a real stickler for skill," he commented.

"Suit yourself," Mitchell replied as Six followed him out into the hallway, turning left and walking past a closed door and another small set of shelves containing a number of books. He saw the end of the hall, but the doctor slid through a second closed doorway. "Hang on a second," he said, remembering something.

Courier Six paused and looked at the shelf. There was a toy car sitting on it alongside the books, as well as a couple of pencils and a harmonica. Great things, harmonicas. An entire evening of song in the right hands, and barely bigger than an expensive cigar. Not that he'd seen many of those. Then again, maybe he had. His wound throbbed again. He could already tell life as an amnesiac was going to be fun. After all, it got off to such a good start, shot in the head and all. Come to think of it, how had he gotten from the cemetery to here?

The doctor returned holding a bundle, wrapped up in a thick coat, a dark grey duster. "Here, these are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in," Mitchell explained.

He unfolded the duster to find the small stack of items within. A scrap of paper titled 'Mojave Express Delivery Order (6 of 6)' sat wrinkled on top of a handgun, a black, worn variant of Checker's sleek silver killer, a small stack of bottle caps which in the absence of much Old World cash still circulating had become the trading currency of the Mojave Desert and Vegas, and four syringes, each filled with some kind of red liquid and topped with miniature fuel gauges which were called 'Stimpaks', a powerful kind of medicine that sped up the body's natural healing processes considerably and applied a numbing effect to the area they were administered to. Feeling in the pockets of the coat he noted a few more items, clips for the pistol and rounds for a different kind of gun that he apparently no longer owned.

Putting the items down on the shelf the courier unfurled the coat to its full length. It had been dirtied by the affair in the graveyard, an already faded red stain at the front of the right shoulder told him which way he'd collapsed after the dirty deed had been done, and there were several holes here and there too, a few of which were unmistakably from bullets. The bottom was a little ragged, and had seen better days, but holding it at full length he could see it reached down to the top of his ankles, meaning in most cases it wasn't dragging along the ground.

"I hope you don't mind, but I gave the note a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin. But it was just something about a platinum chip," the doctor explained further.

Six nodded and slid the coat over his shoulders, feeling an immensely familiar and reassuring warmth as his arms navigated into the sleeves. He loved this coat. It was more than just clothing to him, it was a legacy, and it was a legacy he gladly bore on his shoulders.

The doctor smiled as he watched him, and produced something else: an enormous wristwatch. At first glance, that was what it resembled at least.

"Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this," Mitchell continued. He slid the courier's sleeve up on his left arm and fitted it over his forearm, sliding it up over its hand. He felt a pinprick, and suddenly the strap tightened to a level that ensured it wasn't being taken off, yet stopping just before it got uncomfortable. The courier marveled at this contraption now sealed to his arm. "They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like, having something taken from you."

The courier knew Mitchell spoke the truth, too. His tone changed as he spoke of loss, darker, like remembering it sucked the sunlight out of the world just enough to notice. It was a harsh world.

Trying not to draw attention to the doctor's comment, he instead examined the device on his arm. It was an amazing little machine, a scrolling wheel allowed him to sift through various menus represented on the small computer screen attached to his arm, and a selection of switches allowed further toggling. At first it showed a readout of his physical condition, displayed by a Vault Boy, the mascot for the vaults and their initiatives. So far everything seemed to check out. In addition he could take readings on foreign content in his bloodstream, which would take note of poisons or simple alcohol levels. Another section was dedicated to miscellaneous data; he could take notes on things, download audio recordings, and even pick up radio signals. Further inspection revealed two more features: a map of the Mojave Desert, likely downloaded from a computer somewhere, which displayed his current location (amazingly valuable for keeping track of his direction), and a Geiger counter, which in the modern world could only serve as excellent warning for when he was approaching something dangerous.

His attention was drawn back to his doctor once more as he shoved a second bundle of clothing into his hands. "These were yours too. The shirt got a bit stained, but the rest was in pretty good condition. I figured you'd want it back. Best put it back on so the locals don't pick on you for lackin' modesty," the doctor chuckled.

Sliding the dark grey coat off his shoulders with some hesitation, Six pulled himself back into the clothes he died in. They were worn in, and felt good to slide back into, despite the morbid fact that he'd previously been on his deathbed in them. Still, he could hardly fault a pair of pants for failing to stop shot to his head. The pants were thick hide, stitched together in numerous places and thickest from the knees down. Held against the lower legs by more stitching were a small set of chains, two on the left leg and one on the right. He had a suspicion that they were there purely for aesthetics. A pair of old, well scuffed and dirtied military boots found their way to his feet, and he tapped them on the floor a few times experimentally to get the feel for them. Familiar again. Next came the white shirt, which had a noticeable splotch of his own blood on it. He made a mental note to replace it; seeing a bullet eclipse on his forehead every day in the mirror was more than enough reminder of his should-be-deceased state. Over it went a long leather vest done up with four buttons, the last of which he left untouched, with a belt looping around the waist. The jacket continued down to cover his hips, stopping a little way above his knees. Like his pants, the vest had been stitched and repaired over time. It was hard to find high-class attire nowadays. A few pouches sat on the belt, but Six quickly discovered they were empty.

"Thanks for patching me up, doc," he said finally, grabbing the all-important duster once more. "Not every day this sorta thing happens, but if anyone ever takes a couple of lucky pot-shots at me again I'll know who to turn to."

"Don't mention it. It's what I'm here for," the doctor replied. Courier Six was a huge fan of the man already, but he may have been a bit biased considering the situation. "You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town," Mitchell advised. "She'll likely be at the saloon, and she can help you get back in the saddle, so to speak. She's kind of the town's hunter. Best aim around here at least, when we got pest problems we turn to her."

Six nodded. "A bit of retraining couldn't hurt. See if I've still got the aim."

"I reckon some of the other folks down there might be able to help you too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave," he continued. "And like you said, you ever get hurt out there, come on back. I'll patch you right up. Thought times are tough, and if you're conscious enough to walk in here I think you'll be conscious enough to at least cover me the supply cost. Try not to get killed anymore."

"For you, Doc, I'll make an honest attempt," Six replied, rubbing his head again, wondering just what 'metal fella' meant.

He stepped forward, pulling the door open and stepping out into the world of the living.

The door clicked behind him and light seared his vision for a few moments. Goodsprings returned to the world in front of him, solidifying out of pure light. A few steps down Mitchell's front steps led to his mailbox and fence, an ancient statement of the idyllic Old World. The white paint on the pickets had long faded, and the mailbox was bent, the post standing it up splintered.

The house sat on a hill which led down onto an intersection where cracked road connected, diverging into three directions. One stretched south, passing down beyond a few houses, all the same plywood as the doctor's, some working as shelters, others missing too much to be used as anything but skeletal examples of former dwellings. They filled the southern area of Goodsprings, sprinkled about the southern section of town.

Behind the doctor's house, opposite the collection of former houses was a larger building ringed by a chain link fence, some of which had fallen down in recent times.

The other two roads moved west to east, crossing the 'T' of the intersection. At the corner a small wind pump. The east road ran along the two most noticeable buildings in the town, the first Six identified as a general store by the crates in front of it, and a little down the road was a larger building. Sitting in front of it was a sign that slowly swung in the breeze. The words on it said the same as the large neon ones that beamed from above the building's awning: Prospector Saloon. Visible behind it, a dirt track ran up a steep hill to a water tower that stood sentinel over the town's graveyard.

The west road ran up the hill passed Mitchell's house like the south, moving up past a pen filled with Bighorners and then turning north at a dilapidated gas station, a large round sign sitting on a post identifying the original owners as 'Poseidon Energy'. Their logo was a spherical object that the courier knew represented the world with a line running around it, stopping at the centre and diverging into three points to form an 'E' while also forming a trident, the ancient symbol of the being known as Poseidon.

Bighorners were an animal born after the war, a product of old creatures being forced to evolve into new ones in the wake of the world's destruction. Their namesake was obvious to look at one: enormous curled horns jutting from their heads. They seemed to be a mutated form of some kind of ram or sheep as the courier had once read in a book, though the exact kind he was unsure of.

"I'm surprisingly well read," the courier observed, striding down the hill and casting his eyes beyond Goodsprings, where the hills of the Mojave desert rolled away to a number of places he may or may not have once visited. The brown and gold of the sun-blasted dirt and sand was contrasted by the blue sky. Despite the radioactive nuclear hell that blanketed the world some two centuries prior, Vegas and its outlying area seemed to have done well in surviving the apocalypse.

The Mojave was a diamond amidst the ash.

The sound of a tire on concrete alerted the Courier to the metal fella. He turned his head down the southern road to see him rolling forwards on a single tire. A peculiar machine, moving about on a unicycle that was attached to a cylinder that rose into a wider cylinder, both grey, topped by what looked like a television set the size of a medium crate. On either side, half again the size of the television were a pair of shoulders from which two hose-like arms protruded, reminiscent of vacuum cleaner hoses ending in small cylinders with three flat metal digits that bent to form fingers hanging beneath them. On top was an aerial that spun as it picked up signals.

The face displayed on this machine's television screen was that of a beaming cowboy wearing the traditional hat of his kind, with a cigarette clutched in his mouth.

The strange mixture of rusty blue robot and beaming cartoon cowboy face was a little off-putting, but the courier had stepped into his path, and this robot, 'Victor' as the good doctor had called him, was now rolling up to say hello.

"Howdy pardner!" came the voice, a stereotypical cowboy tone with that metallic bite that accompanied most robotic voices. "Might I say, you are looking fit as a fiddle!"

Six grinned and looked down at himself. Some damaged vision perhaps, but everything else seemed to be just fine.

"Thanks," he replied. "So you're the one who pulled me up outta that grave then eh?"

"None other, and don't mention it. Always ready to lend a helping hand to a stranger in need," Victor replied, still grinning. Not that he could do anything else.

"How'd you end up finding me anyway?" the courier wondered aloud.

"I was out for a stroll that night when I heard the commotion up at the old bone orchard. Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs so I laid low. Once they'd run off I dug you up to see if you were still kicking. Turns out you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick," Victor explained, the cowboy face beaming from cold metal.

"Well thanks. I'll see you around," Six said, and his grin toned back a notch, turning into an honest smile. Victor may have been an odd sight for a town like Goodsprings, and a little suspicious, but the fact remained that Six owed his life to the metal cowboy. For whatever reason he did, that was something to be grateful for.

"Happy trails!" Victor closed, resuming his stroll down the street without legs.

The man who knew himself only as Courier Six turned back towards the Prospector Saloon and, rubbing his forehead, stepped inside.

~First Joker: Treated in various ways if allowed in play at all, a Joker can be considered an Ace, or in fact fill the role of any card the player chooses. The first joker has an equivalent in the tarot deck as 'The Fool', a card symbolising the beginning of an adventure, it depicts a wanderer not bound by conventional reason.