"Onofre…?" My heart constricts at the sound of that voice despite the unintelligibility of his speech. Sluggishly, I meditate over the familiarity of his quiet timbre, the light pitch of his voice.

"Who are you? Where am I?" I try to inquire but a pain shoots through the base of my skull. I can't focus my thoughts.

"I don't trust that thing, Onofre." His warning angers me. Why? The emotion clouds my mind. This all feels so familiar. Why can't I ground my thoughts? The pain from my skull spreads down my spine, radiating through my body. The more I try to focus, the greater my pain.

"There's no time! Just run…I don't blame you for any of this." The raw, red, fleshless face of a Marked Man flashes before me. Red hatred seizes my body.

"Julio…" My eyes open. Heart racing, I feel as though I've been chased by a deathclaw. It hurts to breathe. I attempt to pull myself up, but my left leg screams in pain. Choking on a silent yelp I push at the sweaty sheets and thrust my upper body into a sitting position. The edges of my vision blur momentarily and my head throbs. I inhale gulps of air as memories of the fight bombard me.

My leg is strapped to the bed, ensuring immobility. Strapped to my thigh is a super stimpak auto-injector. A white patch is taped above the apparatus, blotches of dark red along its length. The additional vial of medicine attached to the capacity gauge is nearly empty. Raising my arm, I look at my bicep. Like my thigh, it is bandaged and equipped with a stimpak. The burning sensation from earlier has vanished.

Upon surveying the dank room around me, I know one thing is true: I'm in the Casa Madre Apartments; the sighs and moans of Westside's infamous whore house penetrate the thin walls of the room. But there's still the question of how long I e been out of commission.

One strap at a time I unlatch the stimpaks from my limbs and my leg from the bed easing my legs over the side. My skin quivers as the punctures from the hypodermic needles close, the lingering medication aiding in rapid regeneration. The pile of wood and debris below the bed scratches at the rough pads of my feet. I wiggle my toes letting the blood circulate and warm them. The hand-lamp beside the bed offers enough light for me to see my clothes on the table beside a small pile of chems. My rucksack and weapons lie just beside the table.

With one hand on the metal frame of the bed for support, I rise. Stimpak sickness makes my muscles sluggish, weak. I gnash my teeth at the pain, but I am able to hold myself up sufficiently.

My legs take slow strides toward the table just two meters away. By the time I reach it, my naked body is coated in sweat and my heart is beating double-time to pump out blood. The table shakes under my hands as I brace myself, letting my weight bear down. I take deep shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm my heart. In a clumsy mound before me lie my duster, blood-stained pants, and my ripped shirt-turned-tourniquet. Tossing the rags aside, I lay out my duster upon the table. My fingers trace the seams of the red insignia on the back of the duster as my breathing slows.

The bull on my belt buckle mirrors that on the duster. A rush of determination pushes through me at the sight. I need to return to The Strip and complete my objective. Bunching my eyebrows together in thought, I rotate, careful not to aggravate my leg, and scan the room again. Just as I suspected.

The footlocker isn't here.

Rage begins to bloom in my chest.

My revolver is in my hand before I can register my body moving. I limp to the door, ignoring the pain.

Leaning against the wall beside the door, I check to assure the gun is loaded. Four slugs. It'll do.

Gun trained at the door, I reach with my left hand to turn the doorknob. As my index and middle fingers touch the metal, it begins to turn.

Marco's face emerges before the tip of my gun, brown eyes wide as he takes in the sight before him. His mouth opens to speak but I cock the revolver, effectively silencing him.

I swallow and cough to clear my throat. "Where's my shipment?" My voice is raspy. The sound reminds me of my run-in with Benny. Marco's response tears me from my thoughts.

"I wanted to keep it safe 'cuz I knew if anything happened to it you'd kill me. I'll take you to it...right after I get you some pants." Gritting my teeth, I ease the gun hammer forward and let my arm rest at my side.

I exhale at the relief of strain on my arm. The brown-skinned man edges into the room with caution. "You should sit. I'll go get Doctor Usanagi and your shipment." I grunt in response as he dashes out of the room.

Unable to hold myself up any longer, I slump down to the floor, blocking part of the bedside lantern's glow. My thigh aches. If I'm going to return to the Strip anytime soon, I'll need transport.

I sigh and close my eyes, chin resting on my bare chest. Mean Sonofabitch can't come with me. The super mutant is Westside's only defense against the Fiends. Judah'd put a bullet in my head if I made them vulnerable like that. Definitely don't need another one of those.

I rub the scar above my eyebrow, recalling the late Doc Mitchell's questions upon my recovery. The small .22 sized hole beneath the scar tissue is as hollow as my answers had felt. Almost everything I told him had felt true. I knew Perch wasn't my real name, but it seemed fitting. I had enough scars from before the platinum chip incident that it's obvious I have my own permanent perch on Death's shoulder. Yes. Perch was a perfect choice. I'm sure my real name pales metaphorically in comparison.

The pensive smirk from my thoughts vanishes as I hear the doorknob click. Back flat against the wall, revolver in hand, I leer at the reemergence of the ball-cap wearing building owner.

"Pants," he strategically throws the black jeans on my crotch as Dr. Usanagi enters the room. She looks uncomfortable. Like she's never been in a brothel before. Her lips are curled into a tight scowl. My smirk reemerges. Marco shakes his head. The footlocker tucked under his arm draws my attention from the doctor.

"Set that next to my bag," I direct. "Where do you want me, Miss Usanagi?" My playful tone seems to set her more on edge.

"The bed please. Marco, would you be so kind as to assist him?" Her arms are crossed protectively against her chest. I frown at her order and glare at Marco as he approaches me. My teeth grind when he grabs my left arm, wrenching me off the floor. I hold the jeans against my groin out of respect for Her Royal Highness.

As we approach the edge of the bed, one of the spikes on Marco's metal plated armor nicks my forearm.

I tap his gauntlet with the revolver in my right hand, "Careful there, Marc. I might decide I don't like you anymore." He chuckles and releases my arm.

"You've never liked me, dick. You put up with my shit just like I do yours." My eyebrows rise and my lips curl up.

"Oh come now, I like you. You're obedient. Hardly ever have to rough you up for compliance."

He rolls his eyes and walks to the door. "If you need me, I'll be outside the building consoling Mean. He got to you just in time the other night. You gave big ugly a real scare there. Mean Sonofabitch sure is sensitive for a super mutant." He leaves with a dismissive wave. From the hall I hear, "Have at him, Usanagi."

I shiver at the lingering sweat pool on the bed from my nightmare. My eyes focus on the Asian woman before me. She's standing stock still; arms crossed; lips shut tight; eyes stern, unwavering. I hold her gaze, bemused by her demeanor.

Doctor Usanagi has never been a fan of me. Before I had ever set foot in the New Vegas Medical Clinic she knew of me and my more public escapades, as did most of New Vegas's populace. This black-haired physician just happens to be more self-righteous than her peers. Upon recollection, she was frank in her abhorrence in regards to my actions. The phrase "cazador incarnate" was worked into her greeting. Fortunately for her, I quite admire the deadly nature of the cazador. Otherwise, the Mojave would be one doctor less.

"I've got places to be as do you, I'm sure. So if you could get over yourself and check me out, we can both get on with our day." Placing my revolver at the end of the bed, I beckon to the doctor. She exhales and I imagine the stick in her ass inches out a bit.

She sets her doctor's bag beside my right foot. Like a decent gentlemen, I hold my jeans in place as the doctor begins. I squint my eyes at her when she rips off the first bandage tape strip, pulling out a few stray hairs with it. Despite the absence of a reaction from me, Dr. Usanagi looks smug as she continues without further mishap.

She stands when she has finished observing the progress my thigh has made. The wound seems superficial, now a soft pink scrape on a canvas of light beige. Curious, I run my hand over the cut, marveling at the unblemished skin. I don't deal with super stimpaks too often; the sickness makes me too vulnerable.

"Like you said, we both have places to be," my head raises at her dull voice, "so if you would don your breeches, I can examine your arm." I wait for her to about face, but she is rooted, unwavering. With snigger and a grunt, I push myself off the bed only to be pushed back by a small, pale hand. An "oomph" falls from my lips as I bounce slightly on the mattress. This woman is a masochist.

My hand takes hold of her wrist and shock registers on her face. Before either of us can physically react, I feel my mind slow. Dr. Usanagi's skin shifts to a deep caramel shade, her eyes a youthful almond-framed hazel. Her exasperated frown morphs into a tender beam. The angelic visage is framed by a copper cloud of tresses.

"Let me go or I'll get hermano meyor. I'll get big brother, Onofre."

"I'm not scared of him. No tengo miedo!" I respond out if what feels like reflex. Her giggle flutters through my mind. She raises her free hand, and flicks my face. My right cheek is unexpectedly set aflame in pain.

I inhale sharply, turning to face the woman before me. The pale doctor's face is a portrait of fright.

"I said release me, Perch." Despite her apparent state, the woman's voice is calm, placating. I free her hand from my grip. I stare in confusion between the doctor's face and my hand. She rights herself, rubbing her wrist and shooting a befuddled glower at me. We share an emotion-laden silence.

What just happened is beyond me. It felt like a waking dream. But...the sense of déjà vu was too prevalent for it to be just my imagination.