"What does this look like?" Inkblot. It looked like an inkblot. Although...
"I'm embarrassed to say what it looks like," said the Courier. The Doc smirked.
"Fair enough, enough inkblots," he said, "Let's try some word association. Mother."
"Uh... father."
"Light."
"Dark."
"Night."
"Day."
Doc Mitchell was silent for a few moments. "Okay, let's just skip all this. I mean, the lady who gave me these tests didn't tell me how to interpret them so... well, guess it doesn't mean anything."
"Sorry," said the Courier, "Guess I'm not so good at word association." He coughed again.
"Dry throat, huh? Dyin'll do that to you," said Mitchell, "You had a bottle of Sunset with you, remember?" The Courier had left the almost-familiar bottle on the table when Mitchell had started to evaluate him, and now looked back down at it. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand.
Sunset Sarsaparilla. Something clicked in his head. He said, "Build mass with sass."
"Some things are starting to come back to you, then," said Doc Mitchell, smiling.
"Little bit." Things were becoming a little clearer – flashes of childhood, youth, the journey from California to Nevada. "I remember... I had more with me, didn't I? More than this?" He pointed at the bottle, the small leather pouch which turned out to have about fifty bottle caps in it, and the shipping order.
"I kept this back in case it turned out you were some Powder Ganger or a full-blown nutcase," Mitchell admitted, "Sorry son, can never be too careful." With this he reached into the worn satchel next to his chair and produced a weathered pistol, a knife, and another small satchel. The Courier found it contained a collection of syringes and chem bags.
"Rad-X, Med-X, RadAway, StimPaks..." he muttered to himself, "I remember these." The pistol was a reassuring weight in his hand; he flicked the safety off and on, took practiced aim at the mantelpiece in the Doc's living room. It was a very familiar weight. "I remember this." He pulled out the clip – it was a few bullets light. "I think I've..." it was an odd thing to suddenly remember, disturbing, "Killed before."
"Not too unusual 'round these parts, Courier," said Mitchell, sadly, "Not too unusual at all." He stood and went round to the radio on the mantel, fiddled with the dials. "Maybe we can jog the old memory a bit with some... ah, there we go." The radio crackled into life, and began to suffuse the room with tinny music.
...own of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day
Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn't have too much to say
No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip
The Courier sang under his breath, "For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip..."
Big iron on his hip...
"Good tune," said Mitchell, "You recognise it?"
"Yeah," said the Courier. It was stirring a lot of recollections, feelings, impulses. "Is there a bar in this town?"
"Ah, drinker, huh?"
"I think so." He smirked. "I feel like a drink, so I guess..."
"There's the Saloon just down the way, dead in front of you as you leave," said Mitchell, "Thing is, Big Iron's a bit close to home at the moment in town, so you'd best be..."
The song had stopped, and it was the next broadcast which stopped the good Doctor in his tracks. "Hello Mojave, it's me, Mister New Vegas," drawled the machine, "And you are all looking so wonderful tonight. News now – a courier who was shot in the head outside Goodsprings has reportedly regained consciousness, and is expected to make a full recovery. Now that's a delivery service you can rely on."
"How," said the Courier, noting Mitchell's evident surprise, "How the hell does anyone in New Vegas know about any of this?"
Mitchell was silent, hoping for a clue from the radio, but it merely burbled, "The preceding news segment brought to you by Gunderson Reds. Gunderson's – the same great flavour, twenty times a pack," before launching into a Big Band number.
At this, the front door swung open and barrelling down the hallway and into the sitting room came the robot which the Courier recalled digging him out of his grave, the robot which had supposedly saved his life – a boxy body, a screen for a face, two powerful grappling arms, and all balanced on a single and surprisingly small wheel. The screen showed a frozen image of a grinning cowboy.
"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" the robot announced in a twangy, southern voice, filtered through speakers but still unmistakeably that of the most stereotypical cowboy, "You made it through! Howdy, partner!" It trundled up to the Courier, who had stood in alarm, and attempted to twinkle at him. Hampered by its construction, it simply cocked its 'head' to one side and momentarily lost its balance.
"Hello, Victor," said Mitchell, eyeing the robot with obvious suspicion.
"Howdy Doc!" the robot – Victor – replied, spinning to face the old man, "You did a rootin' tootin' good job on this young colt and no mistake, yes sir! I knew if anyone could dig two nine mil slugs out of a cowpoke, it'd be you." The Courier was trying to shake the impression that if Victor were human, he would be grinning enough to split his face in two.
"I'm just finishing up here, Victor," said Mitchell, "Why don't you talk to our friend later?"
"Okey-doke!" chimed Victor, turning to the Courier, "See you in a tick, partner!" With that, he trundled back out of the open door, closing it behind him.
"What," said the Courier, "In the fuck was that thing?"
Mitchell sighed. "That was Victor. Don't ask."
