A/N: Hello everyone! I'm not sure where this idea came from, but one day it popped into my head while think about what would happen if Courier Six had family looking for them. My brother and I are co-writing this (major decisions are made together, I write, and we hash out differences), so Courier Six is based on my character, while her brother is based on his. We hope you enjoy, and welcome any and all feedback! This has been cross-posted to AO3 under the same title. Also, please do not take this as a true-to-life account of amnesia.

As a forewarning, there will be plenty of swearing in this fic, because...well, I'm the one writing it! If there are other warnings, they will be posted at the beginning of each chapter. The rating is subject to change.

Lastly, I do not own anything related to Fallout other than copies of the games. If I did, 76 never would've happened. So, without further ado, here is Chapter One: The End of the World

"Truth is…the game was rigged from the start…"

The man in the checkered suit's voice thudded in her head as the world swam back into focus. The bright light above her head nearly blinded her, and she squeezed her eyes shut and raised an arm over her head to cover her eyes. She quickly realized closing her eyes so tightly hurt just as badly, and she tried to relax. After a deep breath, she tried to open her eyes again, squinting against the headache-causing light on the ceiling. She tried to take stock of her surroundings, as well as her own body. She flexed her toes, then legs, then fingers and arms – everything seemed like it was still there.

She opened her eyes a bit wider, but snapped them shut yet again when the whirling ceiling fan brought on a wave of nausea. The third time appeared to be the charm as she tried again. The world blurred for a moment, but began to quickly clear. She looked to the right and was met with a wall, but turning to the left brought an older gentleman into focus.

"You're awake. How about that," the man sounded surprised and a bit pleased to see the young woman's green eyes staring back into his own. She tried to sit up, but he reached out to her.

"Whoa, easy there, easy. You been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you relax a second? Get your bearings." She tried to relax, taking several deep breaths, and slowly nodded. The pounding in her head had largely subsided, and she didn't feel so much like a stranger in her own body.

"Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?" The man's voice was low and soothing, but she suddenly felt off. Her name. What was her name? How does someone forget their own fuckin' name?

"Uh…no…" she trailed off hoarsely. Her mouth and throat felt like she'd swallowed a desert, and the doctor was quick to hand her a bottle of purified water. She wanted to drink greedily, but something, some instinct told her to take small sips, or her stomach wouldn't be thanking her.

"That's okay, don't worry. Amnesia is common in head injuries, and with one as bad as yours, I'm surprised you still know how to talk! Hell, I'm surprised you're laying there breathing!" the apparent doctor said. Head injury? What head injury?

"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings," the man finally introduced himself. Goodsprings…that was near the Long 15, right? Wait…what was a, "Long 15?"

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull out all the bits of lead," the man, now known as Doc Mitchell, continued. "I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place. So, how'd I do?" Doc Mitchell retrieved a small hand mirror and passed it to his patient, who took a moment, but eventually grabbed it to inspect her appearance.

Wait…bits of lead!?

The game was rigged from the start… the disembodied voice echoed in her head once more, and she gasped. The crack of gunfire came to her next, followed shortly by the memory of a sharp pain and darkness.

She carefully inspected her head, and had to admit, the doctor's needlework was spot-on. He couldn't cover the small scar on the left side of her forehead, or the missing hair on the left side of her head where he'd clipped it before performing the surgery that saved her life, but that was of little importance in the long run. Hair grew back. Brains didn't.

"Okay, no sense in keeping you in bed anymore. Let's see if we can get you on your feet," Doc Mitchell murmured as she handed the mirror back to him. His hands reached out to steady her as she sat up dizzily, the room shifting in and out of focus. Unsteadily, she got to her feet.

"Good. Why don't you walk down to the end of the room? Over by that vigor tester machine there?" Doc Mitchell asked, and she thought the good doctor would have a better chance of surviving trying to patch up a wounded deathclaw than she did of surviving the walk across the room.

What the fuck was a deathclaw?

"Take it slow now. It ain't a race," the older man cajoled. Sam sighed, and shuffled over to the machine in the corner. Honestly, she was surprised she was able to move as well as she could. Maybe she hadn't had all of the important bits of her brain blown out.

"Looking good so far. Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. We'll learn right quick if you got back all your faculties," the doctor said. She gave a small nod and placed her right hand on the nob. Concentrating, she ran through everything the Vit-O-Matic Vigor Tester threw at her. Doc Mitchell watched intently.

"Look at that," he breathed in awe. "Maybe them bullets done your brain some good."

She had to grin at that. Truthfully, she wasn't in nearly as much pain as she thought she'd be. Sure, she was unsteady on her feet, and sure, she couldn't remember her own damn name, but she wasn't hurting too bad either, and that's what counted at the moment. She looked at the vigor tester for herself. Charisma and Luck sat on the low side – she snorted at the Luck bit. She wasn't sure if she was ridiculously unlucky for being shot in the head, or incredibly lucky for having survived. Her attention was drawn back to Doc Mitchell before she could contemplate that for much longer.

"Well, we know your vitals are good," the doctor said as he walked into the next room. "But that doesn't mean them bullets didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping. Whaddaya say you take a seat on my coach and we'll go through a few questions. See if your dogs are still barking."

She followed him into the living room and sat on the couch in front of the fireplace. From her views of the place, it was cozy and well-kept. He took a seat in front of her and relaxed.

"Alright. I'm gonna say a word, I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind," He explained. She gave a small nod.

"Dog," he began.

"Cat," She replied.

"House."

"Shelter."

"Night."

"Shroud."

"Bandit."

"Swiss cheese," she responded with a smirk. He snorted a bit and continued.

"Light."

"Beam."

"Mother."

"Caretaker."

The doctor nodded at her responses. If he's not freaking out, she thought, I'm probably still…mostly all there.

"Okay. Now I've got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you'd say," Doc Mitchell explained. She gave another short nod.

"I dunno if I'll remember, but I'll try," she said with a small shrug. The doctor gave her an understanding and encouraging smile.

"It might jog your memory. Now. First one. Conflict just ain't in my nature."

She thought for a second, trying to rattle around in the scrambled mess of her brain for just a flash of memory. Her lips pursed as she came up empty-handed, but something just told her it wasn't true.

"Disagree," she responded slowly. Doc Mitchell gave her a nod.

"I ain't given to relying on others for support," came the next statement. Once again, she came up empty, but instinct pushed her to agree. She relied on someone – who!? – but that was it.

"I'm always fixin' to be the center of attention."

"Hell no," she blurted out before she even knew why. Doc Mitchell looked at her with some surprise, but just nodded and continued. She wasn't sure why she knew that one, but apparently she was someone who liked to stay inconspicuous.

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas." She frowned and tried rooting around in her memory again. Sighing softly, she realized it was a lost cause and disagreed with the statement.

"I charge in to deal with my problems head-on." Now that was a tricky one. Charge in to deal with her problems head-on?

You're hot-headed, girl. It'll get you killed one of these days, a voice in her memory whispered. It was male, but didn't match Mr. Checkered Suit. The voice was amused, bellied with a tinge of concern. Who was he?

"Strongly agree," she replied after a beat.

"Alright kiddo, we're almost done here," Doc Mitchell gave her an encouraging smile. "I'm gonna show you some pictures. Tell me what you see." He held up the first in a gloved hand. She studied the picture for a few moments, brows creased together.

"A broken chain," she said. Doc Mitchell nodded and moved on, holding up the next one.

"A ship at sea," a nod to that answer too. Doc Mitchell held up the last one.

"Honestly," she said with a chuckle. "Honestly, that one looks like two bears high-fiving."

Doc Mitchell gave her a smile and looked at it himself. He chuckled himself while she wiped tears of amusement from her eyes.

"Yeah, I guess I can see that! You seem alright to me, kiddo. Haven't lost your sense of humor, that's for sure. Before I turn you loose I need one more thing from you. Got a form for you to fill out so I can get a sense of your medical history," Doc Mitchell made a noise between a scoff and a chuckle at the look on her face. "Just a formality! Ain't like I expect to find you've got a family history of getting shot in the head."

Family, she thought as he handed her the form. Do I have a family? Mom? Dad? Brothers, sisters? Is there anybody out there worried about me?

Once she'd taken the time to fill out the form – don't take long when your brain's a clean slate – Doc Mitchell stood and stretched. She followed suit.

"Alright, I guess that about does it. Come with me, I'll see you out."

She followed the doctor to the heavy wooden door just down the hall. She took a moment to look down for the first time and realized she was just wearing a tank-top and underwear. Surely the doctor who treated her wasn't going to turn her loose on the world in her underthings…was he?

The doctor turned to an entryway table, where a few articles and a rucksack lay. He gathered everything in his arms and turned to face his soon-to-be-former patient.

"Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in," he explained. He sat the rucksack down at her feet, grimacing. Was it heavy? She kneeled and peeked through it.

A sniper rifle stuck out of one side, equipped with a long-range scope. Was she a soldier of some sort? That would explain the bullet to the brain, but not much else. An ornate 10mm pistol came next, and she felt warm when she grabbed the holster it was locked in. Good memories, maybe? Two combat knives and three grenades sat toward the bottom as well. Dear God, she was armed to the teeth! She wasn't sure how anyone got the drop on her in the first place. Unfortunately, she had precious little ammo. Blood-splattered leather armor was the only other thing in that section.

Searching through the next pocket, she found…a Vault 13 canteen? Was she from a vault or something? She turned it over, hoping for a sparkle of memory, but found nothing. A pair of binoculars came next, but again, nothing. She pulled out three weapon repair kits, and felt that odd warmth again.

"Jesus Christ, you're just fucking it up worse! Gimme!" yet another male voice reverberated in her head. It was exasperated, but not angry. Who were these people!?

Next she found a note. She quickly unfolded it, hoping for a clue about her identity. She found one, but not exactly what she was looking for.

INSTRUCTIONS Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

Mojave Express…now why did that sound so familiar? She continued reading.

MANIFEST This package contains: One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, comprised of Platinum

She squeezed her eyes shut against the assault of suddenly remembering something. The man in the checkered suit pulled a platinum chip out of his breast pocket before pulling out a gun and leveling it at her.

The game was rigged from the start…

Her lips pursed. This didn't bring her much closer to her identity, but it was something. She needed to get to Primm and see this Johnson Nash. Maybe he held the key to unlocking some of her memories. After that, this "Vegas Strip" sounded like a safe bet, but that was a ways off. Several stimpaks, a few bobby pins, and some bottlecaps lay in the e pocket as the note, but the pack was otherwise empty. She frowned. Even a name to call herself would've been nice.

"I hope you don't mind…" Doc Mitchell started. "But I gave the note a look. I thought it might help me to find a next of kin, but it was just something about a platinum chip." The doctor looked uncomfortable for a moment, but turned back to the table behind him and held up something made of blue cloth and a…handheld terminal?

"Well, if you're heading back out there, you ought to have this. 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," he explained. Frowning, he also passed her the blue cloth.

"Put this on, too, so the locals don't pick on you for lacking modesty. Was my wife's. I think she was about your size, and she hardly wore it after we left the vault. Felt it was too brazen," he explained. She took a look at the Vault 21 she was now holding. The fabric was soft, but clearly reinforced.

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc," she said sincerely, slipping into her new vault suit. Her leather armor came next, and had an odd feeling of home to it.

"Don't mention it, it's what I'm here for," the doctor gave her a genuine smile. "You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you re-learn how to fend for yourself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you outta your grave."

With this, he stepped closer, putting his hands are her shoulders. She tilted her head up to look him in the eyes.

"You ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I'll fix you up," he said seriously, but then began to chuckle. She cocked an eyebrow. He took his hands from her shoulders and began to limp back toward his couch.

"But try not to get killed anymore!" he called over his shoulder. She couldn't help the guffaw that slipped out. The guffaw turned into a snort and she shook her head, hand on the doorknob. She squared her shoulders, and pushed her way into the bright sunlight of Goodsprings.

The first thing she noticed was the large metal robot rolling down the road. She supposed, unless there was two of them, that this was Victor. Since he was already out and about, she figured she'd stop him first.

"Excuse me!" She called out. The robot stopped in its tracks and came to a stop facing her. The first thing she noticed was a…cowboy? On its screen?

"Howdy pardner! Might I say you're looking fit as a fiddle?" At this point, she supposed she'd just take the compliment and roll with it.

"Thanks for digging me outta that grave," she murmured.

"Don't mention it!" the robot replied cheerfully. "I'm always willing to lend a helping hand to a stranger in need!"

There was something odd about the robot, something that just stuck in her craw, but she figured she'd get the rest of this over with as quickly as possible, then try to track down the "Sunny Smiles" Doc Mitchell had mentioned. With any luck, she was human.

"How did you happen to find me? And do you know who those men were who attacked me?" the questions came out in a rush she hadn't been anticipating.

"I was out for a stroll that night when I heard a commotion up at the old bone orchard," the robot explained, flexing metal arms. "Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs, so I laid low."

How in God's name does a robot like that "lay low?" she thought to herself.

"Once they'd run off, I dug you up to see if you were still kicking," Victor explained. "Turns out, you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick. And I can't say I'm familiar with the rascals. Some of the fine folk in town might be able to help you out with that. Happy trails!" With that, the robot wheeled off to…wherever robots in this town go.

She turned toward the saloon at the center of town. There was an older gentleman on the porch, who introduced himself as Easy Pete. They chatted for a moment, but he didn't seem to have any new information either. At last, she entered the saloon, and was promptly greeted with a growl.

"Cheyenne, stay," a woman's voice commanded. "Don't worry, she won't bite unless I tell her to."

The dog in question sat on its haunches at the command of its master. In the background, Mr. New Vegas told his listeners they Mrs. New Vegas, and they were just as beautiful as the day they met.

"Doc Mitchell said you could teach me to survive in the desert. Or…re-learn? I don't really know…" she trailed off, mumbling.

"Yeah, I guess there's a thing or two I could show you," Sunny acquiesced. "Sounds like you need all the help you can get after what they done to you. Meet me outside, behind the saloon. By the way, what am I supposed to call you?"

She thought about it for a moment before speaking.

"I don't know what my name is, just that I was Courier Six on a job. So…for the time being…maybe just call me Six?" She shrugged. It was the closest thing she had to a name at this point, so why not just go with it? Sunny nodded, and she stepped back outside into the dry Mojave air. Rounding the corner, she found herself behind the saloon, staring at a fence with numerous Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles lined up on top of it.

"See the Sarsaparilla bottles?" Sunny asked. Six nodded. "Take this and try to hit a couple of 'em.

The varmint rifle felt off in her hands. Deep down, somehow, she knew it was a weapon she didn't handle often at all. But she took aim through the sights and fired at the first bottle. It exploded with a resounding crack. After several more shots hit their mark in succession, Sunny smiled at her.

"Well that's a start, but I don't reckon you came to me to learn to fight Sarsaparilla bottles," Sunny laughed. "Tell you what. I gotta go chase geckos away from our water supply anyway. Darn critters are attracted to it. Why don't you come along?"

It didn't take her long to decide – shooting a target at a standstill was easy, but a live, moving target? That was obviously gonna be more difficult. She didn't want to start her journey…wherever she was going, and be completely defenseless. She nodded her acquiescence to Sunny, who started off with Cheyenne.

"Follow me!" Sunny called over her shoulder, and Six scrambled to keep up. "It's just down to the southeast a short ways." They soon arrived at a ridge, and Cheyenne's hackles raised. Sunny motioned for Six to crouch, and whispered some details on how to get closer to get a better shot. Six nodded, and slowly inched closer to the well. She was around 50 feet away when she lined up her shot on the first gecko. Looking down the sight, she pulled the trigger. The gecko slammed into the rock wall behind it, a red hole square in the middle of its chest. Between the two of them, the others quickly followed suit.

"See? You're getting the hang of it!" Sunny declared cheerfully. Cheyenne barked once as if in agreeance. "There's two more wells that need clearing. You want, you can come along. It'd be worth a few caps to me."

Six agreed easily enough. She had around 18 caps to her name currently, if she'd counted properly back at Doc Mitchell's, and even though she was an amnesiac, she knew that wouldn't get her anywhere. A few caps being her reward for getting back in the saddle was just fine by her.

The pair cleared the second well easily, and found a woman fighting off geckos with a cleaver at the third. They made quick work of them, and Six was thankful the woman wasn't hurt too badly – a few bites dotted her arms and legs, but it was nothing that Doc Mitchell couldn't patch up. Six was certain if he could piece her brain back together, he could fix up just about anyone.

"Now that was some good work," Sunny complimented. "Even got a little exciting at the end there. Here's a little spending money for the trouble. One more thing I wanted to show you."

Cheyenne led the way to a small campground just past the wells. She lit the easily, and turned back to Six.

"Thought I might teach you something about living off the land, and making useful things for yourself. Interested?" she asked. Six agreed again. Never knew when something like this would come in handy. Sunny explained that she needed Broc Flowers and Xander Root, which grew at the graveyard and schoolhouse. Six carefully schooled her expression, but going back to the graveyard sent a chill up her spine. Her steps were leaden as she trudged back up, one hand on the butt of the varmint rifle…just in case.

After being accosted by a scorpion and shooting down the flies, Six found the Broc Flower she needed…and her open grave. Blood still splattered the soil, and cigarette butts littered the ground. She picked one up and tucked it into her pocket. If she ever needed a reminder of why she needed to keep going…she now had one in her breast pocket.

After dispatching the mantises at the schoolhouse and gathering her Xander Root, Six made her way back to Sunny. She found her drinking a Sunset Sarsaparilla, Cheyenne obediently lying next to her. She jumped to her feet as Six wandered up, and took the ingredients from her. After declaring them good to go, she set about showing the newcomer how to mash them together into a powder.

Something about the process felt familiar, and the tingle raced up Six's spine again.

Quit being a baby, she heard herself say. A younger version of herself? Just lemme put this on your knee and you'll be good as new, okay?

After tucking her new powder into her bag, Sunny bade her farewell, and asked that she see Trudy at the saloon. Cheyenne meandered behind her master, an eventful afternoon and the heat finally taking their toll. Six wiped her brow and started back to the saloon as well. Maybe she could sweet-talk this Trudy character into giving her a drink for free? Or a discount?

Walking in the door was refreshing compared to the outside heat. Sunny sat at a booth with Cheyenne beside her, and gave her a grin and a wave as she walked in. Six smiled. She might not remember her own damn name, but new friends were always welcome in her book.

The man standing in front of her; however, seemed anything but friendly.

"I'm done being nice," the man growled. If you don't hand Ringo over soon, I'm going to get my friends, and we're burning this town to the ground, got it?"

To her credit, the woman he was threatening firmly stood her ground. As she walked back behind the bar, Six realized this was probably Trudy. If she stood firm against threats, puppy eyes probably wouldn't work either. Rats. Six introduced herself anyway.

Trudy gave her all the information she had, which, truthfully, was plentiful. She knew where they were going and how they intended to get there, which was exactly what Six needed. She bemoaned the loss of her radio to one of the "Great Khans" with Mr. Checkered Suit.

"More like Great Assholes to me," Six mumbled under her breath. Trudy let out a laugh and agreed.

"Want me to take a look at your broken radio?" Six asked. Think of it as petty revenge against the assholes who left her for dead.

"Sure. The outside looks okay, but I think something broke on the inside," Trudy explained. "There'd be caps in it for you. I do like to hear what's going on in the world. And that Mr. New Vegas seems like such a gentleman."

Without further ado, Six popped open the toolbox on the counter and dug for a screwdriver. Within half an hour, the radio blared static. Changing the station as if on instinct, Six found Radio New Vegas, and Mr. New Vegas introduced the next song as one of his very favorites.

Trudy paid up in caps, which Six used to grab a drink before doing anything else. It had been one long fucking day, and whiskey sounded like just what she needed. Trudy nodded approvingly and went back to wiping down the bar. When she was finished, she bid the bartender farewell and walked out, seeking this Ringo fella.

Trudy watched her retreating back with a small frown tugging at her face. She felt for the young lady, truly. She'd been over to Doc Mitchell's for several days, hoping she'd wake up, and today she dropped in when the young lady was out with Sunny. Now, she was awake, but at what cost? She didn't know her own name, for heaven's sake! She had no idea who she was prior to a gunshot to the head beyond the fact that she was Courier Six. Sunny sidled up beside her and patted her shoulder.

"Don't worry, Trudy, I showed her everything I know," Sunny grinned at the town mom. Trudy shook her head and flicked the back of her head.

"That's what worries me!" Trudy laughed.

Meanwhile, at the abandoned gas station, Six was getting raked over the coals by Ringo in a game of Caravan after a tense introduction at gunpoint. Pouting, she passed the young man 25 caps before standing and stretching. Her back popped in several places and she groaned.

"So what are you gonna do about the Powder Gangers?" Six asked curiously. Ringo visibly wilted.

"I'm going to lay low for as long as I can, assuming the town doesn't throw me to the wolves. I've got no chance against the gang on my own." Six frowned.

"You can't just stay here forever, Ringo. Either the town's gonna riot or they're gonna blow it to pieces. Maybe I can help," Six said thoughtfully. Together, they devised a plan. Six said goodbye to Ringo and headed back toward the saloon. Night was falling, and she needed to talk to Sunny.

Sunny was in nearly before she finished her sentence, but she knew the others would need convincing. Doc Mitchell might be easy to persuade, e with Trudy, but Six knew she'd have some trouble with Easy Pete, and lots of trouble with Chet. She wasn't exactly silver-tongued, but she was passionate about helping this kid out of a sticky spot. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn't place her finger on it.

As predicted, Trudy was fairly easy to convince, and Six was thankful. She knew Trudy would largely be the rally force around the town, and that was what was desperately important. She resolved to talk to the others in the morning, and headed back to the gas station to see if she could bed down there for the night. If not, she'd take a walk next door and see if Doc Mitchell would extend his courtesy for another night.

Six was up with the sun, while Ringo was still out cold on the other mattress. She would've laughed if it wouldn't have woken him, and quietly set off to speak to Doc Mitchell. He was closest in proximity and was likely going to be the easiest of the rest to convince.

She was correct again. Doc Mitchell sighed over the nature of people, but was able to round up some supplies in case they'd need them – hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. Easy Pete was next on her list, and he was sitting just outside the saloon.

"Too dangerous," Pete lectured. "Gonna kill all yourselves if I let you touch it. Better to leave it buried – safer that way." Six sighed.

It took half the morning to convince Pete the townsfolk could handle the dynamite if they needed it, and using it to keep the town safe was in everyone's best interest if it came down to brass tacks.

Lastly, she trudged over to the General Store. Based on Sunny's tone yesterday, she was not going to look forward to this. Chet welcomed her easily enough, but his attitude turned sour when she mentioned the fighting and a need for supplies.

"Now just hold on," Chet began. "I never voted to take on the Gangers. That a thousand cap investment you're talking about."

Oh goody, Six thought. The self-righteous money-grubbing type. Joy of joys.

Her lips were pursed into a line, and her face was devoid of emotion. For a moment, Chet wavered, but set his jaw and crossed his arms.

"Fine," Six chuckled, but there was no humor in her voice. "Let them take over the town, then. I'm sure your business will be much better off."

Chet's face shifted again as he thought about life under Powder Ganger rule – if there even would be a life. The Gangers might just take them all out and take over the store for themselves. This wasn't charity work, or anything like that. He wasn't taking a loss! It was self-preservation!

Support secured, Six headed back to the gas station to inform Ringo. The two sat together preparing their guns when Sunny burst in the door.

"Time to look alive," Sunny said breathlessly. "Powder Gangers are here to play." She passed both of them several sticks of dynamite courtesy of Easy Pete, as well as armor in decent condition, and surplus ammo. Hey, they'd take what they could get.

"I really hope I don't blow myself up…" Six heard her mutter as she rushed back out the door. Six followed after her, setting up down the road from the saloon. She laid down on her stomach behind a large rock, and looked through the scope of the sniper rifle she'd had when she was brought to Doc Mitchell's. As soon as she saw the Gangers, she opened fire, taking Joe Cobb's head off with one shot.

Several other shots popped off in rapid succession, largely from herself, Sunny and Ringo. Catching the Gangers off guard when they were still on the road proved effective. Chet took a stray round to the knee – serves him right – but was the only injury in the ensuing gunfight. Pete and Sunny helped him hobble to Doc Mitchell's, moaning and groaning all the way.

Six disassembled the gun in a way she could only say was instinctual and replaced it in her pack. Ringo rushed her, throwing caps at her and making her promise to visit the Crimson Caravan Company if she ever headed toward New Vegas. Internally, she knew that was where her road led. She tried to give the caps back to Ringo, stating she didn't help him for money, but he wouldn't take no for an answer, just insisting that she visit Crimson Caravan for the rest of her payment.

She approached Sunny on her way back to the saloon to retrieve Cheyenne, who she'd penned up for obvious reasons.

"Hey, I wanted to thank you for everything. I mean…with helping me get back on my feet, and the whole Ringo thing. I just have one more thing to ask you," Six said, walking back into the saloon with her new friend.

"Shoot!" Sunny said with a smile. She leaned down and scratched Cheyenne behind the ears.

"Trudy said the idiots who shot me mentioned the Strip, and that they wanted to avoid the I-15. I'm guessing Primm is my next stop, since that's where the Mojave Express is located. Can you suggest a route?" Six explained. Sunny nodded.

"Sure can. Take the road southeast out of town till it hits the freeway. Primm is the town with the roller coaster, straight south. Can't miss it. NCR patrols do a good job of keeping the highway clear, but I'd keep your gun where you can reach it easily. You never know who you'll run into. Off the road, you'll start running into hostile wildlife. My advice would be stick to the highway when you can. Oh, and you don't have to thank me. I'm just trying to help a new friend. One other thing from me…" Sunny trailed off. Six cocked an eyebrow

"When you think of your name, let me know, okay? Kinda weird just having to call you Six!" Sunny laughed, and Six couldn't help but join in. This had been one goddamned weird week by Six's standards – she'd been shot in the head, forgotten basically everything that wasn't an ingrained instinct, but managed to make friends with the whole damn town that saved her in less than two days. She reached down to pat Cheyenne, and was instead greeted with a full-face lick.

Sputtering, Six rocked backwards onto her ass, setting both of them off into another laughing fit. Trudy came out from around the bar to see what the commotion was, only to find Six sitting on the floor, face covered in saliva, Sunny with tears of laughter streaming down her face, and Cheyenne sitting on the floor looking pleased as punch. She smiled, hoping Six would come back one day.

When she could stop laughing for more than five minutes at a time, she stood and bid everyone farewell before facing the southeastern edge of town. Powder Ganger bodies still littered the road, and she stepped around them, looting them for ammo as she went. Hey, she was light in the cap-purse and very obviously had a journey ahead of her. It's not like they need it anymore. She could see Primm's dilapidated roller coaster as she rounded the bend, though it was a nice, long way off. Maybe around a 6 or 7 hour walk – she'd probably make it there around sundown.

The road felt familiar as she walked, but no other senses of warmth raced up her spine. She just trusted her feet to lead the way and take her to the smarmy sonofabitch who'd taken her chip and left her for dead.