[ This fan fiction is pretty much the first thing I've uploaded here - any criticism and all comments were welcome. Usual "I don't own Fallout", and whatnot.]
[ On another note: As a bit of explanation, this story was written with the intent of some limited amount of realism and ignoring some game mechanics- the main character isn't going to take weeks to lay in bed and recover from the traditional headshot wound, but do not expect: spinny-killbot style melee combat, a character with an unreasonably traumatic past, some out-of-nowhere femme fatale protagonist or deep philosophical debates. Just bear with me as I present the story of a Courier Six who would like nothing more than to just survive for another day. With that, please strap in, and keep all hands and feet inside the ride at all times. ]
She didn't understand. She simply didn't understand.
That was the main thought that filled the woman's head. It hurt, and she couldn't think straight, much less see, but... she would have been willing to trade whatever few comfortable sensations she was still feeling - her heartbeat, the fact that her limbs seemed to be attached, and the feeling of clothes on her body - for a simple explanation.
She'd done everything right, hadn't she? It was hard to concentrate, but… she'd come the route that she'd been advised to - through the Outpost, past Primm… the rest was a haze. She'd been walking along the route, alone in the blazing sun, and all she remembered after that was pain and darkness. She was a courier, not some gang member, or anyone who would be a target for some sort of revenge.
Spikes of pain erupted inside the woman's skull, replacing the dull and groggy feeling of darkness with the harsh and unforgiving light of the Mojave wasteland. The rays pierced her eyes like needles as they began to adjust. A constant ringing echoed through her ears. She gave out a raggedy cough at this new revelation, trying to inhale air. She felt a metallic taste in her mouth. Blood. Just from her lips, hopefully. A small portion of her mind laughed at such an attempt to be hopeful. She wasn't some battle-hardened veteran or desert survivor, but… she knew the way things worked.
She mustered enough strength to shakily move her head, a sharp pain flooding through her neck as she looked up from the ground in front of her to her hands. Her bound hands, tied with a thick knot of rope, pressing tightly against her wrists, a red mark already formed from the pressure.
Looking up farther, she noticed a few shapes, mere outlines as she took in the bright light coming from behind them. As her eyes adjusted, the details became sharper. Three men. Two that resembled a sort of gang stood to either side of a well-dressed-man in a checkered suit. One held a shovel.
The realisation hit the woman rather quickly, considering the searing pain. Oh, dear god. She'd known, of course, since the moment she'd taken the first blow to the head, since the moment she'd woken up, but… she'd had a hope. Some small, tiny glimmer of light - that it was a mistake. That they just wanted information, that they wanted to rob her, that they were slavers… but she was going to die. She was going to die, and be buried in an unmarked grave.
A sensation of anger rose inside the woman. It… wasn't fair. It was a childish thought, she knew, but… it angered her all the same. Why her? What had she ever done to them? She racked her brain, tried to think of some desperate explanation but it merely brought on another wave of pain. Instead, she settled for struggling against the rope, trying to push it against it as it cut into her skin.
The man turned around - the one wearing the checkered suit - before the other ones followed his lead, turning to look at me. She looked up at him, her expression one of confusion and pleading. The man's lips moved, but the ringing in her ears simply grew louder. He reached into a coat pocket, pulling out a small object. It was hard to make out, but the woman recognised the shape. The delivery. The stupid chip - was that what they wanted? Was that what her life was worth to them? Some goddamn poker chip? A new feeling of anger at the situation overcame her, as she resumed struggling against the bindings.
The man silenced her quickly enough the moment he pulled out the handgun. It was a gun that practically bounced the light off of it, but it didn't matter to her. All that mattered was what it meant - no bargaining, no offers, no chance. Her life - barely having the chance to truly begin - was about to be ended due to something outside of her control, by someone she never knew, in a series of events that she still couldn't understand.
As the man continued to speak, the ringing slowly subsided. She tried to speak, to say whatever words she could, to plead or to bargain, but nothing came out. The words were still a jumbled mess, just ringing in different tones, up until the man pointed the gun directly at her. Something - maybe adrenaline, or just pure concentration - cleared the ringing just enough for her to hear her executioner's last few words.
"-rigged from the start."
That was all the woman received as the man stopped speaking, raising the elegant gun the slightest bit. Aiming it at her skull, and pausing for only the briefest of moments. She managed a quiet attempt at a cry of fear, trying to move, before she saw the flash.
Two flashes, specifically… but too close together for her eyes to make the distinction, and flying far too quickly for her brain to understand in time. The first bang caused the ringing to return for less than a second, before the first bullet collided . There was no pain. There was nothing at all.
She fell on her left side, seeing the ground as her head collided with it, but not feeling it. Her mind refused. Everything seemed to grow dull, becoming dimmer and dimmer as the woman faded into confusion and darkness.