Author's Note: As a treat, and an apology for suddenly uprooting Red Sands and replacing it, here's a second chapter!
The young courier's eyes slowly opened, and bright daylight flooded them, causing her to groan in pain. She lifted an arm weakly to cover her eyes, shielding them from the bright light. After a few moments, she moved her arm. Her vision was blurry, and she couldn't tell where she was.
"Ungh...My head..." She groaned, feeling a throbbing in her head. Why did it hurt so much? And just where was she, anyway?
"Well, you're awake. How 'bout that?" A voice sounded not far from her, and she turned her head. She could vaguely make out a masculine figure, older, with a bald head and a funny mustache. She slowly sat up, shaking a bit as she exerted pressure on her arms. The man rushed to her side, helping her to straighten herself out.
"Woah!" He exclaimed, holding her back until he determined she could sit up properly. "Easy, there. You been out cold a couple'a days now." He took a seat in a chair across from her, looking her over, making sure there was nothing physically wrong. "Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings." She looked over to him, speaking softly.
"Where...Where am I?" She asked shakily.
"Goodsprings. You were shot just outside'a town a couple weeks ago. Couple'a thugs had you buried in our cemetery. You're lucky Victor showed up, or you'dve been dead." The man explained. The girl tried to remember...She remembered a man in a checkered suit, but she couldn't remember his face. He smoked, she knew. She remembered a glowing cigarette being smashed into the ground. She also remembered a silver 9mm, with something engraved on the side. She remembered his last words to her, as well.
"From where you're kneelin', this must seem like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck. But, the truth is, the game was rigged from the start."
She couldn't understand what he meant, no matter how she racked her brain. "The game was rigged from the start?" The words were cryptic, without much detail. The man sitting before her, presumably a doctor, could tell she had a lot on her mind.
"Well, we'd best see what the damage is. Do you remember your name?" He asked kindly, in an attempt to keep her calm. The girl racked her memory again. Something came to surface. A paper, a contract, maybe? A pale hand messily scribbled a name, "Alessa Grant."
"Grant," She replied, and the man raised an eyebrow at what sounded like a very masculine name for a young woman such as herself. "Alessa Grant." She said again, as if noting his confusion. He chuckled faintly.
"Well, not the sorta name I'dve picked for ya, if you were my kid, but a name's a name." He held out a hand. "I'm Doc Mitchell, and I'd like to extend a formal welcome to Goodsprings." She took his hand, a bit confused as he shook hers, then let go.
"It's...Good to meet you, Doctor." She nodded, and he smiled.
"Now, I noticed you were wearin' glasses when Ol' Vic brought you in, but they were broken. If you'd like, I got a spare pair somewhere around here." He got up, rummaging around a nearby desk, and returned with a pair of well worn reading glasses, handing them to Alessa. "Try 'em on for size."
She slipped the glasses on, and the room cleared up instantly. The house looked fairly old, as if it had been around for at least two hundred years, but it was kept in pretty good condition. It was a little dusty, but Alessa didn't mind that so much.
"Thank you, Doctor." She adjusted the glasses a bit. Doc Mitchell merely smiled.
"No need to thank me. Oh, and by the way, I think you'll need somethin' to cover yerself up. Don't need folks around here pickin' on ya for lackin' modesty." He joked, chuckling as he disappeared again. This time, he came back with a neatly folded leather bodysuit, a large number "21" stitched onto it. He handed it to her, and she ran her hands along the blue leather. She didn't know why, but the suit looked so familiar.
"It was my wife's." Mitchell said, and she looked up, confused. "I grew up in one'a them Vaults they made back before the war, but she didn't wear it much when we left." He chuckled. "Felt it was too brazen. I think she was about your size. If you'd like, I could give ya some privacy while ya change."
"Thank you." She nodded, and Mitchell stepped out. When he came back in, Alessa had pulled the suit on, but the zipper wouldn't go all the way over her chest. Her cheeks flushed a bit. At least she had the white tanktop she'd been wearing to cover most of her cleavage, but she was still quite embarrassed. Mitchell chuckled again.
"Guess I made a miscalculation. Well, y'don't look trashy, so y'don't have to worry." He stood slowly, and held out his hands. "No sense keepin' you in bed anymore. What's say we get you on your feet?" Alessa reached out, taking his hands. Hers were small and pale, but her palms were rough from her years in the Wastes. Mitchell's were darker and rougher than hers. With his help, she slowly rose to a stand, shaking for a moment, but soon steadying herself. "Well," Mitchell commented, "It doesn't look like you have any atrophy goin' on. That's good news. Okay, why don't you try walking to the other end of the room, over by that Vigor-Tester machine, there?" He stepped back a bit from her, hands ready to catch her if she stumbled. She began to take one step, then another, quicker than he thought possible for someone who'd just been shot in the head. "Take it slow, now. It ain't a race." He commented. Alessa slowed her steps, a little frightened of the prospect of falling and hurting herself. It took about five minutes for her to reach the other end of the room, but she made it. Doc Mitchell smiled.
"Good job. Why don't you give the Vigor Tester a try?" He suggested, then chuckled. "We'll learn right quick if you got back all your faculties." Alessa stared at the machine, confused by the two buttons and the odd stick in the middle on the panel sticking out towards her.
"What do I do? Just press the buttons?" She asked, and Mitchell nodded.
"Machine does all the work for ya." Alessa nodded, and began to test herself. Strength was ranked at "Beached Jellyfish," which made her frown slightly. Her Perception, without glasses, was ranked at "Squinting Newt," but with glasses, she was ranked at "Big-Eyed Tiger," a definite improvement. Her endurance was also somewhat low, ranked at "Handle With Care," as well as her Charisma, ranked at "Peevish Librarian." Her Intelligence, and Agility were her best stats, Intelligence at "Smartypants," Agility at "Knife Catcher." However, something strange happened with her luck. The machine actually buzzed and smoked, breaking completely down. Alessa was shocked. Had she done something wrong? Mitchell was shocked.
"I ain't never seen it do nothin' like that before." He commented, amazed. "It's almost like it couldn't decide on a result." Doc Mitchell looked over her other stats, and nodded at her Perception (with glasses), Intelligence, and Agility. She seemed discouraged, however, by her Strength, Endurance, and Charisma. And the fact that her Luck score had broke the machine worried her.
"Don't worry," Mitchell said. "You'll get your strength back in due time, and not everybody can be gifted with a silver tongue. And trust me when I say the Wastes will make you tougher." His face suddenly turned serious. "I won't lie to you. It's dangerous out there. You should know all too well." Alessa cringed slightly as she remembered her wounds. She still didn't know what she had done to deserve them, but didn't want to question it, either.
"Why don't you take a seat on my couch?" Mitchell's question snapped her back to reality, and she nodded. He lead her into the living room, and she sat down on the couch. The next half hour or so consisted of questions, filling out a medical form, and looking at ink blots. The answers showed that she was very intelligent, but didn't like to talk much (not a surprise, judging by her Charisma score). Once all was said and done, Mitchell stood.
"Well, that's that. Oh, before I forget, you'll be needin' your things back." He retreated to another room, and returned with Alessa's belongings. Among them were a leather knapsack, a leather belt with three different pouches and a holster, a well-used 10mm pistol, a note, exactly fifty-three bottle caps, and a strange metal device, that looked like it fit on someone's arm. Alessa took her belongings back, slipping her hand into the device. It fit her perfectly.
"It's called a Pip-Boy," Mitchell explained at her confused look. "Guess you must've grown up in a Vault, too. It was on your arm when you were found. Also, I hope you don't mind, but I gave the note a look. Hoped it'd help me find a next-of-kin. But, it was just somethin' about a Platinum Chip." Alessa quickly read the note over. It was a delivery order from the Mojave Express. She was to deliver a Platinum Chip to someone in New Vegas. She looked up at Doc Mitchell, placing the note and caps into the knapsack, holstering her pistol in the leather belt that now hung around her hips.
"Thank you for, um...For patching me up, Doctor." Mitchell chuckled.
"Don't mention it. S'what I'm here for. If you're still achin', I got a couple'a partin' gifts." He retreated to the "clinic" area, and returned with five Stimpacks, two shots of Med-X, and a small cloth bag. She took the Stims and Med-X, piling them into her sack, and looked into the cloth bag, finding a Laser Pistol with twenty Energy Cells.
"Sir, I can't accept-" She began to speak, but Mitchell cut her off.
"Take it. I don't got any use for it. It'll do you more good'n it'd do sittin' here, collectin' dust." Alessa nodded, tying the small sack around her belt, using it as a makeshift holster. "Now, you may wanna see Sunny Smiles. She can help you get back on your feet, so to speak. Teach you to defend yourself. If you need supplies, talk to Chet. He can provide what you need." Alessa nodded, and Mitchell led her to the door. She thanked him again, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.