Getting shot in the head hurts. Like, a lot. You might be nodding your head and saying "Yeah, i got shot once. I know what you're talking about." You don't. You have no idea. The bullet, upon entering one's skull, severs nerves and causes the body to experience a variety of unpleasant sensations. For me, it felt like my forth rib was dug out of my torso by a deathclaw, then subsequently sharpened and stabbed into right wrist. Also, my foot fell asleep. So clearly, if you are reading this without having been similarly shot, you have no idea what you're talking about.

After dieing in a ditch for forever and an day (actually it was probably like 3 minutes but it hurt like forever) something dragged me to the doctor's. That was awfully kind of them, although they do turn out to be the assholes who shot me, so i suppose i don't owe them any thanks. Said doctor was a nice, old guy, by the name of Mitchell. I was convinced that he had some horrible secret. See, obviously shifty people have their secrets, but nice looking guys have really atrociously horrible secrets. Lots of them involve cannibalism.

He asked me my name. I told him it was Arden. I'm fairly certain that's my name, but as i was also born in a place called Arden, it's entirely possible that i have amnesia. At least I'm aware of possible confusion. Helps me keep my guard up when someone from my past recognizes me. He told me to examine myself in a "Reflectron." Why a polished metal surface wouldn't have sufficed is beyond my level to give a shit. I looked at myself. I was gorgeous. I am often complimented for my modesty. Those compliments are bitter and sarcastic. Unfortunately, the people who killed me looted my unconscious corpse before they left it on some cannibal's doorstep. They had been conscientious enough to leave me the lowest layer of my leather armor, probably because Doctor Mitchell does not treat hookers.

"Hey, where the hell is all my stuff?" I asked politely. Brain damage. It was difficult to form a sentence without saying something offensive.

"Why, I don't rightly know" said Mitchell. God I hated his homespun brahmin rancher mannerisms. I can't even understand how he managed to acquire such mannerisms, as everyone else seemed to talk like a sane person. "You have everything I found you in." I bit my tongue. While I longed to be way the hell out of here, drowning my sorrows in overpriced booze, I also longed not to die of colossal brain hemorrhage. He told me to get up and walk around. I was unsteady, so either the lead to the brain or the extended bed rest had sapped my strength. "Easy does it, now. Don't over do it." Mitchell said unhelpfully. I saw a Vit-O-Matic machine, a Pre-war parlor trick now used by incompetent doctors to diagnose their patient's level of atrophy in seven handy attributes. I sauntered over to it and took the grip firmly in my hand.

Strength 10 : Hercules' Bigger Cousin. That was good. I liked my strength, it let me hit people until they did what I wanted them to. Especially dieing.

Perception 3: Squinting Newt. I was horribly farsighted, and my glasses were missing. Predictably.

Endurance 7: Tough-As-Nails. Good, so I could eat and breath on cue now. Very impressive.

Charisma 1: Misanthrope. I hate this test and the mean things it says about my people skills.

Intelligence 4: Knuckle Head. This test is broken. I'm sure of it.

Agility 8: Knife Catcher. Ok, cool. Nothing too fancy, but I could pull of some trick shots. If I ever used guns.

Luck 6: Stacked Deck. I think this stat is just to balance out incongruities with all the others.

"Huh. Must be some frontal lobe damage." He said. He's going to eat me, I was sure. Damn cannibals, with their cannibalism. I think the Vit-O-Matic just knew that I was a misanthrope, hence the reading, Misanthrope. He took me to a couch and began asking invasive personal questions. He likes to meet the meat.

"All right. I'm going to say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind." He said.

"I know how a word association test works, Doctor. I've been to the doctor's before. Many times." I said. Snide comments always come to me after the fact. I can't talk to people.

"Just standard procedure. Dog." He drawled on.

"Bitch. By transiton, your mother." I snapped. Brain damage. He didn't react, probably just to spite me."

"House."

"That one asshole in the tower."

He chuckled. "So, not so amnesiac after all. Night."

"Shining power armor."

"Bandit."

"Gunshot wounds to the head."

"Light."

"Vegas."

"Last one; Mother."

"Dead."

"You probably know what comes next, right?" He laughed. Each sound have of his laughter came from fuel in human flesh. I am not deceived.

"Yes. Now, hurry on. I have some people who need to die."

"Conflict just ain't in my nature."

"Disagree. Also, ain't is terrible grammer."

"I ain't given to relying on others for support." He probably repeated ain't just to mess with me.

"No opinion" That was a lie. It was actually a confilict of opinons that canceled eachother.

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

"Agree."

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Strongly disagree."

"I charge in to deal with my problems head-on."

"Strongly agree. And now for inkblots?" I asked. I have taken this test before. Many, many times.

"Yes." He held up an inkblot, it looked like an inkblot. "It's an inkblot. It looks like an inkblot." I said. He held up another. It was a sword in a stone. The next was a spade.

"Well, that about does it. Here's your results, tell me if anything looks off."

It didn't. Reckless, headstrong, rational but slow to trust. I've seen these results. I marked off the medical history forms too. Nearsightedness and an itchy trigger finger. "Hey, Doctor? Who, exactly, was the person responsible for the new fold in my skull?" I asked. I was in a murderous mood.

"It was this fella in a checker suit, and some Great Khan henchman. Apparently you were the wrong lady, and the guy with the 'good package' was already somewhere else. The Khans dumped you here when they realized their mistake. What all were you taking in that package."

I thought back. It was a Snow-globe for Mr. House, Pre-war millionaire and professional pain in the ass. Still, the guy who offered it to me offered so many caps I couldn't say no. Too many, even.

"Doctor, I think I have to go. Now. I was clearly framed and there's someone who needs to pay up. Do you have any clue where he might have gone?" I asked, fire in my eyes. Metaphorically speaking.

"'Fraid not, little lady. Maybe you could ask someone else around town? We have lots of knowledgeable folks 'round these parts."

"I've got to go. Now. I'll figure it out in Primm or somewhere. Thanks for the medical support, have a nice life." And then I was out. He probably spent that whole evening hungry. Sucker.