"Ah, there we are. Can you hear me? Don't sit up too quick now." He ignored the command, sat up as fast as possible. Everything was a blur. Breathe. Focus.
There was a kindly looking old man watching him, holding a medical instrument. "Good," the old man continued, "You're awake. You've been through quite a lot, son. Took two bullets to the temple." He smiled, wryly, "Least I fished out two, so I hope that's all."
"Where..." dry throat. "Where am I?" He asked. It was a doctor's surgery, he could tell, quite well done up, with mostly intact prewar furniture, medical beds, equipment piled neatly on crates. Not a hot zone, no gunfire outside, yellow sunlight filtering through the dusty air.
"Easy now, just relax and get your bearings. I'm Doc Mitchell, and you're in the town of Goodsprings. What about your name? Can you tell me your name?"
"I..." What was his name? Trying to think about it made his head itch. He focused, and felt his brain crackle. It was gone. "I don't know."
"Sorry son," Mitchell said, in a calm, even tone, "I had to go rooting around in your noggin to get all the bits of lead out. I've got a neural regraftaliser but it's pretty beat up, and the facial reconstructotron isn't in great shape either. Maybe this'll jog the old cranium?" He grabbed a mirror and handed it, gently, to the man on the bed. He felt his fingers move in a familiar way, and took it from the old man, looked down. A face, his face, he supposed. Familiar, and yet not. Young, somewhat, but worn, a few scars here and there, with a subtle but noticeable wrinkle on his left temple where the bullets must have gone in.
"Anything?" asked Mitchell.
"No, nothing."
"Well, this is all you had on you when you came in," the Doc replied, handing over a piece of worn paper, a small leather bag about the size of his hand, and a bottle of some liquid that was almost recognisable, but just out of reach. "Says you're a courier with the Mojave Express. So I think it's best we call you Courier until your name comes back to you or you pick a new one." He watched the man who had survived two shots to the head look down at the paper, squinting. "You read, son?"
"Yes." The paper was familiar. The shapes on it made sense – his mind was finding some purchase at last.
DELIVERY ORDER
SIX (6) OF SIX (6)
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 the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.
Bonus on completion: 250 caps.
MANIFEST
This package contains:
One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum
CONTRACT PENALTIES
You are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express Package until delivery is complete and payment has been processed, contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver the proper recipient may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said reclamation efforts.
"I remember..." said the Courier, very quietly.
He's kneeling in the ditch. The smell of smoke, acrid but sweet, in the air. Several large men in tribal outfits smoking, bickering. Night.
We got the fucker, let's get out of here and get paid, says one.
Look who's waking up over here, says the other.
Look up. The bonds around his wrists are too tight, so nothing to be done. There's another man, not like the others. His suit is pristine, stylish. Hair slick with grease.
"I don't know how you Khans do things, buddy, but I never kill a cat without looking him in the eye," he says, his accent ostentatiously assumed. Like a bad actor playing at being a different sort of person. He walks up to the Courier kneeling in the dirt, drops his cigarette, pockets a flashy gold lighter.
"Sorry pally," he says, drawing a gold plated pistol and drawing back the slide, "From where you're kneelin' this must seem like a 24-carat run of bad luck." Flicking off the safety. "But the truth is, daddio, the game was rigged from the start." Taking aim. "No hard feelin's, okay pal?"
Bang.
Bang.
Blackness, then dirt, everywhere, closing down on him, suffocating. A scratching noise, and then metal arms pulling him from the grave in an impossibly strong grip. Trying to fight, choking on the blood streaming from his head. Passing out.
"I was shot by a..." how to describe the man? "A man in a fancy suit. Had some tribals with him. And a robot?"
"That'd be Victor," said the Doc, "He dug you out, gave me a fright dumpin' you on my doorstep at God knows what in the middle of the night. Good thing though, 'cos a few more minutes and you might not 'a pulled through."
"He took... he took the chip I was delivering."
"Folks 'round the Mojave don't generally kill other folks without robbin' them first, son," Doc Mitchell said, "Least, not too often."
The Courier sighed. "I need to get it back, finish the delivery." Doc Mitchell looked surprised.
"Quite the sense of duty you got there, son."
"Well," the Courier smirked, trying to ignore his splitting headache, "I need something to do while I wait to find out who the hell I am."
Mitchell nodded. "Not just yet though, Courier. Got some tests to run." He smiled. "See if your dogs are still barkin', or of those bullets left you nuttier than a brahmin patty."
