A pounding headache smashed into his head. Bright flares of pain echoed through his mind as he shivered. A red flag. Golden bull. A bear. A chip made of flawless platinum. A casino that rose from the ground to commander a city of sin,vice, and death.

His mind was darkness. There was a tunnel. Dark and foreboding. But there was a light. But every time he tried to walk to the light, a searing pain in his head would make him take a step back.

Memories of a time that had past. Skin burning, mind reeling. The soft melodic singing of an angelic voice that echoed through the abandon halls of his mind. A man with greying hair and a never ending smile on the ground, dead. A fortress that commanded the view over a river of death. Men and women that died for a dream that came true just for him to be exiled by the one he loved. A fiery explosion that took his last remaining family. Leaving the lands of his home and wandering. A lone wanderer in the wastelands. Finding the city in the oasis. Becoming a messenger, sometimes of a message of death and warning, sometimes delivering packages. A woman with dark hair, scarlet eyes and red armor.

What was his name? His mind raced across the vast expanse of his endless vault that he called his checked every corner and nook and cranny. But they could not find two words that were his name.

There he was again. At the entrance of the tunnel. Bright light was coming from the end, beckoning him to go there. Sweet light, warmness that engulfed his entire body. He wanted to bask in it, glorify it. He looked up, and then everything came crashing down. A man in a checkered suit, aiming a pistol at his head.

"Well, how about that," an old weathered voice said. Flashes of sight entered the mind of the man, random outbursts of light and a ceiling fan making a rotation over and over, blowing fresh stale air into his nose. Inhaling, he coughed before looking at the origin of the voice.

The man that had the voice was old, with white hair that was balding in the center of his tanned white skin, a handlebar mustache that was slightly gray with wisps of white, and brown eyes that had seen too much death and destruction in this world.

"Wow, easy there," the old man said, as he tried to look over to his side. Immediately fresh waves of pain crashed like waves against his head. He clutched his head, and looked at the old man.

"You've been out cold for a couple days now," the old man said carefully, allowing the bedridden man to understand." Why don't you just relax for a second?"

"Get your bearings and we'll see what the damage is." Damage? What damage? On instinct, the man raised his right hand to his face, and on his forehead, felt a soft covering of a bandage over his right eye.

"How bout your name. Can you tell me your name?" the old man asked and the man scratched his head. What is my name? His mind was empty. As he was about to tell him his name, it suddenly came crashing into his mind.

Zephyr. Zephyr, son of Zachary.

"My name is Zephyr. The son of Zachary," Zephyr said, still confused about the name. Was his name really Zephyr? He just decided to go with it until he learned more about his surroundings.

"Well, that's not the name I pick for ya, but if that's your name, then that's your name," the old man chuckled. "I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."

Goodsprings? What town is this? Then it came to him. Goodsprings, a small town of about twenty or so inhabitants. Weak defenses, barely any guards, no dangerous gangs or wildlife except for the wild assortment of death awaiting for the foolish travelers trying to go north.

"Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around in your noggin for pieces of lead and what not," Doc then stopped to darkly chuckle. "I like to take pride in my needlework, but I just need you to look yourself over. How'd I do?"

The Doctor handed him a cracked mirror, and was dusty. Raising it, he saw what he looked like. Cracked dried skin from days without moisture. A bandage that wrapped around his head, covering his right eye with specks of blood. His skin was tanned and golden, though he was a man that was of fair skin. Must be from all the days out in the sun. His left eye was open, a golden iris looking back at him. He was dressed in nothing but a shirt and underwear. Boxers the color of night.

"Well, how you do look?" Doc Mitchell asked, before chuckling again.

"I look good Doc. A little pain here and there and the cracked and dried skin sure ain't a going to be the key to getting ladies. But all in all, I look good," Zephyr joked and Doc Mitchell joined him. It felt good, joking and laughing, despite not knowing anything about his past. His mind was a blank. All he knew that he was on a bed in a small town called Goodsprings.

"Hey Doc, how did I get in this bed? I don't remember anything but my name," Zephyr said and Doc looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

"You got shot in the noggin my friend. Two bullets that grazed your skull and almost killed you. Some passing people got ya and brought you here. People in red and golden armor. Under the banner of the bull," Doc Mitchell said and suddenly more memories came crashing into his skull.

A woman, more lovelier than the sun itself, more beautiful than the desert, and accompanied by men in red, had dug him out and handed him to the Doc. A man in a checkerboard suit that had shot him with a golden gun.

"Who was the woman? I remember it was a beautiful woman, but I don't remember her name," Zephyr said sadly He remembered her voice, as sweet as honey and maybe even sweeter, but he couldn't remember her name. You have to remember your name.

"She said her name was Juno. She dug you out of a ditch, but she didn't go into detail. You might want to check with the people in town or the saloon after ya recover," Doc Mitchell said carefully. His voice was defensive and careful like he was hiding something. Whatever he was hiding, it was his own damn business. The man had saved his life, so he was free from those kind of prying questions Zephyr wanted to ask.

"Do you think you can stand up son?" the Doc asked wearily, as if he had grown twenty years older since a few minutes passed.

"I think so Doc. Can you help me?" he asked and the Doc extended his hand. Zephyr extended his hands and grasped the arms of the Doc and he pulled up, gasping in pain as feeling surged back into his legs. Waves of pain flared back into his arms as well, straining from the use. But before he knew it, he was on the rough wood, his weathered feet clasping onto it. It felt strange, standing on his own feet, clad in nothing but a shirt and boxers. Doc Mitchell gently grasped his arm.

"C'mon son, let's head over to the Vit-o-matic Vigor Test to see how yer bearings are," and Zephyr saw a machine that was sitting near the doorway. As he was standing on his own two feet, the wood felt cold and fresh on his soles, and the pain was being replaced with pleasurement due to him standing. Feeling was flooding his legs, and his arms were becoming stronger. Whatever the Doc was, he was a god to Zephyr right now for his treatment of him.

"Hey Doc, can I walk over there on my power? I want to get some feeling in my legs and see what these old things can do," Zephyr said and Doc unclasped his hands with uneasy grace. Without the Doc's hands, his legs trembled due to him not being used to his own weight, but he managed to right himself. Standing by himself made him feel pride of his accomplishments. It seemed like hours had passed before he decided to take his first step. When he didn't fall, he took another, then another. Soon he was walking on his own two feet and swiftly made it to the Vigor Machine.

"Hey, take a squeeze. See how yer doing after being shot," Doc encouraged and Zephyr grasped the cool handle of the machine. Giving it a squeeze, he watched the machine light up and soon he saw the first category.

"Hmm, Strength, you got a six. Nothing special, but hey, you just got shot so standing on your two feet and managing to get a six is good. Squeeze it again," and so Zephyr did.

"You ain't that silver tongued, but a six. You some salesman huh?" Doc jested and Zephyr gave the machine another squeeze.

"Damn son, you some kind of walking ghost? You got the agility of a freaking deathclaw, maybe even quicker. And you look like you got some eye. Sniper hawk? Give it one more squeeze," and so Zephyr did.

"Damn once more. You're like a walking library. But look at that, you must have been standing under a ladder, while being followed by thirteen pitch black cats. But seeing that you were shot, it looks like you got some good luck! Though the Vigor Machine is sometimes wrong. Oh well, follow me. I got some more tests and try to find how ya family history is about," Doc chuckled again," Though it's not like I expect you to have a family history of being shot in the head."

His living room had a bare couch that was uncomfortable to sit in, a desolate fireplace and several other items that he did not like. Boxes of stuff stacked against the cracked dry walls that smelled slightly...well just wrong. But since this was the post-war world, one cannot expect people to invest in cleaning their walls.

"I'm going to say some words and you're going to tell me the first word that pops up in your head," Doc said and Zephyr nodded. Sounded easy enough to Zephyr.

"Dog," and soon the word "friend" came up in his mind. Did he have a dog before he was shot?

"Friend," he said and Doc Mitchell nodded.

"Bandit," Doc said next and Zephyr wracked his head for an answer.

"Kill," he said and Doc nodded again.

"Night," and Zephyr said automatically," Silencer." Hmmm, must have had a silenced weapon before he was shot.

"House."

"Renovate. I like my houses fixed up."

"Light."

"Torch."

"Mother."

"Regret," the word came to Zephyr so fast that he blurted it out as soon as Mother was said. His stomach tightened as he thought about it. Though he didn't know anything about his mother, it was still gut wrenching guilt he was experiencing.

"Ok, now I'm gonna have a few statements said. I want you to tell how much you agree, disagree, or if you have no opinion."

"Conflict just ain't my nature."

"Disagree."

"I ain't given to relying on other people."

"Agree."

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

"Strong disagree."

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Strongly agree."

Suddenly the ground trembled followed by robust coughing. Doc Mitchell looked undisturbed, but Zephyr was not.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded and Doc Mitchell just shrugged.

"It was Easy Pete trying to teach some youngling how to throw dynamite. Probably didn't work out as well as he thought of. Well, sunny me boy, you're doing fine. I think it's time we get you back onto the scene and doing something. Follow me," and the Doc rose to walk to some other part of the house, closely followed by Zephyr. A swirl of pain hit then and now, but with him getting used to walking, it was less that expected. Following him into the hallway, he saw a few dusty caps, a leather hat, along with some burnt books in bookcases, a testimony to the havoc wrecked on the earth by the atomic bombs.

"I had somethings with me. Where are they?" Zephyr asked. It was a question that had been burning in him. To his alarm, the Doc's expression seem to darken.

"The men that attacked you left you little. Just a vault suit that was armored, a 9mm pistol, and this," he answered and stepped into a hallway. Coming back shortly, he presented something that was very dear to his heart.

It was his samurai sword, a sword that had been passed down the generations in his family. Called Dragon's Teeth throughout the years, it was still as sharp as the day it was made. The worn black scabbard was still there, inscribed with a language that had long been lost to his family.

"They took everything else I guess. Here, I got something else for ya," he said somberly. He took something from one of the shelves and presented to it.

It was a Pip-Boy, one of the few relics of the past that was still used heavily today, besides weapons, food, and basic medical supplies that dotted the wastelands. Useful for navigation, keeping track of inventory, and letting you know if you had radiation and were near death, it was a pretty useful tool.

"Used to be my wife's before she died. Not useful anymore to me, so I hoped you can use it."

Zephyr felt a wave of emotions rush over him. He felt undying gratitude for the man that had saved his life.

"Thank you Doc," he said with a tear running down his cheek.

"Don't worry about it kid. Just be a good man and live long. Also prosper. What are ye gonna do when you get out there?" he asked.

"I'm going to go out there to do things," he then paused and looked down at the Pip-Boy in his hands," and I'm gonna hunt down the bastard who shot me."

And then he started towards the door and as he opened it, the blinding sun reached his eyes. He took his first step forward...

"SON! YOU FORGOT TO PUT YOUR SUIT BACK ON!"