The crisp autumn breeze brushed against the lone courier's skin. As he sat on the rugged ground having no clue where he sat; hands crudely bound by old, worn down rope. Suddenly a voice cut through the air.

"Is that the thing you were after?," a masculine voice bellowed "you've still yet to give us our payment."

The anonymous man said the latter bit with a sense of urgency.

"I said you'll get paid when the job is done," the second man stated matter-of-factly, "speaking of let's finish our business, shall we?"

The courier, growing ever the more nervous, heard footsteps approaching towards where he sat. Without warning the burlap sack that once hid his face was ripped away; three men stood before him; immediately in front of him was a Mohawed man wearing a jeans and a cutoff leather jacket, farther right was a redheaded, bearded man holding a shovel rocking back and forth in anticipation dressed akin to the other man.

What stood out the most to the courier was the man in the middle; a roughly 5'9, stocky, middle-aged man, wearing a checkered suit. The man in the suit quickly put out the cigarette in his hand and took six steps towards the ill-fated mailman.

"It's a shame you got twisted up in this mess," the checkered man said with a tone of fake pity, "from where you're kneeling this looks like a 9-karat run of bad luck. Just know this was never personal."

Without a chance to react the courier was quickly staring down the barrel of a 9MM pistol. Two shots then rang out.

"It's time to cash out. We head north from here to Vegas and the job is complete."

"We can't go north - it's too dangerous!," exclaimed the Mohawked man.

In an exasperated tone the suit wearing man retorted, "then which way SHOULD we go?"

"We'll take the 95 around through and take the 93 from there."

Following this conversation the lone mailman lied in his would be grave; slowly but surely bleeding to death. The sound of his murderer's footsteps growing more and more distant as silence finally took hold.

In what seemed to be hours an unusual noise could be heard from the six foot ditch the man lied in. Was someone operating a pre-war vehicle? No, it couldn't be. Suddenly, another noise penetrated his ears, scratching? Or is someone actually digging him up?

The last thing he saw was a metallic figure with a cowboy on its…. screen? The unexpected sensation of cold, metal claws grabbing him sent a jolt of electricity down his spine.

"Well, howdy, pardner," the robotic voice drawled, "you're lookin' a bit worse for wear now ain't ya?"

"I-," was all that could be mustered through bruised lips and a swollen face before going limp in his metallic savior's arms.

"Please let my father go!!! You can have the damn purifier just please let my dad walk away!"

Pounding on the 12" thick glass of a water purifier underneath the Jefferson Memorial in the ruins of what was Washington D.C. - a young man pleaded for his father's life.

The young man dressed in a blue suit with yellow trim and the number '101' emblazoned on the back with metal plating covering his left breastplate. Him, a team of elite scientists were aiding his father, James, in restoring an old project. This project was pioneered by his aforementioned father, his mother, and Doctor Madison Li. Their goal was to bring clean, purified water to the Capital Wasteland.

Those plans, however, would be delayed by the re-emerged Enclave. His father was the only one who knew the purifier activation code.

"This purifier will not be turned over to the likes of you," James spat at the man before him, "this was my project from day one and I refuse to let this fall into your hands."

"Very well," said the man, who was dressed in an Army general uniform before shooting the unfortunate research assistant.

"GEEUGH" the courier gasped out trying to sit up.

"Woah, easy there, easy," an elderly man's voice gently called out "glad you're finally awake. You've been out a couple of days now."

"Where am I?," the mailman thought to himself, trying to regain his vision among other faculties. Barely being able to make out an older gentleman standing over him. Taking notice of the older gentleman's demeanor he felt a warm sense of safety.

"I had to go rootin' through your noggin' to get the lead out. Let me know how I did."

The man, who he presumed was a doctor, handed him a mirror to examine himself with. His face looked the same as it had two days prior. His dark brown hair was buzzcut and the stubble that was there grew slightly thicker.

Caressing his face he admired his chiseled jawline and point nose with a slightly deviated septum. Handing the mirror back to the good doctor with a nod.

"How about your name? Can you tell me your name?," the kind gentleman asked.

"My name?," a puzzled look took form on the courier's face before settling on a neutral expression, "my name's Lucas. Lucas Matthews."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lucas Matthews. I'm Doctor Mitchell but you can just call me Doc Mitchell."

After doing some more rudimentary evaluations of his latest patient's wellbeing he decided he was good to get back in the saddle.

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc.," Lucas said with a firm shaking of hands.

"Don't mention it. By the way, I sorted through your belongings and found the invoice to your delivery. I hope your employer is understanding."

"I appreciate all your help, Doc. Do you happen to know where my attackers went?"

"I wish I could give you an answer but I was asleep when those events transpired and I wasn't awake until Victor came banging on my door with your body in tow."

"No worries, you've already saved my life and that's more than enough. I hope to one day repay you, Sir."

Taken aback by the last statement; Doc Mitchell smiled, "no need to repay me. I did what anyone in my field would've done. Oh, and by the way, welcome to Goodsprings."