"Well," Doc Mitchell put aside his clipboard, "as far as I can tell, your dogs are still barking."

Him and Akira had moved to the living room for the psychological examination; Akira was sitting on the couch, and Doc was placed on a chair opposite him.

"Is the check-up done?" Akira asked. "Can I go now?"

"Just one last last question," Doc replied. "Most Vault dwellers I've met had a Pip-Boy. What happened to yours?"

What the heck is a Pip-Boy? Akira thought. "The name doesn't tell me anything. Maybe we called them differently in my Vault."

"It's a wrist-mounted multipurpose device," Doc explained. "It'd come in handy out in the Wasteland."

The lie almost wrote itself. Akira pulled out his smartphone and briefly showed it to him. "Yeah, I have mine here. Ours were handheld, and relied on a connection to an external network with all the data, so they're kinda useless outside."

"I see." Doc got up from his chair and gestured for him to follow. "Well, I've had mine collectin' dust for quite some time now," he said, going to his bedroom. Akira watched him open a drawer at the bottom of a dresser, with two retro-looking devices inside, and pull out one of them. "Look at that, the battery's still holdin'." He glanced at Akira. "Give me your left arm, I'll put it on for ya."

Akira watched him put this heavy piece of equipment on his skinny noodle arm. "What can it do?" he asked.

"Keep track of your vitals and inventory, show you the map of the area, detect radiation, tell time and date, pick up radio signals, play holotapes, and store notes, both written and dictated," Doc listed off. "It also has a built-in flashlight, and should you get in a scuffle, it's sturdy enough to bash someone's head in without damagin' the casin'."

Time and date… Akira fumbled with the buttons and dials a bit to try and display it. He almost kept his poker face after seeing the year 2281. "And you're just giving it to me?"

"If you're as clueless as you appear to be, you need all the help you can get," Doc replied. "I'm gonna say it again – Mojave's unlike whatever fancy Vault you were raised in. Talk to Sunny before leaving town. For your own good."

"I will, I promise," Akira nodded.

"Very well then," he walked back to the corridor and gestured at the door at the end of it. "The exit's over there. Good luck out there, don't forget your jacket."

"Thank you." Akira bowed his head, then grabbed his school uniform from the coat stand, wrapped it around his waist – whenever and wherever he was, it was certainly not winter anymore – opened the front door and got blinded by the sun.

As soon as his eyes adjusted, he closed the door behind himself and took a sweeping look around. Goodsprings was a small desert settlement, minuscule in comparison to both Tokyo and his hometown. Two brick buildings were placed in the center of it – the one on the left was narrow, with some large boxes in front of it and Goodsprings General Store written on the front. Its neighbor was much wider, it had a sheet metal lean-to in the front, a porch with a few chairs on it, and a mismatched Saloon neon sign hanging above it. Around them were assorted cottage houses in various states of dilapidation, from 'almost ready to move in' to 'a pile of rubble with bits of frame remaining standing'. Some of the buildings had gardens nearby, each with a few plants sturdy enough to survive the unforgiving climate.

He walked down the small hill Doc Mitchell's house was built on, towards the saloon – putting aside his request, a local community hub seemed like a logical next step. The locals were giving him curious glances – he must've been sticking out like a sore thumb.

He opened the door and was greeted with a bark. Inside was a dog, which trotted up to him, curious, and started sniffing his trousers.

"Don't worry, she doesn't bite," a female voice from the inside reassured him. "Cheyenne, come 'ere!"

The dog returned to her master. Akira got in and closed the door behind himself. The interior was colder than the desert outside – the rickety air conditioners above the windows were working decently enough. A wall with old framed posters on it was splitting the building into two halves. In the one Akira was in at the time, there was a pool table with most balls missing, and a few assorted tables with a bunch of bar stools by them. In the other was the bar counter, complete with a friendly-looking bartender behind it, and a few booths. In one of them were sitting two people in leather armor – a young lady with red hair tied in a bun, no doubt Sunny Smiles, and a guy on the chubbier side, with long messy brown hair and an unkempt beard.

"Oh, you're that kid I found out cold," he said.

"And you're that courier that brought me to a doctor, I assume," Akira replied, walking up to them. "The lady must be Ms Smiles, Doc Mitchell mentioned you during small-talk."

"Call me Sunny," Sunny said, moving aside to let him sit next to her. "'Ms Smiles' makes me sound like I'm seventy and unmarried."

"I'm A-" he caught himself; given name came first in English, "Ren Amamiya. But you can call me Akira."

"I would've told you my name, but I don't remember it myself," the guy laughed. "A bad case of lead-induced amnesia. The one thing I'm sure of is that I'm a courier, so call me that."

"Talk about a dedicated worker," Akira smiled, sitting down. "Say, you didn't happen to notice any of my friends, did you? A bunch of them, roughly my age, with a similar accent."

"Sorry kid, it was just you," the courier replied. "You were lying unconscious in a shallow grave some assholes dug out for me a few days back. With no traces leading towards it, like you just popped outta thin air."

"A grave dug out for you?" Akira asked, trying to dodge the last sentence.

The courier gave him a glance, but pushed no further. "Yup. I've been on my way with a delivery to Vegas when some fuck in a tacky suit ambushed me with his lackeys, stole my package, and shot me in the head, twice. I'd be dead if a local robot didn't dig me up and bring me to the local doc."

"…wow," Akira blurted out. His first thought was revulsion at the barbarity of the world he ended up in. His second thought was remembering how he dodged a literal bullet himself in the "civilized" times – except unlike the courier before him, he had a stunt double. "You know, you look great for a guy that got double-tapped."

"I know, right?" The courier moved his hair aside to reveal a large scar on his forehead. "All I have to show for it is a cool scar and random gaps in memory. Mostly about who I was before this mess went down."

"You're ridiculously lucky, all things considered," Akira said, "So, what are you gonna do now?"

"Well, the fuckers picked my carcass clean, so I'll need to get caps to buy some better quality equipment. I'm also heading to Primm to report losing my package."

"And what about the guy that shot you?"

"What about him?"

Akira paused for a split second to try and phrase it in a way that wouldn't reveal his fish-out-of-water status. "Well, where I'm from there's a form of law enforcement that'd apprehend him and put him on trial."

"The guy seemed like a Vegas type, so he's outside the jurisdiction of anyone that could give a shit," the courier replied. "I guess I could chase him myself, but… eh," he shrugged. "Vengeance is a sucker's game."

"Where are you from, by the way?" Sunny asked Akira. "The accent sticks out."

"New Reno?" the bartender suggested. "I've heard a few travelers from there speak like that."

Akira decided to keep his cover story consistent. "Well, I'm from a Vault," Akira went. "The accent is actually Japanese, because my Vault had only Japanese-Americans in it and a stockpile of Japanese media, so English kinda became the secondary language." He turned to Sunny. "I am completely green, and Doc told me you might be able to show me the basics."

"What was the number of your vault?" the courier asked.

Without missing a beat, Akira said the first number that came to his mind. "Twenty-two."

The courier smirked. "Oh, you're green alright."

"How green are we talking?" Sunny asked. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

"Nope. My Vault had strict gun control rules."

"So you don't even have a gun?"

Akira patted himself down and pulled out a vaguely Glocky airsoft pistol he happened to have on himself. "I have this toy. Looks like a real thing, but fires tiny plastic balls."

"Yeah, that thing won't stop a gecko, I can tell you that," Sunny said.

"Tell you what," the courier said, "I'll buy you a pistol and a rifle and show you how to fire them, if you answer one question for me."

Akira was fully aware that it was going to be a tricky one, but trying to back down now would appear even more suspicious than answering truthfully. "Hit me."

"What year are you really from?"

Akira just barely managed to keep his poker face.

"This theory again?" Sunny rolled her eyes.

"I've traveled a lot over the past… however many years," the courier persisted. "I've seen plenty of Vaults, none of them had outfits like these. And I've been to Vault 22, it looks nothing like what he described. He just told you his toys literally shoot plastic! Nobody would waste whatever oil they have on this unless they had enough of it in the first place."

"Fifty caps say there's an explanation that doesn't involve time travel," Sunny declared. "You've heard the stories about Enclave, haven't you? Maybe the Chinese had something similar."

"Again, I'm of Japanese descent."

"Japanese then."

Akira took a moment to consider his options. The courier was clever enough to see past his bluffs and he didn't have enough knowledge about this world to convincingly lie about it. He was in a small town, in front of a few people that seemed friendly enough – if he exposed himself to them, he could get them to help them make up a less conspicuous cover.

"Fine then, cards on the table," he announced, confidently. "I'm from the mid-2010s Japan, banished to this time and place by a vengeful god. I do not know anything about this world, other than that it is dangerous, but my friends ended up scattered around it and I need to find them as quickly as possible. So if you'd be so kind as to give me the cliff notes so I can get going, that would be lovely."

Cue silence, as Sunny, the courier, and the bartender stared at him like he had grown an extra arm. Finally, the latter commented "…so, English is your second language?"

"Yes."

"It's incredibly good."

"The accent sticks out, but the grammar and vocabulary's flawless," Sunny added.

"Thank you," he smiled.

"Okay, I didn't expect vengeful gods to come into play," the courier admitted, and turned towards the bartender. "Trudy, can I get two bottles of Sass for me and the kid? This will take a moment."

Trudy pulled out two brown bottles from underneath the counter, then walked up to their booth and placed them on the table. "Sixteen caps."

Akira raised an eyebrow. "Caps?"

"Bottle caps," the courier said, tilting his Sunset Sarsaparilla towards him and pointing at the cap closing the bottle. "They are the currency in the area."

"Sounds inconvenient when compared to paper money."

"Folks don't trust paper 'round these parts." The courier reached into his pocket. "You know, I feel like I gotta paint you a broad picture of Mojave's politics. We're between two powerful armies and everyone's having opinions about it and you should know where you ended up." He pulled out a fistful of bottle caps and handed some to Trudy. "It all started ten or so years ago when the NCR rolled up from California."

"NCR?" Akira asked.

"New California Republic," the courier replied, unscrewing the cap from his drink. "A federation of towns fancying themselves the continuators of the pre-War United States."

"Doc Mitchell also used this term," Akira butted in. "What 'war' are we talking about?"

"Ah, you don't know that," the courier realized. "In… October 2077, I believe, what used to be the United States and China nuked the shit out of each other to get the last few drops of oil and uranium. That's why I'm skeptical of anyone using these times as something to aspire to."

"I think you're too harsh on the NCR, courier," Trudy commented. "They're spread too thin to consistently uphold their ideas, but they aren't actively malicious."

"They make roads safer on a good day," Sunny added, putting strong emphasis on the last four words. "But at the same time, they barged in uninvited, hung up their banners on Hoover Dam, and proclaimed Nevada's a part of them now."

"I mean," Akira opened his bottle as well and pocketed the cap, "speaking as a guy from pre-War, imitating a pre-War country doesn't sound like a bad idea." He took a sip of his drink – there was an earthy taste to it, and some bitterness counteracted with a spoonful of sugar. An acquired taste. "But I can already tell things aren't sunshine and roses."

"It's like Trudy told you, they're overextended," the courier said, before taking a hearty glug of sarsaparilla. "And with the Legion on the other side of the Colorado river, their morale is in a downward spiral."

"Wait, isn't Colorado a state?" Akira asked.

"The state was named after the river, I think," the courier replied. "Also, I'm surprised you didn't ask about the Legion."

"I was about to get to that."

"They're slavers, killers, and all other kinds of trouble," Trudy commented.

"None of them ever ended up in Goodsprings though," Sunny added. "And honestly, the stories about them feel like something NCR made up to make themselves sound more useful. Less uninvited."

"I've done some deliveries in Legion territory," the courier said, his tone turning bitter. "Whatever you've heard about them, it's all true. Bunch of enslaved brainwashed tribals and assorted cunts that drank the might-makes-right Kool-Aid. They tried to take over the Hoover Dam a few years back, 'cause it's a key location to the NCR, but got their shit pushed in. They've been preparing for round two since then, and I dunno if the NCR can pull that off again." He paused, then glanced at Akira. "The friends you were talking about, Akira… are any of them ladies, perchance?"

Akira found himself bothered by the tone of that question. "Uh, yes? Why do you ask?"

The courier briefly considered explaining what exactly the Legion does to women, but decided to bite his tongue. "I just hope they're clever enough to run at the sight of psychos in football equipment." He poured the rest of his sarsaparilla down his throat. "Okay, that's the gist of it – there's NCR and the Legion, one's underwhelming and one's neo-proto-fascist. There's also a guy named House who's running Vegas itself independently of these two, but that's material for Mojave Politics 102. If you don't have any questions, we can move on to the crash course in guns I promised you."

"Hm…" Akira tapped the table, thinking. "I'll be honest: I need a cover story. Doc Mitchell assumed I'm from a Vault and I just rolled with it, but apparently people can call me out on that easily."

"Well, not that easily," the courier replied. "I'm more well-traveled than most, but a normal person should buy it. They were all dumb social experiments by an evil pre-War corporation, what you came up with isn't that far off from actual Vaults. Just pick a different number, 'cause 22 is already taken."

"Twenty-one."

"Isn't Vault 21 a hotel now?" Trudy pointed out.

"Exactly," the courier nodded. "Too well-known."

Akira thought about another number. "Hm… Thirty-seven?"

The courier focused, trying to remember if he ever encountered that number in his travels and drew a blank. "Yeah, that should work – if it's still standing, it's far away enough that you don't need to worry about anyone calling your bluff." He smiled. "Any other questions, Akira of Vault 37?"

"You know the general area better than I do," he said. "Could you suggest a route I should take when looking for my friends?"

"Stick to highways, generally," Sunny suggested. "They're semi-regularly patrolled by the NCR, and should be safer. Theoretically."

"Isn't that a Pip-Boy?" the courier asked, pointing at the device on his wrist.

"Yeah, Doc gave it to me."

"There should be maps on that thing. Can you put them on the screen?"

Akira put his arm on the table and fiddled with the buttons a bit. Finally, a map centered on Goodsprings showed up on the screen. "Alright, we're here," the courier said, then zoomed it out. "North of here are dangerous bugs. I brought some big guns to deal with them, but the fucking bastards that shot me stole them all. I think you should head southeast to Primm with me." He scrolled the map down. "If they aren't there, from Primm you can walk south to the NCR outpost, then east to Nipton, then Searchlight, then Novac," he said, pointing out the towns on the map as he went. "Then you can walk further north to Vegas if you'll have to."

"Uh, walk?" Akira asked.

"Yeah. What did you expect?"

"Functioning public transport."

Trudy chortled. "Kid, you'll really need to adjust to this world."

"Any other questions?" the courier asked.

"Nope."

"So now the fun part: the gun part. I promised you a pistol and a rifle, and I'll cough up the cash for it." The courier got up and turned to Sunny. "You owe me fifty caps for our little wager."

"How about I buy him his guns and some armor and we call it even?" she asked.

"Fine by me. I'll buy the ammo. Ringo paid me enough for a few mags."

"I'm getting a lot of hand-outs today," Akira pointed out.

"Don't mention it, kid," Sunny waved him off. "The world's already harsh, there's no need for us to be jerks too."

"Yeah…" He lost some steam. "I hope my friends got lucky enough to bump into other good people like you."

"I'd be optimistic," the courier said. "I see it like this: you got dumped into a new scary uncivilized world, and your first instinct is to go out there and look for your friends." He smirked. "If they're as brave as you are, they'll manage just fine."

Akira found himself vaguely reassured by this. "If you say so…"