A/N: Not my usual flavor. I had this idea bouncing around in my head for awhile, and finally wrote it. Set in Fallout: New Vegas. If you haven't played, I highly recommend it. Probably not my finest work, but writing it made me feel better about the game.
Disclaimer: I do not own.
Her first clear memory of the world was framed by the doorway to Doc Mitchell's house. The sun beat down on the hard, packed earth. The brightness blinded her, and when it cleared, still left her in a daze. A tumbleweed rolled past, as though to compliment the assembly of tiny, rough and weather-worn houses scattered just meters away. She had stumbled out the door, and made it to the bottom of the hill, still rather disoriented. This was all so sudden, so new. If she had ever set foot in Goodsprings before, she had no recollection of it: her memory was gone.
She didn't remember what she looked like until Doc Mitchell showed her a mirror. She had pulled her hair back for a better look: there was a scar on her forehead, a tiny slit that was expertly sewn up. She was surprised to see her eyes, which were a dull, grayish blue. Thinking back months later, she finally knew what to compare them to: the color of water in a tin-can under the Mojave sun. Her skin was a burnt red, as are so many others who are fair-skinned in the desert. Looking into that mirror, trying to make sense of that face framed by messy black hair, she had felt as though she was gazing into the soul of a stranger.
No, that wasn't right. Whoever Courier Six used to be was dead, and it was simply a matter of a stranger taking up residence in the leftover husk. Who that stranger was had yet to be determined.
Sunny Smiles gave her a lesson in survival, something that every Wastelander should have been well-versed in by the age of six, but which she was starting afresh. The Varmint Rifle Sunny gifted her felt familiar in her hands, but until she gave the Courier a little tutorial, the poor girl wasn't quite able to figure out how to fire it. Using geckos for target practice quickly got her back into the swing of things. Trudy was kind enough to give her a few pointers on where the men who had left her might have gone.
She doesn't remember her mother, but she's certain that if she had a memory to compare to, she would have been like Trudy—warm and welcoming, with a bit of that southwestern accent that immediately makes made her feel at home. Easy Pete was borderline monosyllabic in the face of interrogation, but he had one thing right: whoever had shot her was bad news. She was lucky to be alive.
People were killed in the Wasteland all the time. They were dismembered, disemboweled, beheaded, poisoned by Cazadores, torn apart by Nightstalkers and Deathclaws, pincushioned by all manner of sharp and pointy objects, and—yes—shot. She knew she was nobody special. In fact, given that she couldn't even remember her own name, she readily accepted she was nobody. Simply Courier Six. The name, which was now the root of her identity, pointed to a singular problem: She was a courier. She had a package, and she lost it. Not only that, the man who shot her didn't have the grace to kill her properly.
She doesn't know what kind of person she was before she took a bullet to the brain, but she often suspects it wasn't the kind to simply let it go. She was robbed of both her memory and her package, and if she couldn't get one back, she was going to at least recover the other.
So she set off into the wild, wild Wasteland.
This is her story. But it won't start with the beginning. Instead, just as she was dumped in the middle of nowhere, you're going to start in the middle of her story.
Welcome to New Vegas, baby.