War... War never changes.
Everyone knew the story, in 2022 Russia Invaded Ukraine, and the whole world turned on it's axis. America, ever the Defender of Freedom and Democracy worldwide got involved, and World War Three began.
I was one of the unlucky few, I planned on going to college, thought I'd get to be something, but America needed bodies, and my name got called up. Sure, I thought I'd go over there, kick some ruskie ass and return a war hero.
I thought I'd be a damn war hero, what a fucking joke.
What I found in Ukraine was hell on Earth, The trenches, the drones, the firefights... it was fucking horrible. To make matters worse, China Invaded Taiwan, Iran closed the straits, Americans were fighting worldwide, from Taipei to Kalingrad. I was one of the unlucky few, I managed to survive for four whole years, I was there when we took Kalingrad, I was there when we defended Kyiv, and I was there, dying in the muddy trenches in Eastern Ukraine, a bullet lodged in my spine, slumped over.
Damn my luck, getting trapped on the trenches of Eastern Ukraine, in what used to be some bastards farmland before this god damned war started, so damn unlucky my own group left me for dead. To be fair, I didn't care for half of those bastards, out of the twenty or so in our group, only five were Americans, one of NATO's 'cooperation' moves in the war. The only problem was half of them were cowards, the other half couldn't even speak English, no shit they fled and left be to die. Leaving me laying in the mud with a bullet lodged in my neck, unlucky enough to not be dying from blood loss, unlucky enough to be paralyzed neck down.
It's around this moment, stewing in how fucked I am that I notice a group of Russian soldiers enter the trench, scanning it with their AK-12's as they moved about, scanning to see if anymore NATO forces were in the Trenches. When they came to the conclusion that they were alone, they started pilfering what my group hadn't taken with them. Around that point, one of them kicked me, eliciting a pained grunt from me.
"Чёрт, этому американцу не везёт — должно быть, его парализовало ниже шеи!" He said, looking towards another- I guess his commander, who gave him his orders. "Тяжело это... Прикончи беднягу, Алексей. Да упокоит Христос его душу."
The Soldier nodded, before looking back at me. "Да, сэр." He said, as he unholstered his Makarov, racked it and pointed the barrel at me, and for a moment, I felt fear as I saw the bullet in the barrel, but looked at him, one last time. "Прости, но игра была подстроена с самого начала." And then a bright flash, a sharp pain, and in an Instant, no more.
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Oct. 19th, 2281
Goodsprings, Mojave Wasteland
I had thought that when i died, that I'd either go to heaven or to hell, or be unlucky enough that the damn atheist were right and there truly was nothing, what I am unpleasantly surprised by is the fact that I was NOT dead, and most certainly not on the battlefield anymore.
My vision was blurry, and pain felt like a faint echo on my scalp, my head ached, but slowly, it ebbed away. What I was left with was the view of a fan spinning on an old ceiling, and fear. This wasn't a hospital, that's for sure. This place was like an old home, but hotter and dustier, where the hell was I?
I had to force myself to sit up, and looked down for a moment at the dity old mattress I was laying on, and looked down at my near nudity, only a pair of white boxers with hearts on them keeping my dignity in check.
"You're awake? How about that..."
I almost jumped as the voice startled me, and I looked up to see an old man taking a seat in a chair right Infront of the bed.
"Easy there friend, Easy. You've been out for a couple of days. Why don't you relax for a second, get your barings..." He said, placing a hand on my shoulder to stabilize me, as I had almost fallen out of the bed.
"W-where am I?" I asked, as I looked around the room. It had to be somewhere in Ukraine, the place at least looked like it had gone through a war or two, boarded up windows and all.
"You're in Goodsprings, just north of Primm... In the Mojave Waste?" The old man said, then half asked as I had to think, the Mojave? Like out in California?
And then it hit me, I wasn't in Ukraine... I was in the Mojave Wasteland, I was a Courier, and not just any Courier, I was fucking Courier Six! Christ alive, I was delivered from one hell, straight into another! I could see them, his memories, all of them coming to me, his life in New Reno, the clusterfuck of when his father, Mr. Bishop all but threw his son out after a rather brutal fight between his sons, of becoming a package courier... of the Shot... And now, I'm in charge.
"Ah, Let's just start slow, why don't we?" The old man said, before sighing. "Now, let's go easy, how about you tell me your name? You do remember it, don't you?" He asked, as I had to struggle for a second.
"Paul..." I said, holding my head, the name foreign, as if it didn't belong. "I'm Paul, Paul Bishop." I said, looking at the Old Man.
"Aheh, I can't say that's what I'd pick for ya', but if that's your name, that's your name." he said laughing, as he reached out, shaking my hand smiling bright behind that thick mustache of his. "The names Doc Mitchell, and welcome to Goodsprings." He said, before sitting back in the chair, his smile still there on his face, despite a more serious tone.
"Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rooting around there in your noggin', pullin' all sorts of lead out. I take mighty good pride in my needle work, but you'd best tell me if If I left anything out of place..." He said, as he handed me a regular old mirror.
I took it eagerly, and started giving myself a look over. For the most part, I- well, the Courier looked almost exactly the same as I had looked, at least in my first life. The only obvious change was the fact that my head was shaved, presumably from the fact he had to operate on my skull. Same light skin, same wide jaw, same blue eyes, same straight nose, and a nice check on my blonde hair, shaved as it was. If anything, my only complaint is that I looked somewhat younger, though it ain't much of a complaint!
"It all looks right Doc, Hell, I'd say if it weren't for the stitches, you could barely notice a change." I said, setting the mirror down beside me on the bed.
"Well, I'm glad I got it all right." He said with a chuckle, before standing up, stretching his old bones a bit, before sighing. "Alrighty then, no sense in keeping you abed anymore. Let's see if we can get you on your feet." Doc said, before motioning for me to try and stand up, making sure to keep close enough to catch me should I fall.
I moved steadily, placing my feet on the floor, which to my distain felt god awfully hot and dry, same as the air. But with a little effort I stood up with little issue, besides the stiffness of my back.
"Good, good! Why don't you try walking over to the end of the room over by the vigor tester and remember, take it slow, ain't a race." Doc said, still close by incase I fell. Still, besides a little wobble at first and that god awful stiffness in my back and neck, I walked over to the uhh... 'vigor tester'.
"So uh... how the heck does this thing even work?" I asked, as I leaned over on the machine.
"Oh, yes, you guy put your hand right there on that handle, the vigor tester will automatically figure out what your 'S.P.E.C.I.A.L's are. Don't ask me how it works, it's never failed in telling how someone's cut." Doc said, as I nodded, before grabbing the handle.
Almost immediately it started jumping around, making clicking noises, before cycling through, Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility, Luck... and then coming to an end, showing my 'stats'.
Strength - 3
Perception - 5
Endurance - 4
Charisma - 7
Intelligence - 9
Agility - 3
Luck - 9
"Well I'll be damned... looks like that bullet's done your brain some good, and that luck, makes sense, seeing as you're still kicking." Doc Mitchell said, and I had to stop and think for a moment.
Was I really that weak? And was I really that smart? I know I had a 4.0 GPA in high school, but that was high school, not real life. And luck? I don't feel so lucky. And worse of all my agility and strength are kind of low, is it possible to get it up by working out? I used to work out quiet often in high school, so surely that would count for something?
Then again, this isn't my body, the courier may look alot like me, but at the same time... he isn't me. God, am I really going to have to go through this philosophical bullshit? Why couldn't I have just died?
"Well, we know your vitals are pretty good, but that doesn't mean you aren't nuttier than a big horn dropping. What say you take a seat on that there couch, and answer a few questions for me? See if all of your dogs are barking, so to speak." Doc said, as I nodded, moving towards the couch, taking a seat.
"Alrighty then, I'm going to say a word, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?" Doc said, as I nodded, resting my back against the couch, which gets a good crack out.
"Dog."
"Cat."
"House."
"Home."
"Night."
"Sky."
"Bandit."
"Kill."
"Light."
"Dark."
"Mother."
"Dead."
Doc Mitchell sits up in his seat a moment, before pulling out a few cards. "Good, now I have a few statements and I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you did say alright." Once again, I nodded.
We continued this back and forth for awhile, before ultimately settling on finishing this whole test. It's been forever since I played Fallout New Vegas, most certainly before the war, little before to be honest, so I can't say I quite remember what all the answers to the test really do, although I doubt it will do much, real life and all...
"Alrighty then, I guess that just about does it. I'll give you your stuff back and send you on your way." He said, as I nodded. He walked over towards a large crate, and sighed. "I just about forgot just how much you had on you."
Doc Mitchell said, before obviously remembering something. "Ah, that's right, Victor had said alot of the stuff was on your brahmin, sorry to say, but your brahmin's dead, Mr. Bishop." He said, looking back at my stuff. "If you want, you can leave some of it here and come get it later, or you can sell what you can't carry down in one of the stores. Either way I'll give you an old backpack, if you'd like."
"I'd like a backpack, thanks Doc. And, don't call me Mr. Bishop, that's my father, not me. To you it's Paul." I said, taking a backpack from him that he pulled out of a closet, and began to take and remove what was in the crate as Doc Mitchell went to go grab something else.
inside I found a few weapons, three guns inside a 10mm Pistol, a Caravan Shotgun, and to my own shock, a 40mm Grenade Launcher. Additionally, some armor, miscellaneous junk, and ten fucking spears? I don't have a damn clue how HALF of this shit even fit inside of this crate, but I'll take it none the less. I started putting some of the clothing and armor on, when Doc Mitchell came back with that oh so prized piece.
"Here." He said, handing me that piece of art the child version of me used to drool over getting. "Take this, I ain't got a use for it no more. It's a Pipboy, one of them prewar fancy computers you wear on your wrist. It's got all kinds of useful features in it, hell even a radio!" he said, as I held it in my hands.
It was lighter than I had expected, for something so bulky looking, it couldn't be much more than a fourth of a pound, like a piece of air in my hands. I strapped it to my left wrist, and felt a tight prick on my skin. it was loading, very... very slowly.
"Why... why are you doing all of this?" I asked the doc, looking him in the eyes."
"Pardon, youngin'?"
"I mean why are you doing all this for me? I understand you saved me to be kind but, you haven't even one brought up payment. You could easily have take all my stuff as compensation, hell I wouldn't mind if you did." I said, looking at him.
"To make it worse, you gave me more stuff, even a Pipboy!" I said, thinking back through my memories. "My father bought one off a travelling Vault Dweller for a quarter million NCR Dollars. It just don't make much sense to me, why I could be the meanest, rat in the wasteland."
"Son." Doc Mitchell said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I got much of a grand reason or none, just a gut feeling. You... You've been through hell, I can feel it, yet I can still feel you got a good heart and a good soul. I'm getting old, my adventuring days are long gone. It won't be that much longer till 'ol Saint Michael calls my name. Best I can do it make sure another good soul doesn't head up before 'is time, seen it too much." Doc Mitchell said with a smile.
"Besides, it feels half like it was destiny to do so." He said, half leaving me speechless. Oh sure, I knew part of what happened in the story, that the Courier was the most important Character, at least in regards to what happens between the NCR and the Legion.
I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so all I managed was an awkward thanks, before finishing getting ready.
Putting on the metal chest piece, and slapping the 10mm pistol into it's holster, before turning towards the door.
"Alrighty then, I'm fixing to leave now Doc." I said as I turned towards Doc Mitchell, my hand on the door.
"Alright then, but I'd suggest you go see Sunny Smiles at the Prospector Saloon, she's likely settled up there in her mother's bar. Tell her I sent you, and she'll tell you what you need to know about survival here in the Mojave Wastes. You could even ask some of the others around time, they might also help, if you're nice enough."
With a nod and a soft 'thank you', I turned, and exited the building, as the bright daylight almost blinded be for a half second.
Looking out upon the wasteland, I see plenty out there, and sigh, right about as a soft 'DING!' chirps from the pipboy, which appears to be done loading, it's small screen fading for second, with the little vault boy giving a thumbs up, before fading to text once more.
[Welcome to the New Vegas Gaming System]
Oh you have got to be shitting me.