//------------------------------//
// Chapter 2: Falling Hard 
// Story: Love and Radiation 
// by MyDigitalHazard 
//------------------------------//

The second awakening was not nearly as violent or painful as the first. It was later in the day, but Owen did not know how much time had passed. The sunlight that shined in through the cracks of the boarded-up windows was more orange than yellow now, which informed him that it was evening.

He reached up and touched his forehead. A dull ache remained, but no pain came to him like before. He squinted as he tried to piece together his location. He heard footsteps and looked over, seeing Doc Mitchell enter the room with a tray and a bowl of steaming soup.

"Ah, good," the old man said, approaching his patient. He set the tray on a nearby medical stand before taking his seat next to the bed.

Owen managed to speak. "Mitchell... right?" he asked. The doctor nodded. "Why am I here?"

"Well, you were shot. Buried in the ground. A local... feller, you could say, dug you up and brought you over and I patched you up. That was a few days ago."

"Shot..." He tried to remember. He recalled a bright flash of light, but not much else. "I don't remember it. Where was I shot?"

Mitchell scratched behind his right ear as he said, "Well... that's the remarkable thing, if you don't mind my saying." He pointed to his own forehead, the upper right corner of it. "Two bullets, right here."

The man's eyes narrowed. His hand once more found his forehead, and tried to feel around. He discovered a few distinctive lines and bumps. "I was shot in the head? Twice? How... how am I alive?"

Mitchell shook his head. "I 'spose I'm responsible, but even I thought I'd lose you. Bullets to the brain aren't usually treatable." He looked at the soup. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah... now that you mention it." He sat up in the bed, swinging his legs off the side. His head felt weak, then, and his vision blurred again. It lasted only a moment though as he readjusted to a sitting position.

"Here," Mitchell offered him the bowl with a cloth beneath it. The brown liquid had a spoon in it. He took hold of it and began eating quickly, relishing the taste of the meat within the stew.

"This is good," he complimented. "What is it?"

"Squirrel stew," Mitchell replied. He paused for a moment before continuing to eat. Mitchell went to a nearby shelf and retrieved a handheld mirror. 

As he walked back, he said, "Now, I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin' around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place."

He held the mirror up and looked at his reflection, setting the spoon back in the bowl. The face seemed familiar, yet not nearly as much as it should, considering he knew it was his own.

Black hair, slightly long and a little shaggy, with bangs that reached his dark eyebrows. Lightly tanned, smooth skin. Sharp features, a slightly broad chin and an angular jaw, healthy-looking lips, muscular cheeks and not-too pronounced ears or nostrils. His eyes were narrow, and his pupils were dark green. He had a bit of a rugged, unshaven look, with very faint facial hair around his mouth and jaw line. He pulled some hair aside and looked at the scar. Two distinctive marks, slightly red, displayed quite clearly where the two bullets had entered his skull, and where the doctor had sewn the now-removed stitches.

"How'd I do?" the doc asked, shaking him out of staring at the scars.

"I'd say good," the Courier replied. "I think I look alright... given the circumstances."

"Well, I got most of it right anyway. Stuff that mattered. And you're talkin' much better, that's good, too." He stood up from his chair and took the mirror, setting it aside on a nearby table. "Okay, no sense in keeping you in bed anymore. Let's see if we can get you up on your feet."

Mitchell helped support Owen as he stood up. His legs felt wobbly and it was difficult to stand, the disorientation from his head trauma notwithstanding. But after a moment, he readjusted once more to a standing position. He stood almost a foot taller than the doctor.

"Good, good. Can you walk? Here, wait right here." The old man walked to the other end of the room and stopped by the strange machine. "Here, see if you can walk over here to the vigor tester."

Owen took a few tentative steps. He felt like a baby animal trying to learn how to walk. Mitchell's voice once more reached his ears. "Take it slow now, it ain't a race. Just ease yourself on over."

He persisted, dragging his feet in front of each other, until he finally got a good pace going and he reached the doctor, standing next to a machine with a gripping handle in front of a screen. Mitchell crossed his arms and smiled. "Lookin' good so far. Now, it ain't exactly a medical procedure, but why don't you go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. It's never done me wrong, so we'll learn right quick if you got back all your faculties."

The machine was an old pre-war parlor game, meant to show how gifted a person was in different areas. It used an internal device to scan a person once they took hold of the handle, giving them an accurate readout of their most defining attributes, and how much they either succeeded in a certain area or by how much they fell short. It rated each category (strength, perception, endurance, charisma, intelligence, agility and luck) on a scale of one to ten.

Owen looked at Doc Mitchell. "You sure about this?"

The doctor nodded. "We'll do a few more physical examinations, but this will give us a good idea of your entire state. Go ahead and give'er a try."

The man shrugged and took hold of the handle. Immediately the machine's screen changed to display his strength. A light went off by the number five, with the words "Average Joe" next to the number. The screen then changed, its various panels flipping and switching words and numbers, to measure his perception. On this one, the light reached seven, indicating that he was a "Bigeyed Tiger." On the next page, which showed his endurance, the results were less satisfactory. He had a score of four, which read, "Handle With Care."

The very next result, however, was double that. Charisma had a score of eight, which labeled him as a "Movie Star." The next result was also satisfactory, as the machine ranked his intelligence as seven, or as the screen put it, "Smartypants." 

Agility, unfortunately, was not ranked very high, tying with endurance in that it had a score of only four. The machine told him he was a "Butterfingers" in this regard.

The very last result was luck, and it was a five, even in the middle, just like strength. On this chart, the number five was ranked "Coin Flip." The very last screen was a review, showing him the numbers he had received in each category. The 

Courier then noticed that each of the attributes, when lined atop each other and descending in the order they had been ranked, created an acronym: "S.P.E.C.I.A.L."

Mitchell looked at the results and chuckled. "Heh, good to see them bullets didn't affect your charm or smarts none. And at least we know your vitals are good."

"Is this thing accurate?" Owen asked.

"Well... usually. Sometimes it's off by a percentage or two. Care to follow me to the other room? Some questions I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind." He shook his head and followed the man into his living room, where there was a couch, a fireplace and some chairs. "Just need to get an assessment of your mental state, see if your dogs are still barking or if those bullets left you nuttier than a bighorner dropping. Have a seat on my couch."

Owen sat, and Mitchell did as well, but in a red chair which faced the couch. A metal stand, the kind that would hold music sheets, was next to it. He took a moment to open a suitcase alongside his seat before he looked back at his patient.

"Your papers pegged you as a courier for the Mojave Express. There was an order on your person from the company. Hope you don't mind but I gave the note a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin... but it was just somethin' about a platinum chip. Sound familiar?"

"Extremely vaguely," he replied, shrugging. "Very little comes to me."

"Well alright.... I'd like to start with a little word association. I'm gonna say a word, and you just say the first thing that comes to mind. Alright?"

"Okay, go."

"Dog."

"...Loyal."

"House."

"...Shelter."

"Night."

"...Dream."

"Bandit."

"...Trouble."

"Light."

"...Campfire"

"Mother."

Owen's eyes softened a little. "...Unknown."

Mitchell nodded. "Interestin'... Now, I got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like somethin' you'd say. Agree, disagree, anything on that spectrum. First one: Conflict just ain't in my nature."

He thought a little. "No opinion."

"I ain't given to relying on others for support."

He shook his head a little. "No... I don't think so. Help is welcome."

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

"No... I like to go unnoticed"

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"No. No, I don't think that sounds like me."

"I charge in to deal with my problems head-on."

For a moment, the courier was still, his head full of thought. "Don't think so. I'd rather think things over."

Mitchell's inquisitive eyes were studying him, taking careful note of every little detail, especially in the man's green eyes. "Alright. We're almost done, but first," he said as he took out a stack of papers from the suitcase and set them on the metal stand, "Why don't you go ahead and tell me what you see here in these pictures?"

The pictures were strange, symmetrical blobs of white and black.
The first one was odd. He tried to find something in it that resembled something he could recognize, but it was nothing. "It's... a hole in a wall. No... a chemical reaction, maybe. Like... liquid being dropped into something it reacts heavily with."

The doctor moved the picture aside. "Okay. How 'bout this one?"

Once more Owen scrutinized it, but came up with little. "It's... a sword, or a pen... or something like a... I don't know, some kind of space-age technology. A rocket ship... or something."

"Okay. Last one."

This picture was stranger than the others. He saw more things in this one. "A... well... a light in the darkness. No, a mushroom cloud... or a head on a pillow... I can't be certain. It's a lot of things, I think."

Mitchell nodded. "Alright. Well, that's all she wrote," he said as he put the pictures away. "Far as I can tell, you seem okay, save for a bad case of memory loss. I'd like to ask you a few things more, if that's alright."

"Sure... go ahead."

"What do you know about the world?"

"The entire world?"

"A big picture, I know, but just give me a broad description."

Owen thought until he was able to put it into words. "The world is a hard place. There was a war... I know that much... that made it this way."

"I'll say. Do you know when it happened?"

"Before I was born. Long ago... but things are still bad."

"What do the words "New California Republic" mean to you?" Mitchell asked, changing the subject.

The man's eyes narrowed as he tried to place each of the three words. "Something... I don't know. It sounds familiar... but I feel like I know nothing."

Mitchell nodded. "Alright. How about Caesar's Legion? Ring any bells?"

After shaking his head, he replied, "Nope. Same thing."

"How about New Vegas? Or Mr. House?"

Owen seemed frustrated now as he reached up and cupped his forehead. "All familiar... but nothing. Nothing at all."

"Do you know what the Mojave is?"

"Yeah... a little... that's where we are, right now... right?"

"In a manner of speaking. We're in Goodsprings, which is in the Mojave, so yes. Do you know what a gun is?"

"Of course," he answered without a second thought. "A weapon. Shoots bullets." He pointed to his forehead. "Think I'd know what a gun is, right?"

"How about a robot?"

"Mechanical devices created by man to do different things from before the war. Still around. Some dangerous."

"Finding water and food, what's that like?"

"I remember that if you can't buy it or make it, food's hard to find. Water... usually bad to drink. Irradiated, or dirty. Sometimes clean, though, that's when it's best."

"Caravans, then."

"Traders and merchants who travel from place to place... usually well-guarded."

"And couriers, then?"

"Couriers... People like me. We carry packages."

Mitchell thought for a moment, making a slight humming noise. "Well... at least you know some things and aren't a blank slate. Seems like only a few things got swept away... or maybe a lot of things and I'm hittin' some lucky nails on the head. 

Do you remember your childhood? Or your parents?"

"...No." The Courier closed his eyes and tried again, expending as much willpower as he was able, but to no avail. "No... nothing at all... Nothing about... me."

"Curious... selective amnesia, maybe? Never really heard 'bout such a thing, but I 'spose it's possible, given the circumstances of the situation. Still, strange..."

Owen looked to the ground. 'Selective amnesia...' He looked back up. "Mind if I ask you a question instead?"

"Not at all, go right ahead."

"Can you tell me more about where I am?"

Mitchell sat back a bit and told him, "Well, this here's Goodsprings, like I said. Named after the water we got here, just down the road to the southeast. Goodsprings Source, they call it. It's a quiet town, and that's how we like it. We don't go lookin' for trouble, though on occasion it sees fit to come lookin' for us."

The man nodded. "You said I was shot... do you know anything about who shot me? Or why?"
Mitchell shook his head. "Sorry to say that I don't. I didn't see him or the men with him."

"Men?"

"I heard he had a gang. About eight or nine fellers with'im, but they didn't leave town with that many, so it might be that you killed some before they got you in the grave."

"Comforting to know I fought back, at least," he said softly as he considered the doctor's words, trying to remember as hard as he could anything about the circumstances of his "death" but failing at each turn.

Mitchell added, "You might wanna ask around town, though. Could be someone had a better look at 'em or saw which way they was headed."

"So they shot me and... Who dug me up, exactly?"

"That'd be Victor. Curious feller. Sort of odd. And I don't just mean 'cause he's a robot. I couldn't tell you much about him. He's real friendly, don't get me wrong. You just get the sense that what you see and hear ain't the whole picture. Just a feelin'. Keeps to himself, mostly. You wanna know more about him, you'll have to ask him yourself. He has a shack on the southern edge of town."

"So he's a robot? What kind?"

"A blue kind, the ones from Vegas. Nobody really knows why he's here. He claims that Goodsprings seemed as good a place as any to settle, but why a robot would wanna do that, I don't know. Got a picture of a cowboy on a screen for his face, though, so maybe he's programmed to act like one."

The courier thought to himself for a few seconds before asking, "So... then what happens now?"

"Well, before I turn you loose, there's a physical I'd like to run. An eye exam, pulse, that kind of thing. Then, a simple form to fill out. I've already got everything I need from our little talk when it comes to evaluating your mental health."

"So how do I rank?"

"You seem alright. Your memory loss is cause for some concern, but it might come back to you, maybe in infrequent flashes or slowly, over time. Might be gone forever, I can't right say. But, far as I can tell, I should be able to release you in the morning." Doc Mitchell rocked forward a bit and stood up.

Owen nodded, standing up with the man. "What'll I do from there?"

"We'll figure that out in the morning. Come on, let's do that physical and get it done with, so you can get to that bed for the last time." Mitchell ushered him back into the treatment area, where he proceeded to assess the condition of the man. Sight, speech, pulse, skin color, pupil dilation, a routine checkup. In all things, the courier seemed normal and physically able.

"You mentioned a few things earlier," He made conversation after the physical was completed. "Like a platinum chip. What was that about?"

The old man went and got a note, telling him it was one of the few things on his person when Victor the robot brought him to the doc's house. "Here," he said, handing it to him. He read it with great interest.

"INSTRUCTIONS

Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.
Bonus on completion: 2500 caps.
MANIFEST
This package contains:
One (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed of Platinum
CONTRACT PENALTIES

You are an authorized agent of the Mojave Express Package until delivery is complete and payment has been processed, contractually obligated to complete this transaction and materially responsible for any malfeasance or loss. Failure to deliver the proper recipient may result in forfeiture of your advance and bonus, criminal charges, and/or pursuit by mercenary reclamation teams. The Mojave Express is not responsible for any injury or loss of life you experience as a result of said reclamation efforts."

"Not responsible for any injury or loss of life," he read aloud, and laughed a little at the irony. "A platinum chip..."

"Know anything about it?" Mitchell asked. Owen shook his head.

"Can't remember a thing about it. But now I'm damn curious as to why it was worth killing me over, that's for sure."

"Bit of a mystery, isn't it?"

"A bit... you could say that, yes."

When night fell, the doctor bid goodnight to the courier, before leaving him in the bed he had originally woken up in.

Sleep did not come easily that night for him, however. Hundreds of questions swam in his head, and he had no answers for any of them. Focusing on the cloudy parts of his memory, he tried once more to discover important facts about his past life: who he was, where he was born, who his parents were, what he was like before and what he had done to justify being shot in the head. Was he a good person? Was he a criminal? And just what was the truth behind the platinum chip?

All of these questions were still unanswered when sleep finally overtook him.

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She idly mused the implication of the facts presented to her as she sailed through the unyielding air, the force of it causing the holes in her legs to whistle painfully and the black dress she wore to tear.

She tried to beat her wings, but short jabs of pain replaced the familiar sensation of air passing over her exoskeleton.
Chrysalis looked up, which In reality was down, and watch In terror as the ground came down to meet her, head on. She screamed as the fear of death overtook her body. Her eyes where shut tight and she screamed. Never even noticing the green outline that surrounded her as her crooked horn started to glow.

Chrysalis hit the ground at a Impressive 463.5 Miles per hour. Dirt seemed to explode everywhere In a massive geyser of filth and soot.

The news hit the public faster then a bullet. Articles of how the brave royal guard captain, Shining Armor and his newlywed wife, princess Cadence had repelled the changling hoard with their love was In every newspaper. Being bested only a week later by a story even more joyful.

To Equestria, Chrysalis, Queen of the Changling, was dead.