Couriers: A Fallout Fanfiction

Courier 6: From The Grave

  When he regained consciousness, the Courier's eyes fluttered open and he felt a mild panic rise in his chest. He was in a room he did not remember ever being in before. The only thing obvious to him at that moment was the dull pain in his head. Before the Courier could do anything at all, he heard an old man's voice speak to him. 

 "You're awake, how 'bout that," the old man said with a hint of amazement. 

 The Courier turned his head and saw an old man with a bushy mustache sitting in a chair next to the bed the Courier was in. 

  "Wha-," the Courier coughed, having not spoken for a while. His throat was dry and his voice was hoarse. The man in the chair handed him a bottle of water but it was dirty and cloudy. The Courier didn't mind though. People out in the Wasteland would kill to have a bottle of this and he was grateful that he had something to drink.

  "How're ya' feelin'?" the old man asked as he helped the Courier sit up straight on the bed. The Courier took a swig of the filthy water and grimaced.

  With a few coughs, the Courier replied, "Like brahmin shit." Another swig down the hatch.

  "Ah, sorry to hear that. By the way, the name's Doc Mitchell. You've been out for a couple of days now."

  What? A few days?

  The memories of that night floated back into his mind like waves. The gun. The checkered suit. The flash of the Platinum Chip.

  Wait...oh no...

  Suddenly feeling the need to get out of the room, the Courier stood up too quickly and tried to run. The rush of blood to his head made him dizzy and fall forwards, but Doc Mitchell caught him before he could fall flat on his face.

  "Whoa, easy there!" Doc Mitchell set the Courier back down onto the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder, making sure the Courier didn't fall over again. The Courier touched the scars on his forehead, feeling his blood pulse underneath his wounded skin. He took a moment to catch his breath.

  "There was a man in a checkered suit...he had Great Khans with him...that's the bastard that shot me." Softly panting, the Courier looked up at the doctor. "Ring a bell?"

  Doc Mitchell pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. "Sorry to say this but I don't know what you're talkin' about. I haven't seen anyone by the likes of what you described."

  The Courier held his head in his hands. "Dammit..." He downed the rest of the dirty water and set the bottle on the rough wooden floor. "Help me up, Doc."

  The Courier, with Doc Mitchell's help, stood up and managed to stay standing. "Yeah, no sense in keepin' you in bed anymore." The doctor let go of him and the Courier took a few quick steps forward. "Take it slow now, it ain't a race." Before he could fall again, the Courier regained his footing. This was when he realized he was only wearing a grey T-shirt and underwear.

  "Hey, um, Doc? You got anything for me to wear?" The Courier weakly chuckled.

  The doctor reached into a nearby drawer and handed the Courier a blue and yellow jumpsuit with the number "21" emblazoned on the back.  To the Courier, it was a bit much.

  "I don't want to seem ungrateful but do you have anything else that isn't so conspicuous?" 

  Doc Mitchell laughed at that. "Nope! Put this on so the locals don't pick on ya for lackin' modesty. I used to wear it back in the day when I lived in one of the Vaults."

  Yes, because no one has ever picked on a guy who wears funny clothing... 

  The Courier begrudgingly put on the jumpsuit. It fit surprisingly well, snug in all the right places, but it was definitely not his style.