บท 1: 1.Beginning of the Journey
Another soul-draining day at the 9-5 grind, wading through stacks of mind-numbing paperwork, done. I swear, sometimes work is just flexing fake productivity — everyone hyping up projects that mean absolutely nada. And don't get me started on my coworkers, all giving serious "viper pit" vibes. Management? Certified NPCs with negative brain cells.
But finally, I'm home! Let's go! I can just kick back, spread out in my gaming throne, and lose myself in the absolute masterpiece that is Fallout: New Vegas. This game's my holy grail, for real. It's got it all — characters that stick with you, a plot so good it pulls you in till the credits, deep lore that's practically a religious experience, and a load of side quests and side characters that keep it fresh every time. Honestly, it's just endless dubs with this game. Sure, there are a few minor Ls, but they're not even worth stressing about. Bottom line: Fallout: New Vegas is peak gaming.
After putting in mad hours (we're talking about unholy levels of no-life), vanilla mode started feeling stale — too easy. So, I thought, why not hit it with some extra sauce? Downloaded that 'Ultimate Realism' mod that had all the Reddit simps raving. Word was, it'd fix the devs' fumbles and make every sec in the wasteland hit diff. Bet. Booting it up — let's see what this baby can do!
So, I'm on the usual loading screen, but hold up — our NCR ranger's packin' a .50 cal sniper now? Man had a revolver last time! Thought the mod was only 'bout gameplay tweaks… Whatever, if they go tweaking art too, I'm yeeting this mod. I slam START, but it's giving… nada. Bruh, did I miss a step? Guess I'll re-download.
FLASH. I'm blind for a sec, dizzy as hell, and my brain feels like it just ate a crit hit. Reach up, and — what the… where'd my hair go? I'm sporting greasy emo locks, I swear. Either I just grew an entire mane, or… wait. Did I just stroke someone else's scalp?!
"You awake?" growls this random boomer voice. Dude's posted up in my house. And my body feels like concrete — I can't even look at him.
I force myself up — barely. WHAT. The bed?? I was gaming in my chair like two seconds ago! I'm feeling some heavy "glitch in the matrix" energy here.
"Chill," he says. "You've been out two days." Two days? Yo, that rings a bell... "You need time to adjust," he's saying. Okay, it's all slowly coming back, like on slow-mo replay. "Name?"
"C-Courier," I stammer out, glancing around. This is Dr. Mitchell's house? The setup's all the same: broken clocks, crusty old typewriter, random tech gadgets… I'm seeing it all: boarded windows, janky screens, the whole doc-lab vibe, even a dusty Vit-O-Matic tester shoved in the corner.
Game's live? Bruh, it's live. This mod's packing mad immersion — like, the realest of real. My mind is in the game. WILD.
"So, Courier's your name? Odd choice," he chuckles. Dude, I already flopped on the name — could've called myself anything. "I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings." I give the man a once-over — old dude, serious "kind grandpa" rizz.
"Appreciate it, Doc." Is my theory legit? If my brain got zapped in here, that'd explain the feels. Only problem: I got pain. Fatigue. This realism's way out of pocket, not gonna lie.
"No worries. I had to, uh, do a bit of brain surgery — got out all the stray bits. Hope that's cool?" he says, rubbing his chin.
"A bit late for consent, huh, Doc?" Whatever. I'm still alive; guess we count that as a W.
"Alright. I'm decent with stitches, but check yourself over, make sure you're all intact." Doc passes me the Reflectron. No cap, I'm thinking: if anything's off, it's on you, Doc!
"Alright, bet," I say, calming down. Mirror check shows classic blonde NPC, average stubble, two gnarly stitches on the forehead. Total chad.
After I'm done admiring myself, I give him the mirror back. "Looks like we're good."
"Great, as long as all the essentials are attached," Doc says, grinning as he stashes the gadget. "Wanna lay low a bit longer?"
"I'm vibing, but scared to wipe out if I stand." Is he… breaking character? Straight meta.
"Give it a shot. I got you if you stumble," he says, helping me up. Honestly, dude's solid; wouldn't be vertical without him. Two days in a coma, and I'm floppy as a rag doll. "Nice job! Standing like a sigma."
"Thanks," I say, actually kind of hype about him. Doc's a real one, no lie.
"Let's test those sigma skills. See that Vit-O-Matic over there? Go grab the handle."
"Cool, cool," I say, striding over. This body though — feels hella nimble! I'm low-key invincible out here.
"Not too bad…" Doc says, like he expected worse. "Go ahead, grip the tester. Let's see how the vitals are," he gestures over like, "Take your time." I'm stalling, half-hoping for more NPC lines to roll out.
"You good?" Doc looks stressed, squinting at me. "You're not dizzy, nauseous, seeing skibidi toilets?"
"Uhh…" hadn't thought of it, but yeah, I'm getting a low-key head spin. Game mechanic, maybe? Making me feel the "authentic" vibes of post-op life. "I'm straight, just a bit woozy."
"Gotcha. Could be a side effect of the meds, but let's not test fate. Wanna Netflix&chill again?"
"Nah, I'm good," I say, even though, wow, Doc's got a whole new vibe pack of lines now, same voice actor and all. This mod is delivering straight-up theater levels.
Done bugging Doc, I grab the Vit-O-Matic, and the machine goes all "bzzz," starts shaking, and then, in glitchy robot voice, spits out, "FIVE!" before shutting down. Hold up — just five? Where's my stat screen? What's with this hardcore realism??
"You're in range," Doc shrugs, "but doesn't mean those bullets didn't turn your brain into radscorpion pudding," he jokes, smirking.
"Bro, not funny."
"Alright, alright," he waves it off, "forgive an old man's sense of humor.
"Now, let's do a couple more tests to be 100%," he says, and I nod. "Perfect, take a seat on that couch there," he points to the cozy-looking loveseat, "and I'll join you." We sit, and he starts throwing random questions at me about my "past" (I dodge most), then whips out inkblots from the side table and starts in on psycho-analyzing me. Tbh? Total filler content.
"Hm…" Doc strokes his stache, sliding the photos back into his stash. "Before you bounce, do me a solid — fill in a health card. Gotta log your 'case history,'" Doc hands over a tablet and pencil. "Total formality. Highly doubt bullet holes are genetic," he winks.
I look at the sheet. No chance I'm picking traits; every perk has a catch. I hand it back like, "Oops, no memories unlocked yet."
"Hm," Doc isn't loving it. "Courier, I've got some bad news," he says, putting the tablet on the side table.
"What's up?" I glance around. Room's got this massive rug that's trying hard to make things cozy, two bookshelves packed with old-school hardcovers under boarded-up windows, a couple of armchairs, small coffee table, and this fireplace topped with a random animal skull.
"You've got amnesia," Doc says, wiping his forehead, "it's a condition where you lose memories…shit's tough."
On the Wasteland? Bruh, that's a no-go. Just sitting here collecting dust? Not happening!
"Doc, nah, I'm out. Fresh air might actually fix me up." Doc sighs, big boomer energy.
"You don't even remember what are your L's! Look, this isn't a walk in the park. The Wasteland's not your bro, alright? Don't wanna hear you got clapped out there."
"Don't sweat it, Doc. I know what's up." I stand, dead-set. "I'm not gonna get cooked."
"Not gonna stop you, huh…" Doc shakes his head. "Guess I can't say no," he shrugs. "Fine, you'll need your gear," Doc says as he heads for the exit. "Let's go," he waves me along.
At the door, Doc opens a trunk and starts passing over my drip: gun belt, some random 9mm pistol with a box of ammo (24 rounds), a mini hiking pack, sack of caps, med kit with four Stimpaks, a granola bar I instantly crush, delivery order, and of course, the PIP-Boy 3000 and the left-hand glove for it, along with Vault 21 jumpsuit and some black boots. Problem is, there's no special stash screen for all this on the PIP-Boy, so I gotta freestyle here: jumpsuit and boots on first, glove, PIP-Boy, and the rest crammed in the bag.
This mod's doing the most, but why mess with my inventory? Do they want me to suffer? Hold up… the menu… How do I even access the main menu to save? Uh…no way. WHAT THE ACTUAL GLITCH?!
Is this a game or what?! They gutted S.P.E.C.I.A.L., my stash, and yeah, I get they want realism with pain and weakness, but no main menu? Not even funny! I wanna save! I wanna exit! I'm freaking out!
Wait. Chill. Gotta think here: if there's no menu, I need an exit strategy. And there is one — beat the Hoover Dam showdown, and I'll get kicked to the main screen. Then back to IRL (can't even feel my actual body, but that's secondary). Then, I just shut this cursed mod down! That's the plan!
Aight, so big brain time: What's the move? Main quest ain't gonna budge till I deal with that "Platinum Chip," but side quests? They probs out here on autopilot if this dev is goated enough to make it play like IRL. Like, bruh, Forlorn Hope 'bout to get clapped if I don't swoop; prisoners, prob toast; Vulpes gonna skrrt outta Nipton before I even roll up — big who cares tho. That's all NPC vibes.
Plan: Secure Goodsprings, get tight with Sunny, kit up, then jet to Primm, clean it up, maybe fix ED-E, then solo the Powder Gangers with NCR homies — biggest squad out here. After that? Who knows. If I pull this off, that's me goin' sigma grindset mode on the Wasteland. Plans gotta be alpha.
Dream squad: Jules from North Vegas, hardcore survivor rizz; Arcade Gannon from Followers of Apocalypse, legit med skills (Followers always clutch); Boone from Novac, sniper boi, could teach me some real scope tricks (snipers need a spotter anyway, bet he'd pull up with me).
Doc cuts in, "Grew up in a Vault, pre-War OG stuff. We all had one of these bad boys," he nods at the PIP-Boy. "Don't need it, but for you? Total life-saver. Health tracker. You got it?"
"Yup, thanks Doc," I say, almost feeling a deja vu vibe from the OG game.
"Just don't lose it. She pricey," he says, breaking script low-key. "Pro tip: Find Sunny Smiles (bet she's in the saloon) and get her to teach ya Wasteland survival, maybe a lil' tour," he adds. Free varmint rifle, too? Huge W. "And if ya get smacked around, come back — patch ya up. Try not to L out there, alright?"
"LMAO, I'll be unkillable, Doc!" Wait, forgot the laser and SMG. Need to run it back. "Yo Doc, got spare guns?"
"Yeah, think I got some…" Doc's squinting at me. "Why?"
"Uh…" Just asking for free blasters feels sus. "Maybe I could, like… buy one?"
Doc be like, scratches mustache "Laser pistol and SMG, but they sketchy; high-key unreliable. Wouldn't suggest buying, but your L, not mine." Gaslighting maxed out, but I'm not fooled!
Decision time: laser pistol's cool, but early game kinda weak; SMG, expensive on ammo but solid. I'll go with laser — big brain energy play.
"How much for the laser?"
"Laser? I'll be real, don't know anyone who can service energy weps in Goodsprings; DIY if it bricks," he shrugs. "Last used it for campfires, tbh," Doc rubs his chin, looking all sad. "ANYWAYS, price is…18 caps," says this man. EZ W, hella underpriced, I'm cashin' out on this.
"Bet," I dig in my cap bag, count up, only 20. "Deal," I say, tossin' 18.
Doc nods, goes into the Vit-O-Matic room, hauls back a metal crate, hands me the laser and a lil' energy cell.
Shove the cell in the bag, keep the laser out to admire. Design? NGL, mid. Components jammed in a beat-up shell with a fat cable on top, weird switch on the right side, ergonomic grip, trigger, and some weird rectangle bit under the handle. Like, bro, why even?
"Laser shoots pulses, 30 shots per cell. New cell loaded, so ya got 60 shots. Ammo's rare, don't go wild."
Trigger safety's on, switch hella stiff, gotta crank it clockwise like you mean it, won't break." Reload? Button on the grip opens the battery slot, stick the cell + side forward," I glance at the grip — yeah, there's a button.
Used cells? Don't ditch, recycle 'em or sell 'em."
"Bet, thanks, Doc," I stow the laser, and we peace out.
Sun's out, blinding me, and hot air slaps my lungs… Mojave Desert goin' nuclear. I need drip for this heat, and gear for sandstorms. Can't fight without tactical pockets, a hat, shades, and a vest to keep all my loot fast-access. Reloads gon' be rough with only one mag.
Wait, where's my water storage? Gonna need a canteen…Nah, that's a problem for Future Me. When I got caps or tradeables, I'll stock up. Yeah, smart play.
First, gotta scope the view… Doc's house on this lil' hill has primo view of Goodsprings: houses everywhere, abandoned school, Prospector Saloon, mini-mart northeast, school southwest. Empty gas station northwest by Doc's, graveyard way up northeast. Surroundings go hard: hills east, hiding Devil's Gullet, a pit with (fingers crossed) some army loot boxes; twisty road east to southeast leads to Primm — locked down 'cause raiders. Town's got two spots: Bison Steve Hotel and Vikki & Vance Casino. Road's trash but Victor — robot that dug me up — just zooms along on his one big wheel.
Hold up, where he headin'? Thought Securitron stayed forever in Goodsprings if Courier left? Meh, this ain't even top 10 on the weird stuff list lately; not gonna fry my brain thinking about it.
Ayo, quit birdwatchin' in this fire pit! Victor's gone, so time to loot his crib — if it ain't nailed down, it's mine! Maybe I can even claim the place? Gotta do a clean sweep and check the spots nearby, gotta prep my sigma base.
Headin' there, spot a two-headed moo-moo beastie, no cap, lookin' like a beefed-up Brahmin. Not gonna lie, big animals? Kinda sus. Usually tryin' to chomp you up, but this one's got that NPC chill, so I skirt past.
Inside? Shack's split in two: dirty asf bathroom, RIP my nose, and living room. Whole room lit up by a lamp on a shelf, plus two ceiling lights running on nuke batteries. Cozy, low-key. Middle of the room's got a desk and a small bookshelf with random electronics; to the right, nasty mattress on a bed frame, two more shelves packed with junk. Left side's got a couch and armchair, all clean and stuff, with a kitchen setup in the far corner: counters, stove, busted fridge and sink, and two metal boxes on a counter for some reason. Bathroom is rough — cracked toilet, tub black with grime. Overall? Straight outta the game. We love that accuracy.
Scope out the junk on the shelves — two spare nuke batteries, grab those easy. Peek in the metal boxes — yo, an energy cell like the one Doc gave me. Yoink. Nothing else major.
Solid haul! Not enough for god-tier gear but good for starter pack upgrades. Time to — wait, why stall? Straight to the shop, let's go!
Dodge the brahmin, hit Main Street (if you can call it that), and spot Chet, the shopkeeper: young guy, brown beard, mustache, shaggy hair, kinda bulky. Dude's hauling boxes outside the shop. I plan to wait, but he spots me. Alright, guess I'm goin' in.
The shop? Low-key junkyard vibes: cracked display cases, metal shelves hanging by a thread, dust and dirt everywhere. But props to Chet; stuff's well-organized on shelves, clean wood shelves, and actual lights. Man should focus more on cleaning than stacking merch.
"You must be the guy Doc patched up," Chet says, heading behind the counter. "Didn't think you'd leave on two legs."
"Big W for Doc's golden hands," I say. Dude's a legend, pulling me from the brink without any Auto-Doc.
"Big facts," Chet nods. "Lookin' to buy?"
"Yeah, need some drip," I say, mentally running through the list: sandstorm gear, tactical vest, water flask, mag pouches. "Got any tactical vests?"
He smirks. "Nah, only a shoulder rig. Tactical vests don't come cheap."
"Bruh, aight," I sigh. Guess I'll have to hit the NCR shops for top-tier gear. Times are rough out here.
"Okay, here's the rundown: shoulder rig, goggles, canteen, cloth mask, cap, and two mags for…" I slap the piece on the counter. "This bad boy."
Chet gives the mag a look. "Think I got you. Got caps?"
"I'm thinkin' trade," I pull out the two nuke batteries, plop 'em on the counter. "Two nukes for all that."
"Bet," he says, flashing a grin as he stashes them away.
That was way too easy. I'm telling you, those batteries are like god-tier loot. But hey, essentials come first.
Chet digs into a big chest behind the counter, pulls out the shoulder rig, then grabs everything else from around the shop, even hits the back room for some items.
Thank him for the trade, ask if I can gear up here, and he's cool with it. Throw on the goggles, hat, mask, and rig; strap the holster with the gun to my right side, hook the canteen onto the rig, load mags, and stuff 'em in pouches. Ready for action.
Bag's heavy tho… need to lighten up. Pull the laser gun out, stash two energy cells and two Stimpaks into free pouches. Stims are like fancy syringes: metal casing, lil' window to see the red liquid, pressure gauge, side button. Nice.
No clue where to stick this laser gun tho. Ain't got no holster for it, guess post-war gear wasn't ready for energy weps. Annoying af. Brain's fogging up, need a plan…
"You chillin'?" Chet asks, stepping over.
"Yeah, just…" I show him the laser pistol. "No idea where to stash this."
"We got you," Chet rummages around, finds a strap, ties it through the gun's weird handle loop, gives me a shoulder pat. "On the house."
"Legend," I say, wearing it like a chain. Headed out now, ready to flex on the Wasteland.
Ayo, I'm lookin' fire — total Wasteland menace. But PIP-Boy, no armor, and that Vault 21 fit? Bro, I'm free buffet for Powder Gangers. Could scope armor at the shop, but the good stuff's overpriced, and cheap gear? LITERAL waste of caps.
Aight, let's go hit up Sunny in the saloon.
As I pull up, I get called out by some old prospector chillin' on the porch — Easy Pete, all rugged grandpa vibes with gray beard, straw hat, and that thousand-yard stare. "Need somethin'?" I ask, sidling up.
"Just a sec of your time, if you don't mind." I nod, lean against a post. "Saw someone headin' to the old school; was that you?" Bruh, did he see me looting Victor's? Nah, I'm playing it cool. "Yeah, and?"
"Nah, no worries," he waves. "Just a heads-up — keep your gun ready if you're around there again. Giant mantises like to lurk."
"Oh, right," I nod, Fallout brain activated. Thanks for the pro-tip, Pete.
"One more thing — do me a solid, stay away from people's houses. Folks get jumpy." Noted.
Inside the saloon, and yo, it's kinda nice for a post-apoc vibe — dusty and cracked, but there's that cozy NPC chatter, kills the anxiety.
Quick breakdown: Saloon's got two sides. Left's the bar, wood counter, metal bar stools, a few booths with leather couches. Right side? Billiard table and tables with high chairs, all retro posters and pre-war pics on the walls.
Spot Sunny Smiles, geared in leather armor with pockets and knife holster, chillin' by a table with a half-drunk bottle, her dog Cheyenne at her side. I try to get close, but Cheyenne growls, so I back up.
"Cheyenne, chill!" Sunny calls, throwing a side-eye my way. "Don't worry, she won't bite… unless I say so."
"Yeah, not scared," I lie, totally spooked. Untrained dogs are no joke — they'll snap like that. "Just don't wanna annoy your pup."
"All good, come closer if you want," she says, calling Cheyenne under the table. "What's up?"
"You're Sunny, right? Doc Mitchell said you could teach me survival." I lean against the left wall, keeping it casual.
"Mitchell? So, you're the graveyard pickup?" She glances at me; classic heart-shaped face, sharp jawline, big hazel eyes, soft pink lips — low-key the real deal.
"Yep. Word is it was a rough night; I remember none of it. Doc called it 'amnesia' — memory loss and all that. Big yikes."
"Dang," she gasps, raising her brows. "That's tough…" She smooths her hair, stands up. "No way I'm lettin' you out there untrained. C'mon." She straps on her bag, throws her rifle over her shoulder, and grabs the empty bottles, then whistles for Cheyenne. We head out the back way to the yard.
Scope the yard — end of the dip, higher ground with some houses, small farm opposite the saloon with a janky fence. Random broken glass near the fence, shrubs and trees scattered around.
"Before I give you the rundown on survival, let's test your aim." She sets three bottles on the fence, hands me her varmint rifle. "Don't waste your own ammo." We step back, squaring up with the fence.
Okay, so my aim? Kinda mid. Never had time for gun range practice, always grinding for Benjamin's. But surprise-surprise, I bust all three bottles with three shots — bam, bam, bam. And I'm like, wait, I know how to stance, aim, breathe, pull the trigger? Literal gamer blessings, thanks, devs.
"Nice! Solid aim on static targets," Sunny says, holding her hand out for the rifle (noooo), and I hand it back. Painful L. "Now we gotta try moving targets, but no clue where." She pauses, thinking. "Wanna help me out? I'll throw you some caps if it goes smooth."
"What's the job?" Caps are always welcome; Wasteland merchants don't just take junk like in the game.
"Simple: we're hunting geckos around the water sources." Sunny reloads her rifle. "Fast lil' buggers, but if we shoot first, they'll never know what hit 'em."
Geckos near Goodsprings are these mutant lizards, big, with finned heads, sharp teeth, dark blue scales with white spots. Big ones exist, but these are the small fry.
"Yo, sounds chill... Lemme help out," I said, knowing I still needed the plug on that healing dust recipe. No way was I gonna miss that, plus it was a good chance to level up my crafting skills.
"Bet. You seem prepped, so let's bounce now." We hit the road and started trekking southeast. I played it like I had zero clue where the springs were and just drifted along behind Sunny.
We got there pretty quick. Sunny ducked behind a rock near the springs while I set up next to her, laser pistol in hand, safety off.
There was this low growl.
"Catch that?" Sunny whispered. "Over by the spring? Geckos.
"Let's creep up and catch 'em lackin'." She told Cheyenne to sit tight by the rock and snuck up on the clueless geckos, and I was right behind her.
Close enough, we saw 'em vibing — one was digging by the windmill, the other drinking from the trough, both spaced out.
Sunny whispers, "I'll take the one by the windmill. You got the other when it's clear, alright?" She took aim, held her breath, and headshotted the far one. The second one freaked at the noise, turned, and ran, frills spread and all, mouth open, growling.
One clean shot, and I blew a hole right through the thing's eyes. So much smoke! This gun was fire! Left a tiny crater in the sand too.
Wait a sec... if energy guns are this cracked, then the Brotherhood of Steel's gotta be loaded. And Van Graffs? They could roll up on the Strip and take over, no sweat… Unreal. I should hit up Veronica, make some BoS connections, and then maybe figure out a play on Van Graffs — since I could wipe them if I wanted to.
"Solid shot!" Sunny gave me props. We made sure no geckos were left, and Sunny called Cheyenne over.
"Well, that was easier than I thought," I said, grabbing a drink from the spring, filling my canteen.
"Like I said, they won't even know what hit 'em." She smirked. "Two more spots to clear. Let's go."
We rolled out to the next spring. Just as we closed in, someone started screaming. Oh right... that one Goodsprings resident out here solo despite Sunny's "no solo missions" rule. (How'd he even sneak past the geckos back at the first two spots?) In the game, you could save the guy easy, but now I gotta book it before geckos go for his throat.
Three geckos at the second spring heard the screams and came right for us — only way down was by us, so we smoked 'em easy. No time to waste; I dashed down the trail to the third spring while Sunny took high ground at the second.
When I got there, geckos were swarming the poor lady, blood splattering everywhere. With them busy munching, we picked them off fast and ran to the lady still breathing, barely. She had four gnarly wounds — neck, side, chest, thigh.
"Freakin' monsters!" Sunny looked like she was gonna cry. "Bastards!" She kicked a dead gecko.
"Hold up," I switched the pistol to safety, grabbed a Stimpak from my pouch, and injected her neck.
"You got Stimpaks?" Sunny jumped over, checking on her. "Thank God!"
"One sec," I pulled another Stimpak and jabbed it into her thigh. "Think she'll make it to Mitchell's on just these?"
"Not sure…" Sunny's voice shook.
"She'll be okay," I shrugged off my pack, found more Stimpaks, hit her other wounds, and strapped the pack back on. "Now let's move her to the doc." Sunny nodded and helped me carry her.
On the way to Mitchell's, we found out her name's Alicia. Sunny said Alicia never risked it like this before, so what got her acting up solo today? Ain't no chad move.
We yeet into Doc's pad, no knock, no cap. Doc's in the hall, goes full "bruh" mode, rubbin' his shiny bald dome. "Jeez…put her on the surgery table," he says, eyes wide. Man's spooked, dips somewhere. We lay Alicia down, peep that Doc's got her on lock, then bounce out.
Sunny's big sad, I'm big mad — FOUR stims down the drain, bro! Wasteland taxes hittin' hard. Guess I'll just Venmo 'em later and call it a "rescue fee." Tryin' to hype Sunny up:
"Ayo," hand on her shoulder, "you vibin'? You lookin' real low-energy."
"Feel like trash IRL," she mumbles. Yo, big yikes.
"C'mon, vent it out, shawty," I shake her shoulder a bit. "Bet you'll feel better."
"EVERY DAY," she pops off, hands flying like she's boutta box, "I say, 'DON'T GO ALONE!' Do they listen? Nope!" She deep sighs. "How many more gotta get eaten before they get it? I care, they don't! It's maddening!"
"Yeah, some folks got the IQ of a rock," I nod. "Uh… wanna hit the saloon? Vibe it off?"
"Hm…" she exhales, thinkin'. "Yeah, low-key good idea. Plus, gotta talk payment, and our training sesh got tanked."
"Forget the lesson, fam, later for that. Let's roll," and we head out for the saloon.
We're almost there, then BOOM, door flies open, and out swaggers Joe Cobb — big boss Powder Ganger, total RBF vibes. Dude's got the bad energy radiatin' off him, 'bout to throw hands. Powder Gangers? Literal jail-break goons, probs need a fast pass to the afterlife.
"MOVE IT!" Cobb barks, shovin' Sunny. She stumbles over the dog — if I hadn't caught her, she'd be munchin' dirt. This NPC tryna test me?!
Hand's on my piece, but his crew starts pouring out like it's Black Friday — armed, no rags, just all straight-up strapped. Yo, did this fool bring the whole squad? What's his deal?
"Got beef?" Joe asks, gettin' in my space. Man, I wanna serve him a one-way ticket to respawn, but his cronies would turn Goodsprings into CoD: Wasteland Edition. I gotta chill, even if I hate it. Time to fake nice.
"Nah, my bad for blockin'," I say, chokin' on every word. Cobb laughs, spits, nearly tags my kicks. This gremlin…
"Yo, boss," one of his lackeys slithers up, eyeballing Sunny, "shorty lookin' fine. Should we keep her?" Bro's got a death wish.
AHHH. WHAT DO NOW?! Are we really about to go down over one girl? Where's the squad? Where's Pete? I don't wanna get merked in Act 1!
"Shut it!" Joe bops the guy upside the head, for some reason licks his lips. "Last thing we need's a shootout!" He storms off south, crew in tow.
Barely survived — felt like a full mini-boss fight. For real, that was close.
"Uh, I'm good now," Sunny says.
"Huh? Oh, sorry," I let go. "You all good?"
"Yeah, just a shove. Poor Cheyenne though…" she kneels, giving her pup head pats.
"Right…" Time to ask why Cobb's even here. "Hope Trudy's vibin' okay…"
"Trudy? Oh, dang — TRUDY!" Sunny speeds inside, leaves me trailing. I follow up.
Inside, it's like a bomb hit; billiards table flipped, chairs all over, bottles smashed. And there's Trudy — OG barkeep, simple fit, brown hair, deep-set eyes, totally frazzled, hands to her head. Sunny and Cheyenne right next to her.
"Why'd we even take in Ringo?" Trudy moans. "It's just a bad omen…"
"Trudy, don't say that!" Sunny side-hugs her. "These losers are just lookin' for drama! We'll help clean up, don't worry!"
"Sunny, Cobb's tryna burn Goodsprings to the ground if we don't give him Ringo," Trudy lowers her gaze. "Hope Ringo skips out, and they follow him like NPCs."
"Ain't no way they're torchin' anything!" I pop off, leanin' back against the wall. "We'll turn 'em to XP first!"
"Facts!" Sunny's hyped. "They pull up? They get mowed down!"
"Chill a sec?" Trudy looks at me, trying to cool the vibe. "Let Ringo go, and we'll see what Cobb says. You don't need to take this on — been through enough already. Don't get involved." She's not buyin' it, so I hit her with some logic.
"I just wanna pay it forward, y'know? That bad?" Silence. "As for Cobb, not everything's a talk-it-out thing. Some people gotta get clapped." I pause. "Bet this isn't even about Ringo. Why'd they care about one trader? Nah, they're lookin' at Goodsprings: clean water, trade routes, all that. Makes sense, right?"
Trudy crosses her arms, lookin' thoughtful. "Then… what's the move?"
Yo, they're actually on board. Gotta come up with a plan, speedrun style.
"What do we do? We give 'em what they gave us. If the townies go cover-mode in houses, in here, in Chet's, pop shots from safety, Cobb's gang'll get smoked easy."
"Good plan, but… can we really do it?" Trudy's lookin' wary. "Poppin' radroaches is one thing, humans…another." Really? First-timers?
"Yo, if I gotta drop a few losers, that's on me. Y'all too, it's the Wasteland life."
"Fine," Trudy stands up, all serious. "I'll get everyone onboard." First W secured. Trudy's the real hometown hero; she'll pull 'em together better than I could.
"Lit," I nod. "Guess I'll…"
"Can't wait to dive in?" Sunny sighs. "Our plans always get dunked on."
"Uh…" Right, I promised... but who's got time for that when it's grind time? Then my stomach goes grrrr — right on cue.
"Food time," Sunny laughs.
"Yeah, no cap," I chuckle back, stomach out here makin' demands.
We help clean up the saloon, score some grub and drinks from Trudy. Sunny and I post up at a table, talkin' about everything: survival hacks, my past, future plans. She throws me 50 caps, says I should hit Doc for some stims. Not bad, low-key kinda vibin'.
While we're vibing, my brain's running 300 IQ plays on Goodsprings, thinking, like, why's nobody nuking that gecko nest by the springs? Those lil' gremlins keep raiding like it's their job. Wipe the whole crew out, and boom — clean water, problem solved till the next respawn. And fr, how's the school still crawling with mantises? They're weak, but catch a sleepy gardener slippin', and it's game over. Not to mention the mega radscorpions flexing over by the graveyard — one of those chonkers rolls into town? GG, everyone. Gonna be raisin' new brahmin and fixing fences all season.
Oh snap, forgot the cazadors. They're out by the road past the hills, right near those radscorpions. These bugged-out units will delete anything that moves. Got enough side quests here to fill a mainline story, but everyone here's chillin' like it's a Tuesday. Not my grind though, so whatevs.
After chowing down, Sunny's like, "Wanna go grab some gecko loot and try skinning 'em?" So I'm like, sure, let's unlock some survival XP. We hit the springs, mad lucky nobody looted the bodies yet, and no NPCs in sight.
We grab some carcasses and lug 'em to a random white house on the edge of town, stack 'em by some rickety fence, then loop back for more.
"Aight, let's get slicing," Sunny says, pulling out her setup, including the knife. What happens next? Bro, I wasn't ready for this gore-fest. Why'd I even say yes?
"Ya good?" she asks, wiping down her first gecko skin. "Catch all that?"
"Uh… crystal clear," I bluff. I'm lost af.
"Here," she hands me the knife. "Your turn. I'll coach."
"Uh… yeah, let's go," time for me to shine — or flop.
And flop I did, bro. Total fail, looked like I'd butchered it with a spoon.
"Don't trip," she says, taking the knife back. "It's all muscle memory."
"Yeah… one day, maybe." I shuffle back, letting the pro work her magic.
Come sundown, we're done (well, she's done), and I walk away with some hides, a bit of meat, and a couple new hacks in my skill tree. We set up another lesson since I'm barely gettin' it, and I drop by Chet's, drop 10 caps for a knife and a practice skin, all set.
Chet said Trudy called a squad meeting in the saloon, so I roll up. Whole town's there, even Ringo. She's laid out why the shootout's a lock and loaded, and I give my two cents on the plan, break down roles, and wrap it up.
Bruh, I'm fried. Didn't even clock how starving I was. It's chill-out time.
Down some water from my flask, head "home," and start scheming how to cook this meat. No fire? No matches? Last hope's the stove. I wiggle it out from the wall, mess around with the wires, and it's electric. Took a sec, but I wired in one of those nuke batteries from the lamp.
Sizzled up all the meat — came out lookin' like a charred L, but who's picky in the Wasteland? Down it all, peel off my gear, slap it on the table, and pass out. Day 1 in Goodsprings, donezo.
Day 2 hits like the night never happened. Someone's shaking me awake — I crack my eyes open. It's Sunny. Bro, that sleep felt like two seconds.
"Yo, it's go-time," she says, giving me a light shake.
Already? I'm out here low-battery mode. Head's throbbing like crazy…
"Aight, I'm up…" I mumble, slapping on my gear.
Fully strapped, I guzzle water, and we head to the saloon.
Headache's wildin' — feels like my skull's in a vise. Every pulse is a stab, like my brain's gettin' pancaked.
Stumble into the saloon, slump against the wall, clutchin' my head.
"You good?" Sunny bends down, looking kinda spooked.
"Head…," I grunt, as Cobb and his goons roll up on the horizon.
"They're here," Sunny growls, eyes locked on the crew. "Let's get you inside." She hauls me up, pulls me in, but I'm too wrecked to stand, so I flop down on the floor.
"Ahh…" Pain's off the charts, like a collar clamping down, waves just rolling over.
"You need meds NOW, but I got zip!" Sunny's voice is panicky.
"It's… cool…" I can barely choke out. "Cobb…"
"I'm grabbin' Mitchell!"
"No!" I shout, regret it immediately as the pain spikes, and I black out.
Next thing I know, I'm waking up in Doc's bed.
Did the play work? Guess so if I'm at Doc's and not face down in a ditch. Unless… wait, what if I died and this is some glitchy respawn loop? Panic mode activated. Breathe, bro — Doc ain't here staring at me, so it's all good, no Groundhog Day.
Anyone else take an L? Doesn't sound like it, place is too quiet. I'm vibin'; Goodsprings is safe, so time to keep grinding the plan.
"Back in action?" Doc strolls in, grabs a chair next to the bed.
"Yeah," I say, sitting up, "feelin' alright. What happened with the Powder Gangers?"
"We gave 'em a nice group grave. Just hope their jail pals don't come lookin' for revenge," Doc straightens up.
"Doubt they will, no cap." Keepin' it short — no need to give the whole lore dump.
"Wish I had your confidence… anyway, movin' on."
"Head still pounding?" I nod. "Hit you with a couple meds, should ease it, but don't expect miracles. This is serious, and I don't got the tech to cure you — sorry, kid."
"Not your fault, Doc. But, like, how bad is it?"
"Yo, when Victor brought you in, your brain was… bro, I'm still SHOOK I managed to keep you breathing," Mitchell chuckled nervously. "I did all I could, but look — you're still on the timer. Brain's dipping, got max like, two days left without med support."
"Ohhh… damn," I laugh, but it's nervous AF now. Less than 48 hours? L, bro. So, where's this setup? Gotta be New Vegas, right? "So, the clinic in New Vegas my only shot?"
"You nailed it. Yep, New Vegas med clinic can pull it off. But heads up: north's blocked by deathclaws who YOLO'd into the quarry. Best move's to head south through Primm, then hit the Mojave Outpost, jump on Highway 164, follow 95 up north till you hit the clinic," he says. I gotta clear three highways? Bruh, that's long AF.
"Two days ain't enough time to hit that route, right?"
"You'd really have to sweat it, might not make it in two," Mitchell's trying to lowkey give me hope so I don't do a full-send through deathclaw turf. Smh. Why's life on hard mode out here?
"Nah, I'm pushing north," I'm locked in — ain't no time for scenic routes out here.
"Oof," Mitchell wipes his forehead, "Not sure what to say… but good luck, fam."
"Will my head keep wildin' like this?"
"Oh, it'll hit, but I've got meds to blunt the pain," Mitchell says, pulling out two syringes of yellow goop. "Gift from Alicia. Sorry, that's all I got."
Ideally, you wouldn't use 'em, but better than takin' the L," he says.
"Appreciate it," I grab the stimpacks, knowing I won't see these much after this. "What's the downside?"
"Oh, trust — side effects are a mess," Doc scratches his head, "but hit a couple Detox pills, and you're fresh as a meme." He smirks. "Less you know, better you'll sleep."
"Got it," I mutter, already dreading the trip. "Aight, no time to waste." I spring out of bed. "Where's my gear?"
"There," Mitchell points at the table, already heading to his room. "Hit up Sarah Weintraub at The Strip, say hi for me."
"Locked in," I say, gearing up and watching Doc disappear. Man, I gotta calm down... I'm hitting the saloon. Might as well go out with a buzz.
Crashin' in the saloon, I cop two beers and a gecko kebab, post up by the bar, and start sendin' it. First beer's down in one gulp, but nothin' hits; guess Courier's liver is max-level or somethin'. Whatever, beer two's gotta work…
OHH, yeah! Second one SLAPS, worries? GONE. I don't even notice Sunny sliding over.
"Hey, you're awake!" she says, sitting across from me, with Cheyenne at her side. "What's the occasion?"
"Yeah," I trail off, just kinda starin' at Sunny. Or more like... admiring, yo, did she always look this pretty? Flawless skin, that cute little smile? Damn, maybe I'm feelin' her a little... or a lot. Must be the booze. Doesn't matter. She's an angel, helping me survive out here without askin' for a thing. Absolute W of a human.
"Looks like you're hammered," she laughs, grabbing something from her bag, handing it over. "Chew on this."
"Ahh, alright…" I toss it in, munchin' and swallowin'.
Whoa. WHOO. Stone cold sober in a split-second!
"Whaaa…" I shake my head, rubbing my face. Bro, what IS that? I need a stash of these things, no, a vault full. Gotta keep these hidden from everybody.
"So, what's up?" Ugh, right. Why I started drinkin' in the first place.
"I'm... dyin'. Doc… clinic…" I tell her about the whole brain rot sitch, clinic plan, the lot.
"No way!" Sunny gasps. "First an op, now headaches, now THIS?"
"Yeah," I slump my head on the table. "Figured booze would do the job. Guess that's dumb as hell."
"Nah, you're not dumb!" Trudy shouts out. "Anyone would break from that kinda load."
"Thanks, for real," I say, looking up — and see a Stealth Boy just chillin' in the center of the table.
Hold up… Stealth Boy? From where??
"Check it," Sunny pushes it my way. "We found it on Cobb; dude tried to go invisible in the shootout, but Ringo nailed him right as it powered on."
Looks like this could be handy for gettin' past those deathclaws, but also, major L in caps value if I just use it… "This thing's worth some serious caps. You sure?"
"Freebie," Sunny tilts her head. "But... could I ask you for one more favor?"
Hmm… another quest? Coyotes? Geckos? Bet. Say less, fam. We're out here grinding XP and collecting loot like it's an NFT drop. Let's run it up, alpha energy only — no cap, no breaks.
"Bet. What's the ask?"
"Awesome!" Sunny perks up. "Henry, one of our locals, spotted a crew of giant radscorpions past the cliff at the cemetery. We're freaked. Like, just one—"
"Say less." I stand up. "I'm on it." How many of these big boys are there again? Ten? Whatever, with my laser piece, they'll get smoked.
Just gotta stay calm, just gotta stay calm… fr, deep breaths, no panic vibes, we're chillin'. Mindset on ice, heart rate on Do Not Disturb—gotta keep it cool, we're in our zen arc.
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