Because I can't make a male character for beans, Alex (ander) belongs to coduss, I just get to play with him.

S: 8 - P: 6 - E: 8 - C: 10 - I: 6 (more wise from age) - A: 5 - L: 8 (being able to survive post nuclear apocalypse for 200 years as a race hated by most is called Lucky)

Note: please ignore any spelling mistakes. Thank you. I write on a phone, so its hard to proof-read to be honest.

"Welcome Back To The Land Of The Living."

The Mojave stinks like no other place I've ever been to.

Sitting at a bar in the middle of a sun baked desert, I know I miss D.C. somethin' awful. I miss the whole damn place, the Deathclaws and the robots, the dust storms that smell like Brahmin shit. An old friend called the place Hell and home, loved to hate it but never wanted to leave. Took me too long to understand, and now it was too late to matter.

I sip at the whiskey in my glass and wonder if she's married, wonder if she finally talked down that hard ass she loved so much. I miss her, I even miss that ass hole, but Mojave is home and I had to take a moment to return and live it up in Vegas for awhile.

I hold out my glass for the graying bar tender to refill and she does it well. As I sip at the luke warm brew, I try to purge D.C. from my memory. I have a job to do, a delivery job - haven't done that in a long time. For about a hundred fifty three years, I've been a bodyguard, for a couple years before - a delivery man. Courier pays pretty well, surprised there wasn't a branch in D.C.; that place is wild and I understand it a little bit. They'd lose more than they would gain over there.

I raise my brow when I hear the saloon door slam open, hear a cackling and see an arm thrown over Sunny Smiles' shoulder. She's blushing and trying to hide in strawberry blonde hair, a stark contrast to the checkered suit pressed against her gentle curves.

He's slick and pretty, a Vegas local and everyone knows it. A hotel owner, perhaps, he certaintly looks that clean.

He sees me and something changes but his smile is still there and he's whispering something in Sunny's ear but her dog is growling and I reach for my gun. But he doesn't notice and I'm not obvious because no sense in scaring the locals.

But I don't like him and he already doesn't like me and this won't end well.

I woke up with whiplash.

Never done that before. . .I don't like it.

"Easy now," an old, rusty voice days from my left.

I wanna look at him, I really do, but everything blurs and wobbles when I open my eyes so I'm just gonna keep em closed a little longer. The air smells musty and a tad like chemicals, a smell further explained by the sound of bubbling just ahead of me; must be a slapped - together chemistry set, judging by the hiss I catch from cracked glass. James would be so ashamed to see that. . .well, I can't see it and I'm embarassed for this stranger.

"Can I ask where I am," I mutter, rubbing my eyes tenderly.

A soft chuckle introduces what I wanted to hear. "Goodsprings, son."

I sigh in relief and dare to open my eyes again, the blurs settling in the edges now. "Thank God," I blink a few times, feeling a dull ache in my temple, I can't tell which. It feels like my head is stuffed with cotton. "Remember me, lad?"

Mitchell chuckles, stroking a well groomed mustache. "Yeah, yeah I do. If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm too old to be called 'lad' just like you're too old to be called 'son'."

I chuckle then, shaking my head a little to clear the fuzziness. "Damn, what happened?"

Mitchell reaches to the right, under the creaky chair he's sitting in, and he produces a mirror. "Got shot, Alex."

My mouth dries as I see my reflection. Everything appears to be in place: exposed nasal passages, empty patches of muscle, green eyes that scare most who approach. But there's that still shiny hole where a bullet sunk in, a small gash where the second bullet cleared my head all together. I drop the mirror in my lap, rolling my tongue in my mouth as I stare at my duster draped over the foot of the bed; the thick shoulder pads make it sit unevenly and I remember the corpse whose bag I stole it from, the helmet shipped back to D.C...

"Shit," I don't rub my face like I want to, I know it'll hurt and I'm already in enough pain. "Well, when will I be able to travel?"

Mitchell gives me this crooked look, like he knows whats on my mind, like he knows I'm going to shred that pretty checkered suit. I don't care what he thinks and I'm not usually a man of revenge, I'm an old Irish drunk whose only love has been a flask, for the last two hundred years at least. But I've been shot, a little revenge is in order.

"Ya can leave whenever you want," Mitchell picks up the mirror and sets it where he sits, pulling the covers back from my legs. "I used a decent amount of radiation but not too much, would've healed the scar tissue into your brain and you'd go feral in a few weeks," as I stand and button my pants, he fills a doctor bag with supplies and set it on the bed. "One stimpak a day for the next week and it should heal slow enough from the inside out to be perfectly fine."

"Thanks doc," the coat of the Desert Ranger settles comfortably on my shoulders and I see my bag under the bed. I pull it out and drop it on the bed, unzipping it to see Nezi on the bottom, under a pair of boxers and an empty bottle of whiskey. "They didn' take Nezi," I hold the pistol up, the ivory piece of the serpent comfortable in my palm from the handle.

Mitchell tosses me my hat, bringing a smile to my lips; I need to visit Zion again, but not soon. "Must not've looked hard enough," and he hands me my gun holster that sags on one side of my hips.

I shrug and holster Nezi. "Doesn' matter," I shoulder my bag, the meds tucked away inside. "I'll get whatever they took back," it was a promise. "Any idea where they went?"

Mitchell shook his head and I watched him tug on some work gloves. "Go ask Trudy, she been complainin' about them breakin' her radio all morning."

I remember that, I remember it bein' the reason we even met, the checkered man and I. I followed him to the Goodspring Source on my bike, he heard the engine rattling but he was alone and had nowhere to hide. The Khans came out of nowhere, jafter me after I parked, beat me senseless and then. . .

I nod and tip my hat. "Thanks again, Doc."

Mitchell smiles and grabs a shovel; I remember a similiar shovel throwing dirt on my face. "Its the least I can do, Alex. Ya fixed the still and cleared the schoolhouse of those mantis and the nest. You've helped us, I welcomed you back to the land of the living."

I chuckled and headed for the door, pulling my flask from my pocket. "Well, I'll go speak to Trudy. Maybe I'll swing by after awhile. . .before I leave."

Its like he knows I won't say goodbye. He doesn't even say anything, just follows me out the door, into the blinding sunlight. I stick my flask away, watching Mitchell round the house with that shovel.

"Bye Mitchell," I mumble, and walk towards the saloon.

I can smell the moonshine from here.

For the first time in about three years. . .I didn't want to leave a town.

Goodsprings was a haven, an oasis in this backwoods, bone dry expanse of drugs and corruption. And Trudy brewed up some damn fine moonshine in the back of that saloon, hope she doesn't notice I swiped a jug.

I screw my flask shut and drop it into my pocket, crouching down in the center of the road leading up hill to cork the moonshine. I grab the handle and start walking again, whistling an old tune I really need to write the lyrics down too; what if I forgot the Drunken Wailer? It'd be a shame to lose such a fine song in this day and age of repeating holotapes crooning of love and forgotten things.

I pause in the center of the road and think, nodding when I decide right is where I need to go. My boots kick dust onto the hem of my duster but its not like I care. Goodsprings Source isn't far and I'll leave the wind to shake off the dirt.

I look up at the sky and contemplate just resting there for the night, I still haven't replaced my headlight from a little run in with some raiders near Nipton. . .my bike is gone.

I stop at the end of the rough path leading to the source for locals, dropping the jug of moonshine and my pack. The jug thunks and the liquid swishes, swirls and continues to make noise as it rolls in a half circle before bumping into my boot.

"Fuckin' really," I looked up to the sky. "I got shot in the head - I can't keep my bike?!"

I guess my life was a fair trade but. . .I put so much love into that thing. A year of love, would have given far more but resources. . .I shook my head and threw down my hat, taking a swallow from my flask as I walk to where the handle bars of the bike left stripped marks against the old painted railing around the pump.

There were two sets of tracks: where I rode in and parked from the East and where someone took off South.

I sighed and snatched up my hat, tugging the brim down over my eyes as I gathered my belongings. I began to follow the South tracks, taking another small sip of my moonshine - well, I guess it'd be Trudy's actually. Hope the ol' gal doesn't burn me too hard when I'm gone.

I shrug down a small incline, breathing a sigh of relief when I see the men working to repair an old, severed radio were decked in NCR garb and were sweating like pigs, the smell permeating the air from ten feet away easily told me that. I watched as blue lights arched through the air, melting metal - on - metal in a show of sparks and white hot glows.

"Halt! State your business ghoul."

I stumbled to a stop, raising my hands - and moonshine - to a rather fetching Ranger with Marksman Carbine pointed right at me. "Ho, lass, don't shoot," her face loosened a little but that gun stayed pointed at me. "I was jus' walkin'," I jerked my chin down at the tracks beneath her boots. "You're mussin' up my trail."

She looked down and then side stepped the tire marks, shouldering her gun with an annoyed expression. "Oh, so you're the owner of the bike?"

I lowered my hands then, seeing caution make her eyes harden but I could care less about her. I wanted my bike, dammit. "Yeah, who th' hell took her?"

The Ranger raised an eyebrow at me then craned her neck up at one of the men dangling from the tower by a harness. "Hey Clarence," he looked down, confusion in baby features; kid couldn't be any older than seventeen. "Where did Barton go with that bike? Ghoul here is lookin' for it."

This Clarence blinked a few times then looked South, shielding his eyes from the failing light with his hand. "He's back at that PG camp," he looked down at us. "Don't think he's leavin' this time!"

The Ranger shrugged and looked back to me. "There ya go."

I tipped my hat a little. "Thank ya, ma'am."

I started walking again, agitated and ready to take my frustrations out on this 'Barton' and maybe any Ganger that got in my way. I wasn't typically a violent man but no one touches the bike - ever.

"Hey ghoul!"

I groan and stop, looking back at the Ranger. "Yeah?"

She held the gun by the barrel now, hip cocked and sweat on her brow. "If ya try to kill Barton," I raised what I remember to be my eyebrow - or where it used to be at least. "Better be fast."

I grinned. "No problem."