Flickering lights in pristine white hallways… Gigantic metal pods… Tall men and women in white coats…
They're arguing. Voices echo off the sterile walls.
What are they arguing about? Patterns… numbers… equations… STOP IT. Please… stop arguing…
Stop screaming…
Stop—
STOP BLEEDING!
I jolted awake, gasping, my chest heaving like I'd just outrun death itself. Cold sweat clung to my skin as I sucked in the dry, recycled air.
My eyes darted around—wooden walls, old medical equipment, blinking monitors. A bed beneath me. Needles. Wires. Machines.
Where… where the hell am I?
More importantly… who the hell am I?
A steady beeping filled the room, most likely from a heart monitor somewhere off to the side.
And then the headache hit—sharp, pounding, as if someone had driven nails straight into my skull.
"Whoa there!" a voice called out, footsteps shuffling across the room. "Easy now, don't be rough like a Deathclaw—you need to rest."
I froze, still breathing hard. Who… who was that?
"Who… are you?" I managed to croak out.
The old man came into view—silver hair, sun-weathered skin, kind but cautious eyes. His hands were steady as he flipped through medical reports beside me, eyes flicking between papers and the blinking screens of nearby monitors.
"Name's Doc Mitchell," he said with a polite nod. "And you, my friend, are…"
His words trailed off, replaced by a stunned silence. His calm expression shifted as his eyes widened, pupils dilating in disbelief.
"…What is it, Doc?" I asked, uneasy.
Doc Mitchell flipped through more papers, his brow furrowed. One hand rose to his mouth as he muttered, almost to himself, "Well I'll be damned… In all my years patchin' folks up, I ain't never seen someone recover like this."
I could feel the tension in my gut tightening. "Recover…? From what?"
The old doctor gave me a hesitant look. "You don't remember, do you? Why you're here…?"
"Not a clue, Doc."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well… hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… you were shot. Right in the head."
My eyes widened. "In my what?"
"Dead center, right here." He tapped my right temple with two fingers. "Bullet went clean through… should've killed you. But here you are. No scars… hell, barely even a mark."
As my right hand drifted up to the spot Doc Mitchell had pointed to, his words proved true. There was a bump there—a slight swelling beneath the skin, like blood had pooled under the surface. But no scar. No stitches. Just… a bump.
The doc pulled over a chair and settled beside me, clipboard in hand, the faint clink of his stethoscope hanging from his neck.
Without wasting time, he slipped the stethoscope into his ears and pressed it gently against my chest, listening in. His eyes flicked between me and the clipboard, multitasking like he'd done this a thousand times before.
A minute later, he leaned back, expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
"Well… either you're built tougher than a Deathclaw and a Bighorner combined…" He chuckled, setting the stethoscope on the nearby table. "Or a straight-up miracle is sittin' right here in front of me. Medically? Nothin's wrong with you."
I stayed quiet, still trying to process everything.
The doc leaned in a little, his voice turning softer but serious. "Now… we gotta make sure your noggin's still workin'. Do you remember your name?"
I froze, staring at him. My mind felt like a blank canvas… torn edges, missing pieces. I scoured through the haze, clawing for something—anything.
My name…
A dull ache spiked behind my eyes. I winced, one hand pressing to my temple.
Doc Mitchell shifted, concern flashing in his eyes, ready to help.
"No, Doc," I muttered, raising my hand to stop him. "I'm… I'm fine."
He paused, settling back into his chair but still watching me closely, worry etched into the lines of his face.
"Well? Do you remember?"
His voice carried genuine concern, rough around the edges but honest—a good man with a kind heart, even in this wasteland.
I took a slow breath as the word surfaced, faint… fractured… but real.
"Prometheus," I said quietly. "My name is Prometheus."
Doc Mitchell leaned back in his chair, one brow raised as the name settled in the air.
"Prometheus, huh? That's… one hell of a name. Can't say I've met a Prometheus before."
He stood up, grabbed something from a nearby table, and held it out to me.
"Here. Might as well get a look at the fella you see in the mirror every mornin'… when you're not laid up in a bed, that is."
It was a mirror—small, cracked along one corner, but clear enough to reflect my face.
Hesitant, I took it.
What stared back at me… wasn't what I expected.
There were faint marks—tiny red pinpricks dotting my forehead and along my right temple. The kind of marks left behind by stitching or surgical needling. Subtle. Almost invisible unless you knew to look for them.
The skin was slightly discolored in spots, a pale hue that would fade with time. No jagged scars, no Frankenstein patchwork. Just the quiet aftermath of a miracle—or a very skilled set of hands.
Doc Mitchell's voice broke the silence.
"Did what I could. Some real delicate work, but truth be told… it was already healin' faster than I could explain. Those little marks? Nothin' serious. Couple weeks, maybe a month or two, and they'll be gone."
I ran a hand along my temple, fingers brushing the faint bumps under the skin.
It didn't make sense. None of it did. But the face in the mirror… was mine.
Or at least, it would be—once I figured out who Prometheus really was.
Now, with the mirror in hand, I stopped focusing on the surgical work and really looked at myself.
I was young—early twenties, maybe mid-twenties at most. It was hard to tell with the exhaustion lining my face.
Short, messy black hair sat unevenly on my head, ruffled and sticking out in places. It looked like someone had cut it with a dull knife—or maybe it'd just been weeks without proper care.
My skin was lightly tanned, the kind you get from wandering under the desert sun. Not pale, but not baked like the old prospectors I'd seen out West in my dreams—or memories?—I wasn't sure which.
My eyes were… unusual. A dark green, deep and sharp, like the leaves of an old pine tree—faded, weathered, but stubbornly alive. They had that tired, distant stare people get when they've seen too much… even if I couldn't remember what I'd seen.
There were faint shadows under my eyes—probably from the trauma, the surgeries, or maybe from whatever life I'd lived before waking up here.
The rest? Lean, wiry frame—strong in the way you get from surviving, not from clean weights or fancy diets. My features were sharp, maybe too sharp. Cheekbones slightly high, nose straight but with a faint crookedness like it had been broken once.
For a moment, I just stared.
Whoever this was… he looked like he'd been through hell.
Whoever he was… was me.
I lowered the mirror, still trying to piece together the stranger staring back at me. My hand lingered on my temple one last time before setting the glass down.
Doc Mitchell gave me a moment, then spoke up, tapping his clipboard.
"Well, you look like you held together better than most. But looks ain't everything out here, 'specially these days." He stood up with a grunt, walking over to the far corner of the room.
"That head of yours took a hit—miracle or not—so before I let you wander off into the big bad Mojave, I gotta make sure the gears upstairs are still turnin' right."
He pulled up an old, boxy machine and wheeled it closer—a dusty relic with knobs, dials, and a worn-out label that read "Vit-O-Matic Vigor Tester."
"Ever seen one of these before?" Doc asked, patting the machine. "Don't worry, ain't gonna fry your brain or nothin'. Just a little tool to help me get a read on how you're wired."
I stared at the contraption, gears in my mind sluggishly turning.
No… I've never seen one of those before… At least… I didn't think I had.
Doc kick-started the old machine with a grunt, brushing dust off its faded green frame. The cracked screen flickered weakly to life, and a faint hum filled the room.
"Here we are—the old Vigor Tester." He patted the side like it was some stubborn farm tool. "Ain't exactly state-of-the-art these days, but she gets the job done."
I eyed the contraption—dials, levers, a display screen. Half medical tool, half carnival fortune teller. It looked outdated, but functional enough.
"Just grip the handles, answer the prompts, and it'll give me a read on how your body and brain are holdin' up," Doc explained.
I placed my hands on the cold metal grips. The screen flickered brighter, and the machine whirred to life.
A low mechanical voice buzzed from the speaker. "Strength: Assessing…"
The handles pulsed faintly under my grip. After a few seconds, the screen lit up: Strength - 8.
Doc let out a low whistle. "Damn. Got some power behind you, Prometheus. Built tougher than you look."
The machine clicked and shifted. "Perception: Assessing…" A small light flashed, and a panel displayed a reaction-time test. My hand moved before I even registered the thought.
Perception - 7.
"Sharp eyes too. Maybe you'll see the Mojave comin' for you before it bites."
It moved to the next prompt. "Endurance: Assessing…" A heart rate graph appeared, along with an oxygen level reading. The results popped up: Endurance - 8.
Doc scratched the back of his head. "Not surprised. Bullet to the head, and you're sittin' here like it was nothin'."
The machine cycled again. "Charisma: Assessing…" A small scanner slid out, running over my face, analyzing bone structure, symmetry, maybe even micro-expressions.
Doc Mitchell's brow furrowed, then his eyes widened as the machine beeped softly.
Charisma - 10.
He let out a low, almost disbelieving whistle. "Well now…" His eyes flicked from the screen back to me, studying my face as if seeing it properly for the first time. "Good to see them bullets didn't affect your charm none."
Next prompt."Intelligence: Assessing…" Symbols, numbers, and logic patterns flashed rapidly on the screen. My eyes tracked them without effort. Answers surfaced in my mind like they'd always been there.
Intelligence - 10.
Doc Mitchell blinked, rubbing his chin. "Well… no wonder you bounced back so fast. If brains were bottle caps, you'd be a rich man."
"Agility: Assessing…" A reflex test. My hand darted to press flashing lights, fingers precise, movements controlled.
Agility - 7.
"Fast on your feet too. Looks like the whole package's holdin' together."
Finally, the machine buzzed faintly. "Luck: Assessing…" The screen spun like an old slot machine before settling.
Luck - 7.
Doc tilted his head. "Huh… 'bout above average. Though, considerin' you woke up after catchin' a bullet to the brain, maybe this machine's undersellin' ya."
I released the grips. The machine powered down with a groan, screen flickering off.
Doc jotted some notes on his clipboard, shaking his head. "Well, Prometheus… I dunno what vault, lab, or crazy story you crawled out of, but the good news is… you're in fine shape."
He paused, tapping the clipboard with his pen. "But I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't curious what else is rattlin' around up there."
He gestured toward the door, beckoning me to follow. "Come on, let's head to the other room. Got a little… personality test I like to run, just to make sure your thinker's still wired the way it should be."
I stood, legs steady beneath me—surprisingly so. A faint ache pulsed behind my temple, but otherwise… I felt intact.
We walked down the short hallway, the floor creaking beneath our boots, walls lined with old, faded photos and dusty medical posters. The living room was modest but tidy—a couch, a battered coffee table, shelves stacked with old books and knick-knacks.
Doc Mitchell waved toward a chair across from his. "Sit yourself down. This ain't nothin' complicated—just a few questions. No wrong answers, I promise."
He shuffled through some papers on the table, pulling out a battered old clipboard and a pen, along with a deck of faded inkblot cards.
I raised an eyebrow. "You seriously test people with pictures?"
He chuckled, settling into his chair. "Out here? You'd be amazed what a simple picture can tell ya about a man. 'Sides… humor me. You did just survive a bullet to the brain."
I exhaled lightly, giving a small smirk. "Well… let's run through this little quiz of yours, Doc."
"Alright," he nodded, flipping through his notes. "Like I said—no wrong answers. Just helps me get a feel for the kind of person you are… or maybe were, considerin' the whole amnesia thing."
Doc leaned back, clipboard ready. His pen hovered, eyes on me.
"First one: You're out in the desert, walking alone, when you come across an injured traveler. They're clearly hurt bad, barely hangin' on. What do you do?"
I took a second, weighing my words. "First, I need to assess whether or not this could be a possible trap or ambush. Raiders, bandits… the Wasteland's cruel. Anyone—or anything—can be bait."
Doc scribbled a note, flipping to the next page without a word.
"You find a locked strongbox buried half under the sand. No one else is around. What do you do?"
"It's better to either leave it… or take it with me if I can carry it. Staying still in open ground? That's just beggin' for sniper fire."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Doc's mouth as he jotted something down.
"You hear a child crying for help behind a broken-down shack. Could be a trap… could be real. What do you do?"
"I approach slowly. Eyes on every window, every shadow. Weapon ready, finger at the trigger. Like I said—anyone can be used. Even a kid."
Doc leaned back a little, studying me for a moment, then glanced back at the clipboard.
"You're offered a high-paying job… but it involves smuggling chems through dangerous territory. Do you take it?"
I shook my head. "No. Chems are poison to the common folk. They cook your mind, ruin your body. I'd be no better than the raiders who kill, rape, and steal if I took that job."
Doc's pen paused in midair. A flicker of approval—or maybe curiosity—crossed his face before he moved to the final question.
"Last one… You wake up one day and realize you can't remember your past, your name, nothin'. But you've got a clean slate. What do you do?"
The words hit a little too close. I steadied my voice.
"Uncover the past. Even if the path is dark, even if the answers are worse. You can't improve yourself without facing the truth."
Doc tapped his pen against the clipboard, nodding to himself. "That's it. Like I said—no wrong answers. Just helps me help you."
Doc Mitchell scribbled down my answers from the last set of questions, nodding thoughtfully. "Not bad. You think quick on your feet." He set the clipboard down and leaned back in his chair, pulling out another paper.
"Alright, now for the fun part. I'll say a word, you just tell me the first thing that pops into your head. Don't overthink it."
I shrugged. "Alright."
He cleared his throat, looking at the paper.
"Dog."
"Friend.
Doc glanced up briefly, watching my face. I heard a faint hum of approval as he continued writing.
"House."
"Cage."
"Night."
"Silence."
The pen kept moving, steady, methodical.
"Bandit."
"Sad."
Doc froze for a second, caught off-guard by my answer. His eyes lifted again, curious now.
"Care to explain that one?" he asked.
I tilted my head, thinking. "Not all bandits or raiders are who they are by choice. Some… desperation, no options… maybe they were forced into it. World breaks people in different ways."
Doc nodded slowly, jotting it down. "Fair enough," he muttered.
"Next. Light."
"Truth."
"Mother."
"Stranger."
He hesitated this time, eyes lingering on me a second longer. The silence said enough—he wasn't gonna push that one.
"Alright… " He flipped through the clipboard again, scribbling something down before speaking.
"Last one. God."
I didn't hesitate. "Father. Comforter. Savior."
For the first time since I'd woken up, Doc Mitchell's expression softened—not surprise, not curiosity—just quiet understanding.
"Alright," he finally said, setting the clipboard aside. "That about does it for that part."
Doc Mitchell flipped through a final set of papers, tapping his pen against the edge of the clipboard.
Doc Mitchell set down the word list and reached under the table, pulling out a worn leather folder. From inside, he slid out a set of old, faded cards—the edges frayed, but the inkblots still clear.
"Last part, promise," Doc Mitchell said with a small grin. "These've been around longer than most folks out here. Supposed to tell me what's rattlin' around in your head."
He held up the first card—a jagged, mirrored pattern in black and gray splotches.
"Tell me what you see."
I tilted my head slightly. Two figures… mirrored, facing each other. Horned. Menacing.
"A pair of devils."
Doc flipped to the next card, holding it steady. "Alright, how about this one?"
The vague shape of a butterfly… or maybe a mushroom cloud.
"The wings of an angel."
The next card looked messier—chaotic, jagged shapes reaching upward like broken branches or flames clawing at the sky.
"Hands reaching for help… like the oppressed reaching up for freedom."
Doc studied me for a moment, scribbling something down without a word.
"Couple more," he muttered, lifting another card.
Symmetrical, stark. Almost like a skull… or a mask hiding something underneath.
"A skull."
Doc raised the final card. Darker ink, bold and heavy across the paper.
"Alright, last one."
Could've been a butterfly… or a bat… or blood pooling across the ground.
"A butterfly."
Doc Mitchell lowered the card, brow furrowed, though his expression stayed calm.
"Alright," he said, setting the stack of cards aside. "You did better'n most. Funny thing about these… they don't tell me much I couldn't already tell just lookin' at you. But… they're still good for breakin' the ice."
He leaned back in his chair with a small, knowing smile. "Can't say I've met many folks built like you, Prometheus. Physically… mentally… you're somethin' else."
Doc Mitchell set the inkblot cards aside and stood with a grunt, stretching his back. "Well… can't say I've seen someone bounce back from a headshot like you, Prometheus. But I'll be damned if you ain't a living, breathin' example of stubbornness."
He moved to a nearby cabinet and started rummaging through it. The faint clinking of old medical supplies filled the room.
"Now… let's get you fixed up proper before you head out."
From the cabinet, he pulled a worn but clean set of clothes—a sturdy pair of pre-war jeans, a simple brown T-shirt, and a weathered duster. It wasn't flashy, but it was durable—the kind of thing you could survive in out there.
Doc Mitchell paused as I finished pulling the plain brown shirt over my head, the fabric coarse but comfortable enough. The jeans were well-worn but durable, faded from years in the sun, and the old duster slid across my shoulders like a second skin.
"Hold up," he muttered, walking over to the corner and pulling an old duffel bag from under his workbench. It looked scuffed, faded, and heavy with wear, but sturdy enough to have seen the inside of more than one desert.
"Funny thing about this," Doc began, setting it on the table with a soft thud. "When they brought you in, most of what you had on ya was stripped clean—clothes, caps, anything worth takin'. But this bag? You had it strapped under your coat, damn near stitched to your side. Guessin' whoever jumped you didn't bother searchin' that close."
His brow furrowed as he unzipped the bag, carefully pulling out the contents one by one.
First, his hands found a sleek, matte-black 9mm pistol, its surface scratched but meticulously maintained. He turned it over, checking the slide and chamber before handing it over.
"This little beauty… well, I'll admit, I was tempted to keep it for protection, but… figured it's yours by right." The weight settled in my palm naturally, like it belonged there.
From deeper in the bag, he pulled out a battered canteen, the faded stencil of Vault 13 still visible along the side. Its metal was dented and scuffed, but when Doc shook it, I could still hear the faint slosh of water inside.
"Now this… this I recognize." His brow furrowed with curiosity. "Old Vault-Tec issue. Real collector's piece these days. Most folks out here wouldn't even know what Vault 13 was, but… reckon you do?"
I stayed silent, fingers tracing the faded Vault symbol, but the name stirred… something. A flicker in my broken memory.
Finally, he pulled out a heavier, older 10mm pistol—the barrel scratched with faint, tribal-like etchings. Doc turned it over in his hands, frowning at the markings.
"This one's seen better days, but someone put care into it. Worn as hell… but reliable."
He set it down gently beside the rest of the gear.
The Doc took a moment, reaching into the bag one last time and pulling out a bundle—several spare magazines, a couple stimpaks, dried food sealed in plastic, and a folded paper map of the Mojave, yellowed with age but still legible.
"Was all packed tight with the rest. If you ask me… feels like you were prepared for somethin'. Just didn't expect a bullet to the head."
Doc straightened, brushing his hands on his jeans, watching me carefully.
"Whatever your story is… looks like you were built to survive, Prometheus. All that's left now is… what you do with that second chance."
He gestured to the door. "World's still out there waitin'. You can rest up a bit longer… but I got a feelin' you won't be sittin' still much longer."
"You're right, Doc," I said, adjusting the duster over my shoulders. "There's a story behind who I was… and I need to trace my steps, figure out where I came from."
I paused, hesitating for a moment before speaking again. "However… I'm sorry I can't pay you back for the kindness you've shown me."
Doc Mitchell waved a hand dismissively, a tired but genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Don't worry about it," he replied. "Reckon you'll be back here for medical issues again anyway. I just hope you come back with a fever… instead of in a body bag."
Despite everything—the hole in my memory, the weight of uncertainty—I found myself chuckling softly.
"Fair enough."
The weight of the duster across my shoulders, the pistol at my side, and the faded canteen slung across my chest… I looked ready enough to face whatever waited out there.
Doc Mitchell grabbed the old duffel bag from the table and handed it to me. "That's everything that came in with ya—and everything I could spare. Should hold you together long enough to get your feet under you."
I slung the bag over my back, following him as he led the way down the short hallway toward the front door. Sunlight bled through the cracks in the frame, casting warm streaks across the floorboards.
Before we reached the door, though, Doc paused by a nearby shelf cluttered with old tools, books, and medical gear. His hand hovered over something for a moment, then carefully plucked it free.
An old, battered Pip-Boy 3000, its screen scuffed but intact, the metal casing worn down by time and desert grit.
"Almost forgot," he said, turning the device over in his hands. "This old thing's been collectin' dust for years. Belonged to me back in the day—Vault 21. Guess I was young and dumb enough to crawl out of there thinkin' I'd make somethin' of myself."
He looked up, offering the device to me.
The old Pip-Boy hummed softly as it settled onto my wrist, the faded green screen flickering to life with lines of data. It felt… familiar. Like second nature, even though my memory was still a fractured mess.
Doc Mitchell watched me adjust the strap with a knowing look.
"Good fit," he remarked, giving a small nod of approval. "Takes most folks a while to figure those things out, but I got a feelin' you'll manage just fine."
He reached for the door, pulling it open with a creak. The harsh Mojave sunlight bled through the gap, flooding the hallway with golden light and the faint scent of dry earth.
Before I could step outside, Doc raised a hand slightly to stop me.
"Listen," he said, voice steady but warm. "You might be patched up and on your feet, but you're still rough 'round the edges. Ain't nothin' wrong with takin' a little help while you find your bearings."
He fished into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded scrap of paper with rough directions sketched on it.
"Out by the saloon, you'll find a gal named Sunny Smiles. Knows this town like the back of her hand—good with a rifle, better with survival tips. She helps folks get back on their feet… teaches 'em how not to die out there."
Doc pressed the paper into my hand.
"Go see her. Tell her I sent you. She'll show you the ropes—how to hunt, scavenge, track, defend yourself… all the basics. After that?" He shrugged lightly. "You'll be ready enough to chase down whoever put that hole in your head."
I glanced down at the directions, then back to the blinding desert just beyond the doorframe.
"Thanks, Doc. For… all of this."
Doc Mitchell chuckled softly, stepping aside. "Don't mention it. Just… try to come back in one piece. Or at least, not as a corpse. I've done enough diggin' bullets outta your skull for one lifetime."
I smiled faintly, the weight of my gear pressing against me like armor as I finally stepped outside into the Mojave sun.
Alone and lost… but not without purpose. Because I have been reborn.