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Getting a lump of lead in her skull certainly wasn’t a welcome addition to her to-do list. Surviving it, on the other hand, was almost as unwelcome. When Marlowe woke up on that bed in Doc Mitchel’s goodsprings home, the dim yellow lights did little to ease the throbbing pain in her head. Her memory was hazy, at best, she could hardly even remember her own name, let alone how she had ended up there to begin with.
The doctor had done a pretty good job at fixing her up, considering the extent of her injuries. He even took the time to treat any other wounds she had endured. Although, regrettably, he couldn’t salvage the vision in her right eye; a loss that would take some getting used to. Still, as far as getting shot in the head goes she was doing pretty well.
She’d been generously donated an old vault suit, but she couldn’t bring herself to wear it. She instead opted for wearing the clothes she was found in, despite their filth and tattered state. In her mind, being mistaken for a vaultie wasn’t preferable to looking the state she was in. The doctor even went a step further, providing her with a pip-boy.
“It has a map feature, a radio, and you can even write notes down in it.” He’d said with a smile.
Despite her initial reluctance, she accepted it, but as soon as she was outside of his doorstep, she slid it off her wrist and placed it into her bag. It was undeniably useful, but she wasn’t going to be caught walking around with a target on her wrist. Besides, It was way too bulky for her liking.
She’d been spending her nights at the doctor’s house, but found herself sitting on his porch with a bottle, gaze fixed on the stars more often than not. The days had started to blend together, each passing night seeming exactly like the last. In all honesty, she’d stopped counting after the third.
It was well past midnight when she found herself sitting on the doctor’s porch. A cigarette hung loosely out of her mouth, and she clutched her canteen in her left hand, occasionally taking swigs of the bitter liquid inside. The breeze gently ruffled her copper hair, the smell of smoke lingering around her, clinging to the fabric of her clothes. The dim porch light cast shadows across her ragged appearance: her trousers torn at the knees, and the sleeves of her brown duster pushed up to her elbows revealing her muscular forearms. Her eye, a piercing green, gazed into the dark, drinking in the vastness of the sky.
Marlowe took a swig from her canteen before flicking her cigarette into the darkness, watching as the faint orange ember fizzled out. The sound of her breathing was soft, the only sound apart from the occasional chirp of a cricket or the faint chatter from the saloon down the road.
She was immersed in her own thoughts, so much so that she hardly noticed as someone approached her. That, or she didn’t care. They were trying to talk to her, but her attention was too focused on the flask in her hand to pay attention to what they were saying. It isn’t until they mentioned her by name that she registered their voice, her gaze flicking up to meet theirs.
“Marlowe? Hey, you doing ok? You seem all spacey..”
Sunny.. of course it was Sunny. She had been so fixated on keeping a watchful eye on Marlowe from the second she was dug out of her grave. Sunny’s eyes were wary, clearly worried about her. Marlowe let her silence serve as a response to her question, shrugging weakly. She took another long drink from her canteen before dropping her gaze down to the floor.
Sunny sunk down on the wooden planks next to Marlowe with a sigh. Her dog, Cheyenne, came closer to investigate, sniffing curiously at Marlowe’s hand. It was as if even the dog could sense the weight of Marlowe’s exhaustion.
“You look pale.. maybe you shouldn’t be drinking..” her voice was gentle, her words laced with concern.
She knew deep down that Sunny was right, but her history of reckless behaviour made it almost impossible to change. She was so accustomed to being on the brink of self- destruction that hearing the words from Sunny was like a blow to her pride. Marlowe would sooner be stepped on by a deathclaw before she heard criticism of her drinking habits from someone barely legal to drink herself. It was ironic, and somewhat insulting.
She found herself scoffing at the notion, resisting the urge to snap back with a sarcastic retort. Had she been in a better mood, she probably would have taken the chance, but she was too exhausted even for that. She groaned, reaching up to brush her fingers against the bandage wrapped snugly around her forehead. The pain-in-the-ass reminder of how she got bested by some vegas pretty boy.
“You can talk to me, you know..”
Sunny frowned, watching Marlowe’s face closely. Her own expression betraying how worried she was.
“You’ve been through a lot. Surviving bullets to the head doesn’t happen every day, you know. We’re here to help you..”
Marlowe shook her head, refusing to accept any of Sunny’s sympathy. She hated feeling weak, especially after getting tied up and left to rot by a city boy in an ugly checkered coat. It was humiliating. The last thing she wanted was sympathy from anyone, let alone a girl she’d only just met a few days ago.
“I don’t need your pity” she snapped back, waving her hand dismissively.
Marlowe’s bitter tone prompted sunny to frown, huffing in annoyance at her stubbornness.
“It isn’t pity.” Sunny retorted “There’s folk out there that genuinely want to help you, there’s no point in pushing everyone away..”
Marlowe knew that, but her Independent nature and pure stubbornness made it almost impossible to admit when she needed help. She rolled her canteen around in her hands, her gaze sweeping over goodsprings. The quaint town was quiet this time of night as opposed to the restlessness of the wasteland. She entertained the thought of staying, just for a moment, but quickly dismissed it. Waving the white flag and setting down in some shabby town? Not her style.
“Look, I get that you probably don’t want to hang around here, and you definitely don’t want to open up to me. You’re too stubborn for that. But.. if there’s anything we can do..”
Sunny paused, her hazel eyes softening as she looked over at Marlowe, pulling her knees up to her chest
“We’re happy to help.”
She radiated the aura of a girl too kind hearted for the wasteland. It was funny, Marlowe almost found herself pitying her instead.
“I’m fine.”
Marlowe snapped back, her voice coming off more defensive than she intended it to.
“I can handle myself..”
Marlowe finished the contents of her canteen, her gaze fixed on the ground as she poured the last droplets onto the dry sand.
Sunny nodded, acknowledging her failure to get Marlowe to open up. She knew a different kind of approach was needed if she hoped to get through to her. She gently nudged her with her shoulder.
“I know, why don’t we go shooting some geckos tomorrow? Get you back in the saddle?”
It wasn’t a terrible idea, and Marlowe wasn’t opposed channelling her frustrations through something other than a bottle of alcohol. She let out a sigh, nodding her head.
“Fine..” she muttered. The idea of getting a gun back in her hands was enough justification for her agreement.
“Alright then! I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Just, please think on what I said. You don’t always have to fight your battles alone.”
Sunny rose to her feet, brushing off the dust that had begun clinging to her pants. She extended a hand out to help Marlowe up, who greatfully accepted, using it to hoist herself off the porch.
“I’ll give it some thought.” Marlowe would at least give sunny the consideration that she deserved.
“g’night Sunny”
Cheyenne whimpered, prompting Marlowe to scratch behind her ear.
“And goodnight to you too, ya mutt.” She added fondly.
“Goodnight Marlowe.”
A soft giggle escaped Sunny, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. She gave a wave, before turning on her heel, and beginning to walk back down the dirt road that she came from. Cheyenne happily trotted alongside her, wagging her tail and threading through her legs.
Marlowe stayed stood in place, watching as she departed. The crisp desert air swept over her, and she inhaled sharply. The vastness of the night sky captivated her for a moment, allowing her mind to clear, before she ascended the moulding wooden steps that led back into Doc Mitchell’s home.