I’m writing this, sitting on a filthy mattress in a caravan recently vacated by some asshole who tried to kill me. Unlike the last assholes who tried to kill me, this one was fool enough to tell me what he was about to do, and didn’t have me tied up, so that didn’t really work out so well for him. He’d have had better luck against the geckos.
But yeah, those other guys. Well, they had a damned good try, but thanks to some robot and this Doc Mitchell fella, I’m still kickin’. When I came to, he asked my my name – the Doc, I mean – and I kinda panicked, said the first name that came to mind. Petra. I’m pretty certain that’s not my name, but it’ll do for now. He found a bunch of papers stuffed into my underwear, something about some courier job, and some crumpled, faded old pages with what I guess must be my journal written on them in pencil. Hard to read some of it, but the handwriting’s pretty similar to what’s coming out now, so, I guess it must be mine. Probably a few years old, I’d guess? Not quite started to go yellow, but definitely old.
She doesn’t feel much like me, though. Maybe I’m just still mixed up from, you know, being shot and buried, and, well, obviously I’ve got some pretty bad memory loss, like, all of it. But I read what she’s written and it feels like someone completely unrelated to me. I guess maybe she’ll start coming back to me, but I suspect, given she was writing a few years back, up near D.C., probably things have not exactly been smooth since her dad died. My dad. I dunno.
Anyway. I’m here, now. Got to figure out what the Hell that asshole in the suit wanted me dead for, maybe get some payback. First, though, I’m going to do what the girl in the Saloon asked and introduce myself to the lady who runs the place. Ugh, hope I get better at retaining information, you know, names and junk, soon. Probably sell off some of the junk I found up near that radio tower, and this stinky Gecko meat (okay, I cooked some of it on the remains of that campfire, it’s not so bad).
I also seem to have a bunch of expensive looking guns. The Doc said they must’ve been mine, but I’m damned if I know why those assholes would’ve left them lying around near someone they left for dead. I mean, this is still the Wasteland, and good guns are not something you just leave by a dead girl. I fired off a couple of shots with each of them, and I’m definitely more comfortable with the smaller ones. This grenade thing is just ridiculous. I might hold on to the shotgun, though, if I can get hold of a backpack. Must be a General Store in town, though, right?