Sunny Smiles plants her hands on her hips and squints at Neeko like she is measuring how much trouble fits in one lizard-shaped person.
"You conked out again," Sunny says.
Neeko considers this.
"Yes," Neeko agrees. "But only for a little nap. Head felt like it was full of angry bees."
Sunny does not smile at this. Nor will she budge.
"I reckon it's time for another check-up."
Neeko lets herself be walked—gently but firmly—to a cozy little house with a nice porch at the edge of town. Inside it smells like antiseptic and old paper and something faintly sweet. Nostalgia, maybe. Or plain rot. Hard to differentiate.
Inside is an old man. Bald. Kind eyes. The type of human who has seen enough suffering to fill several lifetimes and sit alone in a dark room all day now.
"Name's Doc Mitchell, n'case you forgot," he says. "Back again, huh?"
Neeko waves. She did forget.
"Hello, Doc Mitchell," she says brightly. "Sorry my brain keeps turning off."
He sighs.
It is a very specific sigh. Not annoyed. Not angry. It is the sigh of a man who knows exactly what is wrong, and that giving it a name or saying it out loud will not help.
He checks her pupils, presses his fingers gently against her skull.
He asks questions Neeko answers honestly.
"Headaches," she says.
"Real bad ones."
"Like lightning, but inside."
"Everything gets very slow, and very exciting."
Doc Mitchell pauses. "…Exciting?"
Neeko nods enthusiastically.
"Yes! Colors feel louder. And thoughts go fast. Neeko feels like she could talk to *anyone*."
He straightens. Looks at her for a long moment.
"Well," he says slowly, "that tracks."
He rummages through a cabinet and pulls out a small inhaler. Metal. Scratched. Clearly well-used.
"This here's Jet," he says, casual as if he's offering cough syrup. "Old home remedy. Bad for most folks, but I reckon it'll resolve your particular malady. Don't ask me how it works. Just does."
Neeko takes it. It hums faintly in her hand. She likes it immediately.
"Use it only when the headaches come on," Doc Mitchell continues. "And in moderation."
Neeko smiles.
"Neeko is very good at mod-er-ation."
Doc Mitchell does not smile back.
He takes the Jet back from her gently as if already second-guessing his decision and gestures toward a strange machine in the corner. Lights. Buttons. A cheerful little tune that sounds wildly inappropriate for a medical office.
"Before you head out," he says, "let's see how you're… wired. Humor an old man."
Neeko steps up to it.
The screen flickers. Letters appear. Big and friendly.
**S.P.E.C.I.A.L.**
"Oh!" Neeko says. "This looks important."
She presses buttons. The machine chirps happily, and she chirps back.
**Charisma** catches her eye first.
"Neeko likes making friends," she says, and pushes it high. Very high. To the limit. "Friends help you survive. And also shout less when they like you."
The machine agrees, it seems, as a little jingle plays.
She considers the rest.
**Perception** gets a few points.
Neeko notices things. Faces. Tones. The way fear smells different on different people.
**Agility** gets some love too.
She likes moving. Running. Becoming someone else when standing still feels dangerous.
She hesitates at **Endurance**.
Her body feels… wrong. Fragile in places it shouldn't be. She gives it less than she should.
"Is okay," she murmurs. "Neeko will be careful."
**Intelligence** gets a polite nod.
Neeko knows things. But not in the way humans measure.
She skips **Strength** mostly.
Muscles are optional when you can smile your way out of trouble.
The machine beeps. Finalizes the results.
Doc Mitchell watches her like he's reading tea leaves he doesn't like the shape of.
"Well," he says finally. "You're gonna talk your way into a lot of trouble, that's for sure."
Neeko grins.
"Yes."
He hands her the Jet back. His fingers linger just a second too long.
"Remember," he says quietly. "Moderation."
Neeko nods again, very earnestly.
"I promise," she says.
Outside, the Mojave still looms.
Neeko slips the Jet into her pocket.
It feels good there, snug like a secret. Or a cute boyfriend. The kind who always answers when you call.
Her head throbs faintly.
Not enough to use it, maybe. Not yet.
"Moderation," she repeats under her breath, mantra-like.
Sunny Smiles walks out of the saloon. Sees her.
"Well? How'd it go?"
"Neeko found out she is SPECIAL."
"Well then."
"Neeko will stay a little longer. Until head behaves."
"Good idea. Might as well make yourself useful, then."
"Being useful sounds fun!"
"First things first, how good are you with a gun?"
"Uhh…"
"Figured as much."
Sunny does not wait for Neeko to answer.
She just turns and starts walking, already assuming Neeko will follow.
This is correct.
They head out past the saloon, past the well, toward a patch of open ground ringed with scrap wood and old bottles perched on fence posts.
Sunny hands Neeko a rifle.
It is heavy. Too heavy. It smells like oil and old hands.
Neeko holds it wrong immediately.
"Nope," Sunny says, reaching out. "Not like that."
She adjusts Neeko's grip. Her stance.
"Feet apart. Lean forward. You're not asking it to fire—you're telling it."
"Oh," Neeko says. "Bossy gun."
Sunny snorts.
Neeko lines up the sights. The bottle downrange looks very small. Fragile. Like it does not deserve what is coming.
Her heart beats faster. Sweat dampens her brow.
This feels… important.
She squeezes the trigger.
The gun kicks. Loud. Violent. The shot goes wide, smacking dirt a foot to the left of the bottle.
Neeko yelps.
"The gun is angry!" she says, lowering it immediately.
Sunny laughs. Real laugh this time.
"You're flinching."
"Neeko does not flinch," Neeko says, offended. "Neeko merely anticipates."
"Same thing," Sunny replies. "Again."
They do it again.
And again.
The sun climbs. Dust gets everywhere. Neeko's shoulder starts to ache in a way that feels earned. Sunny corrects her posture with gentle swats and sharp words.
Neeko listens. Watches. Adjusts.
She learns the rhythm:
Breathe in.
Hold.
Squeeze—don't pull.
On the fifth shot, the bottle explodes.
Glass sprays into the dirt like spooked insects.
Neeko freezes.
"…Did Neeko do that?"
Sunny grins. "You sure did."
Something sparks behind Neeko's eyes.
They keep going.
Neeko misses more than she hits, but every hit feels like unlocking a secret. She starts noticing things—the way the rifle settles, the way the world narrows when she focuses, how the bottle stops being a bottle and becomes a target.
Sunny watches her closely now.
"You ever used a gun before?" she asks.
Neeko hesitates.
"I… do not remember," she says finally.
"I'd wager you did, once or twice."
During a break, Neeko's head starts to throb. A slow pulse, stronger than before. Annoying. Distracting. The world feels a little too loud again.
Her fingers brush the Jet in her pocket.
Just for a second.
However, she does not use it.
She dulls the pain slightly by smiling at Sunny.
"This is fun," Neeko says. "Is it weird that this is fun?"
Sunny considers her.
"Out here?" she says. "Not really much else to do."
They pack up as the sun dips lower. Bottles shattered. Ammo lighter. Neeko's arms tired in a most satisfying way.
As they walk back toward town, Sunny glances sideways at her.
"You learn fast," she says. "Faster than most."
Neeko tilts her head.
"Neeko likes learning," she says. "Especially when it keeps her alive."
Sunny nods once. "That's the spirit."
Neeko walks back into town with Sunny and dust on her boots, a rifle bruise on her shoulder, along with a new understanding settling quietly into her bones.
Making new friends is good, Neeko thinks.
But knowing how to break things—
that feels special, too!