"The skin." Neeko says, holding her palm very still, palm up, fingers spread. "It looks… wrong."
Doc Mitchell squints at Neeko's hand for a long time. There is a faint shimmer there, just at the edge of visibility. Vaguely reptilian scales. The ghost of a pattern.
"Hm," Doc Mitchell says.
Neeko does not like the sound of hm.
The little gecko clings to her boot, attempting to climb it.
Doc Mitchell leans back in his chair.
"Well," he says, careful now, "could be a mutation."
Neeko tilts her head.
"…What is a moo-tay-shun?"
Doc Mitchell opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks.
"You ever see folks out there with two heads?" he asks.
"Maybe," Neeko says immediately.
"Oh, right. Your memory ain't all there. Well, it isn't uncommon. There's folks with glowing skin, extra fingers. Weird eyes." He gestures vaguely. "World got cooked pretty good, long time back. Radiation does funny things to people. Sometimes those changes stick."
Neeko watches her palm.
"So mutation means…" she starts slowly, "…the body is cooked?"
Doc Mitchell pauses.
"…That's not the worst way I've heard it put."
The gecko chooses this moment to leap onto the exam table, knocking over a tray, and proudly presents a stolen tongue depressor in its mouth.
Neeko gasps.
"You found treasure!"
The gecko chirps, delighted.
Doc Mitchell sighs, retrieves the depressor.
"Now," Neeko says, turning serious again, "does mutation mean Neeko is sick?"
Doc Mitchell looks at her deeply.
"No," he says. "Not necessarily. Plenty of folks live long, healthy lives with all sorts of mutations. Hell—" He chuckles. "Back when I was younger, I knew a man with skin tough as leather. Took a knife to the arm once just to prove it. Idiot. Lived another thirty years out of spite."
Neeko nods.
"That sounds like a good long time."
"Was," Doc Mitchell agrees.
She nods again, slower this time.
Her past is still gone. Now even her body is keeping secrets from her. She wonders—quietly—what else might be missing that she does not yet know to ask about.
Doc Mitchell clears his throat.
"I have to ask, you use that Jet at all yet?"
Neeko straightens immediately. "No!"
"Good."
"Moderation!" Neeko says brightly.
"Yes," he says, smiling faintly. "Use it careful. But…"
He hesitates. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't use it at all."
Neeko leans in. "Oh?"
"When the pain gets so bad you'd rather be dead than face another second of it," he continues, voice gentle, "that's when you take a small puff. Just a little one. Enough to take the edge off."
Neeko nods very seriously.
"Like seasoning," she says. "Too much ruins soup."
Doc Mitchell blinks.
"…Exactly."
She slips the Jet back into her pocket, where it settles warmly, familiarly.
Then she looks up at him.
"But where does Neeko get more?"
The room goes quiet.
The gecko stops moving.
Doc Mitchell exhales through his nose, slow and tired, like a man who just realized he has reached the part of the conversation he was hoping not to.
"Well," he says at last, "that's… complicated."
Doc Mitchell does not answer Neeko's question in any way that feels like an answer. He tells her, flatly, that she will not find more Jet in Goodsprings. Not now. Not ever. This is said with the calm finality of a man closing a door he hopes she will not try to kick down.
He does, however, mention traders.
No names. No directions. Just the idea of them—*reputable* ones, he says, who travel the long roads between settlements. Men and women who move with caravans, who know where things come from and how much they cost. He says it like it is advice. He says it like it is inevitable.
"If you're well enough to handle a rifle," he adds, "then I reckon you're well enough to head out."
Neeko nods. That feels important. Being *well enough to head out*. Like a door opening, even if she does not yet know what is on the other side.
Before she leaves, Doc Mitchell rummages through a footlocker at the end of the room. He hands her an old handgun. Heavy. But familiar in a way that makes her chest tighten. Then an armful of clothes: a faded blue jumpsuit, patched and worn thin at the elbows.
"My old vault suit," he says. "Don't need it anymore."
He pauses, then adds a small bundle of stimpaks to the pile. "These'll put a zip back in your step if you're takin' a beating," he says. "You can be less moderate with these."
Neeko smiles at that. "Good," she says. "Neeko likes rules that bend."
Finally—last of all—he lifts something from the locker with both hands.
"This here… is called a Pip-Boy."
It is bulky. Scarred. Old. The glass is scratched like it has seen more than it was meant to.
Doc Mitchell slides it onto her arm with a gentleness that feels ceremonial, whether he intends it or not.
"Take care of that," he says. "And it'll take care of you."
The screen flickers to life.
Neeko gasps.
"Oh," she whispers. "It is awake."
Doc Mitchell chuckles.
"Something like that. I'll give you a quick rundown—"
He taps the screen with one finger.
It beeps in acknowledgment, like it knows him.
"Tracks where you are," he says. "Keeps notes. Maps. Important things you'd rather not forget."
Neeko nods solemnly.
"Yes," she says. "Neeko forgets many things."
Doc Mitchell continues as if this is not concerning. "Shows you how hurt you are. How tired. How hungry. If something's wrong, it'll usually tell you before you drop dead."
The screen flickers again, little bars and numbers shifting meaningfully.
Neeko watches them move.
"It knows my insides," she murmurs.
"More or less," he says. "You can store items in there, too. Stimpaks. Chems. Food. Keeps track of what you're carryin' so you don't have to."
He reaches for one of the stimpaks on the table, holds it up between two fingers.
"Like this."
He presses a few buttons on the Pip-Boy. The screen shifts with a soft click, rearranging itself like it's making room. He slots the stimpak into a recessed compartment along the side. There's a quiet whirr, then a confirming beep.
The stimpak is gone.
Neeko gasps. "…It ate it."
Doc Mitchell snorts. "Stored it."
She pokes the Pip-Boy cautiously.
"Does it… chew?"
"No."
"Is it full now?"
He smiles despite himself. "Not even close."
Neeko watches the screen as a new icon appears, neat and patient, ready for use.
"Oh," she says softly. "It remembers for me."
"That's the idea," he says. "World's hard enough without havin' to keep it all in your head."
Neeko nods, fingers resting lightly against the warm metal.
She likes that.
Neeko brightens.
"Oh! It is like a very responsible friend."
Doc Mitchell snorts. "That's one way to put it."
He gestures to a small radio icon. "And that there'll pick up broadcasts."
Neeko presses the button. A crackle of sound spills out static. Then a song plays—thin, cheerful, impossibly saccharine. She twists a dial, the song changes. Voices talking.
Doc Mitchell watches patiently. "Music. News. Public alerts, sometimes. Could save your skin."
Neeko's eyes widen.
"There are tiny people singing in my arm!"
Doc Mitchell smiles, just a little.
"World's full of wonders."
Neeko flexes her wrist. The Pip-Boy hums softly, like a living thing settling itself.
She likes it. How it feels… durable.
Like something that will still be there even when everything else changes.
She leaves not long after, dressed in the bright blue jumpsuit he'd given her that stands out like a shard of sky that fell and didn't shatter, pockets heavier than they were that morning, the gecko riding her shoulder like it belongs there.
The first thing Neeko does is find Sunny Smiles.
Sunny is exactly where Neeko expects her to be—lounging near the firing range, boots kicked up, rifle resting easy across her lap. Her dog lies in the shade beside her, tail thumping lazily. The radio crackles with some old tune that sounds happier than the world deserves.
Sunny squints up at Neeko.
Then she laughs.
"Well I'll be damned," she says. "You look like one of them vault-dwellers."
Neeko looks down at herself.
"Yes?" (She doesn't know what a vault dweller is.)
"Might not be a good thing if you're planning on going far," Sunny adds. "Folks with bad intentions could see you as an easy target."
Neeko tilts her head. "Easy target for what?"
Sunny raises her bottle.
"They'll shoot at ya," she says. "Try to take your stuff."
"Oh." Neeko does not like that.
She pictures it—someone seeing her, deciding she is soft, deciding she is *worth taking from*.
That feels… unacceptable.
She looks at Sunny.
Sunny is strong. Confident. Unbothered. Someone who belongs in this place.
Neeko thinks very hard.
Then—*oh!*—yes.
Of course.
In a shimmer like heat off the road, Neeko changes.
Her bones shift. Her skin follows.
Her face rearranges itself until it is unrecognizable.
Within a span of seconds, Sunny Smiles stares back at Sunny Smiles.
The real Sunny jerks upright so fast she nearly spills her drink. "What the—" She rubs her eyes. Blinks hard. Looks at the bottle in her hand, turning it around like there is some hope it might explain itself. "…What did you just do?"
Neeko grins.
It is Sunny's grin. Perfectly practiced.
"I wanted to look like the most strongest person I know!"
Sunny just stares. Even her dog and the little gecko seem baffled—the change is so complete that Neeko doesn't even smell like herself anymore.
After a moment, Sunny clears her throat.
"…Why," she says carefully, "do I feel scared, flattered, and deeply concerned all at the same time?"