Chapter Text
December 11, 2278
My name is Sienna Robinson. I am a citizen of the New California Republic. I enlisted in the service in 2275, according to my papers. I was recruited as a sniper during basic training and joined the First Reconnaissance Battalion. The doctor says I was one of the best.
A few months ago, I suffered a head injury during battle. I have lost my memory. The doctor says I am suffering from acute retrograde amnesia. He said it means I got a head injury so bad that I cannot remember the last few years of my life. I do not remember any of my service, anyone I served with, or where I went during service.
The report says my rifle backfired. It was my fault, apparently. It wasn't cleaned properly, or something like that. I can't remember anything that could prove it false.
I am being medically discharged from my service. The veteran's office is going to help me get a new job as a courier. I'll still get to travel, but it won't be as hard on my head.
With time and reflection, the doctor says, I might regain my memories.
October 19, 2281. Present Day.
Daylight was overwhelming. Punishing on the eyes. Sienna brought her hand up to shade her strained eyes from the heavy sun. Her stomach growled and turned over itself, even after the omelet Doc Mitchell had served her. She only had seven caps to her name. If she were lucky, she might be able to haggle at the saloon the Doc pointed her to. Maybe for pork n' beans.
Sienna frowned. Pork n' beans. Her mouth soured at the thought. She wasn't sure why. Must be she didn't care for them. But they were cheap, she knew that much.
She looked Sunny Smiles up and down when she got to the saloon. Sunny looked like the kind of woman who knew what she was doing, but not so gruff that you'd steer clear of her. In fact, she was pleasant and generous.
The varmint rifle Sunny gave her felt good in her hands. Sienna had only needed a few moments to turn it over in her hands, weigh it, really get to know the piece. She shot three bottles before Sunny could open her mouth. Then came the geckos. Then survival training. Then, defending the town from a gang of escaped convicts.
Sienna took a defensive position on the roof of the saloon. Ringo had helped boost her up. She lay over the edge of the roof, popping the convicts down one by one. Ringo paid her enough for her to last maybe another few days, or even a week. She'd have to find more work.
She stayed another night in Goodsprings. Ate dinner at the bar. Trudy poured Sienna a stiff drink after telling her she ought not to be drinking after "what she'd gone through the past week."
"I'm paying you, aren't I?"
Trudy poured, judgment alive behind her eyes.
Sienna sipped it slowly.
"So, where'd you learn to shoot like that?" Sunny asked from a few seats down. Her dog sat beside her, nose poking at Sunny's leg, begging for the little scraps she'd toss down to the dog's snapping jaws.
"Don't remember," Sienna shrugged.
"Huh," Sunny said, "Not at all?"
Sienna thought for a moment. A rifle in her hands. Dirt. Sweat. Booming voices. It was there, but she couldn't see anything.
She threw her drink back and tapped the rim, mumbled, "Another, please, Trudy," then looked at Sunny and shook her head.
"That's a shame, I'm sorry to hear that," Sunny said. She lifted her own drink, "Here's one to your recovery."
"I'll drink to that."
In the late hours of the night, not quite the morning yet, Sienna hiked up to her grave. Shallow. The cigarette butts looked unique. If she could even recall what a normal cigarette butt looked like. She pocketed a few. Not much of a lead, but she'd take what she could.
There wasn't much else. Empty bottles that could have been from anyone. A book half buried in the upturned grave. What good were they out here?
She dusted the book off.
Property of Sienna Robinson.
Her name. She flipped the first page open.
December 11, 2278. My name is Sienna Robinson. I am a citizen of the New California Republic.
Three years ago, if the Pip-Boy Doc Mitchell gave her was accurate.
Reading the first page didn't help her much. It only filled in the gaps. NCR. Sniper. Head injury.
This was the second time, at least, she'd lost her memories. Her fingers curled around the hardcover of the diary.
She'd find that bastard and make him pay.