Red Annandale
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Fallout Nurse Vegas Part 1
🕑 Added 2022-11-05 13:50:44 +0000 UTCThe next thing you see after the flash at the end of Bunny's fancy pistol is a brilliantly white light, brighter than you can believe. It’s an endless void and you can’t move.
You’ve heard of the concept of an “ afterlife” before where there’s a long tunnel and a bright white light leading to who knows where, but this isn’t what you had in mind, especially when the light starts to fade away. All of a sudden you’re looking up at a dingy ceiling and a rickety ceiling fan.
“Heaven looks a lot like a motel room I’ve seen before.” you think. "Unless I ended up in hell."
“You’re awake!” a voice says next to you, "Well I’ll be damned.”
Unable to believe what you’re hearing, you blink once, twice, three times before you realize the ceiling fan isn’t going away, nor is the soreness in your muscles or the unpleasant feeling of an old mattress below you.
"Either I'm still alive or hell is just as bad." you say sarcastically
It takes an enormous effort but you gruelingly push yourself into a sitting position before swinging your legs over the side of the bed to see where the voice is coming from.
From beneath you, a rustling crinkle comes from some sort of plastic rustling against the exposed mattress, a noise that only compounds with the call from the other person in the room.
“Whoa, easy there, take it easy,” she says.
Sitting up brings you face to face with a slightly older woman, her curly gray hair bobbing as she nods approvingly despite her calls for you to slow down. She’s got on a black button-up with suspenders stretched over it, holding up a pair of denim trousers.
“You’ve been out cold for a couple of days now,” she explains, “why don’t you relax and get your bearings.”
You blink again, finding the poster for an old-world movie behind the doctor especially funny. “The gal who came back.” it says.
“How ‘bout your name? Can you tell me that?”
It takes a long moment of thinking before you can bring your own name to your lips. You should know it off the bat but the experience of taking a bullet to the brain will definitely cause a few issues here and there.
“Minerva,” you finally say. “My name is Minerva.”
The woman looks slightly surprised, considering it for a moment. “Well I can’t say that’s what I’d have picked for ya, but if that’s your name that’s your name. I’m Doc Michelle—welcome to Goodsprings.”
You rub your head, feeling the length of your hair slide through your fingers. The searing pain from Bunny’s bullet lingers but it’s better than getting taken out for good you suppose. You’re distracted enough that you missed what Michelle was saying. She’s trying to pass you a small rectangle.
“How’d I do?” she asks, gesturing with the device toward you.
You reach out unsteadily, having issues remembering exactly how hands work again. Reaching forward brings out another plasticy scrunch from underneath you. “Who would cover a whole damn mattress in plastic?” you wonder, then you remember you’re essentially in a doctor’s office where whatever sterility can be achieved would be important. Doc Michelle set a RobCo Reflectron in your hand.
The screen beams back an image of your face almost exactly as you remember it, though you don’t remember your eyes looking so well placed and… did she make your nose slightly bigger? It’s hard to remember because, to be honest, how often do you have time to stare into a mirror while wandering the wasteland? For all you know it’s a stranger staring back at you.
"Looks fine," you say. The machine gets tossed to the side of the bed with zero care about where it’s landing. Doc Michelle cocks an eyebrow at this but doesn’t say anything. She stands, reaching her hands out.
“Got most of it right anyway. Okay, no sense in keeping you in bed anymore, let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”
You take Michelle’s hand, admiring for a moment the softness of her palms despite her undoubtedly countless years spent as a wasteland doctor. She pulls you up and, to your surprise, the crinkling sound follows you. An overwhelming tidal wave of muscle stiffness and a brain-blurring lightheadedness makes it hard to focus as Michelle helps you to your feet.
When you exit the nauseating vision-blurring caused by such a simple action, you take a moment to steady yourself before planting your feet solidly on the ground. Something definitely feels off to you though. You don’t remember your stance ever being quite so wide… oh. A quick look back towards the bed reveals that the plastic that was making that rustle was never on the bed despite what you thought. Another look down confirms that it was on you the whole time, wrapped around your waist and containing what kind of felt like a mattress’s worth of fluffy padding.
That look down also confirms what you’d suspected before. You’re standing mostly nude, only the diaper covers your most important bits.
“I’m diapered?” you exclaim, shooting your quizzical and somewhat angry expression up to the doc.
She seemed confused at the very nature of the question, nodding to confirm. “Well yeah, you’ve been out for days. I couldn’t guarantee the safety of my bed if you weren’t wearing protection. It’s standard practice for all my patients who get shot in the head.”
At this you roll your eyes somewhat annoyed by the little joke that Michelle feels earned a chortle.
“Well can I take it off?” you ask.
“Ehh not just yet, let’s make sure you’ve got all your faculties about you and then we’ll get you some new clothes. Why don’t you waddle down to the end of the room there, by that vigor tester.”
There goes another little joke at your expense but you decide not to press it. She is your savior after all. “Fine.” you say.
“Take it slow now,” Michelle warns. “It ain’t a race.”
Crossing the room wasn’t difficult because of any lack of muscle coordination—in fact, you’re feeling amazingly coordinated with each step you take, as if your body is under your complete control. The thing threatening to trip you up is the padding around your waist.
Its bulk between your thighs forcibly occupies six inches of space while the rest puffs out the back causing your rear end to sway from side to side. “Why such a fuck-off big diaper?” you wonder. “Even the Nanny California Republic doesn’t hand out ones this thick. Where did she even get this?”
By the time you think to vocalize any of these questions, you’ve already made it across the room and are standing in front of an old cabinet game you’ve seen left over in saloons. The Vit-O-Matic Vigor Tester.
“Looking good so far,” Michelle says, “Go ahead and give the Vigor Tester a try. We’ll learn right quick if you’ve got back all your faculties.”
You struggle to think a game could really tell you anything about your body’s current wellness but at the same time who were you to argue with the doc? Wasn’t she the professional here?
You grip the joystick on the vigor tester, watching panels flip through a group of attributes. Strength, Perception, Endurance, Intelligence, Agility, and Luck. A push on this joystick would quantify these six special stats on a scale of one to ten. Without even thinking you give a push as hard as you can on the joystick, wrenching it forward with all your might while gripping it with the intensity of 1000 imaginary nukes.
To your surprise, the resistance in the machine’s controls is much stronger than you’d anticipated and it causes some strain to run up your arm, forcing you to tense up the muscles throughout the rest of your body. You start to put your whole body behind the act of pushing a simple joystick, grunting and straining against it as every muscle clenches.
“Whoa there,” Doc Michelle says, “No need to go overboa—”
She’s cut off by an unexpected noise, a thunderous, world-shaking fart that feels like it’s rumbling through the entire room. It’s for sure shaking your whole body…
Apparently, the strain was more than you expected because the effort was moving more than the joystick, your body responding in kind. That flatulence only ushered an equally loud but far more lascivious and lewd noise’s arrival.
From your body, a log of solid waste that felt wider than your forearm rockets out, causing the back of your diaper to explode outward by nearly a foot, both due to the force and amount of fecal matter you began depositing inside of it.
Several things in this world have the possibility of inflicting what you’d heard wasteland doctors refer to as Hypermessing Disorder but you didn’t think you’d been exposed to a dangerous amount of radiation and caught it as a mutation. East Coast F.E.V. was a possibility, but you’d stayed in the west your whole life. Maybe Bunny’s bullet was coated with something, or maybe the grave dirt around Goodsprings had something living in it.
Whatever the cause, the effects are obvious as what must be five pounds of shit drop into the back of your diaper and you could feel it. Oh yeah you could feel it—you were nowhere close to being done. The seat of your disposable underwear, your new portable toilet, had already sagged to around mid-thigh length and seemed ever so happy to expand to accommodate the newly added mound of slimy heat that piled into it.
The strain of so much filth traveling through you wracked your whole body with cramps and convulsions, each fighting to knock you off your feet. To reorient yourself you slid each foot along the floor, widening your stance to keep from slipping back against the Vigor tester’s resistance or the explosive release of your own mess.
Somewhere in the fray, you’d begun to pee but you had no idea when. The flow of urine spilling out of you is a violent rapid torrent against the superabsorbent core of your padding. The diaper was apparently meant for those suffering from Hypermessing and even it is struggling to keep up with your wild spray of molten piss, leaving a pool for several seconds before the padding laps it up eagerly.
Never before have you ever felt so empty, or so full. The waste forcing its way out of your body chugs on much like the NCR’s monorail to New Vegas, plowing through your insides on its way out.
You shoot a glance over at Doc Michelle though it’s hard to make anything out through the tears of strain blurring your vision. You want to say something but only grunting moans echo from your throat and besides, surely no intelligible words could be formed with your tongue flopped out of your head and a string of spittle rolling off the end.
Doc Michelle seems speechless from the display, her mouth also agape in shock at the release in front of her.
It feels like you have been pooping for nearly half an hour though you knew it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes—your legs would have given out long before that. Still, when your bowels finally sputter to a stop you can feel that there’s at least an extra forty pounds around your waist, over-encumbering you.
When all is said and done you relax away from the joystick of the Vigor Tester. It takes some effort given that the crotch of your padding now drags on the rough hardwood floor. The scores of your test appear before you.
Strength 10: Hercules’s Bigger Cousin
Perception 1: Deaf Bat
Endurance 7: Tough as Nails
Charisma 1: Misanthrope
Intelligence 1: Sub-Brick
Agility 10: Walks On Water
Luck 10: Two-Headed Coin Flip
“Surprised anybody'd ever want to tangle with you. Heck, you could go deathclaw hunting with a switchblade. Still, I am sorry, I fixed your head up as best I could. Guess I missed a spot.”
You’re starting to realize something might be wrong, other than the massive hypermess you just dumped into your pants. Maybe that bullet did more damage than you gave it credit for.
