The walls of Megaton rose out of the Wastes like a rusted crown.
Sheets of scavenged metal, welded and patched together, circled the crater town in jagged teeth. The great undetonated bomb lay silent in its heart, a reminder that even in sanctuary, destruction waited. For Ash, who had walked weeks alone, it looked like salvation.
His feet bled from the road. His lips were cracked, his stomach empty. But he carried himself with the same hard stare that had carried him from the ashes of his tribe. The revolver hung heavy at his hip. More than one settler noticed.
The Deputy
It was the deputy who stopped him at the gate. A young man, Deputy's badge shining, already holding the weight of law in his posture. He eyed the boy, the weapon, the dust that clung to his skin.
"You're awful young to be out here alone," he said.
Ash said nothing. His fingers brushed the revolver's grip. The deputy's eyes followed the movement, but he didn't draw his own sidearm. Instead, he sighed. "Megaton ain't much, but it's safer than the road. You cause no trouble, you'll have no trouble. Understand?"
Ash nodded once.
That was enough. The gates opened, and for the first time since the fire, Ash stepped into a place that felt alive.
The Shopgirl
Megaton smelled of smoke, oil, and old iron. Ash wandered its winding platforms until he found the shop. A clutter of scavenged goods, half-rusted tools, and cracked counters. Behind them, a girl about his age scribbled in a notebook, her hair wild, her grin brighter than the dim bulbs hanging above.
Moira Brown.
She looked up when he entered, eyes widening at the sight of another child. For a heartbeat, her grin faltered — then it doubled, too big for her face. "You're new! I'm Moira. My parents run this shop, but I help with everything. Who are you?"
Ash hesitated. Words felt strange on his tongue after weeks of silence. "Ash," he said finally.
Her gaze flicked to the revolver on his hip. "That's yours?"
He nodded.
She leaned forward across the counter, eyes shining. "Did you build it?"
"Yes."
Her grin widened again. "We're going to be friends."
Roots
For the first time since his tribe's fall, Ash stayed.
He slept on a cot in a corner offered by one of the settlers. He ate food that wasn't scavenged from the dirt. He listened to voices, laughter, the rhythm of life in a place that wasn't burning or empty.
The deputy kept an eye on him, half-guard, half-mentor. Moira trailed him whenever she could, asking questions, poking at the revolver, dragging him into the shop's clutter to show off every scrap of tech she'd scavenged.
Ash remained quiet, watchful. But little by little, he let the walls of Megaton soften the hard edge the road had carved into him.
He was still the last Cinderfang. Still the boy who had walked through fire. But in Megaton, for a while, he was just Ash.
And for a boy who had nothing, that was enough.