The deputy found Ash again that evening. The boy had no parents to claim him, no coin to spend, no place to sleep.
"You want to stay here," the deputy said, "you work. That's how it is."
Ash nodded once.
The man studied him a long moment, his gaze flicking to the revolver at the boy's hip. He didn't take it away — in Megaton, everyone carried something sharp — but he didn't ignore it either. "Keep that holstered inside the walls. You'll find food and water if you earn them. Understand?"
"I understand," Ash said.
That was enough.
Odd Jobs
Work came in scraps.
Carrying crates from the market to the gates.
Hauling water buckets up steep walkways for settlers too old to do it themselves.
Sweeping dust and scrap from the floors of shops.
Chasing out radroaches that had found their way into storerooms.
Once, he killed a pair of molerats that had burrowed too close to the fence.
Nobody expected more from him. He was just a boy, after all. The revolver at his side was treated like a child's toy — dangerous, yes, but mostly ignored.
But Ash worked. He worked because he was hungry, because he needed a roof, because it was the only way forward.
Roots
Weeks turned to months.
Ash swept floors, hauled water, killed pests, and learned the rhythm of Megaton. He slept on a cot in a corner of a mechanic's workshop, ate scraps of brahmin stew when he could afford them, and grew taller, leaner, older.
The deputy kept a watchful eye, sometimes correcting his grip on the revolver when no one else was watching. Moira teased him, argued with him, pulled him into endless conversations that chipped away at the silence he carried.
For the first time since the fire, Ash wasn't just surviving. He was living.
He was still the last Cinderfang. Still the boy who had walked through death. But in Megaton, for a while, he was allowed to be something else.
Just a boy.