The weight of coin still sat heavy in Ash's pocket when he walked through Megaton's marketplace. Brant Miller was behind him in chains, Sheriff Simms satisfied, and Ash himself a little richer.
He was halfway past Craterside Supply when something caught his eye: a massive hunk of metal squatting on a scrap stall like a beast in chains. Rust bit deep into its casing, but the shape was unmistakable—fat-bellied, round at the throat, and hollow-eyed. A jet engine.
Ash stopped. The vendor, a wiry woman with more scars than teeth, smirked. "What, you got an airfield I don't know about?"
Ash ignored her. His fingers brushed the dented casing, feeling the cold weight of possibility.
"How much?"
The woman blinked. "For that? Ain't much use to nobody. Too heavy, too broken. Call it… fifty caps, just to get it off my stall."
Ash counted out the caps without another word. The woman shrugged and waved for a pair of scrappers to help haul the thing out.
The Tinkerer
Moira nearly dropped the wrench in her hand when Ash and two laborers lugged the engine through the door of Craterside Supply.
"Whoa-ho-ho, what is that?" she exclaimed, wiping grease off her face. "Looks like you hauled half an airplane in here!"
Ash set it down with a thud that rattled every loose bolt in the shop. His hat shadowed his eyes, but there was a spark there, rare and hungry.
"A jet engine," he said simply.
Moira grinned. "Well yeah, I can see that! But what's it for? Gonna strap it to the side of Megaton and launch us into orbit?"
Ash tilted his head, dead serious. "Motorcycle."
Moira's laughter sputtered out. "Wait. You're serious?"
Ash nodded once. "Someday. Frame, wheels, fuel system—I'll find them. I want to build it. Ride the wastes on something that can outrun anything."
Moira stared at him, her smile faltering just a little. He wasn't joking. He never was.
The Realization
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. "You know, most folks dream about clean water, or a bigger house. Maybe a generator that doesn't spit sparks."
Ash's fingers tapped the metal casing like he was already hearing its roar. "Most folks aren't me."
Moira swallowed, the smile coming back—but softer now, forced. "Guess you're not."
She knew what it meant. He wasn't building a future here. He was building a way to leave.
That night, after Ash hauled the engine to his little house, Moira stayed late in the shop, staring at her blueprints. Her hands moved before her mind caught up, sketching lines of something new. Not a motorcycle. Something bigger.
An RV, cobbled together from scrap. Fuel lines, bunk space, a tinkerer's workshop bolted to the back. She doodled a little figure in a hat leaning against it, revolvers at his side.
And another figure, smaller, with goggles on her forehead, tools in hand.
Moira Brown smiled to herself in the quiet.