The contract was pinned to the wall of Moriarty's saloon, the ink already smudged by too many curious fingers. Raiders had taken over an old overpass east of Megaton, choking the road. Too many caravans hit, too many bodies dumped. The locals had scraped together caps, enough to lure mercs sniffing for work.
Ash signed his name without a word.
The others glanced at him — grizzled men and women, rifles slung and blades sharpened, their faces weathered by years of blood and dust. One smirked, missing teeth. "Kid thinks he's playin' soldier."
Ash didn't answer. At his feet, the pup — Dogmeat — wagged her tail, whining as though to follow. Sheriff Simms gave a sharp whistle and she hesitated, ears pricking. Ash glanced down, murmured a low word, and she sat, though her eyes stayed fixed on him until he was out the door.
They moved out at dawn, the sky a bruised red behind the rusted skyline. Ash walked at the edge of the group, revolvers heavy on his hips. The mercs talked among themselves, trading boasts and curses. Ash listened in silence.
By midday, they reached the overpass. The raiders had turned it into a fortress — burned-out cars stacked as barricades, spikes hammered into concrete, banners of bloodstained rags flapping in the breeze. Voices echoed above, laughter sharp and cruel.
The merc leader, a broad-shouldered woman with a scar splitting her lip, signaled for quiet. "We hit hard, we hit fast. No stragglers. Move!"
Gunfire cracked. The world erupted.
Ash was already moving. His revolvers cleared leather in a flash of steel and light. First shot — a raider toppled from the overpass, screaming all the way down. Second shot — a rifle went dead in its owner's hands. Third — a head burst red against the barricade.
The mercs pushed forward, rifles hammering, grenades flaring. Raiders screamed back, firing wildly, charging with axes and pipes. Chaos bloomed.
Ash flowed through it. A raider rushed him with a machete; Ash sidestepped, his fist snapping out, steel-laced knuckles crunching bone. Another raised a shotgun — Ash's revolver barked first, the man's chest exploding in a spray.
And then he saw him.
Across the melee, ducking behind a stack of tires — the face from a wanted poster nailed to Sheriff Simms' wall. A raider captain with a price on his head.
Ash's eyes narrowed.
He broke from the line, slipping through the smoke and screams. The mercs didn't notice — or maybe they thought he was just another kid making a mistake. But Ash moved deliberate, steady, revolvers raised.
The raider captain spotted him too late. He scrambled, firing wild. Ash's first shot blew the gun from his hand, the second tore through his knee. The man collapsed, howling.
Ash closed the distance in silence. One revolver spun back into its holster as he hauled the bleeding man up by his collar.
The raider spat blood. "Who the hell are you?"
Ash's voice was cold, flat. "Shut up."
The fight ended soon after. The mercs torched the last of the raiders, smoke curling into the afternoon sky. The overpass was theirs.
They found Ash at the edge of the camp, his captive bound and whimpering at his feet. He cleaned his revolvers with calm precision, as if nothing unusual had happened.
The scarred woman stared at him. "We came here for a camp, kid. Not for trophies."
Ash holstered his gun, eyes steady.
She laughed, a hard sound, and shook her head. "Damn strange boy you are."
The mercs took their caps. Ash took his — and then some.
By the time he walked back into Megaton, dusk was falling. Dogmeat was waiting just inside the gate, tail wagging furiously, paws muddy from pacing. The moment she saw him, she bounded up, nuzzling his hand as if she'd never doubted he'd return.
Ash kept walking, the bound raider stumbling after him. The whispers would start again, low and uncertain, but Dogmeat didn't care. She just trotted happily at his side, like she belonged there.