The raider was on his knees in front of Sheriff Simms, wrists bound, blood still seeping through the rough bandages Ash had tied. His eyes were wide, darting from Simms to the boy who had dragged him in.
"It ain't natural!" the man spat, voice cracking. "He moves like—like he ain't even human! Guns don't miss, not once, not once—"
"Shut it," Simms barked, yanking the man to his feet. The prisoner's words dissolved into terrified rambling as the sheriff hauled him toward the cells.
Ash said nothing. Dogmeat sat at his side, tail thumping against the floor, her gaze locked on the raider as if daring him to try and bolt. When the door slammed behind them, the boy turned, holstered his revolvers, and walked away without a word.
The saloon was loud with evening. Old music crackled from a battered radio, voices rose and fell over cards and dice, smoke curled beneath the lantern light.
Ash slid into a chair near the corner, Dogmeat curling beneath the table. He set a few caps on the bar and the girl behind it brought him a cold Nuka-Cola, beads of condensation rolling down the glass neck.
He twisted the cap free, took a long pull, and let the burn settle on his tongue.
Around him, mercs laughed too loud, settlers muttered over bad hands, traders haggled in whispers. Ash listened, eyes half-lidded, the revolvers at his hips catching the light with every small movement.
Dogmeat's head rested on his boot, her ears twitching whenever the door swung open.
For the first time in days, Ash didn't feel the weight of eyes on him. No gunfire, no screaming. Just smoke, music, and the fizz of cola on his tongue.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams blackened with years of dust, and let the world pass around him.
For now, the Wastes were quiet.