The sun had only just begun to scrape over the jagged skyline when Ash rolled his sleeves and crouched beside the frame of his cycle. A skeleton of pipes, plating, and scavenged parts leaned against his house, a shape still more dream than machine. The jet engine—scarred and rust-bitten—sat like a heart at its center.
Ash tightened a bolt, wiped sweat from his brow, and leaned back to study it. Every time he returned from the wastes, he added something—another panel hammered flat, another wire traced and soldered. It was slow work, but it was his.
A bark broke his focus. The pup, not so small anymore, pawed at a dangling chain, tail wagging hard enough to rattle the scrap heap.
"Not yet, girl," Ash muttered, setting his wrench down.
The knock came next. Heavy. Sure. Not the nervous rap of a merchant or the light tap of a curious local. Ash stood, brushing grit from his coat, and opened the door.
A man waited there—scarred face, armor that had seen years of ruin, rifle slung across his back. He wasn't a trader. He wasn't a settler. He looked at Ash the way one hunter might look at another.
"You're the Drifter," the man said, not a question.
Ash didn't answer, just held his gaze.
The man continued, "Word is you've walked through hell and back. That right?"
Ash's hand hovered near the revolver on his hip. "Depends who's asking."
The man's jaw tightened. "Name's Harlan. Caravan master outta Rivet City. Lost two runs already in the D.C. ruins. Raiders, ghouls, worse. My people are scared to keep running the route, but we don't have a choice. We need someone who won't break."
Ash's eyes narrowed. "And you came here."
"Came here 'cause folks say you don't run."
For a long moment, only the faint hum of the half-built cycle filled the air. The pup whined, pawing at Ash's boot. Finally, Ash shut the door behind him and stepped out into the light.
"Where?" he asked.
"Into the city," Harlan said. "Deep. We've got crates that need moving, and if we're lucky, we make it back alive."
Ash nodded once. Simple. Direct. Dangerous. He turned his head toward the horizon, where the broken bones of Washington D.C. rose against the dawn.
"Then let's go."