The ruins swallowed sound. Buildings leaned like broken teeth, streets cracked into jagged veins. The caravan crept forward, brahmin lowing nervously, their hooves clattering against fractured pavement.
Ash walked ahead, revolvers holstered but his hands never far from them. Every alley hummed with the promise of danger, every shadow too deep. The air smelled of rust and dust, the faint tang of old blood that never washed away.
"Not far now," Harlan muttered from behind. "GNR's just up ahead."
But Ash wasn't listening to Harlan. He was listening to the city itself.
A roar broke the silence. Deep, guttural. Answered by another. Then the thunder of gunfire, heavy-caliber rounds ripping the morning apart. The caravan froze.
"Super Mutants," Harlan breathed. His face drained. "We can't—"
Ash drew. Two revolvers slid into his hands, their cylinders glowing to life with a rising hum. His boots carried him forward before anyone else even thought to move.
The street ahead had collapsed into a battlefield. Mutants towered among the rubble, metal scraps for armor, rebar and rifles in their fists. They pressed against a dug-in squad—four armored figures holding cover near the husk of an overturned bus. The one at their center barked orders with a voice that cut through the chaos.
Sarah Lyons.
Ash didn't know her name yet. He only knew she was standing against giants, and losing ground with every second.
The caravan master shouted after him, but Ash was already in motion. He didn't fight from cover. He moved, fast and unrelenting, weaving through craters and shattered stone. His first revolver barked, a beam of red light searing through a mutant's skull. The second followed, cutting down the next before it could raise its weapon.
The mutants roared, turning on him. Bullets slammed into stone at his heels, chunks of debris exploding upward. Ash ducked, rolled, came up firing. Eight shots, searing and precise. By the time his revolvers dimmed, he was already moving, letting them hum back to full charge as he slipped into shadow and came out the other side.
One mutant charged, massive blade of steel raised high. Ash surged forward instead of back, drove his fist—steel-knuckled—straight into its gut. The air left its lungs in a wet gasp, and his revolver finished the rest with a shot under its jaw.
The battlefield shifted. Where there had been desperation and grinding attrition, now there was motion, momentum. The Pride rallied, surging with renewed ferocity. Their commander's visor snapped toward the boy in the coat, her jaw hard as she barked for her squad to press the line.
Together, the mutants fell one by one, their howls shaking the ruins until only silence returned.
Ash stood, smoke rising around him, the hum of his revolvers fading as they cooled.
Sarah Lyons stepped from cover, power armor scratched and blackened, her rifle still hot in her hands. She pulled her helmet free, sweat-dark hair clinging to her brow.
Their eyes met across the battlefield. Both breathing hard. Both still standing.
For the first time in the ruins, neither moved.