The doors of Galaxy News Radio groaned shut behind them, muting the echo of the city outside. For the first time since they'd set foot in the ruins, the caravan exhaled as one. Guards sagged against walls, knuckles still white from gripping weapons, eyes darting as if the mutants might follow them inside.
The Pride fanned out, disciplined even in rest, while Sarah strode ahead to meet the man who emerged from the stairwell—long dreads, dark glasses, grin wide enough to split his face.
"Look at this," Three Dog boomed, spreading his arms. "The Brotherhood rides in with a caravan in tow. Thought I was hearing ghosts through the rubble out there. Looks like you folks kicked a serious hornet's nest."
Sarah offered a curt nod. "Supplies for the Pride, as requested. Plus a safe escort for the caravan."
"Safe's a relative word," Ash muttered under his breath, brushing dust from his coat.
Three Dog heard anyway, and laughed. "And who's this slick-looking desperado? Don't tell me you pulled some cowboy outta the wasteland to run with you."
Sarah's helmet tilted just slightly toward Ash. "Something like that."
Three Dog studied him a second longer, then shrugged with an easy grin. "Well, whoever you are, brother, folks are gonna be humming about you before the night's out."
The supplies changed hands, crates stacked along the walls, weary traders finally loosening their grips on weapons. A caravan master pressed a pouch into Ash's hand. Heavy with caps. "For the escort, kid. Without you, half of us would've been meat on the street."
Sarah stepped in a moment later, gauntlet brushing against his as she handed over a second reward, the Brotherhood seal still stamped on the caps inside. "The Pride pays its debts. You earned this."
Ash tucked both payments away, his face unreadable, though a ghost of a smile lingered.
Later, when the bustle settled and the traders found corners to rest in, Sarah found him on the roof. The sky stretched wide above, fractured stars fighting through a haze of smoke. He sat on the edge of the building, boots dangling, revolvers resting across his lap, coat catching the faint wind.
She joined him in silence, the glow of her armor dim against the night. For a time, the only sound was the distant crackle of fire and the hum of his weapons recharging quietly.
Finally, she spoke.
"You don't fight like anyone I've ever seen."
Ash glanced at her, expression even. "Guess I don't read the same books."
"It's not just skill," she pressed. "It's… more. People follow you without thinking. The Pride fought harder beside you than I've seen them fight in months."
He looked back to the skyline, shadows of ruined buildings jagged against the stars. "People fight harder when they believe they'll live to see another day. Sometimes all it takes is someone showing them they can."
Sarah studied him in the half-light. Sixteen, maybe a year older. Too young for the weight in his voice, for the calm that hung on him like a second skin. Sweat still darkened her hair at the temples, but it wasn't exhaustion that made her heart quicken—it was the unsettling truth that this boy might already stand taller than knights twice his age.
And she needed to know why.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" she asked softly.
Ash only leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving the horizon. "Some things you don't learn. Some things just… are."
Sarah didn't push further. Not yet. But the questions sat heavy in her mind as the night deepened, the Drifter's silhouette framed by stars and ruin.