The door slid open on a hiss of stale air and rust. The room beyond was lit by hanging lamps, their glow dancing across a mess of surgical instruments, salvaged tech, and half-dissected machines.
At the center of it all stood a man in a lab coat patched with grease, his hair silvered, his eyes sharp and restless.
"You're far from home, boy," he said without looking up, hands deep in the open chest cavity of what looked like a ruined Mister Gutsy. "What brings you to my half of the ship?"
Ash stepped inside, the door clanging shut behind him. His coat whispered across the floor as he moved, revolvers steady at his hips. "I heard you can do things. Fix flesh. Fuse it with steel."
The doctor finally looked up, gaze narrowing. "Rumors have a way of reaching ears they shouldn't." He studied Ash a long moment. "But you… you're young. You're not broken, not crippled. Why come here?"
Ash's voice was even, steady. "The Wastes break everyone, sooner or later. I want to be ready when it tries."
The doctor's lips curled, half amusement, half warning. "What you're asking for… it's not without cost. Steel and circuitry don't always play nice with blood and bone."
Ash's eyes didn't waver. "So long as I'm still me."
The doctor searched him for hesitation, then finally nodded. "Fine. Let's see what you're made of."
The hours blurred. Instruments clinked. Sparks hissed. Pain surged, sharp and searing, but Ash bore it in silence, teeth clenched, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling above. The hum of generators mixed with the low mutter of the doctor's work.
When at last he sat upright on the table, sweat soaking his shirt, the world felt different. Not louder, not brighter—just more.
His hands curled into fists, knuckles humming faintly with hidden power. Inside, new strength coiled, waiting. His spine no longer ached under the weight of long treks; his movements felt smoother, sharper. He looked in the cracked mirror propped against the wall and saw the same boy staring back.
Human. Still human. But more.
The doctor wiped his hands, studying him with something like wary respect. "I gave you what you asked for. Reinforced bone along the spine. Micro-fiber muscles braided in your arms. Your fists—" He gestured to them. "Think of them as built-in Power Gloves. Stronger than steel, but no one would ever know to look at you."
Ash flexed his fingers, the faint hum answering his will. Then he reached for his coat, sliding it back over his shoulders.
"Good," he said simply.
The doctor raised a brow. "You're not going to thank me?"
Ash adjusted his revolvers at his hips, then met his gaze with cool certainty. "You'll hear my thanks if this keeps me alive."
With that, he left, the door groaning shut behind him. The ship's corridors swallowed him whole once more, and the Drifter walked on—still a boy, but now carrying a heart and body tempered with hidden steel.