Ash rose before dawn, slipping quietly from the cot he'd rented in Rivet City's common quarters. His coat hung heavy over his shoulders, but it wasn't the coat that felt different. It was him.
Every step carried a strange new certainty. His balance had shifted—firmer, surer, as if the ground held him tighter than before. He flexed his hands, feeling the faint vibration under his skin, like coiled power waiting to strike.
He found an empty cargo hold on the lower deck, one wall lined with crates too heavy for most men to move. Ash walked up, set his palm flat against the nearest one, and pushed.
The crate slid with a groan of wood against steel, scraping a path across the deck. His breath caught. It had taken every ounce of effort before just to budge something like this. Now it yielded like stubborn furniture in an old house.
He clenched a fist and drove it into the side of another crate. The wood split with a crack, splinters bursting outward. His knuckles ached, but no skin split, no bone screamed. Only the faint hum beneath the flesh.
Ash exhaled, stepping back, staring at his hand.
Later, in the ship's market, he tested again in subtler ways. He lifted a scrap bundle one-handed that had taken two traders to haul. He scaled a ladder to the upper deck faster than his muscles should've allowed, landing soft as a cat despite the weight of his coat.
It wasn't just strength. His eyes had changed too. He caught the flicker of cards in a gambler's hand across the room, every symbol sharp as if they were inches away. A guard shifting in the shadows on the far deck looked clear as day, his rifle's worn serial number etched into memory.
Ash stopped mid-step, pulse tightening.
The doctor hadn't told him about this.
That evening he returned, storm lanterns guiding his way back to the rusted half of the ship. The doctor barely looked up from his workbench when Ash pushed through the door.
"You didn't tell me everything," Ash said, voice low.
The doctor's hands froze, then resumed tinkering. "I told you enough. What did you notice?"
"My eyes."
A thin smile tugged the doctor's mouth. "Ah. Then the implants took hold nicely."
Ash's jaw tightened. "Implants."
"Cybernetic overlays," the man said matter-of-factly, as though discussing a tool. "Fiber-optic arrays stitched into the optic nerves. You see clearer, sharper, faster than most men alive. You'll notice detail before anyone else even blinks."
"You didn't ask," Ash said flatly.
"You didn't want to know," the doctor countered. "You came to me for survival. I gave you more than that. You're welcome."
Ash studied him in silence, then turned away. His reflection caught in a cracked mirror leaned against the wall—his face unchanged, his eyes still his own. But now, somewhere deep within, there was something else looking back.
Human. Still human. But sharpened into something beyond.
He left without another word, the hum of his fists echoing faintly beneath his skin as he made for the bridge. Rivet City faded behind him, swallowed by the mist rising off the river.
The Drifter walked on—restless, curious, and now, more than ever, dangerous.