The armor waited on the table in his Megaton home, catching the last light of dusk through the cracked window. The room was quiet except for Dogmeat's slow breathing, the pup curled at the foot of his bed.
Ash set his revolvers down carefully beside the plates. He'd stripped out of his patched leather and metal—pieces that had carried him this far, relics of boyhood survival. For years, those scraps had been enough. But now, staring at the black armor, he knew the time had come to leave them behind.
Piece by piece, he pulled the riot gear on. The underlining was heavy but supple, clinging tight to his frame. The chestplate followed, locking into place with a weight that settled deep into his shoulders. His hands lingered on the pauldrons before strapping them down. Each click, each buckle, was louder than it should have been in the silence.
By the time he straightened, the man staring back from the cracked mirror was someone new. The drifter coat still hung over his shoulders, its tails falling just above his boots, the black armor beneath giving him a sharper edge. He still looked human, but no longer vulnerable.
Dogmeat lifted her head, ears twitching. Ash glanced down, and the pup gave a soft bark—as if she understood what had changed.
He rested a hand on his revolver, spinning the cylinder once, then holstered it. The armor shifted with his movement, fluid despite its weight, the sound of hardened plates whispering like a promise.
He stepped outside. The night air was cool, the glow of Megaton's lights washing over him. A few settlers turned to look, conversations faltering. No one spoke, but their eyes lingered on the man in the black gear and the long coat, the revolvers at his hips, the steady gait of someone who walked with purpose.
Ash adjusted the collar of his coat, the faint hum of his weapons at his side. For the first time since his tribe's end, he felt like the Wastes had given something back.
The Drifter had become something more.