Megaton always smelled of rust and gun oil, a scent Ash had come to think of as home. The gates shut behind him with a heavy clang, and for the first time since Rivet City, he let himself breathe easy.
He stopped in front of Craterside Supply, brushing dust from his coat. Dogmeat's muffled bark carried from inside—her paws scrabbling against the floor. Ash pushed the door open.
The pup bolted toward him, nearly tripping over herself with excitement. Ash crouched, running a hand down her back, her tail thumping like a drum.
"Easy, girl," he said softly. "Miss me that much?"
When he finally straightened, he froze.
Against the far rack, propped neatly between pre-War scrap and makeshift armor plates, hung a suit of riot gear. Black as the night, its plates layered and reinforced, the underlining fabric heavy but flexible. No insignia, no coat, just the armor raw, untouched by any flag or history.
Moira stepped out from behind the counter, grinning wide. "Surprise!"
Ash walked closer, his fingers brushing the hardened plates. The armor was scarred, but intact—scavenged from somewhere untouched by the Wasteland's usual rot. He looked over at Moira, raising a brow.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Trader from the west," she said, a little proud of herself. "Claims he pulled it out of some sealed bunker in the Mojave. He didn't know what to do with it. But I knew you would."
Ash turned back to the gear, his reflection faint in its sheen. Stronger. Sharper. The leather and scrap metal he'd worn since boyhood suddenly looked like relics by comparison. This was professional armor.
"You're not planning on keeping it just for decoration, are you?" Moira teased.
Ash smirked, running his hand along the chest plate once more before pulling it from the rack. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Dogmeat barked once, almost as if in approval, tail wagging hard enough to rattle the floorboards.
Moira tilted her head, watching him sling the armor over his shoulder. For the first time, she didn't just see the boy who had wandered into Megaton years ago with nothing but a revolver and a name. She saw what he was becoming—something larger, something dangerous.
The Drifter had found his new skin.