Megaton's night came alive with the low hum of lanterns and the smell of brahmin stew drifting between rusted shacks. Ash's boots carried him straight from Simms' office to Moira's shop, bounty chit exchanged for a handful of caps and—more importantly—a part she'd been saving for him.
"Found this jammed under some crates off a Rivet City scavenge," she said, sliding a dented manifold across the counter. "Thought you'd want first pick. Looks like it belongs on your… whatever that thing's becoming."
Ash gave one of his rare grins, scooping it up. "Bike's not gonna build itself."
Moira tilted her head, eyes curious. "You know, the more parts you find, the more it looks like you're not planning on sticking around forever."
He didn't answer, just touched the brim of his hat in a half-salute and walked out with Dogmeat padding behind him. Moira sighed, already scribbling notes into a battered pad—ideas she'd never admit she was secretly building for herself.
By the time the town had gone quiet, Ash was bent over the skeleton of the jet cycle in his workshop. Rusted frames were welded into a crude shape, the scavenged turbine bolted in place like the heart of some long-dead beast. Tonight he worked the manifold into its new home, sparks showering against the dirt as his welder hissed.
Dogmeat lay nearby on a bed of cloth scraps, half-asleep but always lifting her head whenever he moved. Her ears twitched at the steady scrape of tools, tail thumping once whenever he muttered a rare curse under his breath.
When the part finally held, Ash leaned back, wiping sweat with his sleeve. He set the tools aside, picked up the guitar Moira had found for him weeks ago, and strummed a slow, wandering tune. The notes drifted through the dark, soft enough to not wake the town but strong enough to settle the pup's breathing into steady sleep.
His voice came low, almost more hum than song, carrying the memory of the old Balladeer traditions. For a moment, the wasteland didn't feel like ruin—it felt alive, carried by the rhythm of strings and the glow of steel.
Ash let the last chord fade into silence, staring at the unfinished frame of the jet bike. He didn't know when it would be finished. He only knew he would finish it. Because the road wasn't meant to end here.
The mutt stirred, the embers of the welder glowing faint behind him. Ash tipped his hat lower, set the guitar down, and leaned back against the frame of his future.
Another day done. Another night waiting.