The march to GNR was tense, but nothing like the fight they'd just crawled out of. The Brotherhood squad stayed in formation, their boots echoing heavy against broken concrete. The scavengers trailed behind, still pale but alive. Ash walked apart from them, Dogmeat shadowing his steps, her ears twitching at every strange sound in the ruins.
Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled to life, its signal cutting through static. The faint, easy voice of Three Dog rolled across the ruins, followed by the swing of an old pre-war song. It wasn't loud, but it carried—notes rising above the rubble like stubborn hope.
Sarah caught Ash glancing at the direction of the sound. She gave a small smile. "Funny, isn't it? A city burning down around us, and there's still music."
Ash didn't answer, but Dogmeat's ears perked, tail wagging with each horn blast in the tune.
By the time the tower came into view, the music was stronger. Guards at the perimeter knew Sarah by name, letting the squad in with nods and salutes. Ash followed, quiet, his coat brushing against the strange Mojave armor beneath. Dogmeat padded close, sniffing at unfamiliar scents.
Inside, the sound was clearer—swing and soul, cut by bursts of chatter from the man himself.
And then Three Dog stepped out, larger than life in his own way, shades tilted down just enough to get a better look at the group coming in. His grin widened when he saw Sarah, then froze a fraction when his gaze slid to the drifter standing beside her.
"Well, well, well," Three Dog said, pointing like a man catching sight of a ghost. "Would you look at that. The Drifter walks into my house and doesn't even say hello. Last time you breezed through here, I didn't even realize who I was talking to."
Sarah's brow arched. She glanced at Ash, then back to Three Dog. "The Drifter?"
"Lady Lyons," Three Dog said with a flourish, "you've got yourself a front-row seat to one of the Capital Wasteland's very own mysteries." He tapped the mic on his hip. "Been telling the people about him, but didn't think I'd be looking him in the eye again so soon."
Dogmeat gave a bark, tail wagging. The sound made Three Dog laugh. "And now he's got himself a sidekick! Oh, this is too good."
Sarah studied Ash, trying to read him, but his face gave nothing away.
Sarah tilted her head, watching him carefully. "The Drifter…" she repeated, the name rolling out like she was testing its weight.
Ash didn't flinch, didn't nod, didn't offer anything at all. He just adjusted the strap of his revolver rig, eyes sliding to Dogmeat as she circled curiously around a stack of old equipment.
Three Dog chuckled, sensing the silence but not bothered by it. "Man of few words, huh? That's alright. Words are my job. Yours is keepin' people alive when the world says they shouldn't be."
Sarah's eyes lingered a moment longer. The part of her raised by soldiers wanted to ask—wanted to know what made him different, what made people whisper about him—but she knew better than to force it. If the boy wanted to speak, he would.
So instead, she looked away, pulling off her gloves, flexing her fingers. "Well," she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lip, "whatever name you carry, it seems to make people stand a little taller when you're around."
Ash glanced at her then, just for a moment. Not a smile, not even a word—but the kind of look that said he'd heard her.
Dogmeat barked once, sharp and eager, like she'd caught the thread of something unspoken.
And then the music surged louder from the radio tower, Three Dog's booming voice already moving on to the next broadcast—stories of raids, warnings about mutant movements, and a subtle thread about a drifter with a pair of strange revolvers.