The jailhouse in Megaton was a squat concrete thing, more patchwork than purpose-built. Sheriff Simms leaned against the doorway, arms folded, as Ash dragged the bound bounty into the room. The man stumbled with every step, leg useless where the revolver had burned him down.
"Alive, just like you asked," Ash said, voice low.
Simms gave a nod, almost respectful. "Good work. Folks'll sleep easier with him off the streets." He counted out a small sack of caps and handed it over. "Not many out here take the time to bring 'em in breathing."
Ash pocketed the caps, didn't reply. The cell door slammed shut behind the muttering prisoner. Just like that, another job was finished.
The people in town noticed, of course. They always did. Whispers passed quick — a glance at the drifter's long coat, a quiet mention of his revolvers. But the talk never traveled far, never lasted long. It was Megaton. Survival was louder than rumor.
Ash didn't linger. The sun was dipping low when he pushed open the door to Craterside Supply.
Moira looked up from behind a counter cluttered with tools, her goggles pushed up into her tangled hair. "There you are! You just missed the most exciting thing." Her voice had that familiar crackle of too-much-energy. "Caravan came through earlier, half torn up from a run into the D.C. ruins. But guess what they said?"
Ash raised an eyebrow, wordless.
"A bunker. Pre-war military. Supposedly still sealed." She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if the walls might be listening. "And not just any bunker. One where they were working on fusion cores. Studying them. Improving them."
She waited, searching his face for a flicker of reaction. "If it's true… Ash, this could be it. The power you've been looking for. The power for that cycle of yours."
For a moment, the only sound was the tick of a broken wall clock. Ash stood still, revolvers glinting in the shop's dim light. His eyes didn't give much away, but his hand brushed the edge of the counter, where a scrap of the motorcycle frame sketch lay half-buried under Moira's tools.
Finally, he gave the smallest nod. "Where?"
Moira grinned, already reaching for a folded scrap of map, grease-stained and marked with a trembling X.