The Deathclaw's corpse lay broken in the dust, a mountain of muscle and rage stilled at last. Ash crouched over it, his hands steady even though his breath still came sharp. Dogmeat circled nearby, ears pinned back, growling low every time the wind shifted and carried the beast's scent.
Ash pulled his knife, the blade whispering through thick hide. The leather was unlike anything he'd ever seen—dense, almost armored on its own. He worked in silence, skinning the beast piece by piece, rolling the black hide into a bundle heavy enough to strain his shoulders. It wouldn't become a coat tonight, not out here, but once home… once worked properly… it would be his. A final piece to the gunslinger he'd been slowly becoming.
The bunker waited ahead, half-buried in rock and scarred with claw marks. The Deathclaw had been its guardian, keeping scavengers away for who knew how many years. Ash set his pack down, brushed dirt off the old control panel, and coaxed life into it with practiced patience. Sparks danced, a lock clicked, and with a groan like a tomb opening, the heavy steel door shifted aside.
Inside was no working facility, no humming machines or glow of emergency lights. The air was stale, dead, heavy with dust. Consoles lay gutted, wires cut, papers scattered and yellowed on the floor. Time had emptied the place of everything… almost everything.
In the center chamber sat racks of canisters—thick, compact cylinders no larger than a man's forearm, each capped with brass fittings and faintly glowing with a soft, amber light. They looked like bottled fire, humming quietly, as though eager to be used again.
Ash stopped in the doorway, staring. He had expected maybe a single drained core, some scrap of energy. Instead, there were more than a dozen lined up, silent but alive, the last heartbeat of this place.
Dogmeat padded forward, nose twitching at the closest rack, tail wagging as if she sensed what her master already knew.
Ash picked one up. Warm. Portable. It fit neatly into his hand, heavier than it looked. He slipped it into his satchel. Then another. Then another. Soon the bag clinked faintly, weighty with power—power enough to give his cycle life, power enough to trade, power enough to change everything.
He tightened the straps on his pack, the black hide slung over one shoulder, the glowing cores heavy at his back. The bunker was dead. The machines, the notes, the research—all gone to time. But this… this was what mattered.
"Jackpot," Ash muttered under his breath.
Dogmeat barked once, sharp and proud, her eyes bright in the half-light.
Ash allowed himself the faintest smile. He had no way of knowing it yet, but these cores would not only bring his own dreams to life—they'd spark another. Somewhere down the line, Moira Brown would find a way to use one herself, her own project taking shape in secret.
For now, though, it was just him, his dog, a bundle of Deathclaw hide, and a pack full of fire.