Megaton's gates groaned open as Ash stepped through, Dogmeat padding close at his side. The scavvers at the entrance paused, their eyes drawn to the strange weight he carried: a rolled hide black as midnight and a satchel that hummed faintly with power. They said nothing—just watched, as though instinct told them this boy was carrying more than just salvage.
Ash didn't slow. His boots thudded on the rusted catwalks until he pushed through the doors of Craterside Supply.
"Moira," he said, his voice flat but carrying that worn-out edge of travel.
Moira Brown looked up from a half-dissected laser pistol, her goggles askew. Her face lit up. "Ash! I was wondering if—oh my goodness, what is that smell?"
Ash dropped the rolled Deathclaw hide onto the counter with a heavy thump. The black leather seemed to swallow the light, thick and menacing. "Hide. From something that didn't want to let go of it."
Moira's eyes widened, caught between fascination and disbelief. "You fought one of those things? And you lived?"
"Barely," Ash muttered. He reached into his satchel, pulled out a glowing cylinder, and set it beside the hide. The core's amber glow pulsed like a heartbeat. "Keep one for me. The rest—sell them, study them, whatever you want." He dropped the bag onto the counter. It landed with a heavy metallic clatter, the cores inside humming softly.
Moira gasped. "Fusion cores? More than one? Ash, this… this is—this could power half of Megaton for months!"
He only shrugged, already taking the single core back into his hand. "This one's mine. Got work to do."
Leaving her half-dazed with possibilities, Ash carried the core to his small home. He set it down beside the skeleton of his half-built cycle, the jet engine still bolted into a makeshift frame. For hours into the night, the sound of tools echoed across the shack as he worked the fusion core into the rebreeder unit, welding lines, adjusting feeds, refining the balance between power and containment.
At last, he stepped back. The machine hummed faintly, alive but waiting. It wasn't ready for long hauls—not yet—but for the short rides? For flying through the streets of the Wastes in bursts of fire? It was ready enough.
Ash leaned against the frame, sweat streaking his brow. Dogmeat curled at his feet, tail flicking, her eyes half-closed but watchful.
But the work wasn't done.
On the table beside him lay the bundle of Deathclaw hide. He unrolled it carefully, laying the black leather flat. Its texture was hard as armor, yet supple under his knife. Piece by piece, hour by hour, he cut, shaped, and stitched. Shoulders reinforced, chest fitted snug, a long coat that trailed just enough to move with the wind.
By dawn, Ash stood before the cracked mirror. The black coat clung to his frame like it had grown there, his hat tilted low to shadow his eyes. His revolvers rested at his sides, polished and gleaming with faint energy.
He tilted his head, watching the figure in the glass. Not a boy anymore. Something else. Something older.
Dogmeat yawned at his feet, then barked once, as though she agreed.
Ash touched the brim of his hat and gave the mirror a tilt. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The Drifter had arrived.