Ash had nearly reached the gate when a voice called out.
"Drifter."
He stopped. Turned. Sheriff Simms stood at the edge of the catwalk, arms folded, hat tilted back. The lawman's weathered face broke into something between a grin and a frown.
"Funny thing," Simms said, making his way down the ramp to meet him. "I remember the day you walked through those gates. Just a skinny kid, dust in his hair, carrying a half-busted toy that barely looked like a gun."
Ash chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "Guess I've grown into it."
Simms shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him. "Now look at you. Coat made from a monster folks whisper about at night, armor from gods-know-where, guns shining like they were built yesterday. You walk through town and folks don't know whether to cheer or step aside."
Ash spread his hands in mock innocence. "I prefer cheerin'. Easier on the ears."
That earned a grin from Simms. "Yeah, well… truth is, son, you've given this town reason enough to do both. But I know where your heart's at. That counts for more than the stories."
Ash tipped his hat, just slightly.
"Which is why," Simms continued, pulling a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, "I got something for you. Word came in about a killer. Used to be a caravan guard, turned on his folk. Slaughtered the lot of 'em out by the Potomac crossings. He's holed up now, and there's coin for the man who drags him back alive."
Ash took the paper, scanning the rough sketch and the name scrawled beneath it. He tucked it into his coat with a little flourish, like a man pocketing a winning hand.
"Caps up front for the trail," Simms added. "The rest when he's sitting in a cell. Alive, remember. They want to hang him proper."
Ash gave a single nod, then whistled. Dogmeat bounded to his side, tail wagging.
"Guess it's time for another story," Ash said with a grin, before turning toward the gate.
Simms watched him go, a warmth in his chest that hadn't been there in a long time. The boy who had walked into Megaton with nothing but a busted revolver hadn't hardened into some grim ghost of the wastes.
He'd become something brighter. A voice, a symbol.
The Wasteland's Balladeer.