Ash stepped out through Megaton's gate, the steel doors groaning shut behind him. For a heartbeat, the wasteland lay still in the sunrise, all orange glow and long shadows.
Then he swung a leg over the machine waiting for him.
The Jet-Cycle hissed as the fusion core engine came alive, the micro rebreeder cells humming with a sound halfway between a growl and a song. The metal gleamed where he'd polished it, battered where he hadn't cared to hide the scars. A guitar case, strapped snug along the side, rattled faintly when the engine vibrated.
Dogmeat leapt into the little basket welded behind the seat, ears perked and tongue out, tail drumming against the side. Ash reached back and gave her a pat, grinning.
"Hang on, girl."
There was even room behind him — enough for a prisoner or a passenger, depending on the job. Ash had planned it that way. A drifter's bike wasn't just for running. It was for carrying the road with him.
With a tilt of his hat and a flick of his wrist, the cycle roared forward, spitting dust and light into the dawn.
Some of Megaton's settlers had gathered along the catwalk above, watching him go. He didn't look back — but he could feel their eyes on him. Not fearful. Not even just respectful.
They were watching a man who turned stories into something you could see, hear, and remember.
The Drifter. The Balladeer. The Gunslinger on his Jet-Cycle.
By the time the sun dipped low, the Jet-Cycle's hum softened to a tired whine. Ash guided it off the cracked highway and into the husk of an old rest stop, where weeds pushed through the concrete and rusting signs swayed in the breeze. He shut the core down, the glow fading as the Micro Rebreeders began their slow work of drawing energy back into the cells.
It meant waiting. Hours, sometimes. But Ash didn't mind. Waiting was part of the road.
He set up a fire from scavenged wood and scraps, sparks catching until flame licked at the shadows. Dogmeat curled close to him, head resting on her paws, ears twitching at every distant sound before sleep finally tugged her under.
Ash drew the guitar from its case, ran his fingers across the strings, and let the first notes tumble into the night air. Low, steady, like a heartbeat. Then the melody built — wandering, rough, but sure.
It wasn't just music. It was memory. Campfires back with his tribe, songs that told stories of where they'd been and where they were going. He played like he remembered all of them, and carried them still, even out here in the wasteland where the stars hung lonely over black ruins.
The firelight flickered across his Deathclaw coat and riot gear, across the steel of his revolvers, across the boy who'd become something else entirely. A drifter. A fighter. A singer of roads.
And when the last note faded, only the crackle of fire and Dogmeat's slow breathing kept him company.
Ash leaned back, hat tilted low, letting the wasteland night wash over him until sleep claimed them all.