Altan made his way to Underworld Outfitters, the hum of the bustling concourse fading behind him. As he ducked into the dimly lit shop, the jangle of the doorbell alerted the lone occupant—a bored-looking ghoul sitting behind a counter. Her eyes snapped wide as she noticed him, and she jumped slightly, caught off guard, before stammering out a greeting. "Oh... a human... well, hello. Welcome to Underworld Outfitters! It's... it's been so long since I had a new customer!"

  "Tulip?" he asked, stepping closer and presenting his bundle of firearms. He arranged them neatly, their grimy barrels glinting faintly in the shop's dim light. "Looking to trade these in for caps, fusion cells, energy cells, maybe some meds?"

  Tulip hesitated, her hands shaking slightly as she gingerly accepted the firearms. Her gaze flickered nervously to the Brotherhood insignia on Altan’s armor. "Yes, I’m Tulip. I can give you a fair price for these," she said, her voice a little shaky. "But, uh, if you're looking for medical supplies, you'll want to see Dr. Barrows in his clinic."

  Tulip examined the firearms, her face scrunching with disapproval as she hummed and tsked over their poor condition. "Did you pick these up off some raiders?" she asked, turning one of the rifles in her hands. "They're in terrible condition. Looks like they've been through hell and back." She paused, glancing at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Not that I can't fix them up, but it'll take a bit of work."

  "Yeah, we passed through a few groups on our way here," Altan said, watching as Tulip examined the firearms. "I'm not sure if the information is worth anything, but the Museum Station is pretty much clear for now. We didn’t exactly stick around to loot everything, though, so there may still be some good stuff we left behind."

  Tulip shook her head slowly, her face tightening with concern. "Oh no, not to us. We ghouls try to stay out of the metro. The Brotherhood of Steel uses it, and those bigots—" She broke off, her eyes widening as she quickly raised her hands, almost as if shielding herself from something. "N-not that I’m complaining! I mean, I’m sure you’re one of the more... level-headed ones, right? Considering how you haven’t... shot us up yet..." Her voice trailed off, a nervous laugh escaping her as she shifted uneasily on her feet.

  "Wait, wait, they shoot at you guys?" Altan asked, a mix of disbelief and alarm in his voice. Tulip nodded, and Altan shook his head, the weight of the revelation sinking in. "That's... insane," he muttered under his breath, his mind racing with the implications.

  After a moment, he seemed to snap back to reality. "Well, I'm not with them," he added quickly, his voice firmer now. "The armor is a loan from one of their higher-ups while I do a job for them." He paused for a beat, resting his hand thoughtfully on his chin. "I was wondering why everyone seemed to be giving me a wide berth..." His tone softened, frustration and confusion creeping in.

  Tulip relaxed as Altan spoke, her tension easing. She turned and rummaged through a dusty locker behind her, the sound of metal scraping against metal echoing in the quiet shop. After a few moments, she pulled out a bottle of turpentine and a small brush, placing them carefully on the counter with a soft clink.

  “If that’s the case,” she said, her voice more at ease now, “I can get rid of those Brotherhood markings for you. It’ll probably be for the best while you’re here.” Her eyes lingered on the armored figure in front of her.

  "Right. I'd appreciate that," Altan said, his voice low as he knelt slightly, giving Tulip easier access to the pauldrons of his power armor. The slight hiss of the suit's systems adjusting to his movement filled the air. Tulip approached cautiously, dipping the brush into the turpentine, and carefully applied the solvent to the Brotherhood insignias. The brush bristles scraped softly against the metal as she worked.

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  Once satisfied, she stepped back, motioning for him to stand. "That should do it," she said, her voice more relaxed. "Give it a few minutes, and you'll just be another anonymous tin can."

  Altan stood, his eyes drifting to the spots where the Brotherhood insignias had once been. The absence of them felt odd, as though something had been lost. He shook off the thought and refocused. "Thanks, Tulip," he said, reaching for his caps pouch. "I’ve got some business in the Ninth Circle. You hear anything about mercs that’ll take on super mutants?"

  Tulip nodded thoughtfully, wiping her hands on a rag. "Mercs? Yeah, you’ll find a few in the Ninth Circle. Ahzrukhal runs the place, not the friendliest guy, but reasonable if you've got caps. You might also find Charon there—Ahzrukhal's bodyguard. He's not happy with him, so you might be able to buy his contract." She paused, her voice dropping slightly. "Just... be careful. The Ninth Circle has its own rules."

  "Sounds good," Altan said, slipping the fresh fusion cells into the loops on his belt. "I’ll see you around."

  Tulip smiled faintly. "Stay sharp out there. Things aren’t always as they seem."

  Altan waved as he left the shop, her words lingering in his mind. He headed for the Underworld clinic, business first.

  The clinic was tucked into a quieter corner of the old museum gift shop, its doorway marked by a crude sign proclaiming "The Chop Shop." Inside, the space was cramped but well-organized, with shelves stocked with salvaged medical supplies and old-world equipment. A ghoul sat behind the front desk, their grayish-green skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones. They glanced up as Altan entered, their eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Something wrong, smoothskin?” the ghoul rasped. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding out.”

  “Not yet,” Altan replied dryly, adjusting his pack. “Here for supplies. Stimpaks, mostly, if you’ve got them.”

  The ghoul nodded slowly. “We’ve got some, but they’re not cheap. Caps or trade?”

  “Caps,” Altan said, already reaching for a pouch of currency at his belt. “What’s the going rate?”

  “Sixty per,” the ghoul answered, leaning back in their chair. “Take it or leave it.”

  Altan grimaced but nodded. “I’ll take three.”

  As the ghoul retrieved the stimpaks from a locked cabinet, Altan’s eyes wandered around the cramped room. His gaze settled on a small cot at the back of the clinic, where a woman with dirty red hair lay unconscious under a threadbare blanket. Her face was pale but striking, marked by a deep resilience even in her unconscious state.

  “Someone you know?” the ghoul asked, noticing Altan’s lingering gaze.

  “No,” Altan said, shaking his head. “Just curious. What’s her story?”

  The ghoul hesitated before replying. “That’s Reilly. Runs a merc group called Reilly’s Rangers. Ever heard of them?”

  “No,” Altan replied, his frown deepening. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Got dragged in a couple days ago. Bullet wounds, internal injuries—you name it. Doc patched her up, so she’s stable now. But it’s a waiting game.”

  Altan’s frown deepened as he observed the shallow rise and fall of her chest. “She’s their leader, right?”

  The ghoul nodded. “Yep. Lot of people owe their lives to those Rangers. Be a damn shame if she doesn’t make it.”

  Altan mulled over the information for a moment, his hand resting on the pouch of caps. After a beat, he pulled out an extra stimpak from his pack and slid it onto the counter. “Here. For her.”

  The ghoul blinked in surprise. “You sure? You just bought three.”

  “Consider it a gesture,” Altan replied. “If she pulls through, maybe she can return the favor down the line.”

  The ghoul’s expression softened. “Appreciate it. Doc will put it to good use.”

  Altan nodded, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “Thanks for the supplies. Let me know if she wakes up.”

  The ghoul gave him a faint smile, their raspy voice quiet. “We’ll do that. And… thanks. Not many would give a damn.”

  Altan gave a noncommittal grunt, his gaze flicking briefly to Reilly before he turned toward the door. With a final wave of his hand, he stepped back out into the dimly lit concourse, the door creaking shut behind him.