The first time Billy Creel sees the wanderer, it's sunset outside the Craterside Supply.
She's no longer wearing the blue jumpsuit Maggie had described. Leather and buckles are tight against muscles and limbs, and an old rifle slings awkwardly across her back. Dirt smudges against her cheeks and temples and sweat greases her dark hairline, setting a filmy sheen to her sunburnt skin. High cheekbones shape her face, gaunt and thin with chapped lips.
She's unremarkable. Plain and filthy, just like any other traveler.
Billy sees the pink-tinged bandages on stretches of skin that the armor doesn't cover. He can only assume that Moira's experiments have taken their toll. He doesn't know the stranger, but he has to hand it to her: working with Moira takes some guts. Or stupidity. But definitely a good amount of guts. Perhaps the wanderer will make some use of herself. A happy Moira is a happy Megaton, after all.
He takes pause along the railing and watches her with his good eye. She walks with halting movements, favoring her right leg with a slight limp. Her body is thin, yielding, ill-conditioned to the wastes. Nothing but bone and tendons and narrow hips; all ribcage and sweat and sunburn.
She catches his gaze and gives him an offhanded grin as she hobbles past.
Raising a hand in salutation, Billy feels himself return the smile.