The rain pattered down gently, more a drizzle than thunderstorm, each little drop pinging off the sheet metal roof like a bullet. The overstuffed arm-chair recovered from the ruins of one of Boston's numerous furniture stores felt lumpy and uncomfortable, while stinking of mildew besides. That was the price for leaving it out on an exposed rooftop in the Commonwealth after all. Between the wind, rain and radiation storms it was practically a miracle the old thing clung to any semblance of shape at all. Still, if one wanted Sanctuary guarded from all sides, as he did, a rear guard post was required. So the old chair was lugged onto the roof of Sanctuary's rearmost shack, giving it a view overlooking the walls surrounding the growing city into the southern patch of dead trees that had once been a forest.
There he sat, Alexander, general of the Minutemen, ally of the Brotherhood and now an enemy of his own son. He needed to get away, to think and brood in silence. That's why he'd pulled on his long coat and grey stocking cap rather than general's uniform, grabbed his combat rifle and taken his place on the wall, hopefully disappearing from the world.
When he'd moved to relive Preston, his friend had noticed the pained expression across his features, however, perhaps wisely given the circumstances, Preston merely saluted sharply and departed, with nothing more than the briefest of greeting.
And so, Alexander sunk deep into the moldy chair, the stump of a cigarette held tightly in his teeth, the little flame struggling to survive in the downpour. Perhaps the general hopped the rain would cleanse him of the sickness in the pit of his stomach, the anguish and abject horror that had taken root within. Unfortunately, the rain seemed unable to complete that task, merely soaking him physically and doing nothing for the soul.
As the smoke drifted away before his eyes and the familiar sensation slightly burned inside his throat, Alexander could see his son's face. Shaun had grown so much, perhaps the greatest underestimate ever made. His lined face, smoky grey beard and tired eyes reminded Alexander oddly enough of his own father all those years ago when the world was sane. He remembered the punch in his gut when he'd snuck into the Institute with the aid of the Brotherhood, creeping through those white luminous halls, mysteriously empty at that point.
The horror at the sight of his boy, grown to maybe ten, locked behind the wall of glass, clearly terrified, having grown up alone without him or… He couldn't think of Nora, not now. How the sight of her little boy would have pained her….
Alexander aimed his shotgun at the glass, ready to blast his son free and shoot his way out, when the old man arrived. He was unarmed, wearing a lab coat, with a soft voice, that seemed unable to exist in his weathered old throat. He'd spoken a few words and, before Alexander's horrified eyes, his son Shaun, deactivated, revealed to be merely a synth duplicate. The old man, calling himself Father in a bit of twisted irony, revealed himself to be Shaun, freed 60 years before Alexander from the cryosleep of Vault 111.
The barrage of emotions was perhaps the strangest he'd ever felt. Sorrow his son had grown up without him, rage at the Institute for stealing him away, bizarre pride at Shaun's accomplishments and a deep fear in the way his son had almost casually brushed aside his mother's death.
Still, despite the emotional strain, Alexander wanted to make it work, and spoke with the Institute's staff before running a few missions for Father. He'd brushed aside Virgil's allegations, even as he sent Dr Li back to the Brotherhood; heart horribly conflicted about where his loyalty ultimately lay.
But then came Bunker Hill, and the slaughter that followed. The Railroad, Brotherhood and Institute Striders massacring each other, trying to get to those five in the basement, the five synths Father sent him to reclaim.
His partner during that horrible hour had been one X4-18, a Courser, who, despite apparently lacking any emotion, seemed to reveal in the thought of dragging the escapees back to the Institute for "repurposing." He'd practically salivated with glee when, at long last, Alexander and X4 trapped the escapees in the basement beneath the monument. The synths had begged for their freedom, pleaded for their lives, clear fear in their not quite human eyes.
In a split second, Alexander made a decision. Both barrels of his shotgun thundered, blowing the back of X4's head apart, like a melon dropped from Trinity Tower. The Courser sank to the floor with laying a hand on a single synth, and that was all.
He'd planed to tell some story, spin a tale for Father about how it wasn't his fault they'd escaped and X4 had been killed. Maybe he could salvage the relationship, convince Shaun to change his ways and actually help the people of the Commonwealth that Alexander had come to love.
But when he'd seen the old man, somehow despite everything still looking like the baby Alexander remembered cradling in his arms, the general knew his son knew the truth…
So he sat in that chair, rifle clutched in his hands, beanie soaked through by rain that mirrored the grief he felt. Things changed forever, now almost as different as Boston itself after the bombs. Cigarette smoke drifted away with the wind, nearly puttering out completely as a particularly strong gust slapped him across the face. Alexander knew what was inevitably coming, but perhaps he could make it going away by waiting.
"Sir?" A proper sounding, metallic voice came from beneath, clearly laced with concern despite robotic overtone. Alexander turned slightly in his chair to look down the ladder to the dirt path below. Codsworth, his faithful butler, hovered just at the base of the ladder, managing, without any facial features, to somehow appear worried, sorrow evident in his three eyes. The little bowler hat he wore seemed glued in place, undisturbed by wind and rain.
"Mister Garvey told me I'd find you here, sir," the Mr. Handy continued, clearly feeling it was his duty to speak and yet unsure how to go about it. "May I come up?" He hovered side to side, his pincer hand clicking in a way reminiscent of the distressed state he'd been in when Alexander first rediscovered him after fleeing the Vault.
"Of course Codsworth," Alexander responded, trying to speak as calmly as possible. He didn't want to see anyone, not even the robot who could be arguably called his oldest friend and practically family. He returned his gaze outward into the Commonwealth, gazing outward at nothing, almost hoping some raider would stick his head out and give Alexander and excuse for action, but none did.
The gently hum of Codsworth's servomotors sounded near, cluing Alexander into the new change in his robot's position, the Mr. Handy having floated up the ladder to rest beside his master. "Sir?" He asked quietly, almost a whisper. "What happened at Bunker Hill?"
Of course Alexander had told Codsworth where he was going, how could he not? A few others knew, or perhaps suspected, but even so, he'd tried to keep his interaction with the Institute secret, for fear of the potential political fallout or outcome.
The general took the dead cigarette from his mouth and ground its ashes away in the nearby ceramic ashtray. "I couldn't do it Codsworth," he responded softly, voice a grim monotone, glasses beginning to fog up from something he suspected wasn't due to rain."I just couldn't do it…"
"Do what, sir?" The robot pressed, moving a little bit closer to his master, as if he wanted to lay a comforting metallic hand on his shoulder but wasn't sure he could.
"I was supposed to bring the synths back, but I couldn't," he stated blankly, looking forward, unwilling to look Codsworth in the face. "I know Shaun said they were mere tools and Maxson called them abominations but neither of them looked those…people…in the eye. I thought about Nick and what that friendship means to me." He paused, "I thought about you, Codsworth…" The Mr. Handy was clearly touched by the comment, but said nothing. "I couldn't take them away." Alexander snorted, his eyes misting over, the combination of repressed emotions starting to bubble its up to the surface.
"You did the right thing, sir." Codsworth said, his own voice wavering, hovering ever closer to his master.
"I was going to lie," the general continued, fidgeting with the clip in his rifle, it seemed so odd to him, a grown man, feeling the nervousness surrounding the discussion. "I met Shaun up on the roof of the CIT ruins, but he knew, of course he did." Alexander's stare grew deeper, as if the blank grayness of the sky held the course he should take going forward. "He told me how sorry he was that I couldn't see the need for the Institute, that I needed to reconsider my actions and join him." He shrugged his shoulders, "I told him it wasn't going to happen. It broke his heart." There was a real tear now, first one then another, tracing their way down the scarred and bearded face of a father who'd watched his only son become a monster without realizing it.
"You know what he said to me, Codsworth?" Alexander asked softly, maintaining his composure with the greatest effort.
"What did he say, Alexander?" Codsworth responded gently, defaulting to actually using his master's name, a gesture the general found beyond touching.
"That he was sorry it came to this," a third tear joined the first two, "That he knew the Commonwealth would warp me, twist me into something terrible. He couldn't even see that was him!" The sudden change in tone, the cry of anguish, drove Codsworth back a few inches, but the Mr. Handy was back again, floating faithfully by his master's side. "I begged him to see the Commonwealth as I do, to met the people I've met, hear their stories, share their dreams, but he wouldn't have any of it…I told him I still loved him, and how deeply sorry I was it had happened this way." Alexander's freckled face was buried beneath falling tears, holding in his wracking sobs to maintain a last semblance of composure. "He told me he could see it, that, despite everything, he loved me too. Then he was gone. Teleported away and I knew, deep down, the next time I saw him would be down the barrel of my gun."
Alexander leaned forward, burying his head in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. "My little boy…" He cried, "My little, little boy…" Then he felt it, the metallic hand resting gently on his shoulder, a sound emitting from Codsworth that could only be described as crying.
"I know," the robot responded, tightening his grip on the shoulder comfortingly, seemingly distraught that he was unable to hug his master due to his design, "He was a beautiful boy."
"We were so proud, Nora and I," Alexander gasped out between sobs, "We had dreams for him, every parent has." His sobbing stopped, but he remained huddled in a ball, trying to pull himself together and failing miserably. "I was going to take him to the Sox games, picnics, bowling. I'd read him my old comic books, take care of him when he was sick… I'd raise him right, love and protect him if it came down to it… Maybe Nora… we'd give him some brothers or sisters…."
Without warning, the image of Kellogg appeared in his mind. He held the gun to Nora's head while Alexander struggled to free himself from the pod. The echoing gunshot, rebounding in the confinement of the Vault's enclosed room.
"It's not your fault, sir," Codsworth insisted, shifting his position so he could look the general in the face, all while maintaining his comforting grip on the master's shoulder. "Do you understand that? It's not your fault!" The butler's voice was quivering as he raised it, trying to break through the cloud of sorrow surrounding Alexander.
"I should have fought harder, I could have broken free, could have saved him from this life…"
"Don't lie to yourself! What's done is done."
"If I'd raised him, even out in the wastes, would he have turned out this way?" The question rumbled through the air, deeper and more terrible than any thunderclap. "Was it me? I went to the war, I killed my fair share of Commies…Maybe I tainted him." His body too exhausted to cry any longer, Alexander continued. "Now I'll never know."
"Sir," Codsworth began softly, eyes filled with sorrow, "You are the finest man I know, someone I am proud to serve. Now listen to me. What happened with Shaun…The Institute did that to him, not you. Had he been under your care, he'd have been like you, tough, strong and wise, but gentle hearted and ready to protect the helpless. I've seen what you've done for these people," the Mr. Handy gestured with his buzz saw around Sanctuary, highlighting the bustling activity and lights streaming from several buildings. "You built this town, sheltered its people. It wasn't you that made Shaun Father, and it will never be you." He paused, hovering silently for a moment, before pressing onward, "You were tremendous parents, you and the misses both for the time you had. The world snatched your chances away, not yourself. Others twisted Shaun's thinking, not you. And others destroyed the world, so don't carry the entire burden on your shoulders, please don't."
Alexander's bloodshot eyes looked past tear-stained glasses to see the truth of his Mr. Handy's commentary, there was honesty in his words, as much as it hurt to hear it. "I wish things were different," he whispered, hands shaking, eyes gaunt.
"So do I," Codsworth responded, voice steady again, yet still maintaining its gentle softness. "Remember Shaun as he was, what he could have been had the world been different, don't let that image slip away." The butler's robotic eyes stared deeply at him, trying to convey what mere words could not.
Alexander tried. He forced his attention towards his love for his son, the sight of young Shaun in the cradle, toddler walking, young boy gawking in wonder at brand new sights, the teenager who'd drive him crazy, the young man who'd marry some girl and bring him fat little grandkids. He watched the mental tape of his son's imaginary life role by, refusing to let it go. Eyes closed, he pictured his son, and felt a new batch of tears leak out his eyelids and trickle down his face. "If he broke through the Institute's propaganda," Alexander managed to say while keeping his voice steady, moving his hand up to grasp the robot's own tightly, letting his friend hold him best he could, "What do you think he would say?"
Ever so gently, Codsworth responded, "To do the right thing, sir."
Alexander grit his teeth and stood up from the chair, legs feeling like jelly, whole body weakened with exhaustion from grief. Rubbing the back of a gloved hand across his face to clear away any evidence of tears, though the rain would likely mask it anyway, the general straightened his long coat. "I need to get my uniform on and speak with Preston. It's time to make the Commonwealth safe, no matter the cause." Releasing Codsworth's hand, the man began his slow descent down the ladder.
As boots hit the muddy ground, Alexander turned one time and said, "Hey, Codsworth? Thank you, for everything. I couldn't have done any of this without you."
As he moved towards his house he thought he faintly heard a proper British voice on the breeze, "Of course sir, you're all the family I have…"