Morning at the Castle. He'd moved his quarters to one of the chambers underground, giving the old one to Ronnie Shaw. She was here more often, it only made sense for the post commander to possess that room. But General Hal Grayson wanted to be a bit harder to reach. A bit tougher to find. Lately, he hadn't been at his best in the morning. His sleep hadn't been coming to him easily. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his troops coming to at this hour. Drilling in the yard, rifle practice outside the south wall, Radio Freedom blasting its violin music over the speakers as whoever was operating it made the morning announcements. Today, it was Sergeant Ferguson. He knew because she'd drawn the short straw on the duty roster, and she absolutely hated doing it. But life went on in the Post-War, Post-Institute Commonwealth.

Normally, he'd be up and at it around zero-five, out in the yard at zero-six with a mug of coffee in hand as he made himself privvy to supply issues from Colonel Shaw, troop movements in the north from Garvey at Northern Command in Starlight, reviewing recruitment efforts (there'd been a huge surge from Diamond City lately) and seeing to the usual business about the Castle. But he hadn't been able to keep on his routine lately, and Colonel Shaw had wordlessly taken over many of his duties until he managed to get himself out there. When he got himself out there.

Grayson finally sat up, sighing as he rubbed his gaunt face, feeling the two-week stubble over the pockmarked scars. Some he'd acquired during his time in the US. Alaska had been cruel. But those jagged marks under his jaw were from a Deathclaw trying to eat his head. The deep burns on his cheek from when a Forged had smashed him with the nozzle of a flamer. The scrawling tear around his eyebrow from an Assaultron outside Vault 95 only not taking the upper half of his skull off because of Cait body-tackling the bot. His other cheek was a sinister pucker, a savage .45 slug from a Raider's revolver blowing his mouth out. And that was only the marks on his face. His fingers ran over the damage, grunting at the sensations. He had mapped his face out many times, a once handsome visage twisted by the Commonwealth. The past few days, he had run his hands over his face so many times, he wondered whether his cheeks or his fingers would give way first.

He needed something to get him out of this...a return to form. His hand felt the stubble again.

A shave. Perfect.

He stood, moving to the attached bathroom. The lightbulb chain was tugged halfheartedly, and he glanced up into the mirror. A gaunt, thin, tired face greeted him, and he needed a second to recognize himself. Since waking up, he'd lost weight due to malnutrition and going without a few times, but it was only now that he realized he'd been surviving the past week on caffeine and a few quick meals like Blamco, and not nearly enough. The Castle had a fully stocked kitchen, and received foodstuffs from other farms, as well as a small vegetable garden and fishing the troops did in their off hours. The Minutemen cooks were quite skilled, and now had much practice with preparing large batches of food. With this glut of nutrition, he should have been feasting like a king. But the General of the Minutemen was instead starving like a resident of Jamaica Plain (seemed like those folks could never catch a break). He'd never even felt any hunger pangs.

With a small grunt, Grayson reached down, pulling a straight razor from the cup on the sink, pulling the blade out and running his sharpener over it. Some things had truly been lost to history after all.

He stirred up a small tin can full of foam, quickly running over his face. This kind of luxury, in so short a supply, was something he'd held on to for a while. True, when he'd first emerged, the lack of shaving utensils and time meant he'd slipped back to his old Alaska habits of ignoring his growing beard. The onset of winter had merely made growing one more practical. But then he'd reinitiated the attack on the Institute, and the pressure of being an officer in charge of a force this large once more had forced him into shaving his face, and he'd started feeling like it was Alaska all over again. This time, however, he was making a difference.

Until the Prydwen.

He tried not to let himself think of it, taking up the razor and trying to figure out where to start. He'd lost so much weight that he was unfamiliar with looking at his usual spots. Finally, however, he decided on the line just under his jaw, reaching and pulling upwards. However, he suddenly remembered another small scar, but before he could stop his hand-

Paladin-Commander Brandis winced from the cut. Not the worst pain, but without a mirror he was forced to work by touch. After losing his beard, he'd gotten used to the way the Prydwen had been able to provide. A real head, not the survival bunker's tiny excuse, with real food and drink. It was a shame he'd only been there for a few months before the tragedy had struck.

He pulled his hand back, looking at the blood. Not too serious, he'd be fine. But this damned razor was dull, and he tossed it aside in disgust. No time to sharpen. No time to really do any of the usual routine lately. It was wakeup, get to the briefing room, grab a bite and coffee, and see to the business of the Brotherhood's survival. Well, the Remnants, at least. The term had been coined by Scribe Haylen to distinguish between their meager, reduced force and the East Coast Chapter proper, still down in DC. Getting a message to them had been difficult, and Brandis wasn't sure their broadcast shortwave distress signals were even being picked up. The Big Apple Wasteland's radiation signature made direct communication impossible. Even now, weeks after the fact, the Citadel might not even know Maxson was dead, along with all of his Proctors.

He glanced towards the door, remembering their patient in the cell converted to an ICU. Well, most of his Proctors.

Along with all the Squires aboard. So many Scribes. Dozens of Knights and Paladins. Almost all their Vertibirds. The whole arsenal.

Brandis had attempted to go salvage the wreck. But Boston Airport was Minuteman territory now. He wasn't suicidal...at least, not enough to sell his life stupidly. There would be a time soon when he'd make his death worth it, and he'd finally go into the afterlife to be confronted by his dead comrades.

So funny. Between the recon team and the Prydwen, and now the Remnants, he had a nasty habit lately of outliving his comrades.

Brandis groaned as he shifted, hunting around for the syringe. He wasn't a chem-rocker, never was, but the bandaged bullet wound in his thigh demanded his attention. Stimpacks were in short supply, needed for those who were actually wounded down in the Cambridge PD basement. Medical supplies were scarce, and medical personnel even fewer, falling on just four medics to attend to dozens. But Med-X they had plenty of, and Brandis had been allotted his own supply to allow himself to heal naturally. It still hurt like a bastard, but better than going without.

He decided against shaving today, and the Paladin-Commander stood, checking himself one more time before leaving his office/quarters. The old precinct was a buzz of activity, as the few Scribes they had remaining rushed around attempting to coordinate with Knights and Initiates trying to keep the Remnants a fighting force. Weapons and ammunition were in plentiful supply, at least, and food scavenged from the ruins could keep them fed (though Cram and Blamco weren't the healthiest meal choices) but fusion cores and power armor parts were in desperate supply after the loss of the Prydwen and her maintenance bay. Many of the defenders on the ground in Boston airport, around Goodneighbour and on patrol in the Commonwealth had little more than their weapons, supplies on hand and armor frames, which exacerbated the supply issue when several hundred Brotherhood soldiers were suddenly dumped on the Cambridge PD outpost. The surrounding yards had been turned into overcrowded camps, and the streets of Cambridge a free fire zone all over again, but the Remnants were outnumbered, undersupplied and constantly under siege.

And somehow Brandis was supposed to pick them up out of this mess.

"Paladin-Commander," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to his second in command Knight Penelope Straker. She'd been an Initiate upon first arriving in the Commonwealth, and had even been the one to track Brandis across the torn ruins of upper Boston. With a certain General's help, as it happened. Though Straker never spoke of it anymore, without support from the Minutemen, she'd never have survived the trek alone.

Fate was certainly a fickle mistress.

Brandis nodded back to her wordlessly, and she extended a mug of coffee, dark as her skin. She wore combat armor herself, a full set colored in Brotherhood red and black. Her own T-60 suit was in for what repairs could be done, but the Knight was still one of few who kept hold of their armor.

"Another Ranger party last night. That makes four this week. They're scouting us for sure." She scowled as she stood next to him, watching the beehive activity boiling through the temporary HQ. "Only a matter of time before they drop some more mortar shells on us."

"They haven't yet," Brandis assured her. "For whatever reason. Maybe they're out of shells? So long as they don't, we're still alive."

He automatically brought the mug up to his lips, beginning to take a gulp. But his mind suddenly scream at him that he'd forgotten to check the temperature, and his lip began to scald-

Desdemona brought the mug down with a wince. Much too hot. Must have only just come out of the pot. She coughed, setting the mug down. More than likely, she'd get so busy she'd forget about the mug and it would be cold again by the time she remembered it. Her hand moved straight from the ceramic over to a notebook, which she flipped open, checking a list of names before glancing up at the map. Around her, Railroad agents worked to restore the tower to a more sustainable state. It had never been that hospitable to begin with, but after the Brotherhood attack teams had struck, and in the ensuing evacuation and battle afterwards, the Railroad's center of operations in the Old North Church had been rendered asunder. With further attacks a guarantee and now compromised beyond recovery, the Church had to be abandoned, just like the Switchboard before it. Ticonderoga Safehouse may have been wiped out by the Institute, but the Brotherhood knew nothing about it, and that made it a more suitable center with the Battle of the Boston Commons raging outside Goodneighbor. With the fight over, suggestions had been made to reclaim the Old North Church, or even the Switchboard now that the Institute was gone, but Desdemona had vetoed both suggestions. With Randolph dismantled, their safehouses in the west no longer existed, and Mercer Safehouse up in Kingsport necessitated a secret base here in the east. And everyone knew where the church hideout was now.

Things were changing, fast. With the destruction of the Institute and the Brotherhood reduced to Remnants, synth safety was both more assured and more important than ever. True, the Institute was no longer around, and the Brotherhood no longer actively hunting them, but synths that had escaped from the Institute were even now still turning up on the surface, whether alive or dead. The sad reality was, alone and unaware of the dangers the Commonwealth posed, these synths were at risk to dying horribly in any number of ways. Only those who had learned to hide in the deepest holes of Boston or figured out how to fight quickly had survived, and the Railroad had done their best to find them.

They were as alone in that fight as before. While General Grayson had forbidden violence against synths and ghouls based solely on their nature, individuals were difficult to account for. Reports of violence against synths from regular citizens had risen sharply. Given that many synths wore their Institute jumpsuits, Dez supposed that was an inevitability, but then there were those who wanted revenge against synth infiltrators, synths who had been wiped and living their lives in peace. Railroad agents were attempting to shift those people out and away from potential discovery, which meant finding synths in large population areas. In Diamond City and Goodneighbor, they were all too likely to simply be shot on discovery, whatever the Minutemen said (though sometimes it was the Minutemen doing it) though in Starlight or Sanctuary this wasn't quite the case. Regardless, Dez and her agents were as alone as ever.

"Where are we with the L&L Gang?" she asked, tossing the notepad down to the table in front of her.

"Bullseye is coming back with that," replied Deacon, wearing one of his numerous disguises. This time, he was a Neighborhood Watchman, his pilfered Thompson Century set down next to him. "Big Maude was the target this time, down in Dunwich Borers. Yeesh, I don't envy him that job. That place is damned unsettling."

"Good," said Dez, unconsciously checking the Colt 10mm at her belt. Ever since the Switchboard's fall, she'd been getting worse about her own paranoia. The attack on the Old North Church sealed that, and she'd seen fit to reinforce her clothes with ballistic fibers and find a small, concealed armor vest to wear under her jacket. Three grenades hung on her belt now, and a boot knife had made its way into her jeans. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd finally taken Bullseye's advice or if the Brotherhood had really shaken her up that badly. Hell, she'd even stashed a hunting shotgun under her desk, loaded with incendiary shells.

She moved on to the next order or business, losing track of exactly what she was talking about. She'd been on autopilot since the move, focusing on her work and her agents. Sleep came little, and other distractions few. She needed to keep working. If she had time to herself, time for her mind to wander, it always went wandering down the same tracks. She was still reliving the nightmare of the Switchboard, the slaughter that went down there. Then practically in an eyeblink the Church was gutted by the Brotherhood. If not for Glory's sacrifice and both Bullseye and Deacon's clever thinking, they would have been wiped out long before the Minuteman force had flanked the Brotherhood attack.

"Dez! Tincans coming! Maxson's lost his mind!"

"The escape tunnel's compromised!"

" Knights coming in!"

"They're blowing through the walls!"

"DRUMMER!"

Dez blinked, suddenly realizing she had several agents staring at her, Deacon included. Whatever she was doing, she must have drifted off in the middle of it, her hand still extended, about to point at something. What it was, she couldn't recall. She looked up at Deacon, blinking as realization spread through her. Ticonderoga was quiet, as around the room everyone stared at Desdemona. She grimaced. How obvious had she been lately if this many of her people had been so attentive to her actions?

"Dez?" Deacon's face, normally so laid back or carefully controlled, was etched with worry, more than he'd ever shown. He reached out to her.

"I'm fine," she said harshly, taking a visible step away. Deacon's hand hung in the air for a moment before he put it down, shaking his head.

"No, Dez," he said quietly. "You're really not."

"Are you forgetting something? We have a mission here. Save synth lives. Whether from the Institute, the Brotherhood, the L&L Gang, Diamond City, the Commonwealth or even the Minutemen!" That last one she was a little hesitant about. Upsetting the strongest power in the Commonwealth when the Railroad was ready to collapse seemed like old hat, but Dez wasn't in a logical place at the moment. "Our individual safety comes second to all that. While we're chatting right now, Captain Sally and the L&L Gang are torturing more synths! A paranoid farmer is blasting someone who walks up in an Institute jumpsuit! A Minuteman is looking the other way as a lynch mob hangs whoever they think is a former Institute synth! An escapee on the run is about to wander into Salem and get torn apart by Deathclaws or Mirelurks! It's time you focus on your job and stop worrying about ME!"

Desdemona had always prided herself on her even temperament, though she'd admit it to no one. In sixteen years of service and eleven of those in the Alpha position, she'd handled every situation with direct, calm action. Her days as a field agent had seen her on several assassination jobs, infiltration missions and retrieval operations, and the reason she'd been chosen to replace Pinky Thompson had been her ability to keep her head, no matter the circumstance. But now, it seemed, her legendary temperance had left her.

A jerk at her arm, and she felt herself pulled away, the door slamming open in front of her as she was dragged into what had nominally become 'her office'. She was heavily dropped into her seat, through her curses and protests as she glanced up, fury etched into her face.

"Dammit, Bullseye! What the hell was that, dragging me off like that in front of everyone! You are pushing it, big time!"

"Dez, shut up. Doc Carrington's on his way, you need to calm down."

Bullseye was a Railroad heavy of exceptional skill. Right when General Grayson was taking his hunt for his son to Fort Hagen, Roland Moore was found sniping Institute attack synths from the Old North Church steeple, not even realizing he'd been right on top of the Railroad's HQ. Even with .50 caliber shell casings around his ankles and a Courser dispatched to take him out, neither side had made the realization until Glory had charged out and finished the fight. Extensive interrogation revealed Moore had been escorting a stranger here to the church without even knowing they were a synth. The man was found dead in the next building over, killed by super mutants, and Moore had been forced to hole up as the SRB's attempts to collect their property ran into the marksman. From there, Bullseye had been christened, and quickly racked up a body count to rival Glory's. Though he'd lost an eye during the Brotherhood's raid and been forced to wear a patch over the sickly wound, his aim had barely been spoiled, and he was always willing to put rounds on target for the Railroad, finding a new rival in the mercenary MacCready. On top of this, he'd become Desdemona's top heavy, and would have been the one to spearhead the attack on the Institute if the opening hadn't closed for them. Through this, the two had developed a quiet, professional relationship, almost friends.

Bullseyes glared down at Dez, though she saw no real rage there. Concern, certainly, but maybe a quiet fury that was buried under several layers. No one in the Railroad knew the whole story about each other, and like her Bullseye was a bit of a mystery. Aside from being a rather charitable merc, his motivation for freeing synths was unknown, but he hadn't led the Railroad astray so far. He'd protected the Church, Ticonderoga, Bunker Hill and Mercer with amazing tenacity. Like Desdemona, his own focus and control were razor sharp, and the intensity he had latched on her was extreme.

"Dez, you're coming apart at the seams. You don't sleep, you hardly eat, all you do is smoke, drink coffee and run yourself into the ground. Shit, ever since the Institute's fall all you've done is go harder. You're going. To. Kill yourself."

"I didn't realize you were my mother," she spat back. She didn't know where that all came from. Why was this happening? She had a grip on herself, even under the worst circumstances. But here she was, berating her agents for their concern. That was never something she'd done in other times of crisis.

Bullseye narrowed his...well, eye at her before he turned back to the door, hissing "I'll let Doc Carrington know he's going to have a bit of a struggle here. Don't leave."

And with that, one of her last capable agents stepped out and closed the door behind.

Now she was alone with her thoughts. Exactly what she was afraid of.

Desdemona reached up, rubbing at her temples. It was true she hadn't been sleeping so well, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a full meal. Her mind began racing, and she knew that was also because of dehydration. She had yet to resort to chems like Tinker Tom had, but in Drummer Boy's absence, she'd had to fetch more of her coffee herself. It wasn't something she asked him to do, just something he seemed to automatically know. Well, knew.

Her head slowly raised as she leaned back, pushing her chair back until she could look through her office window, into the main room outside. Her agents were mostly attending their duties as before, but Deacon and Bullseye were off to the side with Doc Carrington, most likely discussing her current state. She felt like a prisoner, or a quarantined patient. But now, calm and separated from the rest of the team, the more she thought about it the more she realized they were right. She had been on edge the past few weeks, losing her sanity through her own self-inflicted trauma. But after losing Sam, and then joining the Railroad and watching her friends getting picked off only to see the majority of her followers slain in two battles, it was the moments where it was quiet and she was alone where the felt the worst, because the cracks under her skin could almost be visible. Like she could shatter with the next impact.

With no work to do and no one to talk to, her eyes drifted (as they were wont to do) towards the wall where no furniture had been placed. In a structure like Ticonderoga where space was a premium, this meant the wall had to be important. And it was. In white paint, the Railroad lantern was drawn at the top, and underneath a list of names scrawled on.

Beatrice Bell. Maven. Miss Boom. Roger. Francis O'Dell. Sly Nicholas. Kelly K. Songbird. Mister Mathers. Tommy Whispers. Snow. Freeman. High Rise. Dutchman. Helena. Blackbird. Drummer Boy. Glory.

That was just the start. Dozens of Railroad agents had died under her watch, all of them written into that list, on that wall. Her hand clenched into a fist against the glass, her head dipping as she felt herself tilting forward, forehead against the cool surface. She was so tired. Tired and alone.

The door to his quarters swung open, and General Grayson stepped out, dressed in Minuteman coat and officer's hat (he had immediately hung up the tricorn, opting for a more appropriate piece of headgear he'd obtained from a Coast Guard station), grunting as he adjusted his armor vest, blue and grey with the Minuteman logo emblazoned across the front. Dogmeat, who had been patiently waiting, perked his head up, tail wagging as he rose for his master.

"Hey boy. Sorry you were out all night again."

Most nights, Dogmeat stayed with Grayson, curled up at the foot of his bed. Some nights, however, Dogmeat ran off on his own agenda, and as a result had a problem getting back in when Grayson was asleep. Though the General had his own suspicions about where his four-legged friend went.

"Have fun with Gracie last night?"

Dogmeat tilted his head to the side, as if feigning innocence. Gracie, the Castle's mutant hound sentry, had made fast friends with the other dogs the Minutemen used. Her kennel was much larger, of course, but she and Dogmeat were the best of companions. Some Minutemen were even beginning to make jokes about what the puppies would look like.

Dogmeat stuck to Grayson's side as the two made their way up through the catacombs. The sound of other troops going about their day filled the fort, and every group of Regulars he passed swiftly stood aside, saluting as they greeted him. Grayson and Dogmeat headed for the surface, quickly passing the chambers that made up the lower portion of the Castle. Barracks, supply rooms, a rec area, a medical wing, the robotics maintenance area. The surface area was only half of the Minuteman HQ's capability.

Grayson felt proud. He embraced it, welcoming anything that lifted his misery. These soldiers had come a long way. But if they were going to complete Grayson's plans, they had a long way to go.

Emerging into the outside, Grayson tugged on the brim of his cap as he squinted against the sunlight. The roar of rotors cut the air as a Vertibird, colored in Minuteman blue, flew past, headed for the airbase on Spectacle Island. Every week, another aircraft was recovered from the wrecks across the Commonwealth, be they Army, Coast Guard or Brotherhood wrecks, and with Sturges and Isabel leading the salvage efforts from the Mechanist's Lair as well as putting together robots and assembling rifles, the Minutemen were becoming a truly modern force. A pair of Minutemen Enforcers, veteran Reglars wearing T-45D powered armor suits, strode by, both of them saluting as they moved, the miniguns they were hauling obviously going towards the armory.

Tents set up in the Castle covered staging zones, briefing areas and equipment tables. Minutemen Regulars taught Militia the finer points of their R-91s, cleaned their weapons and handloaded ammunition, Enforcers maintained their armor in racks, bayonets fixed to weapons and machetes sharpened. Grenadiers were passed explosives, Marksmen fine tuned hunting rifles and laser muskets and up on the ramparts Regulars patrolled in blue and grey armor, eager and waiting for the next attack. But after repelling both the Institute and the Brotherhood, it seemed the Commonwealth had given up on trying to force them from the Castle.

Dogmeat barked, and nearby several figures turned to spy Grayson approaching. While two were recognizable by the navy blue dusters they wore and distinctive headgear marking them as the senior officers of the keep, the other two were a bit harder for the General to place, dressed merely in flannels, jeans and lightweight leather armor. Dogmeat ran up to one of the officers, the woman with the black beret, and she kneeled down, scratching the German Shepard behind his ears. Ronnie always had a soft spot for the dog.

"Morning Colonel," Grayson said to his second in command. To the man, he also shot a nod. "Captain." The ghoul Sanders nodded back, his face blank and stoic as usual. Sanders was a star officer through and through, unflappable and unwavering. He'd been leader of the Slog's militia, and joined up when Brotherhood extortions on surrounding farms had forced Wiseman to act. The result had not been pretty. Sanders had been a diehard Minuteman ever since. His current assignment to the Castle's QRF had been a smart move, as he had taken every call and won, leading his Regulars from the front, no matter the enemy. Ronnie was proud of her first officer.

Grayson turned to the two strangers, wondering for a moment if they were civilian merchants, salesmen who were here looking to supply the Castle. While that had been a prospect the Minutemen had survived on before, these days the contributions from other settlements meant their purchases were fewer and far between. Arms and ammunition, uniforms, food and high tech parts were supplied by the Minutemen Provisioner Corps. Still, a little economic stimulation to pad the armory was never a bad thing.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I…" he trailed off, allowing the two men their chance to introduce themselves.

"Right. Commander Bailey, Far Harbor Militia," said the senior, his beard obscuring most of his face. Still, he reached his hand out, and Grayson shook it, noting the man's tight grasp and numerous callouses even under the gloves. "Good to meet you General. Captain Avery sends her regards."

Far Harbor was an allied port, an island several days travel to the north, only accessible by boat for the moment. New Hampshire was so overgrown, Grayson suspected they might have to employ jungle warfare to deal with whatever creatures might reside there. He'd been in Africa before the War, and suspected this might be even worse. Regardless, Far Harbor had seen rough times lately, and that had produced fighters so tough and proficient with fishing boats that they could almost be counted as marines. They'd turned down membership in the Minutemen, but Captain Avery had promised that should the Commonwealth need help, their friends in the north would be willing to come to the rescue.

Bailey thumbed over to the man next to him, rather emotionless and blank even compared to Sanders.

"This is Marston, from Acadia. No formal rank, so far as I'm aware."

Marston simply tilted his head downwards, his eyes never leaving Grayson.

Ronnie stood, giving Dogmeat one last scratch before she said "These two have come from Captain Avery looking to request some help back on the Island. Normally we don't deploy that far afield, but I wanted to leave it to you, sir."

And, of course, she waited until Grayson had come out instead of sending a runner. More evidence of the General's fragility. The normally tough and ass-chewing Colonel Shaw was being, of all things, discreet. That never spelled well. On top of that, the Harbormen were proud of their self-sufficiency, and the Acadians of their isolation. What happened that made them both decide they needed the Minutemen of all people, and asking together?

But Grayson merely nodded, gesturing to a door to take them off towards Shaw's quarters, also their high-security briefing room. "Shall we take this in the ready room, Colonel?"

The group began drifting towards the door, but when Sanders stepped forward, Greyson paused, spotting something that had been behind the ghoul officer. His hands fell to his side, the cigarette pack he'd been fishing out of a pocket forgotten. He remembered the memorial was there, of course. But for a few minutes, he'd almost missed it in the interest of attempting to carry on. But today, of all days, his thoughts had haunted him especially hard, and as a result the sight carried him forward, away from the departing group. Colonel Shaw glanced back, taking a double take before cursing under her breath.

His boots crunched in the dirt as he approached the wall. Regulars moved out of his way as he stepped around the radio station, and the closer he got the more Minutemen stared after him, realizing where he was going. There was one span of wall without a tent. Along the north, by the large main gate and towards the armory, there was a piece of cleared ground, the wall there specially reserved. The stone was carefully carved, and every Minuteman both respected and dreaded it. At the top, a painted sign read 'FOR THOSE THAT FELL FOR FREEDOM'. The General stepped forward, sighing as he read the wall, like he had dozens of times already. Dogmeat sat next to him, whimpering as he did.

Grayson knew them all. Whether he met them or not, or saw how they died or not, he had looked into them after they had been killed. Where they came from, who their friends were, how they had died. They were his soldiers, and he was their General. While in war men and women died, in the Commonwealth every day was war for the Minutemen. There was always more to be done here for them.

Private Harold Warburton. Killed by a Courser during the 2nd Battle of the Castle where the Institute was determined to wipe the Minutemen off the map, shortly after Grayson had rejected Father following Bunker Hill. The man had taken up a mounted .50 cal and had been laying down fire to allow a team of Minutemen to withdraw from the outer trenches when a stealthed Courser had simply stepped up, put a pistol to the man's head and pulled the trigger.

Lieutenant Jessica Sanders. Killed by Gunners defending the ghoul boy named Billy. The best tactical officer in the Castle QRF, and the most capable medic the Minutemen had under Curie. She'd always lended a helping hand in the medical ward, and had the highest recovery rate of all Minuteman medics in service, even to this day.

Sergeant Matthew McGill. Killed detonating a frag grenade in his hand while wounded, surrounded by security synths in the depths of the Institute. Cut off and alone with his comrades dead around him, he'd squirreled away and let the enemy come to him before he finished them, laughing loudly.

Captain Luis Rivera. The first junior officer Preston Garvey had promoted, one of Marberry's lot who had survived Quincy after all and originally gone into hiding after the fact, but emerged to reenlist. Killed during the Battle of Boston Commons defending Goodneighbor next to the Neighborhood Watch as the Brotherhood invaded.

Wiseman. Not truly a Minuteman, but he'd backed the group, and sheltered every soldier who came to his dangerous part of the Commonwealth. Stood his ground against the Brotherhood when they came calling for part of his harvest, and had the guts to say 'no' to a Knight with a laser rifle in his face. Died with defiance on his lips.

Colonel John Marbury. Thought dead during Quincy, returned to service once more. He'd been given command of Croup Manor, Minuteman Command East. From there, Marbury's men had struck against the Brotherhood time and time again, and had been the ones to hold back the tide of high-tech soldiers in the Boston Commons. When Maxson retaliated, he did so in Croup Manor. Casualties had been heavy, but the Minutemen had escaped with more wounded than dead, and Colonel Marbury alone had remained. When Brotherhood Knights kicked in his door, he had merely smoked a cigar, taken a drink and thumbed the detonator, exploding the munitions dump in the basement. The entire building had been levelled, taking every Brotherhood soldier attacking the Manor and several Vertibirds with it. A victory for the Brotherhood, but a pyrrhic one that robbed Maxson of vital defenders and equipment.

The wall had dozens. More. At last count, even since Grayson had become General, over two-hundred and fifty Minutemen had given their lives for the Commonwealth, the fighters at Quincy included. Two-hundred and fifty he'd failed, both Regulars and Militia, in less than two years. He reached out, his fingers running over the engraved stone, feeling the grooves under his fingertips. At the base of the wall, boots, hats, folded coats, jars with flowers in them, spent shell casings, dogtags, folded Minuteman flags, small mementos (such as cameras, holotape players, pictures in frames) and more. This wall was constantly visited, and carefully maintained. A cloth overhang protected the place from the rain, stretched over a large portion of wall, a practical move considering the Minutemen were expecting many more conflicts in the future. How many more would fill the wall? At this rate, hundreds. The span was too short for thousands, but perhaps the Memorial would be continued downstairs, or in a special record?

He still remembered the attack on the Institute, swamping into the clean facility over the blood of his fallen, chunks and parts discarded like simply meat. Lasers blasted away whole pieces and limbs, and could be arguably worse than bullets. Trying to clear the SRB had been the worst, with Coursers attacking in goddamn teams.

The Battle of Boston Commons. Backed by the Railroad, Minutemen forces had enacted a fighting retreat to Goodneighbor, where Hancock had led his Neighborhood Watch to dig in for a terrifying defense without artillery, while the guns were reoriented on the Prydwen. According to radio reports on the ground, entire buildings had disappeared under laser fire, and without Goodneighbor to act as a stronghold, the entire defending force would have been wiped out. Minuteman missile teams, flamer-bearing Grenadiers, sentry bots and Engineers with precision detonated shaped charges had blunted, slowed and finally halted the Brotherhood force long enough to allow the Castle to strike the killing blow on the Brotherhood airship.

Storming Fort Hagen with Ada, taking the fight to the Rust Devils. In that tight, winding hell of battling raiders and their robots, flames everywhere and empty, automated voices and deadly defenses. General Grayson had personally charged the Devils' leader Ivy, blasting the furion core out of her armor and shoving her over the rail into the bowels of that base to die trapped in her frame. Men and women had died on that raid, and more would die to the Mechanist's own robotic hordes, even with the looming threat of the Institute and Brotherhood looking over them.

It was just battle after battle, war after war. The Minutemen didn't do graves, they normally cremated their dead to save space, effort and preserve memories, but when Grayson stared up at this wall, he saw a mountain of skulls, with himself standing atop it and the Minuteman flag flying overhead. Was this what he'd introduced to the Commonwealth? Not a potential stable future in attempting a second Commonwealth Provisional Government, but endless conflict, where more men and women died to fight those whom he made enemies with?

Had he made things worse than before?

He didn't feel when his fist met the stone. Didn't remember raising it. Didn't remember the conscious decision to slam it beside the names. But he heard the impact. Heard the draw of breath as assembled Minutemen drew in a sharp breath. He felt his breath quicken, his heart pound harder, a cold sweat under the brim of his cap. What kind of man was he? How could he hold his head high after so many had died under his command with seemingly no end in sight?

He thought of Shaun, coming back to the Castle after spending some time in Diamond City with Piper and Nat, all so he could go to school. The boy looked up to his...father. Admired everything he did. He was -proud- to be the General's son. He wanted to follow in Hal's footsteps.

Piper, who looked up to him as one of the few people she could trust again.

Cait, who thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to her.

Preston Garvey, who saw Hal Grayson as the saviour of the Commonwealth.

MacCready may roll his eyes, but the fact he served the Minuteman for barely subsistance level pay spoke volumes of the respect he held for Hal.

Hancock had come to their aide without question, where he could have simply barred his gates and told the Minutemen to take a hike.

Deacon and the Railroad had been saved twice by the Minutemen, and Desdemona had thanked him personally.

Curie hung on Hal's every word, and looked at Boston with such open eyes...in her own words, the Minutemen were the best chance for civilization.

Strong may have been a super mutant, but the fact that 'humans help humans' meant he was more than willing to help Hal Grayson with little question spoke volumes.

Nick had called Hal 'the next Douglas MacArthur. We need a guy like that again.' Hal had offered to come work privately with him, but Valentine had held up a hand, stating the Commonwealth needed him more.

Old Man Longfellow wanted the Minutemen to come to Far Harbor. To protect them. To nurture them, and reconnect the Island to the outside world.

And Codsworth, of course, still happily served from Home Plate, keeping track of the home Hal had set up, happy to look after a family again, odd as it was.

He looked down to Dogmeat, who simply wagged his tail and barked. That was Dogmeat. Always happy as long as he came along.

He looked to his assembled Minutemen, his officers, his soldiers. Combat armor and assault rifles, power armor and miniguns, mortars and flying flags. And they all looked back to him with concern, respect, and the eagerness to serve that had seen them through two impossible wars already. They had won. Yes, they'd taken losses. But they had won where everyone had written the Commonwealth Minutemen off.

Colonel Shaw cleared her throat, stepping forward with her arms crossed over her chest, carefully asking "You okay, General?"

A pause. There were dozens of Minutemen here, Regulars and Militia. For a second, the air was still, with only the distant tones of the radio, the indistinct whirring of helicopters and the underground rattling of generators. But he also heard the sea, and while there would undoubtedly be gunfire in the distance, there was more than ever before. Because from the outpost in Hangman's Alley to the isolated Tenpines Bluff and surrounding frontier, Minutemen stood to repel men, monsters and machines.

And General Grayson felt that spark to reignite his drive since he first took the Castle, that unerring burn to wipe the Institute off the map.

"These men and women have died for us. They have paid the ultimate sacrifice. But they did it on their own desire, for a dream they realized could happen, despite the odds. Some of these soldiers have stayed with us since the beginning, when Colonel Garvey and I first started recruiting. And some only joined on when armageddon was knocking at the door. But they all took up a rifle, formed the line and marched for the safety of their family and friends. For a safer Boston. Because every fight we win, is one less day where a farmer worries about being murdered. Every monster we put down is another trade caravan capable of getting through the ruins. Every raider gang we annihilate is another town that can grow in peace." He raised his fist, the same fist that had pounded into the wall (though now he felt the throbbing in his knuckles and winced) and uttered three simple words. "For the Commonwealth!"

As one, the assembled troops raised their own fists, guns, machetes, and returned in an overwhelming chorus "FOR THE COMMONWEALTH!"

General Hal Grayson had finally found that thing he'd been searching for since he'd ordered the Prydwen shot down; a purpose to keep fighting for.

Paladin Brandis stood before the wall of photos, dogtags and scrawled notes. It was all they had left here, to mark the passage of the dead. So many more lay in unmarked graves, piles of burned and blackened bones or buried under structures. The coffee mug hung limply, empty in his hand as he considered how many they'd lost. How few were left. The noise of the Remnants command post fell away as the numb sensation settled in his body. The Brotherhood was hanging on, barely. But it was only a matter of time before they were finally forced out. They lost many to desertion, Brotherhood soldiers who saw no way out, corralled into a helpless situation. They lost some to sickness and injury, as medical supplies were definitely running out. They lost some to ambush, snipers, encountering bands of Minutemen and Gunners, deathclaws and mirelurks. They were a depleted force with a handful of vertibirds and were slowly being killed as they tried to hold out. Brandis was hoping to change that, but it might not be a possibility.

"Sir," Straker said as she appeared at his shoulder. He didn't even glance at the Knight, eyes narrowed upon the photo of Elder Maxson, set center of the board.

"Knight," he replied, shifting in his jumpsuit uncomfortably.

"Report from Somerville. The farmer and his family agreed to move on." Knowing Straker, Brandis could imagine how the farmers had been 'convinced' to give up their home near the Glowing Sea. But, it being so close and cut off by a river, several raider hideouts, a Super Mutant fortress and a few mirelurk nests, it could be the best place to escape from Minutemen guns. The nearest settlement, Egret Marina, had no artillery the scouts had seen, relying instead on the guns from Jamaica Plain. While that could potentially change, it would buy time for them to dig in.

"Sunshine Tidings, also. Definitely a Minuteman place, but there's been a continuing rise in raider -customers- if you believe that. They come in and shop at the stands, drink at the bar, buy food...shit's getting weird over there. Some strange guys showed up a few days ago, said something about Nuka-World. Nothing else on that angle."

Brandis grunted. Sunshine Tidings was always going to be a bust, but better to get some knowledge on what was happening there before they tried their mad dash south. So long as those raiders and mercenaries didn't interfere, he didn't care anymore. His dedication to protecting Commonwealth citizens ended when the Minutemen bombed the airport.

Straker cleared her throat, quietly continuing "And one more thing, sir...Proctor Ingram has awoken."

Now -that- got Brandis' attention.

(Parting Shot: hello everyone, and welcome to my new project, Cold Comfort Commonwealth. In it, I explore the idea of what could potentially be. We all know how things take place, how it all leads up and all the choices and dialogue that can be done. So instead, I will be using this project to explore the idea of what takes place in between. All those random adventures and plot holes the game and other stories don't seriously cover. What was the General's first winter like? Who pulls off the missions for the Brotherhood if you don't do them yourself? Why didn't the Railroad come under attack -after- the Institute's defeat anyway? And what happens in the aftermath with Nuka-World becoming interested in the Commonwealth?

Also, if you beautiful people have suggestions or ideas, please feel free to submit them with your reviews and criticism! I take it all into account with my original ideas when I write, so don't be afraid to submit what's on your mind, and should this document receive enough popularity, I'll continue the project!

Hope to see you all on the flipside, wasters! And remember; keep your stimpacks close, those radscorpions far and your guns loaded!)