The peace couldn't last, naturally.
Blue had to make a decision about the Institute. About the war.
She got her reluctant chance when Father sent her to reclaim some more rogue synths; not so different from the last mission, except this time the Railroad and the Brotherhood had known they were coming. Bunker Hill quickly went from a trading post and a sanctuary to a battleground once again; steeped in chaos and blood.
They arrived at the gates with the Courser Father had sent along, X4-19. He was even colder and less likeable than X6-88, if such a thing were possible. He pretended to defer to Blue's judgment, but the tone of his voice when he spoke made it clear that they had no choice but to execute the mission for the Institute.
Or, almost no choice.
Piper jumped in shock when Blue's rifle fired once, the sound lost among a hundred other gunshots from the hill just behind them, and X4-19 slumped to the ground, dead.
A startled silence followed the vault dweller's sudden betrayal.
Piper's eyes flickered back and forth between her companion and the fallen synth, struggling to wrap her head around what had just happened. Blue had just shot their escort! Their Institute escort! "Blue, are you—are you sure about this?" she hissed out between her teeth. When Blue only stared down at the body, face deathly pale, Piper sidled in front of her to draw her attention. The fear and shock in her expression were apparently enough to make Blue look doubtful for a second.
Then, "Yes," the vault dweller told her, rough but firm.
Piper's heart was speeding up rapidly. She knew they'd talked about this before; that Blue had promised, way back in the yellow house at Sanctuary, that she'd turn on the Institute if she had to, but—
Now, it was real. And now she was frightened. "You won't be able to go back to the Institute," she reminded a little frantically, and wondered why Blue looked infinitely calmer than she felt. "You won't be able to see Shaun." She hadn't really expected Blue to go through with this. Not when her son was at stake. Not when Piper was just…Piper.
Blue looked away. "I lost Shaun sixty years ago in Vault 111."
"Tuesday…" Even though it was too late—even though this was what Piper wanted, deep down—she couldn't help but feel like somehow it was a mistake.
But when Blue raised her head again and met Piper's eyes, her gray ones were hard as steel. "The Institute may not be the monster in the closet that everyone on the surface thinks they are," she said, unwavering. "But they're still wrong. They don't care about anyone but themselves." She spread her hand to indicate the bloodbath taking place all over Bunker Hill. People on all sides of the war were dying; felled by bullets that could have come from friend just as well as foe. Whole ranks of warriors were running into the hailstorm in defense of their cause, and for what? "All this for a few synths. And so many other scenes just like it," Blue lamented. She turned away from the sight like it physically hurt, then drew a deep, shaky breath. Her next words were aimed at the ground. "When I first arrived there, I met a synth version of Shaun as a boy. He—the real Shaun—wanted me to see it." Her voice seemed to shrink. "He wanted to see how I would react."
Piper was horrified. She was not, however, very surprised. "Like some…some sick experiment?" she demanded, her previous fears slipping away to be replaced by anger. Every time she thought the Institute might deserve an inkling of respect or consideration, they did something awful and fucked it all up again. And this time Blue was part of the collateral damage. She found her eyes dropping to X4's crumpled form and felt the sudden urge to kick it. Or shoot it again, just for good measure. Maybe a few times.
"That's what everything is to them," Blue said hollowly, pulling Piper out of her violent fantasies. Her dry swallow was audible. "So yes, I'm sure. I never want to help them again."
Piper didn't have the words to express the mingled sympathy and rage that was bubbling in her chest at that moment. All she could think to do was place a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at comfort, and Blue instantly covered it with her own and squeezed.
"Let's go save some synths, then."
…
Tuesday couldn't go back to the Institute after that, obviously. She'd known what she was doing, and she was far from regretful of her decision, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt to burn away the resulting loose ends.
The lightning-strike of Shaun's—Father's—relay back to the Institute was a jarring crack, and afterward all was still.
Tuesday fell to her knees in the wake of all she'd lost.
"Everything I've done since I left the vault…everything I went through to find Shaun and get him back…" Tuesday spread her hands limply between her knees and stared at them. "All to just end up like this."
It barely registered when Piper came to kneel beside her and placed a comforting hand on her back. The clouds roiled and the wind whistled, but it all seemed miles away.
The reporter was rarely at a loss for words, but right now it took her a long moment to find any. "I can't imagine how you're feeling," she eventually began, haltingly. There was an uncertain rasp to her voice. "…but it wasn't all for nothing. You've helped a lot of people, Blue, and Shaun or no Shaun, that's worth something." Her hand slid to Tuesday's far shoulder so that her arm was wrapped around her.
Tuesday leaned into her unconsciously. "I know," she replied, but it didn't sound altogether convinced. Probably because she wasn't. She had helped people, sure, but it didn't make much of a difference in the long term. There were always more raiders; always more mutants; always more disasters ready to strike. There was always going to be evil in the world and one mortal person was never going to be strong enough to stop it all. She had taken solace in the fact that her own life was one she could change—by avenging her husband and finding her son—but now that she'd done that, she realized that in the end even that was a lie. She was powerless and meaningless and everything she did was simply an attempt to put off her sad fate for a meager increment longer.
Tuesday didn't realize there were tears escaping her eyes until Piper shuffled around to face her and wipe them away with a tender thumb, murmuring, "Oh, Blue, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The gentle attention only served to break down the last of Tuesday's tenuous hold on composure, and the vault dweller—widow—childless mother—dissolved into Piper's arms in a fit of sobs.
The reporter held her firmly, running soothing hands up and down her back, paying no attention to the damp spot growing on her shoulder. She was a safe haven in the forbidding storm of Tuesday's life and of the Commonwealth in general. She was rock-solid, dependable, accountable, and just about the only good thing Tuesday had found since getting chewed up and spit out into the hollow shell of her old, familiar world. Tuesday leaned into her, trying to soak up the feeling of steadiness that Piper always seemed to exude, and Piper tightened her tender grip.
Then, at a break in Tuesday's tears, the reporter pulled back just enough to slide her cap off and press her forehead to the other woman's. Her hands relocated to the vault dweller's cheeks, and she ran scuffed thumbs over Tuesday's cheekbones. "You know, Blue," she said, sounding like she was fighting off a waver in her own voice, "if you can't find any other reason to go on, do it for me." Tuesday's hands came up and seized Piper's wrists in a sudden surge of emotion, but the vault dweller didn't interrupt as Piper went on: "If the Commonwealth isn't enough; if the Minutemen or the Railroad or whoever the hell else wants your help isn't enough, be strong for me. Because I—I love you for you, and I'm not going anywhere."
The breath came out of Tuesday in a shudder. She fell forward to give Piper a tender, grateful, meaningful kiss to express all the things she couldn't say before slumping back into her unwavering embrace.
And, it hurt like hell right now—hell, it hurt worse than hell right now—but here in Piper's arms on a roof that overlooked the world, Tuesday could see a glimmer of hope on the horizon. A passing glimpse of the certainty that she could go on without Shaun, her driving purpose for as long as she'd walked this bomb-scorched earth. She could find strength in other things: a cause, a mission, a person. Piper.
She could rise from the ashes of all that was left of her old life and focus her eyes on a new one. Better yet, she could fight for it, and if that's what it took to scare away the demons of her past, then she would fight all the harder for it.
She was a survivor, and she was going to do just that.
…
It was in Cambridge Church waiting for Old Man Stockton and the synth refugee that Tuesday realized something unexpected of her companion. While they waited, lounging in the bluish moonlight, alert for any sign of their contact, Piper sat in one of the dusty old pews and…prayed.
Tuesday watched her silently for a while, feeling an odd blend of fondness and sorrow and resignation fill her chest as Piper's lips moved soundlessly in the dark.
It was simple curiosity that prompted her to move after almost an hour of silence. Carefully, so as not to startle her companion, Tuesday rounded the pew and knelt down in front of her. "Who are you praying to?" she asked quietly, careful to keep any hint of judgment out of her tone.
Piper lowered her clasped hands to bring her face into view. When she regarded the vault dweller, there was somehow a mixture of hope and hopelessness in her eyes at once. And…the sheen of tears? "I don't know," she admitted softly. For some reason it felt appropriate to whisper here, even though certainly God's presence had been bombed out of this place a long time ago. "God, if he's still listening. And if he's not…" Piper lifted one shoulder in a shrug and dropped her eyes. "…then someone who is."
Tuesday, though she disagreed with her sentiment, couldn't blame her. Once, the vault dweller herself had been a woman of faith. Before the bombs. Before the cryo-pods. Before Kellogg, and Shaun, and what the Commonwealth had become, and all the death and destruction and despair that was a simple fact of her life now. She'd once believed in God, but she figured he must be long gone now. There was no way for faith to survive alongside the horror of this existence.
And yet, Tuesday understood Piper's desire for hope; for truth in the belief that there was an all-powerful good and that it would win, somehow. It was something to hold onto. It was something to fight for. It was something to live for.
So, if just to preserve that hope, she didn't say anything contrary. She simply reached out and laid a hand on Piper's knee and squeezed.
And murmured, "Send up one for me, too, then."
…