Tuesday wished morning could have brought with it the same feeling of peace as last night. But, as was typical of the cutthroat Commonwealth they lived in, the new day just brought new challenges her way.

She'd barely set foot outside their new house when Preston intercepted her on the way to grab breakfast.

"General," he greeted with an incline of his head, sounding like he regretted bringing her bad news so early in the morning. His knuckles were pale around the barrel of his ever-present laser rifle, betraying his apprehension. He must have been waiting for her for a while. "Hostiles have been spotted scouting the area around the Castle."

Tuesday invited him to walk beside her with a gesture, figuring he might be interested in some food too. "The Institute again?" she guessed, trying to suppress a sigh, too late.

"Yes, ma'am," the Minuteman affirmed with just as much regret, falling into step with her.

Tuesday grunted. She made it to the corner of the yellow house, where Marcy Long hunched over a pot on the cookfire. She leaned over it perfunctorily; smelled like radstag. She idly went about securing a bowl while she mulled over the news. On the one hand, they had been able to hold back the Institute the first time they had raided the Castle, shortly after the Minutemen had finished repairing the walls and stocking them with armaments (thank God). On the other, it was a fight that almost cost them their lives. "I'd rather not take another hit to HQ so soon after the last one," she admitted after a moment, passing Preston the filled bowl and reaching for another.

He accepted it, but didn't move to eat just yet. His dark eyes were locked on Tuesday's face, his jaw hard. "What are you implying, General?" he asked, though they both knew that he was fully aware what she was implying.

She met his gaze just as grimly. "It's time to take the fight to the Institute. We need to end this before anyone else gets hurt."

"You think we're ready?" Preston's concern was evident in the slant of his brows; the doubt in his words.

"I think we've run out of time," Tuesday confessed. It was far from a yes, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. They had discussed the possibility before, and they had the bones of a plan. All that was left was executing it. Of course, that was much easier said than done. "I'll get in there, and I'll get that relay working," she recapped. "Then it's on."

Preston's face had never looked graver, but he gave her an affirming nod. "Understood. I'll muster our forces and prepare for your signal."

Tuesday returned the gesture, feeling about as confident as he looked—that is to say, not very. The end of the conversation only succeeded in settling another layer of tension onto her shoulders rather than relieving it. Facing the Institute… They had talked about it; dreamed about it; plotted about it for so long, but now it was becoming a reality. They were nearing the end, whatever that may mean for the Commonwealth. For them as residents of it. Even now, Tuesday felt torn. Shaun was at the Institute. They had parted on no uncertain terms, but that didn't mean she didn't still feel some lack of closure at the fact that it was her son she was working against.

But she had other people to take care of now. Piper, and Nat, and Preston, and the Minutemen, not to mention all the settlers who were depending on them to make the Commonwealth as safe as they possibly could, which by definition included neutralizing the monster in the closet who had threatened them with kidnapping and murder for all this time. The simple truth was that if the Institute wouldn't change their ways, they had to go, and Tuesday and her forces were the only ones who could stop them. It wasn't a very comforting thought. And just when she had only recently fought her way out of a different deathtrap a ways west of here. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she supposed.

That thought drew her gaze down to the bowl of stew resting in her hands, still lightly steaming. She didn't feel very hungry anymore.

…

They'd made it into the Institute. An army of synths lay broken behind them, and an army more stood ahead. Tuesday pressed on with her Minutemen at her back.

"So this is what it looks like," Preston mused as they stepped through the next opening into the Bioscience wing.

Tuesday paused to turn to her fighters. She'd forgotten that they hadn't seen all this before like she had. Their dusty, tattered earth-toned clothes stood out against the sleek, whitewashed walls in stark contrast, echoing the dichotomy between the Commonwealth and the Institute. It made her angry to see how the organization had simply holed up down here and hoarded valuable knowledge and supplies to themselves instead of helping anyone else; how their plan to save humanity had simply consisted of wiping out all opposition and then scaring the rest into compliance. Based on the looks on the other Minutemen's faces, they were thinking along the same lines.

"Really makes you want to blow them up just for being so arrogant, huh?" Piper hit the nail on the head as usual. Her lips were set in a thin line, and she was fingering her pistol like she just couldn't wait to destroy the ghost that had haunted her—had haunted all of them—for so long.

"That's the plan," replied Tuesday grimly. Her eyes met Piper's, and a sober look passed between them. Where there was usually so much warmth behind that hazel gaze, it was now as cold as stone. And Tuesday completely understood.

They pushed on toward the reactor.

…

The bomb was planted. The civilians were evacuated. Virgil's serum was in her hands. The Institute was set to be destroyed. All that was left to do was get the hell out of here.

Except, when Preston gave the order, Sturges responded with an uncertain noise instead of an affirmative. "I would, sir, but uh…this kid showed up." His voice was cautious. "He claims he's the General's son."

Oh no. Please, God, no, Tuesday begged internally, knowing—fearing just what Sturges meant, even before she turned stiffly, almost mechanically, toward the control room and saw that her prayer was denied.

There, standing in front of the control board where Sturges was this close to executing their escape, was Shaun. Institute Shaun. Ten-year-old synth Shaun.

This was not what she needed right now.

"Oh, God, Blue," Piper breathed in horror, knowing exactly what was going on from the story Tuesday had told her. Her hand curled steadyingly around the armor frame on the taller woman's elbow.

Tuesday hardly noticed. She was staring at the synth, her ears beginning to ring as mingled anger and panic swelled in her chest. "How did he get in here?" was the first question that whipped out of her mouth.

"Ran in from the main compound during all the commotion, General," Sturges provided. He had the good sense to look guilty when he noticed the pallor in Tuesday's cheeks. "He said he knows you so I let him in."

She could feel the curious gazes of all the Minutemen turn to her at once and nearly snapped under the pressure.

"Mom! Don't leave me here! I want to go with you," the synth cried out as if on cue, and that was the last straw.

"I am not your mother!" Tuesday roared, lashing out at the nearest wall to release some of her fury in a way that wouldn't hurt anyone. The metal dented under the force of her power armor, and the Minutemen jumped. Even Piper took a startled step back. That just made Tuesday feel worse. "You're a robot designed to look like my real son just to torture me!" Her voice broke on the last phrase and she was too distraught to care.

How dare Shaun do this? How dare he treat her whole life as a bloody science experiment, and then expect her to join his side? How dare he have the audacity to blame her for the fate of the Institute when he was the one who built it into a shady, sinister force of discord in the Commonwealth? How dare he deprive her of the family she'd spent so long searching for, only to force this mockery of a replacement on her instead?

Was she supposed to rescue this fake and raise him as her own now? Was she supposed to recover all the years she'd lost by living out a lie? Was she supposed to love this not-Shaun like the son she'd never known?

"H-how can you say that? I know you're my mother!" not-Shaun whined, just to twist the knife. She supposed he was designed to sound like her son, too. What a cruel joke.

"Sturges," she said, startling the engineer out of his rapt stupor, "fire this thing up."

Several voices protested at once. "You're just going to leave me here? I hate you!" not-Shaun shouted, like that was supposed to change her mind. At the same time, Sturges stammered out, "N-now General, you're not really going to leave this kid here, to—to burn?" and Piper said in gentle contrast to the clamor, "Blue."

Tuesday turned to Piper, because she couldn't stand to face the other voices. What the hell would she do without Piper?

The reporter reached up from tiptoe to cradle Tuesday's face in both hands through the ruins of her busted helmet. "I know you're angry and hurt and confused," she began earnestly, hoarsely, and the vault dweller couldn't argue, "but Shaun or not; synth or not, that's a kid over there." When Tuesday dropped her eyes in shame, Piper ran a thumb along her cheekbone soothingly. "You don't have to raise him, but at least give him a chance. Okay?"

Her words made sense. Of course they did. She was right, and normally Tuesday would have agreed wholeheartedly. She was familiar enough with synths like Nick and Glory to believe that they were more than human enough to deserve a chance at a normal life. She knew that she should have felt the same about the boy standing in front of her, but she was still reluctant, still bitter, as she nodded stiffly and raised red-rimmed eyes to Sturges.

"Relay him out. Put him someplace I won't have to see him," she said hollowly.

The few grunts and murmurs that rose from the Minutemen around her were almost enough to make her lose her head again. Were they really going to judge her for this? Who the hell were they to do so? They didn't have a clue what was going on. All they knew how to do was point and shoot.

Piper's hand sliding into hers brought her back down again. She remembered that she was still supposed to be giving orders; that they were still in enemy territory, and continued, "As for the rest of us, let's get to a safe distance and then send this place sky high."

"You heard the General," Preston backed her up when the other Minutemen were slow to respond. "Into the relay room."

And into the relay room they went.

Shaun was the first to go, and Tuesday found that she didn't even care where Sturges sent him. Next went Preston, then Piper, and then Tuesday herself felt the disorienting tug in her middle and saw the flash of light that meant it was her turn.

She rematerialized on the roof of the Mass Fusion building. The detonator that would end the world all over again sat on a crate against the railing in front of her. She eyed it warily as the rest of the Minutemen appeared at her back.

"Sturges figured that this was a safe distance outside the blast radius," Preston explained their position as he approached the railing on her right. Then he inclined his head toward the detonator. "Whenever you want to see 'humanity's best hope for the future' go up in smoke, just hit that button."

Though he obviously meant the title as a joke, it shot Tuesday through with an unexpected rush of guilt. Without all the subterfuge; the conniving; the kidnapping; the fearmongering, the Institute might really have been the beacon of hope that they cracked themselves up to be. They possessed technology no faction here on the surface could have imagined. They had access to clean, healthy food and water, and they lived a life of comfort arguably better than even prewar existence. They could have truly helped people, if they'd ever chosen to see them as more than a threat at worst and an intriguing experiment at best. It they'd chosen to open themselves up to the world as an ally instead of looming as a monster in the closet. But they were just too far removed from any moral objectivity to even consider that as an option. They believed there was no hope for the outside world; that trying was a waste.

That was her biggest regret about Shaun—the real Shaun, whom she'd had a chance to know and love but could not sacrifice her conscience to do it. She still felt that maybe if she'd tried harder to explain the value of this world to him—the value of the people within it, like Piper and Preston—maybe he could have understood. Maybe he would have listened, and maybe this destructive end would never have been necessary. Or maybe, had Tuesday been willing to stick with his plans longer, she would have gained enough sway in the Institute to convince them herself.

But, she supposed, it was useless to dwell on 'what if's. All she could do was make the choices that she thought were best, and that had landed her here. Their last remaining option was the nuclear option.

So, at Preston's prompt of, "General?" she waited no longer. She reached out to the detonator, flipped the cover and pressed the button before she had a chance to hesitate.

The end of the Institute looked hauntingly like the end of her world two hundred years ago.

She closed her eyes against the sight of the blazing mushroom cloud.

…

Piper felt nothing but overwhelming, transcendent relief upon watching the Institute go up in flames. She wanted to laugh aloud, but thought that might come across a little coarse. Instead she just stammered out her awe as best she could. "I—I can't believe it. They're gone. The Institute's gone." Saying it didn't make it feel any more real, but there was the billowing smoke and the sinkhole, right there. All the fears of her twenty-four years scattered to the wind before her eyes. She felt torn between cheering and throwing up on the spot. She turned to Blue, virtually vibrating with excitement. "Do you know what this means?"

"I have an inkling," Blue replied somewhat distantly.

But Piper was on a roll. Why shouldn't she be? They were free. "No more kidnappings. No more sleepless nights, terrified your neighbor is plotting against you. No more fear." She felt breathless, like she'd either just been punched in the gut or had too much Nuka-Cola. "Thanks to you, we don't have to be afraid anymore."

Blue shook her head slightly. "There's still plenty to be afraid of out there," she lamented, voice raspy, almost absent.

Piper furrowed her brows. "Well, yeah." Blue hadn't been around long enough to build the same fearful history with the Institute that everyone else had, but she'd expected her to at least be happy that they'd won. They'd made the choice to protect the people of the Commonwealth, like they always did. Sacrifices aside, that was something, wasn't it? "But you took care of the big one."

Blue didn't respond, and Piper spent the silence watching her, joy fading away to be replaced by worry. It was a sight to behold: her vault dweller standing at the edge of the roof, silhouetted against the sky darkened by the ashes of the Institute. She looked thin, pale, gaunt—almost frail in the wake of the literally earthshaking decision she'd just made. She looked like the burden of the whole world was pressing down on her shoulders, and in a way, Piper supposed it was. She looked alone, and Piper wanted to fix that. She stepped forward to close the distance between herself and her companion, watching Blue's face for any sign as to what she needed. When the vault dweller didn't even look at her, her eyes locked on the massive smoking sinkhole where the Institute had just been, Piper reached out to touch her arm gently. Blue jolted, and Piper's heart ached. She couldn't imagine what the other woman must be feeling. "Are you…okay?" she asked softly, lamely, but it was all she could do.

Blue tore her gaze away from the city ruins with effort. The gray of her irises remained clouded as she finally looked at Piper. "Um." Her expression twisted, brows furrowing deeply. It was the look she got when she was trying not to cry. She cleared her throat and glanced down as if to hide it. "Yeah," she said unconvincingly to the ground between their feet. Then shrugged. "I will be."

Of course she wasn't okay. Piper doubted that anybody would be okay after wiping out what basically amounted to a whole civilization. They'd evacuated whom they could, but that didn't mean they'd saved everyone. They hadn't saved Shaun. She doubted that this was the kind of closure Blue was seeking with her lost son; the last link to her past. She was at a loss for words that would even begin to offer the comfort Blue needed, so she simply said, "I'm here for you, Blue," and reached for the vault dweller to pull her into her arms.

Blue allowed the embrace, although it was a moment before she held Piper back. Piper could feel the tension singing through every one of her muscles and ached to relieve them. "I know," the taller woman whispered shakily. There was a pause, as if she were deciding whether to cross a line, and then a weary sigh as she dropped her head onto Piper's shoulder and let her tears flow.

Piper held her as she cried. In her periphery, she saw Preston gather his Minutemen and retreat a ways across the roof, giving them as much privacy as the space allowed. She'd have to talk to him later; congratulate him on this victory. They never would have made it this far without the Minutemen's support. Right now, though, she was only concerned with Blue.

The vault dweller sobbed, and Piper shushed her gently, running soothing fingers through her hair with one hand and holding her close with the other. She could feel the moisture of tears against her neck, but she was far from caring. Blue had held her during her moments of weakness, too. It was the least she could do to be a literal shoulder to cry on.

The vault dweller's grip on her was almost tight enough to be crushing, but as the minutes wore by and Blue's tears gradually dried up, it relaxed to something softer. More of a mutual embrace than a desperate hold. Piper shifted her attentions to Blue's back, where she began to knead away the tightness of her muscles, and felt the vault dweller slump against her.

"Thanks," she murmured into Piper's collar, sounding marginally more put-together than before.

"No, Blue." The reporter tipped her chin up to place a kiss on her partner's temple. "Thank you." For everything, she thought, but saved that for later. For a time when Blue was more equipped to handle it.

When the other woman failed to respond but for a weak grunt, Piper brushed another series of kisses down the side of her face, chaste and comforting. She sighed, and felt Blue do so at the same time. Over Blue's shoulder, she could still see the skyline that they'd just altered forever. It was for the best, really. Even if her partner was conflicted about it now.

"Welcome to day one of the new Commonwealth," she whispered to no one and everyone at once.

…