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A swift stroke.
It was easy. Tuch’s arm had gotten used to the motion long ago. He didn’t have much practice with swords before entering the Commonwealth, but it certainly wasn’t hard getting used to. A swing, a chop- it was easier to dispatch raiders that way; when they couldn’t aim a gun to cover their faces. Their heads would fly off, or their arms, or something else. He didn’t get any joy from it, and tried his best to avoid it, but sometimes you had to do what needed to be done.
Like right now.
And in a single arch of his arm, Tuch’s world disintegrated.
The movement itself couldn’t have lasted longer than a second. Bright, serrated steel poking through cloth to pierce flesh near the chest area. Dragging its way upwards. The front of his body ripped apart like jelly and eventually made way into the open area of the neck. Gruesome, thick pieces of muscle tore and flopped about as the man opened his mouth to cry in agony. But no sound came out. No sound could come out.
The spiky edges of the sword began to slow down due to the friction of flesh. As if expecting the effort, Tuch added more force. He ripped through the rest of the neck with one clean swipe. Like undoing a zipper. A trail of blood followed the steel and flew in an arch; coating the ceiling in red splatter.
The jagged edges of the wound were quickly replaced with blood. The man struggled, tumbling backwards, clutching his throat and chest. It poured like a tap from his front, instantly coating his institute-issued clothes in deep red. And his shoes. And the floor.
He fell against a cart of pristine white items, sending them clattering to the floor. He tried to stand up, but his feet couldn’t grab hold and he slipped back down to his knees. Air escaped uselessly out of the big gash; whistling and gurgling a horrid tune as he pawed at the flaps of skin. He tried to say something- but what was there to say? His hand slipped inwards past the thin fat and intertwined with his torn muscles. His digits poked out from the pink flesh. He gargled, trying to pull his hand free, but didn’t seem to have the dexterity. His limbs were already failing him. He gave a few weak pulls, gasping, meeting Tuch’s eyes with his own.
Betrayal.
Real, true betrayal.
Then his body fell forward with a wet thump.
Tuch stared at the body, trying to fish for anything inside him but anger. Yes, there was anger, but what else? Horror. Fear. Not for him, but for what he’d become.
How many months has it been since he’d last seen his son? It felt like only months. How Nora held him in her arms that day, looking into Tuch’s eyes for promises of safety. Of protection.
But he failed. He failed her.
And now their son.
Because it hadn’t been months. It had been two hundred years. Minus the sixty given for him to grow up. What was he like? What was his favorite food? Did he like to play with others, or by himself? Was he a good kid or mischievious? Now he would never know. All those precious answers flowed out of his body onto the newly waxed floor.
And here he was. Throat torn out from jugular to breast.
Father. That’s what he called himself. Not his father, but theirs. But HE was HIS father. His son. Shaun.
Shaun. Father. Father, meet son. Meet Shaun.
Meet your mother.
Tuch tasted iron in his mouth and spat. But it wasn’t his blood, of course. Why would it be his blood? His son never even raised a hand at him. His body wouldn’t stop shaking, and tears flowed freely from his face.
Kneeling, he took in his son’s body for the last time. He shakingly touched his fingertips to his cheek and moved downwards. His son. God, this was his son! Blood coated his white beard as it trickled out of his mouth. His thumb moved upwards, pulling an eyelid back. His brown eyes now stared at nothing.
Maybe that was the part that made it near-unbearable. The trust. Shaun TRUSTED him, fully and with no constraints. He really believed that Tuch would join him. That they would be together again. A family.
Tuch thought about the room he put together back in Sanctuary. The crib and the letter blocks- later discarded for board games and a proper bed under the false assumption that they’d been separated by only ten years. The moon-monkeys and the toy aliens and the rockets… everything he had prepared in that space was just for his son. Or it was supposed to be.
So here he was. He just returned from a mission to retrieve a synth who’d become a raider. He didn’t want to do it- but his son had insisted. That he needed to “see” what would happen if rogue synths got the lay of the land.
He had told that coursier that he planned to kill that synth. It was better for him to die for his crimes as a free man than whatever the Institute had in store for him. And the coursier said it was his choice. But it wasn’t, really. He should’ve known that even the Institute with his son at the helm was still the Institute. That coursier yelled out the password before his blade could even touch a single piece of leather armor.
Upon learning about Shaun’s true identity he couldn’t face that room. He couldn’t even bear to think about going back now. It was like waking up from that cold box for a second time. The rug had been swept out from under him and he was plunged into a dark world that didn’t make sense all over again.
Because in what world does a father kill his own son?
Small uncontrolled gasps left him as he moved forward. He took Shawn’s head and gently laid it against his chest. He buried his face in his hair, trying to exit the reality around them and return to the one where he held him while he was living.
“I love you,” He wept, “Daddy still loves you.”
He held on even tighter. Grief swamped his heart and threatened to take him away with it. And why not? Did he even deserve to say those words, after all he’s done?
Aching sobs escaped from his mouth before he covered them with a hand.
The casual footsteps that had been going on upstairs stopped at the sound.
He instinctively flinched at the sound, then held fast. What was the point? Let them find him. What else was there to do? His journey was at an end. He had found his son. They would not be returning home together now. Or ever. Let the Institute judge his crime- let them decide what to do with him.
Then a flicker of that rage returned- towards the Institute and his precious son. The deciding factor in Shaun's murder. Reminding him why he did it.
“A synth might look like a man or a woman, but it isn't.”
“Useless machine.”
“However closely they may approximate human behavior, they are still our creations.”
As long as the institute existed, the Commonwealth itself was in danger. Not just synths, but all its inhabitants. Humans, ghouls, super mutants…everyone he knew.
He couldn't give up. Not on them.
Still shaking, he gently laid his son’s head down on the floor. “G-Good-,” He could barely get the words out. “Goodbye, Shaun. Rest now, okay? Say…say hi to your mother for me.”
There was whispering coming from upstairs. Someone loaded their gun.
Still gripping the sword, he made a move towards the elevator, but slipped and encountered a face-chest combo of Shawn’s blood. He scrambled up just in time for the alarm ring out. They must’ve figured out that their strange visitor wasn’t to be trusted. He could hear the heavy footsteps of synths making their way down the half-spiral staircase.
There was nothing else to do. He ran.
Tuch tumbled down the hallway, slamming his fist against buttons as he went. Doors closed behind him one by one. Each one closed with a sickening CLANG! He narrowly pulled his foot out of the way as he forced another one closed with an override button as he turned into the room with the relay console.
He punched the big red button- “Emergency Relay Button”, it read- and stumbled onto the platform.
He stood, chest heaving, as the lights along the walls began to light up and hum. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stood on end as electricity began to course through the machine. A robotic voice began to count down softly.
“Six.”
“Five.”
“Four-”
The speaker crackled with interference. Tuch’s blood ran cold as he stared in the direction of the sound, sword at the ready. Did they get through the doors? See that he activated the platform? But it was no government overlord or mind-controlled synth. Just a small, young voice.
“You…You killed him! How could you do that?” The voice rang out from above. Pained. Must be the Institute scientist found his body first. “He was your son!”
Tuch stared in disbelief, as if this was the first time he had heard of it. He closed his eyes and hung his head. How could he, indeed?
“You…you better run! Because if we find you…”
His gaze turned upwards at the speaker, sad yet defiant.
“We will kill you! You hear me?!”
He closed his eyes again and braced himself.
“YOU’RE DEAD!!”
The scientist’s last words echoed throughout the empty room.
Then a flash of blue light washed everything away.
///
The weather in Diamond City was taking a turn for the worse that day. Heavy fog clung close to the ground and made damp the clothes of the few who dared venture outside. Clercs and shop owners closed their doors and lowered their partitions- those that could afford to, anyways- as bad weather did nothing to help bring in the caps.
However, it provided ample cover.
Somewhere in the fog, a bloodied man stumbled across the uneven ground. His footing was uneven and he stumbled at each step, but the fog was too thick for anyone to differentiate him from the average drunkard. At times he would clasp at a nearby wall for stability- then walk a couple steps in a straight line before tripping once more; seemingly exhausted beyond belief.
He only stopped to lay a hand on the door to Nick Valentine’s Detective Agency.
///
“That’s your eighth cigarette this morning.”
Ellie sat across the room, looking over paperwork with a bored look. She browsed through a page, licked her thumb, then read the next one. “Normally I don’t mind the smell, but you’re making this place smell like the Third Rail.”
Nick Valentine cast her a look.. His shoulders drooped with a sigh as he grunted and walked over to the ashtray by her side to snuff his cig in the tin.
“He’ll be okay,” Ellie said, her voice betraying some of her own worry. They were a team, after all.
He grunted again and wandered off to stand near the door, crossing his arms. His back touched the wall as he leaned against it. His head tipped forward so his hat covered his eyes.
Maybe he was a bit moody. He couldn’t help it. He’d spent the past few days thinkin’ instead of acting; something he didn’t like to make a habit of when he could help it. What else was there to do? Sitting down and having a think was good for some things, but when your best partner was M.I.A. from a trip to the Institute…all he COULD do was think.
It made his nerves crazier than a brahmin in a chem shop.
How he had looked so determined up on that makeshift platform; holding that serrated sword like a pre-war knight. It was too big of a dream to believe that he could fight his way through, so he ditched the power armor in favor of mobility and his gun for his standard melee weapon. A stealth mission.
Get in, get Shaun, get out.
Faint memories tugged at Nick. Memories that weren’t his own, nor the original Nick’s. A small young boy reading a comic book on the floor. Watched by one of the Institute's most dangerous lap dogs…older than what they had expected, but alive still. Something worth fighting for.
It was more than admirable what Tuch was willing to do for his son. Hell, Nick nearly idolized him for it. Name any other parent who would be willing to crawl across the radiation-filled wasteland- let alone venture into the Glowing Sea- for even a slight chance that his boy was alive. Name anyone post-war who would do that without the promise of caps or their safety. He could probably count the people willing to do so on his broken hand.
If that wasn’t selflessness, what was?
Not even to mention all the people he helped along the way. Nick liked to believe that the world was worth putting a little good in it. Tuch felt the same. Their adventures, the mischief they got up to…
Maybe he cared more than he let on. Maybe he had an idea of what he wanted out of their friendship…and more. But he couldn’t bring himself to cross that line. Tuch was…well, he was Tuch. Funnily enough, that included a lot of things; Vault-Dweller, General of the Minutemen, unofficial-official partner of Nick Valentine's Agency, and much much more. He was goofy, and a bit self-deprecating, but not at the expense of anyone else. A teaser, if he thought he could get away with it. He was someone with a good heart and soul- the kind of man who fully embraced the mantle of the Silver Shroud just so people could have an image to believe in.
The thought of losing him scared Nick beyond belief.
But he was also a man who just lost his wife not even a year ago. A man on a mission to save his son. Frozen for two hundred years and fresh off of a pre-war life. He still wore his wedding ring, for God’s sake!
And what was Nick? Trash. Some run-down old hunk of garbage, no matter what anybody else said. A broken down body. A copy of a person. Barely even a person.
Tuch deserved someone better.
Not some…thing.
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. He admired Tuch, but that just made his attraction almost feel perverted. Like he was getting something out of him hanging around. Taking advantage of him somehow. Tuch would never want him. The possibility of that happening…Nick quickly killed any flutters of hope he had floating inside of his circuits. He just needed to forget this silly infatuation. That's all it was. He needed to stuff it down and never, ever, let himself entertain it.
And that was okay. He didn’t want to ruin the good thing they had going anyways. Maybe he’d celebrate the afterparty of Tuch and Shaun’s return with Magnolia in his lap. If she’d let him, of course. That would get his mind off things.
His foot began tapping, fueled by impatience and worry. Three whole days. And not a single word from him. No radio message, no letter, no sign in the sky…Nick smudged his foot into the ground as if squishing something under his heel, just for something to do. Three days for a stealth mission?
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Nick had half a mind to go out there and start looking for him. Just so he could stop sitting around feeling useless. But where to start? The platform they had cobbled together in Sanctuary practically went on the fritz after the teleportation. Nick didn’t personally feel keen on seeing what it did to metal compared to flesh on the second attempt; even on the possibility it did work
He took his thumb and ran it over the palm of his metal “claw”. The Institute…the metaphorical boogeyman that scared even the toughest raiders. It was possible that capture befell Tuch, but Nick was certain he wouldn’t have such a pleasure. If a synth prototype walked into their home…well, if they didn’t like their later models wandering about and thinking freely, they certainly wouldn’t like him.
After all, he didn’t intend on meeting his makers without a few bullets to back him up.
But what else could he do?
Ellie glanced up from her work, taking notice of Nick’s movements. “You should take a break, Nick.”
“A break from what? Sitting around?” He said.
“From worrying so much.”
“Well, as I am forbidden from a measly smoke-”
“You know those things don’t do nothing for you anyways,” She rolled her eyes at his dramatism. “You could take a walk outside. Some friendly faces will put you at ease. Ask around.” She softened. “Maybe someone has seen him.”
Unlikely. No, more than unlikely. He was sure that if Tuch got his son back he’d be hollering from the rooftops in pure glee. “In this weather? Do you want my joints to continue working properly?” Nick said gruffly. He turned around, staring at the wall for a few moments. He gazed at the cracks and breaks. Then at the floor. Then the ceiling. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Ellie.”
“I know. You don’t have to apologize.”
“Still ain’t right,” He turned back to face her. It was hard to not let anger seep into his tone. “None of this is right.”
“I know.”
“He should’ve been back by now. He should’ve been back a long time ago.”
Her voice was quiet when she replied. “I know. I miss him too.”
He crossed the space to pick up a folder- a recent read on their collective knowledge of the Institute. “And everyone else. I can’t imagine Codsworth is very happy right now.”
“Or his second in command- Garvey, was it?” Ellie thumbed through a different pile of papers. “He lives in Sanctuary with some of the other Minutemen.” She adopted a thoughtful yet grim look on her face. “Or Piper…God, did he tell Piper? I can’t imagine he did- it would be all over the papers by now.”
Nick pictured Piper’s panicked face and frowned. “He and Hancock are close pals too, I've heard. I also assume he also wasn’t told, or else we’d have the strangest army in the history of the Commonwealth prepped and ready for battle. He’d never miss the glory of taking down the Institute.”
“Ah, good ol’ Hancock. Well, he can meet with the Minutemen and wait above ground while the Institute sits perfectly safe wherever they are,” Ellie said dryly, but the humor in her words was enough to almost make him smile. Almost.
Nick closed the file and placed it on her desk. He reached for another cigarette, then stopped. Instead, he went back to massaging his metal palm absentmindedly.
“He has a lot of people who care about him,” She said.
A weird pang vibrated through his chest. Somehow that made him miss his friend even more.
“He’ll turn up. Your partner is tougher than a bag of nails,” She said, giving Nick a reassuring kiss on the cheek.
“Keep it up with those, Ms. Perkins, and people will start to talk,” He mused, and gave her a small smile.
“What people?” Ellie said playfully, feigning innocence. She grabbed a jacket that was sitting on the back of her chair. “Listen, I’ll go take a look around town, scout the area; all that jazz you do. With any luck we should hear two sets of footsteps entering our agency at any moment.”
Nick couldn’t help but add a bit of gloom as he watched her approach the door. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Are you kidding? You know the first person he’ll want to see is you.”
That wasn’t exactly what he was doubting, but the comment caught him off guard anyways. He felt strangely warm for a moment- then looked at his shoes abashedly. “Just…just be safe, okay? I…I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you, too.”
Her face fell, and he thought that she genuinely might be moved to tears. Then she rushed forward and enveloped him in a hug. “He’s not gone yet, Nick. Don’t give up on him.”
He returned her hug just as tightly.
They stayed like that for a few moments before Ellie broke away. “I’ll start at the Dugout. People come and go out of the city all the time there.” She reached for the door handle and pulled.
Then she screamed.
Nick rushed to her side, pistol in hand, ready to fire. Surprisingly, Ellie pushed him out of her way.
“Nick, Nick, help me get him inside! Tuch! Oh, God!”
She was pulling on the fabric of his coat- his bloodstained coat- but the body at their doorstep didn’t budge. Nick put a hand on him and rolled him over, only to reveal more blood on his front. If he was flesh, his face would’ve turned a pale white. “Oh, come on, not you!-” He said, slipping his hands under his arms and giving him a pull.
They dragged Tuch’s body into the middle of the office. Nick moved from his underarms to his back- pushing him up into a sitting position while Ellie began tearing open his clothing in search of the wound.
“Nick, there’s a lot of blood here! Nick!” She pulled his coat off and began removing his scarf. Her hands dipped in his clothes as she searched along his skin. “Get a stimpack! Tuch, stay with me, so help me God-”
He turned and ran up the stairs, cursing profanities under his breath. How could this happen? Where was Shaun? Did the Institute drop Tuch at their doorstep as a warning? To send a message? He tore open drawers and threw things around. Nothing. Nothing! “Where is it?!” He yelled.
“On the wall! On the wall!”
Nick turned, locking onto a med-kit attached to the wall. Of course! How many times has he walked past that damn med-kit? Adrenaline- or whatever the synth equivalent happened to be- was making him act irrationally. He flipped open the latch and grabbed the stimpack, fumbling around as he pulled it out of the plastic case. Another string of profanities followed him down the steps.
He stopped at the last step.
Ellie kneeled in front of Tuch, her hands held out before them. Whatever urgency she had before now was replaced by a look of deep confusion. She looked at her palms, then the back of her hands, then her palms again. Her head turned to Nick. “It’s not his blood.”
He almost didn’t register what she said. “What?”
“It’s not his blood,” Ellie repeated. Her fingers rubbed together, then she rubbed the hem of his clothes. “It’s…caked. I mean, it’s wet, but the blood is caked. It dried hours ago.” She got to her feet and backed up a few paces. “He…he has no cuts. No burns, no slashes, no bullet-holes, no…,” She paused. “No nothing.”
Nick hurried over to Tuch, setting the stimpack down on the floor as he took a knee. He took his good hand and ran it over the fabric. It felt like a mushy paste. He pulled his fingers away and looked at them closely. The texture was wet and red on his fingertips, but…a little bit off-color. Almost brown.
“Could’ve gotten damp in the moist air,” Nick reasoned, then he stuck a hand in Tuch’s clothes. He ran a hand across his stomach, chest, and neck area; all the places that matched the blood on his clothes. Nothing. Maybe later he’d look back and feel some embarrassment or…something…at being so handsy, but all he felt now was confusion.
“Where’s…where’s Shaun?” Ellie said, echoing his own thoughts.
Nick stared at Tuch’s face. He was out like a light, unharmed, but at the same time…
He looked like he was tortured.
“There’ll be time for that later,” He said, standing up, “Get him to my bed. He can rest there.”