Cad Camlan
"I have been compromised."
Responses were near instant. That was the agreement—had always been the agreement—but now...nothing.
Even without the damn banging outside of his door, M5-37 realised the seriousness of his predicament. The problem had become apparent the moment Quinlan had opened his mouth on the flight deck of the Prydwen. There was no greeting, no respectful inclination of the head, or cheerful small talk. Three words.
"I know, sir."
M5-37 had almost been flippant in his reply—a surly, "Know what, Proctor?" on the tip of his tongue. But what else could it have been? And so he said nothing, letting the human speak.
"I went over the data that you gave to me, sir. Analysed it repeatedly until there was no doubt in my mind." Quinlan fidgeted, though his eyes were steely behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.
That damn data. Keeping up appearances demanded he have it looked at, though the risks were plain to see. A gamble too far from Father, it seemed.
This time, M5-37 let his mouth run away from him. "What did you find, Quinlan?"
"Sir, this is no time for games."
Even with this discovery, the man insisted on using M5-37's Brotherhood title. He gave a mirthless laugh, noting the proctor's look of concern. This was all so stupid. And it would have to be dealt with quickly.
"Who knows?" To the point. Sharp. It was the authority needed, with his place of leadership now so thoroughly shaken.
"I sent on a message to Kells," Quinlan replied at once, standing to attention at the whipcrack of his elder's voice. "But I wanted to speak with you personally first. To try to understand—"
His words were cut off in a strangled cry as M5-37 drove a combat knife into the proctor's belly. Quinlan gripped at his shoulder for a moment, and then slumped in his arms. M5-37 let the man fall without ceremony and strode back inside his ship.
Oh yes. His ship, despite what those Brotherhood idiots had learned.
The vertibirds would already be grounded. Kells moved fast, whatever M5-37 thought of him. His only chance now was back in his room. Direct contact. A courser to pull him out.
A ping at his terminal brought M5-37 back to the present, while the screeching of metal on metal joining the bangs as the enemy tried to cut through his door. He had time. He still had time.
M5-37 sat down and opened the message.
"We have everything we need from your remote upload. Can you leave?"
He frowned. That was not the question usually asked before extraction. Though maybe they wanted to check he could escape himself before sending someone.
"No. They're forcing their way in as we speak."
A few seconds passed, and then:
"We cannot collect. Code Bravo Zulu."
M5-37's blood ran cold. No collection? He tried to reply, but the terminal flickered and went blank. They'd cut him off.
"No!" He slammed his fist onto the desk, sending pens and useless reports scattering all over the floor. He had been loyal, had brought in valuable information, misled the Brotherhood at every turn.
This was his repayment?
There was a crack as the door began to buckle, glimpses of the soldiers on the other side visible through the gaps. M5-37 stared at it for a moment, feeling numb. A strange calm came over him and he reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out a pistol.
M5-37 turned it over in his hands, running his thumb along the polished handle, remembering the hours spent in the Prydwen workshop perfecting it. His weapon. His first real possession.
He pointed the barrel under his chin.
A/N: Something I wrote a while back. There was a discussion on tumblr of what could happen if Maxson was actually a synth plant by the Institute. I whipped this up as a response. Given my hiatus at the moment, have a little treat on me.
Obviously, this is an AU one-shot and has no bearing or relation to anything that happens in BNC. It is purely a 'what if?' speculation.