Dollhouse Fic: "Missionary Men" (Dominic, OCs, PG-13)
Oops. Yes, yet another part of the Waking 'verse. Yes, already. Oy.
Sort of an apology needed for this part: it's pretty heavily driven by the OCs, and kind of pointless overall. But let's just say a certain pair were insistant on a more...proper introduction to the inner workings of the family.
Ah. You'll see what I mean in a bit.
Title: Missionary Men
Characters: Laurence Dominic, various OC family members and NSA agents
Rating: PG-13 for violence, death, blood and tone
Length: 1,273 words
Spoilers: vague for 1x09, "Spy in the House of Love"
Notes: Previous parts in this universe here
Summary: Honor is a part of duty - duty comes before everything else.
The Deputy Director of the NSA stands at one end of the small room with its four bare walls, illuminated only by the harsh light of the naked bulb overhead.
He’s not a young man: his face is worn and faded, his body past its prime. But he stands straight and tall, without hunch to his shoulders or curve to his spine.
He wears a dark gray suit, jacket unbuttoned, neatly-pressed without as much as a stray fleck of lint. He stands with arms by his sides, gazing calmly before him.
In front of him is another man - perhaps a decade younger, or two. He sits slouched forward in a metal chair, hands bound behind his back. His lip is bloody, a bruise darkening around one eye.
“It’s a shame, really, isn’t it, Landau,” the Deputy Director says. His voice is cool and even. “You were one of the better ones.”
The man in the chair snorts. “Don’t tell me this is where you try to turn me - where you bring on the guilt. We both know better than that.”
“No.” The Deputy Director cups his hands behind his back. “You were supposed to be gathering intelligence in Liberia, and instead you sold classified information to enemy terrorist cells. There is no going back from that.”
“No. Of course there isn’t.” Landau shifts slightly. “For the record, my only regret is that I got caught.”
“You overplayed your hand. You got careless.” There’s a trace of irony in the older man’s tone. “You were too good an agent to begin with; when you never had any new information for us, of course we got suspicious.”
“And then all you had to do was follow the trail leading from my bank account.”
“Money, Landau. That’s all it was.” The Deputy Director’s contempt is evident. “You betrayed your country, the agency and everything you stood for, for money.”
The other man sneers at him.
“Not all of us can be like you, boss. We haven’t forsaken every lesser human impulse in the name of fanatical conviction to duty - we haven’t quite reached that pinnacle of NSA agent perfection. We still allow ourselves the occasional emotion.”
His accuser is unmoved: “Such as greed?”
“Well.” Landau slumps back, unrepentant. “It’s a start.”
There is a moment of silence, just as cold and empty as the stark gray walls of the room.
“You are going to tell us everything,” the Deputy Director states with composed certainty. “Every piece of information you sold, and anything else you know besides.”
“Sure. Why not?” Landau shrugs. “What I did technically counts as treason; I know how this ends. I have no reason left to lie.”
“You’ll forgive us,” the other man says flatly, “if we can’t just take your confessions at face value.”
Landau gives a short bark of mocking laughter. He nods in understanding.
“I know. I know what happens next.” He sneers, taunting: “Bring on the rack.”
The Deputy Director makes a faint motion with his head, an unspoken signal in the direction of the tiny window in the door.
Landau sits where he is, smiling with unflinching gallows’ humor.
Two figures enter the room. And the smile slips right off his face.
The two individuals stand beside the Deputy Director with similar at-attention posture, faces devoid of expression as they look at him, awaiting orders.
One is a man closer to Landau’s age, with pale features noticeably similar to the Deputy Director’s. The other is a younger woman with long brown hair and an unnatural hardness to her eyes.
“Mitchell. These are your kids,” Landau says, wide-eyed with disbelief. He shakes his head. “You can’t make them…Mitchell, come on!”
“Get everything you can out of him,” the Deputy Director says. His two agents nod, and move towards Landau.
He glances frantically between the man at the far side of the room and the two approaching him.
“Laurence…Nicole…wait-”
Without pause Nicole kicks him square in the chest, so hard he goes flying to the floor. As Landau lies on the floor, groaning, her brother comes up behind and pulls the chair out of the way.
Landau climbs shakily to his feet, only to be punched in the jaw by Nicole. As he stumbles, Laurence sweeps a leg under him, knocking him down once more. When Landau is down he moves in, kicking him hard in the sides, backing off as Nicole comes forward.
Nicole kneels, pulling Landau up by the front of his shirt. With one fist she pummels him again and again in the face, keeping her grip on his shirt so she can hold him.
Eventually she drags him up, forcing him to turn so she’s at his back. She grips him firmly by the arms, careful to keep distance between her body and his.
Laurence backhands Landau across the face, then pulls out a taser and buries it in his side. Landau shrieks in agony as Nicole keeps him pinned.
After a minute her brother moves away, and she throws Landau face-first into the wall.
As the man writhes on the floor, the two come closer; breathing heavily as they lean in for a critical look.
Nicole brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “That enough to start?”
Laurence considers it then shakes his head. “No. Not yet. A little more.”
His sister nods deferentially, and they move in again.
Deputy Director Mitchell Dominic silently turns and walks from the room, leaving his agents to their work.
He returns several hours later, yet another agent in tow. The man is trying to hide his uneasiness, a faint sickness in his expression as he follows close behind his leader.
Mitchell stops in front of the door to the little room just as it opens.
“Well?”
The question is directed at his son. Laurence nods.
“I think we got everything, sir.” His sleeves are rolled up, patches of blood smeared on the front of his dark dress shirt. A spray of red sits drying on his left cheek.
Nicole joins them. Her appearance is far more severe than her brother’s, two bloody smudges on the right of her face, the right side of her torso all but soaked.
Mitchell turns his head, glancing into the room.
Landau lies crumpled on his side. His face is virtually invisible beneath an oozing layer of red, and one leg sticks out in an unnatural way. His breathing comes in shuddered rasping gasps.
Mitchell nods, satisfied. “Then we have no more use for him. Finish it.”
He holds a gun out to his daughter.
“Yes, sir.” Without pause she takes it, going back inside the room.
“I expect a full report on everything you got out of him,” Mitchell continues.
“Of course, sir,” Laurence replies. He speaks clearly around the sound of the two shots from behind him - one to kill, one to confirm. “I’ll be sure to have it on your desk by the end of the day.”
Mitchell nods again, beginning to walk. “Come with me. There’s something we need to discuss.” His daughter returns, and he adds: “This concerns you as well - leave the clean-up to Wallace.”
Nicole hands the gun off to the other waiting agent, who numbly takes it in his palms as the three leave him behind. He stares at the fired weapon, and then into the room. He swallows.
Mitchell Dominic strides evenly down the hallway, one of his two children at either of his shoulders, flanking him.
“I have a new mission for the both of you,” he says. “Have either of you ever heard of something called ‘the Dollhouse’?”
Sort of an apology needed for this part: it's pretty heavily driven by the OCs, and kind of pointless overall. But let's just say a certain pair were insistant on a more...proper introduction to the inner workings of the family.
Ah. You'll see what I mean in a bit.
Title: Missionary Men
Characters: Laurence Dominic, various OC family members and NSA agents
Rating: PG-13 for violence, death, blood and tone
Length: 1,273 words
Spoilers: vague for 1x09, "Spy in the House of Love"
Notes: Previous parts in this universe here
Summary: Honor is a part of duty - duty comes before everything else.
The Deputy Director of the NSA stands at one end of the small room with its four bare walls, illuminated only by the harsh light of the naked bulb overhead.
He’s not a young man: his face is worn and faded, his body past its prime. But he stands straight and tall, without hunch to his shoulders or curve to his spine.
He wears a dark gray suit, jacket unbuttoned, neatly-pressed without as much as a stray fleck of lint. He stands with arms by his sides, gazing calmly before him.
In front of him is another man - perhaps a decade younger, or two. He sits slouched forward in a metal chair, hands bound behind his back. His lip is bloody, a bruise darkening around one eye.
“It’s a shame, really, isn’t it, Landau,” the Deputy Director says. His voice is cool and even. “You were one of the better ones.”
The man in the chair snorts. “Don’t tell me this is where you try to turn me - where you bring on the guilt. We both know better than that.”
“No.” The Deputy Director cups his hands behind his back. “You were supposed to be gathering intelligence in Liberia, and instead you sold classified information to enemy terrorist cells. There is no going back from that.”
“No. Of course there isn’t.” Landau shifts slightly. “For the record, my only regret is that I got caught.”
“You overplayed your hand. You got careless.” There’s a trace of irony in the older man’s tone. “You were too good an agent to begin with; when you never had any new information for us, of course we got suspicious.”
“And then all you had to do was follow the trail leading from my bank account.”
“Money, Landau. That’s all it was.” The Deputy Director’s contempt is evident. “You betrayed your country, the agency and everything you stood for, for money.”
The other man sneers at him.
“Not all of us can be like you, boss. We haven’t forsaken every lesser human impulse in the name of fanatical conviction to duty - we haven’t quite reached that pinnacle of NSA agent perfection. We still allow ourselves the occasional emotion.”
His accuser is unmoved: “Such as greed?”
“Well.” Landau slumps back, unrepentant. “It’s a start.”
There is a moment of silence, just as cold and empty as the stark gray walls of the room.
“You are going to tell us everything,” the Deputy Director states with composed certainty. “Every piece of information you sold, and anything else you know besides.”
“Sure. Why not?” Landau shrugs. “What I did technically counts as treason; I know how this ends. I have no reason left to lie.”
“You’ll forgive us,” the other man says flatly, “if we can’t just take your confessions at face value.”
Landau gives a short bark of mocking laughter. He nods in understanding.
“I know. I know what happens next.” He sneers, taunting: “Bring on the rack.”
The Deputy Director makes a faint motion with his head, an unspoken signal in the direction of the tiny window in the door.
Landau sits where he is, smiling with unflinching gallows’ humor.
Two figures enter the room. And the smile slips right off his face.
The two individuals stand beside the Deputy Director with similar at-attention posture, faces devoid of expression as they look at him, awaiting orders.
One is a man closer to Landau’s age, with pale features noticeably similar to the Deputy Director’s. The other is a younger woman with long brown hair and an unnatural hardness to her eyes.
“Mitchell. These are your kids,” Landau says, wide-eyed with disbelief. He shakes his head. “You can’t make them…Mitchell, come on!”
“Get everything you can out of him,” the Deputy Director says. His two agents nod, and move towards Landau.
He glances frantically between the man at the far side of the room and the two approaching him.
“Laurence…Nicole…wait-”
Without pause Nicole kicks him square in the chest, so hard he goes flying to the floor. As Landau lies on the floor, groaning, her brother comes up behind and pulls the chair out of the way.
Landau climbs shakily to his feet, only to be punched in the jaw by Nicole. As he stumbles, Laurence sweeps a leg under him, knocking him down once more. When Landau is down he moves in, kicking him hard in the sides, backing off as Nicole comes forward.
Nicole kneels, pulling Landau up by the front of his shirt. With one fist she pummels him again and again in the face, keeping her grip on his shirt so she can hold him.
Eventually she drags him up, forcing him to turn so she’s at his back. She grips him firmly by the arms, careful to keep distance between her body and his.
Laurence backhands Landau across the face, then pulls out a taser and buries it in his side. Landau shrieks in agony as Nicole keeps him pinned.
After a minute her brother moves away, and she throws Landau face-first into the wall.
As the man writhes on the floor, the two come closer; breathing heavily as they lean in for a critical look.
Nicole brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “That enough to start?”
Laurence considers it then shakes his head. “No. Not yet. A little more.”
His sister nods deferentially, and they move in again.
Deputy Director Mitchell Dominic silently turns and walks from the room, leaving his agents to their work.
He returns several hours later, yet another agent in tow. The man is trying to hide his uneasiness, a faint sickness in his expression as he follows close behind his leader.
Mitchell stops in front of the door to the little room just as it opens.
“Well?”
The question is directed at his son. Laurence nods.
“I think we got everything, sir.” His sleeves are rolled up, patches of blood smeared on the front of his dark dress shirt. A spray of red sits drying on his left cheek.
Nicole joins them. Her appearance is far more severe than her brother’s, two bloody smudges on the right of her face, the right side of her torso all but soaked.
Mitchell turns his head, glancing into the room.
Landau lies crumpled on his side. His face is virtually invisible beneath an oozing layer of red, and one leg sticks out in an unnatural way. His breathing comes in shuddered rasping gasps.
Mitchell nods, satisfied. “Then we have no more use for him. Finish it.”
He holds a gun out to his daughter.
“Yes, sir.” Without pause she takes it, going back inside the room.
“I expect a full report on everything you got out of him,” Mitchell continues.
“Of course, sir,” Laurence replies. He speaks clearly around the sound of the two shots from behind him - one to kill, one to confirm. “I’ll be sure to have it on your desk by the end of the day.”
Mitchell nods again, beginning to walk. “Come with me. There’s something we need to discuss.” His daughter returns, and he adds: “This concerns you as well - leave the clean-up to Wallace.”
Nicole hands the gun off to the other waiting agent, who numbly takes it in his palms as the three leave him behind. He stares at the fired weapon, and then into the room. He swallows.
Mitchell Dominic strides evenly down the hallway, one of his two children at either of his shoulders, flanking him.
“I have a new mission for the both of you,” he says. “Have either of you ever heard of something called ‘the Dollhouse’?”