Dollhouse Fic: "A Girl Made of Fractured Light" (Madeline, PG-13)
...Well, if it's any consolation, we're sort of back to the plot now. Guess I need about as much time to recover from writing the character woe as Dominic needs to recover physically from the Mexican window incident.
Title: A Girl Made of Fractured Light
Characters/Pairings: Madeline, Ballard, DeWitt, Dominic, Boyd, Topher, Claire, Echo, mentions of Loomis, Ivy, Mellie; implied Madeline/Ballard, Mellie/Ballard, Topher/Ivy and DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of violence, darker themes and implications
Length: 8,555 words
Spoilers: first season
Notes: set in the Waking 'verse series
Summary: She may not have much of a life, but what she does have, she's taking it in stride.
Madeline isn’t sure what she should do now.
She stands in the middle of her new place and looks around. It’s a little more space than she’s used to, but still cozy, in a way. It’s nice.
The walls, she thinks, are very white and empty.
She doesn’t have any luggage. She sets down her purse, and then goes and sits on the couch with her hands on her knees.
She should call somebody, maybe. Isn’t that what people do when they get out from places, like prisons or hospitals, or come back from somewhere, like on a vacation?
She’s not sure how to describe what it is she did. Hospital, prison, vacation: all sound sort of right and yet, wrong.
It doesn’t matter, though, she realizes. There isn’t anyone to call.
After Katie, she disconnected. Some of her friends tried to reach out to her - doing what friends are supposed to do - but eventually, they all just drifted away.
She hasn’t been close to her parents for awhile. Her father was mad enough when she stopped going to church. Her and her mother still spoke, but every conversation eventually became about how concerned she was that Madeline was “living in sin”, and then they stopped having conversations.
They might’ve come to their granddaughter’s funeral, but Madeline doesn’t remember.
They probably didn’t notice when she disappeared.
Brian was never really there to begin with. He tried: though it wasn’t what he wanted, he stayed involved so his daughter could know her father. He tried to give her support, but without anything to keep him he pretty much ran off, after…
After Katie died. She realizes, she can actually think that now. Before, she couldn’t. It hurt, and she just couldn’t. It couldn’t be true.
Now she can think, Katie is dead. It still hurts, but in a distant way. Like it happened a long time ago.
She supposes it did. It doesn’t feel like years, but that is how long it’s been. Not five years, like stated in the contract she signed, but close.
She wonders why they let her go early. They wouldn’t explain it to her. Maybe she did something wrong. Maybe she wasn’t liked enough by their clients, and there wasn’t enough demand for her.
That’s probably why they wouldn’t tell her. They didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but it’s okay. She’s used to getting her feelings hurt.
Madeline looks at her new, neat, empty apartment and wonders what she’s going to do next.
She doesn’t really want to do much of anything.
She should probably do something, though. She has a lot of money now (though it was never about the money) but if she doesn’t find something to do she’ll probably go crazy, right?
She doesn’t feel like she’s going crazy, though. And while there’s nothing to do, she doesn’t feel like she’s bored.
Truthfully, she doesn’t feel much of anything, at all.
_____
Before everything that happened, Madeline wanted to be a teacher.
She likes children. She always has.
She looks up a job-finding agency, brings them her resume. Before too long she has an interview.
“It looks like everything’s in order, Miss Costley. You have excellent recommendations, and I can tell from your background you’re very enthusiastic about working with young children. There’s just one small question, though.”
Madeline sits with her hands folded in her lap. She’s wearing a new dress.
She says, “Yes?”
“When we looked into your history, it seems…well, you as good as disappeared for a few years there. There’s no record of you, anywhere, at all.” The lady frowns slightly, lowering her glasses on her nose to better look at Madeline. “I’m just curious as to what that’s all about.”
Madeline draws a breath. “My daughter died,” she tells her. “And I just needed to get away, for awhile.”
“I’m sorry. My condolences,” the lady says sympathetically.
“It’s alright,” she acknowledges, polite.
The lady rustles her papers around and clears her throat.
“Well, now that that’s settled…” She smiles at Madeline. “How does Monday sound?”
Kindergartners are very energetic, and noisy. But they don’t have to be tested on facts memorized from history books. They don’t have to learn math or lots of spelling.
Instead, they can just play. She watches them run around, pulling them apart when it gets too rough. She gives them juice and cookies at snack time, helps them with their blankets when they settle down for naps.
At story time, she herds them into a circle and reads in a clear voice aloud from a book turned so they can see the pictures.
She teaches them letters. When they turn in their homework she puts stickers on it, smiley-faces and flowers and kittens. She teaches them about Christopher Columbus, and then they have art class and make decorations for the room on Columbus Day.
When she pins up their pictures, she makes sure they all get on the board. No one likes being left out.
She thinks she has a nice life. She likes her job. She likes the children. The kids make no secret of how they adore her.
She doesn’t have much else, though. But that’s okay.
She has dreams, sometimes. Strange ones. Scary, occasionally, or others that are nicer, but still make no sense. They’re always about things that she feels like she remembers doing but she knows she never did.
The solid feeling of a gun in her hand…an ice cream cone, handed to her by a woman with a shy and pretty smile.
A man sneers, “You will speak when spoken to, dog”…another man says, more gently, “I’m a little nervous; it’s my first time.”
Someone is kissing her. A lot of people are kissing her.
A man grabbing her legs as she struggles, a black mask, and something about flowers in a vase.
It happens when she’s awake sometimes, too. A thought floats into her head, unconnected. Visceral.
She wonders if this is normal - if it happens to everybody, afterwards. She thinks about calling and asking if this is to be expected.
But in the end, she decides not to. She thinks it’s probably best if she completely puts that part of her life behind her.
_____
It’s Thursday night. She was going to make dinner but she hasn’t felt like cooking, so she got a takeout salad instead. She was going to rent a movie, but nothing at the store looked interesting.
She got some books at the library. She’s been reading one for the past half hour, and if she tries, she thinks she might remember what it’s about.
There’s a knock on her door.
For awhile she just stares at it, confused, like she thinks she imagined it or the sound is coming from somewhere else. No one ever knocks on her door.
There’s a knock again.
She puts down her book, gets up and goes to the door, opening it a bit and looking out into the hall.
She expects to see some polite missionary in a suit, or maybe a Chinese takeout attendant with the wrong address.
Instead she sees a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with close-cut brown hair and big earnest eyes. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he’s hunching, nervous.
She thinks he looks familiar somehow.
She opens the door a little more, and asks curiously, “Hello?”
“Hi. Madeline, right? I’m Paul Ballard. I’m with…well, I was with the FBI.” He sucks in a breath, grimacing like there’s a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m from the Dollhouse.”
“Oh,” she says, recalling. “You were there, the day I finished my contract. You were in Ms. DeWitt’s office.”
That must be where she remembers him from.
He nods slowly, acknowledging her words. “Yeah. That’s right.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He seems to have a hard time looking at her - he keeps glancing from the corner of his eye, and then turning his head away. He looks like he doesn’t really want to be there yet feels like he must.
“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Ballard?” she asks him. He winces, and then stiffly turns to meet her eyes.
His gaze is wide, and there’s something pained in there, beneath. “If it’s okay with you,” he tells her wearily after a moment, “I’d rather you called me Paul.”
“Okay. Paul,” she agrees, tentative. “Why are you here? Is it…is it because of my contract? Is there something wrong, that I need to fix?”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “No. This has got nothing to do with that. They didn’t send me here, I came on my own. I just, I wanted…I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Madeline.” He stumbles over her name slightly, as if he were almost about to call her something else. “Do you know what they did to you? I mean; those years you were at the Dollhouse, do you know what they made you do?”
“Yes,” she answers, simply. “I know.” The look on his face is incredulous, so she shrugs. “I know about it. Why?”
He runs a hand over his hair. “This is going to be hard to explain,” he mutters, more to himself. He draws a deep breath, bracing.
“One of the times you were imprinted, programmed, as somebody else, one of the times you were another person…we knew each other.”
“We did?” she asks blankly.
“Yes.” His hands curl into fists and he licks his lips like they’re dry. “And at first, I didn’t know. But then I did. And I still…”
He trails off, looking away from her again as he searches for the words.
She has a sudden sweep of memory: of stroking naked muscle as strong hands wrap around her waist. Her own voice in a sigh saying, “You’re so neighborly.”
A knot makes itself in her stomach, tight.
“Mr. Ballard,” she says, and he looks up, startled, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you. I don’t really want to talk to you.”
He looks stricken: “But wait, please, I have to-”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, firmly, “but I don’t think it’s good for me to have anything to do with that part of my life. I’m trying to move on. Goodbye.”
She shuts the door on him as politely as she can.
She goes back to the couch and sits down again, but doesn’t return to her book. She twists her hands together, wringing them. She’s not sure why but her heart is racing.
When she goes to bed that night, she stares up at the ceiling for awhile.
She thinks she has a hazy memory of lying down on a mat sunk beneath the floorboards, of a cover over her head made out of glass.
_____
It’s Friday. Madeline has been feeling distracted all day for reasons she can’t articulate.
There are fuzzy shadows in her head, a nagging sense like there’s something important she should remember but can’t, but it’s almost there.
She feels like there are a lot of things in her head that are almost there.
She stays late at the school, cleaning up. Parent-teacher conferences are next week. She might as well start getting ready.
She carefully gathers the art supplies, counts up the crayons and brushes and markers to make sure they’re all there.
She likes doing art with the kids. It might be her favorite thing. She loves the simple pictures they make, the enjoyment they get from it.
She’s making sure the lids on all the paints are tight when she hears a noise in the hall, so she goes out to look.
There’s a woman standing with her back to her, looking at the children’s drawings on the board. She has long brown hair. Madeline can’t be sure from this angle, but she looks too young to be one of the parents.
“Hello?” she asks, carefully.
The woman turns around at her voice.
“Madeline Costley?” She pulls a badge from inside her jacket, flips it open. “Nicole Dominic, NSA.”
She’s wearing tailored pants and shoes with just a little heel, but her jacket is more casual, brown corduroy. And her dress shirt is all wrong for a professional woman: it’s far too bright a shade of red.
Madeline stares at it, mesmerized. It’s such a strong and vibrant color.
But then the woman continues, “I’d like to talk to you about the Dollhouse.”
Madeline feels cold. She looks up at the woman’s face.
_____
“I’m really sorry. But I don’t think I can help you.”
They’re sitting at a table in her classroom. Nicole Dominic is in the chair used at story time. Madeline pulled up one of the toy-chests for herself.
The young woman watches her carefully. “You’re sure you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I’m sure.” Madeline nods. “I really am very sorry.” The other woman’s frown deepens as she thinks.
“If it’s the terms of the contract that have you worried,” she says evenly, “let me assure you, whatever that organization claims, they don’t have legal authority to come after you should you reveal any information to us.”
Madeline swallows lightly, but keeps her face blank.
“But I don’t have any secrets to reveal,” she repeats. “I keep telling you, I’ve never heard of this Dollhouse. I’ve never been there, or worked for them. I swear.”
Nicole Dominic meets her gaze and looks at her for a long silent moment, taking her in. Scrutinizing her. Madeline tries not to flinch.
It’s not because of her contract that she’s uneasy about talking about the Dollhouse with strangers. Something about telling this woman seems like it’d be…wrong, somehow. It just doesn’t feel quite safe.
“I have information to suggest that you’re a former Active, a Doll,” Nicole Dominic states. Her mouth twists in a funny way when she adds, “It comes from a fairly reliable source.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Madeline lies. Her voice sounds as calm and empty as she usually feels.
The other woman eyes her one last time and then, finally, she nods.
“I guess it’s possible we could’ve been mistaken,” she says, apparently believing her. She looks to the side, sighing and making a disgruntled face: “Just another dead end.”
She gets to her feet and Madeline rises as well, giving her a polite, apologetic smile.
“I really do wish I could be more help to you, Agent Dominic…Nicole? Is it okay if I call you Nicole?”
“Sure. Why not?” Still not looking back at her, Nicole gives a tiny snort. “Just don’t call me ‘Nikki’, and we’ll get along just fine.”
A faded image rises, suddenly, of a brown-haired girl in pigtails sitting on a swing.
Madeline is pushing her, but the hands she sees aren’t her own hands. They’re too small, and the body she’s in doesn’t feel right.
“That’s right,” she murmurs aloud. “You never did like being called ‘Nikki’. Not even when you were little.”
Nicole, all but turned to go, stops right in her tracks. She twists back again sharply to face her.
“Who told you that?” Her eyes have gone wide and bright with suspicion.
“I…” Madeline frowns, blinking slowly, confused.
This is something she shouldn’t know, she realizes too late.
“I don’t know,” she offers. “It just feels like I remember it, from somewhere.”
Nicole’s eyes narrow. “I see.”
Coolly she continues, “And you’re absolutely sure, Miss Costley, that you know nothing at all about the Dollhouse?”
“No,” Madeline says, but her voice is hesitant, “nothing.”
“Of course,” says Nicole. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe her. “Have a nice night, Miss Costley. And thanks for your time.”
After the other woman is gone, Madeline stares down at the floor.
She’s not sure how, but she thinks she might’ve just made a mistake.
_____
Mr. Ballard (Paul, a voice in her head says insistently) said he used to work for the FBI. So at least she has somewhere to start.
She’s not sure why she looks for him, of all people. Maybe she just has nowhere else to go.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but could you please tell me…?”
No one wants to talk to her or give her any answers. They hear the name of the man she’s looking for and roll their eyes, sneering, turn their backs and walk away in disgust.
She’s about to give up, when-
“Did you say ‘Paul Ballard’?”
The woman is dark-skinned with a shorn head, and she’s staring at Madeline like she’s seen a ghost.
“You,” she says. “My god. I don’t believe it.”
“Hello. My name is Madeline Costley,” she replies politely, after a moment. “Do you know where I can find-” Paul, the voice goes “-Mr. Ballard?”
“I know his cell number,” the woman says, slowly. She keeps looking at Madeline with wide eyes. “I can get in contact with him for you. Who, uh, should I say is…?”
“Madeline,” she repeats. “He knows who I am.” Something funny happens to the woman’s facial expression at that. “Ask him, if he can please meet me at my apartment. Tell him I’m very sorry to bother him, but something’s happened and I need to talk.”
She sits on her couch later, wondering if she should feel silly. She’s not sure what’s bothering her. She doesn’t feel threatened, exactly, just uncertain.
Like something big or dangerous is going on, and she can sense it even if she doesn’t know what it is. Like when she was young and her parents got divorced.
But my parents didn’t get divorced, Madeline thinks. They’re happily married. They don’t believe in divorce, anyway.
But how does she remember the pain and shame of a broken home, all the same?
There’s a knock at the door.
“Madeline? Miss Costley? It’s me, Paul Ballard.”
For some reason, her body relaxes at the sound of his voice. She lets him in.
“I don’t mean to cause a problem-” She feels like she should offer him something, but isn’t sure what - coffee, dinner, juice?
“It’s no trouble, really.” He’s just as uncomfortable around her as before, but trying to conceal it.
“I’m sure you must be wondering what’s wrong with me: that I chased you away because I didn’t want to talk about the Dollhouse, and now here I am calling you back again.” She looks down, trying to find the words. “But it’s been hard to get off my mind lately. I mean, first you came, and then there was that woman with the badge asking all her questions-”
His head jerks up, gaze suddenly focused. “Hold on. What woman?”
“She said she was from the NSA. She said her name was Nicole…something or other-”
“Dominic?” he asks, sharply. “Nicole Dominic?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Taking in the look on his face, she goes, softly, “She’s not who she said she was, is she?”
“No. She’s exactly who she says she is,” he tells her, grim. “And that’s the problem.”
Madeline takes that in; he clears his throat, going, “I know this probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but I don’t think you should stay here.” His tone is calm but urgent. “We need to move, now.”
She nods. “Okay.” She grabs her purse. If he thinks it’s odd, how easily she agrees or how she doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t comment.
He checks the hallway to make sure its clear then nods back at her. They make their way towards the elevator, but just as they reach it the door slides open.
Nicole Dominic is standing there. Her gaze focuses instantly, taking in the sight of both of them.
Several things seem to happen at once. Nicole’s expression sets into one of steely determination. She starts to take a step out of the elevator.
And Mr. Ballard moves to intersect her, just as he grabs Madeline by the arm and shoves her towards the stairwell.
“Get out of here,” he orders firmly.
Nicole makes a move which he blocks, and he makes a countermove that she blocks as well. Another move from her, another block from him - then, he reaches for her but she swiftly undercuts him, striking him hard in the stomach.
He sags, winded, and she swiftly shoves him backward, pinning him against the wall.
He yells at her again, “Madeline, run!”
She listens to him. Her feet move as fast as they can carry her - she doesn’t look back as she reaches the stairwell and rushes down the first flight.
“Wait!” She freezes, startled, and looks up to see Nicole has followed her: she stands on the landing above, yelling at her, “You’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t sent to hurt you!”
But Mr. Ballard appears again, body-checking Nicole as slams into her from the side. With a startled grunt she twists to engage him, and Madeline doesn’t stay to watch. She just keeps running.
Ballard’s car is parked out front. She wonders why she recognizes it, but doesn’t stop to think. It’s open, which isn’t very safe of him - she climbs into the front passenger seat and locks the doors behind her.
She drops her head and closes her eyes, curling up slightly as she hugs herself.
What’s going on? Why is this happening? She thought once her contract expired she’d be better; she’d be done. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?
The memories float through her head, all churned together and indistinguishable.
“A clean slate.”
“Just a little jet-lagged.”
“Your brain rocks!”
“You just said exactly what I needed to hear.”
“I’m going to call her ‘Katie’.”
“…a new mission for you: have you heard of something called ‘the Dollhouse’?”
“The second flower is green.”
When Mr. Ballard finally appears she’s chuckling softly, hysterically to herself. She unlocks the door; he gives her a wary look as he gets in.
“Sorry,” she giggles. “It’s just what happens,” she gulps, fighting to regain control, “when I get scared.”
He’s already starting the car. His motions are hurried but purposeful, controlled. She takes a good look at him as she calms down: there are scratches across the side of his face, a deep bruise just below one eye.
“Is Nicole…?” Madeline asks, hesitant. “D-did you have to…?”
“She’s fine. Well, in a manner of speaking.” A muscle in Mr. Ballard’s jaw twitches. “I’m sure she’s hurting in a few places, but not enough to stop her from coming after us.” They’re already moving, zooming along. “Which is why we need to get out of here.”
“You’re not wearing your seatbelt,” she observes. He turns to look at her, realizes she’s serious and then, after a slow blink, reaches to put it on.
She smiles faintly. “Thank you.”
He nods, silent.
“I’m sorry about this,” he says after a moment. He looks not at her but straight at the road. “Really I am.”
“I’m the one she came after.” Madeline shrugs. She glances out the windows. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Mr. Ballard gives a terse, humorless laugh.
“The only place I can think of that’s safe right now,” he says, voice full of bitter irony: “The Dollhouse.”
_____
She’s back in the same office from the day her contract was completed.
There are a lot of people there. Some she recognizes - Ms. DeWitt, the tall and quiet man she met that day (she feels bad that she’s forgotten his name, but she remembers his eyes: dark and deep), and Mr. Ballard of course.
There are two other men as well. Both are fair, blond, the taller one in a tailored suit and the other in a sweater-vest and sneakers. The first stands close to the wall, his arms folded across his chest, silent and composed.
The second isn’t silent, and is definitely not composed. He paces, hands twitching unaccountably over his head as he speaks a mile a minute.
“Not good. Just…not good, at all! Bad enough when the NSA was flagging our Actives, but now they’re going after former Dolls as well? Nothing is safe! And you.”
He whirls on Mr. Ballard, pointing, wild-eyed. “What were you even thinking, coming here? Don’t you realize you’ve probably led her straight to us? I mean, what is it with you, and the…leading. First Alpha, now the NSA - what are you, the ‘Pied Piper of Every Person We’ve Ever Actually Tried to Keep Off Our Front Doorstep’?”
“Is he going to be okay?” Madeline asks, concerned. He sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate.
“No, but he never is,” the man in the suit gives a gruff sigh. He steps away from the wall, arms dropping as he goes, more loudly, “Topher!”
He cuts off mid-babble, wordlessly turning.
“I work here, remember?” The man in the suit points at the floor, indicating their location. “The NSA already knows where the Dollhouse is.”
“Oh!” The other man - Topher - nods. He chuckles. “That’s right. You were a spy! You know, I think I actually forgot about that.”
The first man rolls his eyes with an irritated growl.
“Well, even if getting inside the Dollhouse isn’t a concern of the agency,” the dark-eyed man says, solemn, “what are we going to do now? Now that they know who Miss Costley is, they’re going to keep coming after her.”
“Actually,” the man in the suit interjects, “assuming they want information they can be sure is accurate, probably not. Not now that she’s been back here, anyway.”
Mr. Ballard frowns. “Why?”
Ms. DeWitt speaks, quiet yet firm. “Because as far as the NSA is concerned, we may as well have wiped her again, altered her memories.”
There’s a tense pause.
“You won’t, will you?” Madeline asks. “I wasn’t going to tell her anyway. I swear.”
“No. We won’t,” Mr. Ballard says firmly.
“You’re in no position to be making promises, Ballard-”
“Of course not,” Ms. DeWitt says loudly, forcing them into silence. She meets Madeline’s eyes evenly, as if they are the only two here. “I have no intention of doing any such thing.” More softly she adds, “I trust you, Madeline.”
“Thank you.” When no one else speaks she continues, rambling, “I tried to pretend I didn’t remember, when that woman came to see me. But I messed up, said too much. I knew she didn’t like to be called ‘Nikki’. It made her suspicious.”
“Wait.” The man in the pale suit frowns. “How could you have-?”
She turns to look at him…and the name “Laurence Dominic” echoes in her head. She feels a sweeping wave of recognition.
“You.” Her voice rings loudly and he falls silent, startled. “I know you,” Madeline says, trying to piece together the thoughts in her head. “I…recognize you, somehow.”
Mr. Dominic stares at her, frozen. His eyes get wider and wider.
Topher gives an incredulous laugh. “Uh. That doesn’t make-”
“No. It’s not like…I know you, it’s more like I…” She struggles to describe it. I know what it feels like to be you, runs through her mind.
“You were…inside-”
She stops at the expressions flickering across everyone’s faces: “I guess that’s not the best way to say that.”
She tries again. “But you, you were in my…” She raises a hand and presses a finger to the side of her temple. “Here. Weren’t you?”
Everyone is staring at her.
Looking away, Madeline states, “I remember being scared, tied up. Screaming.”
“You…imprinted him, in her?” Mr. Ballard demands accusingly, revolted. “When was this?”
“It was just the one time,” Topher says dismissively.
“Oh, well,” Mr. Ballard goes, sardonically, “I don’t even know why I’m upset, then!”
Snapping, Topher returns, “Yeah, why are you?”
“It’s okay,” Madeline says, interrupting them. “It’s what I was here for, right? To have those other people put inside me.” She gazes at Ms. DeWitt. “To help people that needed helping.”
“You remember…no; you’re not supposed to,” Topher protests. He presses a hand to his forehead, flabbergasted. “You remember…the imprints…all of it?”
“Not really. Just bits and pieces. And it’s all…hazy. Memories that aren’t mine. Things I was sure I didn’t do.” Madeline looks down at her hands. “But I guess I did do them, didn’t I?”
She hears the crack of a man’s neck snapping, as she stomps with one bare foot on his spine.
Mr. Dominic partially slumps where he leans against the wall now, gaze unfocused and one fist pressed over his mouth. He looks like he’s trying not to be sick.
“That’s…” Topher’s talking again. “Astounding. Amazing! I mean, with everything we do to them, the wipes should be thorough and complete, especially once the full original personality is restored, intact.” He waves his hands. “There must be some underlying neurological compound, something about the very pathways that’s resisting…”
He laughs again, wide-eyed. “This is all fascinating stuff!”
Madeline looks at him. “Would you like to study my brain?”
Topher grins incredulously: “Would I!”
There’s a beat as everyone else glares at him.
“But, I wouldn’t…because that would be wrong.”
Ms. DeWitt forces a stiff smile, clearing her throat. “Madeline. Would you excuse us for awhile? I believe there are some things that my staff and I need to discuss.”
“Okay.” She leaves them and goes out onto the landing.
She looks down at the atrium, sees all the people there. They walk around with serene and carefree expressions.
“Maybe something bad happened to us, and they’re helping us get better.”
Bits of her time here come through. She remembers getting a massage, doing exercises. She remembers the people that took care of her, speaking to her in calm and authoritative voices, letting her know she was safe.
“I think they like it here.”
She looks towards the warm lights, smiling. “I try to be my best,” she recites lightly.
Something moves. She turns her head and sees someone in one of the offices down the way - the doctor’s office, she faintly recalls. Curious, she goes in that direction.
It’s Mr. Dominic. He’s standing in the middle of the room with the lights off, eyes wide, head slightly bowed, his arms folded in a way that seems more like he’s hugging himself.
“I know who she is.” Madeline stands in the open doorway, body pressed to one side of the frame. He jolts, staring at her. “I know who she is, to you. Nicole.”
He just keeps staring. His throat works like he’s swallowing, like he’s struggling to breathe.
She closes her eyes partially, focusing on the wisps in her head. “You used to take her to the local park to play on the swing-set, because your backyard wasn’t big enough for one. You had to cut through the woods to get there.”
She can see the dappled light coming through the leaves; hear the crunch of branches underfoot.
“She’d always go, ‘higher, push me higher!’, and you were always a little afraid to.” She opens her eyes. “But you did it anyway, because she asked.”
He doesn’t speak, at first. “How much of…how much, do you actually remember?”
His voice is quiet, every line of his body rigid: he looks like a part of him wants nothing more than to run away screaming.
Madeline shakes her head. “Not that much. Just pieces, more of a sense than solid memories.” She almost laughs. “It’s not like I’ve stolen your brain.”
“Are you lying to make me feel better?” he demands.
“If I was,” she counters, “would you really want to know?”
His mouth twitches into a wry smirk. “You have a point.”
“There you are.” At the voice, Madeline takes a step into the room and turns around. Mr. Ballard and Ms. DeWitt are standing there. “We were wondering where you’d gotten to.”
Ms. DeWitt gazes past Madeline, giving Mr. Dominic a look. He nods.
“I’m fine,” he responds to her unasked question. Ms. DeWitt nods back.
“Madeline,” she says, turning back to her, “we’ve discussed the matter in-depth and, while it seems unlikely the NSA will try contacting you again, it would be unwise to make you too easy a target for them to find. I’m afraid you’re going to have to relocate. We’ll secure a new apartment for you, of course.”
“You’ll have to find a different job, too,” Mr. Ballard adds. “I’m so sorry, Madeline.”
“It’s okay, really,” she tells them. “I think I was going to end up switching eventually, anyway. Kindergartners are so noisy.”
She steps forward; Mr. Ballard and Ms. DeWitt part as she moves past them, going to the railing.
She gazes down at the Dolls calmly going about their tasks.
“But them, they’re never noisy.” She turns to smile at the staff members over her shoulder. “Are they?”
Mr. Dominic’s expression is unreadable. Ms. DeWitt looks surprised. Mr. Ballard is somewhere between speechless and stricken.
Finally, slowly, Ms. DeWitt goes, “If you’re interested, we may have a position available among our Active caretakers.”
Madeline turns around completely, still smiling.
“Yes. I’m interested.”
_____
There is another contract for her to sign.
Ms. DeWitt watches silently, as she marks her name neatly on the dotted line.
“Would you care for a tour of the premises?” she offers, once Madeline is finished. She hesitates. “Or…do you still remember things clearly, from when first you-”
“Checked in?” Madeline offers. “I think you should probably show me around again,” she says honestly. “I don’t think I was really paying attention, then.”
Ms. DeWitt nods. “Mr. Langton?”
He takes a step aside, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “Right this way, Miss Costley.”
“You know,” she says to him, as they walk out of the office, “you can call me Madeline. I think I’d like it better if you did.”
He smiles faintly: “Only if you agree to call me Boyd.”
“Okay.” She smiles back, nodding. “Boyd.”
_____
“That’s a very nice picture, Quebec.” She bends down, looking at the solid lines of crayon. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
“This is the sun.” He points to the colors and wavy squiggles, reciting gravely. “It’s very warm, and bright. We don’t get to see the sun here. I think this is because it can hurt you with too much light, like how your tummy hurts when you eat too much.”
She nods, giving him an encouraging smile. “That’s very good.”
He smiles back, rewarded. He smoothes his hands proudly over his picture.
“What about mine?” the male Active seated at the table nearest to Quebec demands. “Is it good too?”
Madeline resists the urge to giggle at how endearing they are, like puppies seeking attention. “Of course, Papa. Yours is very nice too.”
Papa’s whole face crinkles as he grins broadly. “Mine is very nice,” he repeats.
Madeline wishes she were allowed to give them stickers. They’d probably like that a lot.
Something drifts along the edge of her vision and she looks up. Echo stands nearby to where the art class is. She’s watching Madeline with a confused frown on her face.
Madeline straightens. “Is something wrong?”
“I know you,” Echo says. She looks at her carefully. “I remember you. You used to be here with us, before. But you left.”
Echo’s head tilts, appraising her.
“You’re different now.”
Madeline smiles softly. “Yes, I am.”
Echo doesn’t say anything else for a moment.
Finally, she goes, with a mixture of sadness and urgency, “Can we still be friends?”
Madeline’s smile grows wider and warmer. She reaches out to gently squeeze Echo on the shoulder. “Of course we can.”
Echo rests a hand over hers and smiles at her in return.
_____
She knows it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Ballard tries to speak to her again.
He waits until her first week is nearly over. He catches her as she’s leaving the employee break-room, intersecting with her in the hall.
He has that pained uneasy look on his face, and clears his throat heavily. “Madeline. I hate to make you uncomfortable, but there’s a conversation I think we really need to finish.”
She asks him, “What was her name?”
He stops, staring at her, startled. “What?”
“The woman I was imprinted with, when you met me. The one you had a relationship with. What was her name?”
He swallows. His voice is quiet. “Mellie.”
“Mellie,” she repeats slowly, feeling it on her tongue. She looks back up at him.
“She was real, you know,” she tells him; “As real as all the others were. Maybe not the way you’d want to define her, but she was. She was real to herself. And she was real to you.”
His mouth opens, then closes. Like he wants to argue, but can’t.
“So I don’t blame you, for falling in love with her,” she continues evenly. “You don’t need to be forgiven for that.”
“I…” He lets out a deep breath, and this time he does start to speak. But she cuts him off.
“But breaking her heart? That you did knowingly. And she felt it in every part of her, imprinted or not.”
She swallows tightly, a hand over her chest as she remembers looking down from a bridge, and thinking it couldn’t possibly be a greater drop than the one she felt inside.
“What you do need to be forgiven for is that,” she says to him, her voice tight and cold. Delivering an ultimatum. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to.”
His expression is crumbling, confused and sorrowed. “No, wait, I-”
“Goodbye, Mr. Ballard.”
She turns her back on him and walks away, returning to work.
_____
Madeline can’t stand looking at empty white walls any longer.
One day at work when there’s downtime, she goes over to Boyd.
“Excuse me. This might be a little forward, and weird, but I thought I could ask you a favor. I want to paint my apartment, and I was wondering if you would help me. I need somebody tall.”
Boyd blinks a little, caught off-guard. With a slight frown he glances over at Mr. Ballard, who is standing only a short distance away.
Mr. Ballard says nothing. He just drops his head.
“Okay, sure.” Boyd looks at her again. “I’d be happy to help.”
He goes with her to the hardware store so she can get everything in one trip. Madeline asks his opinion when she picks out the colors, even though all he does is smile faintly and shrug. She likes having somebody to bounce her ideas off of, anyway.
They put sheets over her furniture and use tape to cover the molding. The paint she picked out is a pale strawberry pink, with blue and purple for trim.
She and Boyd put the paint on in mostly silence, him standing on the ladder to work towards the ceiling, and her next to him standing on the floor. It’s a companionable, comfortable silence, not awkward at all. They make small talk. At one point she catches him humming faintly under his breath, so she sings along.
By the time they’re finished, it’s evening. They order pizza. Boyd’s eyebrow goes up slightly when she pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, but he doesn’t comment.
They eat dinner on her sheet-covered couch, admiring their handiwork. She tells him stories about her dead daughter. He tells her stories about his dead wife.
Over the weekend Madeline does the bathroom by herself. It’s a deep cerulean blue, accents in white. Her new shower curtain has smiling fish on it.
The bedroom she leaves the same color, but she picks out decorations and upholstery in dark yellows and tan. She hires someone to come in and replace with carpet with something warmer. Her new bedspread is golden, covered in suns and stars and constellations.
She lies on it after everything is done, tracing sunbursts and shooting stars with her finger and smiling faintly to herself.
She feels a bit like Martha Stewart, only without the jail time, or the empire.
Tomorrow she’ll go shopping for new plates to match the colors in her kitchen. Maybe she can find some with butterflies.
_____
Madeline has never seen the imprinting process before - at least, not from the outside.
She knows that Topher is currently wiping someone, so she goes upstairs to look.
When she gets to the lab she sees an Active twitching in the chair, but Topher is already talking to someone. She stays outside the door, not wanting to interrupt.
“…all I’m saying is, there’s got to be some simple explanation,” the tech is saying. He turns away from his keyboard. “One key flaw to explain what it is that I’m doing wrong.”
“I’ve got it.” Mr. Dominic snaps his fingers, smirking. “It’s called ‘being you’.”
Topher gives him a withering look. “Ha ha, very clever. Nothing like a little junior high-level humor to brighten my day!” He goes back to his computer. “I’m being serious here, Dom. I realize I’m well and truly screwed, that I’ve sunk to the level where I’m apparently consulting you for advice in matters of l’amour, but-”
Mr. Dominic interjects, “Last time I checked, I was doing just fine.” Topher rolls his eyes.
“You’re shacking up with your boss, there, genius. Even your definition of a ‘successful’ relationship has to be inherently filled with the tang of naughty forbidden fruit?”
“Oh, right, and here you’re just mooning over the girl who works under you! …You make a double entendre out of that, and I’ll snap your fingers like a twig.”
Topher gives an unnecessarily loud cough. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Alright, you seriously want my opinion on what you’re doing wrong? Try this on for size: you haven’t made a move.” Mr. Dominic shakes his head, irritated. “You can’t complain it’s not working if you haven’t tried anything yet.”
“But I have tried! I…it’s called subtlety.” Topher rubs the back of his neck, hunching. “So, maybe I don’t really know how to talk to girls.”
Mr. Dominic sneers. “You can program a professional gigolo, but I’ve watched you trip over yourself making puppy-eyes at Ivy for months now. It’s pathetic,” he says tersely. “Either you get off your ass and do something about it, or give up and start trying to act like a reasonable adult. It’s simple as that.”
“But, I don’t wanna,” Topher all but whines. Mr. Dominic makes a disgusted face, but before he can say anything the Active sits up in the chair.
“Did I-”
“Yeah, yeah, fell asleep, you can go now.” Topher waves a hand at her, dismissive. He bites his lip, thinking. “Maybe if I started sending her anonymous, romantically-themed tweets…”
“Has anyone ever explained to you that you can, in fact, spell ‘love’ without TRO?”
“I think he should go for it,” Madeline says, stepping into the room. She gives Topher an encouraging smile - he stares back at her like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. “If you really care about her, you should do whatever it takes.”
She reaches out to the Active in the chair, taking her gently by the wrist. “Come on, Juliet. How would you like to go to art class?”
“That would be nice,” Juliet says easily.
As Madeline leads her out the door, she glances back with a peaceable smile.
“And you should be more encouraging to him, Mr. Dominic: after all, you’re friends.”
If Madeline notices the startled looks that come over the faces of both men at that, she doesn’t say anything else.
_____
One day, Madeline suddenly gets the urge to bake. She buys a cookbook and ingredients and happily ensconces herself in the kitchen for an evening.
It’s only several varieties and batches later that she realizes she may have gone a little overboard.
So, she boxes the cookies up and brings them into work.
“Madeline, you are officially my new best friend,” Topher declares, a sugar cookie in one hand and two chocolate chip in the other. He makes a face that’s practically orgasmic as he bites into one. “Mmmph. Sorry Boyd, but your endearingly stoic manliness is simply no match for the simple yet awe-inspiring power of delicious homemade baked goods.”
Boyd rolls his eyes slightly as he eats a peanut butter cookie. “Somehow, I think I’ll cope.”
“Oh, you talk big, but I know you’re crying on the inside. Manly, manly tears, of manly pain.” Topher pauses. “From your broken man-heart.”
“We get it,” Mr. Ballard says, blunt.
“Is Topher making up unnecessary words again?” Mr. Dominic asks, entering the room. He stops dead as he notices the piles of cookies on the conference room table. “What in the…”
“Madeline is a cookie diva,” Topher explains - spraying a mouthful of crumbs everywhere. Ivy glares at him as she wipes off her lab-coat in disgust. “Whoops. Sorry.”
Madeline points helpfully: “The oatmeal raisin ones are over there,” she tells Mr. Dominic. “They’re your favorite, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.” He pauses, staring at her uncertainly. “Did I tell you that?”
Madeline shrugs. “In a way.”
Everyone’s sort of looking at her uneasily now.
“Um,” Mr. Ballard offers, quiet, “it’s a little unsettling, just how calmly you take that whole thing in stride.”
She shrugs again, careless. “It’s not really a big deal.” Mr. Ballard gives her an incredulous look. “Well, how should I act, then?”
“I don’t know,” he remarks, eyebrow raised, “normally?”
She just gazes evenly at him, and he gives a short laugh.
“I guess ‘normal’ is kind of a relative definition in this case,” he observes.
Madeline has a slightly smug expression as she helps herself to a cookie. “Now you’re learning, Paul.”
He stares at her, eyes widening. But when she doesn’t speak, he doesn’t say anything either.
_____
“Hi.”
Dr. Saunders looks up from her pile of folders, startled. “Hello, Madeline,” she says slowly. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Nothing in the cafeteria looks good today, so I thought I’d go out for lunch.” Madeline jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Would you like to come?”
The other woman stares at her. “Excuse me?”
Madeline shrugs, hesitant. “It’s just, I’ve been here for awhile but I haven’t really gotten to know you. You never interact with the other employees, but it doesn’t seem like it’s because you want to be alone.”
“Did Boyd put you up to this?”
“Why would he? I just…thought we could be friends.” Madeline offers, “You seem nice.”
The other woman draws a breath. Her eyes narrow, and when next she speaks it’s in a sharp, snapping tone.
“I’m a Doll.”
“What?” Now it’s Madeline’s turn to be taken aback.
“A Doll,” Dr. Saunders repeats, brusque. “This body was scarred when Alpha first escaped. He killed the former doctor, so they created me instead. I’m an imprinted personality. I’m…” she breathes, “not real.”
“Oh.” Madeline pauses. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Dr. Saunders turns back to her work, moving papers with unnecessarily forceful motions. “I’m fine.”
Madeline nods.
“So…did you not want to get lunch together, then?”
Dr. Saunders slowly lifts her head again, staring at her.
“You don’t care that I-”
“Why?” Madeline stops as she thinks of something. Her voice becomes quieter as she asks, “Are you not allowed to leave the building?”
Dr. Saunders looks at her for a long silent moment. She swallows.
“I don’t know,” she admits, softly.
Madeline meets her eyes. At length she offers, “Would you like to find out?”
The other woman turns her head. She gazes down at her desk, her paperwork.
“I’ll be right with you,” she says.
Her hands shake as she goes to hang up her white coat.
_____
“Hello, Madeline.”
“Hello Paul.”
They stand there a moment, looking at each other. It’s late at night and she was just on her way out the door.
Far down below in their glass-covered pods, the Actives are sleeping.
With a measured tone, Paul asks, “Have you forgiven me yet?”
Madeline shrugs.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” She considers it a bit. “I think by now Mellie would have.”
Paul smiles faintly, bittersweet chuckling coming as he nods.
“Yeah. She definitely would have.”
There’s warmth in his eyes - the light of fond remembrance.
Her tone turns cooler. “I’m not her, you know,” she says, reminding him. But he surprises her by shaking his head with a frown.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks around distractedly. “The more I see, the more I become convinced that you can’t erase a person completely. That whoever they are, a piece of them will always remain somehow. And it bleeds through, no matter who it is they try to force them into being.”
Paul looks at her, his gaze deep and contemplative. “I still see little bits of Mellie in you. Or, I guess I was seeing bits of you in her.”
But then he shakes his head again, with an odd sort of smile: “But even so, you’re definitely right. You are not her.”
She feels confused. And possibly vaguely insulted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just…Mellie, she…” He draws a breath, settling more firmly on his words. “Mellie was shy. And she always had this sort of sadness in the back of her eyes. But at the same time, she was just so optimistic: determined to make life work for her, somehow. But, you-”
He gives a short, strained chortle. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he remarks, bewildered. “It’s not like you’re negative, it’s more like you’re just so…indifferent. You just take everything that comes at you and accept it willingly, even the things that make no sense.”
Paul glances up, meeting her seriously in the eyes.
“I could tell you right now to look out, there’s a two-headed robot behind you, and you would grab the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon and already be turning to face it while most people would still be going ‘What?’”
“Well, clearly I’d stand a better chance of fighting off the two-headed robot, then,” she responds calmly. But she supposes he has a point.
Paul is chuckling again, though, so she doesn’t think it bothers him nearly as much as he makes it sound.
“So what do you think of the real me then, Paul Ballard?” she asks him.
“I think…you are definitely an interesting woman, Madeline Costley. And very unlike anyone else I think I’ll ever meet. But I guess there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No?” she asks daintily.
He smiles. “No,” he says.
She gives a nod, as if satisfied.
After a moment, she says, “You know, if you ever wanted to ask me out, like to dinner or the movies, I’d probably say yes.”
His eyes widen, startled. “Oh.”
He looks at her, waiting, confused - she gives him an impatient stare, and frowns.
“Oh!” he says again, and he laughs a bit. “Hey, Madeline, do you think you might like to go out with me sometime?”
“I don’t know,” she replies coolly. “When?”
“Hmm. How does next Wednesday sound?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she says with complete feigned seriousness. “But I’ll let you know.”
“That’d be great.” He smiles at her. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Yes you will.” She nods, turning away. “Goodnight, Paul.”
“Goodnight, Madeline. Pleasant dreams.”
She smiles to herself, content:
“I always have pleasant dreams.”
Title: A Girl Made of Fractured Light
Characters/Pairings: Madeline, Ballard, DeWitt, Dominic, Boyd, Topher, Claire, Echo, mentions of Loomis, Ivy, Mellie; implied Madeline/Ballard, Mellie/Ballard, Topher/Ivy and DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of violence, darker themes and implications
Length: 8,555 words
Spoilers: first season
Notes: set in the Waking 'verse series
Summary: She may not have much of a life, but what she does have, she's taking it in stride.
Madeline isn’t sure what she should do now.
She stands in the middle of her new place and looks around. It’s a little more space than she’s used to, but still cozy, in a way. It’s nice.
The walls, she thinks, are very white and empty.
She doesn’t have any luggage. She sets down her purse, and then goes and sits on the couch with her hands on her knees.
She should call somebody, maybe. Isn’t that what people do when they get out from places, like prisons or hospitals, or come back from somewhere, like on a vacation?
She’s not sure how to describe what it is she did. Hospital, prison, vacation: all sound sort of right and yet, wrong.
It doesn’t matter, though, she realizes. There isn’t anyone to call.
After Katie, she disconnected. Some of her friends tried to reach out to her - doing what friends are supposed to do - but eventually, they all just drifted away.
She hasn’t been close to her parents for awhile. Her father was mad enough when she stopped going to church. Her and her mother still spoke, but every conversation eventually became about how concerned she was that Madeline was “living in sin”, and then they stopped having conversations.
They might’ve come to their granddaughter’s funeral, but Madeline doesn’t remember.
They probably didn’t notice when she disappeared.
Brian was never really there to begin with. He tried: though it wasn’t what he wanted, he stayed involved so his daughter could know her father. He tried to give her support, but without anything to keep him he pretty much ran off, after…
After Katie died. She realizes, she can actually think that now. Before, she couldn’t. It hurt, and she just couldn’t. It couldn’t be true.
Now she can think, Katie is dead. It still hurts, but in a distant way. Like it happened a long time ago.
She supposes it did. It doesn’t feel like years, but that is how long it’s been. Not five years, like stated in the contract she signed, but close.
She wonders why they let her go early. They wouldn’t explain it to her. Maybe she did something wrong. Maybe she wasn’t liked enough by their clients, and there wasn’t enough demand for her.
That’s probably why they wouldn’t tell her. They didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but it’s okay. She’s used to getting her feelings hurt.
Madeline looks at her new, neat, empty apartment and wonders what she’s going to do next.
She doesn’t really want to do much of anything.
She should probably do something, though. She has a lot of money now (though it was never about the money) but if she doesn’t find something to do she’ll probably go crazy, right?
She doesn’t feel like she’s going crazy, though. And while there’s nothing to do, she doesn’t feel like she’s bored.
Truthfully, she doesn’t feel much of anything, at all.
_____
Before everything that happened, Madeline wanted to be a teacher.
She likes children. She always has.
She looks up a job-finding agency, brings them her resume. Before too long she has an interview.
“It looks like everything’s in order, Miss Costley. You have excellent recommendations, and I can tell from your background you’re very enthusiastic about working with young children. There’s just one small question, though.”
Madeline sits with her hands folded in her lap. She’s wearing a new dress.
She says, “Yes?”
“When we looked into your history, it seems…well, you as good as disappeared for a few years there. There’s no record of you, anywhere, at all.” The lady frowns slightly, lowering her glasses on her nose to better look at Madeline. “I’m just curious as to what that’s all about.”
Madeline draws a breath. “My daughter died,” she tells her. “And I just needed to get away, for awhile.”
“I’m sorry. My condolences,” the lady says sympathetically.
“It’s alright,” she acknowledges, polite.
The lady rustles her papers around and clears her throat.
“Well, now that that’s settled…” She smiles at Madeline. “How does Monday sound?”
Kindergartners are very energetic, and noisy. But they don’t have to be tested on facts memorized from history books. They don’t have to learn math or lots of spelling.
Instead, they can just play. She watches them run around, pulling them apart when it gets too rough. She gives them juice and cookies at snack time, helps them with their blankets when they settle down for naps.
At story time, she herds them into a circle and reads in a clear voice aloud from a book turned so they can see the pictures.
She teaches them letters. When they turn in their homework she puts stickers on it, smiley-faces and flowers and kittens. She teaches them about Christopher Columbus, and then they have art class and make decorations for the room on Columbus Day.
When she pins up their pictures, she makes sure they all get on the board. No one likes being left out.
She thinks she has a nice life. She likes her job. She likes the children. The kids make no secret of how they adore her.
She doesn’t have much else, though. But that’s okay.
She has dreams, sometimes. Strange ones. Scary, occasionally, or others that are nicer, but still make no sense. They’re always about things that she feels like she remembers doing but she knows she never did.
The solid feeling of a gun in her hand…an ice cream cone, handed to her by a woman with a shy and pretty smile.
A man sneers, “You will speak when spoken to, dog”…another man says, more gently, “I’m a little nervous; it’s my first time.”
Someone is kissing her. A lot of people are kissing her.
A man grabbing her legs as she struggles, a black mask, and something about flowers in a vase.
It happens when she’s awake sometimes, too. A thought floats into her head, unconnected. Visceral.
She wonders if this is normal - if it happens to everybody, afterwards. She thinks about calling and asking if this is to be expected.
But in the end, she decides not to. She thinks it’s probably best if she completely puts that part of her life behind her.
_____
It’s Thursday night. She was going to make dinner but she hasn’t felt like cooking, so she got a takeout salad instead. She was going to rent a movie, but nothing at the store looked interesting.
She got some books at the library. She’s been reading one for the past half hour, and if she tries, she thinks she might remember what it’s about.
There’s a knock on her door.
For awhile she just stares at it, confused, like she thinks she imagined it or the sound is coming from somewhere else. No one ever knocks on her door.
There’s a knock again.
She puts down her book, gets up and goes to the door, opening it a bit and looking out into the hall.
She expects to see some polite missionary in a suit, or maybe a Chinese takeout attendant with the wrong address.
Instead she sees a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with close-cut brown hair and big earnest eyes. His hands are in his jacket pockets and he’s hunching, nervous.
She thinks he looks familiar somehow.
She opens the door a little more, and asks curiously, “Hello?”
“Hi. Madeline, right? I’m Paul Ballard. I’m with…well, I was with the FBI.” He sucks in a breath, grimacing like there’s a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m from the Dollhouse.”
“Oh,” she says, recalling. “You were there, the day I finished my contract. You were in Ms. DeWitt’s office.”
That must be where she remembers him from.
He nods slowly, acknowledging her words. “Yeah. That’s right.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He seems to have a hard time looking at her - he keeps glancing from the corner of his eye, and then turning his head away. He looks like he doesn’t really want to be there yet feels like he must.
“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Ballard?” she asks him. He winces, and then stiffly turns to meet her eyes.
His gaze is wide, and there’s something pained in there, beneath. “If it’s okay with you,” he tells her wearily after a moment, “I’d rather you called me Paul.”
“Okay. Paul,” she agrees, tentative. “Why are you here? Is it…is it because of my contract? Is there something wrong, that I need to fix?”
He gives a short, humorless laugh. “No. This has got nothing to do with that. They didn’t send me here, I came on my own. I just, I wanted…I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Madeline.” He stumbles over her name slightly, as if he were almost about to call her something else. “Do you know what they did to you? I mean; those years you were at the Dollhouse, do you know what they made you do?”
“Yes,” she answers, simply. “I know.” The look on his face is incredulous, so she shrugs. “I know about it. Why?”
He runs a hand over his hair. “This is going to be hard to explain,” he mutters, more to himself. He draws a deep breath, bracing.
“One of the times you were imprinted, programmed, as somebody else, one of the times you were another person…we knew each other.”
“We did?” she asks blankly.
“Yes.” His hands curl into fists and he licks his lips like they’re dry. “And at first, I didn’t know. But then I did. And I still…”
He trails off, looking away from her again as he searches for the words.
She has a sudden sweep of memory: of stroking naked muscle as strong hands wrap around her waist. Her own voice in a sigh saying, “You’re so neighborly.”
A knot makes itself in her stomach, tight.
“Mr. Ballard,” she says, and he looks up, startled, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you. I don’t really want to talk to you.”
He looks stricken: “But wait, please, I have to-”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, firmly, “but I don’t think it’s good for me to have anything to do with that part of my life. I’m trying to move on. Goodbye.”
She shuts the door on him as politely as she can.
She goes back to the couch and sits down again, but doesn’t return to her book. She twists her hands together, wringing them. She’s not sure why but her heart is racing.
When she goes to bed that night, she stares up at the ceiling for awhile.
She thinks she has a hazy memory of lying down on a mat sunk beneath the floorboards, of a cover over her head made out of glass.
_____
It’s Friday. Madeline has been feeling distracted all day for reasons she can’t articulate.
There are fuzzy shadows in her head, a nagging sense like there’s something important she should remember but can’t, but it’s almost there.
She feels like there are a lot of things in her head that are almost there.
She stays late at the school, cleaning up. Parent-teacher conferences are next week. She might as well start getting ready.
She carefully gathers the art supplies, counts up the crayons and brushes and markers to make sure they’re all there.
She likes doing art with the kids. It might be her favorite thing. She loves the simple pictures they make, the enjoyment they get from it.
She’s making sure the lids on all the paints are tight when she hears a noise in the hall, so she goes out to look.
There’s a woman standing with her back to her, looking at the children’s drawings on the board. She has long brown hair. Madeline can’t be sure from this angle, but she looks too young to be one of the parents.
“Hello?” she asks, carefully.
The woman turns around at her voice.
“Madeline Costley?” She pulls a badge from inside her jacket, flips it open. “Nicole Dominic, NSA.”
She’s wearing tailored pants and shoes with just a little heel, but her jacket is more casual, brown corduroy. And her dress shirt is all wrong for a professional woman: it’s far too bright a shade of red.
Madeline stares at it, mesmerized. It’s such a strong and vibrant color.
But then the woman continues, “I’d like to talk to you about the Dollhouse.”
Madeline feels cold. She looks up at the woman’s face.
_____
“I’m really sorry. But I don’t think I can help you.”
They’re sitting at a table in her classroom. Nicole Dominic is in the chair used at story time. Madeline pulled up one of the toy-chests for herself.
The young woman watches her carefully. “You’re sure you have no idea what I’m talking about?”
“I’m sure.” Madeline nods. “I really am very sorry.” The other woman’s frown deepens as she thinks.
“If it’s the terms of the contract that have you worried,” she says evenly, “let me assure you, whatever that organization claims, they don’t have legal authority to come after you should you reveal any information to us.”
Madeline swallows lightly, but keeps her face blank.
“But I don’t have any secrets to reveal,” she repeats. “I keep telling you, I’ve never heard of this Dollhouse. I’ve never been there, or worked for them. I swear.”
Nicole Dominic meets her gaze and looks at her for a long silent moment, taking her in. Scrutinizing her. Madeline tries not to flinch.
It’s not because of her contract that she’s uneasy about talking about the Dollhouse with strangers. Something about telling this woman seems like it’d be…wrong, somehow. It just doesn’t feel quite safe.
“I have information to suggest that you’re a former Active, a Doll,” Nicole Dominic states. Her mouth twists in a funny way when she adds, “It comes from a fairly reliable source.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Madeline lies. Her voice sounds as calm and empty as she usually feels.
The other woman eyes her one last time and then, finally, she nods.
“I guess it’s possible we could’ve been mistaken,” she says, apparently believing her. She looks to the side, sighing and making a disgruntled face: “Just another dead end.”
She gets to her feet and Madeline rises as well, giving her a polite, apologetic smile.
“I really do wish I could be more help to you, Agent Dominic…Nicole? Is it okay if I call you Nicole?”
“Sure. Why not?” Still not looking back at her, Nicole gives a tiny snort. “Just don’t call me ‘Nikki’, and we’ll get along just fine.”
A faded image rises, suddenly, of a brown-haired girl in pigtails sitting on a swing.
Madeline is pushing her, but the hands she sees aren’t her own hands. They’re too small, and the body she’s in doesn’t feel right.
“That’s right,” she murmurs aloud. “You never did like being called ‘Nikki’. Not even when you were little.”
Nicole, all but turned to go, stops right in her tracks. She twists back again sharply to face her.
“Who told you that?” Her eyes have gone wide and bright with suspicion.
“I…” Madeline frowns, blinking slowly, confused.
This is something she shouldn’t know, she realizes too late.
“I don’t know,” she offers. “It just feels like I remember it, from somewhere.”
Nicole’s eyes narrow. “I see.”
Coolly she continues, “And you’re absolutely sure, Miss Costley, that you know nothing at all about the Dollhouse?”
“No,” Madeline says, but her voice is hesitant, “nothing.”
“Of course,” says Nicole. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe her. “Have a nice night, Miss Costley. And thanks for your time.”
After the other woman is gone, Madeline stares down at the floor.
She’s not sure how, but she thinks she might’ve just made a mistake.
_____
Mr. Ballard (Paul, a voice in her head says insistently) said he used to work for the FBI. So at least she has somewhere to start.
She’s not sure why she looks for him, of all people. Maybe she just has nowhere else to go.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but could you please tell me…?”
No one wants to talk to her or give her any answers. They hear the name of the man she’s looking for and roll their eyes, sneering, turn their backs and walk away in disgust.
She’s about to give up, when-
“Did you say ‘Paul Ballard’?”
The woman is dark-skinned with a shorn head, and she’s staring at Madeline like she’s seen a ghost.
“You,” she says. “My god. I don’t believe it.”
“Hello. My name is Madeline Costley,” she replies politely, after a moment. “Do you know where I can find-” Paul, the voice goes “-Mr. Ballard?”
“I know his cell number,” the woman says, slowly. She keeps looking at Madeline with wide eyes. “I can get in contact with him for you. Who, uh, should I say is…?”
“Madeline,” she repeats. “He knows who I am.” Something funny happens to the woman’s facial expression at that. “Ask him, if he can please meet me at my apartment. Tell him I’m very sorry to bother him, but something’s happened and I need to talk.”
She sits on her couch later, wondering if she should feel silly. She’s not sure what’s bothering her. She doesn’t feel threatened, exactly, just uncertain.
Like something big or dangerous is going on, and she can sense it even if she doesn’t know what it is. Like when she was young and her parents got divorced.
But my parents didn’t get divorced, Madeline thinks. They’re happily married. They don’t believe in divorce, anyway.
But how does she remember the pain and shame of a broken home, all the same?
There’s a knock at the door.
“Madeline? Miss Costley? It’s me, Paul Ballard.”
For some reason, her body relaxes at the sound of his voice. She lets him in.
“I don’t mean to cause a problem-” She feels like she should offer him something, but isn’t sure what - coffee, dinner, juice?
“It’s no trouble, really.” He’s just as uncomfortable around her as before, but trying to conceal it.
“I’m sure you must be wondering what’s wrong with me: that I chased you away because I didn’t want to talk about the Dollhouse, and now here I am calling you back again.” She looks down, trying to find the words. “But it’s been hard to get off my mind lately. I mean, first you came, and then there was that woman with the badge asking all her questions-”
His head jerks up, gaze suddenly focused. “Hold on. What woman?”
“She said she was from the NSA. She said her name was Nicole…something or other-”
“Dominic?” he asks, sharply. “Nicole Dominic?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Taking in the look on his face, she goes, softly, “She’s not who she said she was, is she?”
“No. She’s exactly who she says she is,” he tells her, grim. “And that’s the problem.”
Madeline takes that in; he clears his throat, going, “I know this probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but I don’t think you should stay here.” His tone is calm but urgent. “We need to move, now.”
She nods. “Okay.” She grabs her purse. If he thinks it’s odd, how easily she agrees or how she doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t comment.
He checks the hallway to make sure its clear then nods back at her. They make their way towards the elevator, but just as they reach it the door slides open.
Nicole Dominic is standing there. Her gaze focuses instantly, taking in the sight of both of them.
Several things seem to happen at once. Nicole’s expression sets into one of steely determination. She starts to take a step out of the elevator.
And Mr. Ballard moves to intersect her, just as he grabs Madeline by the arm and shoves her towards the stairwell.
“Get out of here,” he orders firmly.
Nicole makes a move which he blocks, and he makes a countermove that she blocks as well. Another move from her, another block from him - then, he reaches for her but she swiftly undercuts him, striking him hard in the stomach.
He sags, winded, and she swiftly shoves him backward, pinning him against the wall.
He yells at her again, “Madeline, run!”
She listens to him. Her feet move as fast as they can carry her - she doesn’t look back as she reaches the stairwell and rushes down the first flight.
“Wait!” She freezes, startled, and looks up to see Nicole has followed her: she stands on the landing above, yelling at her, “You’ve got it all wrong. I wasn’t sent to hurt you!”
But Mr. Ballard appears again, body-checking Nicole as slams into her from the side. With a startled grunt she twists to engage him, and Madeline doesn’t stay to watch. She just keeps running.
Ballard’s car is parked out front. She wonders why she recognizes it, but doesn’t stop to think. It’s open, which isn’t very safe of him - she climbs into the front passenger seat and locks the doors behind her.
She drops her head and closes her eyes, curling up slightly as she hugs herself.
What’s going on? Why is this happening? She thought once her contract expired she’d be better; she’d be done. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?
The memories float through her head, all churned together and indistinguishable.
“A clean slate.”
“Just a little jet-lagged.”
“Your brain rocks!”
“You just said exactly what I needed to hear.”
“I’m going to call her ‘Katie’.”
“…a new mission for you: have you heard of something called ‘the Dollhouse’?”
“The second flower is green.”
When Mr. Ballard finally appears she’s chuckling softly, hysterically to herself. She unlocks the door; he gives her a wary look as he gets in.
“Sorry,” she giggles. “It’s just what happens,” she gulps, fighting to regain control, “when I get scared.”
He’s already starting the car. His motions are hurried but purposeful, controlled. She takes a good look at him as she calms down: there are scratches across the side of his face, a deep bruise just below one eye.
“Is Nicole…?” Madeline asks, hesitant. “D-did you have to…?”
“She’s fine. Well, in a manner of speaking.” A muscle in Mr. Ballard’s jaw twitches. “I’m sure she’s hurting in a few places, but not enough to stop her from coming after us.” They’re already moving, zooming along. “Which is why we need to get out of here.”
“You’re not wearing your seatbelt,” she observes. He turns to look at her, realizes she’s serious and then, after a slow blink, reaches to put it on.
She smiles faintly. “Thank you.”
He nods, silent.
“I’m sorry about this,” he says after a moment. He looks not at her but straight at the road. “Really I am.”
“I’m the one she came after.” Madeline shrugs. She glances out the windows. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Mr. Ballard gives a terse, humorless laugh.
“The only place I can think of that’s safe right now,” he says, voice full of bitter irony: “The Dollhouse.”
_____
She’s back in the same office from the day her contract was completed.
There are a lot of people there. Some she recognizes - Ms. DeWitt, the tall and quiet man she met that day (she feels bad that she’s forgotten his name, but she remembers his eyes: dark and deep), and Mr. Ballard of course.
There are two other men as well. Both are fair, blond, the taller one in a tailored suit and the other in a sweater-vest and sneakers. The first stands close to the wall, his arms folded across his chest, silent and composed.
The second isn’t silent, and is definitely not composed. He paces, hands twitching unaccountably over his head as he speaks a mile a minute.
“Not good. Just…not good, at all! Bad enough when the NSA was flagging our Actives, but now they’re going after former Dolls as well? Nothing is safe! And you.”
He whirls on Mr. Ballard, pointing, wild-eyed. “What were you even thinking, coming here? Don’t you realize you’ve probably led her straight to us? I mean, what is it with you, and the…leading. First Alpha, now the NSA - what are you, the ‘Pied Piper of Every Person We’ve Ever Actually Tried to Keep Off Our Front Doorstep’?”
“Is he going to be okay?” Madeline asks, concerned. He sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate.
“No, but he never is,” the man in the suit gives a gruff sigh. He steps away from the wall, arms dropping as he goes, more loudly, “Topher!”
He cuts off mid-babble, wordlessly turning.
“I work here, remember?” The man in the suit points at the floor, indicating their location. “The NSA already knows where the Dollhouse is.”
“Oh!” The other man - Topher - nods. He chuckles. “That’s right. You were a spy! You know, I think I actually forgot about that.”
The first man rolls his eyes with an irritated growl.
“Well, even if getting inside the Dollhouse isn’t a concern of the agency,” the dark-eyed man says, solemn, “what are we going to do now? Now that they know who Miss Costley is, they’re going to keep coming after her.”
“Actually,” the man in the suit interjects, “assuming they want information they can be sure is accurate, probably not. Not now that she’s been back here, anyway.”
Mr. Ballard frowns. “Why?”
Ms. DeWitt speaks, quiet yet firm. “Because as far as the NSA is concerned, we may as well have wiped her again, altered her memories.”
There’s a tense pause.
“You won’t, will you?” Madeline asks. “I wasn’t going to tell her anyway. I swear.”
“No. We won’t,” Mr. Ballard says firmly.
“You’re in no position to be making promises, Ballard-”
“Of course not,” Ms. DeWitt says loudly, forcing them into silence. She meets Madeline’s eyes evenly, as if they are the only two here. “I have no intention of doing any such thing.” More softly she adds, “I trust you, Madeline.”
“Thank you.” When no one else speaks she continues, rambling, “I tried to pretend I didn’t remember, when that woman came to see me. But I messed up, said too much. I knew she didn’t like to be called ‘Nikki’. It made her suspicious.”
“Wait.” The man in the pale suit frowns. “How could you have-?”
She turns to look at him…and the name “Laurence Dominic” echoes in her head. She feels a sweeping wave of recognition.
“You.” Her voice rings loudly and he falls silent, startled. “I know you,” Madeline says, trying to piece together the thoughts in her head. “I…recognize you, somehow.”
Mr. Dominic stares at her, frozen. His eyes get wider and wider.
Topher gives an incredulous laugh. “Uh. That doesn’t make-”
“No. It’s not like…I know you, it’s more like I…” She struggles to describe it. I know what it feels like to be you, runs through her mind.
“You were…inside-”
She stops at the expressions flickering across everyone’s faces: “I guess that’s not the best way to say that.”
She tries again. “But you, you were in my…” She raises a hand and presses a finger to the side of her temple. “Here. Weren’t you?”
Everyone is staring at her.
Looking away, Madeline states, “I remember being scared, tied up. Screaming.”
“You…imprinted him, in her?” Mr. Ballard demands accusingly, revolted. “When was this?”
“It was just the one time,” Topher says dismissively.
“Oh, well,” Mr. Ballard goes, sardonically, “I don’t even know why I’m upset, then!”
Snapping, Topher returns, “Yeah, why are you?”
“It’s okay,” Madeline says, interrupting them. “It’s what I was here for, right? To have those other people put inside me.” She gazes at Ms. DeWitt. “To help people that needed helping.”
“You remember…no; you’re not supposed to,” Topher protests. He presses a hand to his forehead, flabbergasted. “You remember…the imprints…all of it?”
“Not really. Just bits and pieces. And it’s all…hazy. Memories that aren’t mine. Things I was sure I didn’t do.” Madeline looks down at her hands. “But I guess I did do them, didn’t I?”
She hears the crack of a man’s neck snapping, as she stomps with one bare foot on his spine.
Mr. Dominic partially slumps where he leans against the wall now, gaze unfocused and one fist pressed over his mouth. He looks like he’s trying not to be sick.
“That’s…” Topher’s talking again. “Astounding. Amazing! I mean, with everything we do to them, the wipes should be thorough and complete, especially once the full original personality is restored, intact.” He waves his hands. “There must be some underlying neurological compound, something about the very pathways that’s resisting…”
He laughs again, wide-eyed. “This is all fascinating stuff!”
Madeline looks at him. “Would you like to study my brain?”
Topher grins incredulously: “Would I!”
There’s a beat as everyone else glares at him.
“But, I wouldn’t…because that would be wrong.”
Ms. DeWitt forces a stiff smile, clearing her throat. “Madeline. Would you excuse us for awhile? I believe there are some things that my staff and I need to discuss.”
“Okay.” She leaves them and goes out onto the landing.
She looks down at the atrium, sees all the people there. They walk around with serene and carefree expressions.
“Maybe something bad happened to us, and they’re helping us get better.”
Bits of her time here come through. She remembers getting a massage, doing exercises. She remembers the people that took care of her, speaking to her in calm and authoritative voices, letting her know she was safe.
“I think they like it here.”
She looks towards the warm lights, smiling. “I try to be my best,” she recites lightly.
Something moves. She turns her head and sees someone in one of the offices down the way - the doctor’s office, she faintly recalls. Curious, she goes in that direction.
It’s Mr. Dominic. He’s standing in the middle of the room with the lights off, eyes wide, head slightly bowed, his arms folded in a way that seems more like he’s hugging himself.
“I know who she is.” Madeline stands in the open doorway, body pressed to one side of the frame. He jolts, staring at her. “I know who she is, to you. Nicole.”
He just keeps staring. His throat works like he’s swallowing, like he’s struggling to breathe.
She closes her eyes partially, focusing on the wisps in her head. “You used to take her to the local park to play on the swing-set, because your backyard wasn’t big enough for one. You had to cut through the woods to get there.”
She can see the dappled light coming through the leaves; hear the crunch of branches underfoot.
“She’d always go, ‘higher, push me higher!’, and you were always a little afraid to.” She opens her eyes. “But you did it anyway, because she asked.”
He doesn’t speak, at first. “How much of…how much, do you actually remember?”
His voice is quiet, every line of his body rigid: he looks like a part of him wants nothing more than to run away screaming.
Madeline shakes her head. “Not that much. Just pieces, more of a sense than solid memories.” She almost laughs. “It’s not like I’ve stolen your brain.”
“Are you lying to make me feel better?” he demands.
“If I was,” she counters, “would you really want to know?”
His mouth twitches into a wry smirk. “You have a point.”
“There you are.” At the voice, Madeline takes a step into the room and turns around. Mr. Ballard and Ms. DeWitt are standing there. “We were wondering where you’d gotten to.”
Ms. DeWitt gazes past Madeline, giving Mr. Dominic a look. He nods.
“I’m fine,” he responds to her unasked question. Ms. DeWitt nods back.
“Madeline,” she says, turning back to her, “we’ve discussed the matter in-depth and, while it seems unlikely the NSA will try contacting you again, it would be unwise to make you too easy a target for them to find. I’m afraid you’re going to have to relocate. We’ll secure a new apartment for you, of course.”
“You’ll have to find a different job, too,” Mr. Ballard adds. “I’m so sorry, Madeline.”
“It’s okay, really,” she tells them. “I think I was going to end up switching eventually, anyway. Kindergartners are so noisy.”
She steps forward; Mr. Ballard and Ms. DeWitt part as she moves past them, going to the railing.
She gazes down at the Dolls calmly going about their tasks.
“But them, they’re never noisy.” She turns to smile at the staff members over her shoulder. “Are they?”
Mr. Dominic’s expression is unreadable. Ms. DeWitt looks surprised. Mr. Ballard is somewhere between speechless and stricken.
Finally, slowly, Ms. DeWitt goes, “If you’re interested, we may have a position available among our Active caretakers.”
Madeline turns around completely, still smiling.
“Yes. I’m interested.”
_____
There is another contract for her to sign.
Ms. DeWitt watches silently, as she marks her name neatly on the dotted line.
“Would you care for a tour of the premises?” she offers, once Madeline is finished. She hesitates. “Or…do you still remember things clearly, from when first you-”
“Checked in?” Madeline offers. “I think you should probably show me around again,” she says honestly. “I don’t think I was really paying attention, then.”
Ms. DeWitt nods. “Mr. Langton?”
He takes a step aside, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “Right this way, Miss Costley.”
“You know,” she says to him, as they walk out of the office, “you can call me Madeline. I think I’d like it better if you did.”
He smiles faintly: “Only if you agree to call me Boyd.”
“Okay.” She smiles back, nodding. “Boyd.”
_____
“That’s a very nice picture, Quebec.” She bends down, looking at the solid lines of crayon. “Would you like to tell me about it?”
“This is the sun.” He points to the colors and wavy squiggles, reciting gravely. “It’s very warm, and bright. We don’t get to see the sun here. I think this is because it can hurt you with too much light, like how your tummy hurts when you eat too much.”
She nods, giving him an encouraging smile. “That’s very good.”
He smiles back, rewarded. He smoothes his hands proudly over his picture.
“What about mine?” the male Active seated at the table nearest to Quebec demands. “Is it good too?”
Madeline resists the urge to giggle at how endearing they are, like puppies seeking attention. “Of course, Papa. Yours is very nice too.”
Papa’s whole face crinkles as he grins broadly. “Mine is very nice,” he repeats.
Madeline wishes she were allowed to give them stickers. They’d probably like that a lot.
Something drifts along the edge of her vision and she looks up. Echo stands nearby to where the art class is. She’s watching Madeline with a confused frown on her face.
Madeline straightens. “Is something wrong?”
“I know you,” Echo says. She looks at her carefully. “I remember you. You used to be here with us, before. But you left.”
Echo’s head tilts, appraising her.
“You’re different now.”
Madeline smiles softly. “Yes, I am.”
Echo doesn’t say anything else for a moment.
Finally, she goes, with a mixture of sadness and urgency, “Can we still be friends?”
Madeline’s smile grows wider and warmer. She reaches out to gently squeeze Echo on the shoulder. “Of course we can.”
Echo rests a hand over hers and smiles at her in return.
_____
She knows it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Ballard tries to speak to her again.
He waits until her first week is nearly over. He catches her as she’s leaving the employee break-room, intersecting with her in the hall.
He has that pained uneasy look on his face, and clears his throat heavily. “Madeline. I hate to make you uncomfortable, but there’s a conversation I think we really need to finish.”
She asks him, “What was her name?”
He stops, staring at her, startled. “What?”
“The woman I was imprinted with, when you met me. The one you had a relationship with. What was her name?”
He swallows. His voice is quiet. “Mellie.”
“Mellie,” she repeats slowly, feeling it on her tongue. She looks back up at him.
“She was real, you know,” she tells him; “As real as all the others were. Maybe not the way you’d want to define her, but she was. She was real to herself. And she was real to you.”
His mouth opens, then closes. Like he wants to argue, but can’t.
“So I don’t blame you, for falling in love with her,” she continues evenly. “You don’t need to be forgiven for that.”
“I…” He lets out a deep breath, and this time he does start to speak. But she cuts him off.
“But breaking her heart? That you did knowingly. And she felt it in every part of her, imprinted or not.”
She swallows tightly, a hand over her chest as she remembers looking down from a bridge, and thinking it couldn’t possibly be a greater drop than the one she felt inside.
“What you do need to be forgiven for is that,” she says to him, her voice tight and cold. Delivering an ultimatum. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to.”
His expression is crumbling, confused and sorrowed. “No, wait, I-”
“Goodbye, Mr. Ballard.”
She turns her back on him and walks away, returning to work.
_____
Madeline can’t stand looking at empty white walls any longer.
One day at work when there’s downtime, she goes over to Boyd.
“Excuse me. This might be a little forward, and weird, but I thought I could ask you a favor. I want to paint my apartment, and I was wondering if you would help me. I need somebody tall.”
Boyd blinks a little, caught off-guard. With a slight frown he glances over at Mr. Ballard, who is standing only a short distance away.
Mr. Ballard says nothing. He just drops his head.
“Okay, sure.” Boyd looks at her again. “I’d be happy to help.”
He goes with her to the hardware store so she can get everything in one trip. Madeline asks his opinion when she picks out the colors, even though all he does is smile faintly and shrug. She likes having somebody to bounce her ideas off of, anyway.
They put sheets over her furniture and use tape to cover the molding. The paint she picked out is a pale strawberry pink, with blue and purple for trim.
She and Boyd put the paint on in mostly silence, him standing on the ladder to work towards the ceiling, and her next to him standing on the floor. It’s a companionable, comfortable silence, not awkward at all. They make small talk. At one point she catches him humming faintly under his breath, so she sings along.
By the time they’re finished, it’s evening. They order pizza. Boyd’s eyebrow goes up slightly when she pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, but he doesn’t comment.
They eat dinner on her sheet-covered couch, admiring their handiwork. She tells him stories about her dead daughter. He tells her stories about his dead wife.
Over the weekend Madeline does the bathroom by herself. It’s a deep cerulean blue, accents in white. Her new shower curtain has smiling fish on it.
The bedroom she leaves the same color, but she picks out decorations and upholstery in dark yellows and tan. She hires someone to come in and replace with carpet with something warmer. Her new bedspread is golden, covered in suns and stars and constellations.
She lies on it after everything is done, tracing sunbursts and shooting stars with her finger and smiling faintly to herself.
She feels a bit like Martha Stewart, only without the jail time, or the empire.
Tomorrow she’ll go shopping for new plates to match the colors in her kitchen. Maybe she can find some with butterflies.
_____
Madeline has never seen the imprinting process before - at least, not from the outside.
She knows that Topher is currently wiping someone, so she goes upstairs to look.
When she gets to the lab she sees an Active twitching in the chair, but Topher is already talking to someone. She stays outside the door, not wanting to interrupt.
“…all I’m saying is, there’s got to be some simple explanation,” the tech is saying. He turns away from his keyboard. “One key flaw to explain what it is that I’m doing wrong.”
“I’ve got it.” Mr. Dominic snaps his fingers, smirking. “It’s called ‘being you’.”
Topher gives him a withering look. “Ha ha, very clever. Nothing like a little junior high-level humor to brighten my day!” He goes back to his computer. “I’m being serious here, Dom. I realize I’m well and truly screwed, that I’ve sunk to the level where I’m apparently consulting you for advice in matters of l’amour, but-”
Mr. Dominic interjects, “Last time I checked, I was doing just fine.” Topher rolls his eyes.
“You’re shacking up with your boss, there, genius. Even your definition of a ‘successful’ relationship has to be inherently filled with the tang of naughty forbidden fruit?”
“Oh, right, and here you’re just mooning over the girl who works under you! …You make a double entendre out of that, and I’ll snap your fingers like a twig.”
Topher gives an unnecessarily loud cough. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Alright, you seriously want my opinion on what you’re doing wrong? Try this on for size: you haven’t made a move.” Mr. Dominic shakes his head, irritated. “You can’t complain it’s not working if you haven’t tried anything yet.”
“But I have tried! I…it’s called subtlety.” Topher rubs the back of his neck, hunching. “So, maybe I don’t really know how to talk to girls.”
Mr. Dominic sneers. “You can program a professional gigolo, but I’ve watched you trip over yourself making puppy-eyes at Ivy for months now. It’s pathetic,” he says tersely. “Either you get off your ass and do something about it, or give up and start trying to act like a reasonable adult. It’s simple as that.”
“But, I don’t wanna,” Topher all but whines. Mr. Dominic makes a disgusted face, but before he can say anything the Active sits up in the chair.
“Did I-”
“Yeah, yeah, fell asleep, you can go now.” Topher waves a hand at her, dismissive. He bites his lip, thinking. “Maybe if I started sending her anonymous, romantically-themed tweets…”
“Has anyone ever explained to you that you can, in fact, spell ‘love’ without TRO?”
“I think he should go for it,” Madeline says, stepping into the room. She gives Topher an encouraging smile - he stares back at her like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. “If you really care about her, you should do whatever it takes.”
She reaches out to the Active in the chair, taking her gently by the wrist. “Come on, Juliet. How would you like to go to art class?”
“That would be nice,” Juliet says easily.
As Madeline leads her out the door, she glances back with a peaceable smile.
“And you should be more encouraging to him, Mr. Dominic: after all, you’re friends.”
If Madeline notices the startled looks that come over the faces of both men at that, she doesn’t say anything else.
_____
One day, Madeline suddenly gets the urge to bake. She buys a cookbook and ingredients and happily ensconces herself in the kitchen for an evening.
It’s only several varieties and batches later that she realizes she may have gone a little overboard.
So, she boxes the cookies up and brings them into work.
“Madeline, you are officially my new best friend,” Topher declares, a sugar cookie in one hand and two chocolate chip in the other. He makes a face that’s practically orgasmic as he bites into one. “Mmmph. Sorry Boyd, but your endearingly stoic manliness is simply no match for the simple yet awe-inspiring power of delicious homemade baked goods.”
Boyd rolls his eyes slightly as he eats a peanut butter cookie. “Somehow, I think I’ll cope.”
“Oh, you talk big, but I know you’re crying on the inside. Manly, manly tears, of manly pain.” Topher pauses. “From your broken man-heart.”
“We get it,” Mr. Ballard says, blunt.
“Is Topher making up unnecessary words again?” Mr. Dominic asks, entering the room. He stops dead as he notices the piles of cookies on the conference room table. “What in the…”
“Madeline is a cookie diva,” Topher explains - spraying a mouthful of crumbs everywhere. Ivy glares at him as she wipes off her lab-coat in disgust. “Whoops. Sorry.”
Madeline points helpfully: “The oatmeal raisin ones are over there,” she tells Mr. Dominic. “They’re your favorite, right?”
“Uh. Yeah.” He pauses, staring at her uncertainly. “Did I tell you that?”
Madeline shrugs. “In a way.”
Everyone’s sort of looking at her uneasily now.
“Um,” Mr. Ballard offers, quiet, “it’s a little unsettling, just how calmly you take that whole thing in stride.”
She shrugs again, careless. “It’s not really a big deal.” Mr. Ballard gives her an incredulous look. “Well, how should I act, then?”
“I don’t know,” he remarks, eyebrow raised, “normally?”
She just gazes evenly at him, and he gives a short laugh.
“I guess ‘normal’ is kind of a relative definition in this case,” he observes.
Madeline has a slightly smug expression as she helps herself to a cookie. “Now you’re learning, Paul.”
He stares at her, eyes widening. But when she doesn’t speak, he doesn’t say anything either.
_____
“Hi.”
Dr. Saunders looks up from her pile of folders, startled. “Hello, Madeline,” she says slowly. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Nothing in the cafeteria looks good today, so I thought I’d go out for lunch.” Madeline jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “Would you like to come?”
The other woman stares at her. “Excuse me?”
Madeline shrugs, hesitant. “It’s just, I’ve been here for awhile but I haven’t really gotten to know you. You never interact with the other employees, but it doesn’t seem like it’s because you want to be alone.”
“Did Boyd put you up to this?”
“Why would he? I just…thought we could be friends.” Madeline offers, “You seem nice.”
The other woman draws a breath. Her eyes narrow, and when next she speaks it’s in a sharp, snapping tone.
“I’m a Doll.”
“What?” Now it’s Madeline’s turn to be taken aback.
“A Doll,” Dr. Saunders repeats, brusque. “This body was scarred when Alpha first escaped. He killed the former doctor, so they created me instead. I’m an imprinted personality. I’m…” she breathes, “not real.”
“Oh.” Madeline pauses. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Dr. Saunders turns back to her work, moving papers with unnecessarily forceful motions. “I’m fine.”
Madeline nods.
“So…did you not want to get lunch together, then?”
Dr. Saunders slowly lifts her head again, staring at her.
“You don’t care that I-”
“Why?” Madeline stops as she thinks of something. Her voice becomes quieter as she asks, “Are you not allowed to leave the building?”
Dr. Saunders looks at her for a long silent moment. She swallows.
“I don’t know,” she admits, softly.
Madeline meets her eyes. At length she offers, “Would you like to find out?”
The other woman turns her head. She gazes down at her desk, her paperwork.
“I’ll be right with you,” she says.
Her hands shake as she goes to hang up her white coat.
_____
“Hello, Madeline.”
“Hello Paul.”
They stand there a moment, looking at each other. It’s late at night and she was just on her way out the door.
Far down below in their glass-covered pods, the Actives are sleeping.
With a measured tone, Paul asks, “Have you forgiven me yet?”
Madeline shrugs.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” She considers it a bit. “I think by now Mellie would have.”
Paul smiles faintly, bittersweet chuckling coming as he nods.
“Yeah. She definitely would have.”
There’s warmth in his eyes - the light of fond remembrance.
Her tone turns cooler. “I’m not her, you know,” she says, reminding him. But he surprises her by shaking his head with a frown.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks around distractedly. “The more I see, the more I become convinced that you can’t erase a person completely. That whoever they are, a piece of them will always remain somehow. And it bleeds through, no matter who it is they try to force them into being.”
Paul looks at her, his gaze deep and contemplative. “I still see little bits of Mellie in you. Or, I guess I was seeing bits of you in her.”
But then he shakes his head again, with an odd sort of smile: “But even so, you’re definitely right. You are not her.”
She feels confused. And possibly vaguely insulted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just…Mellie, she…” He draws a breath, settling more firmly on his words. “Mellie was shy. And she always had this sort of sadness in the back of her eyes. But at the same time, she was just so optimistic: determined to make life work for her, somehow. But, you-”
He gives a short, strained chortle. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he remarks, bewildered. “It’s not like you’re negative, it’s more like you’re just so…indifferent. You just take everything that comes at you and accept it willingly, even the things that make no sense.”
Paul glances up, meeting her seriously in the eyes.
“I could tell you right now to look out, there’s a two-headed robot behind you, and you would grab the nearest thing that could be used as a weapon and already be turning to face it while most people would still be going ‘What?’”
“Well, clearly I’d stand a better chance of fighting off the two-headed robot, then,” she responds calmly. But she supposes he has a point.
Paul is chuckling again, though, so she doesn’t think it bothers him nearly as much as he makes it sound.
“So what do you think of the real me then, Paul Ballard?” she asks him.
“I think…you are definitely an interesting woman, Madeline Costley. And very unlike anyone else I think I’ll ever meet. But I guess there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No?” she asks daintily.
He smiles. “No,” he says.
She gives a nod, as if satisfied.
After a moment, she says, “You know, if you ever wanted to ask me out, like to dinner or the movies, I’d probably say yes.”
His eyes widen, startled. “Oh.”
He looks at her, waiting, confused - she gives him an impatient stare, and frowns.
“Oh!” he says again, and he laughs a bit. “Hey, Madeline, do you think you might like to go out with me sometime?”
“I don’t know,” she replies coolly. “When?”
“Hmm. How does next Wednesday sound?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she says with complete feigned seriousness. “But I’ll let you know.”
“That’d be great.” He smiles at her. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“Yes you will.” She nods, turning away. “Goodnight, Paul.”
“Goodnight, Madeline. Pleasant dreams.”
She smiles to herself, content:
“I always have pleasant dreams.”