Dollhouse Fic: "A Touch of the Plague" (ensemble, R)
Oh man, sorry this took so long, you guys. I think the characters were rebelling against the fact that they'd have to interact with Nasty McPsychoBitch over here. (Guess I can't really blame 'em.)
Title: A Touch of the Plague
Characters/Pairings: DeWitt, Dominic, Topher, Langton, Madeline, Claire, Ivy, Ballard, Charity (OC), various others; mention of DeWitt/Dominic, Madeline/Ballard, Ivy/Topher
Rating: R for language, mention of violence and sadisim, drinking, dark themes, multiple implications of noncon
Length: 14,060
Spoilers: first season; specific mention of events in 1x06, "Man On The Street" and 1x10, "Haunted".
Notes: Part of the 'Waking verse
Summary: The whole House must deal with the outcome when an unwelcome face appears and things go from bad to worse.
Adelle woke up this morning with a bad feeling.
Oh, it’s certainly not unexplained, nor unwarranted. After all, as she well knows, today is the day her House is scheduled to undergo “examination” by some appointed lackey on behalf of the Center - all her affairs put under a microscope, on account of a security incident that does not appear to be in any way her actual fault.
Of course, everything that happens in her House is her fault. One way or another. Of this, she is well aware.
Still, little wonder though it is she should have cause to feel apprehension, she cannot shake the unnerving sense that she is feeling somehow worse on top of it: that some deeper instinct is trying to give her further warning.
It’s as if, though she is already expecting things to be quite bad, something is telling her she should be prepared for them to be worse.
Her warning instincts don’t tend to be wrong in situations like these. Which makes it all the more troubling, to say the least.
Regardless of what level of uneasiness she is feeling, however, Adelle lets none of it outwardly show.
She stands near the center of her atrium floor, waiting, her face a cool and patient blank and her outfit crisply pressed, not a hair out of place. Her eyes never drift far from the elevator leading down from the helipad, from whence any moment the liaison should be arriving.
Her staff stands evenly gathered around her. More than a few are muttering, whispering among themselves. Business as usual has not yet begun, will not begin until after this matter has been settled. The Actives have all been rounded up and isolated in more secluded rooms, encouraged to occupy themselves with quiet activities in the meantime.
None of her employees get too close to her. Save the exceptional few.
“There are only so many ways this can go,” mutters Laurence. He stands behind her to her right; if she wished she could reach back and touch him. She won’t, of course, but the knowledge that she could is comforting. “None of them are particularly good, but-”
“If you are attempting to reassure me, Mr. Dominic, I must say you are doing a remarkably poor job.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just trying to be honest.” A pause. “But right now, I’m still allowing myself to be hopeful this isn’t going to be as harsh a sanction as it could be. After all, for all our troubles, this House has produced some great successes. Rossum has to realize that.”
She glances back, and meets his eyes. His steady and earnest blue gaze burns into hers.
After a wordless moment, he shifts, clearing his throat. “How long do you think they’ll be here for, anyway?” His eyes drift back up toward the entryway.
“As long as they need to be,” she answers him, cold. She looks back upward as well.
The elevator doors choose that moment to open.
A silence immediately falls over the room, as every pair of eyes gives the activity on the landing their complete focus.
The first individuals to appear are all very much the same, a small army of broad-shouldered men in tailored black suits and dark sunglasses, not a crack of emotion visible on their faces as they march out in two even lines. They fan out at intervals, positioning themselves, setting up a perimeter. Very quick, very professional: far from encouraging.
The one at the front gives a careful glance around the floor. Then he lifts his wrist to his mouth, speaking into a small transceiver.
“It’s clear.”
Three more figures appear, striding out at a more unhurried pace. Two in front flank the one who stands in the middle and a step behind them, clearly the person in charge.
A slender woman with dark hair and pale skin. Her hips swivel slightly side to side in her tight black skirt, her body motionless from the waist up, spine perfectly straight in her fitted bodice-style top. Her hair is pulled back in an elegant multi-strand braid, not as much as a single hair escaped. The carpet cushions her feet as she walks, muffling the sound of her stilettos, her steps falling in smooth measured strides: the visiting queen making her commanding entrance.
Her darkly painted lips curl slightly upward in a calm, empty smile. Her gray eyes flash with confident maliciousness.
Charity Brigade, Head of the Dollhouse branch for Washington, DC.
Adelle feels her breath partially stick in her throat. As she watches Charity stroll ever-nearer, the hands at her sides begin to curl into fists.
In front of Charity on her left is another woman, younger, with an athletic build. She has black curly hair that barely grazes the top of her shoulders. Her clothes are out of place, a black tank and khaki pants beneath thick-soled lace-up leather boots to her knees. She wears a sidearm at least one grade heavier than necessary and bulging with a clip augmented for extra rounds. There’s an unconcealed grin on her face, as if it’s her nature to find everything terribly amusing.
To the right is a young man, and from his expression he finds the situation far from funny. In fact, he looks nervous to the point of terrified. He wears all black, jeans and a t-shirt beneath a faded leather jacket. His hair is black and scruffy, unruly strands framing a pale face with dark stubble. He has glasses with rectangular frames, never looking away from the slender laptop he carries with him, eyes determinedly scanning the screen.
With a dismissive nod to the man leading her security force, Charity reaches the atrium floor and comes to a stop before them.
She smiles. “Hello, Adelle.”
“Charity,” she returns, giving no smile of her own. “My, what a surprise.”
Everyone on the floor remains silent, watching them. Some, like Topher, have drawn even further back.
On the other hand some, such as Laurence and Mr. Langton, have moved a step forward.
“How perfectly lovely to see you again,” the other woman says. Her voice is flawlessly polite, giving not even the remotest offense, but her tone isn’t nearly warm enough for her words to register as genuine. “What a shame it must be under such unfortunate circumstances.”
The woman accompanying Charity has a twitch in her mouth, as if she’s fighting back chortles of laughter. The man grows even paler, ducking his head as he stares down at his laptop.
“I wasn’t aware that the Center intended on sending the head of another branch to perform this inquiry,” Adelle says. “I must confess, I’m quite surprised.”
Charity smirks.
“As I’m sure you’re well aware, Adelle, Mr. Rossum himself is quite fond of me,” she replies silkily. “He asked me to look into this matter personally, as a favor to him.”
“I’m sure.” Adelle doesn’t bother to hide her darkening tone. “Why do I suspect it was rather the other way around?”
The other Head is unfazed by this accusation. In fact, her smirk only grows.
“Well, enough pleasant small talk, wouldn’t you agree? Best get down to business.” She nods at her team, who begin to fan out across the floor. “This is your entire staff?”
“I know how to follow instructions,” Adelle responds, terse.
“Excellent. Mr. Langton?”
The man addressed stiffens. He’s been giving Charity a very unwelcoming, borderline hostile look the entire time she’s been standing there.
Charity moves her head to indicate the curly-haired woman she brought with her. “Morgan Dawcey, my chief of security. If you’ll escort her to your office, you can help her access the security feeds so she may begin a perusal of them.”
Mr. Langton glances over for confirmation.
Adelle nods at him. “Do it.”
He hesitates only a fraction of a second before walking away, the grinning Morgan Dawcey following closely at his heels.
“And this,” Charity indicates the young man, “is Gunter Wilkinson, my programmer. You may have heard him mentioned before - he’s considered one of the top-ranked among the Houses, internationally.”
Gunter gives an uneasy wave.
“Gunter, I believe this facility’s programming center is located there.” Charity glances towards Topher’s lab. “You can begin analyzing the logs straight away.”
“S-sure.” Gunter has a quavering, meek voice. “Right away, boss.” He heads off, taking his laptop with him.
“Hang on a sec here,” Topher interjects, stepping forward with an incensed look. “You honestly expect me to just let him poke around my equipment, unsupervised?” He starts to laugh. “I don’t think-”
“As a matter of fact I do…Mr. Brink, I presume?” Charity cuts him off, cool: “Unless you’re refusing to cooperate with official procedure.”
Topher gulps. He quickly shakes his head, eyes widening.
“N-no, of course not.” He gives a distrusting scowl toward Gunter’s retreating back. “But, ah, can I at least be there, just to make sure he doesn’t-?”
“I’m afraid not.” Charity continues, cleanly, “You see, you and the other staff will be here on the floor, my men keeping you under observation while I personally question each and every one of you. You’ll do us the favor of refraining from talking to one another in the meantime, of course.”
“What,” Laurence puts in, sharply, “are you afraid we’ll compare notes?”
Charity’s eyes smoothly slide over, unblinking as she fixes on him with a tight focus.
“I don’t know, Mr. Dominic,” she intones, both hard and flippant at once. “Will you?”
“This seems unusually thorough a process, and a rather accusatory one at that, for such a minor security breach,” Adelle observes. Pointedly, she continues, “Impressive enough was your prompt response time: not even forty-eight hours after the incident happened.”
“My, Adelle, you always take things so personally,” Charity says sweetly. “There’s no need for that. The Center merely wants it ensured that no traces are left uncovered. They’re concerned for the well-being of whole operation.”
“How very touching,” Adelle responds with a clipped, deprecating tone. “But may I ask, just where does this ‘concern’ factor in with their desire to keep this business running? It’s very inconvenient to our clients, to put this entire facility on lockdown while you interview every single one of my employees and run a fine-toothed comb over my records.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Adelle. Your clients will still be seen to.” Charity gives her a slow and subtle smile. “You see, right now they’re being contacted to inform them that for their previously-scheduled engagements, the Washington branch will be all too happy to accommodate them.”
Adelle says nothing, chin slightly tilted, a cold fury gathering in her face.
“Now then,” Charity continues, musing, “I’ll need somewhere to conduct my questioning. Someplace quiet, and out of the way.” She gives another faint smile.
“I believe your office will suit my purposes nicely.”
There’s a beat.
“My,” Adelle goes, her voice tight and fully emotionless, “I never could’ve guessed.”
Charity gives a light chuckle. “Oh, don’t worry, Adelle. I’ll take good care of your things.” Someone who didn’t know better would think her words were meant to be teasing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
With a flick of her hand she turns, two more of her goons coming in to follow close behind her as she quickly ascends the stairs.
There’s little to do now but sit there silently, all of them, and wait as they’re called in for their “interviews” one by one.
Charity starts low in the hierarchy: caretakers first, then handlers.
But sooner or later, as she said…she has to get to everyone.
_____
Madeline stands at her name, following the silent man in the black suit. She feels the eyes of the others on her, but no one says anything; other men in suits lurk close by, watching. It feels eerily like she’s been called to the principal’s office.
She sits down, nervously smoothing the pants of her uniform.
“Hello there, Madeline.” The other woman stands behind Ms. DeWitt’s desk, gazing back at her. Her voice is friendly, soothing. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine,” she answers, polite. She ducks her head and shoulders a little, clasping her hands in her lap.
She’s never met Charity Brigade before, but she’s heard things. The others, a lot of them don’t like this woman at all: Dominic, Boyd, Ms. DeWitt.
Whatever she did is so bad, they don’t even like to talk about it.
“So, Madeline,” Charity begins, trailing a hand across Ms. DeWitt’s chair, “you’ve been at the Dollhouse for quite awhile, haven’t you?”
She looks back at her, discomfited. “I wasn’t even hired a year ago. It’s only been-”
“Oh yes, the amount of time you’ve been here as an employee is only measured in months,” Charity interrupts her, dismissive. “But before that…” She gives a strangely unfriendly smile.
“Why, you were here for almost four years as a…volunteer, weren’t you?”
“Oh. Yes, that’s true. Before that, I was an Active.” Madeline’s voice is quiet. “I suppose that’s in my file.”
Charity smiles again. Her gaze drifts over to the single folder on the otherwise empty desk.
“Yes,” she goes, “as a matter of fact it is. You know, Madeline,” she speaks slowly, pacing back and forth, “it’s incredibly rare for a former Active to have any kind of contact with our organization again. Especially with the very branch they were situated at. Why, one might say we even discourage it.”
Madeline says nothing. She squeezes her hands together a little tighter.
“But, I suppose it makes no difference,” says Charity, offhand. “After all, now you’re just a normal person like any other - aren’t you?”
She moves even closer to her.
“So, tell me. What are your feelings on the Dollhouse?” Her voice is lightly curious, as if she asks to satisfy personal interest and nothing else. “How do you feel about the work they do here?”
“Oh, I believe in it,” Madeline tells her, honest. “The Dollhouse is helping people in need.” Her voice softens a little. “People like me, when I was-”
“Oh yes, that’s right: you came here to recover from the loss of your daughter, didn’t you? I am so sorry.”
Her tone and expression are deeply sympathetic, but there’s something off that Madeline can’t quite put her finger on. Like it’s clearly fake, though there’s nothing to indicate it as such.
“Yes.” Madeline clears her throat. “The Dollhouse helped me get over that loss. Thanks to them, I was able to move on with my life. They gave me the strength I needed to connect to people again.”
“People such as Mr. Paul Ballard?” The question is blunt, perfectly flat.
When Madeline doesn’t answer right away, Charity goes, more softly, “It’s true the two of you have a relationship, is it not?”
Her face is emotionless. But her eyes gleam when she speaks.
Madeline draws herself up, and carefully meets her gaze.
“I reviewed the company policy on inter-office dating,” she states. “It says that you’re not allowed to see anyone within the same department as you. But I work directly with the Actives, and Paul’s on security. So we’re not in the same department, are we?”
Charity gives a twisted smirk. “No, I suppose not. You and he are close, then?”
Madeline says, simply, “We’re very happy together.”
Charity steps away before circling back again. Her arms are folded, her head down as she speaks.
“Tell me, what are your relationships like with some of the other employees? The head of programming, Christopher Brink, for example.”
“Oh, Topher and I are friends,” Madeline says brightly. “We get along very well.”
Charity raises her head. That odd, empty brightness is in her eyes again as she wordlessly gazes at her.
“What,” Madeline goes, after a moment of uneasy silence has passed, “don’t tell me there’s an office policy forbidding friends.”
Charity gives a very slow smile.
“Well,” she says, with a tone falsely casual, “of course there’s nothing official.”
When Madeline doesn’t say anything at first, she prompts her: “Tell me more, please.”
“Um, yes,” Madeline continues, more hesitant now, “Topher and I are friends. Him, and me, and Mr. Dominic: we’re all very close.”
“Mr. Dominic? Laurence Dominic?” Charity’s tone is sharp, interested. “Now, that I wouldn’t have expected at all. He’s certainly never struck me the social type.” Amused, she goes, “And yet you say he gets along with you?”
Madeline shrugs. “We have a lot in common.”
“Really?” There’s something about the way she says that: as if on some level, she’s mocking her.
Madeline says easily, “I suppose I understand him better than most.”
Charity tilts her head to the side, giving Madeline a wide-eyed and deeply searching look.
“You do? Now why is that?”
Almost too late, Madeline feels a chill. She remembers how Topher’s constantly amazed and unnerved by the amount of information from her imprints she can recall - how he’s always going on about how it’s not supposed to be that way.
How Rossum would never allow it, if they knew.
“Madeline?”
She swallows, and raises her head again. She tries to sound careless but her voice trembles slightly this time when she answers.
“I don’t know, I’ve always been good at reading people.”
Charity Brigade takes a few more steps towards her. Her eyes glint as she gives Madeline a slow, easy smile.
“Now, I find it almost funny you would say that, Madeline,” she purrs.
“Because it just so happens, so am I.”
_____
“What are your relationships like with some of your fellow employees?”
Ivy gives a tight shrug. She keeps her voice neutral when she speaks.
“They’re okay.” She slouches in the couch, sinking into the cushions ever so slightly. “I can stand to work with them. That’s all that matters, right?”
She watches Charity Brigade warily as the woman paces, clearly thinking.
Ivy’s never met her before, but she’s heard the stories; the House-to-House gossip. She’s overheard the staff, and Topher’s told her a lot of them.
Charity stops walking and turns to glance at her over her shoulder, a faint smile upon her lips.
“You know, this must be so awkward for you, mustn’t it?” she goes. “After all, you’ve been in this situation before: questioned following a major House security breach. And it almost didn’t go so well for you last time, did it?”
She gives a faint laugh.
Ivy sets her mouth in a firm line, shoulders tightening. She keeps her voice from coming too low as she answers, “Luckily, they caught it in time.”
“Indeed. Frankly, I’m surprised, a little befuddled, that you’d choose to keep working here after that.” With mock astonishment she moves forward, watching Ivy. “What kind of person can come in here every day and face the same people who almost did that to her?”
“I don’t let it bother me,” Ivy says, flat.
“But what are you getting out of it, Ivy?” Charity insists. “Surely, there must something to make this all worth your while.”
Ivy shrugs again, after a moment. “The technology,” she says. “I’ve worked all my life to end up in a place like this - I’m not going to give it up just because of a little misunderstanding. I’m doing things right now that my grandkids are still only gonna be dreaming about.”
Charity doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyeing her carefully.
“You know this technology very well, don’t you, Ivy?” she goes after a minute, smooth. “Enough that you could cover up for someone, if they made a mistake.”
There’s a hostile stab of bad memory Ivy can’t quite shake off. “I didn’t do anything,” she says, angry.
“I’m speaking only in the hypothetical, of course,” Charity returns with ease. Her fingertips are set together as she turns a little to the side. “You could cover for someone, if they did something. Accidental or otherwise. Mr. Brink, for example.”
There’s a smile on her face as she continues, “Could you do that, Ivy? Could you cover for Topher, if he needed you to? Would you be willing to help him hide his mistakes?”
It’s a multilayered question disguised as a straightforward one.
Ivy takes a careful breath, both hands gripping the sofa cushions, her chin tucked into her neck.
“Topher is my boss,” she says, carefully. “Whatever happens with him and his work, it’s none of my concern.”
Charity laughs again. “That’s very good, Ivy. But did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Ivy’s heart skips a beat. “Notice what?”
The other woman’s gaze focuses her.
“That you didn’t answer my question.”
_____
“You don’t like the Dollhouse, do you, Mr. Ballard?”
Paul folds his arms tightly across his chest.
“No,” he says. “But I don’t think that’s really a secret.”
“Oh, believe me, it’s not,” Charity Brigade assures him, sardonic. “There are quite a few company notes on you and your various past attempts at what could be considered ‘anti-House activities’. Not that there really need to be, with that abundantly subtle attitude of yours. Tell me, Mr. Ballard, why are you here?”
There’s a beat. “Because your goon in the secret service get-up called my name,” he deadpans.
Charity gives him a responding smile that comes nowhere near her eyes. In fact, the looming coldness there causes his blood to feel chilled just looking at it.
In a low, toneless voice she responds, “Funny.”
Paul fidgets, trying to make the movement look more like he’s getting comfortable, and less like she’s giving him the creeps.
“I’m here because it suits my purpose in the long run,” he tells her. “I want to help these people; the Dolls, the Actives. Right now, that means staying here and keeping an eye on things.”
Charity says nothing at first. She taps one finger against her opposite elbow, arms crossed, and gazes slightly to his side.
Paul keeps talking, needing to fill up the silence.
“What happened with X-Ray, that wouldn’t do me any good - he could’ve gotten hurt. A lot of people could’ve gotten hurt. So what reason would I have to even try something like that?” Evenly, he demands, “You don’t think I actually had anything to do what this, do you?”
“Oh no, of course not,” she assures him, dismissive and scoffing. “I’d be highly overestimating your capabilities if I did.”
Paul frowns at this unexpected reply, unsettled and more than a little insulted.
“So why even talk to me?”
She closes her eyes, briefly, and there’s a hardness he doesn’t like when she opens them again. She smirks.
“Because you’re a part of the whole,” she informs him, cool and even: “whether you like it or not. And that’s what I’m here to learn about.”
Charity takes careless steps around the room, a disturbingly smug and satisfied look on her face.
Paul glares. “I know what kind of person you are,” he tells her, harshly. “What you tried to do to Sierra. Langton told me.”
“How nice of Mr. Langton.”
“I know the twisted things you’re capable of,” he continues, firm.
Charity stops. She turns and looks at him.
“Does that scare you, Paul?” she questions, her voice soft and curious. She moves toward him until she’s standing right in the front of the couch, head tilted as she stares down with an inquisitive light in her eyes. Her mouth twists in odd ways.
“Does it disturb you; frighten you,” she asks casually, “to think about the things that I’ve done?”
Paul looks back up at her, unhesitant and unflinching.
“No,” he declares. His voice is hard, determined: “Because I’m not scared of monsters.”
Charity Brigade gazes at him, her face empty save for the intensity in her eyes.
Suddenly, without warning, she drops, moving in so her hands are planted to either side of him - speaking in a low voice directly into his ear.
“Well, you know what? They’re not scared of you, either.”
_____
“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor,” Claire says. Her words are completely honest. “Ever since as long as I can remember.”
“And how long is that, Doctor?” Charity Brigade asks, offhandedly, barely glancing up from where she’s looking at the pages of Claire’s file.
Claire blinks once. Where her hands rest in her lap, the very first joints of her fingers start to curl in.
“Excuse me?”
Charity looks up from the file. Her face is a mask of careless indifference.
“Consider it an exercise in idle curiosity.” She gives a very faint smile. “Humor me, if you will. What’s the earliest thing you actually remember? Your first childhood memory?”
Claire draws a small breath, and releases it swiftly.
“I…I was down by a frozen river in the winter,” she says. “Ice-skating. I think I was about six.”
Again, it’s technically not a lie.
“Nothing sooner than that? Really?”
Claire breaths again. Quietly, she goes, “People’s memories work very differently from one another.”
There’s a tight smile on the other woman’s face, a hard calculating glint to her eye.
“Indeed they do, Doctor,” she agrees, smoothly. “Indeed they do.”
With one hand she shuts the file with a surprisingly noticeable sound - or maybe it’s just a sign of how quiet it is in the room.
The office is soundproof, Claire knows. It’s designed to be quiet, to give an isolating feeling; it can work wonders for clients, she supposes, to put them at ease while disclosing their deepest secrets, make them believe this room is truly the one place in the world safe enough for that.
But by the same token it can also have a negative affect, a stifling one. And this Claire knows personally, because she’s experienced it plenty of times - meetings with the whole staff or only a select few, the weight of power and authority bearing down on her. She’s felt uncomfortable in this room before. Helpless. Even trapped.
But she’s never felt truly frightened. Here and now, though…she’s getting there.
She’s alone in this room with a known sexual sadist, someone who abuses Dolls and people under her authority alike. Worst of all, she’s on a mission to dig out this House’s secrets.
And Claire has a big one to hide.
“So tell me, Doctor Saunders…” Charity tosses the file down carelessly, and then seats herself on DeWitt’s desk, legs crossed at the knee. “As long as we’re on the subject of memory: what is your professional opinion, on what happened to X-Ray?”
“I don’t have one.” Claire shakes her head. “Memory is a difficult process to understand, let alone predict, and an Active’s brain already functions in a more irregular manner than most. What happened can’t be explained by any kind of biological processes, and is therefore out of my field of expertise.”
“Come now, surely you must have an educated guess.” Charity is giving her a narrow, encouraging smile. “After all, with all your experience…just how long is it you’ve worked here, again?”
Claire folds her hands neatly. “Over three years.”
It’s a lie and anyone who’s read her whole file knows it. The problem is, she isn’t supposed to know.
There’s a beat as Charity just looks at her, eyeing her without blinking. She uncrosses her legs, then smoothly crosses them again the other direction.
“My,” she says at length, “how the time must seem to fly.”
Claire forces herself to nod, woodenly.
“At times,” she goes, “yes.”
Charity leans to one side a bit, resting her weight on one arm. “Though I’m certain, the incident with Alpha is a much clearer interlude.”
There’s an instinctive tightness in Claire’s chest. She forces herself to talk around it.
“Alpha was…an anomaly,” she says, repeating the same phrases at times she feels as if she’s memorized by rote; a security blanket to help her feel better. “It happened. I try not to think about it on a day-to-day basis. It would only interfere with my responsibilities.”
The other woman says nothing at first. But Claire can feel the weight of her eyes, staring at her. She keeps her face lowered, head down.
“Doctor,” Charity’s voice is so quiet, any emotion is impossible to read; “may I see your face?”
Claire freezes. She swallows and then, fortifying herself, tilts her head back up.
Charity Brigade gazes at her for a long moment, taking her in carefully with half-lowered lids.
“Hmm. You know, in a perverse way, there’s something almost artistic about it.”
And then, a smirk slowly curling her lips, she reaches to trace the ridge of one of Claire’s scars, hand resting on her cheek.
“After all, it certainly makes you…unique.”
Her smirk takes on a certain edge, dagger-sharp, and something burns low in the back of her eyes: she brushes Claire’s cheek further, and starts to touch her thumb to Claire’s lips.
“But you’ve always been special,” she practically whispers. “Haven’t you?”
An emotion Claire can’t name wells up inside of her - at the moment, she settles for fury. She viciously smacks Charity’s hand away.
“That’s not what I am anymore,” she snaps, glowering at the other woman even as her urge is to cower, or run away.
Charity shakes her hand loosely, wringing out the fingertips, with a cool frown.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” she chides. “Wouldn’t want it to get out you were physically assaulting someone the Center sent to look into this branch, now would you?”
But then she smiles again, her eyes dangerous, as she meets Claire’s gaze.
With practiced curiosity, she goes, “Now, whatever did you mean by that: ‘not what you are anymore’?”
_____
“I’ve really gotta let you know,” Topher says, quickly, “I have got some serious objections to letting your boy there paw through my stuff.”
“I assure you, Mr. Brink - or I suppose you prefer Topher? - Gunter knows what he is doing and is quiet capable.”
“Oh sure, capable. I have no doubt. But see, what I’ve got set up around here is a pretty specific, finely-tuned system, and-”
“So finely-tuned, you were able to let an Active go without being fully wiped?”
Topher falls silent for a moment.
“Ah. Touché,” he offers. Putting fingertips together, he goes, “And now we come to the crux of the matter.”
“As I see it, there’re really only two possibilities, aren’t there?” Charity Brigade stands a short distance away, looking at him with an implacable smile and a slight tilt to her head. “Either someone purposely sabotaged X-Ray’s wipe, or there was a major glitch and you weren’t paying attention. In either case, there are certain things you really shouldn’t have missed…but clearly, did.”
She trails a hand along the edge of DeWitt’s desk. “I must say, it looks very bad for you, either way.”
“You know, it’s kinda funny,” Topher feels compelled to point out, somewhat babbling. “That’s, um, almost exactly what they said to me, back when we had that security breach with the NSA-tech-corrupted imprint. And, hey, look how that turned out!”
He waves both hands, smirking nervously.
“So, I’m guessing this time, I also manage to come out scot-free.”
“Even a cat has to run out of lives some time, Topher,” Charity states, coolly. “And you know what they say did the cat in, don’t you?”
Topher swallows. “Being, ah, trapped inside a box and a state of existential limbo and hypothetical potential?”
He gives a tiny laugh then quickly sobers.
“That’s a physics joke. Don’t take it personally if you don’t get it. I only tried explaining it to Ballard, like, three times, and finally he just gave it all up as ‘cruel to animals’, somehow, I don’t even know-”
“Curiosity, Topher.” She cuts him off completely. When she smiles, it looks like a baring of teeth. “That’s what killed it.”
He gives a rapid, nervous nod, wide-eyed. “Also a possibility,” he concedes.
Scratching the back of his head, he only allows silence to linger a moment before he begins again. “But, ah, really - back to this whole ‘mea culpa’ issue: I gotta say, I’m not really feeling it.” With a painful smile, he shrugs. “Because I will have you know, I kept a very, very careful eye on the whole process, and-”
“Oh yes, I have no doubt you’re very dedicated and focused on your job.” Charity’s voice contains just a hint of dryness, and a stronger undercurrent of venom. “With your games, and your puzzles, and your many handy distractions.”
“Oh, you’ve…seen my office, then?” Topher guesses, feebly. “Yeah, look: about all that stuff. I can explain-”
“Of course, considering the only way the space could’ve ended up in that state is with Adelle’s knowledge…” Charity looks elsewhere with a bored expression. “Well, maybe this incident will be the least of your problems.”
He stares at her, trying to take in what he just heard.
“Are you threatening Ms. DeWitt?” he finally grasps aloud, almost laughing simply because he has no idea what else to do. “Making it sound like you’re gonna get her removed over this? Seriously? I mean, I know you two are supposed to have some kind of epic hate going on for each other, but really? Aren’t there maybe some more grownup and important things going on?”
“Oh, Topher. Clearly you’ve never been involved in a proper blood-feud before.”
She’s behind the desk now, and as he watches, fixated, she places her hands on a lacquered wooden box he’s only just noticed sitting there.
“It takes time, dedication, practice…persistence.”
She runs her hands across the dark wood. And then she carefully opens it and pulls out something that looks almost like a knife, but isn’t quite. A tool of some kind: thin and silver and sharply-bladed.
“Not to mention a great deal of creativity.”
Topher feels his throat tighten in a nervous knot, and his body goes cold and numb. He can’t feel his limbs.
He remembers what he’s heard about Charity Brigade, the crazy horror stories about what supposedly goes on at the House in DC. What Boyd told him he saw there, the description of an honest-to-god “Mistress of Pain” type dungeon set-up, only with none of the aura of kinky fun and all of the scary.
She holds the metal implement delicately in her hands, gazing at it as she carefully presses the point to one fingertip.
“I can hardly think of a more mature undertaking,” she finishes, idly, as she turns the edge of the blade to look at it shine.
Topher is just barely aware of where his hand now maintains a death-grip on one arm of the couch.
With a distracted sound, Charity places the tool back inside the box and closes it with the same precise and careful movements she removed it.
“Of course, it puts you in an unfortunate position, I’m afraid.” Charity gives him a placid smile as she comes around and sits on the front of the desk. “Reading between the lines, it’s quite obvious Adelle is very fond of you.” She crosses her arms. “And the only thing that would give me more pleasure than destroying Adelle DeWitt is destroying everything around her she holds dear.”
Topher can feel his mouth gape slightly as he just looks at her, wanting to say something but completely at a loss.
Charity’s smile grows more playful, the corner of her eyes crinkling as if they’re joking around.
“Of course; you know if you or anyone else ever tried to report what I’ve said to the Center or someone higher up, I’d say you’d severely misunderstood me and I was only kidding as to the nature of my intentions.”
She stands suddenly, taking one step toward him, then another.
“You’re the type who can appreciate a good joke, aren’t you, Topher?” she questions softly, moving closer all the while. “With your games, and your puzzles and your distractions…”
He leans back on the sofa and actually starts to draw his legs off the floor, as if he’s going to curl into a ball to get away from her.
“…turning your workspace into your own personal playroom, all while you get to play God.” She looms over him, giving an icy and joyless smile. “Manipulating and erasing the minds of your fellow human beings without giving it second thought.”
“H-hey now,” Topher finally manages, protesting despite how overwhelmed he feels, “wait just a second. You’re making me sound like some kind of sociopath-”
“Oh, you’re not? You care about the Actives, do you? You like them, and like it if they like you, all while knowing you’re the one who took their real selves away and that you play puppet-master with them on a regular basis? That only makes it worse.”
She turns her back and starts walking away. “Every employee I’ve interviewed so far, when questioned about you certain details start to emerge. You’re close with Madeline Costley, aren’t you? And Laurence Dominic?”
She stops and turns slightly aside, glancing at him with a smirk. “Your two closest friends?” she observes, mocking. “Both of them had their identities stolen by you. Mr. Dominic went to the Attic. Miss Costley was made into an Active. You watched both of them sit in your chair, the terror in their eyes as their lives faded slowly from them…until even that faded.”
Charity puts hands on her hips and cocks her head as she looks down at him, all but laughing in his face, amused.
“And now, what? You go to movies and eat together and you tell them your little jokes and they laugh…looking at their smiling, happy faces, do you remember the way you’ve seen them before? Do you ever stop to think about how once you fried both their brains?”
Topher stares at her. He opens his mouth to speak, but all he can manage is a deep, shaky gulp. There’s bile at the back of his throat, a heavy lump that’s clogged up his voice completely.
“No, of course not. I doubt you ever think of that at all.” She sits herself sideways on the arm of the sofa furthest from him, legs stretched to one side.
“After all, if you did, then you might have to deal with the guilt. And guilt just isn’t any…fun.”
______
link to conclusion
Title: A Touch of the Plague
Characters/Pairings: DeWitt, Dominic, Topher, Langton, Madeline, Claire, Ivy, Ballard, Charity (OC), various others; mention of DeWitt/Dominic, Madeline/Ballard, Ivy/Topher
Rating: R for language, mention of violence and sadisim, drinking, dark themes, multiple implications of noncon
Length: 14,060
Spoilers: first season; specific mention of events in 1x06, "Man On The Street" and 1x10, "Haunted".
Notes: Part of the 'Waking verse
Summary: The whole House must deal with the outcome when an unwelcome face appears and things go from bad to worse.
Adelle woke up this morning with a bad feeling.
Oh, it’s certainly not unexplained, nor unwarranted. After all, as she well knows, today is the day her House is scheduled to undergo “examination” by some appointed lackey on behalf of the Center - all her affairs put under a microscope, on account of a security incident that does not appear to be in any way her actual fault.
Of course, everything that happens in her House is her fault. One way or another. Of this, she is well aware.
Still, little wonder though it is she should have cause to feel apprehension, she cannot shake the unnerving sense that she is feeling somehow worse on top of it: that some deeper instinct is trying to give her further warning.
It’s as if, though she is already expecting things to be quite bad, something is telling her she should be prepared for them to be worse.
Her warning instincts don’t tend to be wrong in situations like these. Which makes it all the more troubling, to say the least.
Regardless of what level of uneasiness she is feeling, however, Adelle lets none of it outwardly show.
She stands near the center of her atrium floor, waiting, her face a cool and patient blank and her outfit crisply pressed, not a hair out of place. Her eyes never drift far from the elevator leading down from the helipad, from whence any moment the liaison should be arriving.
Her staff stands evenly gathered around her. More than a few are muttering, whispering among themselves. Business as usual has not yet begun, will not begin until after this matter has been settled. The Actives have all been rounded up and isolated in more secluded rooms, encouraged to occupy themselves with quiet activities in the meantime.
None of her employees get too close to her. Save the exceptional few.
“There are only so many ways this can go,” mutters Laurence. He stands behind her to her right; if she wished she could reach back and touch him. She won’t, of course, but the knowledge that she could is comforting. “None of them are particularly good, but-”
“If you are attempting to reassure me, Mr. Dominic, I must say you are doing a remarkably poor job.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just trying to be honest.” A pause. “But right now, I’m still allowing myself to be hopeful this isn’t going to be as harsh a sanction as it could be. After all, for all our troubles, this House has produced some great successes. Rossum has to realize that.”
She glances back, and meets his eyes. His steady and earnest blue gaze burns into hers.
After a wordless moment, he shifts, clearing his throat. “How long do you think they’ll be here for, anyway?” His eyes drift back up toward the entryway.
“As long as they need to be,” she answers him, cold. She looks back upward as well.
The elevator doors choose that moment to open.
A silence immediately falls over the room, as every pair of eyes gives the activity on the landing their complete focus.
The first individuals to appear are all very much the same, a small army of broad-shouldered men in tailored black suits and dark sunglasses, not a crack of emotion visible on their faces as they march out in two even lines. They fan out at intervals, positioning themselves, setting up a perimeter. Very quick, very professional: far from encouraging.
The one at the front gives a careful glance around the floor. Then he lifts his wrist to his mouth, speaking into a small transceiver.
“It’s clear.”
Three more figures appear, striding out at a more unhurried pace. Two in front flank the one who stands in the middle and a step behind them, clearly the person in charge.
A slender woman with dark hair and pale skin. Her hips swivel slightly side to side in her tight black skirt, her body motionless from the waist up, spine perfectly straight in her fitted bodice-style top. Her hair is pulled back in an elegant multi-strand braid, not as much as a single hair escaped. The carpet cushions her feet as she walks, muffling the sound of her stilettos, her steps falling in smooth measured strides: the visiting queen making her commanding entrance.
Her darkly painted lips curl slightly upward in a calm, empty smile. Her gray eyes flash with confident maliciousness.
Charity Brigade, Head of the Dollhouse branch for Washington, DC.
Adelle feels her breath partially stick in her throat. As she watches Charity stroll ever-nearer, the hands at her sides begin to curl into fists.
In front of Charity on her left is another woman, younger, with an athletic build. She has black curly hair that barely grazes the top of her shoulders. Her clothes are out of place, a black tank and khaki pants beneath thick-soled lace-up leather boots to her knees. She wears a sidearm at least one grade heavier than necessary and bulging with a clip augmented for extra rounds. There’s an unconcealed grin on her face, as if it’s her nature to find everything terribly amusing.
To the right is a young man, and from his expression he finds the situation far from funny. In fact, he looks nervous to the point of terrified. He wears all black, jeans and a t-shirt beneath a faded leather jacket. His hair is black and scruffy, unruly strands framing a pale face with dark stubble. He has glasses with rectangular frames, never looking away from the slender laptop he carries with him, eyes determinedly scanning the screen.
With a dismissive nod to the man leading her security force, Charity reaches the atrium floor and comes to a stop before them.
She smiles. “Hello, Adelle.”
“Charity,” she returns, giving no smile of her own. “My, what a surprise.”
Everyone on the floor remains silent, watching them. Some, like Topher, have drawn even further back.
On the other hand some, such as Laurence and Mr. Langton, have moved a step forward.
“How perfectly lovely to see you again,” the other woman says. Her voice is flawlessly polite, giving not even the remotest offense, but her tone isn’t nearly warm enough for her words to register as genuine. “What a shame it must be under such unfortunate circumstances.”
The woman accompanying Charity has a twitch in her mouth, as if she’s fighting back chortles of laughter. The man grows even paler, ducking his head as he stares down at his laptop.
“I wasn’t aware that the Center intended on sending the head of another branch to perform this inquiry,” Adelle says. “I must confess, I’m quite surprised.”
Charity smirks.
“As I’m sure you’re well aware, Adelle, Mr. Rossum himself is quite fond of me,” she replies silkily. “He asked me to look into this matter personally, as a favor to him.”
“I’m sure.” Adelle doesn’t bother to hide her darkening tone. “Why do I suspect it was rather the other way around?”
The other Head is unfazed by this accusation. In fact, her smirk only grows.
“Well, enough pleasant small talk, wouldn’t you agree? Best get down to business.” She nods at her team, who begin to fan out across the floor. “This is your entire staff?”
“I know how to follow instructions,” Adelle responds, terse.
“Excellent. Mr. Langton?”
The man addressed stiffens. He’s been giving Charity a very unwelcoming, borderline hostile look the entire time she’s been standing there.
Charity moves her head to indicate the curly-haired woman she brought with her. “Morgan Dawcey, my chief of security. If you’ll escort her to your office, you can help her access the security feeds so she may begin a perusal of them.”
Mr. Langton glances over for confirmation.
Adelle nods at him. “Do it.”
He hesitates only a fraction of a second before walking away, the grinning Morgan Dawcey following closely at his heels.
“And this,” Charity indicates the young man, “is Gunter Wilkinson, my programmer. You may have heard him mentioned before - he’s considered one of the top-ranked among the Houses, internationally.”
Gunter gives an uneasy wave.
“Gunter, I believe this facility’s programming center is located there.” Charity glances towards Topher’s lab. “You can begin analyzing the logs straight away.”
“S-sure.” Gunter has a quavering, meek voice. “Right away, boss.” He heads off, taking his laptop with him.
“Hang on a sec here,” Topher interjects, stepping forward with an incensed look. “You honestly expect me to just let him poke around my equipment, unsupervised?” He starts to laugh. “I don’t think-”
“As a matter of fact I do…Mr. Brink, I presume?” Charity cuts him off, cool: “Unless you’re refusing to cooperate with official procedure.”
Topher gulps. He quickly shakes his head, eyes widening.
“N-no, of course not.” He gives a distrusting scowl toward Gunter’s retreating back. “But, ah, can I at least be there, just to make sure he doesn’t-?”
“I’m afraid not.” Charity continues, cleanly, “You see, you and the other staff will be here on the floor, my men keeping you under observation while I personally question each and every one of you. You’ll do us the favor of refraining from talking to one another in the meantime, of course.”
“What,” Laurence puts in, sharply, “are you afraid we’ll compare notes?”
Charity’s eyes smoothly slide over, unblinking as she fixes on him with a tight focus.
“I don’t know, Mr. Dominic,” she intones, both hard and flippant at once. “Will you?”
“This seems unusually thorough a process, and a rather accusatory one at that, for such a minor security breach,” Adelle observes. Pointedly, she continues, “Impressive enough was your prompt response time: not even forty-eight hours after the incident happened.”
“My, Adelle, you always take things so personally,” Charity says sweetly. “There’s no need for that. The Center merely wants it ensured that no traces are left uncovered. They’re concerned for the well-being of whole operation.”
“How very touching,” Adelle responds with a clipped, deprecating tone. “But may I ask, just where does this ‘concern’ factor in with their desire to keep this business running? It’s very inconvenient to our clients, to put this entire facility on lockdown while you interview every single one of my employees and run a fine-toothed comb over my records.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Adelle. Your clients will still be seen to.” Charity gives her a slow and subtle smile. “You see, right now they’re being contacted to inform them that for their previously-scheduled engagements, the Washington branch will be all too happy to accommodate them.”
Adelle says nothing, chin slightly tilted, a cold fury gathering in her face.
“Now then,” Charity continues, musing, “I’ll need somewhere to conduct my questioning. Someplace quiet, and out of the way.” She gives another faint smile.
“I believe your office will suit my purposes nicely.”
There’s a beat.
“My,” Adelle goes, her voice tight and fully emotionless, “I never could’ve guessed.”
Charity gives a light chuckle. “Oh, don’t worry, Adelle. I’ll take good care of your things.” Someone who didn’t know better would think her words were meant to be teasing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
With a flick of her hand she turns, two more of her goons coming in to follow close behind her as she quickly ascends the stairs.
There’s little to do now but sit there silently, all of them, and wait as they’re called in for their “interviews” one by one.
Charity starts low in the hierarchy: caretakers first, then handlers.
But sooner or later, as she said…she has to get to everyone.
_____
Madeline stands at her name, following the silent man in the black suit. She feels the eyes of the others on her, but no one says anything; other men in suits lurk close by, watching. It feels eerily like she’s been called to the principal’s office.
She sits down, nervously smoothing the pants of her uniform.
“Hello there, Madeline.” The other woman stands behind Ms. DeWitt’s desk, gazing back at her. Her voice is friendly, soothing. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine,” she answers, polite. She ducks her head and shoulders a little, clasping her hands in her lap.
She’s never met Charity Brigade before, but she’s heard things. The others, a lot of them don’t like this woman at all: Dominic, Boyd, Ms. DeWitt.
Whatever she did is so bad, they don’t even like to talk about it.
“So, Madeline,” Charity begins, trailing a hand across Ms. DeWitt’s chair, “you’ve been at the Dollhouse for quite awhile, haven’t you?”
She looks back at her, discomfited. “I wasn’t even hired a year ago. It’s only been-”
“Oh yes, the amount of time you’ve been here as an employee is only measured in months,” Charity interrupts her, dismissive. “But before that…” She gives a strangely unfriendly smile.
“Why, you were here for almost four years as a…volunteer, weren’t you?”
“Oh. Yes, that’s true. Before that, I was an Active.” Madeline’s voice is quiet. “I suppose that’s in my file.”
Charity smiles again. Her gaze drifts over to the single folder on the otherwise empty desk.
“Yes,” she goes, “as a matter of fact it is. You know, Madeline,” she speaks slowly, pacing back and forth, “it’s incredibly rare for a former Active to have any kind of contact with our organization again. Especially with the very branch they were situated at. Why, one might say we even discourage it.”
Madeline says nothing. She squeezes her hands together a little tighter.
“But, I suppose it makes no difference,” says Charity, offhand. “After all, now you’re just a normal person like any other - aren’t you?”
She moves even closer to her.
“So, tell me. What are your feelings on the Dollhouse?” Her voice is lightly curious, as if she asks to satisfy personal interest and nothing else. “How do you feel about the work they do here?”
“Oh, I believe in it,” Madeline tells her, honest. “The Dollhouse is helping people in need.” Her voice softens a little. “People like me, when I was-”
“Oh yes, that’s right: you came here to recover from the loss of your daughter, didn’t you? I am so sorry.”
Her tone and expression are deeply sympathetic, but there’s something off that Madeline can’t quite put her finger on. Like it’s clearly fake, though there’s nothing to indicate it as such.
“Yes.” Madeline clears her throat. “The Dollhouse helped me get over that loss. Thanks to them, I was able to move on with my life. They gave me the strength I needed to connect to people again.”
“People such as Mr. Paul Ballard?” The question is blunt, perfectly flat.
When Madeline doesn’t answer right away, Charity goes, more softly, “It’s true the two of you have a relationship, is it not?”
Her face is emotionless. But her eyes gleam when she speaks.
Madeline draws herself up, and carefully meets her gaze.
“I reviewed the company policy on inter-office dating,” she states. “It says that you’re not allowed to see anyone within the same department as you. But I work directly with the Actives, and Paul’s on security. So we’re not in the same department, are we?”
Charity gives a twisted smirk. “No, I suppose not. You and he are close, then?”
Madeline says, simply, “We’re very happy together.”
Charity steps away before circling back again. Her arms are folded, her head down as she speaks.
“Tell me, what are your relationships like with some of the other employees? The head of programming, Christopher Brink, for example.”
“Oh, Topher and I are friends,” Madeline says brightly. “We get along very well.”
Charity raises her head. That odd, empty brightness is in her eyes again as she wordlessly gazes at her.
“What,” Madeline goes, after a moment of uneasy silence has passed, “don’t tell me there’s an office policy forbidding friends.”
Charity gives a very slow smile.
“Well,” she says, with a tone falsely casual, “of course there’s nothing official.”
When Madeline doesn’t say anything at first, she prompts her: “Tell me more, please.”
“Um, yes,” Madeline continues, more hesitant now, “Topher and I are friends. Him, and me, and Mr. Dominic: we’re all very close.”
“Mr. Dominic? Laurence Dominic?” Charity’s tone is sharp, interested. “Now, that I wouldn’t have expected at all. He’s certainly never struck me the social type.” Amused, she goes, “And yet you say he gets along with you?”
Madeline shrugs. “We have a lot in common.”
“Really?” There’s something about the way she says that: as if on some level, she’s mocking her.
Madeline says easily, “I suppose I understand him better than most.”
Charity tilts her head to the side, giving Madeline a wide-eyed and deeply searching look.
“You do? Now why is that?”
Almost too late, Madeline feels a chill. She remembers how Topher’s constantly amazed and unnerved by the amount of information from her imprints she can recall - how he’s always going on about how it’s not supposed to be that way.
How Rossum would never allow it, if they knew.
“Madeline?”
She swallows, and raises her head again. She tries to sound careless but her voice trembles slightly this time when she answers.
“I don’t know, I’ve always been good at reading people.”
Charity Brigade takes a few more steps towards her. Her eyes glint as she gives Madeline a slow, easy smile.
“Now, I find it almost funny you would say that, Madeline,” she purrs.
“Because it just so happens, so am I.”
_____
“What are your relationships like with some of your fellow employees?”
Ivy gives a tight shrug. She keeps her voice neutral when she speaks.
“They’re okay.” She slouches in the couch, sinking into the cushions ever so slightly. “I can stand to work with them. That’s all that matters, right?”
She watches Charity Brigade warily as the woman paces, clearly thinking.
Ivy’s never met her before, but she’s heard the stories; the House-to-House gossip. She’s overheard the staff, and Topher’s told her a lot of them.
Charity stops walking and turns to glance at her over her shoulder, a faint smile upon her lips.
“You know, this must be so awkward for you, mustn’t it?” she goes. “After all, you’ve been in this situation before: questioned following a major House security breach. And it almost didn’t go so well for you last time, did it?”
She gives a faint laugh.
Ivy sets her mouth in a firm line, shoulders tightening. She keeps her voice from coming too low as she answers, “Luckily, they caught it in time.”
“Indeed. Frankly, I’m surprised, a little befuddled, that you’d choose to keep working here after that.” With mock astonishment she moves forward, watching Ivy. “What kind of person can come in here every day and face the same people who almost did that to her?”
“I don’t let it bother me,” Ivy says, flat.
“But what are you getting out of it, Ivy?” Charity insists. “Surely, there must something to make this all worth your while.”
Ivy shrugs again, after a moment. “The technology,” she says. “I’ve worked all my life to end up in a place like this - I’m not going to give it up just because of a little misunderstanding. I’m doing things right now that my grandkids are still only gonna be dreaming about.”
Charity doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyeing her carefully.
“You know this technology very well, don’t you, Ivy?” she goes after a minute, smooth. “Enough that you could cover up for someone, if they made a mistake.”
There’s a hostile stab of bad memory Ivy can’t quite shake off. “I didn’t do anything,” she says, angry.
“I’m speaking only in the hypothetical, of course,” Charity returns with ease. Her fingertips are set together as she turns a little to the side. “You could cover for someone, if they did something. Accidental or otherwise. Mr. Brink, for example.”
There’s a smile on her face as she continues, “Could you do that, Ivy? Could you cover for Topher, if he needed you to? Would you be willing to help him hide his mistakes?”
It’s a multilayered question disguised as a straightforward one.
Ivy takes a careful breath, both hands gripping the sofa cushions, her chin tucked into her neck.
“Topher is my boss,” she says, carefully. “Whatever happens with him and his work, it’s none of my concern.”
Charity laughs again. “That’s very good, Ivy. But did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
Ivy’s heart skips a beat. “Notice what?”
The other woman’s gaze focuses her.
“That you didn’t answer my question.”
_____
“You don’t like the Dollhouse, do you, Mr. Ballard?”
Paul folds his arms tightly across his chest.
“No,” he says. “But I don’t think that’s really a secret.”
“Oh, believe me, it’s not,” Charity Brigade assures him, sardonic. “There are quite a few company notes on you and your various past attempts at what could be considered ‘anti-House activities’. Not that there really need to be, with that abundantly subtle attitude of yours. Tell me, Mr. Ballard, why are you here?”
There’s a beat. “Because your goon in the secret service get-up called my name,” he deadpans.
Charity gives him a responding smile that comes nowhere near her eyes. In fact, the looming coldness there causes his blood to feel chilled just looking at it.
In a low, toneless voice she responds, “Funny.”
Paul fidgets, trying to make the movement look more like he’s getting comfortable, and less like she’s giving him the creeps.
“I’m here because it suits my purpose in the long run,” he tells her. “I want to help these people; the Dolls, the Actives. Right now, that means staying here and keeping an eye on things.”
Charity says nothing at first. She taps one finger against her opposite elbow, arms crossed, and gazes slightly to his side.
Paul keeps talking, needing to fill up the silence.
“What happened with X-Ray, that wouldn’t do me any good - he could’ve gotten hurt. A lot of people could’ve gotten hurt. So what reason would I have to even try something like that?” Evenly, he demands, “You don’t think I actually had anything to do what this, do you?”
“Oh no, of course not,” she assures him, dismissive and scoffing. “I’d be highly overestimating your capabilities if I did.”
Paul frowns at this unexpected reply, unsettled and more than a little insulted.
“So why even talk to me?”
She closes her eyes, briefly, and there’s a hardness he doesn’t like when she opens them again. She smirks.
“Because you’re a part of the whole,” she informs him, cool and even: “whether you like it or not. And that’s what I’m here to learn about.”
Charity takes careless steps around the room, a disturbingly smug and satisfied look on her face.
Paul glares. “I know what kind of person you are,” he tells her, harshly. “What you tried to do to Sierra. Langton told me.”
“How nice of Mr. Langton.”
“I know the twisted things you’re capable of,” he continues, firm.
Charity stops. She turns and looks at him.
“Does that scare you, Paul?” she questions, her voice soft and curious. She moves toward him until she’s standing right in the front of the couch, head tilted as she stares down with an inquisitive light in her eyes. Her mouth twists in odd ways.
“Does it disturb you; frighten you,” she asks casually, “to think about the things that I’ve done?”
Paul looks back up at her, unhesitant and unflinching.
“No,” he declares. His voice is hard, determined: “Because I’m not scared of monsters.”
Charity Brigade gazes at him, her face empty save for the intensity in her eyes.
Suddenly, without warning, she drops, moving in so her hands are planted to either side of him - speaking in a low voice directly into his ear.
“Well, you know what? They’re not scared of you, either.”
_____
“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor,” Claire says. Her words are completely honest. “Ever since as long as I can remember.”
“And how long is that, Doctor?” Charity Brigade asks, offhandedly, barely glancing up from where she’s looking at the pages of Claire’s file.
Claire blinks once. Where her hands rest in her lap, the very first joints of her fingers start to curl in.
“Excuse me?”
Charity looks up from the file. Her face is a mask of careless indifference.
“Consider it an exercise in idle curiosity.” She gives a very faint smile. “Humor me, if you will. What’s the earliest thing you actually remember? Your first childhood memory?”
Claire draws a small breath, and releases it swiftly.
“I…I was down by a frozen river in the winter,” she says. “Ice-skating. I think I was about six.”
Again, it’s technically not a lie.
“Nothing sooner than that? Really?”
Claire breaths again. Quietly, she goes, “People’s memories work very differently from one another.”
There’s a tight smile on the other woman’s face, a hard calculating glint to her eye.
“Indeed they do, Doctor,” she agrees, smoothly. “Indeed they do.”
With one hand she shuts the file with a surprisingly noticeable sound - or maybe it’s just a sign of how quiet it is in the room.
The office is soundproof, Claire knows. It’s designed to be quiet, to give an isolating feeling; it can work wonders for clients, she supposes, to put them at ease while disclosing their deepest secrets, make them believe this room is truly the one place in the world safe enough for that.
But by the same token it can also have a negative affect, a stifling one. And this Claire knows personally, because she’s experienced it plenty of times - meetings with the whole staff or only a select few, the weight of power and authority bearing down on her. She’s felt uncomfortable in this room before. Helpless. Even trapped.
But she’s never felt truly frightened. Here and now, though…she’s getting there.
She’s alone in this room with a known sexual sadist, someone who abuses Dolls and people under her authority alike. Worst of all, she’s on a mission to dig out this House’s secrets.
And Claire has a big one to hide.
“So tell me, Doctor Saunders…” Charity tosses the file down carelessly, and then seats herself on DeWitt’s desk, legs crossed at the knee. “As long as we’re on the subject of memory: what is your professional opinion, on what happened to X-Ray?”
“I don’t have one.” Claire shakes her head. “Memory is a difficult process to understand, let alone predict, and an Active’s brain already functions in a more irregular manner than most. What happened can’t be explained by any kind of biological processes, and is therefore out of my field of expertise.”
“Come now, surely you must have an educated guess.” Charity is giving her a narrow, encouraging smile. “After all, with all your experience…just how long is it you’ve worked here, again?”
Claire folds her hands neatly. “Over three years.”
It’s a lie and anyone who’s read her whole file knows it. The problem is, she isn’t supposed to know.
There’s a beat as Charity just looks at her, eyeing her without blinking. She uncrosses her legs, then smoothly crosses them again the other direction.
“My,” she says at length, “how the time must seem to fly.”
Claire forces herself to nod, woodenly.
“At times,” she goes, “yes.”
Charity leans to one side a bit, resting her weight on one arm. “Though I’m certain, the incident with Alpha is a much clearer interlude.”
There’s an instinctive tightness in Claire’s chest. She forces herself to talk around it.
“Alpha was…an anomaly,” she says, repeating the same phrases at times she feels as if she’s memorized by rote; a security blanket to help her feel better. “It happened. I try not to think about it on a day-to-day basis. It would only interfere with my responsibilities.”
The other woman says nothing at first. But Claire can feel the weight of her eyes, staring at her. She keeps her face lowered, head down.
“Doctor,” Charity’s voice is so quiet, any emotion is impossible to read; “may I see your face?”
Claire freezes. She swallows and then, fortifying herself, tilts her head back up.
Charity Brigade gazes at her for a long moment, taking her in carefully with half-lowered lids.
“Hmm. You know, in a perverse way, there’s something almost artistic about it.”
And then, a smirk slowly curling her lips, she reaches to trace the ridge of one of Claire’s scars, hand resting on her cheek.
“After all, it certainly makes you…unique.”
Her smirk takes on a certain edge, dagger-sharp, and something burns low in the back of her eyes: she brushes Claire’s cheek further, and starts to touch her thumb to Claire’s lips.
“But you’ve always been special,” she practically whispers. “Haven’t you?”
An emotion Claire can’t name wells up inside of her - at the moment, she settles for fury. She viciously smacks Charity’s hand away.
“That’s not what I am anymore,” she snaps, glowering at the other woman even as her urge is to cower, or run away.
Charity shakes her hand loosely, wringing out the fingertips, with a cool frown.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” she chides. “Wouldn’t want it to get out you were physically assaulting someone the Center sent to look into this branch, now would you?”
But then she smiles again, her eyes dangerous, as she meets Claire’s gaze.
With practiced curiosity, she goes, “Now, whatever did you mean by that: ‘not what you are anymore’?”
_____
“I’ve really gotta let you know,” Topher says, quickly, “I have got some serious objections to letting your boy there paw through my stuff.”
“I assure you, Mr. Brink - or I suppose you prefer Topher? - Gunter knows what he is doing and is quiet capable.”
“Oh sure, capable. I have no doubt. But see, what I’ve got set up around here is a pretty specific, finely-tuned system, and-”
“So finely-tuned, you were able to let an Active go without being fully wiped?”
Topher falls silent for a moment.
“Ah. Touché,” he offers. Putting fingertips together, he goes, “And now we come to the crux of the matter.”
“As I see it, there’re really only two possibilities, aren’t there?” Charity Brigade stands a short distance away, looking at him with an implacable smile and a slight tilt to her head. “Either someone purposely sabotaged X-Ray’s wipe, or there was a major glitch and you weren’t paying attention. In either case, there are certain things you really shouldn’t have missed…but clearly, did.”
She trails a hand along the edge of DeWitt’s desk. “I must say, it looks very bad for you, either way.”
“You know, it’s kinda funny,” Topher feels compelled to point out, somewhat babbling. “That’s, um, almost exactly what they said to me, back when we had that security breach with the NSA-tech-corrupted imprint. And, hey, look how that turned out!”
He waves both hands, smirking nervously.
“So, I’m guessing this time, I also manage to come out scot-free.”
“Even a cat has to run out of lives some time, Topher,” Charity states, coolly. “And you know what they say did the cat in, don’t you?”
Topher swallows. “Being, ah, trapped inside a box and a state of existential limbo and hypothetical potential?”
He gives a tiny laugh then quickly sobers.
“That’s a physics joke. Don’t take it personally if you don’t get it. I only tried explaining it to Ballard, like, three times, and finally he just gave it all up as ‘cruel to animals’, somehow, I don’t even know-”
“Curiosity, Topher.” She cuts him off completely. When she smiles, it looks like a baring of teeth. “That’s what killed it.”
He gives a rapid, nervous nod, wide-eyed. “Also a possibility,” he concedes.
Scratching the back of his head, he only allows silence to linger a moment before he begins again. “But, ah, really - back to this whole ‘mea culpa’ issue: I gotta say, I’m not really feeling it.” With a painful smile, he shrugs. “Because I will have you know, I kept a very, very careful eye on the whole process, and-”
“Oh yes, I have no doubt you’re very dedicated and focused on your job.” Charity’s voice contains just a hint of dryness, and a stronger undercurrent of venom. “With your games, and your puzzles, and your many handy distractions.”
“Oh, you’ve…seen my office, then?” Topher guesses, feebly. “Yeah, look: about all that stuff. I can explain-”
“Of course, considering the only way the space could’ve ended up in that state is with Adelle’s knowledge…” Charity looks elsewhere with a bored expression. “Well, maybe this incident will be the least of your problems.”
He stares at her, trying to take in what he just heard.
“Are you threatening Ms. DeWitt?” he finally grasps aloud, almost laughing simply because he has no idea what else to do. “Making it sound like you’re gonna get her removed over this? Seriously? I mean, I know you two are supposed to have some kind of epic hate going on for each other, but really? Aren’t there maybe some more grownup and important things going on?”
“Oh, Topher. Clearly you’ve never been involved in a proper blood-feud before.”
She’s behind the desk now, and as he watches, fixated, she places her hands on a lacquered wooden box he’s only just noticed sitting there.
“It takes time, dedication, practice…persistence.”
She runs her hands across the dark wood. And then she carefully opens it and pulls out something that looks almost like a knife, but isn’t quite. A tool of some kind: thin and silver and sharply-bladed.
“Not to mention a great deal of creativity.”
Topher feels his throat tighten in a nervous knot, and his body goes cold and numb. He can’t feel his limbs.
He remembers what he’s heard about Charity Brigade, the crazy horror stories about what supposedly goes on at the House in DC. What Boyd told him he saw there, the description of an honest-to-god “Mistress of Pain” type dungeon set-up, only with none of the aura of kinky fun and all of the scary.
She holds the metal implement delicately in her hands, gazing at it as she carefully presses the point to one fingertip.
“I can hardly think of a more mature undertaking,” she finishes, idly, as she turns the edge of the blade to look at it shine.
Topher is just barely aware of where his hand now maintains a death-grip on one arm of the couch.
With a distracted sound, Charity places the tool back inside the box and closes it with the same precise and careful movements she removed it.
“Of course, it puts you in an unfortunate position, I’m afraid.” Charity gives him a placid smile as she comes around and sits on the front of the desk. “Reading between the lines, it’s quite obvious Adelle is very fond of you.” She crosses her arms. “And the only thing that would give me more pleasure than destroying Adelle DeWitt is destroying everything around her she holds dear.”
Topher can feel his mouth gape slightly as he just looks at her, wanting to say something but completely at a loss.
Charity’s smile grows more playful, the corner of her eyes crinkling as if they’re joking around.
“Of course; you know if you or anyone else ever tried to report what I’ve said to the Center or someone higher up, I’d say you’d severely misunderstood me and I was only kidding as to the nature of my intentions.”
She stands suddenly, taking one step toward him, then another.
“You’re the type who can appreciate a good joke, aren’t you, Topher?” she questions softly, moving closer all the while. “With your games, and your puzzles and your distractions…”
He leans back on the sofa and actually starts to draw his legs off the floor, as if he’s going to curl into a ball to get away from her.
“…turning your workspace into your own personal playroom, all while you get to play God.” She looms over him, giving an icy and joyless smile. “Manipulating and erasing the minds of your fellow human beings without giving it second thought.”
“H-hey now,” Topher finally manages, protesting despite how overwhelmed he feels, “wait just a second. You’re making me sound like some kind of sociopath-”
“Oh, you’re not? You care about the Actives, do you? You like them, and like it if they like you, all while knowing you’re the one who took their real selves away and that you play puppet-master with them on a regular basis? That only makes it worse.”
She turns her back and starts walking away. “Every employee I’ve interviewed so far, when questioned about you certain details start to emerge. You’re close with Madeline Costley, aren’t you? And Laurence Dominic?”
She stops and turns slightly aside, glancing at him with a smirk. “Your two closest friends?” she observes, mocking. “Both of them had their identities stolen by you. Mr. Dominic went to the Attic. Miss Costley was made into an Active. You watched both of them sit in your chair, the terror in their eyes as their lives faded slowly from them…until even that faded.”
Charity puts hands on her hips and cocks her head as she looks down at him, all but laughing in his face, amused.
“And now, what? You go to movies and eat together and you tell them your little jokes and they laugh…looking at their smiling, happy faces, do you remember the way you’ve seen them before? Do you ever stop to think about how once you fried both their brains?”
Topher stares at her. He opens his mouth to speak, but all he can manage is a deep, shaky gulp. There’s bile at the back of his throat, a heavy lump that’s clogged up his voice completely.
“No, of course not. I doubt you ever think of that at all.” She sits herself sideways on the arm of the sofa furthest from him, legs stretched to one side.
“After all, if you did, then you might have to deal with the guilt. And guilt just isn’t any…fun.”
______
link to conclusion