Fic: Tango
Title: Tango
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Topher Brink, Dean Winchester
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and Joss Whedon own the rights, I own nothing.
Summary: The new Active was a man.
Notes: This is me working out my feelings about Dollhouse. The premise was interesting, if seriously creepy, but Echo really didn’t do it for me. So....
The newest Active, Tango, was a man, a little older than usual, early-30s instead of mid-20s, but still pretty enough with his enormous green eyes, pout-y lips and boyish freckles to make any horny, rich cougar happy. He was mildly sedated when they brought him in. They always were, even the ones who volunteered. It made them more manageable, the memories easier to extract, but he still fought his handlers, dragging his feet and muttering no. The handlers held Tango down while Topher placed the sensors and electrodes. There was a scar on his left shoulder shaped like a hand print. Topher ran his finger over it, wondering where Tango had gotten it. Not that it mattered.
“Angel,” Tango slurred angrily. Topher wondered what that was supposed to mean. Tango squirmed, trying to shrug Topher’s hand off. Topher let him. It didn’t matter anyway.
Tango continued to glare as Topher made his way to the control consol. Seemed he was a fighter, for a few more minutes anyway. After that he’s be whoever, and whatever, Topher wanted him to be. There was something exhilarating about that. “This may hurt a little,” he quipped and flipped the switch.
Tango’s eyes flew wide. There was pain in them, and fear, but overwhelmingly anger. He shuddered in the chair, gasping, his hands fisting on the armrests. “Sammy,” he groaned as his memories were ripped from his mind. Maybe that had been his name. Maybe it had been a lover or friend. It didn’t matter now.
Tango turned off when the machine did, muscles relaxing and features going slack. “Tango,” Topher called gently. The man’s lashes fluttered, his eyes sliding open, as big and green and empty as a doll’s. “Tango,” Topher called again, “how do you feel?”
Tango turned slowly to face him, a childlike awareness slowly leaking into his eyes. “I’m hungry,” he declared. “Can I have pie?” He frowned, biting his lower lip, a nervous gesture he shouldn’t have. Topher would have to correct that on the next reset. “Do I like pie?”
Topher nodded to the handler to help Tango up. “You can have pie,” he answered the first question. He’d have to think about the second one. Maybe Tango shouldn’t. Tango flashed him a sweet, little-boy smile as he was lead from the room. Topher pulled the memory tape from the machine. He wondered if there were any useful memories on it. It wasn’t like Tango needed them anymore.
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dollhouse
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Topher Brink, Dean Winchester
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and Joss Whedon own the rights, I own nothing.
Summary: The new Active was a man.
Notes: This is me working out my feelings about Dollhouse. The premise was interesting, if seriously creepy, but Echo really didn’t do it for me. So....
The newest Active, Tango, was a man, a little older than usual, early-30s instead of mid-20s, but still pretty enough with his enormous green eyes, pout-y lips and boyish freckles to make any horny, rich cougar happy. He was mildly sedated when they brought him in. They always were, even the ones who volunteered. It made them more manageable, the memories easier to extract, but he still fought his handlers, dragging his feet and muttering no. The handlers held Tango down while Topher placed the sensors and electrodes. There was a scar on his left shoulder shaped like a hand print. Topher ran his finger over it, wondering where Tango had gotten it. Not that it mattered.
“Angel,” Tango slurred angrily. Topher wondered what that was supposed to mean. Tango squirmed, trying to shrug Topher’s hand off. Topher let him. It didn’t matter anyway.
Tango continued to glare as Topher made his way to the control consol. Seemed he was a fighter, for a few more minutes anyway. After that he’s be whoever, and whatever, Topher wanted him to be. There was something exhilarating about that. “This may hurt a little,” he quipped and flipped the switch.
Tango’s eyes flew wide. There was pain in them, and fear, but overwhelmingly anger. He shuddered in the chair, gasping, his hands fisting on the armrests. “Sammy,” he groaned as his memories were ripped from his mind. Maybe that had been his name. Maybe it had been a lover or friend. It didn’t matter now.
Tango turned off when the machine did, muscles relaxing and features going slack. “Tango,” Topher called gently. The man’s lashes fluttered, his eyes sliding open, as big and green and empty as a doll’s. “Tango,” Topher called again, “how do you feel?”
Tango turned slowly to face him, a childlike awareness slowly leaking into his eyes. “I’m hungry,” he declared. “Can I have pie?” He frowned, biting his lower lip, a nervous gesture he shouldn’t have. Topher would have to correct that on the next reset. “Do I like pie?”
Topher nodded to the handler to help Tango up. “You can have pie,” he answered the first question. He’d have to think about the second one. Maybe Tango shouldn’t. Tango flashed him a sweet, little-boy smile as he was lead from the room. Topher pulled the memory tape from the machine. He wondered if there were any useful memories on it. It wasn’t like Tango needed them anymore.