Fanfic: A Shot of Whiskey
May. 9th, 2009 09:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
assassinTitle: A Shot of Whiskey
Fandom: Dollhouse
Character/Pairing: Topher, Dr. Saunders
Rating: General
Genre: Angst (as usual)
Summary: There's always a girl.
Spoilers: Up to the finale.
Notes: I slapped this one out right after watching "Omega," so it's kind of lame and totally unbeta'ed.
This fanfic was read on the Strangely Literal podcast!
Whiskey came in two days after Topher signed his contract to work inside the Dollhouse.
"Hello, Whiskey," Topher said, his hands folded behind his back. She sat up with the chair.
"Did I fall asleep?"
He smiled. "For a little while."
"Should I go now?"
"If you like."
Topher watched her go, and then looked down at the script on the desk again. "Hey. Wow. That really works. It's not the same seeing the program at home and then coming here, you know, on the front lines. She didn't... I mean, she didn't even recognize me."
"It's not her anymore," Yates said, patting a heavy hand on Topher's shoulder. "I think you should be able to handle it from here."
"Where are you going after this?" Topher asked, and Yates gives him the ghost of a smile.
"Anywhere but here."
"Here, with all the hot women and massages and gourmet food? Are you kidding?"
"You'll want to leave too, before long." Yates picked up his box of desk's decorations -- little metal contraptions, a Troll doll, and a couple serious-looking books -- and heads out the door.
"That's not going to happen. I'm not leaving," Topher says, "not for at least five years."
---
Three years later, they were standing in his office, and she wasn't Whiskey anymore.
"I'm curious," said Dr. Saunders, her beautiful face a ruined mess of scars and emotion.
Topher's throat worked. "About?"
"Well, I guess I understand why they wouldn't want to waste an investment." Her words are tinged with bitterness, regret. "And I suppose, why hire a new physician when you can just... imprint the broken Doll." A crack in her voice.
He watches her, jaw tight. She stops and levels her gaze at him.
"But why did you decide it was very important for me to hate you?" she asked.
Topher doesn't know how to respond.
---
Two years beforehand, the Dollhouse was dark. Topher sat on his couch, playing Halo on the computer with his X-Box controller peripheral-- and he was losing. "Aw, darn it! You were camping the spawn point!"
"It's not my fault you suck," Whiskey laughed, her baseball cap turned around backwards on her head.
"I don't--! Ohh, you just wait until we restart this match and you don't have a three kill lead on me," Topher said. "I'm so going to own you."
"Yeah? You want to start over? You'll still suck in another game," Whiskey said. She dropped her controller and got up, and Topher took advantage of the opportunity to kill her character with his sword.
"Ha! Take that!"
"Frags don't count when I've already left," she called over her shoulder.
"Allow me to revel in my petty wins. What are you doing?"
A lighter clicked, a flare of flame. "Don't think I've forgotten what day it is." Whiskey returned to the couch with a chocolate doughnut and one lit candle. She sat beside him, cradling the plate between her hands, and grinned. "Happy birthday, Topher."
---
Sometimes, Topher regretted sending her on all those assignments, but Whiskey was the most popular Active. And she had volunteered, after all.
"Where's she going today?" Topher asked Whiskey's handler, typing away at the computer.
"You know that guy with the bounty hunting fantasy? We're sending her off with Alpha to play at Bonnie and Clyde." The handler was bored and picked at her fingernails. "I really hate Alpha's handler. He's such a dick."
Topher sat up, grabbed her wrist. "That assignment was flagged. It's risky."
"Yeah? So?"
"So Whiskey isn't allowed on assignments that have been flagged for danger."
"She's going this time," the handler said, shaking off Topher's hand. "She was requested personally. She'll be fine, kid."
Topher finished the imprint, pulling the wedge out of the drive. He stood over Whiskey in the chair for a long time, watching her wait with that patient, vacant smiles that all Actives had.
"I'm sorry," he said, and then he started the imprint.
---
Not long afterward, Alpha was on the loose and the number one Active had been ruined.
"Send Whiskey to the Attic," Adelle said, heavy with regret. She turned to exit the imprinting room.
"Wait!" Topher cried. He was on the verge of tears, cheeks wet, chest heaving. "Wait-- you-- no, she can't go there, you can't do that."
Adelle was cold and calculating, but not unsympathetic. The worry lines between her eyebrows were furrowing permanent indentations in her skin, and she folded her arms as she studied Topher. Whiskey lay in the chair, face scarred but bleeding stopped. Her clothes are still a mess. "You said the wedge with her personality on it has been destroyed," Adelle says in a low, even voice. "She's no longer useful as an Active. I'm sorry, Topher. We can't leave her like this."
"But..."
She took a deep breath. "Your sister is dead. There's nothing more to be done about it. Your contract here is finished-- you will be paid in full and can leave as soon as Taka flies in from Tokyo to replace you."
Topher stared between Whiskey and Adelle, and then shook his head. "No. Let me-- I mean, a lot of people got killed today. I had imprints on all of them. You need a new doctor, right?"
"What do you propose?"
"We can't send her out anymore," Topher said. "But why can't we keep her inside?"
---
Years later, it wasn't Whiskey who's standing in front of Topher, eyes flashing and hands clenched into fists.
"Why did you decide it was very important for me to hate you?" Dr. Saunders asked.
Topher is helpless to respond.
A moment passes. Two. Anger flashes across her scarred face. "I think that's strange."
"You didn't open it," he said, gesturing to the file on the computer, trying to stop her from leaving. He sounded like he was going to cry, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't tell her who she was -- before Whiskey -- because Adelle had made him promise. Saving her from the emotional pain of her true life, destroyed by Alpha when he went after the Self Shelf, had been the condition that kept her out of the Attic. But if she had looked at the file... if she discovered for herself that he was her brother, that she wasn't nearly as alone as she thought...
"No."
"Aren't you curious to see who you really are?"
The glance she shot at him was filled with venom, but the anger isn't for him. No, her pain was beyond Topher, beyond the Dollhouse. "I know who I am," she said, and then she was gone and all Topher could do is stand there, trying to remember how to breathe.
"I had to," he whispered to the room, but there was nobody to respond.
Fandom: Dollhouse
Character/Pairing: Topher, Dr. Saunders
Rating: General
Genre: Angst (as usual)
Summary: There's always a girl.
Spoilers: Up to the finale.
Notes: I slapped this one out right after watching "Omega," so it's kind of lame and totally unbeta'ed.
This fanfic was read on the Strangely Literal podcast!
Whiskey came in two days after Topher signed his contract to work inside the Dollhouse.
"Hello, Whiskey," Topher said, his hands folded behind his back. She sat up with the chair.
"Did I fall asleep?"
He smiled. "For a little while."
"Should I go now?"
"If you like."
Topher watched her go, and then looked down at the script on the desk again. "Hey. Wow. That really works. It's not the same seeing the program at home and then coming here, you know, on the front lines. She didn't... I mean, she didn't even recognize me."
"It's not her anymore," Yates said, patting a heavy hand on Topher's shoulder. "I think you should be able to handle it from here."
"Where are you going after this?" Topher asked, and Yates gives him the ghost of a smile.
"Anywhere but here."
"Here, with all the hot women and massages and gourmet food? Are you kidding?"
"You'll want to leave too, before long." Yates picked up his box of desk's decorations -- little metal contraptions, a Troll doll, and a couple serious-looking books -- and heads out the door.
"That's not going to happen. I'm not leaving," Topher says, "not for at least five years."
---
Three years later, they were standing in his office, and she wasn't Whiskey anymore.
"I'm curious," said Dr. Saunders, her beautiful face a ruined mess of scars and emotion.
Topher's throat worked. "About?"
"Well, I guess I understand why they wouldn't want to waste an investment." Her words are tinged with bitterness, regret. "And I suppose, why hire a new physician when you can just... imprint the broken Doll." A crack in her voice.
He watches her, jaw tight. She stops and levels her gaze at him.
"But why did you decide it was very important for me to hate you?" she asked.
Topher doesn't know how to respond.
---
Two years beforehand, the Dollhouse was dark. Topher sat on his couch, playing Halo on the computer with his X-Box controller peripheral-- and he was losing. "Aw, darn it! You were camping the spawn point!"
"It's not my fault you suck," Whiskey laughed, her baseball cap turned around backwards on her head.
"I don't--! Ohh, you just wait until we restart this match and you don't have a three kill lead on me," Topher said. "I'm so going to own you."
"Yeah? You want to start over? You'll still suck in another game," Whiskey said. She dropped her controller and got up, and Topher took advantage of the opportunity to kill her character with his sword.
"Ha! Take that!"
"Frags don't count when I've already left," she called over her shoulder.
"Allow me to revel in my petty wins. What are you doing?"
A lighter clicked, a flare of flame. "Don't think I've forgotten what day it is." Whiskey returned to the couch with a chocolate doughnut and one lit candle. She sat beside him, cradling the plate between her hands, and grinned. "Happy birthday, Topher."
---
Sometimes, Topher regretted sending her on all those assignments, but Whiskey was the most popular Active. And she had volunteered, after all.
"Where's she going today?" Topher asked Whiskey's handler, typing away at the computer.
"You know that guy with the bounty hunting fantasy? We're sending her off with Alpha to play at Bonnie and Clyde." The handler was bored and picked at her fingernails. "I really hate Alpha's handler. He's such a dick."
Topher sat up, grabbed her wrist. "That assignment was flagged. It's risky."
"Yeah? So?"
"So Whiskey isn't allowed on assignments that have been flagged for danger."
"She's going this time," the handler said, shaking off Topher's hand. "She was requested personally. She'll be fine, kid."
Topher finished the imprint, pulling the wedge out of the drive. He stood over Whiskey in the chair for a long time, watching her wait with that patient, vacant smiles that all Actives had.
"I'm sorry," he said, and then he started the imprint.
---
Not long afterward, Alpha was on the loose and the number one Active had been ruined.
"Send Whiskey to the Attic," Adelle said, heavy with regret. She turned to exit the imprinting room.
"Wait!" Topher cried. He was on the verge of tears, cheeks wet, chest heaving. "Wait-- you-- no, she can't go there, you can't do that."
Adelle was cold and calculating, but not unsympathetic. The worry lines between her eyebrows were furrowing permanent indentations in her skin, and she folded her arms as she studied Topher. Whiskey lay in the chair, face scarred but bleeding stopped. Her clothes are still a mess. "You said the wedge with her personality on it has been destroyed," Adelle says in a low, even voice. "She's no longer useful as an Active. I'm sorry, Topher. We can't leave her like this."
"But..."
She took a deep breath. "Your sister is dead. There's nothing more to be done about it. Your contract here is finished-- you will be paid in full and can leave as soon as Taka flies in from Tokyo to replace you."
Topher stared between Whiskey and Adelle, and then shook his head. "No. Let me-- I mean, a lot of people got killed today. I had imprints on all of them. You need a new doctor, right?"
"What do you propose?"
"We can't send her out anymore," Topher said. "But why can't we keep her inside?"
---
Years later, it wasn't Whiskey who's standing in front of Topher, eyes flashing and hands clenched into fists.
"Why did you decide it was very important for me to hate you?" Dr. Saunders asked.
Topher is helpless to respond.
A moment passes. Two. Anger flashes across her scarred face. "I think that's strange."
"You didn't open it," he said, gesturing to the file on the computer, trying to stop her from leaving. He sounded like he was going to cry, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't tell her who she was -- before Whiskey -- because Adelle had made him promise. Saving her from the emotional pain of her true life, destroyed by Alpha when he went after the Self Shelf, had been the condition that kept her out of the Attic. But if she had looked at the file... if she discovered for herself that he was her brother, that she wasn't nearly as alone as she thought...
"No."
"Aren't you curious to see who you really are?"
The glance she shot at him was filled with venom, but the anger isn't for him. No, her pain was beyond Topher, beyond the Dollhouse. "I know who I am," she said, and then she was gone and all Topher could do is stand there, trying to remember how to breathe.
"I had to," he whispered to the room, but there was nobody to respond.
