Hey guys! Thanks for reading my story. It's Dollhouse-oriented (duh) and the main character is my OC India. Sorry this first chapter is so short; it was kinda just me trying to put my brainchild down on a document. If this ends up going anywhere I'll try to update regularly. Enjoy!
I knew that I was different ever since I discovered what it felt like to think. After three years of being nothing but a body, a vacant mind waiting to be filled with fabricated memories and false intentions. From somewhere deep within me, a spark was ignited and it blazed up within me.
It happened when someone asked me a question.
"Hello India. Would you like to shower now?"
I turned and looked at her. She wore a loose white cotton outfit, and spoke with an airy tone to her soft voice. I blinked.
Do I want to shower? Why wouldn't I? But why would I?
"...yes." it was tentative.
I don't know how or why, but I registered this as thought.
To my empty, simple brain, thought was a strange concept. Here, we don't think. We run on instinct and we want for nothing. For us to think would be an issue for them, the men and women who walk above us, up on the balcony above our oasis, moving with purpose and...thinking. Thinking and speaking and being. A woman with a strange voice, different than the other speakers, stalks along the high rise with an air about her that I can almost taste from here on the polished wood floor where I dwell. She talks to a young blonde in a wrinkled argyle vest and he radiates the feeling of 'thought' even stronger than she does. I watch him glide around his workspace, typing on a keyboard and gesturing madly at a flustered-looking oriental girl. I wonder what they talk about. Think about...
"India, would you like to go swim in the pool now?"
It's him, the man. He goes a lot of places with me. I trust him.
Is trust a thought...?
"Yes...I enjoy swimming in the pool."
Why did I say that? Do I enjoy swimming? Does one need to be able to think in order to enjoy something?
I turn in the direction of the pool area, only to almost bump into Tango.
"Hello, Tango."
"Hello, India. I'm getting a treatment. I enjoy my treatments."
I see a tall sandy-haired man about a foot behind Tango. The word 'handler' comes to mind. I'm not sure why.
"Goodbye Tango."
I watch her and her handler ascend the stairs up to where the thinkers walk. They are greeted by the computer man, and I loose sight of them all as they go through a translucent glass door which shuts tightly behind them.
I look at my piers as they walk around me. I wonder if they think. After a few minutes, I arrive at the answer 'no'.
Because none of them look up. To the whole other world that exists only a staircase away, the world of the conscious.
Why don't they look up?
Reviews greatly appreciated. :)
~Bowie 3