Adelle DeWitt is sitting primly behind her desk and briskly flipping through a stack of papers while the security guard in the suit is standing off to the side and glaring, and the whole situation is generally making Topher uncomfortable. He keeps his mouth shut and does his best not to fidget as the silence stretches on.
Finally, DeWitt straightens the papers and rises from her chair to walk around to the front of her desk. She studies him for a moment and begins, "I must say, Mr. Brink, that your resume is rather unusual when compared to those who typically apply for this position."
Topher gives a nervous laugh. "Unusual bad, or…?"
"Unusual," she replies, cutting him off. "For one thing, most of our applicants come from a more…physically intensive background."
"But it's not required," Topher points out, lifting his index finger. He had checked that detail very carefully. It probably should be required, given how unstable the technology is (he could fix that, easily, given the chance), but he'll take advantage of the fact that it's not.
DeWitt gives a small smile, amused. "No, it isn't. But aside from that point, your education and experience seem to indicate you'd be more comfortable working in one of our more research-oriented fields."
"But my education and experience wouldn't be enough to put me into one of those fields."
"No, I don't suppose it would," she says, consulting the papers in her hands once more. "I see you never finished your doctoral degree."
Topher makes a halting gesture with one hand. "That wasn't lack of motivation, btw. I never finished because Freemont kicked me out for illegally accessing their files."
The glaring security guard takes a step forward. "Do you really think a criminal record looks better for you than laziness?" he asks sharply.
Topher gapes, and DeWitt looks over her shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Dominic," she says briefly. Dominic reluctantly backs off but continues to scowl.
DeWitt turns back around and continues as though she hadn't been interrupted, "That being said, it's clear you have a great deal of knowledge when it comes to the neurosciences. Experience with the human brain is useful for a handler; you'd need little training on how to read and understand the monitors." She shuffles through the papers again. "It seems the biggest complaint against you is an insatiable curiosity and a tendency to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
Topher bites his tongue to keep from asking if she means that badly, or…
DeWitt smiles over the top of the papers. "I encourage a certain degree of curiosity in my employees. Without it, how would they come to work at a place that doesn't exist? However, you'll find I will require a bit more respect than you've shown your graduate school professors in the past."
Topher perks up. "Does that mean I'm hired?"
DeWitt picks up a file from her desk and hands it to him. "You'll be assigned to Whiskey, one of our more popular Actives. Do you think you can handle it, Mr. Brink?"
"Well, I can't do any worse than the last guy," he says with a grin.
DeWitt and Dominic both give him a hard look.
Topher clears his throat. "Y-yeah, I can do it."
Whiskey is beautiful.
He supposes that's the point of the Dollhouse, beauty, but that doesn't stop Topher from being startled when he first sees the Active he's going to be responsible for.
Waiting in the imprint room, he had been busy taking in the technology and making mental notes on all of the ways he could improve it (Analog cables? Really?), but her entry manages to completely distract him.
The door swings open, and Topher jumps back from where he'd been attempting to covertly examine the chair. "Oh, uh, hello," he says, making that last syllable a bit more sing-songy than he'd intended. He gives an awkward grin and compliments it with an equally awkward wave.
Whiskey smiles, that mildly puzzled but entirely genuine smile you can really only get from an Active in their blank state. "Hello," she replies dreamily, "I'm supposed to get a treatment."
The programmer finally emerges from the corner where he had been working and studiously ignoring Topher, and he offers Whiskey the briefest and most forced of smiles. (Topher decides he doesn't like this guy, and not just because he has his dream job. This guy is not nearly intelligent enough to warrant such a level of seriousness.) "Please have a seat, Whiskey," he says, gesturing to the chair. "Today you'll be getting a slightly different treatment. This young man is going to be your new handler. His name is Topher Brink."
At the programmer's signal, Topher steps forward, clearing his throat and lifting the script he'd been given earlier. He takes Whiskey's smaller hand in his, and her fingers curl in a gentle grip. His eyes flick from the paper to her face. "Everything's going to be alright," he says slowly.
There is some uncertainty behind Whiskey's eyes as she replies, "Now that you're here."
Another glance at the paper. "Do you trust me?"
The confusion fades in favor of an utterly earnest expression. "With my life," she finishes firmly.
"I'm nervous. Should I be nervous? I'm nervous anyway."
The lab assistant has been watching him pace for nearly an hour now, and she finally takes pity on him and grabs the engagement notice out of his hands. She sighs dramatically as she glances over the details and looks up. "You've got nothing to worry about. It's a very standard engagement. The first ones always are." She hands it back to Topher. "And even though it's your first time out, it's not Whiskey's. It's not even this imprint's first time. The chances of you having to interfere are virtually nonexistent."
Topher gives an uneasy laugh. "Right. Nothing to worry about," he repeats, watching the assistant sit down at the computer. Ivy was her name, and he likes her a lot better than the head programmer. He clears his throat and, in the most casual way he can manage, adds, "I might be less freaked out if I didn't have two hours to think about it."
Ivy sighs in an irritated way. "We have the standing record of any House at just under two hours, so no one bothers to try and improve on it." She's smart and disgruntled, which is a perfect combination as far as Topher is concerned.
He thinks this might be his way to the technology.
His ideas are making a difference. All his thoughts on improving the imprinting process are filtering through Ivy and up the chain of command, and changes are being implemented. Sure, that hack of a programmer is getting all the credit, but he's working with the technology, at least indirectly, and that's really all that matters.
It's a huge lie. No matter what positive spin he tries to put on it, the lack of recognition for his genius is driving Topher crazy. Ivy is already tired of listening to him, so he starts directing his complaints and rants toward Whiskey.
He figures it's safe. They chat after engagements and before the wipe, so nothing he tells her could cause any interference. It's very nearly like talking to a real person. The various personalities commiserate with him, offer advice and perspectives based on career troubles they've never actually had. It helps to have an outlet, and it's harmless. (Except for the call girl imprint whose response was to crawl into his lap and purr that she could make him forget all his problems for the right price, but he's since learned his lesson about dealing with the more aggressive personalities.)
Sometimes he even complains to her while she's in her Doll state, which he supposes really isn't the smartest thing. It's not exactly the most stimulating conversation, either.
"Are you not your best?"
"I am the best. It's the other guy who needs to try harder."
"If you're your best, then it should be okay."
"Yeah. It'd be nice if it worked that way."
"You're unhappy."
"And you're sharp."
"I don't like you to be unhappy."
Topher never really has anything to say to that. "Come on, Whiskey," he sighs. "It's time for your treatment."
And while having his Active sit in the chair and earnestly tell the programmer that he should try harder at being his best probably doesn't earn Topher any points with the higher ups, it certainly makes him feel a little better.
He never meant for it to happen.
Topher was proud of Whiskey and proud of himself. Being the handler to the most requested Active in the Dollhouse has a bit of prestige to it, and he felt a little bragging was only fair.
He was just proud of her.
But he looks away for one second, and now Alpha is on top of her and Whiskey is screaming in pain.
Topher drops the engagement notices and runs over, although he has no idea what he can do to stop a rogue Active with a weapon. "Blevins!" he shouts, but Alpha's handler is already there, grabbing Alpha and hauling him back. Another handler jumps in to help and they manage to get him restrained, and Topher pulls Whiskey out from under him.
The chaos leaves with Alpha as half the staff drags him up to the imprint room, and the main floor falls quiet. But Whiskey is still crying and shaking, tears mixing with the blood and dripping off her face to form a puddle on the ground. Topher takes hold of her arms and tries to stop her panicking, but he's not doing much better himself. "It's okay, it's okay," he keeps repeating to no effect.
Whiskey squirms and tries to get away from him, still crying out incoherently. Topher snaps out of it and realizes what he needs to do. "Everything's going to be alright!" he says loudly.
She stills, looks at his hands on her arms, and slowly looks up to meet his eyes. "Now that you're here," she replies, unsteady but clear.
Topher sighs in relief. He lets go of her with one hand and gently brushes a strand of hair from her face where it has fallen out of its tie. It sticks to one of the oozing cuts, making her wince. "Do you trust me?" he asks.
Whiskey leans her cheek against his hand, even though the pressure is painful. "With my life," she says. Talking is painful too. "Everything hurts," she whispers.
Topher nods. "I know. I'll fix it. I will," he promises. He looks up, finds one of the attendants standing off to the side and looking shell-shocked. "Help me get her to the infirmary."
The infirmary doesn't get hit during Alpha's rampage, and if Dr. Saunders hadn't decided to find out what all the noise was about upstairs, he'd probably still be alive. It's horrific. So many people died in so little time, but right now Topher's just glad he was spared and Whiskey was spared and Dr. Saunders had managed to stop the bleeding and get her stitched up before everything went to hell.
The few attendants and nurses who survived are stretched thin attending to injuries, and they shoo him away. "Hovering won't get help her any, Mr. Brink. You're in the way here." With a final, anxious glance toward Whiskey, he obeys.
The head programmer and a good portion of his staff were among Alpha's victims, and the machinery itself didn't fare too well either. Topher heads upstairs to see if he can help out there, get his mind off everything else. (The fresh bloodstains on the floor of the imprint room don't really help, but getting up close and personal with the technology for the first time is almost distraction enough.)
He spends a few hours undoing Alpha's work on the wiring as best he can before an astoundingly still businesslike Adelle DeWitt strides into the room and announces, "Mr. Brink, I'd like to speak with you for a moment."
Topher exchanges a look with one of the other tech workers, stumbles to his feet, and follows her out into the office.
DeWitt starts in immediately. "Some of the lab workers here have informed me that you've been influencing the progression of our imprint technology and have in fact implied that you've been largely responsible for all of the recent improvements."
Topher glances over his shoulder to where he can see Ivy at work fiddling with the chair. He turns back and mumbles inarticulately for a few seconds before getting out, "That's…not entirely untrue."
DeWitt barely acknowledges his confirmation. She goes on briskly, "As you are certainly aware, we are in rather dire need of a new programmer. The longer we lay idle, the more we allow this tragedy to have control over us. And once the technology is back online and we have someone to work it, we can begin imprinting some of the remaining Actives with the skills to assist in our recovery."
He blinks a few times, trying to process what she's getting at. "Are you…offering me a new job?"
"A promotion, Mr. Brink."
He hesitates. This is his dream, but… "What about Whiskey?"
"As Whiskey is out of service for the moment, she will no longer require a handler's care," she informs him. "In fact, as we need a new physician rather quickly, that can be your first assignment." She gives him a smile, small and fake. "Consider it a promotion for the both of you."
She leaves before Topher can properly react.
Topher spends all night on Whiskey's permanent imprint, hunched over the computer in his new office while cleanup crews pass back and forth behind him to mop up blood and debris.
He starts with the basics. A doctor. Medical abilities, obviously. Talent, not just the basics, an ability to notice details, find solutions, and do it all quickly. Kindness, too. She'll have to really care for her patients, have a commitment. Topher thinks of all the staff members who will remember Whiskey and adds a degree of distance as well. The less she talks to others, the less chance she'll have of figuring out the truth. Her compassion will extend only as far as the Dolls.
He changes the memory of Alpha's attack on her, but leaves the pure terror, doubles it. Fear is caution, and this can never happen again. To that he adds a healthy distrust of the imprinting process. Hesitancy to believe her superiors wholeheartedly. She'll be quiet and keep to herself, but if she disagrees she'll be the first to speak up. What they need here is a balance, someone to check his work.
But now she finds the entire concept of the Dollhouse a bit too distasteful. Someone with this particular mix of traits would quit within a week, no matter how much she cares for the Actives. Topher ups the trauma from Alpha's attack. Agoraphobia, too. Severe. Enough to cripple someone living in the outside world, but for Whiskey? All it will do is keep her here. The Dollhouse is safe.
He's nearly done, now. Just a few background details, a history. And he has to undo the programming kept for other Actives. Can't have her overhear a trigger phrase and react to it on the job.
On that note, Topher thinks of the Handler-Active Bond. That's always been stronger than other protocols, able to override programming. He's not entirely sure how well than can be wiped away. He bites his lip and decides to associate her distaste for his job with him as well, adds a certain degree of physical aversion to his presence. There's no need to see how far that latent trust would go.
Now he's down to just the name. He'll keep the last name so it's less confusing for the other Actives, but the first name…
There was a girl in his neighborhood that he used to play with when he was a kid. She would drag him down to the creek behind their houses, even though he hated playing outside, and make him help her catch frogs and turtles and things. She liked to push him in the water and pretend it was his fault for being clumsy. But she would always walk home with him afterwards and watch Star Trek reruns with him after he'd changed out of his wet clothes, so it wasn't so bad. They'd been pretty close up until her family moved away. What was her name again?
Topher smiles to himself, types in the last detail, and downloads the imprint to the wedge. Dr. Claire Saunders starts work tomorrow.
The excitement of familiarizing himself with the imprint technology is nearly enough to make Topher forget his purpose in starting it up today. It's a sobering sight when one of the attendants leads Whiskey into the room.
He forces a smile and gestures to the chair. "Please have a seat," he says, turning back to the computer.
Whiskey settles into the chair. The cuts on her face are still red and angry, but they'll heal in time. They've wiped the memory of their origin, but she still seems troubled by them. "Is it time for my treatment?" she asks quietly.
"Yes," Topher replies, "it is. A special treatment." He turns to look at her again. "Would you like that?"
Her fingers skim across the cuts on her face. She's taken to doing that, but they've managed to keep her from tearing the stitches so far. "Yes, please. I want to be my best again."
"You will be," Topher sighs. He hits the switch to set the chair in motion and watches as it settles into place. "This will pinch a little," he warns.
Whiskey nods, letting her hand drop and leaning back as the chair moves. She looks lost, even for a Doll.
Topher's hand is hovering over the imprint control. He turns around suddenly and grabs for Whiskey's hand instead, giving her fingers a light squeeze. "Everything's going to be alright," he breathes.
She smiles up at him, wide and trusting. "Now that you're here."
He reaches back and taps a button. Her hand slides out of his grip as the blue light fills the room and her body seizes.
Topher turns away and takes a deep breath. It's time to meet his new coworker.