Chapter 2 - Whiskey
It didn't take long before Whiskey became the most popular Active in the house.
Topher imagined what would happen if he were to tell Anna this and thinks she wouldn't believe him.
Strange thing number one happened one day when he had nothing much to do: no new wedges to be made or Actives to imprint or video games to play. He was passing time looking out of his overseeing window, down at the Actives going about their days, blissfully unaware that he is watching them; Just a bunch of roaming cattle in tank tops and sweatpants.
And then he noticed her. He's never looking for Whiskey when he stares out the window but he always ends up finding her eventually. There's nothing even distinct about her now. She's characterless until he makes her someone. All that separates her from the other drones she lives among is that he met her before she became a drone. And even so, that doesn't matter now and won't for almost five more years.
But he looked down at her, watched her walk from where she had probably been swimming laps as he can tell by her wet hair, and she stopped walking right in the middle of the floor.
That alone was enough to make him furrow his brows. Actives always behave purposefully. If one stops, there is a reason. He wondered if she stepped in something or perhaps, just felt the sting of an injury. Immediately, he started trying to remember if her last wipe had any abnormalities in it that could have somehow led to a headache.
But he stopped thinking, breathing when she looked up at him. Another thing Actives don't do: look up. Unless some kind of disrupting noise comes from the floor above them, Actives have no reason to consider what is going on right overhead. He's never even seen one master stairs without instruction that they must get to the imprint room, the only place they'd have to get to that's up any stairs.
She looked directly at him without any discernable reason.
That means she's aware that I'm watching her, he thought, feeling a bit like a voyeur for the first time since he started working there.
He wondered if this was something he did wrong. It could have been a learned behavior based on the many times she has gone upstairs to get her treatment but they weren't supposed to learn. Everything they know is supposed to stay consistent with each wipe.
But then, as if clueing him into why she has found him, she tilted her head to the side, and not just a slight head quirk that could be nothing, but a substantial bend in the neck that one might have while thinking.
That Anna had while thinking.
She looked down on the Actives and considered their lives in the same position and now Whiskey was doing the same from the opposite perspective.
Topher decided to tell no one and try to be more thorough with the next wipe.
"Hey Anna, I was wondering if you would want to go out with me? After you finish your Twinkie, of course," he said to the empty imprinting chair.
The staff had all gone home and there was no one except himself, the sleeping Actives, and the night security in the house but he knew the cameras in the room don't have microphones. He was just talking to himself as far as they can see and he does that quite a bit.
Initially he thought it would be best to just forget about her until it gets closer to five years, that way he won't be holding a torch if someone else comes along. Then he laughed at the thought of someone else coming along and decided it would be best to be prepared anyway, not wanting to stumble over himself when the opportunity comes, regardless of who the opportunity is.
He had imagined the scenario over and over, making changes where he saw fit.
He will take Whiskey's hand and Anna will wake up and say the usual, "Has it been five years already?" thing that they all say and he will hand her her glasses and ask her how she feels to make sure everything worked properly. She says, "I feel fine but do you have that Twinkie you promised me?" And he will cleverly pull it from behind his back even though he had actually put it behind the nearest computer. This may require considerable practice.
She begrudgingly tries the Twinkie and then looks at him defeated and says, "Okay, I was wrong. You were right."
And he will smile at her and ask her out if she's not too busy with the whole rebuilding her life thing and she will gladly say yes.
From there he decided that it might be best if they have their date later that day. She can go and get debriefed, get her clothes and glasses, and then come back to his office for the date since he would rather stay in than go out. She won't have anywhere else to go other than a lonely hotel room anyway.
He thinks they might start with a game of chess. They can talk while they play and he can see how well her father taught her. He wins, of course, but she just makes good-natured, snarky jokes about how arrogant he is and they start a new game. He teaches her a new strategy and she uses it against him, resulting in a win. She gloats in an exaggerated way, mimicking his own show of victory, and he asks if she would like to have dinner now but if she isn't done, he can wait for her downstairs. She smiles and says sure.
Down by the kitchen he has already set up a table and chairs for them and the kitchen employees treat them like customers at a restaurant. They talk long after their plates have been cleared.
By now it's pretty late, bedtime for the Actives, and he asks her if she wants to watch a movie. His first idea was that they could watch a horror movie but he thought that the margin for error with that plan was too great. She might be the type to get scared during horror movies and he could be the one to protect her, but if he gets afraid himself, especially if it's dark as it surely would be since they're watching a movie at night, he could embarrass himself in front of her. He thinks maybe if he rents an older horror movie that he knows isn't scary they can laugh about unrealistic effects and stupid decisions made by the characters. A classic zombie movie would be good, like Night of the Living Dead.
When it has gotten late, he walks her to a creepy black van in the garage and wishes her good luck in finding a job and an apartment and they make plans to meet again as a disgruntled driver watches them with a glare for having to work so late.
They kiss goodbye and he tries to wave at her through the blackout windows as she is driven to the hotel she will stay at until she gets her life back in order.
Those were the plans he had but he knew they were subject to change.
"What did you say?" he asked in a tone that was far more demanding than you are supposed to use when talking to an Active.
He could swear his heart stopped. He's too young to have a heart attack, right? A stroke, maybe?
"Yes, Topher, I enjoy my treatments," Whiskey repeated back with the unwavering, eerie tone they all use, her big brown eyes completely empty and unaware.
But she said his name.
His name!
The head tilt thing was atypical enough but now she was calling him by name.
It was in the programming for the Actives to understand only a few key things in relation to other people: they know the difference between Actives and non-Actives but don't understand it outside of Actives being people like them and non-Actives being people they must listen to. As far as whom they know on a slightly deeper level, they are only supposed to know three people: Dr. Saunders, Topher, and their Handler. It was set up so that Actives feel the deepest connection with their Handler but know their face and not their name so that their Handler can be switched if necessary. Dr. Saunders comes next since they have to trust him enough to let him examine them fully; the "Dr. Saunders is nice" line they all agree on is kind of a universal, mitigated version of the more personal connection and dialogue established between an Active and Handler. As far as his relationship with the Actives went, they know his name but never say it and they know that he gives treatments. If someone refers to him, Actives know who is being talked about but the link never goes further than that.
And yet Whiskey has learned to say his name.
This time he wonders if it even has anything to do with Anna at all. This was probably all Whiskey. If she, to at least some degree, feels a bond with him because of the Handler-dialogue incident, there's a chance she might have put more thought into his name because she trusts him.
This thought scares him more than he would willingly admit and not just because he's afraid her Handler or someone else might notice.
She entered the room wearing a light blue button down tucked into black cigarette pants and a fake pearl necklace. Her hair was in curls, her lips were a bright red, and there was a clear and literal spring in her step. On top of her clothes she had on a red and white striped apron with an ID badge clipped to the apron pocket, the uniform of all the volunteers.
"Hi!" she said cheerfully, drawn out in a sing-song way that made the greeting sound like it had two syllables.
Topher looked over his shoulder at her quickly before turning back to his computer and finishing up the command sequence he was typing before he forgets.
"Hello, Betty. How was the hospital today?" he asked the girl who looked like Whiskey.
"Oh it was swell!" Betty said enthusiastically, untying her apron and draping it over the swivel chair to her left. "That Mr. Jenson! Everyone thinks he's such a hardboiled fella but he's a really sweet guy. He told me all these stories about his grandkids that had me tickled. Folks really need to listen more. Then maybe he wouldn't go ape on the nurses every time they forget his applesauce," she said, with her hands on her hips and a smile that showed all her teeth.
"Maybe it's just you," Topher offered, motioning to the imprint chair.
"Ah, shucks, don't give me a line!" Betty said modestly, sitting down in the chair and getting comfortable. "But, you know, he did say I reminded him of his wife," she remembered, turning her head to look at him as he started the machine.
"Imagine that," he said, mustering up some fairly realistic sounding surprise.
Of course, she was supposed to remind Mr. Jenson of his wife. That was a key part of her assignment. Betty the Throwback Candy Striper was a repeat imprint who was always pretty entertaining to see and was a welcome relief from all the lascivious women he frequently had to make Whiskey into. The last time she had come in she said that she and Mr. Jenson had a nice chat about how there were "no good flicks at the multiplexes anymore."
When the chair moved into its upright position, Whiskey blinked vacantly up at him through long, fake eyelashes.
"Did I fall asleep?"
She had gone through all the end-of-assignment motions of changing into her sweatpants, washing her face and her obligatory visit to Dr. Saunders, so when he saw her, she was walking out of the doctor's office with a lollipop in her mouth. Impulsively, he ran out of his office and down the stairs, trying not to make too much noise, lest he distract the Actives.
Thankfully, Actives walk slowly so catching up with her was easy.
"Whiskey!" he shouted, jumping out in front of her, blocking her path.
"Hello, Topher," she said softly, taking the candy out of her mouth. It was orange. He wondered if this really was something significant.
"Did you just see Dr. Saunders?" he asked, calming his voice.
"Dr. Saunders is nice."
"That he is . . . Hey! Why did you choose that lollipop?" he asked, swiftly changing his pitch as if the question just popped into his mind.
Whiskey looked intently at the candy like a kindergartener trying to understand calculus for a few seconds before looking up at Topher a little distressed.
"I don't know."
Topher sighed, having expected that answer, but pressed a little further anyway.
"Do you like the color? Does it taste better than the others? Anything?" he asked, trying very hard to work something out of her even though he knew it would be to no avail.
"I don't know," she repeated, her tone identical to how it was the first time.
Topher nodded defeated.
"Of course, you don't."
What it boils down to is he wants to be the captive in some kind of real life Natural Born Killers.
Topher knows it's going to end badly from the second he gets the order.
Well, the order wasn't technically Natural Born Killers but it really was. When DeWitt had given him the paperwork, he had said, "So the man wants to be the hostage of Mickey and Malloy but with the foreshadowing of a Bonnie and Clyde ending and no one gets hurt in the process?" She didn't seem to get the first half of the reference, not really her kind of movie he'd imagine, but she did say that safety was the key here.
And also, kind of an impossibility.
But he makes them well: bloodthirsty, reckless, Southern-accented, and paranoid as it comes with the package deal. The man, Bobby, as played by Alpha, is the brains of the operation and also the more violent one; he's the one who suggested most of the mayhem they think they caused. His girlfriend, Crystal, as played by Whiskey, is stupid, spacey, and sexual and relies on and trusts Bobby completely as she thinks he saved her from her former life by introducing her to the exciting life of crime.
He warns their Handlers over and over when they bring them in for their treatments but they both seem to think everything will be fine.
Alpha goes first, rubbing his hands together when it's over and bellowing a slightly annoyed, "Where's my girl?"
"Hang on. She's coming," Topher insists as Whiskey sits in the chair and smiles at him meaninglessly before the process starts.
When the chair moves upright, she looks over at him and says a druggy, "Thanks," before running across the room and leaping into Alpha's arms.
That's another thing: Whiskey's imprints often thank him. He knows that wasn't something he threw in consciously but maybe it is in there somewhere.
They're joined at the mouth in seconds, her legs wrapped around his waist, and Topher watches as their Handlers have the difficult job of trying to pull them apart so they can get down to wardrobe.
When they go missing, Topher's too worried to rub it too hard in anyone's face.
Almost.
Programming-wise, Whiskey is just another Active.
So everyone believes.
While the name thing persisted, a behavior he wholly credited with that one little mistake during her initial wipe, the head tilt thing turned out to be a onetime occasion. Nothing important, he told himself. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he might have been imagining it or maybe it was a tiny detail he had looked over; his tech was relatively new then and he had updated it since. Or maybe there had been some noise that caused her to look up at him. Maybe he had bumped the window loud enough for her to notice.
He would stand in front of his window, now actually trying to find her and she would walk past in her own little world without even so much as a momentary pause. Whatever was going on there that one time was thankfully gone.
However, either no one noticed the name thing or no one knew that it was not part of the program. It really was so minor in the context of things but it had some significance to him.
Also no one commented on the fact that even some of his more belligerent or cold Whiskey imprints often found a second to thank him for the treatment. Of course, it didn't happen with every single imprint and other Active's imprints sometimes thanked him as well but often an imprinted personality is so focused on what they had to go do, they forget they just a treatment even though they understand the concept and think they're enjoyable.
But like the head tilt, he knew that the thanking thing could just be something he had raised in significance because it was her. He wasn't keeping score with all the Actives. Maybe they all thanked him an equal amount and he just never paid enough attention. Or maybe Whiskey's imprints were overall friendlier than some of the others, leading to more polite gestures.
He couldn't be sure.
However, he did think that if anyone were to notice the naming or the gratitude he would have thought it would be her Handler. She probably should have seen something strange about Whiskey's attitude towards him, noting idiosyncrasies was what her whole job boiled down to, but she was probably too busy basking in the glory of having the number one Active.
"She's special," he had overheard her Handler say once.
What did that even mean to the house anyway?
So Topher isn't the only person in the world to notice that she's beautiful. Is that really something so prize-worthy? It certainly shouldn't be for her Handler.
"Hello, Topher."
He hears her behind him, in for yet another treatment.
Whiskey by nature isn't a very smiley Active like a few of the others are, but when she comes up to the imprint room she's always smiling at him in that bland way they do. It's probably just the associations the room has for her: treatments which are supposed to be pleasant and Topher who's supposed to make everything alright.
In the corner is her Handler, beaming with something akin to pride.
He wonders if she gets paid on commission.
DeWitt is clearly worried about him.
Although she treats him like an employee in the sense that she is respectful towards him and shows appreciation for his skill, he always felt like underneath her austere exterior, she mothers him a bit; at least as much as Adelle DeWitt could mother someone. Whether this is because he is the youngest person working there who still has all their mental capabilities intact, she views his behavior as childish or because she, for some unexplainable reason, sees herself in him, he's not certain of.
Either way, when she came into his office that day, he could tell she was concerned for his well being.
It was his birthday and although he didn't go around broadcasting it (he had a premature fear of aging; the idea of being unable to be fully functional on one's own and the fact that he will one day have to rock wrinkles didn't sit well with him), there were some people who knew. Well, one. He had asked one of his assistants to pick up a birthday cake for him and if they had bothered to check the wishes written in icing, they would have seen that it was his birthday cake that he planned on eating solo.
DeWitt had to have looked it up. He hadn't even lit any candles yet.
"Topher, it is your birthday today, is it not?" she had said before he even had a chance to say hi.
"Uh . . . yeah," he answered a bit skeptically, not looking up from his computer. "Woo, happy birthday to me. Another year down; an indeterminate amount to go," he said, his tone sarcastic and clearly focused on other things.
"You didn't request to have the day off," she pointed out, slowly approaching his desk. "Nor did you mention it to anyone. I would have though the halls would be filled with your cries of celebration."
"Well, there's some cake on the counter if you want a slice," he said, looking up at her and smiling.
DeWitt smiled back and took a seat on his couch, frowning a bit as she tried to get comfortable on the lumpy cushions but then quickly composing herself.
"On the contrary, I wanted to make you an offer," she said lacing her fingers together.
Topher laughed uncomfortably.
"Why is it that when you say that I feel like I should be looking for exits?" he asked, turning his chair around to face her.
"Then let's call it a favor," she said, leaning back. "Every year on your birthday I will allow you to imprint an Active for your own purposes. Make yourself a friend in return for all the marvelous work you do for this house."
His jaw dropped at her suggestion.
"Really?" he asked avidly, unable to contain his excitement.
"Really. We shall call it . . . 'diagnostic testing.'"
Topher jumped out of his seat, talking a mile a minute.
"Oh, this is so great! I was wondering if I would ever get a chance to try the tech for my own reasons, not that I thought about this a lot but I did start making my own imprint for this exact occasion. It's named Alex. I thought a unisex name would be good because I'm really not picky about who it will be, I would just want to make a few tiny changes if it's a girl because, I mean, come on, but, wait," he said stopping suddenly. "Why are you letting me do this?"
Ms. DeWitt stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Because we all have needs."
As great as the Alex imprint was (and it was; he really had made the perfect friend for himself) and as truthful as he had been when he said that he didn't care which Active he used, shamefully the first thing he thought was, is Whiskey available today?
She wasn't, of course.
She was the most requested Active.
And it was probably a good thing she was out of the question, he thought as Romeo sat in the chair.
If she had been around he would have wanted someone other than Alex, someone who seemed more and more like a built-up dream as time passed, and that could only lead to problems with DeWitt after she had just given him this privilege.
No one thought Topher's use of the phrase "space whore" was amusing no matter how accurate it was.
But that was, in essence, what he was making.
The client was a lonely developer of hardware or software or something. Topher couldn't remember and that was saying something. The guy was so much of a no name that even he had never heard of him but he was apparently rich enough to afford a great big fanboy-ish present to himself.
Her back story is that she's a space explorer in some kind of world where this kind of job exists since the technology has developed enough to allow for far, comfortable travel to the ends of the galaxy. In her voyages, she's trying to find both useful undiscovered materials and workable new living conditions to accommodate the growing fear of overpopulation and is stopping by the home planet for a refuel and a "special tension-relieving visit" to her old friend with benefits, Mr. Client. The kind of story you'd expect from the name 'space whore' really.
In the creation of her feelings for the client it was specified that they were to be based in an attraction to his intelligence and personality and not a physical love of his pudgy midsection and male pattern baldness. Usually, people want all three but that was probably some sign of his self-awareness and/or insecurities. He wanted her to be smart and both impressed and knowledgeable when it comes to technology and engineering so that when he is done having wild sex with her, she can help him create the next best thing while telling stories of all the amazing things she has found in her make believe job. Topher was afraid a tech fetish might be the actual result.
The client also wanted her aggressive. It's best not to speculate on the specifics of that part.
"I'm so ship-lagged," she sighed, climbing out of the chair and bending her knees a few times. "I really need to tweak the fuel gage to warn me farther in advance so I won't have to go full-speed ahead on home to avoid ending up in oblivion . . . again."
She ran her fingers through her hair a few times, messing it up a bit as she bent over to inspect the imprinting chair.
"Ah, a chair that uses waves for human personality imprinting technology. I haven't seen one of this design before. Who made this piece of beautiful?" she asked, running a caressing hand along the back of it.
"That would be me!" Topher said, smiling proudly. He had been hoping she would comment on something he made. Admittedly, if she hadn't, he probably would have been hurt.
She whipped her head around and smirked at him, stalking towards him dangerously.
"Oh yeah?" she asked, snaking her arms around his neck and closing the gap between them. He stood up a little straighter with his hands held up in an arrest position so that he wouldn't accidently touch her and tried to back away but she just followed him, her grip tight.
Her Handler loudly cleared her throat from the corner of the room and she reluctantly loosened her hold on the now, frozen still Topher.
"That's right," she said, backing away from him slowly. "I'm going to visit an old friend. But maybe I'll see you around later?" she said brazenly, winking.
Topher laughed awkwardly and hoped that when she comes back, he could just make one of his assistants deal with her.
When Space Whore (her actual name was Leia but that was so unbelievably pathetic even for him to use that he preferred his nickname for her) came back it was the dead of night so no one was around except the night security guards that were hiding in their little camera viewing room that probably doubled as a fallout shelter. Her Handler had gone home once they got back to the garage since imprinted Actives can find their way without help. Consequently, Space Whore showed up unescorted.
But Topher didn't know this until he could feel someone else's presence in the room with him.
He turned around to see her in her natural attire which put him in the mindset of a futuristic Lara Croft who had gotten tips from a prostitute. Her top which exposed bare midriff (among bare other things) was black, tight and shiny with silver piping and she was wearing shorts made of the same material. Her shoes were tall boots without heels, the only notably practical thing about her outfit, and had silver buckles along the sides. Around her waist she wore a silver tool belt that he assumed held things like a phone and keys since, if she had any pockets, there's no way she would be able to fit anything in them; her clothing was practically a second skin.
However, all this was fairly predictable considering the job and he had seen numerous other things like it in his time there albeit, they weren't usually on her. What disturbed him most about her appearance was actually her hair and make-up. Wild hair and dark, heavy make-up would be the expected touches on her look but, contrary to her scant attire, she sported very tasteful make-up that highlighted how naturally pretty she was and her hair was pulled half up in a very flattering way and had little metal clips and twists woven into it to add to the overall 'sci-fi' theme. From the neck up, she could be going to a classy formal event.
It was such a startlingly threatening combination. He instinctively backed away a bit when he saw her.
"Hello, tech boy," she said smoothly, approaching him with that same gleam in her eye that made him want to get her in the imprinting chair as quickly as possible.
"Hello. Are you ready for your – . . ."
But he was unable to finish the key word of the command phrase before she shoved, literally shoved him, into the wall.
For a second, he truly thought she was going to beat him up until her mouth came crashing down onto his.
He immediately tried to push her away, acknowledging the fact that this was so wrong, but she was preternaturally strong and determined, elements that went with the aggressive personality that lead them to this position in the first place. She didn't budge, instead grabbing his hands at the wrists and placing them on her waist, almost like a suggestion that was really more of a demand.
For a moment he thought that maybe resisting further would be useless; he knew the strength he gave her and knew he couldn't top her without really injuring her somehow. Of course, this rationalization came just as she was molding her every curve against him and running her fingers through his hair in a way that kept his head right where she wanted it.
And so he lost himself (he was only human, right?), holding her waist like she had wanted and kissing her back with equal force as if rising to some kind of challenge because she was beautiful and warm and he was so not a good person right now.
He was so caught up in how good it felt to finally let go that he didn't notice at first when her hands slid down from his head, trailing along his chest, intentions so clear and yet, he wasn't paying close enough attention so when they found their destination he was too far gone to stop her.
He tried to suck in a breath but she still had his mouth, as if she was afraid to move away for fear that he might talk and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget that this was probably the equivalent of stealing boxes of office supplies in a normal desk job.
But when she finally released his lips, clearly thinking she had him so trapped he couldn't resist, he choked out a tentative and strangled, "treatment," through deep pants.
She leaned away from him and rolled her eyes, taking her hands off him slowly as if giving him time to change his mind.
"Never heard a guy call out that one before," she said with a smirk when she realized it was over. "But it's your call."
She sauntered away from him and slid into the chair, the fabric of her shorts on the seat making a horrible sound as she got comfortable. With labored breaths, he tried to compose himself and wipe her without losing his own mind over what had transpired.
Surely, he had violated the terms of his job, something he knew even though he couldn't remember every exact term of his contract. He looked over at the security camera in the corner as the room filled with light from the chair. It was facing the chair from the front so everything had to have been caught on tape.
What if no one had been watching at the time? Did they ever review night tapes randomly?
And it wasn't just his job security that was weighing on him; in a way, it was like he had disrespected her. Even if she was the one who started it.
"Did I fall asleep?"
Topher hadn't been paying attention and yet, when he looked over at her, it was so incongruous and disconcerting to see Whiskey's blank expression on the body of someone else.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah," he answered, his thoughts not all with him.
"May I go now?"
He rubbed his forehead, feeling like he had been hit with an anvil.
"Sure, go," he said carelessly waving her away. He couldn't look at her anymore.
When he couldn't hear her footsteps anymore, he fell back against the wall and allowed himself to slide down onto the floor, resting his head in his hands.
"You are sad."
The voice made him jump slightly, not realizing that she was still in the room. Still dressed in that slutty cyberpunk getup that contrasted with her big, empty eyes.
"Yeah, I am," he said, almost condescendingly, frustrated and taking it out on her. It's not her fault, he reminded himself forcefully. If it's anyone's, it's yours.
"Were you not your best?" she asked curiously, walking over to him as if she would be able to tell if she got a closer look.
Topher chuckled.
"No, I wasn't my best," he answered honestly, staring straight ahead. "I really wasn't."
"You should always try to be your best."
The cries of pain made him freeze in his place.
It wasn't screaming, which was probably why it took so long for anyone to react and find out what was going on. Just weak cries of confusing, confusing pain.
Less than a minute later, Alpha was dragged into the imprinting room by his Handler and two security guys, blood all over his face, and Topher knew everything had changed. That peaceful, repetitive world of the Active was not nearly as easy to control as they had all assumed.
"What happened?" Topher demanded as the three men tried to force a resistant Alpha into the chair.
"He attacked Whiskey with pruning shears," one of the security guys shouted in frustration at the solid fight Alpha was putting up.
Whiskey.
Attacked. He said attacked. Not murdered, just attacked, Topher thought quickly, putting both hands on his forehead as his stomach dropped into his feet. Probably only got her arm or something. Dr. Saunders can fix it. He probably is right now. But I can't ask now. Diagnose Alpha.
He started pulling up files as quickly as his computer would let him until every one of Alpha's imprints passed before him on the main 3-D monitor for him to screen for aberrations. Nothing. He looped them again, slower this time.
DeWitt stormed in strikingly calm as she looked over at Alpha, still wrestling against the guards.
"How? How did this happen?" she asked, crossing her arms as she stared down Topher.
"I don't know!" he insisted fervently. "I don't know, some residual memory, active neurons from a previous engagement. All I can do is run a full range diagnostic. I'm bringing up every last one of his prior builds to see if anything matches."
DeWitt looked over at the screens for a second and then back to Topher.
"You do not leave this room until it's done," she said as Topher nodded in humbled agreement. "And when you've finished, send him to the Attic."
DeWitt left, leaving Topher to focus back on the displays so intently that Alpha's voice was barely audible behind him. Still nothing. We'll have to try something else. Oh, fun.
"I don't understand. Was I not my best?" Alpha asked, trying to push his way out of the restraining hands. "I was making art!"
Topher closed his eyes for a second and tried to stifle a shudder.
"Alpha, you need to settle. You need a treatment!" Alpha's Handler said forcefully, trying to tap into his programming.
Alpha agreed almost nervously, calming down substantially as he slid his hands into place on the chair. The guards let go of him and left the room as Alpha's Handler continued to talk him down, until he was reclining in the chair on his own.
"He's good!" he shouted to Topher, who rushed over to his main computer.
"I enjoy my treatments," Alpha said in the normal Active tone, looking over at him.
"Then you're gonna love this one," Topher said emphatically, typing in the commands. "It's kind of a greatest hits."
Just as the machine started to work, Alpha bolted upright only to be pushed back down by his Handler. In retaliation, he kicked his Handler with both feet, knocking him into a nearby computer, causing sparks to shoot up and keys to be pressed. Topher looked up at the screen to see his command ruined and his blood ran cold. All the files he had brought up to inspect, all the people he had made, were activated. Alpha called out loudly in pain.
"I need help in here!" Topher yelled into his office to his assistants who had been doing God knows what the whole time. The two white-coated men on duty rushed in, all fiercely trying override the command but to no avail.
Alpha's Handler, in an attempt to keep Alpha's head in the proper area of the chair, put a hand on Alpha's neck only to have Alpha latch onto his head and dig his thumbs into his eye sockets.
"I understand Hell now," he growled over the screams of his former protector.
His Handler fell to the ground and Topher, having watched the whole thing in revolted awe, could not react fast enough.
"Shut it down!" Topher shouted, pulling the plugs on the machine as Alpha's body lay limp and they all let out breaths they had been holding the entire time.
There was a moment of beautiful silence that lasted all too short before Dr. Saunders entered annoyed.
"Topher, what the hell is going on here?" he asked. Someone had forgotten to tell him.
Suddenly, Alpha jumped out of the chair and attacked Dr. Saunders, punching him with one arm as he smashed the monitor that display the failed experiment with the other in order to get something to cut him with. Topher ducked down behind the chair and pushed the button for the elevator but before the elevator could even move, Alpha had already cut down Dr. Saunders and Topher's two assistants who had been there to help him in a bloody mess that Topher's hiding spot could not shield him from.
The warning alarms went off far too late.
I'm going to die, Topher realized as he tried to crawl further into the corner. And I wish I could say I have no regrets but . . .
And then something surprising happened.
Alpha left.
He just walked out of the room by way of Topher's office.
Suddenly, there was the crash of a door being slammed and almost instantly Topher knew he had gone into the room where the Actives original wedges and the generators are kept. Apparently, there was something Alpha wanted more than senseless killing. Since he assumed Alpha wasn't out to destroy his mattress, he prayed he was just going after the generators and not the wedges, even if the idea of the power and air systems being shut off did terrify him.
He waited for a little, feeling safe where he was and thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the lights remained intact. When he was sure Alpha wouldn't come back into the room Topher ran out the other side to find someone, only now noticing the blood on his shirt. It wasn't his blood, by some freakish stroke of luck he had remained unharmed, but a mix of the four people who lay dead in the imprint room that were now spread across his white shirt.
When he got onto the main floor, he looked into the large window of his office and saw no one. Alpha had left the heavily populated areas a while ago. He was trying to escape.
All the Actives had been moved off the floor by the attendants and probably put to bed where they can be safely locked away. There were a few people running around through the corridors but aside from them and a dead body in the corner, Echo's Handler Samuelson, that showed Alpha's progress, he was alone.
"Help?" Topher called out weakly to no one.
As if responding to his request, the security team, armed to the teeth, descended the stairs with Dominic leading them.
"Secure the exits! Anyone tries to breech, shoot 'em in the head . . . twice!" he called out to his armored men. "Topher. Topher!"
He turned around to see Dominic in front of him with a very large weapon.
"Guns! Can I have one?" he asked pleadingly. He had never fired a gun before, let alone held one, but the idea of having one made him feel so much safer.
Dominic wouldn't hear of it, instead demanding to know what had happened, but Topher couldn't articulate an answer, instead describing the results, unable to put the gory scenes out of his mind. In the last five minutes, he had been more terrified than he ever had in his life. He was surprised he was able to get out a sentence.
"Alpha. He experienced a composite event," DeWitt summarized, coming up behind them. Topher nodded in agreement.
Soon Dominic was off on the hunt with DeWitt heading in the reverse direction and Topher could only stand and look down at his empty, albeit a little blood-spattered, hands.
There was nothing more he could do here.
Defeated, he walked away from the center of the room, towards the stairs. He wanted to see the damage Alpha did when he disappeared into the backroom since that was the only way he could really assist now, but he stopped when he noticed Dr. Saunders' office. There was a body on the examination table.
Whiskey.
Fearfully, he approached the room to see her lying on her back, her face covered with thick pads of gauze although he still knew it was her. He covered his mouth with his hand in shock. Her face . . .
"She's one of the lucky ones," said an attendant Topher hadn't noticed when he entered. She was sitting in a chair next to the desk with a roll of gauze wound around her hand.
"Is she okay?" he asked, moving next to her body and slowly peeling off the pads to see deep cuts running across her face, two on her left cheek, one diagonally across her forehead, and one perpendicular to her lips.
"I gave her enough painkillers to keep her knocked out until we get someone in to sew her up."
Topher could have laughed out loud at the phrasing she had used if it were a different situation. Sewing up Dolls; that's what you do when they break. Fabric ones, at least.
But what was going to happen to her now? They'll sew her up but there will be scars that aren't going to away. Rossum is a billion dollar corporation. Surely, there is money set aside to fix her. A few weeks of plastic surgery and she will be good as new. She signed a contract . . .
"Is there something you need?" the attendant asked, standing up. Topher hadn't noticed how long he had been staring at Whiskey's face. He discreetly covered her with the gauze again.
"Uh, drugs," he said pointing at himself.
"Are you injured?" the attendant asked skeptically.
"Not physically. I just need something to keep my brain from going boom," he joked dryly to the equally deadpan attendant.
"I'm not a doctor. I just worked behind the scenes at a hospital once," she admitted, putting the roll away. "I could give you something over the counter."
Topher shook his head. "That's okay," he said, motioning to the door. "I'm just gonna . . . Take care of her."
"Wait!"
Topher looked back at the attendant inquisitively.
"You're a doctor, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah but not this kind of doctor," he said, pointing to Whiskey's sleeping form.
"But, you could figure out how to do stitches, couldn't you?" she asked, hopefully.
Topher sighed, looking over at Whiskey.
Why does everything always happen to you, he wondered, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"I guess . . . get me a needle and thread."
The meeting with DeWitt afterwards was exhausting. After an extensive account of exactly what happened to Alpha and what this meant in terms of him, the House, and Rossum, she got onto other matters that, while not his department, he didn't feel like he would be allowed to get away from hearing about even if he asked.
Yes, it's odd that Alpha found it necessary to destroy his original personality.
Yes, we'll need better security and more bodyguard-like Handlers.
Yes, Echo especially needs protection.
Yes, we'll need to find a lot more Dolls.
" . . . Especially because every Doll he encountered was slaughtered with the one exception of Whiskey," Ms. DeWitt finished, now bringing her focus from the staff members who try to find candidates to Topher.
"Which brings me to a special assignment I have for you."
"So I should break out the comically large imprinting chair this time?"
DeWitt allowed his joke to fall and leaned against her desk with a very serious expression.
"The rest of you may return to your jobs and homes," she called out to the room. Topher looked over his shoulder to watch the staff exit solemnly but he didn't think it was anything he should be worried about, even if it was like being called down to the principal's office. You start worrying about what they caught you doing only to find out you won an award. His department was generally kept secret from everyone anyway except DeWitt and, occasionally, Dominic. The only reason he had talked freely before was so that they would be aware of potential threats in the future; even if Alpha was claimed to be dead, a repeat event could occur.
"So what's my new mission?" he asked indifferently.
DeWitt let out a breath and stood up straight.
"While we have hoards of potential candidates for replacement Dolls and Handlers we appear to be in need of a House physician and I'm afraid those aren't as easy to come by," she said raising her eyebrows pointedly.
Topher laughed dubiously and eyed DeWitt in confusion.
"I don't think I get where you going with this," he paused and held up a finger. "Correction: I get where you're going with this but I don't understand why."
"Whiskey, what with her unfortunate disfigurement, will have to be considered out of service as an Active. However, she is still to remain here under contract and as such, must have another way of finishing her required five years." She spoke clearly and detached and somehow this provoked Topher to react as if trying to balance the emotion in the room.
"Yes, but Whiskey didn't sign that contract. Someone who looks a heck of a lot like Whiskey did and I don't think she'll appreciate the little adjustments made to her face while she was asleep." He couldn't say her real name. Partially because he didn't want DeWitt to know he remembered it and partially because admitting she exists and wasn't something he dreamt up was becoming harder as time went on.
"And dealing with that truth will be something to face at a later date. For now, we have many people in need of medical treatment and we need to prioritize. You have an hour to make the imprint and prepare Whiskey. The imprint will need to be permanent in the sense that her GPS strip will be removed and all Active command responses will need to be wiped. She cannot know she is an Active."
"Identity crisis ahoy."
"I assume I won't need to tell you the necessary skills she will be required to have?"
"I'm guessing doctor skills would be a good place to start," he said sarcastically, but when DeWitt's severe look didn't change, his grin dropped and he cleared his throat. "I know what to do."
DeWitt dropped her arms and walked closer to Topher, her heels clicking softly on the floor as she spoke in an almost concerned voice.
"Topher, I want to make sure that completing this task will not pose any problems for you," she said, her manner becoming sharper.
"What do you mean?" Topher asked, nearly stammering with unease but trying to force a collected grin anyway.
"You seem to have a certain . . . affinity for that body."
Topher lost his footing for a second, realizing that the principal had actually caught him stealing test tubes this time. She knew something about him and Whiskey. Did someone warn her about how he seemed to form a connection with . . . Anna before she was wiped? Did one of his assistants blab about the hand-holding Active/Handler name issue? Or was it the big one . . .?
His mouth dropped open slightly, more in astonishment than desire to speak.
"Mr. Dominic brought a rather curious tape to my attention involving you and Whiskey," she said, answering his unspoken question.
"That wasn't my fault!" he blurted out avidly. "I was just minding my own business and she. . ." He mimed the action of a lion pouncing on its prey to complete his sentence.
"Regardless of how aggressive an Active is, offering her a treatment should have directed her attention elsewhere," DeWitt interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Unless it didn't work . . ."
"No," he insisted, knowing how on edge everyone currently was about Active oddities after what had happened. "I just . . . couldn't say it fast enough," he said, his voice weakening with every attempt at protest.
"Before you got . . . caught up," she finished with a cavalier note present in her response.
Shamefully, he lowered his head, bracing himself for the onslaught that he really felt he deserved at this point.
"You aren't in trouble, Topher," she said, surprisingly gentle as if she understood and forgave him. He lifted his head hopefully. "However, should this happen again . . ."
"It won't," he interrupted curtly.
"Excellent," she said smiling and walking back over to her desk. "I bring this up now because I want you to remember that this imprint is to be made for the house. Every measure you take should be for the good of our Actives and, as I must remind you, you will be working closely with her and if you think this may be difficult, I suggest you add a little insurance so that nothing like this," she said holding up the tape that had been sitting on her desk, "occurs a second time. We wouldn't want to lose another doctor for foolish reasons."
"Understood."
Something occurred to him once he sat down, completely ready to start making the new Dr. Saunders.
He had been able, for the most part, to put Whiskey's real self out of his mind for the last few years but it was now that coming back to that real self would be difficult, that he suddenly thought of her again and from those suppressed memories he realized something.
Anna Calroy could never have been a figment of his imagination.
Of course, he had always know she was real deep down but after creating imprint after imprint for so long, many of which found their into her body, he had been starting to doubt if he hadn't just made her too. Maybe one day he had just been messing around and decided he wanted to create a nice girl to talk to and eat pizza with. Who doesn't want that?
But what had made him realize that he could have never done that was not because he was always pretty good about following rules or because he would never want to create fabricated romantic emotions directed at himself (if Leia the Space Whore hadn't driven that point home he didn't know what would), it was that when he tried to imagine what the perfect woman would be, as he had often done before, Anna Calroy was not that woman at all.
Anna obviously had many qualities that he already knew he liked, that was part of what drew him to her, but there were other things about her that he never would have thought he would want someone to have and yet, they made him like her more. If he had created this perfect woman, there would be no mystery, nothing to learn about her. Sure, he was a genius and could think of many little details he could include to make someone more interesting but they really can't be considered quirks if they are intentional.
And that revelation was part of the reason why, as he started to decide on traits to give the new Dr. Saunders, he found that he did so with very little enthusiasm. Unlike Anna, Dr. Saunders would be completely predictable. He will know every trait he gives her and be able to infer even more based on every trait. She will be exactly what he makes her.
He started with job skills, obviously giving her a strong medical background that covers multiple mediums and giving her a nearly photographic memory. He gave her all the information she will need to know about the House, names, occupations, procedures. Computer skills went right in after, obviously a necessity not just in her job but in life although it's not like she's going to have one outside of her job. He considered giving her defensive skills but instead only gave her a sufficient amount of strength to be able to fight back.
He made her feminine, kind and nurturing towards the Actives. He gave her morals and the passion to defend them but upon realizing that this could easily provoke her to quit, he also gave her numerous phobias, enough to make her afraid of the world outside the House. He made her very serious and focused which he knew would also make her not appreciate his sense of humor and might even end up making her a little awkward.
He gave her memories, vague repetitive memories of checking every Active over and over and a special rewritten memory of what Alpha did to her but made sure that she knows he's dead and can't hurt her again.
He tossed around names of family, most of them dead, and friends in college who she has lost contact with and doesn't feel the need to talk to anyway; past boyfriends, a happy childhood, but overall a prominent, and maybe a little crippling, focus on schoolwork. He didn't have time to fret over every little detail, especially if he had made her devote enough to her job.
And finally, for the "insurance," he made her find him overconfident and therefore feel the need to double check things he does, that way one of them will be bound to catch any errors before they happen. He figured that combined with her almost certain lack of enjoyment of his jokes, that will be enough but just in case he made her detest the way he smells as well.
He looked up at the clock to see that he was within DeWitt's proposed time restraint and all he had left to do was give her a first name. Saunders had to remain as her last name because if they changed it, they'd have to reprogram all the Actives.
For some reason he found himself remembering a girl in his advanced biology class in high school whom he had liked and awkwardly asked to the prom. She had turned him down because she had another date but in retrospect it was silly to ask her anyway since he was so much younger than her. She seemed to be a lot like how Dr. Saunders was going to turn out. Her name was Claire.
Claire Saunders.
The name just sounded right.