"An Angel has no Memory" Part 1/4, a Dollhouse Fanfiction
Title: An Angel has no Memory, Part 1/4
Author: mightyfastpig
Characters/Pairings: Ivy/Sophie Alvarez femslash
Rating: M for sexual content
Spoilers: Up to 1.12 "Omega", but occurs before 1.06 "Man on the Street"
Disclaimer: Dollhouse belongs to Joss Whedon and FOX
Word Count: 1350
Summary: Ivy has trouble at her new job, and starts taking her work home with her
“Hello, I’m Ivy Chung,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Alvarez?”
“Call me Sophie.” The other woman shook her hand and smiled a slightly crooked smile. She wore the dark suit which seemed to be the informal uniform for handlers at the Dollhouse. Underneath her jacket Ivy could see her empty underarm pistol holster and the crackling walkie talkie and large key ring clipped to her belt. “I’m here for your orientation. Follow me and let me know if you have any questions.”
The place reminded Ivy a little of a casino: no clocks, no windows, nothing to remind people of the outside world. Plus the security cameras watching everything, like the eyes of a tarantula. She could see people in exercise wear doing yoga; they must be the Actives she’d heard about. Sophie pointed out things as they walked. “The Actives exercise there, relax there, eat there. You won’t be dealing with that part of it much. That’s Dr. Saunders’ office over there. If you spot any injuries or health problems, just let her know. Imprint is up there.”
“That’s where I’ll be working,” she said, belatedly realizing her lab coat probably gave that away.
“Good luck. Imprint’s been a one-man operation for months. Topher practically never leaves the place. He’s very picky about who he lets touch the equipment. DeWitt sent down three other people to be his assistant, and they all went back and begged for a transfer.”
“I see,” Ivy said.
“Just so you know. Not everybody’s cut out for this.” She lead Ivy down a hallway and past a glass wall. “And this is where they sleep.”
Ivy looked down at the five beds, recessed into the floor and arranged in a pentagonal shape in the circular room. She stepped into the room and crouched down, looking at the soft mattress and silky bedclothes. They looked incredibly comfortable.
“Imprints are only stable for about three days, and then you need to refresh them.” Sophie explained.
Ivy looked back at her. “At seventy to eighty hours after imprinting, the Active’s modified neurons in the hippocampus and related areas of the cerebral cortex begin reverting to their amorphous state, resulting in progressive degradation of episodic and procedural memory.”
Sophie smiled crookedly, which Ivy found oddly charming, and shrugged. “Sorry, you know how that works better than me. Anyway, the anti-psychotics and the subliminals in their pods help extend that. It’s cheaper than imprinting them every day.”
“What do the subliminals say?” Ivy tried to make the question sound casual.
“’I’m safe.’ ‘I want to be my best.’ ‘My treatments help make me my best.’ ‘I trust my handler.’ That kind of thing.”
Ivy started to reach down and touch the bedding. Was that flannel or cotton?
“Ah, Ivy?”
Ivy turned around and stood up. “You were saying?”
“There are still things to show you.”
Ivy left the pod chamber and followed the handler.
In the corridor, they met a young, slim Asian woman with golden hair. (That cannot be her natural hair color, Ivy thought.) Barefoot and in loose, jewel-colored exercise clothes, she walked with perfect posture and a smooth, even pace, like the act of walking was a subtle dance, an end in itself, with no destination or origin. “Good day, Ms. Alvarez,” the woman said, stopping before them.
“Ivy, this is Sierra,” said Alvarez. “She’s new here too. Sierra, this is Ms. Chung.”
The woman-- the Active-- the doll-- turned to face her, focussing her entire, though limited, attention. “Good day, Ms. Chung,” she said.
“Hello, ah, Sierra,” Ivy said, on edge. She’d heard about the Actives, and had seen a few from a distance when she arrived, but she’d never been face to face with one. This one smiled at her with the tranquil, uncaring expression of a happy child. There was no complexity in there, no resentment, no hidden agenda or angry judgement waiting for her to make a mistake.
“Ms. Chung’s going to help you with your treatments.” Sophie spoke in the kind yet authoritative tone of a kindergarten teacher.
“My treatments help me be my best. I’m here to be my best.” The doll said the sentences like a litany.
“Thanks, Sierra.” Sophie patted her shoulder. “You can go now.”
Sierra resumed walking down the corridor. Ivy followed Sophie in the other direction, but looked over her shoulder to watch the doll go.
“Well, that’s the nickel tour.” Sophie led her out onto the main floor and past the koi pond.
“Anything else I should know?” Ivy asked.
“Just don’t call them dolls in front of DeWitt or any of the brass. They’re Actives.” Sophie lead Ivy up the stairs to the mezzanine that overlooked the main floor. “I’ll introduce you to Topher.”
***
Topher Brink completely ignored the dress code Ivy had been told was mandatory, wearing corduroys, a lumberjack shirt and a t-shirt with a huge-eyed anime girl being molested by a squid. Not a lab coat in sight.
He pointed at the imprint schema she had just finished on one of Imprint department’s workstations. “This is unacceptable! Three error messages? Just one line of bad code,” he said, squeezing his thumb and index finger together, “and instead of Marilyn Monroe, we get Lizzie Borden! Not a fun gal at parties.”
“No, I just--”
“What diploma mill did you go to anyway?” He seemed to be constantly in motion, straightening things on his cluttered desk, getting up and pacing, then putting things back the way they were before.
“Stanford neurology post grad. I was asking you to review my work so I can adapt it to your setup--” Ivy tried to reason with him.
“Obviously you don’t know how to do this.”
“All right.” She held out her hands in supplication. “Teach me how to do this.”
“I don’t have time! Mr. Johnson from Toronto wants his Village People fantasy, and that’s going to take me until Tuesday. Then there’s the Vanzetti job and the gorilla thing, so I don’t have any free time for training you until next Friday, at least.”
“Well, what do I do until then?”
“I dunno. File something. No, wait, here.” He handed her a list in scrawled handwriting. “You can get me some stuff.”
“Your shopping?” She looked up from the list in dismay.
“It’s a nice day outside, or so I hear. Take your time, have lunch.”
“I have a five-year Masters degree in applied neurology. And I did it in four years.”
“There’s less than fifty people in the world I would trust to operate this imprint suite. If you want to be one of them, you’ll have to wait for your turn.”
Ivy went cold. Don’t show hurt, don’t show fear, don’t show sorrow. Do the job.
She put the list in her pocket and left.
***
That night, Ivy pulled her bed away from her bedroom’s wall so there was a space wide enough for her to lie down. She folded up her duvet into an improvised mattress, then put it and a pillow into the well between the side of her bed and the wall. After shutting off the lights, she lay down in the space.
She was surrounded on three sides, giving her a calming, held feeling. Tomorrow night, she could put a chair or something at the foot of her bed. She imagined the frosted glass wall sliding over her, the soft blue light, the subliminal whispers. Her legs spread as far as possible, and her hands slipped under the waistband of her panties. Her fingers found the right spot and the right rhythm. In the darkness, the words came to her. “I’m safe. My treatments help me be my best. It’s important to be my best. I’m safe....”
To be continued...
Author: mightyfastpig
Characters/Pairings: Ivy/Sophie Alvarez femslash
Rating: M for sexual content
Spoilers: Up to 1.12 "Omega", but occurs before 1.06 "Man on the Street"
Disclaimer: Dollhouse belongs to Joss Whedon and FOX
Word Count: 1350
Summary: Ivy has trouble at her new job, and starts taking her work home with her
“Hello, I’m Ivy Chung,” she said, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Alvarez?”
“Call me Sophie.” The other woman shook her hand and smiled a slightly crooked smile. She wore the dark suit which seemed to be the informal uniform for handlers at the Dollhouse. Underneath her jacket Ivy could see her empty underarm pistol holster and the crackling walkie talkie and large key ring clipped to her belt. “I’m here for your orientation. Follow me and let me know if you have any questions.”
The place reminded Ivy a little of a casino: no clocks, no windows, nothing to remind people of the outside world. Plus the security cameras watching everything, like the eyes of a tarantula. She could see people in exercise wear doing yoga; they must be the Actives she’d heard about. Sophie pointed out things as they walked. “The Actives exercise there, relax there, eat there. You won’t be dealing with that part of it much. That’s Dr. Saunders’ office over there. If you spot any injuries or health problems, just let her know. Imprint is up there.”
“That’s where I’ll be working,” she said, belatedly realizing her lab coat probably gave that away.
“Good luck. Imprint’s been a one-man operation for months. Topher practically never leaves the place. He’s very picky about who he lets touch the equipment. DeWitt sent down three other people to be his assistant, and they all went back and begged for a transfer.”
“I see,” Ivy said.
“Just so you know. Not everybody’s cut out for this.” She lead Ivy down a hallway and past a glass wall. “And this is where they sleep.”
Ivy looked down at the five beds, recessed into the floor and arranged in a pentagonal shape in the circular room. She stepped into the room and crouched down, looking at the soft mattress and silky bedclothes. They looked incredibly comfortable.
“Imprints are only stable for about three days, and then you need to refresh them.” Sophie explained.
Ivy looked back at her. “At seventy to eighty hours after imprinting, the Active’s modified neurons in the hippocampus and related areas of the cerebral cortex begin reverting to their amorphous state, resulting in progressive degradation of episodic and procedural memory.”
Sophie smiled crookedly, which Ivy found oddly charming, and shrugged. “Sorry, you know how that works better than me. Anyway, the anti-psychotics and the subliminals in their pods help extend that. It’s cheaper than imprinting them every day.”
“What do the subliminals say?” Ivy tried to make the question sound casual.
“’I’m safe.’ ‘I want to be my best.’ ‘My treatments help make me my best.’ ‘I trust my handler.’ That kind of thing.”
Ivy started to reach down and touch the bedding. Was that flannel or cotton?
“Ah, Ivy?”
Ivy turned around and stood up. “You were saying?”
“There are still things to show you.”
Ivy left the pod chamber and followed the handler.
In the corridor, they met a young, slim Asian woman with golden hair. (That cannot be her natural hair color, Ivy thought.) Barefoot and in loose, jewel-colored exercise clothes, she walked with perfect posture and a smooth, even pace, like the act of walking was a subtle dance, an end in itself, with no destination or origin. “Good day, Ms. Alvarez,” the woman said, stopping before them.
“Ivy, this is Sierra,” said Alvarez. “She’s new here too. Sierra, this is Ms. Chung.”
The woman-- the Active-- the doll-- turned to face her, focussing her entire, though limited, attention. “Good day, Ms. Chung,” she said.
“Hello, ah, Sierra,” Ivy said, on edge. She’d heard about the Actives, and had seen a few from a distance when she arrived, but she’d never been face to face with one. This one smiled at her with the tranquil, uncaring expression of a happy child. There was no complexity in there, no resentment, no hidden agenda or angry judgement waiting for her to make a mistake.
“Ms. Chung’s going to help you with your treatments.” Sophie spoke in the kind yet authoritative tone of a kindergarten teacher.
“My treatments help me be my best. I’m here to be my best.” The doll said the sentences like a litany.
“Thanks, Sierra.” Sophie patted her shoulder. “You can go now.”
Sierra resumed walking down the corridor. Ivy followed Sophie in the other direction, but looked over her shoulder to watch the doll go.
“Well, that’s the nickel tour.” Sophie led her out onto the main floor and past the koi pond.
“Anything else I should know?” Ivy asked.
“Just don’t call them dolls in front of DeWitt or any of the brass. They’re Actives.” Sophie lead Ivy up the stairs to the mezzanine that overlooked the main floor. “I’ll introduce you to Topher.”
***
Topher Brink completely ignored the dress code Ivy had been told was mandatory, wearing corduroys, a lumberjack shirt and a t-shirt with a huge-eyed anime girl being molested by a squid. Not a lab coat in sight.
He pointed at the imprint schema she had just finished on one of Imprint department’s workstations. “This is unacceptable! Three error messages? Just one line of bad code,” he said, squeezing his thumb and index finger together, “and instead of Marilyn Monroe, we get Lizzie Borden! Not a fun gal at parties.”
“No, I just--”
“What diploma mill did you go to anyway?” He seemed to be constantly in motion, straightening things on his cluttered desk, getting up and pacing, then putting things back the way they were before.
“Stanford neurology post grad. I was asking you to review my work so I can adapt it to your setup--” Ivy tried to reason with him.
“Obviously you don’t know how to do this.”
“All right.” She held out her hands in supplication. “Teach me how to do this.”
“I don’t have time! Mr. Johnson from Toronto wants his Village People fantasy, and that’s going to take me until Tuesday. Then there’s the Vanzetti job and the gorilla thing, so I don’t have any free time for training you until next Friday, at least.”
“Well, what do I do until then?”
“I dunno. File something. No, wait, here.” He handed her a list in scrawled handwriting. “You can get me some stuff.”
“Your shopping?” She looked up from the list in dismay.
“It’s a nice day outside, or so I hear. Take your time, have lunch.”
“I have a five-year Masters degree in applied neurology. And I did it in four years.”
“There’s less than fifty people in the world I would trust to operate this imprint suite. If you want to be one of them, you’ll have to wait for your turn.”
Ivy went cold. Don’t show hurt, don’t show fear, don’t show sorrow. Do the job.
She put the list in her pocket and left.
***
That night, Ivy pulled her bed away from her bedroom’s wall so there was a space wide enough for her to lie down. She folded up her duvet into an improvised mattress, then put it and a pillow into the well between the side of her bed and the wall. After shutting off the lights, she lay down in the space.
She was surrounded on three sides, giving her a calming, held feeling. Tomorrow night, she could put a chair or something at the foot of her bed. She imagined the frosted glass wall sliding over her, the soft blue light, the subliminal whispers. Her legs spread as far as possible, and her hands slipped under the waistband of her panties. Her fingers found the right spot and the right rhythm. In the darkness, the words came to her. “I’m safe. My treatments help me be my best. It’s important to be my best. I’m safe....”
To be continued...