Fic: Leave the past behind
Title: Leave the past behind
Rating: PG-13 for some swearing
Word Length: ~3,000
Characters/pairings: Laurence Dominic, Claire Saunders. Hints of Dewitt/Dominic.
Summary: Laurence Dominic returns to the Dollhouse after the world ends. What he finds there is unexpected.
Notes: I’d like to thank aaronlisa and duh_i_read , the winterofrossum mods, for organizing this wonderful event. I’d also like to thank two wonderful people, rocketgirl2 and freudianslipped , who betaed this baby for me on extremely short notice, and they did a fabulous job.
There was a time when lighting a fire was considered risky because it would draw attention. Right now, though, Los Angeles is burning, and one more fire won’t be noticed amidst the smoky haze that surrounds the city.
The Bank of America across the street from LA’s Rossum building makes for good shelter - enough windows to see out, but none big enough that a Butcher could crawl through, and there are at least three easily accessible exits. Laurence Dominic has been hiding out here for a few months, raiding a nearby grocery store whenever he needs and burning now-useless cash from the till to keep warm. When the security that worked at the bank got wiped, they left their guns and ammo behind, so he’s pretty well stocked when it comes to weaponry.
The fire smolders in a trash can, spewing black, rancid smoke as Dominic warms his hands. It’s late fall, and temperatures have been dropping by the day. It’s been quiet for the past week. 'Quiet' is relative, of course. It used to mean silent, calm. Now, it’s just a way of saying that the Butchers have migrated and are currently running around a few blocks away from your hiding space. You can still hear their screams, but you don’t have to worry about them hammering down your doors.
The sudden thundering of feet disturbs Dominic’s temporary respite. He flinches involuntarily, eyes searching wildly for his weapon. Grabbing his Beretta, he slips to a window, peering through the broken glass out onto the street. He pulls immediately when he sees what's outside.
The rumbling sound is caused by a horde of men and women, bloodied and scruffy, wearing ripped old clothes. They come from every direction, from every street, clustering together as they rush for the open sewer entrance in the road in front of the Rossum building. At the very front of the crowd are those who have managed to find guns, and they shoot haphazardly at their companions. In the middle, a scuffle breaks out as the Butchers turn on each other, stabbing and hacking and tearing wildly. They are distracted for the moment, and only a few of the original group reach the sewer safely.
Dominic swears under his breath, rubbing his chin slowly with one gloved hand as he thinks. He hasn’t seen the Butchers like this, en masse, since the early days, when foolish survivors thought they could stay in the city and outlast the apocalypse. Now that all the real people have left, the Butchers have separated. This regrouping can only mean one thing: There must be people, new people, in the city. Somewhere in the sewers, he thinks.
The screams that are coming from the melee in the middle of the street are drawing out the Dumbshows. Poor fuckers still haven’t figured out that loud noises aren’t a good sign. They wander into the street, each with a look of vague interest on their face. That expression leaves pretty quickly as the Butchers turn on them.
This is Dominic’s chance. He slings his M16 rifle over his shoulder and shoves a semi-automatic pistol down the back of his waistband. The fight is out on the main street, so leaving through the front doors is out of the question. Instead, he chooses the back exit, throwing open the locks and shouldering his way through.
When you’re on the run in a group, it’s easy for one person to create a distraction while everyone else slips by. He moved around with a group of Actuals about a year back, and the strategy worked well then. When you’re solo, though, silence is key. Dominic edges around the skirmish, moving from shadow to shadow easily. He keeps his Beretta level and aimed at the wailing combatants, but no one notices him. It’s been five years since the end of the world; he’s had a lot of practice at hiding.
He reaches the sewer entrance without incident and slings the Beretta over his other shoulder. Then, gripping the metal edges of the hole tightly, he swings himself down into the darkness. A few seconds pass as he hangs there listening intently for any movement . The tunnel is silent so he releases his hold on the hole and drops down to the paved floor of the tunnel.
Gunfire erupts in the distance. The sound echoes wildly through the sewers, but he follows it as best as he can as he hurries through the maze that is the LA sewer system. He doesn’t go far, however, before the noise stops. Either the Butchers are dead, or the survivors are.
Dominic can’t follow the noise anymore, but he’s pretty sure he knows where the people were hiding. There’s really only one building around here that has a sub- sub-basement still stocked with supplies and electricity. To a weary band of survivors, it would look like a paradise, the perfect hideaway. He wouldn’t know; he hasn’t been down into the Dollhouse since the others left. He only saw them for a moment, in the distance, as they fled LA. He’d been traveling abroad, trying to organize some kind of defense system for the survivors in another city, and he got back just in time to watch them fade into the distance. A tall figure stood at the front, and he thought it might be Adelle, but he was too far away to be certain.
Ahead of him, a hole appears in the ground. As he approaches it he holds his breath slightly, trying to keep from hoping. Basic NSA protocol requires that you know your base better than the back of your hand, and he worked with the LA Dollhouse for almost three years. He knows the sewer system well, and he's pretty certain that right now, he's standing directly on top of the center room of the Dollhouse.
Maybe they’ve come back. Maybe they have a cure, and all this craziness will end. Maybe the silence that fills the sewer tunnel is because they’ve blown their followers to bits, not the other way around. Maybe she’s down there, right now, waiting for him to show up. He’ll call her ma’am, and even though he is scruffy and dirty and she won’t be wearing silk, it will be just like the old days. Yeah, right.
Crouching to the ground, he squints at the hole. A strong, black rope appears in the dark; it dangles down into the hole. His heart leaps at the irrefutable proof in front of him. Someone is down there. He grips the rope and slides down.
His feet hit the ground and he swings his M16 up, revolving on the spot. He lets out a disappointed huff as he looks around, checking the balconies and the offices but seeing no movement. No one is here. He lowers his gun, chuckling slightly at his earlier optimism. Of course he wasn’t going to catch a break like that. Of course...
The ground around him is littered with corpses.
He drags in a heavy breath, gazing around at the floor. It takes him a moment to realize that the bodies are only the Butchers he saw earlier. The feeling of relief that washes over him when he realizes that the people collapsed onto the floor aren't Caroline, or Boyd, or Sierra, is kind of embarrassing. It wasn't like he cared about any of them or anything, they were just part of the job. There's no need for him to feel so damn happy that they aren't dead.
He kneels down beside the body closest to him, searching it over for a wound that would indicate the cause of death. He reaches one hand to the Butcher’s neck, and he presses his index and middle fingers against the pulse point. His nerves must be getting to him, because he could almost swear he can feel the steady thrumming of a heartbeat.
Dominic leans down, feeling slightly woozy, and he hovers his ear over the corpse’s mouth. He flinches when a slight release of breath hits his cheek. The Butcher is merely unconscious. He inhales sharply in surprise, and the dizziness increases.
He heaves the thick cotton of his sweaty T-shirt over his mouth as he realizes that he is being gassed. Staggering to his feet, he grips the rope that dangles from the ceiling, intending to climb it and escape. His arms give out when he's barely off the ground and he falls to the floor.
Sweat drips into his eyes as he trudges over to the staircase. If he can make it to the elevator shaft, he can climb up to clean air. He knows that it isn’t far away, that the walkway really isn’t very long, but right now it feels like much farther away than it ever used to.
He’s almost halfway there, still moving at a slow but steady pace, when he notices the little girl collapsed against the railing. When he gets closer, he can see that she’s not really a little girl, just a small woman in a large white dress. She looks completely out of place here, almost surreal, lying peacefully above the unconscious Butchers.
He flops her head back, pushing her straight brown hair out of her face. For a moment, he doesn't recognize her; the scars are gone, and for a long time that was really her most noticeable feature. He does remember her from before, though. She had always had a kind of naive appeal, before the Alpha incident, and in her unconscious, unscarred state that appeal shone through. He thinks the double-take he does when he realizes who he's holding must look pretty hilarious. Frankly, he's glad no one is there to see it.
He hoists her up into his arms, then he changes direction, heading instead towards Topher’s lab. The door is sealed, so he knows no gas has made it in. He leans Dr. Saunders against the wall as he opens the door, then he drags her in behind him, slamming the door shut behind them.
It’s been a long time since he has seen this room. After Adelle had him brought back, he refused to come down here. When she went in to visit Topher, he always chose to leave her side rather than enter, and to rejoin her again only after she returned. It wasn’t because of any particular grudge against Topher; he would never like the guy, but he didn’t hate him that much. But every time he entered the lab, all he could remember was flashing lights and a gag in his mouth as he thrashed and bellowed because he knew that he was going to die. It wasn’t exactly something he wanted to relive.
From the floor, Claire Saunders gasps as she comes back to full consciousness. Dominic glances at her, then resumes his inspection of the chair in the center of the room as he says, “Long time, Dr. Saunders.”
“My name is Whiskey,” the soft voice replies.
Well, shit. That’s unexpected.
He turns to face her, staring at her closely. She kneels beside the door, an open, vacant expression clear in her eyes. There’s no way to mistake that look, he knows it too well.
“Fine,” he says. He speaks slowly, falling back into old habits as he addresses her the way he would any Doll. Dewitt once called it his ‘I am surrounded by idiot children’ voice. She was absolutely right, it was. That was pretty much how he felt whenever he was around the Actives, to be honest. “Whiskey, how long have you been here for?”
“I’ve been waiting. They told me to wait, so I did. I try to be my best, and I was.”
He scowls, replying, “Great. Good job. How long have you been waiting?”
“I’ve been waiting since they left me here. They asked me to stay. They said I could help people. I like helping people. Can I help you?”
The combination of doll-speak and the effects of the gas are giving him one hell of a headache. He rubs distractedly at his forehead as he pieces together what she is saying. The Dollhouse staff left about three years ago, he knows that for sure. There’s no way to be any more precise; it’s not like anyone kept on manufacturing calendars and day planners once civilization ended. It seems that she chose to stay behind when they left.
Next question, then. “What happened to the people who were here before?”
She raises a shaky arm to point to the elevator shaft.
“They left,” she murmurs.
A sudden thudding against the ceiling makes him whip his head around. There’s no one in sight, but it’s a good bet the Butchers outside have finally remembered their original purpose. They’ll be here any minute, he knows. It’s time to leave.
He shifts his M16 against his side as he rises. He moves to the door, gesturing at her to follow him as he peers through the glass to see if the way is clear.
She doesn’t move.
Impatiently, he orders, “Get up. We’re getting out of here.”
She shakes her head, standing up gracefully but backing away. She settles down into the chair, although she doesn’t start it up again. “I need to stay.”
“The Butchers will be here any minute. We need to leave, now.”
“I need to stay.”
He grabs her arm, pulling her towards the door, but she’s a limp weight in his hand. “No, you need to come, now, or you're going to die. Can you get that through your empty little brain?”
She struggles to get away, repeating over and over, “Someone might come. I need to be here. I can show them the way to Safe Haven.”
“Listen to me: anyone who tried to go there now would die before they ever reached it,” he growls. She continues to look at him blankly, so he continues, “Do you understand me? Ambrose set up over there months ago, anyone who comes near is wiped. There’s nothing you can do anymore but get out.”
“This is what I have to do,” she replies. “I have to wait.”
“No, damn it, you need to run. The Butchers will be in any moment now, I’m not leaving you here and I’m not staying here to die.”
She looks up at him with wide eyes, pulling away once more. She keeps trying even though she is no match for his strength. She tells him, “You should go. You should leave me here. My name is Whiskey, and I am not a person. Just think of me as a pet. That’ll make it easier. Easier to let go.”
He drops her arm in shock. She moves away quickly, but he’s bigger and faster and he grabs her again before she makes it even a few feet. The thudding is getting louder, and he can hear the wails of the Butchers as they near, but he can’t seem to move. All he can do is stare into her face, looking for any hint that Claire Saunders is still there. All he wants is a tiny clue that people other than Echo can also throw off the blank state of a wiped Doll. Maybe, if they could, one day the Dumbshows and the Butchers would be normal again. He searches her eyes, but there is no spark in them, only the dull sheen of an empty mind.
“You should let me go,” she repeats.
He chuckles softly but wildly, running his free hand through his hair. “Maybe I could use the company.”
She tilts her head, looking at him strangely, and she says once again, “I need to wait.”
He frowns, but it’s almost for show this time. “Stop saying that, you sound like a broken record. So how about you come with me, we get out of here, and then we wait together, okay? You can wait all you want, and you can do it somewhere safe.”
He probably sounds patronizing as hell, but it must go over her head because she nods slowly. He releases her arm, and moves to the door to peer through the glass. The first Butchers have begun to slide down the rope. When they hit the floor, the gas will knock them out, but they may have time to fire a few shots first.
Dominic turns back to Whiskey. “Hold your breath,” he directs her. He pulls his shirt up to cover the lower half of his face. A deep breath calms him slightly; it will steady his aim when he fires.
He lifts his M16 and slams the doors open. They race to the elevator, Dominic at the front to draw the Butchers’ fire. When they reach the closed doors, he pushes Whiskey towards them. She understands his intent, and she slides them open as he lets out a spray of bullets towards the raving Butchers.
Once they are both in, he pushes the door shut. Whiskey has already started to climb, so he follows quickly. A few times, the hem of her dress falls into his eyes, blinding him, but his hands are firm on the rungs and he keeps going.
They leave the elevator shaft on the main floor of the Rossum building. They walk past the secretary’s station, where calls would have been sent up to Judith, who would run the messages to Adelle. They walk past the lounge, where clients would sat while they waited for their turn to hold an audience with the madam of the Dollhouse. They keep walking until they reach the doors.
Dominic goes first, pushing the large glass doors open and moving through. He holds the door open for Whiskey, who steps silently over the threshold in her bare feet into the brisk night air. Out on the street, the Butchers are still slaughtering Dumbshows, unaware of their audience. Dominic glares out at them, then grasps Whiskeys arm at the elbow, and says, “Let’s get moving. We can find our own haven.”