HALF-HARDED smiles! (open)

[FOXTROT]

It wasn’t easy developing your own personality, especially when you were made to be a blank slate. She was still no where near being close to being a whole person. There were still so many things that Foxtrot didn’t know that other people, the non-active people seemed to know. Now and then an active would go up to that room with all the windows and come out as a person; the original person. Foxtrot only knew that they weren’t who they were before. They had different names and behaved in a way that she truly envied. So she tried to mimic them, do what they do. When they said something, Foxtrot went and practiced it in the mirror. Or when they used their hands to talk, Foxtrot tried to do that too. Each time she watched herself and was finally convinced that it didn’t look the same when she did it. She didn’t know what she was doing wrong, but it was frustrating.

Today she’d seen one staff member pass another staff member with a pleasant greeting of ‘hello’ and a little wave. Foxtrot had watched it and isolated each movement. That was her goal for the day: a very natural, pleasant ‘hello.’ It wasn’t going well. The red haired active had managed three awkward and overly cheerful hellos that earned her strange looks; and two lack luster ones that earned her lack luster greetings in return. The hardest part was engaging the other actives. They gave her nothing in return. It was just blank, lifeless. Not negative, no, not negative, just empty. It made Foxtrot rather sad.

By the time she wandered up to the imprint room (how she managed that without being escorted back to the others was beyond her). That’s a lie, she sort of followed a man and an active up that way. Foxtrot, to be fair, had no intention of actually entering that terrifying room. She just stood in the doorway and the first person she saw, she put up a hand and gave a small ”Hello,” that was rather half hearted; like a little girl who was spooked but trying to be brave.

[CLAIRE SAUNDERS !]

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Somehow or other, Claire had landed herself with overseeing some of the imprinting. She didn’t know why, given that Ivy was far more qualified with the equipment than she was, and even with her medical training she had absolutely no idea what most of the things in here meant, let alone did, but perhaps it was one of those things where Topher had suggested her, despite the apparent dislike he had for her. He seemed to have done that quite a lot, actually, if rumours were to be believed; Claire wouldn’t presume to understand Topher psychologically, because he was the most complex and confusing person she’d met – and she dealt with people who’d had their minds wiped daily – but maybe he trusted her, even when she didn’t trust him. He’d told her that he’d made her to be the complete opposite of him, after all, and so maybe that meant something. Claire didn’t know what, but she wasn’t going to dwell on it; she knew how to load an imprint and use the chair, and that was all that mattered. She couldn’t do any of the actual loading of imprints, but then she wasn’t sure that she wanted to. Computers weren’t safe anymore; these were the only ones allowed to be on, and then, only when necessary. Claire knew that she had more advanced computing skills than most medical doctors ever acquired, but even she did not wish to take the risk; she wasn’t going to be wiped via some email or virus or piece of text encoded in a file that had been on the computer’s hard drive for years. Perhaps it wouldn’t affect her, since she was a doll anyway, but…there was the possibility that it would make her into one of the so-called butchers. Claire didn’t want to die at all, but she certainly did not want to be made into something whose sole purpose was to kill everybody. She couldn’t do that. She’d rather be wiped back to being Whiskey first—and that was something that she wasn’t going to let happen, either.

So whatever the reasoning, Claire had found herself standing in the imprint room, arms folded tightly across her chest, watching as yet another active was returned to their original personality. Would this one still want to be called by their doll designation, would they try and get out of here, or would the personality not stick and they’d stay being a doll anyway? Claire had seen all three, so far, and that wasn’t mentioning the new developments she’d seen from the dolls who hadn’t, as yet, been returned to who they’d been before they’d got here. A lot of them were turning out like Echo; they didn’t want to be returned to their own personalities. They’d become someone new, and they liked that person a whole lot more. Claire could understand that; she had no idea who she was before she’d come to the Dollhouse, and she had absolutely no desire to find out. She knew she was Whiskey, but that was as far back as she went; Claire knew who she was, and she wasn’t going to let some stranger – who’d obviously had some kind of trauma, because nobody ended up in here without that – take over her body, even if it had belonged to that woman in the first place. She was her own person now; she wasn’t going to die. Not like that. Not in that chair.

The personality imprinted, Claire decided that she’d had enough of being up here for today; Ivy clearly had it all under control, and she had things she needed to be doing elsewhere in the Dollhouse. People still needed a doctor, even if there was no contact with the outside world anymore. Tucking her pen into her lab coat pocket, Claire headed for the door, and half-smiled at the active standing there. “Hello, Foxtrot,” she replied; she hadn’t thought that anybody else was scheduled for today, but she could have been wrong; Claire had to admit that she hadn’t been paying much attention to the rosters of late. She had different things on her mind, ones that she considered to be a higher priority than who was being returned to themselves today. As long as they were both physically and mentally healthy when she checked them over, it didn’t matter to Claire whether they were dolls or people; she’d look after them just the same. “Are you here for a treatment?”

[FOXTROT]

Foxtrot stared at Dr. Saunders. She was the woman who took care of them and gave them lollipops at the end of the visit if they’d been good. The red haired active wasn’t sure what she thought of the woman, but there were no ill wishes toward her. If anything, she seemed decently pleasant and mild mannered. There were no complaints that Foxtrot could issue in all the time she’d dealt with Dr. Saunders, which arguably wasn’t as much as some other actives. Still, things happened, like illness or cuts that Foxtrot could never explain, even to this day.

The hello she received perked her up visibly, her eyes lighting up. Someone had responded to it, with some feeling behind it. It was enough to encourage her to take a couple tentative steps forward. Like a child given the ‘go ahead’ she smiled as if something great had happened. Dr. Saunders might not understand, but for Foxtrot to have someone react in a way she’d seen the other staff members react, was a small victory. Not a giant one, but all the same, a small one.

”A treatment would be-“ Foxtrot cut herself off. The automatic response to the question startling her. No, Foxtrot did not want a treatment. Whenever one of the others came up here for a treatment, they walked away as someone else. Foxtrot didn’t want to be anyone else but Foxtrot. Amelia, or whatever the name of the girl who used to be her was, did not appeal to her. She wasn’t Amelia anymore and she couldn’t imagine being her. As a doll, she might not fully understand what this room did, or what happened here, but Foxtrot was going to fight for her individuality. She’d already developed it with the help of some others, no way was she letting go of it.

”I’d rather not be empty, if you don’t mind.” Her response wasn’t a firm as she’d thought it would be, but the words would hold up. At least Foxtrot thought so. ”I was just practicing. I think I got it right this time.” It seemed right to her anyway.

[CLAIRE SAUNDERS !]

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Everyone seemed to have a fascination with the imprint room, Claire had noticed. Those that were in possession of their minds either avoided it, as they didn’t understand what was going on, only went in when their active was being treated – in the case of the handlers – or were interested in it, but only from a distance. Claire remembered that as an active, she’d always looked up at the room when the blue light had been emitting from it. She’d had no desire to go and find out what was going on – Whiskey had only ever gone upstairs when someone had suggested she might enjoy a treatment, and she’d always enjoyed her treatments – but she’d always thought that the light was pretty. Now that the actives were more aware of what was going on around them, Claire had noticed that many of them graduated towards here; perhaps it was out of fascination, as they’d spent so much of their lives in that chair, and perhaps it was fear. They weren’t just empty dolls now; they were people, with things that scared them just as much as she or any of the other staff here, and Claire knew what it was like to fear the chair. She didn’t want to sit in it, and suddenly end up with her mind wiped; Whiskey might have been a part of her, but if she became Whiskey entirely, she wouldn’t be Claire anymore. Claire didn’t want to lose herself, not like that. She certainly didn’t want to end up being whoever she’d been before she’d become Whiskey; she knew who she was now, and that person had obviously had something terrible happen to her, and she’d given her body freely. It was Claire’s now, and she wasn’t going to give it up; she understood the dolls’ fear of the imprint chair. She had it too…but she still had to work in here.

”I’d rather not be empty, if you don’t mind. I was just practicing. I think I got it right this time.”

“Of course,” Claire replied; she’d not been offering a treatment, but it seemed that just mentioning the word triggered some kind of automatic response in the actives’ minds. “No-one is being forced to have treatments.” The anymore was unspoken, but Claire could feel it in the air, even if Foxtrot didn’t notice it was there; sure, none of the actives had had to be forced into the chair in their doll state, but that was because they were all programmed to believe that a treatment was the best idea they’d heard all day. If they’d had free will, Claire wasn’t so sure that they would have been compliant; there was a reason that they’d not been allowed to become people in their own right. She was a good example of that, she thought; as Whiskey, Claire had loved her treatments, because she’d been made to. Now that she was a person, imprinted with a complex personality, there was no way she was ever going to voluntarily get into that chair again. They’d have to tie her into it if they wanted to wipe her, and she was hopeful that that wouldn’t be necessary; the Dollhouse needed her. Wiping her would be counterproductive, from everyone’s point of view. And they would always need a doctor; Claire hoped that that alone was enough to keep her alive. She didn’t want to be a doll again. “What were you practising?”

[FOXTROT]

“I enjoy my treatments, just not now.” Foxtrot said, trying to be polite. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful and find herself wandering around…. Elsewhere. She didn’t really know where else they would send her besides the Attic and she shuttered to even think about it. But the ‘Elsewhere?’ As exciting as thinking about it was, Foxtrot wasn’t sure she wanted to go there. All those who worked here seemed to hate it out there. It must be such an awful place. Why would she want to go there? And here? Well, Foxtrot thought it wasn’t so bad so long as she was Foxtrot and not this other person. Here was safe.

When Dr. Saunders asked her what she was practicing, Foxtrot lit up, like a child, thrilled to show off. ”I was saying hello like all the others.” It was a big step for her, or so she thought. Hello was the first thing people said and if she could master that, perhaps she could convince those that hated her that she was like them. She never did understand their aversion to her. Foxtrot always strived to be nice, now and then her mouth escaped from her, but for the most part, she was polite and friendly. But it wasn’t just her they seemed so wary of; it was the others she’d known around the building. They didn’t like them either. Foxtrot found it odd… and annoying. ”Some people don’t have the response down yet. Maybe they should practice more.”

Feeling bolder, the redhead walked into the room, this time looking around. Her curiosity got to her, as it usually did, and she went to inspect one table with various things laid out on it. She didn’t touch anything, but her pale hand hovered over them like she wanted to caress them all. Briefly she wondered what they were used for. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could learn? What fun it would be! But no, no one was really allowed up here. Too bad really. There was so much up here so long as she kept away from that weird room. ”They’re not like you, Doctor. They just looked at me like I was… something else.” She flavored the last word with distaste, her nose wrinkling a little. ”You probably don’t know.”


ooc: sorry so short!

[CLAIRE SAUNDERS !]

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“I enjoy my treatments, just not now.”

This was understandable; the actives were no longer simply programmed dolls who had to enjoy their treatments without a choice. It was still in there, Claire was sure – sometimes, she even got the urge to answer, ‘yes, a treatment would be nice’ if the question was asked around her, but she tampered down the desire as she was not a doll, and would never be Whiskey again – but it was a good thing they weren’t simply sitting in the Dollhouse, waiting for their next treatment. There’d come a time when everyone had their own personalities back, or at least the attempt to return it had been made (Claire found it fascinating how some of the dolls had simply rejected the personality, or assimilated it into them somehow without losing who they had become – once, it was something that would never have been allowed to happen, and she wished that she had enough free time in which to analyse it in greater detail, because technically, the active architecture in their minds should have made it impossible for two personalities to co-exist…but that theory had been debunked long ago, what with Echo, Alpha, and even Claire herself), and that would be the end of the imprint chair. No more treatments; Claire wasn’t sure how much they could trust the technology anyway, but she was sure that had something to do with the fact that it had been Topher Brink who’d made it, and him who’d run it—it was Topher’s domain, and even though he was rarely in here anymore, Claire did everything in her power to stay away as much as possible, and she never entered the workroom adjoining the imprint room unless it was absolutely necessary; it was too much like Topher, and it made her sick. “Maybe later,” she agreed softly; it was unlikely, but possible. She wasn’t going to categorically say no, anyway. She wasn’t in charge of that side of things; she just did what she was told. Or as close to what she was told as she thought was right, especially when it came to the safety of the actives.

”Some people don’t have the response down yet. Maybe they should practice more.”

“Ah, that is a good thing to practise,” Claire replied; they would be stronger as a unit if they could get along, and for those dolls who weren’t quite real people, it was important that the basics were there. They needed to stick together in this; Claire wasn’t entirely sure what ‘this’ was, given that she strove to avoid hearing news of the world outside and how many people had been imprinted now, but they were on their own. Of that much, she was completely clear; for all they knew, those people inside the Dollhouse were the only ones still alive in the whole of existence, or as alive as the actives could be; they were different to those poor souls who’d been wiped clean out of their bodies on the streets, anyway, as they had signed up for this while the innocent people of Los Angeles – of the world – hadn’t, and those who’d avoided it were being hunted down like animals…it served to remind Claire why she’d never wanted to leave the Dollhouse in the first place. It was safer in here. “Some people just…don’t like to talk to others,” Claire said with a shrug; technically, she fell into that category, but she always felt differently towards the actives than she did the rest of the staff. They were easy to get along with, as child-like as they were, and they never judged, never expected anything; she was the one they looked up to, and Claire had come to like that. She didn’t actively seek out conversation with them, and she wasn’t sure that she’d really call any of them her friend, barring Echo, but she was more likely to talk to them than she was any of the handlers, for example. “And like you said, maybe they need more practise. Perhaps you could teach them?” She wasn’t sure what Foxtrot would think of the suggestion, but perhaps she would like the challenge; they all needed new things to do now that there were no assignments. The missions had been the Dollhouse’s raison d’être, and everyone was still trying to adapt to life without them.

”They’re not like you, Doctor. They just looked at me like I was… something else. You probably don’t know.”

Claire understood that better than Foxtrot would ever know; the staff here still looked at her strangely, those furtive glances that involved quickly looking away when Claire spotted them, as though she were some kind of freak (and if she was, then it was Topher who was to blame). She’d not stuck around long enough for the looks to really permeate before, choosing to leave the Dollhouse now that she no longer had an excuse for sticking around, but now that she was back, she could see it. Which one of them had been her handler? Who’d been the one responsible for her everyday, who’d sent her off on missions and brought her back at the end of the day? How had Adelle recruited her, how did she feel about Whiskey being there all the time – a shining example of the one real failure of the Dollhouse (and if she was broken, which Claire knew she was, why hadn’t she just been sent to the Attic?). She could see them all, trying to equate Doctor Saunders with the doll, wondering how she coped with the knowledge or whether someday, her programming was just going to fail—they looked at her in the same way that they’d looked at Echo when she’d begun to become self-aware and different – a mixture of interest and wariness. Maybe Claire didn’t want to get close to her colleagues because they didn’t want to get close to her. She was an anomaly, a broken doll, and they couldn’t quite deal with that knowledge. It was a good thing she was as good at compartmentalising as she was, really. “I understand,” Claire said simply; from that, it could simply be taken to mean that she sympathised, could put herself in Foxtrot’s shoes. It didn’t necessarily have to mean that she was already there.