Title:Drowning
Author: Rocky
Fandom: Dollhouse
Main character: Adelle DeWitt
Rating: PG
Spoilers: through season 2 episode 9 "Stop-Loss"
Prompt: Dollhouse, Adelle DeWitt, alcohol
Disclaimer: Dollhouse and its characters was created by Joss Whedon. No copyright infringement is intended.
Written for the 2011 Matrithon Ficathon
Summary: "Don’t try to drown your sorrows with alcohol, your sorrows can swim~Anonymous."
1. 1978, Leeds, Yorkshire
The boutique owner looked down her aristocratic nose at the young girl standing before her. "I run a posh place, the finest and most exclusive ready-to-wear in all of Yorkshire, if I do say so myself. What makes you think a little snip like yourself understands the first thing about retail?"
Fourteen year old Adelle DeWitt took a deep breath before replying calmly. "The secret to a successful sale is understanding exactly what it is you're selling. It's not just the clothing, it's the image that goes along with them. A woman or girl who shops here is hoping to get so much more than just something fancy to wear. She's buying into an image of who and what she wants to be—the glamour is her goal, not just a new blouse or dress, but who she becomes by putting it on."
"You've given this some thought," the owner said, not bothering to conceal her surprise. "How old are you, then?"
"Sixteen," Adelle said confidently. "And you want someone young on your sales staff, someone who can identify with your clientele, help them make the decisions of what looks right, what is best for them."
"It's the older women who have the means to afford the type of merchandise I carry," the owner pointed out. "Not the young rossies."
"Oh, some of them do come in with their mums, looking for something elegant for a special 'do," Adelle said. "But don't underestimate the buying power of the young people. They've got the cash as well. And you want to establish your reputation as a mod shop, on the cutting edge of fashion, not just a place for stodgy old matrons."
The owner was silent for a long moment. "Very well, then," she said at last. "I suppose you'll do." Her gaze raked over Adelle's silk top with spaghetti straps, the flared leg trousers, the platform shoes—all carefully assembled that morning with the assistance of several individuals for this important interview. "Of course, you'll be wanting to use your employee store-discount to get yourself something a little more suitable to wear." She smiled triumphantly, even as Adelle fought to keep the burning from her cheeks.
***
Adelle let herself in quietly into the flat, part of a battered old row of townhouses on a decidedly unfashionable street in an even more unfashionable part of town. She breathed out a sigh of relief at her father's absence in the kitchen, then gasped as she spotted her mother in a corner, picking up pieces of broken crockery.
"What's all this, then?" she said, and gasped once more when she saw the livid bruise, in the shape of a man's hand, on her mother's arm.
"Dad was a little upset this evening," her mother said, averting her face from her daughter's. Her long hair helped hide her features; Adelle reached down and gently smoothed the locks back, her heart sinking as she saw the thin trickle of blood seeping from Mum's nose.
"So I see," she said slowly. Mum twitched out of her grasp and carefully placed the shards in the dustbin. "What set him off this time?"
"Lydia."
"What's that stupid twat done now?" Adelle demanded, exasperation with her older sister rising.
Mum didn't even bother to admonish her for her language, another bad sign. Instead, she sat down heavily at the old kitchen table. "She's fallen pregnant."
Adelle was silent, taking in this surprising news.
"Did you know?"
Adelle shook her head.
"Dad told her to get out, he wouldn't be putting up with her under his roof a moment longer." With an effort, Mum changed the subject. "And where have you been, dressed like that? You're lucky Dad didn't see you, he'd say you looked like a streetwalker."
Grimly, Adelle held onto her temper. "That's what he knows. This is fashion, Mum, what all the posh kids are wearing. I wanted to dress the part, when I went to apply for a job. And I've gotten it—I'm going to be working at the boutique in the center of Leeds!"
If she was expecting her mother to show any joy for her, she would have been disappointed. Mum sighed. "I don't know what your father will say."
"Dad's opinion is totally beside the point," Adelle said sharply. "This is my job, my chance to earn a bit of money for myself. It's got nothing to do with him, and I don't have to live in fear of his disapproval, or his drunken rages. And neither do you, Mum."
Mum just sighed once more. "Go up to bed, Addie." The unspoken words hung in the air: "before your father gets home."
***
The light was on in the cramped little room she shared with her sister. Lydia looked up sharply when the door opened, breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was only Adelle. She didn't pause from her hurried actions of stuffing clothing into a suitcase, only casting a quick glance at the other girl.
"That's my blouse," Lydia said abruptly. "What are you doing with it?"
"I told you I needed it to apply for the boutique job," Adelle said, seating herself on the lumpy double bed they shared. "So you're leaving?"
"Sean's picking me up. We're eloping."
Adelle scrutinized Lydia's face and saw no visible marks. Which meant Mum had borne the brunt of Dad's temper, as usual. "Guess you haven't much of a choice, seeing that you're preggers."
Lydia laughed shortly. "Getting married was always the plan. The pregancy's just an added incentive, so Dad wouldn't stand in my way."
"And he was just so thrilled at your news," Adelle said acidly. "Or did you think it was just the drink talking? Didn't you get a good look at what he did to Mum?"
"I was there, Addie. Which is more than I can say for you."
Adelle ignored the thrust. "And you're getting out, just like that."
"I don't mean to stay here for the rest of my life. Sean is my ticket out of here."
"And who's to say he won't turn out exactly like Dad, twenty years down the road?"
"Sean's not like that. He's not out with the lads every night, drinking God knows how many pints and then coming home and taking it out on his family. My life is going to be different than Mum's, better."
Adelle shook her head. "For your sake, I certainly hope so."
Lydia paused before heaving the overstuffed bag onto the floor. "Can I have my blouse?"
Adelle took it off and tossed it at her.
Lydia paused in the act of examining her top for damage, then satisfied, carefully rolled it up and placed it on the top of her other belongings. "So did you at least get the job, then?"
"Yes. The first step in my plans to get out of here. I'm not going to depend on some man to rescue me."
Lydia smiled unpleasantly. "And would you mind explaining to me just how working as a salesgirl is going to help you?"
"I'll be earning money. Money to put aside for University. In a few more years I'll be getting my Leaving Certificate—"
"Dad says he doesn't hold with girls attending University."
"No," Adelle contradicted, "he said he wouldn't be paying for it. I will, and I'm going to have the grades to get into a good University in London, Oxford even. I'm going to make something of myself one day."
Lydia opened her mouth, but a sharp toot of a horn sounded outside. "That's Sean." She picked up the suitcase and turned to go.
"Lyds—"
The two sisters embraced, and then Lydia was gone, setting out on the next stage of her life, far from the shadow of an alcoholic father. Adelle wished she was old enough to be doing the same, then comforted herself that it was only a few more years until she, too, would be gone.
2. 1984, off-campus housing, London
"Bloody hell, you're late, Addie!" Geoff called as soon as he heard her key in the lock. "It's turned eight o'clock already!"
Adelle bit back an exasperated sigh as she slammed the door behind her and dropped the groceries on the floor next to her handbag. "I told you I was working late this evening."
"And I told you we were expected at Dougie's after six." Geoff came up and started putting away the boxes and cans matter-of-factly. "What were you working at, anyway? If I'm not mistaken, your last exam was yesterday."
"Not at the library; at the lab." Adelle opened the refrigerator, wrinkling her nose at the smell. She carried a carton of milk to the sink and poured it out before replacing it with the one she had just purchased.
"Bloody Rossum Pharmaceuticals," Geoff muttered, peering over her shoulder into the interior of the fridge. "What, no more beer? Ah." Bottle in hand, he searched for the opener. "Ever since last year, you've been spending more and more of your time at Rossum, whenever you're not in tutorials, or so it seems. It's not like you're a valued employee, anyway. You're nothing but a part-time secretary."
"Administrative assistant," Adelle snapped, angry at him for constantly belittling her position. "There's a difference."
"Not in the amount they pay you," Geoff said. He caught sight of her expression and forced a grin. "Unless you're raking in more quid than you've let on. In which case, you can contribute more to the rent!"
"Don't be ridiculous," Adelle said. "The reason I'm working so hard is to get my foot in the door. After I take my degree, Rossum is the perfect place to get started. They're a young and hungry company, and they're looking for real go-getters."
"They're scientists," Geoff said, putting his empty bottle on the counter and popping the top of a fresh bottle. "Last time I looked, you were studying business."
"They are a business," Adelle said, weary of the discussion they'd had so many times. "Don't forget, you're the one who got me the job in the first place."
"Don't remind me," Geoff said in disgust, taking a long swig. "Well, at least you're pushing papers, and not acting as a glorified zoo-keeper. Psychology student, top marks, and what do they have me doing? Cleaning out those bloody rat cages!"
"I thought you said you got to run some experiments the other day," Adelle said, frowning as she kicked off her heels and leaned back against the battered sofa, careless of wrinkling her tailored skirt and blouse.
"Watching the males cross electrified strips of metal to get to food or to females," Geoff said contemptuously. "Those sorts of trials were first done in the '30's!"
"Well, I'm sure there's a reason Rossum is repeating those trials, then," Adelle said.
"Conditioning," Geoff said, more to himself than to her. "Trying to see if they can modify certain neural pathways…I suppose." He shook his head. "That still doesn't explain why you decided to blow off Dougie's party."
"I'm not in the mood for a pub crawl." Adelle said as she watched Geoff help himself to yet another beer. "I don't know why people drink, anyway. It tastes ghastly."
"It's not how the drink tastes that's important, " Geoff corrected her. "It's how it makes you feel. Besides, Dougie's bash is at his flat, not a pub."
"All the better for him and his mates to score with unsuspecting girls, I suppose," Adelle said tartly.
"What do you mean?"
"I told you, I saw him put something in that girl's drink. Remember that shy, quiet little blonde, Flora? Half an hour later, she was acting completely different, laughing loudly, flirting, draping herself over his and that other bloke's laps?"
"Hey now," Geoff said quickly. "No harm done. It was just to get her to relax, lighten up a bit and have some fun."
"Whose fun?" Adelle said angrily. "Do you think she honestly knew what she was doing? Or that she would have done any of those things if she'd been in her right mind?"
"It wasn't anything dangerous he gave her, it was just a 'roofie,'" Geoff said defensively. "Rohypnol, a type of—"
"—benxodiazepine," Adelle finished. Even with the seriousness of the topic at hand, she still felt a sense of satisfaction at the look of surprise on Geoff's face. "A powerful sedative used to treat anxiety, panic attacks and insomnia."
"Then you also know," Geoff said, recovering quickly, "that it's got strong amnesiac properties. She didn't remember a thing afterward." He repeated, "no harm done."
"And what if it had been me, whose drink was spiked?"
"You're my girl," Geoff said immediately. "It wouldn't happen to you."
"But if it did?" Adelle insisted.
"Wouldn't happen," Geoff repeated, an obstinate look on his face.
Adelle looked at him for a long moment. "You really believe that, don't you?" She held up a hand. "No, don't bother answering. You want to go that damn party, fine, we'll go."
Geoff smiled, a bit uncertainly. "What's changed your mind, then?"
"Someone's got to keep an eye out for those poor defenseless girls."
"Good ol' Saint Addie, out to save the world," Geoff said, but willingly followed her out the door.
3. 1992, the Watergate Complex, Washington D.C.
"Adelle! So glad you could make it," Mathew Harding said as he opened the door to admit her into the private suite. "How was your flight from Heathrow?"
"Fine, thank you," Adelle said. Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror in the marble entryway, her hand automatically went up to her hair, checking that her diamond earrings hadn't become twisted up in any stray strands. One last tug of the skirt of her midnight-blue frock, and she followed Harding into the room.
"What'll you have to drink?" Harding asked.
"A whiskey sour, please." The room was already full to over-flowing with the up-and-coming stars at the Rossum Corporation. Adelle smiled at the people nearest her—all male, there were only one or two other women present--and began making polite small talk with a major benefactor named Bradley Karrens and some of his associates.
"Here you go," Harding said a moment later, handing her the glass. "I presume you've met Jones-Smythe already?"
"Just getting acquainted now," said the portly financier with a grin. "Always nice to see another Brit, eh? Someone without a blasted American accent! I can never get used to the way these bloody Americans mangle the Queen's English, and I've been here nearly fifteen years. How long have you been in the States?"
"Actually, I've only just arrived today," Adelle said, involuntarily thinking about what—and whom—she'd left behind when she accepted the transfer from the UK. She immediately forced her thoughts away from Roger and that final discussion they'd had, in which she'd at long last accepted that the two of them would never have a future together.
"You've hardly come straight from the airport," Jones-Smythe said, his eyes going appreciatively over her figure.
"No, not hardly," Adelle said, the corners of her mouth turning up very slightly. "I've checked into a room in the same hotel complex, where I'll be staying until I get settled in."
"Adelle's been in charge of our stem cell laboratory outside of London," Harding interjected. "And now she's going to set up a similar lab at our Los Angeles branch."
Adelle kept her expression unchanged, though inwardly she was reeling with shock at the unexpected change of venue. She wasn't going to be staying in Washington, then? Nice of them to wait until she was actually here before springing the news. What game was Harding playing? One of the most compelling aspects of the transfer, the main reason she'd accepted leaving England, was to be at the Rossum Corporation main U.S. Headquarters. "Yes, going to shunt me off to the West Coast, right, Matthew?" she said lightly. "Can't have me too close to the halls of power, you know."
Harding's smile seemed genuine enough, but didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, you're one we're going to be keeping a very close eye on in the years to come, Adelle."
"Hear, hear!" said Jones-Smythe gallantly.
"I see you've finished your drink," Clive Ambrose said, speaking for the first time. "Would you care for another?"
"No, thank you, one is my limit, particularly after an overseas flight," Adelle said with a polite nod to the Rossum executive.
Jone-Smythe said, "Now, stem cell research, that's rather interesting science. I know a bit about the theory, getting the cells to develop into whatever you want, but tell me, have you actually had any success in growing an entire human organ?"
"Not an entire human organ, no," Adelle said. "But we have been able to grow mouse pancreatic tissue—the Islets of Langerhans which produce insulin, to be exact--and have had limited success with producing lung alveoar tissue. Now that we're able to grow specific tissues, it's only a matter of time until we are able to produce a whole organ."
"In animals, though, not people," Jones-Smythe said.
"That will happen," Harding said confidently.
"I appreciate your faith in me," Adelle said with a toss of her head.
"And Rossum appreciates our faith in the company," Harding said with a pointed look.
Adelle was beginning to regret turning down the offer of another drink. Fortunately, Ambrose had beckoned to another few individuals and the rapidly expanding conversation turned to the latest developments in software engineering, and what the rise of a widespread Web meant to the sharing of information. Adelle listened closely and made a few contributions, glad she had kept abreast of technological advancements outside her normal purview. She was gratified to see her remarks taken seriously by most of those present.
As the evening wore on and more alcohol trickled down throats, the conversation eventually turned back to the practically of growing human organs.
"Now the brain, that's the one organ that can't simply be grown anew and replaced," said a man whose name Adelle hadn't quite caught, only heard referred to as 'Clyde'. "But what if we could change the basic wiring of the brain?"
"You mean, in terms of functionality?" asked Karrens with interest. "Motor control, vision? To repair a damaged part after a stroke, say?"
"Why stop there?" Ambrose said almost too casually. "Memory, thought—you could totally 'wipe' away one set of engrams and replace it with another."
"You mean, you could erase all the violin lessons I suffered through as a child? Just like that?" Jones-Smythe said in amusement.
"Don't think of it as a loss. You could just as easily replace them with the piano, or the cello," Adelle said with a laugh.
Clyde waved his hand dismissively. "Why so limited, thinking solely about skill sets? You could actually replace an entire personality."
Adelle breathed in sharply, and saw she was not the only one affected by the audacity of that statement. Jones-Smythe had turned quite pale. "Fortunately, technology isn't there yet," he said in a quavering voice.
"No, not yet," Ambrose said easily. "But one day…right now, the pharmaceuticals we've developed can only take us part of the way." He gestured to a young man, in his very early twenties by the looks of him, who stood quietly nearby. "Now, Nolan here keeps insisting that drugs are the answer, but I'm not quite convinced that they'll ultimately take us where we want to go."
"No," said Harding, his mouth settling into harsh lines. "Total reprogramming of the entire neural will be what's needed."
"'O brave new world, that has such creatures in it'," Jones-Smythe said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Adelle felt a sudden, deeper chill. Turning abruptly, she headed for the bar and that second drink after all.
4. 2004, Dollhouse, Los Angeles, CA
"Would you care for something to drink?" Adelle asked, the pale green porcelain teapot poised over a cup.
The tense young man, who hadn't taken the seat she'd offered, eyed her warily. "What's in there?"
"Just tea. Chamomile tea, in fact. My grandmother always said there's nothing as relaxing as a nice cup of tea."
"How do I know it's not drugged?"
"Sergeant, I can assure---"
"It's not 'Sergeant' any more," he interrupted.
"Mr. Ceccoli, then," Adelle said smoothly. "I can assure you, the tea isn't drugged." She permitted herself a private smile. There were other forms of coercion much more potent. "Perhaps you would prefer some water instead?" Without waiting for an answer, she went to the small refrigerator and withdrew an unopened bottle of Evian. "Here you are."
"Thank you," he said, after a long moment, taking the bottle from her, although he didn't open it.
"Now, then, Mr. Ceccoli—"
"You can call me Anthony, or even just Tony." In a spurt of nervous energy, he started pacing once more. "Can you really help me, or was that just a sales pitch?"
"Yes, Anthony, we can indeed help you overcome your post-traumatic stress disorder." She hesitated, for a moment, before placing a reassuring hand on his arm. He tensed even more at the contact and then relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"I've been to the docs at the VA," Anthony said, drawing to a halt beside the table, but still not sitting down. "They just gave me a lot of pills. Anti-depressants, sleeping pills, God knows what else. But none of it helps. I can't sleep at night. I have trouble falling asleep, and then when I do, I jerk awake, my heart pounding. A car backfired on my street the other day. Before I knew it, I had knocked over the couch and taken cover. My family, they think I'm nuts. My girlfriend says she can't go on this way anymore. I need help!" he said, his voice rising to a near shriek.
"And we can provide that help," Adelle said soothingly. Despite the naked distress on his face, she was suddenly, incongruously, reminded of Roger. The eyes, the hair, the set of his mouth, even Anthony's lean yet well-muscled physique reminded her of former paramour. Not that Roger had been a soldier; the only weapon he'd ever picked up had been an epee.
"How? What makes you think you can help me when the docs can't?" Anthony demanded, grabbing a chair and straddling it.
"The Rossum Corporation has developed a number of different revolutionary therapies. We can, with a special conditioning process, literally make your pain go away."
"You just wave your magic wand, huh, and it all goes away? My memories, everything?"
"It's not quite a magic wand," Adelle said. "And we will leave your memories intact. Afterward, when you leave here, you will still remember all your experiences in Afghanistan, but the pain associated with those memories will be gone." She delicately moved the sheaf of papers a bit closer to him. "Sign here, and we will begin your therapy almost immediately."
"They told me," Anthony said hesitantly, "that I would have to make a five year commitment."
"Yes," Adelle said, nodding. "It is an in-house process, in which you will undergo regular and frequent 'treatments' for your condition. You've already seen the residential area—except for the bedrooms as they are still undergoing renovations—and you know you will be well-cared for, physically, during your stay."
"Five years, though," Anthony said.
"The recovery process is a long one. But you will not be aware of the passage of time. For you, it will feel like falling asleep. And when you awaken, it will seem to have passed in an instant."
"But what will I be doing all that time, when I'm not getting treatments?" Anthony said, his brow furrowed.
"You will be involved in a variety of different activities," Adelle said easily. "For example, our residents have the opportunity to pick up new skills, everything from martial arts training to yoga to learning a foreign language."
"Are we permitted to leave the facility?"
"Yes, though not unaccompanied. And I'm afraid you will be unable to maintain contact with any friends or family members from your former life for the duration, at the risk of disrupting your recovery process."
"I see." Anthony exhaled deeply. "And these new skills, if I won't remember learning them, will I retain any of them after I leave?"
"If you wish," Adelle said. "But I'd like you to concentrate more on what you will be leaving behind you when your five years are over, namely the pain and suffering that have made your life unbearable right now."
Anthony bowed his head for a long moment. "All right."
Adelle watched carefully as he signed the contract, then reached out a hand. "Welcome to the Dollhouse, Anthony. I know you will not regret this."
***
"Good afternoon," Adelle said, smiling warmly as the client was ushered into her office. "I trust you had no trouble finding us? May I offer you a drink?"
The man pulled out a handkerchief from his suit breast pocket and mopped his face. "What's that, tea?"
"Or Scotch, if you prefer," Adelle said, handing him a glass of the amber-colored liquor. "Please have a seat, Mr. Delacourt."
Delacourt took a sip, then a larger swallow. "Can you really do it?" he said abruptly. "I've heard the rumors about this place, what you claim to be able to accomplish. What I want to know is, is it true or just false advertising?"
"What you have heard is entirely true," Adelle said, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. "You want to say goodbye to your dead son, to achieve a sense of closure. And we can make that happen."
"How?" Delacourt demanded. "Hire an actor, who's pretending to be Jim, and have him mouth platitudes?"
"No," Adelle said. "The active will in every respect be Jim. He'll have his thoughts, his memories, his personality, his reactions, everything."
"How?" Delcacourt said once again. "How can you do that?"
"You will fill out an extensive questionnaire," Adelle said. "You will provide us with all the information we need to literally recreate the personality of your son."
"Capture his soul, you mean?" Delacourt, his mouth turning down in derision, even as tears trembled in his eyes.
"If you wish to express it that way, then yes," Adelle said, coming to sit next to him. "It will be Jim who comes to you, and you can finally have the chance to tell him what you couldn't or wouldn't say to him in life."
Delacourt was silent for a long moment. "Will he look like Jimmy?"
It was Adelle's turn to hesitate. "We can select an active who superficially resembles your son, if that is what you want."
"No," said Delacourt. "No. It would be too hard—"
"I understand," said Adelle as she rose to her feet. "Judith will provide you with the necessary paperwork as well as payment forms."
"Thank you," Delacourt said.
Adelle watched him leave her office, then picked up her phone. "Topher," she said, "is Alpha available? We have a commission for him."
5. 2010, Dollhouse, Los Angeles, CA
Adelle regained consciousness slowly, becoming aware her neck was bent at an uncomfortable angle. There was a hard, solid surface beneath her left cheek, and as her eyes fluttered open, she focused on an overturned paperweight only inches away.
With a groan, she pulled herself to a sitting position, realization dawning that she had fallen asleep—or more accurately, passed out—amidst the papers on her desk. Her mouth felt like something small and furry had crawled inside to die. Squinting her eyes shut against the glare coming from the large floor-to-ceiling windows, she managed to get to her feet and stumble her way to the bar across the room.
She raked her hair back from her face, regretting once again having cut it short months earlier. The once-stylish bob too strongly emphasized the bony angularity of her face—an angularity, she saw with some surprise in the mirror above the bar, that had grown much more pronounced in the last few months, accompanied by deep shadows beneath her eyes.
Was it any wonder, she thought bitterly. She had been through a major ordeal, with losing control of the House, having to answer to Mathew Harding of all people, standing by silently while he ran roughshod over her actives, her people, her House, bowing to his every whim, putting up with the constant daily humiliations. But it was more than that. She had sincerely feared for the safety of them all, with Harding in control. And so she had done the only thing she could, retaken what was rightfully hers, for the good of them all.
Temporarily buoyed by her self-justification, she reached down to pour herself a drink. The hair of the dog that bit you, her father had always said, and if there was one subject that sadistic old drunkard thoroughly understood, it was liquor.
The bottle was nearly empty. Puzzled, Adelle stared at the small volume of liquid that remained. Surely she hadn't drunk that much the night before, had she? She tried to remember but it was too much effort. She shrugged and lifted the bottle to her lips.
Yes, she had managed to save them all, hadn't she? Once she was back in control of the LA Dollhouse, there was no more talk about transferring any actives to a new House in Dubai, where it was crystal clear they'd be little more than sex slaves. Granted, her House also regularly sent out actives on romantic engagements, but her actives were volunteers. Their contracts with the Dollhouse gave them far more than they'd given up, hadn't they? Money for an indigent family. A cure for debilitating mental psychosis. A far more palatable alternative to a prison sentence. The LA Dollhouse helped people. The staff was honestly concerned with their welfare and didn't abandon them in their time of need. Look at Whiskey. Her new, permanent imprint as "Dr. Saunders" was far better than the old life she'd left behind. And November/Madeline…Adelle faltered for a bit as she recalled what Rossum had done to that particular young woman. Well, it was Rossum who had used and discarded her. She, Adelle, had always had her best interest at heart.
So it was worth it, well worth it, what she had done to retake control. Handing over Topher's plans for remote wipes to Harding, knowing full well that she had just given Rossum the means to affect a far larger population of minds, none of whom could ever be mistaken for volunteers…
And she had made it possible. She had sold her soul, repeatedly, for the Dollhouse but this was the worst of all. Bile rose up in her throat at the thought. She had done this. And she would be responsible for the unspeakable nightmare that would soon be unleashed.
Her eyes involuntarily went to her reflection once more. She saw, as if for the first time, how disheveled she was, the lines around her eyes, the puffiness of her face, and suddenly she saw her father's features reflected back at her. She recoiled from the very idea, and straightening up, abruptly smashed the bottle of liquor against the wall.
"Don’t try to drown your sorrows with alcohol, the little buggers can swim," she said aloud.
She came to a decision that she had made, repeatedly, in different circumstances over the years: It was time to take control of her life.
The End