Mighty Fast Pig

Dollhouse fans are promoting the show better than FOX

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 06:23:24 GMT

WhyIwatch.com, as far as I can tell, is a professional-quality fan site for Joss Whedon's Dollhouse. Witness this video, promoting this Friday's episode.

To be frank, I've enjoyed the season so far, but I haven't been wowed yet. I'm hoping for Whedon and Co. to bring their A game. This might be the episode that really gets the story into high gear, exploring the back story of Sierra, the one Doll who isn't a volunteer (so far as we know.)

"The Pretty Horsebreaker" now on sale

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 02:54:09 GMT

Circlet Press' steampunk erotica anthology, Like a Corset Undone, is now on sale, which includes my short story "The Pretty Horsebreaker." It's set in the same world as my earlier "The Innocent's Progress", though most of the characters are based on real people of the Victorian era. The protagonist, for example, is based on Catherine "Skittles" Walters, a famous courtesan, equestrienne and celebrity.

It's not on the Kindle yet, but you can get it in a variety of formats at Fictionwise, All Romance eBooks, Smashwords and Scribd.

Not quite sure how to promote an ebook. You can't hand it to people, or autograph it.

'Dollhouse' article and Visiting Scholar

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 07:45:31 GMT

My article on Joss Whedon's Dollhouse is up on the Tyee.

Also, I got my application to the Leather Archive & Museum's Visiting Scholar program in the mail a day early, which is a minor miracle for me.

Thoughts on Post-Scarcity Economy

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 18:20:50 GMT

List of things people will want in a post-scarcity world, with effectively limitless goods and energy, and probably some kind of functional immortality (e.g. mind backups)

Transportation: Some things will still require people to meet face to face, and there were still be places that are more interesting than other places, so people will want to go there. Also, some things will still need to be moved around.
Gambling: This is a very deep rooted need in humans, and gambling without the actual possibility of significant loss or gain just isn't the same
Custom-made things for a specific event or application. The coolness of this item drops rapidly after the event is over and the technical or artistic innovations of the item are copied or reverse-engineered by others.
Participation in in collaborative projects. One person can write and compose an opera, and even design and make the sets and costumes, but that person will probably need other people to perform it. This can be in the sense of work (cast and crew of an opera) or play (game worlds in which player interaction is part of the experience)
Security: Bodyguards, safe deposit boxes, etc. This implies that there are objects people want to destroy or steal, and other people want to preserve or keep.
Violence: sabotage, assassinations, air strikes, theft, hijacking. Intimidation or actual destruction.
Status Items: things that are artificially rare, such as limited edition items or performance awards (e.g. sports trophies), actually rare (e.g. Faberge eggs) or abstractions like titles/ranks. These will probably matter only to certain subcultures. Status items can confer tangible benefits.
Status locations: Only so many people can practically visit Mecca or Disneyland. Again, only valuable to certain subcultures. Can be a real or virtual location (e.g. game world)

An additional angle to all of this is if some authority, with the force to back it up, has declared certain things forbidden. That creates an artificial scarcity and opens up smuggling, hidden production, concealment and other services.

Roger Caillois' theory of games said that people have four drives that they try to fulfill, separate from the needs of food, shelter, etc.

Agon, or competition. People will challenge each other to see who is the best at whatever. That means games (and not everybody can participate in them), and awards.
Alea, or randomness. Gambling, in other words. Probably closely tied to agon.
Mimesis, or imitation. Playing roles. Performing in operas, hacking through MMORPG dungeons,etc.
Illinx, destruction of perception, or mind-altering experience. Think of roller coasters.

Games, broadly defined, are usually delimited in time and space and participation. Space delimitation means that you have to go somewhere to participate, and perhaps to watch (not necessarily a physical location). Time delimitation means you have to prepare and anticipate, and the alea factor thrives on this.

Certain locations or items will create illinx, because the "destruction of perception" is valued precisely because it is not everywhere or all of the time.

So the industries of post-scarcity: Rennaissance fairs, games, gambling and mind-altering drugs?

So, games might become incredibly important. Players gain status just through qualifying to participate, and spectators get vicarious agon, mimesis

Teaching. In-person, or at least personalized, teaching, would still be valuable.

My article on "Comox Valley Currency"

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 15:00:44 GMT

My article on the open money system launching in the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island is up on the Tyee.

We have met the enemy...

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 04:58:13 GMT

One more thing about my Gen-Y memories of GI Joe:

In the animated series continuity, COBRA was actually a front organization for "Cobra-La", a city in the mountains inhabited by the original, reptilian sentient rulers of Earth. They took a powder during the last ice age and when they woke up, found those pesky mammals had ruined everything. They had cool bio-tech weapons and equipment. Presumably this was created to add some juice to the toy line. When fascists get tired, there's always monsters. But it also meant that the bad guys were servants of non-human beings.

In the Marvel comics largely written by Larry Hama, COBRA initially appears to be some kind of foreign power, but an early issue introduces Springfield, a small, all-American town in an unspecified state that is completely run by COBRA. Later stories reveal that COBRA began in Springfield as an Amway-like pyramid scheme, started by a failed used car dealer. In other words, COBRA is a purely home-grown American form of capitalism-fascism (despite the fact that its upper leadership seems to be composed of Eurotrash). What does being "a real American hero" mean when your enemy comes from the flyover states? In a weird way, those stories presaged the internal war of America in the 90s (e.g. Waco, Oklahoma City, etc), once the great external enemy, the Soviet Union, had crumbled.

The Springfield of GI Joe also finds a parallel in the other Springfield of The Simpsons. Given Sprinfieldians propensity for following cults, fads, dubious experts and so on, is it that big a stretch to imagine them wearing navy blue uniforms with coal scuttle helmets and swearing allegiance to a guy with a mirrored face and a severe lisp (is it Mr. Burns underneath that)? Maybe what's stopping them is the equally American values of laziness and fickleness.

Still, Hama's stories did impress upon me one very important thing: evil is as likely to come from within as from without, if not more so.

Sickly sweet nostalgia, obsolete villains and COBRA middle management

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 07:38:47 GMT

I was probably at the right age for the early 80s blitz of marketing for the GI Joe franchise. I actually collected the Marvel comics, stopping around issue 60 or so, and had them pretty well memorized. I never owned one of the toys though. Thus, the current marketing blitz for the GI Joe film is giving me a feeling of sickly sweet nostalgia. Presumably, Hollywood is now full of guys that age who like that feeling of nostalgia, hence the film, which gives every indication of being a giant steaming pile.

This is the opening sequence of the 1987 GI Joe animated movie, a set piece battle around Liberty Island between the Joes and COBRA. Apparently, it requires hundreds of paratroopers and dozens of bizarre aircraft and a flying aircraft carrier to deliver one bomb, the size of an attache case, to the base of the Statue of Liberty. If you have a suitcase-sized bomb that can take out a major landmark, you don't need an army of uniformed soldiers and tanks.

This massive strategic blunder underlines not only why COBRA never won (in the animated series), but why this view of villainy has become obsolete. We're told that COBRA is "a ruthless terrorist organization determined to rule the world," but stylisticaly, it's fascist, with military uniforms, flame-lit night time rallies, a hierarchical organization, striking insignia and other visuals, etc. Ideologically, it's capitalist, profiting from arms sales overseas and using that money to gain power. Operationally, it is a modern state-backed army with no territory to defend. It is an invading army that comes from nowhere.

Today, in 2009, it is actually easier to believe in alien robots who come to Earth and take the shape of cars from failing auto-makers, than to believe in terrorists who have underwater bases and ninjas and uniforms. GI Joe actually looks like a bad joke now after however many years of the War on Terror. In our heads, we're still fighting the "good war" against Nazis, who made themselves clearly identifiable. But now we're dealing with non-state actors, whose weapons of choice are cheap and plentiful: AK-47s, RPGs, IEDs, cell phones, cars and trucks. No distinctive uniforms, no bases in exotic locations. Hard to make a toy line based on that.

Sidebar: How exactly do these evil organizations work? You've got the inner circle at the top, with the leader, usually a basket case; the second-in-command, who's scheming to take over; and the evil babe, who does most of the actual work but has hit the glass ceiling in the evil organization. Then at the bottom, you've got the endless, faceless, nameless, witless minions. And in between, you have this middle management tier of lieutenants who have names and bizarre schticks: the alligator guy, the eagle guy, the mind control guy, etc.

My question is, where do these lieutenants come from? Are they outside hires, drawn from some other organization where this was standard attire? Or are they promoted from the faceless minions, presumably the 0.01 per cent who survive fighting the heroes? Do they have to audition to make the cut to schtick lieutenant status? I picture some faceless minion yearning to become a lieutenant, putting together his costume with a hot glue gun and working on his audition. "I am the Chef! I will put fear into the the heroes with my pastry knife!" "No, sorry, try next year. Get back into your faceless minion uniform, #45890345." "Yes, sir. CO-BRA!"

"Intake", a Dollhouse fanfiction

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 08:02:13 GMT

Title: Intake, a Dollhouse Fanfiction
Rating: PG-13 for some sexual content
Characters: Adelle, November
Disclaimer: Dollhouse owned by Joss Whedon and FOX
Word Count: 920 words
Notes: Spoilers for "Man on the Street"

Summary: Adelle DeWitt dealt in second chances, not get-out-of-jail-free cards.

Adelle's teleconferences with the Dollhouse's board members were always an odd experience. Not only were their faces obscured, their voices were digitally altered until they sounded like hybrids of cartoon animals and science fiction robots. She privately dubbed them the Cyborg Squirrels.

"... which brings us to our next potential Active, designated November 3.2." She tapped her laptop's button and sent a group of face and body images and background information files to the board members. "I've completed the stage 1 interviews, background research and medical examination."

"She's fat," said Cyborg Squirrel #4.

Adelle did not let herself frown.

"Yes," added Cyborg Squirrel #2. "We're in the business of thoroughbreds. People don't spend seven figures for a weekend with a soccer mom."

Adelle had anticipated this, and smoothly began her pitch. "First, if you examine appendix C of my report, you will see that we've received a significant number of requests for women with fuller figures than our usual offerings. Such a physique has a strong niche appeal, according to the market analysis.

"And second...." Adelle tapped her laptop, sending another image to the board. It was the potential November at a happier time, a snapshot taken by by her husband. The young woman was captured at the moment of lifting her infant daughter out of her stroller, her round face glowing with love and joy. Of course, right now her baby was dead, her husband was estranged and the woman herself was a clinically depressed wreck on suicide watch in a mental hospital, but the board didn't care about that.

"Look at this angelic face. This is a face people will want to take care of. This is a face people will trust to take care of them. And this is a face people will trust to look after their loved ones. We expect excellent performance as a discrete security escort for children, low-profile infiltration and surveillance, or corporate negotiator, as well as strong appeal to certain segments of the romantic market, such as ageplayers and adult babies."

"I don't like her teeth," said Cyborg Squirrel #1. "Can you do something about the overbite?"

"The overbite's not the problem. It's the total package," came from Cyborg Squirrel #2.

"She has a certain... homely charm."

"We're running a business, not a charity."

"Do you think she'll work out, DeWitt?" asked Cyborg Squirrel #1.

"I would not present a candidate to the board if I did not think he or she would make sufficient return on investment."

"Based on what?" the squeaky-raspy voice said.

"Call it a personal judgement from the manager of the firm’s top performing branch for the past two years, even in a recession."

"And with the highest rate of glitching Actives."

Adelle's jaw tightened. "Regardless, my record speaks for itself."

There was a pause. Adelle assumed they were conferring amongst themselves. This took longer than usual. She tapped her fingertip against her laptop's track pad, making the mouse pointer twitch. Why was this bothering her so? After a moment's reflection, she knew it was because she expected that, if nothing changed, that lovely young mother in the picture would likely be dead by her own hand within a year.

She got up and poured a cup of tea at her office’s kitchenette, then turned and looked at the city’s skyline through the window, sipping her tea and watching the people go about their lives.

In her years of recruiting for the Dollhouse, haunting various hospitals, asylums, prisons, halfway houses, homeless shelters and dive bars, Adelle had become something of a connoisseur of human failure. There were so many ways a person’s life could be in shambles, to the point at which spending five years as an Active would seem like an improvement.

But not everybody fit the profile. Youth and looks mattered, to be frank, less so for the men than the women. Then there were any number of mental and physical health problems that would disqualify them. After that, the criteria were more a matter of personal judgement. Often the candidates were some combination of vicious, greedy and stupid, resulting in lives that were rough, black comedy, and Adelle had no sympathy for them. Let them wallow in the consequences of their own mistakes.

Instead, she sought the fallen heroes, the unfortunate victims, those whose lives were tragedies, not comedies. The soldier so traumatized by war that he begged to have his memory altered. The animal rights activist turned homeless fugitive. In this case, the young mother falsely accused of murdering her own infant daughter. Adelle DeWitt dealt in second chances, not get-out-of-jail-free cards.

She had made her pitch to the board, but she knew it was even odds. Sometimes she had to leave them to their fates, the ones who weren’t pretty or healthy enough. In order to sleep at night, she made a point of not following them up. Perhaps she wasn’t quite the philanthropist she thought, or maybe it wasn’t philanthropy at all.

There was a faint pop as the audio turned on again. "All right, DeWitt," said Cyborg Squirrel #1, "you can offer her the deal. But if she takes it, make her lose fifteen pounds in addition to the usual alterations."

"Consider it done, ladies and gentlemen.” The Cyborg Squirrels ended the teleconference.

Adelle gathered up her folders, knowing there was a car waiting in the motor pool to take her to the mental hospital where she would make the deal. At least today, everybody got what they needed.

--30--

Queen of Revels

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 22:27:59 GMT

qorcover
Originally uploaded by MightyFastPig

A good friend, JW, whipped up this illustration for the novel proposal I 'm shopping around. (Thanks!) An editor said she wanted to hear about it on Tuesday, and I emailed her both an elevator pitch and a 1000-word treatment. No word back from her.

Now I suppose I have to write the damned thing...

My review of Douglas Rushkoff's "Life Inc."

Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:15:02 GMT

The Tyee just posted my review of Douglas Rushkoff's Life Inc.

My Circlet author's chat, June 26-27

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 16:51:19 GMT

Peter Tupper will be hosting our next Circlet author chat at our LiveJournal community. Peter penned "The Innocent's Progress" in Circlet's recent publication Like a Wisp of Steam. An "accidental expert" on steampunk erotica, Peter maintains the blog Beauty in Darkness: the history of BDSM.

This should be interested. Luckily I will be available on those two days (save for a dentist appointment on Friday morning), so I can answer a lot of questions and make a lot of posts.

Why didn't somebody stop me?

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 02:28:07 GMT

David Cronenberg says that when he was making Rabid back in 1977, he had a moment when he thought, "I'm making a movie about a porn star with a blood-sucking cock-thing coming out of her armpit. Why didn't somebody stop me?"

That's about how I felt today once I put the signed contract with Circlet Press in the mail. I'm now committed to writing another 30,000 words of steampunk erotica by December 1st. That works out to an average of 200 words per day, which sounds much more manageable. I also felt a little when I listened to Mur Lafferty's "I should be writing" podcast and she reiterated, "You are allowed to suck." I have at least 3 stories in mind, and possibly some shorter vignettes. One should be an interesting take on the Jekyll and Hyde story.

It's a pretty good deal, too. The advance is only US$75, but as its an ebook, 35% of revenue going to me. Compare that to the 8 per cent I get if it ever goes to print.

Getting back in the groove, hopefully

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 06:17:47 GMT

I submitted my first paying article in months, a review of Douglas Rushkoff's Life Inc. It was 70% over length and 2 days past my self-imposed deadline.

My journalism output has dropped sharply over the past year or so, both in gross revenue and in total number of pieces printed. Part of that has to do with forgetting the first rule of freelancing: pester. I'm not competitive, yet freelancing involves fighting for the editor's scarce attention. I've sent several queries to a certain editor, and never followed them up, so I assumed that they were ignored. I'll also admit to taking this a little too personally, as an individual snub, instead of being the nature of the business.

Of course, I have to try to get back into the freelancing game just when the money is drying up and everything is restructuring.

Why I hate shopping for clothes

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 02:08:52 GMT

I'm one of those guys who never got into the habit of shopping for clothes. This is a different from the utilitarian practice of buying clothes, as replacements for worn out clothes or for a particular requirement. Shopping for clothes assumes one is constantly on the lookout for new clothes, new ways of presenting the self.

One reason for this, in my case, is a lack of money, but another reason is that I don't feel confident busying clothing that is not relatively nondescript, department-store fare. The reason is encounters like this:

I was wandering around Davie Street and on impulse I walked into a men's wear store. Before I had a chance to even look around and get comfortable with the situation, one of the two clerks, the male, started into me. He quickly passed me over to his female colleague.

Standing way too close to me and speaking way too fast, she said, "Looking at you I can tell, you've got broad shoulders [true], you've got a 34 waist [also true], but you dress old [what?]. My partner and I are older than you but we dress younger."

At this point, I'm was biting down the urge to back out the door and leave. I don't appreciate pressure sales techniques, even when shopping for things I definitely want and feel some confidence in buying, and this was not one of those cases.

Ms. Sales Clerk continued without a break, "I have clients in their fifties, their women won't date them because they look bad, until I was able to help them."

In what world is telling a prospective client he dresses too old a good idea? This was shock and awe, aimed at making the customer pliant and susceptible. You know, like stunning cattle before slaughter. Enabling insecurity might encourage some people to send, but not me. I want some reassurance and encouragement, particularly if I'm out of my comfort zone.

At last, I managed to say, "I think I had better run along now," and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the street outside, checking my wallet on the way.

Second draft of "The Pretty Horsebreaker" done

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 03:46:29 GMT

The second draft of "The Pretty Horsebreaker" is on its way to Circlet Press. Mainly I strengthened the subtext.

In an odd moment of synchronicity, I read this today in Susanah Breslin's Reverse Cowgirl blog, referring to the new film "The Girlfriend Experience". It goes remarkably well with what I was trying to do with Miss Ccri, the protagonist of my story. She's loosely based on the Victorian courtesan, Catherine "Skittles" Walters. Miss Ccri is famous, but also something of an enigma, distant from others, by the necessities of her profession and her social circle, and even somewhat alienated from her self.

She got called out for being cold or distant or impossible to read by various critics, but I agreed and didn't agree. One: Of course she is; that's how many sex workers are. Two: Simultaneously, of course she's not; she's only that on the surface. I don't know if it was me projecting based on my own experiences with sex workers, but I thought she did that, inadvertently or intentionally: revealed the sort of walking contradiction of sex work: that you are often totally there and very hidden. What appears to be invisible on the inside--if you look closer, is intensely complex beneath the surface. So, she worked for me.

Actually, "enigma" isn't the right word. You consider something enigmatic when it does something you don't expect, but have no theory to explain. If something doesn't apparently do anything unexpected, then it is not enigmatic. So, people can be highly visible to other people who think they know who the first person is, but the first person actually has vast areas of their life that are unknown to anyone else.

An Angel has no Memory, Part 4/4, a Dollhouse fanfiction

Sun, 31 May 2009 20:33:00 GMT

Title: An Angel has no Memory, Part 4/4
Author: </a></b></a>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: 2335
Summary: She needed the idea of the machine that could break her open and free her from herself.

Ivy had carefully hand laundered the outfit last night, and practised doing the smooth, steady doll walk around her living room. She slept in her homemade pod.

Today, everything appeared the same, but she felt different, detached. She wondered if this is what the dolls felt like when imprinted. She couldn’t help looking for Sophie on the floor or in the lunch room. Sophie kept up a remarkable poker face.

At last the day ended. Now that the dolls were put away in their boxes and everybody else had gone away, she crept into the women’s washroom and changed in one of the stalls, having kept the outfit neatly folded at the bottom of her messenger bag all day. She took off her alterna-chick glasses and put in her rarely-used contacts, then took all the clips and braids out of her hair and combed it out.

What looked back at her in the bathroom mirror was a doll. Ivy hadn’t felt this scared, this excited, this turned on, this everything since Lucy Yuen taught her how to French kiss in the server closet at math camp.

Dolls didn’t get nervous. They were infinitely patient and accepting of what happened. Tell them to wait for you and they’d stay in one place for an hour or more.

“I try to be my best,” she whispered. She stopped waiting and just stood.

The bathroom door opened. Ivy turned to face the door.

Sophie’s dark suit stood out against the pale blue walls of the bathroom. Her white blouse was open to her waist, showing a tiny crucifix necklace against her olive skin and a hint of a lacy black bra. They were about the same height, but Ivy was barefoot, and Sophie was in her Cuban heeled boots. Ivy had to look up to meet Sophie’s and that made it just a little more perfect. “There you are, India.”

It took her a moment to realize Sophie wasn’t talking about the country. It was her name. Her Active name. “Yes, Ms. Alvarez?”

“It’s time for art class.”

Sophie led her out of the bathroom and across the empty floor, past the koi pond and the decorative screens. Her bare feet brushed against the polished hardwood. They even kept the floor warm here.

In the art room, Sophie watched while Ivy put on an apron and set up the watercolors.

“What do I paint?”

“Whatever you like.”

Ivy-- India-- immersed herself in the actions of painting, finally able to shut off her busy mind. She remembered she used to like art class back in grade school, mixing the colors and stroking the brushes, before it was all science and math classes.

“What’s that you’re painting?” Sophie stood behind her and looked over her shoulder.

“That’s me.” Ivy pointed at a stick figure in green paint. “That’s you.” She pointed at a bigger stick figure in black, holding the smaller figure’s hand. “We’re walking in one of the green places in the picture books.”

“It’s very nice.” Sophie’s hand rested on her shoulder, one thumb stroking her hairline, making her shudder. This was part of it, knowing they were constantly being watched, that what they felt could be destroyed in an instant.

She leaned slightly, brushing her shoulder against Sophie’s hip. She spoke the way an Active would, as simply and directly as possible. “When I touch you, I feel better.”

“I know. It’s time for your treatment, India,” Sophie said.

It was the next, logical inevitable step of this, but the words still hit her hard. “My treatments make me better.” India took off the apron and let her handler lead her to the Imprint room. Each step up the stairs increased her arousal by another notch.

And there it was the chair, waiting for them. Ivy, somewhere behind India, knew exactly what it could do to a person, what would happen if it was misused: destroy a person’s memories, reduce them to drooling catatonia or hopeless schizophrenia, take everything that made you you and put it in a little box to be mixed and burned. She needed the idea of the machine that could break her open and free her from herself.

Dolls didn’t struggle or resist. They sat in the chair obediently, almost welcoming it. India sat, arms and legs on the rests, and looked up at her handler. Sophie’s face was flushed, and there was a hint of sweat between her breasts.

The chair lowered until her head was surrounded, and she could hear the imprint array faintly hum as it went through a maintenance cycle, like something alive.

“We could do that to you,” Sophie said, her fingers expertly stroking Ivy’s breasts through the silky fabric, then continuing down her stomach. “Wipe you. There’d be nothing in your head but how many laps you’ll swim today, or what they’re serving for dinner. We’d put you in the chair and imprint you--” Her fingers reached between Ivy’s legs. “-- and send you out on engagements. You’d fuck people and kill people and love people and torture people, and at the end of it all, you’d just go back in the chair and then you’d be just another a sweet, soft, pretty, smiling, perfect Doll.”

Something clicked in the chair, and it rose again, lifting her head out of the imprint array. Sophie half-sat on the chair with her, face to face, breast to breast, legs entwined so their pussies were close together.

“How are you feeling, India?” Sophie said in her ear.

Saying those words to her was like pulling the pin out of a grenade.

“D-did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while.”

“Sh-shall I go- ah!- go n-now?”

“If you like.”

The grenade went off. Her hands clutched at Sophie’s back, her pussy rubbing hard as she could against Sophie’s leg, and spasmed hard.

“You’re mine, my Active, my Doll, my girl.” Sophie kissed all over her face.

***
Bundled up in Sophie’s jacket, smelling the sweat and sex, Ivy rested on Topher’s couch.

Sophie dropped onto the couch beside her and passed her an open water bottle and a bag of chips.

“Sure we should do this?”

“De nada. We raid Topher’s snacks all the time. You’d think a genius would notice something like that.” Sophie drank from her own bottle.

“Believe me, he’s crap at keeping inventory.” Ivy snuggled under Sophie’s arm, and looked down on the darkened Dollhouse’s main floor. It felt like the first night her parents left her home alone.

“Did we invent a new fetish just now?” Sophie wondered.

“Not really,” Ivy said. “I’m second generation ABC, American Born Chinese. My Mandarin is pretty much useless. But when I was a kid... sometimes I’d go to a mall or something and if anybody talked to me, I’d answer like I could barely speak English. Sometimes people were nicer to me.

“Then I figured out I was a lesbian, but only some people know. And only some of them know I’m kinky, and only some of them then I do ageplay and stuff like that.”

“Huh,” said Sophie. “You’ve got closets within closets.”

Ivy continued, knowing this was her usual post-Scene drop talking, but going through with it anyway. “My first real girlfriend, back in undergrad school, we had this special bag with my Little clothes. She’d be my sitter, and we’d watch Disney movies and things like that. She’d teach me how to kiss for the first time, over and over again. When we broke up, I purged all of that stuff, haven’t done it since.

“Then I came here, and saw the Actives. They just look so... I don’t know, happy, relaxed, content. What does it say about me I envy a bunch of brain altered sex toys?” She ate some of Topher’s chips.

“So what?” Sophie said. “Lots of people want to be coddled, and lots of people want to do the coddling. November gets plenty of adult baby engagements, and my girl has plenty of daddies and mommies.

“You’ve hardly got the weirdest kink I’ve ever seen, even before I started working here. One of my old girlfriends had perfectly good legs, but she owned a wheelchair. Some days she’d go to malls or parks and just roll around, pretending she was paraplegic. We had this whole scenario worked out where she’d been paralysed in a car crash, and I was her home health worker who’d prove she still had feeling below the waist.”

Ivy shook her head. “That’s pretending to be physically disabled, not mentally. I’ve been told since I was a little kid I was smart, that I’d go into science. But it’s tiring, and it doesn’t get me anywhere. Sometimes I want to be dumb and helpless. Doing stuff like this is the only thing keeping me going. I’ve been here two weeks, and I’ve never even touched the imprint suite. Topher treats me like I’m his gofer. I’m five seconds away from asking DeWitt for a transfer.” She shifted away, feeling guilty for wanting to leave this place, and leaving Sophie too.

“Ivy, you’re getting backwash from stuff that happened long before you got here, between me and Topher and Whiskey... and Dr. Saunders. Believe me, you’re not the broken one around here.” She sighed. “This place does things to people. In more than one way, I mean.” She took a drink of water. “This is up to you, but please don’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, I’d miss you!” Sophie hugged her close and tickled her, making Ivy laugh a little. “Another reason: If things are going to get better around here, it’ll take new people changing things. It won’t be easy, but I think you could do it.”

“Maybe.” She hadn’t thought of it like that.

“Actually, there’s something else you should know before you stay or go.” Sophie took another long drink of water. “Let me tell you about Alpha....”

***

Ivy stood before Topher in his chair and showed him her find. “Eight-pack of strawberry-mango soy milk, 250 millilitre tetra packs, chilled to 5 degrees Celsius, with straws attached.”

“Nectar of the gods!” Topher reached out greedily.

Ivy held the package up out of his grasp. “Not until you give me a user account on the imprint suite.”

“I don’t have time, Ivy.”

“Make time,” she demanded. “This is only getting warmer. Second law of thermodynamics.”

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. “All right. You’ve got a sadistic streak, you know that?”

Ivy handed him the juice boxes and pulled her chair up beside his.

“Type your password here...” he said, pointing at the monitor.

Ivy smiled.

***

“If you’re going to stay here, you need to see this,” Sophie told Ivy as she beckoned her into the medical office.

“What is it, Sophie?” said Dr. Saunders, her fingers typing away over her keyboard.

Sophie closed her eyes. “Dr. Saunders, are you ready for your treatment?”

The doctor stopped typing. “Let’s make it quick.” She got up from the desk and straightened her white coat. “If it isn’t one piece of petty bureaucratic busywork, it’s another.”

Ivy followed Sophie and Saunders up the stairs and into the Imprint room. To Ivy’s surprise, Adelle DeWitt was there, waiting while Topher readied the machinery. Everybody was quiet, solemn. Even Topher’s fidgeting was subdued. It was like a funeral; no, like an estranged family gathering around the bed of a sick child.

Dr. Saunders casually got into the chair, as if she were getting a haircut. The chair lowered until her head was surrounded by the imprint field generator.

“Ivy, could you double check the transfer protocols?” Topher said quietly.

“Ah, yes.” She stepped over to one of the terminals, tapped a few keys and examined the display. “They’re good.”

Topher nodded and hit Enter on his keyboard. The chair glowed with blue light and Dr. Saunders-- Whiskey 1.1-- shuddered, wide eyes staring at the ceiling.

Ivy heard the doors open, and just caught Sophie hastily leaving.

She followed, and found Sophie sitting wearily in Ivy’s chair, elbows on her knees and face in her hands. Ivy knelt next to her. “Sophie?”

Sophie’s voice cracked. “It happened right in front of me. He just went off on my girl, cut up her face, and I didn’t stop him in time. I took her out to be used, fucked, banged up, shot at, but I always took her back here where she was safe. Supposed to be.” She looked up at Ivy. “Don’t think I can always keep you safe.” It was a painful admission.

Ivy’s hand found Sophie’s. She said the only thing she could think of. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Now that you’re here.” It began sarcastic, but it became sincere by the end.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

Ivy kissed her softly on the lips, security cameras be damned.

The imprint room’s doors opened. Ivy and Sophie jerked apart.

Dr. Saunders walked out, grumbling, “I’ve half a mind to quit and work for a brothel in Nevada. There’d be less bullshit.” She descended the stairs and disappeared.

Sophie and Ivy quickly stood. A moment later, Ms. DeWitt stepped into the office as well. “You wanted to see me, Ms. Chung?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m staying.”

--30--

An Angel has no Memory, Part 3/4, a Dollhouse fanfiction

Fri, 29 May 2009 16:29:41 GMT

Title: An Angel has no Memory, Part 3/4
Author: </a></b></a>mightyfastpig
Characters/Pairings: Ivy/Sophie Alvarez femslash
Rating: M for sexual content, some language
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: 1722
Summary: Ivy knows that it is all about trust, or lack thereof.

The clothes were easy enough to steal. Ivy figured out that they were fitted for each Active. Echo or Sierra’s clothes wouldn’t fit her at all, so she took the sealed package marked “November” from the laundry cart. In the locker room, she tore off the wrapping and put the drawstring pants and loose athletic tunic in her gym bag. There was a tense moment or two when she went through security at the end of the day, but she made it to her car without being stopped. The gym bag sat in her lap as she drove through the freeway system.

Back home, she forced herself to go through the routine of watering plants, answering phone messages, and making dinner, but eventually she went into her bedroom, shut the door and pulled the curtains. She lay the two garments out on her bedspread, just a little wrinkled from the gym bag. Emerald green, 300-thread-count organic cotton with a little spandex for stretch, no identifying tags or brand names, as soft as baby clothing but silky like expensive lingerie.

Her own clothes came off in a rush, not even bothering with the laundry basket.

“You’re just not working out here, Ms. Chung,” says Ms. DeWitt, lounging in her office while Sierra gives her a pedicure and Echo hand-feeds her chilled grapes. “But we do have another position for you in the organization.”

“I’m sorry I’m not Dollhouse material,” she pleads.

“I never said that.” Ms. DeWitt snaps her fingers and Tango brings in a contract and pen on a silver platter. Trembling, she signs her name on the dotted line, knowing she has no choice because she has fucked up completely.

“Ms. Alvarez, Ms. Ramirez, prep her.”

The two handlers in skin-tight black suits enter and strip her naked. Sophie whispers, “Don’t fight it,” as she takes away her glasses and her hair clips, though in her fantasy she can still see perfectly.

She pulled the pants and top on. The outfit was still big on her, as she was somewhere in the middle between Sierra’s lithe build and November’s voluptuous curves. The fabric slid deliciously over her hard nipples and caressed her damp groin. It made her feel like she glowed.

They march her into the imprint room, and put her in the chair.

She dropped into her Eames knockoff chair and tilted it back as far as it would go. This time, she used her baseball-sized vibrator, clicking through to her favorite cycle and pressing it against her pubic mound. The vibrations run through her entire torso and up her spine into her head.

Sophie turns on the machine. Her memories-- every demanding relative, every bad breakup with every untrustworthy girlfriend, every guy who ever leered at her, every teacher who ever took her for granted, every autistic idiot boss-- just go away, in a flood of blue light, and all that’s left is feeling.

Ivy clicked off the vibe, turned out the lights and settled into her improvised pod to sleep. As her fantasies faded into dreams, she saw a dark figure standing above her, looking down.

***

Ivy filled her coffee mug from the pot in the handlers’ wardroom. Imprint department had its own break room, but there was no one else there, except Topher. She noticed that Sophie was waiting for her turn at the coffee machine. Feeling a little guilty about how they last spoke, she said, “How’s it going?”

Sophie filled her own mug. “It’s the little things that bug me about this job. You know, this morning Dominic was biting my ass about one set of clothing missing from Laundry. Watch out, you’re spilling.”

Ivy hastily righted her coffee cup and mopped up the spill on the counter with paper towels. “Did-did you ever find the missing clothing?”

“No, nothing was missing. I made sure it was just a mix up in the inventory.”

“That’s good.” Ivy relaxed a little.

“So, how’re you settling in?” Sophie asked. They chatted a bit, as if they worked in an insurance office instead of a place that made programmable people.

When coffee break was over, they took the elevator down to the Actives’ floor, and stepped out onto the polished hardwood.

Without warning, Sophie asked, “If you had the money, would you hire an Active?”

Ivy thought a moment. “I can see why people would. Who wouldn’t want somebody who’s the perfect lover, who has no other life, who you can trust absolutely because they vanish at the end of the engagement? Nobody knows what happened except you. It’s like that line in Barbarella: ‘An angel has no memory.’”

“But who would you pick if you could?”

Ivy would pick Sierra in a black suit with silver pinstripes, butched up to just the right degree. They’d take one of the black sedans from the motor pool, drive up the highway until they were far away from everything, and the other woman would strip her bare and hold her naked body up to the warm wind and the blue sky.... “Haven’t really thought about it. What about you?”

“I don’t think I would, even if I had the money,” Sophie said. “It’d be like going to a magic show when you know how the tricks are done. No mystery, no surprise.”

“I’ve had enough surprises in my life.” Ivy said.

“You know what I’d do?” Sophie looked over to where Dr. Saunders was connecting a heart monitor to Whiskey on one of the treadmills. “I’d take Whiskey outside, without an imprint. Go to the zoo or the beach, something like that. Five years is a long time to look at the same walls.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Ivy could imagine taking Sophie taking Whiskey out somewhere, holding her hand, applying sunblock to that pale skin, giving her ice cream, even showing her how to kiss....

“Then again, she’s probably freak out after five minutes outside this place,” Sophie said wistfully. “Talk to you later.”

Ivy watched the other woman walk over to the treadmill and talk with the doctor as Whiskey ran in place. She bit her lip, fighting down what she reluctantly admitted was jealousy. Sophie’s devotion to Whiskey, unlike some of the other handlers, was one reason why Ivy was drawn to her, but it also meant there’d be no time for anyone else.

***

That night, she pushed her bed back against the wall, and put on her usual night shirt, leaving the Active outfit in the back of her closet. Funtime was over. No more bringing her work home with her, and any masturbation would be with her dog-eared copy of The Story of O.

When the red numbers on her clock said 2:13, and she hadn’t slept for a second, she gave up and pulled her bed away from the wall. The moment she lay down in her improvised pod, she fell asleep.

***

Ivy slouched in her chair, lackadaisically clicking through her third game of computer solitaire that day. Two weeks here and Topher hadn’t even given her a password for the imprint system.

Behind her, Topher rambled into his Bluetooth headset as he paced in front of the monitors. “...the squigglies say she’s eating something salty.... Sheesh, get your mind out of the gutter, Boyd. Echo’s at a restaurant, it’s probably caviar....”

The red seven clicked onto the black eight, and the cards bounced around the screen. “Yippee,” she muttered.

Now she could hear the springs squeak as Topher bounced on his mini-trampoline. “You wanted updates, man-friend, and I’m here all by my lonesome....”

Ivy’s eyes widened. That does it! She sat up straight, alt-tabbed to company email and sent a request to speak with Adelle DeWitt. She was getting out of here, away from this place, away from this autistic dork of a boss, and she didn’t care if the company sent her off to a branch in the middle of a war zone.

The moment she clicked “send”, the anger faded, and she felt a cold shot of fear. She slumped back again, covering her face with her hands.

She heard someone step into Imprint, and Sophie’s voice said, “Topher, DeWitt wants to see you upstairs. Something about Foxtrot speaking the wrong language.”

Topher ranted about the incompetence, treachery and ignorance of every other person in the organization on the way out.

A moment later, Ivy could feel Sophie standing next to her chair. “Ivy? You all right?”

“I’m going to tell DeWitt I can’t take this anymore. Topher’s driving me crazy. This place is driving me crazy. Being around you is driving me crazy.”

“Ivy, you don’t have to be so hard on yourself.” Sophie reached out for her shoulder.

“Don’t.” Ivy scooted her chair away on rollers. “People are watching.” She glanced up at one of those damned security cameras, then looked down again, wishing she could disappear.

“You don’t have to hide, not from me.”

“I don’t have that in me. I’m sorry.”

The other woman’s hand, small but strong, grasped hers. Sophie stood where the camera couldn’t see them touching, where it would just look like two people talking.

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Now--” Ivy coughed and cleared her throat, repeating the words she had heard in handler bonding. “Now that you’re here.”

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life. Oh, god, yes.”

Sophie’s thumb stroked Ivy’s palm, making her heart race like she had been touched far more intimately. In this place, where everything was watched and controlled, the tiniest gestures meant the world. “Tomorrow night, all the Actives will be in their pods. Topher is making a report to management. The internal security cameras will be down for maintenance. Bring your outfit. Wait in the north-side women’s washroom until the cleaning staff leaves. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yes, I’ll be there. How can you do all this?”

Sophie smiled that crooked smile of hers. “Let’s just say Miss Lonelyhearts owes me a favor.”

Long term investment vs. paying off debts

Thu, 28 May 2009 23:26:16 GMT

I've accumulated enough money in my RSP that I can do a couple of things: pay off nearly all of one of my credit cards or invest in a GIC and wait for it to mature. This is the classic question: pay off debts or invest? The bank advisor considered the amount in question to be a neglible debt, but that's easy for him to say.

Incidentally, I'm getting very cheesed off with my current bank. This is the second time they've made misleading statements to me about their services. First, they made me think I was getting a free life insurance policy, and neglected to mention I would also be paying for other insurance policies. Second, they made me think I would get 6% interest on a 5-year GIC, when that was only for the last year, and actually it would be more like 2.7% for the entire term. This is increasingly making me think that switching to a credit union is a good move.

Frankly, I think there is way too much easy credit floating around today. I never had credit cards until I was in my 30s, and I'm glad I stopped at two. Considering I can't even use them for buying stuff online or making rental deposits, those interest payments are nothing but a chore.

Now that I've actually typed this out, paying off debt seems like the better option. I know some people would say that I need to take my credit rating off life support and the best way to do that is regular sufficient payments, but I want the damned thing gone with the decisiveness of surgery, not the slow drip of chemotherapy.

If someone has a reason why investment is better than debt reduction, I'd like to hear it

An Angel has no Memory, Part 2/4, a Dollhouse fanfiction

Wed, 27 May 2009 17:16:57 GMT

Title: An Angel has no Memory, Part 2/4
Author: </a></b></a>mightyfastpig
Characters/Pairings: Ivy/Sophie Alvarez femslash
Rating: M for sexual content, some language
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: 1507
Summary: If Topher Brink was your boss, what would you do to relieve stress?

The petite redhead with the pixie cut and the porcelain skin finished twitching and gasping in the imprint chair. Ivy watched closely as the Active’s face settled into the usual unfocussed smile. Sophie stood next to her, just back from an engagement.

The chair shifted to an upright position. “Hello, Whiskey. How are you feeling?” Topher asked.

“Did I... I feel funny,” she said, then doubled over and clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Aww, don’t let her do that in here!” Topher squawked, backing up against the wall.

Sophie rushed to Whiskey’s side as the Active started retching. Ivy dashed into the outer office and came back with a waste basket, which she placed in front of Whiskey just in time.

As the Active threw up into the basket, Sophie kept her hands on Whiskey’s shoulders while glaring at Topher. “What did you do to my girl?”

“I didn’t do anything! You must have let her eat something she shouldn’t have.” Topher was going through his twitch routine faster than Ivy had ever seen.

“You’re supposed to include allergies in the imprint.” Sophie wiped the vomit from Whiskey’s mouth with a red handkerchief. “Whiskey, everything’s going to be all right.”

“I do!” Topher was almost vibrating with discomfort. “It’s not my fault if you let her go off mission.”

“Yeah, nothing’s ever your fault, is it?”

“Just get her out of here, already,” Topher snapped.

Sophie helped Whiskey to her shaky feet and half-carried her out of the imprint room. Ivy held the doors open for them, then followed them through Topher’s office.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Sophie said again to Whiskey. Her voice made Ivy believe her completely.

“Now that you’re--” Whiskey was coughing too badly to complete the phrase.

On the stairs on the way down to the lower level, Ivy held Whiskey’s other arm, then kept going to the infirmary.

“Oh, no! What happened?” Concern on her scarred face, Dr. Saunders jumped up from her desk and helped Sophie and Ivy put Whiskey on the examination table.

“Topher wiped my girl and then she threw up,” Sophie said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not my best,” Whiskey said sadly.

Dr. Saunders fussed over the Active, examining her. “Usually this is because of food allergies, or just drinking too much on engagement. Whiskey, sweetie, does it hurt anywhere?”

Ivy and Sophie backed off to let the doctor work.

“Thanks,” said Sophie quietly. “From me and from her.”

“It’s all right,” Ivy said, shyly. “Part of the job.”

“It’s more than just the job.”

Dr. Saunders turned around and faced them. “Whiskey must have eaten too much on her dinner date. Their food here doesn’t have much sugar or salt, and sometimes they get cravings. Just club soda and a little rest and she’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll get some from the kitchen. Whiskey, I’ll be right back.” Sophie turned and left the doctor’s office, Ivy following a moment later.

Ivy almost followed Sophie to the kitchen, but hesitated and instead she turned and walked back up the stairs to the mezzanine level.

Back in Imprinting, Topher sat at his computer, scrolling through lines of code.

“Dr. Saunders says Whiskey should be all right,” she told him.

“Hmm? Oh, good.” Topher barely looked up from the monitor. “Clean that up, will ya?” He pointed at the waste basket in the imprint room.

Ivy went cold again, and said nothing as she picked up the waste basket and carried it to the bathroom.

***

Ivy stood against the wall at Girlfrenzy, sipping her rum and diet coke and watching the women dance and make out on the club’s floor to the blasting dance music. After work, she had come here solo, hoping things would be different. Instead, this felt like the beginning of yet another night of watching every other lesbian, bisexual, bicurious or just-drunk-enough woman in Los Angeles county have a better time than her.

Whoa, is that--?

Sophie looked great in tight black jeans and a white wifebeater that showed off her muscular arms, her black hair gelled into a fifties greaser style that gave her a note of androgyny, though the hard nipples poking through the white cloth were distinctly female. She danced with another woman in a bra top and pants with cut-outs along her legs, her blonde dreads whipping like an octopus underwater.

Suddenly red-faced with embarrassment, Ivy pretended her drink was intensely interesting. When she looked up again, Sophie was looking right back at her. Damn it, she Heisenberged me.

Sophie paused in nibbling the blonde woman’s ear and cocked her head at Ivy, challenging her, inviting her?

The music pounded into her ears. Let's play a love game, play a love game...

Ivy tore her gaze away from Sophie and the blond woman, gulped down the last third of her drink and headed for the ladies room. Inside, she shouldered her way through the couples grinding against each other and the femmes primping at the mirrors, and splashed a little cold water from the sink on her face.

She could go out there, wait for Sophie and her “friend” to finish dancing, say “Hello,” chat a bit, concoct some cover story about work.

She went home instead.

Her bed was in the same place as before. She climbed down into her “pod” and wrapped herself tightly in the sheets. In the darkness, she whispered, “I’m safe. I trust my handler with my life. My handler looks after me. My handler takes me to my treatments....”

***

Ivy locked the door of her Insight hybrid and walked through the parking garage at 23 Flower Street.

“Morning,” said Sophie, falling into step beside her. She was back in her usual suit and hairstyle.

“Morning,” Ivy said stiffly.

Their steps echoed against the concrete walls. “You could have said, ‘hi,’” Sophie said.

“You looked like you had all the company you needed,” Ivy answered.

“Kaycee? She was fun, not much more than that. If I’d known you were there, things would have been different.”

“I’m not going to dive into a threesome in front of every woman in the city.”

“Hey, we could have just talked, had a drink, like co-workers. No pressure.”

“I’m not looking for anything right now, all right?”

“All right.”

“Just don’t spread this around.” Ivy hated being in the closet almost as much as she hated being known as “the Asian lesbian” wherever she was. “Please.”

“Sure. It’s not like we’re going to blackmail each other, right?”

“No, I suppose not.”

They reached the elevator bank, just as two other handlers arrived. Langton nodded politely at the two women, while Hearn didn’t acknowledge them at all.

On the way down in the elevator, Ivy looked sideways at the three handlers, almost military in their dark suits and upright bearing. She adjusted her light blue lab coat, not sure why she bothered with it every day when Topher just lounged around in khakis and anime t-shirts.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened on the level with the handler’s wardroom and armory. Langton, Hearn and Sophie got off, the last giving one last look backwards.

Ivy stayed in the car, and let the doors close and the elevator descend.

***

“Ivy, fill out this form.... Ivy, file this.... Ivy, I need some more soy milk.... Ivy will take you downstairs, Victor.... Will you run this up to Wardrobe, Ivy?.... Ivy, you can do the monthly report to DeWitt, can’t you?... I’m busy, Dominic, ask Ivy.... No, Ivy, not a French maid, an English maid.... Give Dr. Saunders a hand, will you Ivy?... Ask me again on Thursday, Ivy....”

Ivy looked for any opportunity to not be in Imprinting. She’d even do paperwork downstairs on one of the cafeteria tables between the Actives’ meal times.

“You’re sad.”

Ivy jumped a little, then looked up at the brunette doll standing beside her. Echo had a habit of sneaking up on people and turning up in odd places. “I’m not my best,” she admitted, and looked down at Topher’s expense report. In what universe did business expenses include shipping charges for a vintage whack-a-mole machine?

“I go swimming when I’m sad,” Echo stated.

“That’s good.”

“It’s quiet at the bottom of the pool. I can hear myself there.”

Ivy thought about herself in her “pod,” but that wasn’t hearing herself, that was just silly fantasies that probably needed a good therapist. Besides, her desire to ask for a transfer out of this place was growing and she didn’t need any attachments. She pointed at the koi pond. “Oh look, fish!”

“Where?” Echo turned and wandered in the direction Ivy pointed.

Back to work.

"An Angel has no Memory" Part 1/4, a Dollhouse Fanfiction

Mon, 25 May 2009 18:54:18 GMT

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...

Post trial

Mon, 25 May 2009 17:30:04 GMT

The trial last Wednesday took some unexpected turns.

As I anticipated, the main point of contention was the amount of money. However, I never received his trial statement beforehand, and when I finally got a copy at the trial, it specified an amount less than 1/5th of what we claimed. He also presented some receipts and other evidence that looked fishy.

One of my big fears going in was that I wouldn't be able to keep my cool when face to face with the defendant, and I'd go off on him about his evasions and general weaseling. To my surprise, it was certain other people on my side who took it personally instead of making it business.

I've filed for another trial date in June. Now that we've seen his other trial statement, we're prepared and know how much to ask for and how.

Many Names, a Dollhouse fanfiction

Sat, 23 May 2009 06:13:46 GMT

Title: Many Names
Characters/Pairings: Caroline/Echo
Rating: PG-13 for adult themes
Length: 680 words
Spoilers: through 1x12, "Omega"
Summary: The many names of Caroline Farrell

To hoom it may consern:

My name is CAROLINE FARRELL.
My techer Mrs. Lowel told me that when nobody wants a dog or kitty at the animal shelter you put them to sleep.
I thot they could sleep and have nice dreams until somebody would take them home.
But Mom told me this is a LIE you do not put them to sleep you KILL them so they are DEAD and that is WRONG!
Please send all dogs and kittys nobody wants to my house at 3419 Parker Street. I will feed them sereal with chocolat milk and apples and take care of them.
If you do this, you will be happyer and peple will like you more.
Sined
Caroline

The megaphone squealed feedback as she held it to her mouth. "My name is Caroline Farrell. Thank all of you for coming out today. The more people here, the less Rossum can ignore us!"

“My, Leo Gaines, of the World Salvage blog? I’m Caroline Farrell.”

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gaines:
I'm writing this to say I am very sorry for what happened to Leo. Your son was a good man and I loved him very much. I did not have the chance to meet you, but he spoke highly of you.
If you hate me, I understand.
Please do not try to contact me.
Yours, Caroline Farrell

"Where you headed, Miss?"
"Chicago, around there."
"I can get you to St. Louis."
"That's fine." She climbed into the truck’s cab.
"What's your name?"
"Jane Doe."
"Have it your way."

"I saw you needed a dishwasher? My name's June Cleav- ah, Kleegman."

"Hi, I'm Abby. I'll be your waitress today."

"It's Janice, sir, you have to be out of the room by noon."

"Hi, I'm Elaine. I'll be your waitress today."

"Hello, this is Jackie. Are you satisfied with your car insurance?"

"Hi, I'm Andrea. I'll be your waitress today."

"Put down Pamela Jones. But could you pay me under the table?"

"Hi, I'm Michelle. I'll be your waitress today."

The platinum blond pageboy wig smelled funny, but it least it kept her a bit warmer on cold nights, waiting and watching the cars go by.
Say the words. Get in the car. Perform the act. Get the money. Get out of the car. Forget what you did. Wait.
She was going to use "Sugar" here, but there was another girl on this stroll calling herself "Sugar." "Brandy" and "Candy" were taken too. So she used "Monique."
Say the words. Get in the car. Perform the act. Get the money. Get out of the car. Forget what you did. Wait.
A couple of nights ago, "Sugar" didn't show up on her usual patch. The next night, there was another girl calling herself "Sugar." Back to work.
Say the words. Get in the car. Perform the act. Get the money. Get out of the car. Forget what you did. Wait.

“I’m Caroline Farrell. I’m the one you’ve been looking for the past two years, remember?”

"Designation, complete."
"Echo 3.8, sleeping room B, pod 1, Los Angeles Branch. I’m here to be my best.”

“Well, Matt the birthday boy, this must be your lucky day. I’m Kelly.”

"You may address me as Ms. Penn."

“You must be Richard. I’m Jenny!”

“Jordan Trace, I should be on the audition list.”

"Mrs. Bayen, I’m Maddy Pine. The agency sent me, and I promise that you and your baby are in the best of hands."

“You’re on Taffy standard time!”

“God spoke to me. ‘Esther, there’s something I need you to do.’”

"Oh, Joel, it's perfect! How can we afford this?

"I have a message for you from inside the Dollhouse."

“Um, are you Matt? They told me so much about you. I’m Alice!”

"You will complete every sentence with ‘Mistress’ in my presence."

"My name is classified, Mr. Brink."

“I’m Julia, Margaret’s friend. She’s told me so much about all of you.”

“Hello, Susan. That’s my name too.”

“Bobby, honey, it’s me, Crystal. You’re scaring me!”

"Don't call me ‘Omega’!"

“Caroline--”

My day in court

Wed, 13 May 2009 17:04:16 GMT

Other than being called for potential jury duty once, I've never been involved with the court system in my life. That changes today, as I will appear in small claims court this evening.

I can't go into details about the case. It involves getting money back from someone, and that's all I can say at the moment.

It's been over a year since the actual incident that lead to this case. If I have learned anything in this, it's that getting justice in a modern liberal society is gratingly slow.

There is something I want from this process, and which I need to remind myself that courts don't provide: moral censure. There's a part of myself that wants the other guy to be strung up and publicly insulted and humiliated.

On a forum last year, I read a guy's post about a similar case: a store wouldn't give him the consignment money he thought he had a right to. He asked what he should do about this. I and others suggested small claims court or other legal recourses, but he kept pushing the point. Eventually I realized what he really wanted was public moral validation; for everyone to say, "You're a good and innocent victim, and those other people are evil bastards. Poor baby! We hate them as much as you do."

The whole point of liberal systems of justice is that social control becomes a matter of fairness and hurt vs. help, not a matter of group loyalty or deference to authority, and especially not a matter of sacredness/profanity. Those older systems of morality and social control still exist, but their influence within the justice system are supposed to be minimized. We don't draw and quarter people in the town square anymore. We don't take a person and make them abject or profane in the same way. But that was the traditional means of social control form thousands of years, whereas anything like a modern trial is only a few hundred years old.

Much as I'd love to publicly trash the other party in this case, that's roughly on parr with putting their name in Urban Dictionay with the definition, "Idiot." I might feel better, but that doesn't get the money back, nor does it do anything to improve the social standards. I commit to a certain amount of faith that, in the long run, taking the high road works.

"Innocent's Progress" reviews and other news

Sun, 10 May 2009 18:06:30 GMT

Some more reviews of "The Innocent's Progress". Strangely enough, the reviews have become less favorable over time.

Peter Tupper’s “The Innocent’s Progress” is set in the theatrical world of the Commedia, where roles are strictly defined and stories never change. A woman auditions for the part of the innocent, a role that calls for a cute young thing. Despite her acting ability, she’s too old, too tall, and too big to play the part of the innocent. Refusing to accept that, she leaves the company in search of a role that fits her. While this story is well written and interesting, the sex scenes have nothing to do with the main story. They are asides, populated by characters that only existed for those scenes. I suppose they were tacked on to fulfill the erotica prerequisite, but they detracted from the story rather than enhancing it. That’s a shame, because the rest of the story was wonderful.

From Erotica Reviewed

“The Innocent’s Progress” by Peter Tupper – Miss Alwyx is auditioning for a part with the House of The Razor Lotus, a traveling performance group that performs plays written by The Bawd and then takes assignations from the Patrons to add coins to the coffers. This is an interesting look at the backstage happenings of the bawdy Victorians. It is also a tale of unrequited love.

From The Baryon Review

The first story, “The Innocent’s Progress” by Peter Tupper, follows the stage-acting career of Miss Alwyx, as told through the eyes of her employer, Ricar. The actors of the playhouse perform erotic plays which symbolically reenact human sexual emotions. Alwyx is frustrated when she doesn’t get to the role she wanted and Ricar struggles inwardly with himself as he tries to convince Alwyx to play a different role. Aside from a bit of light S&M, this story wasn’t very steamy, in terms of both erotica and steampunk. Only slightly Victorian and not very mechanical at all, this story would better fit the broader term of Speculative Fiction.

From Wings of Steam

In other news, "The Pretty Horsebreaker" has been accepted, though it won't be in print, or rather released as an ebook, until the fall. This works out well, as it gives me a chance to do a rewrite of the submitted draft, which was a bit of a rush. My trusty writers workshop comrades also alerted me to some of the problems, ideas which didn't quite work out as well as I thought they did. Some of the themes just slipped by the readers.

I'm also working on a steampunk erotica story collection, though its too early to say much about this yet.

"Pretend We're Married", a Dollhouse fanfiction

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 21:30:41 GMT

Title: Pretend We're Married
Fandom: Dollhouse
Author: Mighty Fast Pig
Rating: R for language and sexual content
Word Count: 5874
Spoilers: Up to 1.09 "Needs"
Author’s Note: The main story takes place before 1.06 "Man on the Street"
Disclaimer: Dollhouse Etc. owned by Joss Whedon and FOX. "Hotel California" lyrics written by Don Felder, Glenn Frey, Don Henley
Characters/Pairings: Victor/Sierra, Topher/Ivy
Summary: “If people really gave a damn about each other, do you think this place would exist?”

Wolf One and Wolf Two sat in the back of the black helicopter as it flew over the forest, listening to their final briefing over the headphones.
Mr. Dominic ordered, “On our signal, Wolf One will enter the house and ensure the recovery of the Cristevo girl and Ms. Penn. You will respond to any hostile action with equal force.”

“Yes, sir!” they shouted.

“Wolf Two will deploy behind the house and secure any escape routes. You will respond to any hostile action with equal force.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’re in position now. Deploy!”

The helicopter slowed and then hovered over a clearing. In perfect unison, Wolf One and Wolf Two clipped their harnesses to the helicopter and rappelled down nylon lines to the ground fifty meters below. They landed in silence and unclipped from their lines. They were already running when the helicopter flew away.

Two lithe figures in black kevlar, bristling with weapons, moved through the forest as swift and silent as their namesake predators. Two hundred meters from the house, they split up.

Wolf Two assessed the situation as he approached the house. There were two prime spots for him to hunker down. One provided a total view of the back of the house, while the other had a small blind spot, but would let him observe Wolf One’s approach to the front of the house.

After a second’s hesitation, Wolf Two silently crept over to the second position, dropped to the ground, unslung his sniper rifle and set up. He had absolute faith in Wolf One’s abilities to execute the mission, but he would provide fire support to her approach and withdrawal, if it was necessary. That’s what soldiers did.

***

The two Actives sat side by side, looking at the book of paintings. They saw, but did not understand, the rows of little black pointy things on the pages, just as they saw, but did not mind, the black rectangles mixed in with the pictures of landscapes and animals and buildings. As far as they knew, all books were like that.

“What’s that one?” Victor asked, pointing at the picture of an animal.

“Dr. Claire says that’s a bear.” Sierra smiled. “I like bears.”

“And that one?”

“That’s a polar bear.”

“Could we play a game?”

“What game?”

He swallowed. “We could pretend we’re married.” Mr. Bicks looked after Victor when Ms. Ramirez was away, and he had told him about being married. Victor didn’t trust Mr. Bicks the way he trusted Ms. Ramirez, but sometimes he wished Ms. Ramirez would talk to him the way Mr. Bicks did.

“What do we do?” She looked a little curious.

“Married people sit next to each other.”

“We sit next to each other when it isn’t a game.”

“Married people also hold hands when they do things.”

“Like how?”

He put his right hand in her left, feeling her soft skin. “Like this?” It wasn’t like when he saw her in the showers, which made him confused and scared. He was supposed to be his best, and when he was with Sierra, he felt like he was his best.

Sierra looked at their hands, waiting for something to happen. “And then what do you do?”

Mr. Bicks had looked unhappy when Victor asked him that same question. “You just do things together. It’s better than doing them alone.”

“Oh,” she said, then turned the page with her free hand. “That’s an elephant.”

On the ceiling, a security camera turned to watch them.

“Oh, they’re so cute! I just wanna squish ‘em together,” Ivy said, her chin in her hand as she raptly watched the two Actives on the surveillance monitor.

“How can you watch that?” Topher asked Ivy, looking over her shoulder. “It isn’t even G-rated.”

“That is as good as it gets,” she said. “It could never be that pure for real people. Once they get their memories back, it’ll be all uncomfortable silences, evasions, accusations. ‘Why didn’t you take out the trash?’ ‘Why didn’t you be nice to my mom?’ Who needs all that?”

“How’d you get so bitter?”

Ivy turned her chair around to face him. “Topher, the engagement schedule looks pretty heavy the next couple of weeks. How about I handle some of the templating?” she asked.

“Ah, Grasshopper, you have yet to take the pebble from your master’s hand,” he said, holding his palms together and bowing.

Ivy just frowned at him, eyes steely over a mouth compressed into a thin, straight line.

“Okay, that was too much,” he admitted.

“I’m trying to be of help,” she explained.

Over the past few months, De Witt had sent several bright young things to be his assistant, and his extravagant demands had driven each of them back to her office, pleading to be transferred. (They didn’t threaten to quit. Nobody quit the Dollhouse.) Topher did not want an assistant in any way. First, he had carefully customized the editing and imprinting system to his own specifications, until the Los Angeles Dollhouse put all the others to shame. He didn’t want anybody else thinking they could alter it.

Second, and more important: If working at the Dollhouse had taught Topher anything, it was that he couldn’t afford to make himself replaceable.

And yet, here was Ivy Leung, his latest would-be assistant. She had good taste in Linux distros. She trekked out to Latino bodegas and Chinatown convenience stores to find the obscure flavours of imported juiceboxes and snacks he insisted on. She understood just how magnificent the Dollhouse’s work was, how this would revolutionize everything more profoundly than the invention of writing. She absorbed anything he did tell her almost as fast as an Active being imprinted. And she just wouldn’t go away, no matter how much scut work he made her do.

And so, on a particularly busy day, he grudgingly let her take care of some secondary imprint editing. A few hours later, there the file was, just the way he liked it, but with better documentation. He had planned on finding some fault with her work, but there just wasn’t any. Plus he liked having her around. Even her penchant for putting bear stickers on everything didn’t annoy him as much as he thought it would. Sometimes she even styled her thick black hair until it looked like she had teddy bear ears. He made a mental note to add that character trait to some future imprint.

“You can help me by getting this,” he said, and handed her a shopping list.

Ivy sighed, and took the list. “Lemon, lime and orange mineral water,” she said, getting up. “Would you like it chilled to any particular temperature?”

“Just put it in my fridge.” After a moment, he added, “You can have lunch on the company tab, if you want.”

“Gosh, thanks,” she answered, stuffing the list into the pocket of her lab coat.

Topher watched her leave the office, and heard the elevator ding. “That could have gone better,” he commented.

He looked at the surveillance monitor again. Sierra was still holding Victor’s hand while they looked at the picture book.

“Guy’s got the mind of a five-year-old,” Topher muttered to himself. “And he’s doing better than me.” He’d programmed Victor to be everything: Miss Lonelyheart’s suave-yet-passionate Englishman, tough-yet-tender stud, shy boy-next-door, androgynous twink. People paid millions of dollars for a night with the men he created, mixing this much Tom Cruise intensity with that much Clive Owen brooding and that much Hugh Grant vulnerability.

And yet Topher had never been able to leverage that talent into his own romantic success. It made sense, really; he could create a brilliant lawyer, but he didn’t know anything about the law. But still, it bothered him.

On the floor below, one of the caretakers came up and said, “Sierra, Victor, it’s time for your treatments.”

Sierra put the book to one side and got up, her hand sliding out of Victor’s.

“Sierra, we haven’t finished the game,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

“We’re not married,” she said and followed the caretaker. Victor had no response for that.

***

Lily’s wrists and ankles were tied to the bedframe with crimson silk scarves, contrasting with the charcoal high-thread-count sheets. Darren hated them. Silk might look nice, but it was too likely to slip and come loose, or worse, constrict and pinch a nerve or blood vessel. He made the point of checking her hands more often than usual, confirming that they were still warm and that the blood flowed. The client wanted silk scarves, the client got silk scarves. But Darren didn’t have to like it.

Now that Lily was blindfolded and tied face down and spread eagled on the bed, the client selected one of the floggers, the rubber one with the beads at the end of the strands. Apparently he had never heard of warm up.

Darren positioned one of the bed’s pillows next to Lily’s ass, then stepped back.
“What’s that for?” the client asked.

“That will keep the flogger from wrapping around her and hitting the front of her hip, where the bone is close to her skin. Sir.” If the client put any effort into learning to flog properly, Darren wouldn’t have to take such precautions.

“What difference does that make?” The client swished the flogger through the air.

“It’s the difference between hurting and harming, sir,” he explained, just as the client started flogging Lily.

Lily was a heavy bottom, the heaviest he had ever seen, so much so that he worried about her ability to safeword if she got in too deep. The client was bent on pushing her to the limit of both pain and humiliation, beating her ineptly with a beaded flogger, and making her beg for more in broken English right out of Full Metal Jacket. Darren’s presence at this session was a compromise between the client and the agency. He would show the client how to dominate Lily without any permanent injury, and the client could continue to see Lily.

The last flogger swing came down directly on Lily’s tail bone, eliciting a choked yelp of bad pain from Lily that made Darren intervene. He introduced the client to paddles and canes, rigid toys that were easier to aim. The other man used those for a while, pausing occasionally to pinch the welts they left on Lily’s body.

Apparently satisfied with the results of his work on Lily’s ass, the client dropped the paddle and ambled off, saying, “I need a drink.”

When the client left the room, Darren knelt on the bed next to the bound woman. “Lily,” he said softly, “I’m going to take the blindfold off, okay?”

“Okay,” she breathed. At least when she talked with him, she didn’t use the Bangkok hooker accent.

He pulled the velvet band from over her eyes. She blinked in the light.

“You need some water?” he whispered. After she nodded, he grabbed one of the water bottles on the bedside. He gently lifted her head with one hand and tipped the water bottle with the other, just enough to let a little into her mouth. She swallowed and gave him a tiny smile.

“Promise me that if you get to your limits, you’ll safeword. Please?” He brushed a gold-coloured lock of hair off her sweaty face.

“I don’t have limits,” she said.

“Everybody has limits, Lily. You gotta look after yourself.”

The client came back, ice clinking in the glass of expensive scotch he held, and looked at them, Darren kneeling on the bed with Lily. “You interested in her, Darren?”

Darren looked down. “I’m making sure she can continue to perform for you, sir.”

The client put his drink on the bedside and climbed onto the bed, on the other side of Lily. He grabbed her head in head in both hands and pushed her towards Darren’s crotch. “Show him what I taught you last time, Lily.”

“Me sucky you rong time. Me so ho-nee,” she said, leaving her mouth open wide.

Darren had never felt so un-aroused in his entire life. “No thank you, sir.” He slid off the bed and stood, hands clasped behind his back to keep from doing something he’d regret.

The client laughed harshly. “What do they do, castrate you guys?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” he said, letting go of Lily’s head. “Well, I’m finished. Untie her.”

Darren did so, making sure that her wrists and ankles were all right. Naked, her back and buttocks sprinkled with bruises and blood spots, she got off the bed and knelt before the client, resting her head on his feet. “Me so solly to reave you, Mastah.”

Darren winced. It wasn’t Lily’s words that bothered him so much as the client’s reaction. Darren had seen men and women take far harsher treatment, and five minutes later be smiling and cuddling with their tops and dominants. This guy wouldn’t give her any kind of aftercare. He didn’t have any kind of respect for her at all.

“You’ll see me again soon, you little chink. Endless nights of pleasure, worth every penny.” The client bent down and ruffled her hair like he was patting a dog. “Darren, take her back and put her in her box until next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

The client just sauntered out the door, leaving the two of them alone in the house’s guest bedroom.

Darren gathered up the implements while Lily slipped back into her red cheongsam mini-dress and stiletto heels. He pulled a bottle of disinfectant out of his bag. “Maybe this would help.”

“Let’s just go,” she said softly.

His toybag over his shoulder, he followed her out of the house, through the service entrance and to the waiting black van. On the way, she wobbled on her high heels, probably still worn out from the session. He let her hold herself steady on his shoulder while she stepped out of the shoes. She walked the rest of the way barefoot.

The van’s door slid open, and Mr. Hearn and Ms. Ramirez stepped out.

“Lily, it’s time for your treatment.”

“Darren, are you ready for your treatment?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Darren helped Lily into the van before Mr. Hearn could do it.

“Sonofabitch,” Darren muttered, as the black van sped through the night. He fumed as he meticulously cleaned the contents of his toybag, then glanced at Lily and Mr. Hearn. They sat in the back of the van, not speaking. Lily sat in an awkward position to keep the pressure off her buttocks, and kept tugging down the hem of her dress, while Mr. Hearn was texting somebody on his phone.

Darren leaned close to Ms. Ramirez and whispered, “I know Lily can take it that heavy, but that client’s an accident waiting to happen. I want to talk to somebody at the agency about this, okay?”

“Sure,” said Ms. Ramirez, barely looking up from her romance paperback. “Right after your treatment.”

“Okay, but right after.” He put his rubber paddle away.

***

“I’m sorry I called you a retard, man,” the guy from Rossum security said. “That wasn’t fair.”

“It’s all right,” Homeland Security Agent Tom Voros said, trying each of the doors in the lab building’s corridors, looking for Dr. Gawas. The doctor had wandered off shortly after Tom realized they were all affected by the drug. Even he had had flashes of being a soldier in the desert somewhere, a house, a woman screaming at him, explosions....

The Rossum guy trailed after him, babbling. “No, really. Ms. DeWitt says Echo’s the best, but you’re our number one guy, never give anybody any problems. Except, you know, for the erections.”

“The what?” he said, then automatic fire tore through the corridor. Tom instinctively dropped and rolled, seeking cover, trying to figure out the angle. Where was his sergeant? The civilians were right in the line of--

His suit drenched in cold sweat, Tom realized he was lying face down on the linoleum floor. Instead of gunfire, there was just the hum of air conditioning and the Rossum guy blathering as he stood over him. “Wow, look at that ass! You have no idea what a moneymaker your ass is.”

Still shaking, Tom dragged himself to his feet and pressed on. What happened to him felt like a PTSD flashback, yet he had never been in a desert in his life, never worn BDUs. What was making him traumatically remember things that never happened?

He rounded a corner and found a bank of vending machines.

“...isn’t a fun game, this isn’t a fun game...” Dr. Gawas had wedged herself into the narrow space between a vending machine and the wall. She was curled into a foetal ball and rocking.

“Stupid dollar bills,” the Rossum guy said, trying to work the vending machine. “Got any quarters? I’m starving.”

Tom got down on his knees. “Dr. Gawas, you’ve got to help me figure out what happened to us.”

“This isn’t a fun game, this isn’t a fun game...”

“Doctor, please, listen to me. Somebody hurt you in the past, but you’re here, now, with me. I need your help. You help me, and then I can help you, okay?” Tom said.

“Friends help each other out,” she said softly, looking directly at him for the first time. Her face was pale with fear, but some instinct to help had been roused in her.

“Yes, I’m your friend,” he said to the woman he’d known for less than two hours. To his surprise, he meant it.

She timidly put out her hand. He took it. Both of them were cold and clammy with fear, but he felt better when he touched her.

***

“One more, Sierra,” Victor told her, holding down her legs as she struggled to do another sit-up.

“Oh, I can’t,” she said, her back dropping onto the exercise matt.

“If you do one more rep, I’ll give you something.”

“Okay,” she gasped and managed to haul herself up until her elbows touched her knees. She dropped onto her back and panted.

“Good for you!” He let go of her legs and she rolled over onto her side. “Sierra,” he said, holding the little piece of paper tight in his hand.

“Yes?” she said, dabbing her sweaty skin with a towel. He wanted to do that for her.

“This is for you,” he said, holding out the sticker in his palm for her, making sure none of the trainers could see them. “It’s called a koala bear.”

“Ohhhh--” said Sierra, hand over her open mouth.

“The back is sticky, so you can peel it off and put it on things.” This was him at his best, doing something for her nobody else had done.

Sierra took the sticker from his hand, grinning at it. “Thank you!” She squeezed his elbow. “I want to show Echo!” She ran off before Victor could say anything.

***

The courthouse café was packed, and Richard found himself sharing counter space with Grace, the other junior partner from his firm on this case.

“You handled yourself very well with the judge today,” he said,putting artificial sweetener into his Jamaican blend. “That liability clause slipped right by me.”

“Thank you.” Grace sipped her vanilla latte. She wore her blond hair in a neat French braid, and her dark eyes were striking through her frameless spectacles. “Just doing my job.”

Richard straightened his tie, as he steeled his courage. “Ah, after session, and our treatments, of course, would you like to go for dinner? I know this little--”

“Sorry, but I want to be ready for tomorrow. Thanks, though.”

“Sure,” he said, a little more tightly than he intended.

***

Victor picked up his tray-- bran muffin, yogurt, orange juice and fruit cup-- and carried it over to the tables.

Sierra and Echo were already at one table, eating and talking. He looked at the two empty seats, then turned and walked over to another table.

Mike and Tango looked up from their plates, a faint flicker of surprise crossing each of their faces. Victor just said, “Good morning,” as he sat down, and all three ate peacefully.

“I think I can climb the rock wall in under three minutes today,” said Mike.

“It’s important to be your best,” Tango agreed.

Victor didn’t want to be his best today.

Over at the other table, Sierra was still eating, while Echo looked back at him. She tilted her head slightly towards the blond Active.
Victor looked down and concentrated on his breakfast.

***

“Ms Leung,” Dominic said, “would you come with me please? Ms. De Witt wants to see you.”

Topher turned around in his chair quickly. That phrase seldom meant anything good. He saw of Dominic leading Ivy away from her desk. He ran after them and caught up on balcony before the elevator. “Wait up, I want to come.”

As the three of them boarded the elevator, Dominic just looked annoyed at him, but Topher was used to that. He also noticed that Ivy’s jaw was clenched tight, and she kept her hands stuffed into her lab coat’s pockets. He was far from relaxed himself.

Up in the corner office, De Witt didn’t look angry, but that didn’t mean anything. “Thank you, Mr. Dominic.”

The head of security bowed his head and left.

She turned to face Topher. “And why are you here?”

Ordinarily, Topher would have cracked a joke about existentialism, but instead answered, “Ms Leung is in my department. If there’s a problem, I should know about it.”

“Very well.” De Witt held out what was left of a koala bear sticker, sealed into a ziploc bag like it was evidence, which Topher supposed it was. “The cleaning staff found this inside Sierra’s pod.”

Topher noticed that Ivy was holding her lab coat closed, trying to conceal the other koala bear sticker on her security badge holder.

“Do you know how it got there, Ms Leung?”

After a moment, Ivy spoke up. “It was just a little something. I didn’t think it would cause a problem.”

De Witt said, “Our policy on staff giving gifts, food or anything else to our Actives is quite clear. Any change in their environment can upset and confuse them.”

“Ah, Ms De Witt,” Topher said, his mouth dry. “I... didn’t brief Miss Leung on the policy about Actives when she started here. I didn’t spot it when she gave Sierra the sticker.”

“So this is your responsibility?” She seemed more curious than angry.

“Yes. Sorry.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting.

“All right. Ms Leung, though you should have exercised better judgement, you’re new here. I’ll let this go with a warning.”

“It won’t happen again, ma’am.”

“Good. Mr. Brink, see to it that it doesn’t.” She handed the sticker to him.

He took it and put it in his shirt pocket. “Yes, ma’am.”

“One more thing. Mr. Johnson from Chicago is in town this weekend, and he wants his usual.”

“I’ll get started on that.”

“That will be all for today, Mr. Brink, Ms Leung.”

Once they were in the elevator, they both slumped against the walls with relief.

“Whew, that was close,” Ivy fanned herself.

Now that it was over, Topher thought he had handled himself well. “Pretty cool, huh? I mean, she’s a little scary, but she knows I’m the talent around here, Ivy.”

Ivy looked at him in disbelief. “Look, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with Adelle The Witch, but if you think I’m going to get all gooey-eyed over you now, oh, no no no.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open onto the mezzanine level. Ivy got out and Topher followed, stammering. “I just, I--”

“And what was that about making her think I gave it to Sierra instead of Victor? Some kind of ‘bros before hos’ crap?”

“I didn’t want to get him in trouble too.”

She laughed harshly. “Oh, like you give a damn about him.”

“I said all that because, because I, I give a damn about you.” He stopped, surprised he had said it.

Ivy looked around her, then down at the Actives exercising and playing preschool games, and the handlers in their dark suits watching, always watching. “If people really gave a damn about each other, do you think this place would exist?”

“Uh...,” he said, at a loss for words.

“I’ll be at my desk,” she said as she stalked off. “Sourcing your lychee yoghurt Pocky.”

***

“I can do another set,” he said to the trainer who was spotting him on the free weights.

“No, Victor, your schedule says four sets on the incline press. If you pull something, Doctor Saunders won’t like it.”

“Please, I want to be my best,” he pleaded, looking at the trainer’s upside down face. His arms and chest already hurt from the exercise, but if he worked hard, he didn’t think about Sierra.

“Okay, but if it’s too hard, don’t hurt yourself.” The trainer lifted the bar from the rack and moved it into position.

“One... two....” His arms shook as he pushed the barbell up. The metal bar wobbled, then his arms collapsed and the bar crashed into his chest. He cried out.

Somebody lifted the bar off him, and he curled around his chest in pain.

“Oh, shit-- Somebody get Doctor Saunders!”

The other Actives paused for a moment and looked up. “Everybody, please continue your exercises,” one of the trainers ordered. After a moment, they did. Except for the two who got off their machines and tried to get past the trainers.

“Is he all right?” Echo asked.

“He hurts,” Sierra said, clutching Echo’s arm tightly.

He understood. The sticker didn’t matter. Pretending they were married didn’t matter. This mattered. This was how he was his best.

“I’m all right,” he said, looking past the trainers who fussed over him, at Sierra.

***

Aleksandr Vladimirovich Lubov shrugged into his jacket, glad to be finished his treatment. The nekulturny gomosek who ran the room full of machinery got on his nerves.

“Be with you in a minute, Mr. Lubov,” the Latina in the suit told him, then held out a clipboard for the technician to sign.

“Da,” he said, and strolled out of the treatment room.

Outside, he leaned on the balcony railing and looked down at the people doing yoga on the level below him. One of the women caught his eye, a lithe young thing with golden hair and almond-shaped eyes. He had a weird double-vision experience as she flowed into another position. One part of him precisely assessed her face and body, calculating her worth in dollars per hour. Another part could feel her beside him in his bed in the morning, taking her out for dinner, all those things he saw couples doing.

Lubov shook his head. There were working girls and there were girlfriends and there were wives, and confusing one for another was only trouble. What was he supposed to do? Quit the organization, run off with whatever-her-name-was down there and open a fast food franchise or something? He could have stayed in Vladivostok and done that. He’d made his choice, and he’d know what he was getting into, what kind of life he lived, the things he had to do, the things he wished he could forget. The blonde woman down there lived in her world and he lived in his, and better for both of them that those worlds never met.

“Time to go,” said Ms. Ramirez, stepping out of the treatment room.

He blew a kiss to the woman so far away. “Maybe in another life, détka,” he said, and turned away.

***

“Did I fall asleep?” Victor asked.

“For a little while.” In a weird way, Topher liked being around the Actives in their blank state. Kind of like the puppies in the pet shop window he used to pass on his way to work.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

The young man got up from the imprinting chair and walked towards the door in that smooth, measured pace the Actives shared.

Before he reached the door, Topher said, “Hey, Victor?”

He stopped and turned around. “Yes, Mr. Brink?”

“You like Sierra, right? I mean, more than Echo or any of the others?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no shyness, a statement of fact.

“What would you do if Sierra... didn’t like you as much as you like her?” Topher watched Victor mull over the question for a long time. Was it too difficult for him? Dolls had a hard time thinking in hypotheticals.

At last, Victor spoke. “I would still like her the same.”

“Thanks, Victor. Why don’t you go have a massage?”

“A massage would be relaxing.”

When the doors clicked shut behind Victor, Topher reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled koala bear sticker. He smoothed it as much as possible, then picked up his smartphone and put the sticker on the inside of the leather cover. Then he turned to his desktop and scheduled Ivy to do the imprinting for the Johnson engagement.

***

He had to stay awake.

The soft and comfortable bed, the blue light in his pod, even the vanilla scent in the air made him feel soft and sleepy. He’d swam thirty laps that day, and he just wanted to fade out, listening to the faint whispers that reminded him how safe he was, how much the caretakers wanted him to be his best.

Why wasn’t she here, where she should be? The disruption in routine was bad enough, but he kept wondering what was happening to her.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stay awake.

Finally, he heard footsteps outside.

If he put his head in just the right spot, he could look through the frosted glass cover and see Sierra enter the room and step into the next pod. When he heard the other cover glass side shut, he relaxed. Sierra was where she was supposed to be. They were both safe, and the caretakers wanted them to be their best.

He fell asleep before she started crying.

***

Victor – was that his real name? Or just something they’d called him back at that place? – wasn’t happy about letting the other woman, “November”, go off on her own, but he could tell he wasn’t going to change her mind.

Then it was just the two of them in the SUV, driving through an LA suburb. He thought about ditching the vehicle to delay pursuit, as it was only a matter of time until they noticed four of their, what?, slaves were missing. They should probably find a police station, and tell somebody what was happening, but Sierra – was that her real name either? He had no other name to call her. – insisted on finding this “Nolan” guy. Considering he had no memories of his own life, beyond baseball statistics and knowing how to do a sleeper hold and drive a car, he let her take the lead.

They’d been driving in silence for about half an hour when he asked her, “Anything ring a bell?”

“Some things seem familiar, but... Sorry.” She rubbed her eyes. “I need to go somewhere, but I don’t know where.”

“It’s okay. Maybe you’re trying too hard. Sometimes you can remember things if you distract yourself.”

“Maybe,” Sierra said. She punched the radio and hit a classic rock station. She looked out the window, softly singing along with the music.

There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be heaven or this could be hell”
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place

From the second he’d woken up in that coffin, he’d been focussed on escaping, then running. He still wasn’t completely certain he could trust the others who woke up in the same room. But Sierra felt like someone he had known for a long time. How long had they been in that place? Had they been friends, or something more? When they hid in the wardrobe room, huddled close together, he’d wanted to put his arms around her, an ache that was almost physically painful.

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

The words were sad and lost when she sang them, making him choke up a little. God, this was so fucked up, two amnesiac human sex toys running for their lives from a “people warehouse” in a stolen car.
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...
Welcome to the Hotel California

“I just remembered something,” he said.

“You did? What?” she asked, her fingers just touching his hand on the gear shift.

“I hate the fucking Eagles,” he said, finally laughing at the craziness of it all.

She laughed too, and punched him on the arm playfully.

As they laughed together, the radio continued:

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
“Relax,” said the night man,
“We are programmed to receive.
You can checkout any time you like,
But you can never leave.”
“Wait, wait,” she said, looking at something outside the window. “I know that street! Turn right!”

He stomped on the brake and turned. Her hand rested on his as he shifted gears. Wherever she went, he’d go with her.
--30--

Afterword: This got a little out of hand in terms of length, but I wanted more Victor/Sierra scenes.

I made up Ivy's last name, Leung.

"Nekulturny gomosek" translates to something like "geeky fag", and "detka" is something like "babe"