Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Joelle’s pretty sure if she dances any more tonight, her feet are gonna fall off. She’s also pretty sure she doesn’t care. She went out with the goal of having fun, and she’s spent the most amazing night with this guy she’s never met before…

“You sure you don’t need to sit down?” he asks, grinning at her. Miles. He’s got a goatee and a cute smile. Earlier they had a crazy motorcycle race, and earlier than that…

“I’m fine!” she shouts to be heard over the music. “I’m having a blast!”

“Me too!” he says. “Are you sure you have to go at one?”

Dammit, she almost forgot about that. “Sorry,” she shrugs. “I keep to a pretty strict schedule. You are definitely gonna get my number though. I wanna do this again ASAP.”

“Cool,” he says, but then he looks sad for a second. Before she can ask about it, he twirls her around and says, “I’m gonna get another drink, you want anything?”

“Sure!” She pulls out her phone once he’s stepped away. She still has about fifteen minutes before she has to meet her ride, and she is not gonna waste a single minute of that time.

One drink and fourteen minutes later, she pulls Miles close for one last kiss. “Sorry to leave you hanging,” she says. “But call me, okay?”

“Yeah, I will,” he says, and then he looks sad again momentarily before smiling. “Thanks for this. I had fun.”

“Me too! You were just what I needed.” She kisses him on the cheek before turning to leave.

Right on schedule, the van’s outside waiting for her. And Mack is there, his smile warm and welcoming as always. “Have fun?” he asks.

“I sure did!” she says, skipping a little before climbing into the van. “I met this guy, Miles, and wow, he was incredible. I have so many stories to tell you on the way back!”

“Can’t wait to hear them,” says Mack with a chuckle.

“And there we are,” says Fitz, miming dusting his hands off as Charlie opens her eyes and the chair sits her back up. “Active state restored.”

Callie glances at the monitor and then back to Fitz with a smile. “Good as new,” she agrees, and then she asks Charlie, “How are you feeling?”

“Did I fall asleep?” Charlie asks, blinking and smiling blankly.

“For a little while,” says Fitz quickly, stepping forward so Charlie will focus on him.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.” Once Charlie’s walked elegantly out of the room, Fitz turns to Callie and sighs. “You know you’re supposed to let me do the script. You’re just there to smile politely at them and basically act as backup.”

“She looked at me,” Callie says, holding her hands up defensively. “It would have been weirder just to stand there and wait for you to chime in.”

“But she wouldn’t if you didn’t talk to her,” grumbles Fitz. “Anyway, that’s all settled. Go and make sure the new girl’s ready to start the uploading, will you?”

“She looked at me because I talked to you,” she points out, but she nods. “How soon are you going to be ready to get her started?”

“Within the next fifteen minutes, preferably. It’ll take at least two hours and we have Delta due back from her last engagement at four, so we’ll need to have the chair ready for that.” He makes an impatient waving motion with his hand. “Go on, shoo.”

Callie rolls her eyes, but nothing about this surprises her. She heads for the intake room, where the new girl - dark-haired and wide-eyed, maybe South Asian; Foxtrot, it’s going to be - is waiting, guarded by more than a few suits. That’s sort of unusual; there are always chaperones, but rarely a whole entourage. “Are we ready to go?” she asks, trying for patient and as inoffensive as possible lest she disturb some part of Fitz’s process inadvertently.

“No,” the new girl exclaims, trying to struggle away. Well, that explains the suits. “No, I’m not - I don’t belong here, I -”

“You’re going to be fine,” Callie says, as soothingly as possible. “Just follow me, Fitz is waiting for you.” She doesn’t bother trying to explain further. She still hasn’t mastered the art of explaining things to Dolls, even though this one isn’t there quite yet.

The suits manage to urge the new girl up, corral her into following after Callie, and Callie smiles a tight smile at Fitz once they’re in the imprint room. She’s wondering if maybe she should tell him this one seems difficult, but he’s read the file, he should know whatever there is to know (she has not, and therefore does not, but knowing is not her job so much as nannying, unfortunately).

“Hi there,” Fitz says, smiling as best he can at the girl (it’s not a smile that would reassure most people). “It’s time for your treatment. Please come here and sit down in this chair.”

She yelps, clearly in distress, but the suits get her positioned as smoothly as they can. “What are you doing?” she asks, voice nearly a whisper.

“I’m just going to run some tests on you,” Fitz says, trying for soothing. “It won’t hurt and it won’t take long. It’ll help you get ready for your life here.”

This doesn’t seem to do much to calm her, but after she sweeps her gaze around the room (all exits blocked) she seems to deflate some and she nods. It’s not acceptance so much as resignation.

“Thank you,” Fitz says. He nods toward the chair. “Go on, sit down.”

The girl sighs, accidentally catching Callie’s eye as she takes a seat; Callie pastes on a smile but doesn’t say anything, feeling somehow pointed in her obeisance.

Fitz goes to the computer and makes the last few adjustments as needed. Just after he’s begun the imprinting process, he hears someone say, “She’s sad.”

He whirls aroun to see Charlie standing in the doorway. “Charlie!” he yelps. “What are you doing up here? You’re not supposed to be in this room!”

“I’m not in the room,” Charlie says, blinking. “I’m in the doorway.” She points at the chair. “Why is she sad?”

“She’s having a treatment,” Fitz replies quickly. “She’s not going to be sad for long. And soon, you’ll have a new friend! Won’t that be nice.” He drums his fingers nervously on the desktop and glances at Callie. “Will you take her out of here, please?”

Callie stifles a groan, moving toward Charlie to steer her away despite Charlie’s apparent reticence, but she doesn’t even bother to hide her relief when they run into Dr. Simmons on the staircase down into the main area of the house. “Shouldn’t she be with you?” Callie asks, sounding tense.

Dr. Simmons smiles - her smile is placid, patient, clearly cultivated to deal with Dolls - and says, “I was actually just coming to look for her. You need to have your exam after your engagement, Charlie.” She manages to make it sound scolding, but in the most playful way possible.

Charlie smiles at Dr. Simmons. “I’m sorry, I was exploring.”

“Exploring?” Dr. Simmons asks, seeming amused but not patronizing. (Callie’s impressed by how generally unpatronizing Dr. Simmons is, especially compared to some people.) “What were you exploring?”

“I went up the stairs,” Charlie says, “and I heard noises. I came to see what they were.”

Dr. Simmons glances up at the imprint room - lights flashing, enough figures crowded around, must still be doing Foxtrot’s intake - and reaches out to touch Charlie’s arm. “Let’s go get you looked over, alright?” she suggests. “I think we should stay out of the way up there for now.”

“Okay,” Charlie says, but she looks back at the girl in the chair. “Will she be happy soon? She’s sad right now.”

“She will,” Dr. Simmons agrees, but there’s a note of something just a little unreadable in her voice. “You’ll be able to meet her soon, don’t worry.” She guides Charlie down the stairs and into her office, leaving Callie to return to the imprint room, and frowns. “You’re favoring your left leg, Charlie. Do you feel alright?”

“It hurts a little bit,” Charlie says. “Maybe something fell on me.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Simmons says. “Why don’t you come in and sit on the table, and I’ll take a look at that. I’m sure we can get you right as rain in no time.”

“Is rain right?” Charlie asks as she gets onto the table. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well,” Dr. Simmons says, clearly backtracking to explain the euphemism she hadn’t thought before employing in the presence of a Doll, since they aren’t really great at understanding euphemisms, “if we didn’t have rain, nothing outside would ever grow, and that… that wouldn’t be right at all! Sometimes rain is inconvenient, but yes, in its way rain is right.” She turns away to gather some supplies, feeling slightly flustered like she usually does when she goes off babbling (even if the Dolls aren’t going to think about it one way or the other, she’s used enough to other people giving her a certain look that she dislikes).

Charlie smiles. “I like listening to you talk. You have a pretty voice.”

And then that happens, and it’s not like Dolls don’t throw compliments around fairly regularly, but it still catches Dr. Simmons off-guard and she’s probably still blushing a little when she heads back toward the table and starts to sit it up so Charlie can lean back. “Thank you, Charlie,” she murmurs. “I guess it is different than everyone else’s voices here, so that… would be noticeable. Anyway, can you lift your leg up for me?”

Charlie nods and does so. “You’re nice,” she says. “I like coming to see you.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Simmons repeats. “I’m going to roll your pants up a bit so I can see your knee, alright?”

“Okay.” Charlie smiles. “You take good care of us.”

“That’s very important to me,” Dr. Simmons says, baring Charlie’s lower leg. “Bend your knee, alright?”

Charlie does, and then asks, “Does someone take good care of you, Dr. Simmons?”

The question is - well, it’s more insightful than most things that come out of a Doll’s mouth, so in that way it takes Dr. Simmons by surprise. “I suppose in a way,” she murmurs. “Mr. Coulson is a very kind supervisor, and - and May keeps us all safe, and of course Fitz and I are friends…”

“That’s good,” says Charlie, sounding satisfied. “Everyone should have someone to take care of them.”

“They should,” Dr. Simmons agrees. “Your knee feels very tight, right here. Does it hurt more when I touch it here?”

Charlie winces. “Yes.”

“It’s not broken,” Dr. Simmons muses, “but it does seem like you pulled muscles. I’m going to order you a massage, alright? And in the meantime…” She goes over to her small refrigerator and takes out an ice pack, which she then wraps in a towel. “Can you make sure to hold this against your knee until you have your massage? It’s going to be cold, but it should help you feel better.”

“Okay, Dr. Simmons.” Charlie takes the ice pack and smiles. “Thank you. You help me be my best.”

“I try, at any rate,” Dr. Simmons says. “Let me get that massage set up for you.”

“I’m really not sure we should have admitted her yet,” mutters Melinda.

Phil shrugs. “She’s clearly troubled. Hopefully being a Doll will help bring her some peace.”

Melinda snorts and replies, “Peace, sure. You saw her, she was a mess.”

“Exactly, and Fitz can help. He can, you know, erase whatever made her like that, get rid of whatever trauma from her past. It’s helpful.”

Melinda’s about to say something else when Fitz comes into the room, followed by Isabelle. “All done,” he says. “Foxtrot is ready to go.”

“We sent her out on the floor with the other Actives,” adds Isabelle. “She’ll be fine.”

“Will she?” Melinda asks, raising an eyebrow.

Isabelle shrugs. “I’ll do my best, anyway.”

“I know you will,” says Melinda, sounding a bit kinder. “You’re one of the best handlers we have.”

Isabelle tosses her head. “You said it, not me.”

“I enjoy painting,” India says, dipping her brush in red paint and starting to sketch out the shape of a flower.

“It’s relaxing,” Tango agrees, though her own canvas is still blank. She’s staring curiously at the exercise area, where a dark-haired woman wearing shades of purple is running on the treadmill, being watched by some attendants with clipboards. After a moment she asks “What are they doing? Are they helping her?”

India glances up for a moment and her ebony curls bounce. “She’s new,” she remarks.

“I saw her earlier,” Charlie says. “She was sad. But Dr. Simmons said she’d be happy soon.”

“Are you sure?” India asks.

“She isn’t sad now,” Tango says. “She’s running very fast.” Her eyes still haven’t left the woman, and idly her paintbrush taps against the little table.

“I like running,” says Mike. “Running helps me be my best.”

“Dr. Simmons said we would meet her soon,” Charlie says. “I think that will make her happy. It’s nice to have friends.”

“Making new friends is nice,” agrees Romeo.

“Can I have the yellow paint?” Mike asks.

Delta hands it to him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Mike starts painting what looks like a yellow mouse.

“Mice aren’t yellow,” India says after regarding him for a minute.

“My mouse is yellow,” says Mike. “It’s just pretend.”

“Pretending is fun,” says Romeo.

For a little while, the Dolls all work on their paintings in companionable silence. Their art teacher wanders between them, nodding and humming encouragement, and they reply politely like always. It’s simple, peaceful, thoroughly uneventful.

And then the woman from the treadmill comes over.

“Foxtrot,” one of the attendants says to her, “I’d like you to meet some of your new friends. This is Mike.”

Mike has light beige skin and dark blond hair, and he’s wearing an orange t-shirt. He seems like he’s concentrating on what he’s doing.

“This is India.”

India has light brown skin and curly black hair, and she’s wearing a green t-shirt. She looks like she has a secret.

“This is Delta.”

Delta has dark brown skin and short black hair, and she’s wearing a gray tank top. She seems quiet.

“This is Romeo.”

Romeo has dark brown skin and no hair at all, and he’s wearing a light blue t-shirt. His eyes are smiling, even though his mouth isn’t right now.

“This is Charlie.”

Charlie has medium-brown skin, closest in tone to Foxtrot’s own, and brown hair, and she’s wearing a dark blue tank top. She seems familiar.

“And this is Tango.”

Tango has beige skin, but a little darker than Mike’s, and long curly hair the color of honey, and she’s wearing a white t-shirt. She’s looking at Foxtrot very seriously.

“Hello,” Foxtrot says after a moment, smiling, when she realizes it’s her turn to speak.

“Everyone, this is Foxtrot,” the attendant says, earning a chorus of hellos in reply.

“I’m going to go shower,” Foxtrot announces. “I’m very warm from running.”

“I’ll come with you,” Tango says, setting her paintbrush down and standing up. “The showers are very nice. The water is cool.” Ergo, of course, it should be helpful if Foxtrot is warm. She doesn’t think she needs to explain that.

“That sounds nice,” Foxtrot agrees, her smile growing. “Will you show me where the showers are? I don’t know yet.”

“Follow me,” Tango instructs, starting in that direction.

“Showers are nice,” Mike says. “But not as nice as swimming.”

“C’mon,” coaxes Elena, grinning as she tugs Mack in the direction of the handler lounge. “It’s the middle of the day, who else could possibly be in there?”

“Some of the other handlers?” Mack asks, but he’s grinning too.

“Come now,” Elena replies, “we’ve both been so busy with work the last couple of weeks, I have barely seen you! Let’s just take a few moments for us, okay?”

“Alright, alright.” Mack ambles along behind her.

When they get there, the door is shut - which they quickly realize was for a reason when they walk in on Victoria and Isabelle in the middle of a not-entirely-innocent makeout session themselves.

“Surprise,” Victoria drawls once she catches sight of them.

Elena laughs. “Oh. I see we are not the only ones who had this idea.”

“Nope,” says Isabelle with a lazy grin. She’s still wearing her shirt, but it’s unbuttoned and askew. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mack says, laughing a little nervously. “We can just go somewhere else.”

Elena shrugs. “Or we could just sit far away from each other and pretend the others aren’t there.”

“How very middle school dance of us,” Victoria remarks, her head resting against Isabelle’s.

But before they can go about this, Hunter barges in and flops down on the other couch, groaning. “I don’t see how it’s fair to make them practically walk around in underwear,” he whines. “Where we can see!”

“I don’t see what their clothing has to do with anything,” says Elena, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose you mean the Dolls? You would not be allowed to have sex with them either way.”

“Also, the rest of us aren’t suffering because of it,” Victoria points out.

“Well, no,” grumbles Hunter. “You’ve all got people to help you with that. I haven’t got anybody.”

“Because you’re constantly whining about that,” chimes in Melinda, who’s just coming in.

Hunter makes an indignant noise. “Not constantly.”

Mack, Melinda, Isabelle, Elena, and Victoria all look at each other and then nod.

“You’re ganging up on me,” Hunter complains.

“Anyway,” Melinda says, rolling her eyes. “I’m glad you’re all here. Phil’s asked me to go over the month’s numbers with the handlers ASAP.”

“How exciting,” sighs Elena, looking disappointed.

“So basically, you’d like some arm candy who can spy on your business rival for you?” Phil asks, smiling politely at the client. “If I’m understanding you correctly.”

“I don’t care for the term ‘arm candy,’” the client says, raising an eyebrow in the most prim way possible (especially considering where he is and what he’s doing). “But basically, yes. Corporate espionage isn’t unheard of, and we fear that our company’s party tonight is going to draw out spies working for our rivals. It’s a countermeasure, really. We could hire from the same sorts of organizations our rivals have likely done, but then we run the risk of creating conflicts of interest, not to mention of there being spies-for-hire who go home for the night with our secrets in their minds.” He clears his throat. “This is much less of a liability.”

“Makes sense.” Phil nods. “And you’ll be needing three Dolls, is that correct?”

“At minimum,” the client says. “We can discuss variables when I go enter my parameters, or however you do this, but there are two executives and myself seeking women to pose as our dates while getting the job done.” He smiles, thinly. “And after all, a beautiful woman can be all too disarming.”

Phil chuckles, replying, “Of course. Well, I think that will be suitable. This is, of course, not a romantic engagement and you’ll need to pay extra for any sexual pleasure you or your executives wish to engage in while our Actives are on this engagement. They are not sex workers; please ensure your executives understand this.”

“Oh, I doubt that will be a problem,” the client murmurs conspiratorially, smirking. “Another advantage of beautiful women is that their presence can dispel certain… rumors, but rest assured, none of us have any interest in seducing our beards.”

“Oh, I see.” Phil smiles, amused. “Excellent. Would you like to set up the parameters and take a look at our House Actives now?”

“Please,” the client agrees, nodding politely.

“...so she’s basically arm candy, but arm candy who’ll also be spying,” Fitz says cheerfully.

Mack grimaces. “Not a big fan of this one, I’ll admit.”

Fitz tsks at him. “Mack, Mack, Mack, you know as well as I do that neither you nor I get to choose the engagements. We just get our marching orders and follow them to a T.”

“I just worry about her,” Mack sighs. “I don’t want any of those guests getting the wrong idea just because she’s flirting with them for information.”

“It’s sweet of you to worry,” coos Fitz, “but she’s a big girl. Well, sort of. I can program her with self-defense moves, if it’ll make you feel better. That’s not hard to add on.”

“I guess if that’s all you can do...sure.” Mack shakes his head. “At least this one isn’t romantic.”

“Not jealous, are you?”

“What? God, no! I’m not Hunter.” That makes Mack smile for a second before he adds, serious again, “I’m just not sure that what we’re doing is actually helping people. I dunno.”

“Does it matter?” asks Fitz with a shrug. “Our job isn’t to judge, Mack. Nobody would be here if they didn’t want to be.”

Mack shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple, but whatever you say.”

“So you like, design computers and stuff?” Aurora twists a lock of her hair around one finger. “That is so cool!”

“And stuff,” says the partygoer, amused but clearly also charmed. “Some days it’s kind of boring, but we do what we can.”

“So like, what’s your favorite thing that you’ve ever designed?”

“That’s not a hard question to answer or anything,” he quips. “Can I take a second to think about it? There’s a lot to sort through.”

‘“Totally.” Aurora beams at him. “I just like, think it’s so cool. I could never do all that stuff with computers, I can barely figure out my phone, y’know?”

“Aw, it’s not for everyone,” he says, sounding like he’s actually attempting to be consoling. “I’m sure you’re good at… other things.”

“Yeah?” She bats her eyelashes. “I dunno.”

“Well, you’re good at being beautiful,” he murmurs.

Giggling, Aurora taps him playfully on the arm. “Oh, shut up! You’re just saying that!”

“I’m not,” he insists. “And you’re charming, too.”

“Gosh,” she hums. “You’re really nice...Steven.”

He blinks. “Well, it’s not the weirdest thing a pretty girl has ever called me, I guess.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m not great with names.” She flashes him a smile. “My bad.”

“Hey, if you want me to be Steven…”

Aurora giggles again. “I mean, Steven’s a nice name. But like, I should probably know your real name.”

“Chad, actually,” he chuckles, reaching out to brush a hand down her arm.

“Oh, right. I’ll try to remember.” She copies his touch by running her hand down his arm too, and then says, “Hey, I’m like, really thirsty, do you think you could go get me a drink?”

“Want me to guess what you’re drinking or are you gonna give me a hint?”

“Surprise me?” Aurora winks at him. “I bet you’re really good at guessing what a girl likes.”

Saluting, Chad heads off in the direction of the refreshments table and Aurora sneaks off to a nearby corner and murmurs, “Hey, I made contact with that Chad guy. Holy shit, he’s stupid. Totally fell for the valley girl thing.”

“Good work,” says Mack over the comms. “Be sure you get him to talk about his work.”

“Yeah, I know.” Aurora rolls her eyes. “He’s being super weird and cagey about it, but I’ll do my best.” She glances around. “Cammie’s talking to Kevan right now, and I can’t see Sara but - oh shit, he’s coming back, brb.”

She makes her way back over to where she’d been standing just in time to seem like she’s been there all along. “Thank you!” she says, beaming at Chad when he hands her a glass.

“Champagne, milady?” he asks with a faux-courteous bow.

“Mmm, good choice.” She takes a sip. “So, I asked you a question earlier and you never answered it, mister.”

“Ask me one more time,” he says casually.

“Oh, I just wondered what your favorite thing you’ve ever designed was,” she replies. “I mean, I don’t know a lot, you can dumb it down.”

“Well,” he says, dragging it out like he’s still thinking about it, “I guess I’m pretty proud of my ice wall. Y’know, ‘cause it’s the opposite of a firewall.” He seems pleased with the joke, although the metaphor doesn’t actually play out that well because while the two things are opposite fire would pretty well actually destroy ice.

Aurora giggles. “What’s that mean? I like, really don’t know anything, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Chad laughs. “So firewalls are the things that you install to keep bad shit out of your computer, basically. Except it’s not always used for just bad shit, sometimes it keeps shit that should be getting in…” A meaningful pause here, because he’s double-talking a little; Aurora knows that he’s talking about shit that is, in fact, bad. “And so the ice wall, ha-ha, freezes the controls. Lets shit get in after all.”

“Oh, I get it,” says Aurora, nodding. “So like, should I get one of these when it comes out?”

“As of now, it’s only available to private companies,” he says. He means his own company and those that contract with it.

“Aw.” Aurora pouts exaggeratedly. “Well if it’s so important, how come only companies get to have it?”

“Still working out a few details,” he shrugs.  “It operates on a level that’s sort of beyond what laypeople can do, anyway.”

“So are you the only person that knows about it? Is it like, top-secret?”

“I’m one of a select few.”

“Wow. So you’re pretty important then, huh?” Aurora twines her arm with his for a second.

“I guess you could say that,” he remarks, clearly smug.

“Have you ever thought about like, selling it by yourself? I mean, you could probably make a lot of money if it’s so special and important.” Aurora fluffs up her hair idly.

“Maybe,” Chad says, “but I’m not so much a businessman. Besides, I’ve got a good thing going right now. No need to play with it.”

“Oh, be nice,” Sara is chuckling, tossing her hair. “I’m spoken for, lest you forget.”

“I can’t compliment a beautiful woman?” Dirk replies. “Even the most taken babe likes being called a babe.” He pauses and steers her away from the crowd at large, toward the hallway almost. “Besides, you’re not all that taken. I saw whose arm you walked in on.”

Sara raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she murmurs.

“Everyone knows that those guys are f-”

By now, they’re alone enough that they won’t get noticed, which means Sara has no qualms about twisting his arm behind his back and shoving him up against the wall, smiling all the way. “Watch it,” she hisses.

“Ooh, feisty, I could get on board with that,” Dirk says, though he’s wincing.

“If you want to be able to get on board with anyone, ever, I suggest you end your earlier statement with ‘-ucking phenomenal businessmen,” she chirps, twisting a little harder.

“F-ucking phenomenal businessmen,” he chokes out. “Jesus, lady, what the hell?”

“Consider me the voice of your conscience,” she cracks, and then she storms off toward the ladies’. When she’s there, she says into her mic, “Sorry. Had to diffuse that situation.”

“No need to apologize, darlin’,” says Hunter. “But I guess we won’t be getting any intel out of him, then.”

“He’s a wash,” Sara says. “All he knows is who’s getting busy when. Decent blackmail information, but that’s not the target.”

“Dammit. Well, keep trying, love, you’re doing great.” Hunter switches off his mic and sighs. “I hate this.”

“What’s the matter, Hunter?” teases Elena, smirking.

Hunter gives her a withering look and doesn’t answer.

“Elena?” Cammie asks. “You there?”

“Yes, go ahead,” says Elena quickly.

“I made out with Kevan and swiped a zip drive out of his pocket,” says Cammie, sounding smug. “Threw in a decoy, so he won’t figure it out for awhile.”

Elena grins. “Well done. Did he tell you anything?”

“A little. I’ll tell you more when I get back to the van. He offered to introduce me to a couple of his friends, so I’d better tap out for now.”

“Good luck,” says Elena, and then leans back in her chair and puts her feet up. “Pretty good, eh?” she asks Mack, looking mischievous.

Mack snorts. “It’s not a competition, you know.”

“I know, but my Active’s still doing better than either of yours.”

“Must be a difference in the programming,” Hunter complains.

“No. Delta’s just the best,” says Elena with a little shrug.

“Oh now, those are fighting words,” replies Mack, grinning. “Whose Active is most requested again?”

“For now,” says Elena. “We’re coming for your title, you know.”

Hunter groans and puts his head in his hands. “Will you please quit flirting on the job? It’s bloody obnoxious.”

“Oh, I’ve never been opposed to a little… experimentation,” murmurs Sara, stepping closer to Aurora and brushing her hair behind her ear. “Especially with such a pretty… variable.”

Aurora does her bubbly fake giggle. “I don’t know if I know what that means, but I think I’m flattered.”

“It means we’ve got chemistry,” Sara whispers. She’s fully aware of the eyes on them: their alleged dates, who seem mostly amused, and their targets, who appear enthralled. They’re in a room cut off from a lot of the party, but the important people are present.

“Oh, right.” Aurora slips her arm around Sara’s back. “I’m definitely feeling some of that, yeah. What d’you think we should do about it?”

“I have a few ideas,” Sara says. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Cammie rummaging in their opponents’ things, casually, like she’s supposed to be there, but they’re still on distraction duty, just in case. And hey, she doesn’t mind playing around a little, Aurora’s pretty hot. She closes the distance between them and starts tracing fingers along Aurora’s shoulderblades. “Starting with this,” she adds, leaning in to kiss Aurora on the mouth.

Aurora hums into Sara’s mouth, pulling her closer. “I like your ideas,” she murmurs against Sara’s lips.

“Mm, good,” Sara hums. She strokes across Aurora’s skin, deepens the kiss. “Yum.”

Aurora adds some tongue, groaning when Sara bites at her lip. “Feels like you’ve done this before.”

“That a problem?” Sara breathes out. “You don’t seem like you’re complaining.”

Shaking her head fiercely, Aurora moves to suck a hickey onto Sara’s neck. “Not at all,” she purrs. “I love it when people have more...experience than me.”

“You make it sound so formal,” Sara chuckles, tilting her head to allow more access.

Unfortunately, it’s right then that someone calls out, “Hey, you! What are you doing?” at Cammie, whose hand is blatantly in the pocket of someone’s abandoned jacket.

She blinks. “I, ah…”

Just then, a new person comes storming into the room, gun drawn. “I don’t think you want to ask any more questions,” she says, tossing her hair.

Sara glances up and smirks. “Glad you could make it to the party, Erika,” she drawls.

“I’m only here to cover your asses,” Erika replies, smug as anything. “Sounds like the show needs a little work, if your audience’s attention is wandering like this.”

“What the hell is going on?” Kevan exclaims.

“What’s going on is you’re gonna forget you ever saw us, and we’re gonna do the same,” Erika says, motioning for the other girls to get behind her.

“Thanks for the free champagne and stuff!” chirps Aurora. “See you...well, never.”

“How did Foxtrot handle her first engagement?” Dr. Simmons - Jemma, here with him she’s just Jemma - asks, casually leaning against the desk in Fitz’s office.

‘Pretty well, I think.” Fitz shrugs. “It was basically just a last-resort rescue op, but I didn’t hear about any issues. She was fine, for the backup.”

“There weren’t any signs of… I know the girl had some fairly severe mental conditions, coming in, and going out on an engagement so soon after arriving…”

“Like I said, it wasn’t a particularly stressful engagement,” says Fitz idly. “I don’t even think she was really working for more than five minutes. You’d know if there were any lingering adverse effects more than me.”

“I suppose,” Jemma says, sounding a bit doubtful. “Considering the nature of the engagement, everyone came out pretty well unscathed, I think.”

“Yes, always good when everyone’s in one piece,” Fitz says with a smile. “I think Foxtrot’ll be fine. I told them to keep her off of romantic engagements for a few weeks, just to be sure, but after that I’m sure she’ll be popular.”

“They all are, in one way or another,” Jemma remarks, “but that - yes, that’s a good idea. Easing her into it.” She smiles back, cautious and almost shy as she says, “Good thinking.”

Fitz puffs up just a bit, clearly pleased, and says, “I thought so, yes. Everyone come back with a clean bill of health?”

“Mostly,” Jemma says wryly. “Tango is sporting quite a love bite, which might be interesting, but everyone’s alright, medically.”

“Oh, is that what that was.” Fitz rolls his eyes. “I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to do things like that.”

“Within the parameters of engagement personas, I suppose anything is possible,” Jemma says, shrugging. “You’re the one who designed their personalities, you must have given one of the others that kind of… friskiness.”

Snorting, Fitz replies, “It wasn’t intentional, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I suppose there’s no telling, sometimes,” Jemma sighs, sounding a bit doubtful. “At least it’s a fair bet it was one of the other Dolls, and not some schmuck at the party. Right?”

“Small blessings, yes. Perhaps I’d better keep a close eye on those four, see if they start exhibiting grouping tendencies while in Doll-state. It’d be better to nip that in the bud if possible.” Fitz pauses and adds, “Did I tell you that Charlie walked in on Foxtrot’s imprinting process?”

Jemma shakes her head. “I heard from Callie and Charlie herself that she’d been, quote, ‘exploring,’ while it was still going on, but I hadn’t realized she actually…”

“Oh yes. Waltzed right into the room and asked a bunch of irritating questions.”

“She doesn’t mean to be irritating,” Jemma says, almost chiding him. “Don’t be mean.”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “I know, but it was irritating. Anyway, I hope that didn’t affect either of them too much. Hopefully she forgot about it by now.”

“Forgetting is rather what they do,” Jemma says softly.

Chapter Text

“Where are you going?” Gabe asks teasingly, glancing at his brother. It’s clear from his tone that any answer is going to be worthy of joking in one way or another.

“Nowhere important,” Robbie grunts. “I’ll be back before midnight.”

“You’re lying,” Gabe says, wheeling his chair around to get a better look at Robbie. “You never go anywhere, which means wherever you’re going is important. I’m not a dumb kid, you can tell me.”

“I’m going to a bar,” replies Robbie. “To meet girls.”

“Really,” Gabe deadpans. “Any particular girls? Or just randoms?”

Robbie shrugs. “Blonde in a Union Jack? A specific one, I didn’t just wake up with a craving.” Then he chuckles and adds, “Gonna see who I meet tonight. Should be fun.” He shoots Gabe an almost-convincing smile.

“Yeah, okay,” Gabe says warily. “Just wasn’t expecting that. Ever. But you go have a good time.” He manages a much better smile. “You deserve a fun night out.”

“Thanks. I’ll have my phone. Let me know if you need anything.”

Of course, Robbie’s not at all planning on looking for girls. He has inside information that the biker gang meets frequently at this bar, and he’s going to be there to watch them. Not that he’ll do anything about it tonight - he’s still in the observation stage of things.

He wears a leather duster and all-black clothing. (Honestly, it’s not that different from his usual outfit.) The bikers usually show up around ten or eleven, so he gets there a little earlier and nurses a beer waiting.

He doesn’t really have a solid plan here - but he can’t let them get away with what they did. It’s been nearly a year since the accident, but he hasn’t been able to let it go. Robbie had been driving, Gabe in the passenger seat, and they’d been smacked into by a car with the gang’s insignia plastered on it. Before Robbie could do anything, the gang’s car sped off, the sound of laughter ringing in Robbie’s ears. Gabe’s adjusted to needing his wheelchair, but Robbie can’t think about it without getting angrier and angrier. He needs to make them pay for hurting his brother.

As they start to trickle in, laughing amongst themselves, he watches. They seem so carefree, so unaware of the pain they’ve caused. Monsters. He’ll find a way to make them understand.

A couple of them have women on their arms, who laugh and talk along with the others. This baffles him, until he realizes these women are possibly not affiliated with the gang and have been...well, hired. There’s an air about them that the bikers don’t have, like they’re doing their best to fit in but not quite succeeding.

One of them, a tall blonde, saunters over to the bar, very near where Robbie is sitting, and tries to get the bartender’s attention. This doesn’t work, which means the woman sighs dramatically and says, directly to Robbie, “Guess I picked the one night being a hot chick doesn’t get you instant service.”

Robbie blinks. He’s never been good at talking to women. Or anyone. “That’s too bad,” he says shyly, sipping at his beer.

“You seem like you got the bartender’s attention,” she remarks, nodding to his beer. “Care to help a girl out? I’m Larissa.”

“Robbie,” he says, waving for the bartender. He does have to keep doing it for a minute or so, but luckily the guy spots him before too much longer and heads their way. “What brings you here?” he asks, trying for innocent.

“Oh, out with a guy,” Larissa shrugs. She glances back toward her group’s table, where several men seem to have devolved into drunken arm wrestling. “It’s going… okay.”

Robbie makes what he hopes is a sympathetic face. “Your date doesn’t seem all that interested in you.”

“It’s kinda normal, honestly,” she says. “They’re getting their rowdies out.”

“Still,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Doesn’t seem like you’re having much fun.”

“Worse ways to spend a night,” Larissa declares. “What about you? What’s your game tonight?”

Robbie shrugs. “Drinks. Conversation. I’ll see what happens.”

“Sounds kinda vague,” she teases.

“I don’t mean to be,” he says with a grin. “So how’d you meet that guy anyway? The one you’re here with.”

“Friend of a friend,” she remarks. “In a way.”

“Well, it seems like your friend has pretty bad taste in people,” he jokes. “I haven’t seen that guy look twice at you since you got here.”

“He’ll get more attentive later, I have a feeling,” she replies archly.

“Hopefully.” Robbie gives her a smile. “You deserve that.”

“Someone’s sweeter than they look,” Larissa murmurs playfully.

Robbie chuckles. “Haven’t heard that much before.”

“What’s going on here?” growls one of the bikers, coming over to put his arm around Larissa’s shoulders.

“He just helped me get the bartender’s attention, that’s all,” Larissa says, a note of warning cheer in her voice. There’s no need to get territorial. “Figured I wasn’t gonna bother you while you were busy.”

“Hmm,” murmurs the guy, stroking down her back. “Well, thanks for the help, man.” He doesn’t say anything more, as if he’s hoping Robbie will take the hint and move along.

Larissa gives a little wave. “Have a good night,” she says brightly, nudging her date as if to imply they should be the ones to migrate, not Robbie; after all, he was there first. It’s only fair.

Her date scoffs, but reluctantly leads her away. Robbie rolls his eyes after him and takes a drink.

After a few minutes alone, another of the girls, Chinese with shoulder-length hair, comes over to the bar, looking bored. “Vodka tonic,” she says to the bartender. “And make it strong.”

“Doing okay?” Robbie asks, in what he hopes is a casual tone.

She shrugs. “Had better nights. It’s kind of a long story.”

“If you wanna tell it, I’d be happy to listen.” He grins. “I’m Robbie.”

“Stella.” She offers her hand. “Basically, my date, who wasn’t actually my date, ditched me for the girl he was trying to make jealous. So now I’m pretty much free for the evening.”

Robbie frowns. “He sounds like an asshole.”

Stella shrugs. “I’m technically working tonight, so whatever. Y’know.” She glances at him. “Like I said, he wasn’t actually my date, he just paid me to be here. Go ahead, say any of the gross shit you’re thinking. I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” Robbie shrugs. “Wasn’t thinking any gross shit.”

“Really? Well, that’s a surprise.” Stella grabs the glass the bartender passes her and takes a long drink. “Usually if I mention sex work, people morph into puritanical judgey bitches immediately. Or they sort of pussy-foot around it, use a lot of not-really-judgey phrases.”

Robbie laughs. “Nope, no judgment here. Sorry he ditched you though.”

“He was already an asshole, so I’m totally fine with not having to hang around him.” Stella grins. “So what’s your story, Robbie?”

“Not much to tell,” he says. “Just here hanging out. Also it gets my little brother off my back. He thinks I stay home too much.”

“Oh, brothers,” says Stella. “I’ve got two older ones and they have no idea what I do for a living. One of them would try to go out and beat up all my clients and the other would lecture me on how I’m betraying feminism or some shit. Never mind that I’m making bank.”

Robbie snorts. “Yeah, Gabe’s six years younger but I think he thinks he’s my big brother sometimes. Dumb kid fusses over me all the time.”

“Cute.” Stella smiles at him. “You must be close.”

“We’re all we’ve got,” says Robbie with a shrug. “Our folks aren’t around. We have an uncle, but he lives an hour away. And he was in a really bad car accident a year ago, so I gotta take care of him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is he doing okay?”

“He’s got a wheelchair. But he’s coping okay. Probably better than me.” Robbie smirks into his beer. “He thinks I should be processing it with a therapist or something.”

“Hey, therapy’s great,” says Stella. “You sound like a great brother.”

“I try,” says Robbie, glancing back over to where the bikers are.

They chat for a few more minutes before someone calls Stella back over to the bikers. Surreptitiously, Robbie pulls out his phone and snaps some pictures of her face. Creepy? Maybe, but he has facial recognition software and damned if he isn’t going to use it.

“You’ve seen the news reports?” Melinda asks Phil, voice low.

Phil nods. “Can’t miss ‘em, they’re everywhere.”

“I don’t have to tell you what all the victims have in common.”

“Nope.” Phil sighs. “Maybe we should start adding a disclaimer. ‘Dollhouse clientele may find themselves in mortal danger.’” He grins, but it’s half-hearted, because two former patrons being the victims of gruesome murders in as many weeks isn’t a laughing matter.

Melinda gives him a look that tells him as much. “And they both had romantic engagements,” she points out. “That’s probably not a coincidence.”

“Hm,” says Phil. “You think it was some kind of weird morality police thing? Like maybe they found out these guys secretly hired Dolls and they wanted to make examples of them? Crazy Christian types, maybe?”

Scoffing, Melinda says, “You know exactly who it was, Phil.”

Phil sighs. “I was hoping for some nice crazy Christian types. That’d be so much easier.”

There comes a knock at the office door and Victoria walks in, one eyebrow raised. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks suspiciously.

Phil coughs, in the most accidentally suspicious way possible. “No,” he says quickly. “We were just...talking numbers.”

Melinda rolls her eyes. “Did you need something, Vic?”

“I just wanted to talk over Romeo’s last engagement,” Victoria shrugs. “We haven’t had a chance to yet, and I know you do like that personal play-by-play, Phil.” She might be slightly sarcastic about this.

“Oh, of course, yes.” Phil glances at Melinda, still a little flustered. “We can pick this up later?”

Sighing, Melinda nods. “Sure. See you later, Phil.”

The first thing Robbie does in his search is google “stella” + “prostitute” + “los angeles.” That doesn’t get him much, so he pokes around in the local escort agencies to see if any of them list the Stella in question. He finds several Stellas, none of whose pictures match the girl he met at the bar. Frustrated, he expands his search to escort agencies all over California, and still comes up empty. Granted, it might be that whoever she’s working with isn’t online and is more of a the-people-you-know establishment, but one place she might not be able to hide is Google Images. Robbie uploads the pictures to his facial recognition software and goes to make a sandwich while it does its thing.

When he returns, it’s come up with results alright - but none of them link to a Stella, at all. There are about a dozen pictures of her, some from traffic cameras, some from social media accounts, some from other places. They all come up with different names: Joelle Danvers, Aurora, Chrissy Underhill...there doesn’t seem to be a single picture of the girl that uses the same name. “What?” he asks, blinking at the screen.

The screen doesn’t answer, of course.

“So what the hell is going on, Phil?” Victoria asks, sitting on the overstuffed leather sofa and giving him a look. The fact that he’s technically her boss has never seemed to affect her.

Phil purses his lips, clearly flustered. “Er,” he says. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve watched the news recently.”

“Read the news,” she corrects, smirking. “It goes faster.”

“Ah, good point,” he says with a nervous smile. “Anyway, there’s been a couple of high-profile murders in the last couple of weeks, and as it turns out, they were both former clients. We’re, ah, looking into whether their murders may have been related. We think it might be someone who has a moral objection to the Dollhouse,” he adds, almost cheerful. “Both of the engagements were romantic.”

“I’m pretty sure if they had a moral objection they’d morally object to the part where we also rent them out as assassins sometimes,” Victoria remarks.

Phil colors slightly. “I suppose. But, yes, we were discussing whether we ought to be concerned for the safety of our clients and the Dolls, and whether anything can be done about it.”

“Catch the bastard?” she suggests wryly.

“Well, yes.” He laughs. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas about how to do that?”

“He’s targeting clients, or she, I suppose,” Victoria says. “They’re targeting clients. How recently after their last engagements were the victims attacked?”

“I don’t know off the top of my head,” says Phil with a shrug, “but I think probably within a month of the engagement? Pretty recent. I remember the last guy pretty well. He wanted Delta for a threesome with his wife.”

“So ideally, we’d trail all the clients who have romantic engagements and intercept any attacks,” she sighs. “Which logically isn’t practical. We don’t have the staff to supervise that many clients, even if we imprinted every Doll in the house to help. Were there any other connections between the victims?”

Phil thinks for a minute. “I guess they both had female Actives, but I don’t know if that has much to do with it. One had Delta, like I said, and the other had Tango.”

“So about as different as two Dolls could be,” Victoria declares. “The percentage of female Actives who have romantic engagements is slightly higher, so until we have more information I don’t want to rely on that to build the investigation… but then, you don’t really need me to build your investigation at all, do you? That’s what May’s for.”

“I suppose so,” says Phil, grinning. “Still, thank you for trying to talk me through it.”

She nods, though she’s slightly suspicious. “I’m guessing whatever you do you’re going to do soon,” she says. “Far as I know Romeo has a couple of days off…”

“Hm,” muses Phil. “How would you feel about using him for a special assignment?”

“You want to use Romeo as a covert tracker to catch this guy?” Melinda raises an eyebrow.

Phil shrugs defensively. “I’m not saying he needs to go after the guy himself, but it would help to have an extra pair of eyes in case things go south.”

“Uh huh,” says Melinda. “And what happens if this guy notices him?”

“He’s gonna be imprinted as special ops,” says Phil. “He’ll have done this before.”

“I guess,” Melinda says reluctantly. “So he’ll be tailing the guy while one of the female Actives is on a regular engagement?”

“Essentially. He’ll be our eyes - the person who’ll have the best idea what’s going on in the situation if someone does show up and causes trouble.” Phil pauses. “I feel like you’re not as on board with this as I am.”

Melinda sighs. “It’s too complicated. And we don’t know whether whoever this is will go after an Active if they feel threatened.”

“It’s not that complicated. One Active, out like normal, and one keeping an eye on them and their client.” Phil shrugs. “Unless you have a better idea, it might be the best option.”

Melinda frowns and replies, “Not that I have a better idea, but this just doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Understandable,” says Phil, “but nothing about this sits right with me, so.”

“This is so great,” gushes Andrea as she twists some pasta onto her fork. “I can’t believe you got reservations here! They’re usually booked for months in advance in the summer.”

Jacob shrugs self-effacingly. “I know how much you like this place,” he says. “It wasn’t too hard. Just pulled a few strings.”

“Best boyfriend ever,” Andrea squeals.

Meanwhile, Adam, stationed close enough to the restaurant to see everything, speaks into his comm. “Victoria? Everything seems normal so far.”

“Comforting,” Victoria drawls. “No news is good news, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Adam is quiet for a minute before he adds, “Not gonna lie, this guy doesn’t seem great. In my unprofessional opinion, she deserves better.”

“I’m not really the one to ask,” Victoria chuckles. “But our job is just to keep an eye on them and make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” Adam laughs. “How’s your girl, by the way?”

Victoria blinks, glad that Romeo can’t see her face right now. Of course Fitz programmed Adam with the knowledge that she and Isabelle are an item. It’s not like it’s particularly salacious or particularly secret, either way, but it’s also really none of his damn business; honestly, it’s just like him to pry without prying like that.

But that’s not Adam’s fault, and it’s not like there’s a good way to explain her annoyance to Adam considering it’s predicated on the fact that he’s not a real person and everything he knows was put in his head by a know-it-all Scottish asshole. So she clears her throat, tries to laugh, and says, “She’s good. Nothing special going on, just the same old… good.” And even if there was something special, like hell would she share it.

“Glad to hear it.” Adam’s quiet for a little while, just humming to himself. “She got any cute friends you could introduce me to?”

“We really don’t have a lot of uncoupled friends,” Victoria says. Technically not untrue, considering they don’t have that many friends.

“Damn.” Adam sounds like he’s smiling. “Worth a try, anyway.”

He doesn’t say much as they both watch the date in progress. “Hey,” Adam says finally, “so...how in-depth is this surveillance? I mean, I’m willing to watch their dinner, but if things get sexy I’ll feel a little weird watching, y’know?”

“We just have to see them home safely,” she says, chuckling.

(She does actually survey the sexy bits in her job as a Handler, not always but sometimes, and she’s not sure that Fitz’s programming the question into the Adam persona isn’t a weird and slightly passive-aggressive… something, although what he has to be passive-aggressive about is unclear considering he’s just as complicit. She tries not to question it.)

“Cool.”

“Hey, guys.” Mack patches in. “Adam, do you see that guy a few tables away? Latino, short hair, leather jacket, cheekbones?”

“Yeah, I see him.”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he came in right after the happy couple and he’s been watching them ever since. Might be taking pictures too. It’s a little weird.”

Robbie’s not proud of what he had to do to get into this restaurant (it involves swiping someone’s wallet to get his ID, which he fully intends to mail to the guy later, he’s not a monster). But here he is, and there’s Stella, or Joelle, or whatever her name is. He heard the guy call her Andrea when he snuck past to “use the restroom” earlier. Maybe it’s some weird anonymity thing where she uses a different name with each guy?

Right now she’s laughing and talking with him like they’ve known each other for months. It’s a little weird, but not completely out there. If she really is a sex worker, maybe he’s a repeat client. Then again, he’s treating her more like his girlfriend than anything, so maybe they really are dating.

He takes a few pictures with his phone, careful not to be seen, and leaves just before they do so he can be on his bike and waiting to follow them once they get outside. He tails their cab, careful to keep out of sight, and manages to stay hidden even when they get out at a fancy house in a neighborhood just outside the city. He turns his bike around and rides out of there.

But when he googles the guy, he turns out to be a high-level software developer who is either very modest about his incredibly hot girlfriend, or not actually Stella/Joelle/Andrea’s boyfriend after all. He has no pictures with her at all, and in fact he has pictures with another, blonde girl on his Instagram feed as recently as a month before. Robbie shakes his head, still no less confused than he was before.

“I enjoy swimming,” remarks Tango, easing out of the pool and reaching for a towel.

Delta climbs out and nods. “It’s very relaxing. May I have a towel as well?”

“Yes,” Tango says, handing a towel to Delta with a polite smile. “I swam thirty laps this afternoon.”

“That is a lot of laps,” replies Delta. “I’m sure that helped you be your best.”

“Yes,” Tango repeats. “I feel tired, but in a nice way.” She starts gently wringing water out of her hair and lets her gaze drift over the room, toward the door that leads to and from the showers. Foxtrot comes in and unwinds her own towel from around her waist.

“I think now I’ll go look at a book,” says Delta idly.

“Foxtrot is very pretty,” Tango murmurs, watching as her new friend sits at the edge of the pool and pushes herself in.

“Yes, she is,” says Delta, seeming a little puzzled. “What does that have to do with books?”

“Nothing,” Tango says. “I saw her walk in and wanted to say that. It’s nice to say nice things about your friends.”

“It is,” Delta agrees. “You should tell her that. It will make her happy.”

Tango grins. “I will! Thank you.” Apropos of nothing, then, and still toweling her hair dry, she sits down cross-legged at the edge of the pool and watches Foxtrot swim with an expectant but patient smile.

“Are you waiting for something?” Delta asks.

“I am going to wait for Foxtrot to finish swimming,” Tango explains solemnly. “I don’t want to forget to tell her that she’s pretty.”

Delta nods. “That makes sense. I will see you later, then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Tango replies, smiling.

Foxtrot swims thirty laps as well, pausing every ten to catch her breath, and Tango occupies herself by counting how long each lap takes her to swim. When Foxtrot climbs out of the pool, Tango stands up and goes over to her, smiling. “Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” Foxtrot says. “You weren’t swimming.”

“No, I swam earlier,” Tango says. “I was waiting for you to finish so I could tell you that you’re pretty.”

Foxtrot beams. “Thank you,” she replies. “You’re also pretty.”

“Thank you,” Tango echoes. “Would you like to go eat something? I’m usually hungry after I exercise.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Foxtrot agrees. “I am going to take a shower first.”

“I’ll take a shower too,” Tango decides. “Then we can eat!”

“Yes,” Foxtrot says. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” Tango says.

Fitz is idly glancing at the monitors as he does paperwork, more out of habit than actual concern for what’s going on. They try to have someone watching the pool at all times, just in case something happens and an Active needs rescuing. Today it seems pretty quiet. Delta and Tango swim at the same time, then both get out and talk as they dry off. He’s glad the monitors are visual only - Dollspeak is excruciating. Then Foxtrot enters and starts to swim, and after a minute Delta leaves, but Tango sits down, watching Foxtrot.

“Huh.” He puts down the paperwork to watch. That’s not normal. Actives take about as much notice of each other as well-trained dogs, which is to say that they seem to understand that the other Actives are similar to them, and they’re cordial, but they don’t typically form attachments or interact with other Actives for more than a few minutes.

Tango sits and watches Foxtrot swim until she gets out of the pool. Then they talk for a minute or two before leaving together. Fitz raises an eyebrow. “Odd.”

It’s unusual, and that makes him nervous. So he goes to get Jemma. “I noticed something odd on the security cameras in the pool area,” he says, rewinding the tape.

“Oh?” Jemma hums, tilting her head. “Odd concerning, odd silly, odd as in a technical malfunction?”

“Just watch.” He pushes play and lets her watch it up until the two Dolls leave. “See?”

“Tango must be interested in making a friend,” Jemma says. That’s an understatement, in her opinion, but she doesn’t want to go presuming, especially considering she’d be presuming it about Dolls.

Fitz frowns. “Have you ever seen them look at each other like that? Or wait for another? I certainly haven’t.”

“I suppose it could be instinctual,” Jemma says hesitantly.

“What do you mean?”

Jemma glances at the monitor, then her hands - anywhere but his face as she muses, “Well, attraction. Besides, wasn’t Tango’s last romantic engagement, you know…?”

Furrowing his brow, Fitz says, “It was with a woman, yes, but I wiped her. She shouldn’t still have those...urges.”

“I suppose,” Jemma says, sounding doubtful. “But perhaps it’s deeper than conscious urges, perhaps they…” She trails off, pressing her hands to either side of her neck anxiously. Discussing the Dolls’ habits with Fitz is normal, she’s not sure why this is making her so uncomfortable. “It’s foolish. Forget it. Tango and Foxtrot see each other all the time. Tango was just… looking for longer than she usually does. That’s harmless, I think.”

“Uh huh,” says Fitz, sounding unconvinced. “So we shouldn’t worry about it, then? In your opinion.”

“I don’t think so, not yet anyway,” Jemma nods. “For all we know, Tango just… decided to sit down after she swam and didn’t think about getting up until Foxtrot did.” The excuse sounds flimsy even to her, but it’s not entirely improbable (probably). “Besides, it clearly wasn’t an antagonistic interaction. I think that would be a much bigger concern.”

“True.” Fitz nods. “And I suppose, I suppose girls do this sort of thing more often, don’t they? They’re more affectionate with friends and such. It doesn’t mean...that.”

Jemma bites her lip. She doesn’t much care for how he sounds like he’s judging - because there’s no judgment here, that’s the whole point of the Dollhouse. But it’s not worth fighting about, and anyway he’s probably right, and… “Not usually, no,” she says. “I mean, I… well, I haven’t really had friends like that, not girlfriends anyway, but I haven’t had many… oh, you know. That’s how it is in films, anyway.”

Fitz chuckles. “I don’t typically see those types of films, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“I haven’t seen many, either,” Jemma mumbles, flushing. “But the few… it’s not unusual, is my point. If you wanted to keep an eye on them, I suppose that wouldn’t go amiss, but I don’t know that you really have to.” She pauses, thinks for a moment, and adds, “Besides, didn’t Mike used to follow Charlie around sometimes? Still might, in fact. And that’s not… that’s harmless. That’s never been a concern.”

“I suppose,” agrees Fitz. “Anyhow, I guess I’ll keep an eye out for any other odd behavior.”

“I’ll do as well,” Jemma says hesitantly, more because she’s pretty sure he expects it of her than because she thinks it’s necessary. Implicit is the thought that her idea of odd might be different than his - but not too different, really. It couldn’t be.

“Anyhow,” Fitz adds, “I just wanted a second opinion.”

Jemma nods. “Well, you know I’m glad to help,” she says. “Was there… anything else?”

Fitz shakes his head. “That’ll be all, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Jemma says, starting (slowly) toward the door. The truth is, she doesn’t have any obligations until the night’s engagements start filtering back in, and she was feeling a little bit lonely before Fitz called her up. But she doesn’t want to say that, because that’s foolish and loneliness is nonsensical and she doesn’t want to seem at all needy. She just starts to walk out.

Slowly.

She gets almost to the door before he adds casually, “Would you like to help me do paperwork? I have juice boxes, you could have one.”

“Apple?” she asks, trying not to sound too excited. She’s a grown woman, juice boxes shouldn’t be this exciting.

He rummages in his fridge and holds it out to her. “You can sit over here,” he says, indicating the wooden stool next to his chair.

“I’m glad you’ve never given into that trend of sitting on oversized bouncy balls,” she chuckles, perching on the stool with her ankles crossed and starting to look the papers over.

“There’s a who now?” Fitz asks.

“Mack noticed him while Romeo was on surveillance,” says Phil. “Here, he got a few pictures.” He passes the prints over to Fitz.

Fitz looks closely at them, pursing his lips. “And he was watching them all the way through, and then followed them?”

“On a motorcycle, yes,” confirms Phil. “We checked the reservations list that night, and he gave a false name, so that’s a dead end.”

“Can you run facial recognition on him?” asks Melinda.

Fitz scoffs. “Can I.” While still sitting in his rolly chair, he scoots over to the computer and scans the pictures into the system. Within a few minutes he has a handful of results. “Doesn’t seem to have his own social media accounts, but he shows up a lot on this one.” He clicks over to the tab open on an Instagram account, gabereyes97. The screen fills with pictures of a smiling Latino boy in a wheelchair, textbooks, nice cars, and a few of the guy they’re looking for, glaring or looking blankly at the screen. “Now,” Fitz adds, “it seems like this is probably his kid brother, and Gabe here refers to his brother Robbie several times, so it’s likely our spy’s name is Robbie Reyes.” He looks smug. “You’re welcome.”

Phil looks impressed; Melinda less so. “Anything else you dug up?” Melinda asks.

“Well, there’s a few pictures coming up that, funnily enough, have some other familiar faces in them.” He clicks around to show them pictures from the bar where Tango and Charlie last had a joint engagement. “Seems like he made some friends.”

“Hm.” Phil tilts his head, as if thinking. “So what should we do about this?”

Fitz shrugs. “Is it too much to assassinate him? He seems like something of a threat, considering he may be tailing Charlie.”

“No one is getting assassinated,” says Melinda quickly. “But we should keep an eye on him.”

“Maybe we can loan out one of the Actives to do that,” muses Phil. “Program her as a non-threatening neighbor or something, and place her in his vicinity for a few weeks or months.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Fitz says, “but we’ll need to be sure it’s one that he has had no chance of coming in contact with. He’s probably catching on to Charlie, who knows what else he suspects.”

“So not Charlie,” Phil says. “And not Tango. I’d like to keep Foxtrot to short-term engagements since she’s still new.”

“What about India?” Melinda asks. “She hasn’t been on any romantic engagements, or anything in the public eye, in awhile.”

“That could work.” Phil nods slowly. “Can you create that imprint?” he asks Fitz.

“I can do that,” Fitz agrees. “So we basically want to make her appeal to him as much as possible so he’ll talk to her.”

“Well, don’t go overboard,” Phil says. “But you could leave it open to romance, yes.”

“Give me a day or two and I can whip something up.”

“Here we are,” says Fitz, waving the wedge triumphantly. “Where’s India?”

“Right here,” announces Quinn, her Handler, as he ushers her into the imprint room. He’s one of the showier Handlers, which means he doesn’t get on with Fitz very well, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Hello,” India says with a placid smile.

“Hello,” Fitz says, a tad impatiently. “Will you get in the chair, please, India? It’s time for your treatment.”

“You’re not your best,” she murmurs, in a way that sounds as much like pity as anything a Doll says can, but she settles herself in the chair obligingly.

He raises an eyebrow but decides to ignore it, beginning the imprinting process. Once it’s over, the chair sits India back up and she smiles at him. “Hi, Emily,” he says. “Did you enjoy your treatment?”

“I did,” promises India-as-Emily, grinning. “It’s been a really long week, it was nice to just relax.”

“I’m sure,” Fitz replies with a patronizing smile. “Mr. Quinn will take you home now, if you’d like.”

“Let me just get dressed,” Emily says.

Emily doesn’t consider herself a barfly or anything, but occasionally it’s nice to go out just to do something around other people, or whatever. Tonight she winds up in some fancy little bar that’s playing Formula One racing, which she doesn’t know much about, but not so loudly that it’s annoying; she’s thinking maybe she’ll just have a drink and read a book, and this seems like a relaxed enough place to do that, so she’s content.

Unfortunately, it’s a small enough bar that they’re low on tables, so she winds up kind of awkwardly hovering around one where only one guy is sitting by himself. “Uh… can I?”

Robbie looks up, a bit startled. “Sure,” he says, smiling nervously. “I’m not here with anybody.”

“Oh, god, I don’t mean like I was coming onto you,” Emily laughs. “Just, busy night. Needed a seat. Not that you’re not cute, but - scratch that. Ignore that I even said it.”

“Do I have to?” He grins. “People don’t say that to me a lot.”

She blinks and sits down fully before responding. “I mean, if you don’t wanna ignore it you don’t have to,” she says, sounding a little sheepish. “I just didn’t wanna be weird. Er. Weirder.”

“Nah, you’re okay.” He laughs and takes a sip of his drink. “I’m not that social.”

“Me either,” Emily confides. “I’m not anti-social, I guess, but I’m not usually chatting up strangers.”

“Nothing wrong with that if that’s what you like,” says Robbie. “I don’t.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “It’s not my favorite, usually. Thanks for taking it so well.”

He shrugs. “You seem okay. My brother wants me to date more, but I have enough trouble getting to that point.”

“Well, you can’t force it, right?” she asks.

“True.” Robbie shrugs again. “I’m Robbie, by the way.”

“Emily,” she says. “Nice to meet you.” She nods over to the flat-screen television. “Do you follow this stuff?”

“Not really, no. It’s background noise to me.”

Emily nods. “Yeah, same here,” she agrees. “I’m honestly awful at any kind of organized sport stuff.”

“Same here. Was always hopeless at gym class. I mean, I was hopeless at a lot of school, my brother’s the smart one, but especially gym.”

“Gym class is brutal,” she says, nodding fervently. “It always just seemed kind of sadistic to me.”

“Yeah. I liked shop class,” he replies. “I like cars. I’ve got a ‘69 Charger, if you know anything about that. Love that car.”

“I know less than I want to, usually,” she smirks, “but old cars are really pretty. Is that stupid to say?”

“No, not at all.” Robbie pulls out his phone. “See, this is Lucy.” He scrolls through some pictures of the car. “I did a lot of work on her myself.”

“Oh, nice,” Emily coos, eyes widening in appreciation. “She’s gorgeous.”

Robbie grins. “Thanks. I know it’s kinda weird to name cars, but it just seemed right.”

“Nah, it doesn’t seem that weird to me,” she shrugs. “People name fancy boats, right?”

“Good point.” He pauses for a drink before asking, “So, what brings you here?”

“It’s silly,” she demurs, sipping her own drink.

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Sometimes I have to force myself to go out,” she admits. “Not necessarily to do anything, but to… not be in my apartment watching Netflix.”

“Oh, I get that.” Robbie laughs awkwardly. “Gabe, my brother, he basically shoved me out the door tonight. You’re not the only one.”

Emily runs a hand through her hair, visibly relieved. “Hey, and this is more of a going out activity than usual. I was kind of just planning on reading or something.”

“Well, hey, glad to help.” Smiling, Robbie adds, “I’m not...great with people, so thanks for putting up with me.”

“You’re good,” she promises. “This is good. It’s... easy is a silly word for it, but it’s the only one I’m coming up with.”

“Good. I mean, that’s good. I’m glad.”

“Me too,” she says.

They continue to talk and lose track of time, until eventually the bar is closing and they’re both jolted out of their reverie by a slightly irritated bouncer trying to clear the room. “Huh,” Robbie says, walking outside with her. “Haven’t spent that long talking to someone in...well, ever.”

“Yeah, me either,” Emily murmurs, suddenly a little sheepish. “Sorry if I rambled or anything.”

“No, it was nice.” Robbie coughs. “Um, if this isn’t weird, could I maybe get your number?”

“Not weird,” she promises, grinning as she reaches for her phone. “It would kinda be weirder if you didn’t ask, at this point.”

“Cool.” He smirks. “Thanks for hanging out with me tonight.”

“Yeah, same to you,” she says. “I should probably get going, but…” She lets her smile soften as she leans in to kiss his cheek, then breaks away with a little wave.

If anyone were around to look at him, he would strongly deny that he stared after her with a dopey look on his face.

“So,” Fitz says, “that seemed to go quite well.”

“Quinn says India was perfect,” agrees Phil. “It even went longer than intended. I guess they really hit it off.” He smiles. “I’d say it’s romantic, but, well.”

Melinda rolls her eyes. “So, what, we just periodically send her to meet him?”

“Apparently,” says Fitz. “If nothing else, she might be able to gather basic intel about where he goes and what he does.”

“I suppose,” Melinda says. “It’s better than having no eyes on him.”

“Anyway,” Phil says, “we’d better be going, we have a meeting coming up. Great work, Fitz.”

Fitz heads back to his office and calls, “Jemma? You around?”

“Luckily,” Jemma replies, chuckling. “Do you have any snacks? I think I’ve reached that time of the night.” She looks sort of embarrassed about this, for no real reason.

“Of course.” He rummages about before handing her a bag of chips and a juice box. “I just wanted to talk to you about India’s latest mission.”

“Yes?” she prompts, sitting and very gently ripping the bag open. “Spying on the purported spy, wasn’t it?”

Fitz nods. “It was basically just sending her out to meet him at the bar and then letting them talk for a bit. Not that complicated. But I’m not really sure what it’s leading up to. They won’t tell me anything, really.”

“You sound like you suspect something, though,” she muses.

Shrugging, he says, “It’s not quite that I suspect something, but I think it’s awfully strange they’re focusing on this one guy when there’s a murderer on the loose.”

“And we know for sure he’s not the murderer himself?”

“No,” admits Fitz. “He very well could be. But he should be one of dozens of suspects, not the only one we’re supposed to follow.”

“Maybe they just haven’t figure others out yet?” Jemma suggests, though she knows it sounds flimsy. “I’m sure they’ve got their reasons and all.”

Fitz frowns. “Maybe, but it all seems very odd to me.”

“It’s not the most usual thing I’ve ever heard, but then, we don’t exactly have a usual job in general,” she quips, trying to make light.

He snorts and replies, “True enough.” He’s about to say more, but there’s movement in the corner of his eye and he whirls to see Charlie standing in the doorway, smiling.

“Hello,” she says.

“Charlie!” yelps Fitz, a bit taken aback. “Are you, are you here for your treatment already?”

“It’s important to be on time,” says Charlie.

“That’s true,” Jemma agrees, though she’s not sure how much else to say lest she interrupt something.

“Well, we were in the middle of a conversation,” says Fitz, “so perhaps you could wait down the hall?”

“What were you talking about?” asks Charlie, tone bland as always.

Fitz glances at Jemma, who pastes on a smile and says, “Just work things.”

“Oh.” Charlie tilts her head. “Then why do I have to go away?”

“We’re, ah,” Jemma stammers. “They’re complicated. I don’t think you’d like thinking about them.” That feels a bit condescending, but it’s not entirely untrue, either.

“Oh. Okay.” Charlie turns around and walks out.

Once she’s gone, Fitz rolls his eyes. “You don’t need to be that nice to them, honestly,” he says. “They won’t remember.”

“I’m not sure what else to do,” Jemma replies, sounding defensive. “There’s no point being mean to them either.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” Fitz points out. “Just blunt. Like children or puppies. Tell them to do something and don’t let them distract you.”

She looks like she might press it further for a moment, but then she shrugs it off. It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument, but it never really goes anywhere. Instead she turns toward the door. “You should get Charlie set up to go,” she says. “We can discuss the other thing later, if you like.”

He looks a bit disappointed, but nods. “Alright. I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later,” she echoes. She heads out and passes Charlie on the landing, saying, “He’ll be ready for you very soon, Charlie.” She thinks about apologizing for how awkward she and Fitz were, but - well, he’s right. It’s not as if Charlie will remember.

Charlie smiles at her. “Thank you, Dr. Simmons. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” Jemma replies before moving along. She’s nearly halfway down the stairs when she remembers the half-eaten bag of crisps still sitting up in the office, and really it’d be foolish not to finish them so she goes back to retrieve them. This means she happens to catch Charlie’s eye as Fitz is setting the chair up, which is something she doesn’t normally do.

She chalks it up to her odd mood when the sight of Charlie’s aimless smile as she’s tipped backward makes her stomach flip.

Chapter Text

“Phil, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” says Mr. Harris, sitting on the leather couch and smiling gratefully.

“Of course,” says Phil, returning his smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“Unfortunately but predictably, it’s Laura,” Mr. Harris sighs. “I swear if I knew she’d be this much trouble, I would have never gotten the label to sign her.”

Phil makes a sympathetic face. “What’s going on?”

“She seems to have attracted a stalker,” Mr Harris says. “I don’t blame her for that, I’m not a monster, but her attitude about the whole thing is disturbingly cavalier. She refuses to take proper precautions, shirks her bodyguards at any possible opportunity…”

Nodding, Phil chimes in, “So you want, what, a bodyguard she can’t sneak away from?”

“Preferably one she won’t want to sneak away from,” Mr. Harris corrects. “I think a great deal of why she tries to run and hide comes down to a sense of rebellion. Sticking it to the proverbial man, even if that means putting herself in danger.”

“Oh, I see. So you want a bodyguard who can also be a friend?”

“A friend who also performs the duties of a bodyguard,” Mr. Harris says with a wry smile. “A friend who will protect her without… striking her as someone to avoid.”

“That makes sense,” says Phil. “Did you have any sort of cover story in mind?”

Mr. Harris shrugs dismissively. “As it happens, we have a vacancy in her company,” he says. “One of the backup singers quit to join the national tour of Hamilton, the lucky devil.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment aside from “So you’ll need someone who has a decent voice, then.”

“Can’t that be programmed in?” Mr. Harris asks. “If there’s absolutely no other option, I suppose she could do hair or makeup or costumes, but Laura’s less likely to befriend people she doesn’t see as being on her level.” He rolls his eyes.

“I think we can work something out,” says Phil with a laugh. “Anything else you’ll need?”

“Beauty goes without saying,” Mr. Harris chuckles. “That aside, I trust your judgment, Phil.”

Yvette kind of can’t believe she’s at tryouts to sing backup for Laura, the Laura. Her agent only booked this for her last week, so her head is still spinning a little bit, but she figures all she can do is go in there and do her best.

She’s the twelfth girl they call, and she’s one verse into “Chandelier” when she hears someone start to sing along with her. When she realizes who it is, she almost stops mid-word. Laura herself has gotten onstage with her and is harmonizing. Quickly, Yvette backs off and lets Laura take the lead, slipping into the backup role as if she’s born to do it.

Laura is smiling, like really smiling, encouraging and complimentary all at once. Her posture is easy - much less formal than Yvette’s, probably because she doesn’t have anything to prove - and it’s sort of like just playing around with a friend. Except the friend is Laura, who basically radiates star power.

Once the song is over, Yvette’s honestly not sure what to say. She just kind of stares at Laura with her mouth open, which she’s aware is hideously uncool.

“Sounded pretty good,” Laura remarks, still as casual as anything.

“Thank you,” gasps Yvette, startled. “Um, I’m Yvette. Hi.”

“Laura,” says Laura, nodding as if to add but you know that. “I’m getting a really good feeling about you, Yvette.” She turns toward her manager and production staff, affecting curiosity. “It too early to talk contracts?”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Harris asks (trying not to show how pleased he is that this is going smoothly). “There are still a few more girls left.”

Laura glances at Yvette, then back to Mr. Harris. “Yeah, I think I’m sure.” To the other auditioners she says, with a sympathetic frown, “You guys were all great. But sometimes music, like romance, is a matter of chemistry. We’re gonna keep you on file, don’t worry, but we’re done for today.”

Mr. Harris nods brusquely, starting to usher the other girls out. He hadn’t expected the new girl would get picked so easily - he expected some lobbying, maybe callbacks, given how difficult Laura is to please at times - but it certainly makes his job easier. “I’ll get the preliminary paperwork,” he says as he heads off.

“So,” Laura grins.

Yvette’s eyes are still wide. “Just...just like that?” she asks, incredulous. “I got the gig?”

“When it’s right it’s right,” Laura shrugs. “You got it if you want it.”

“I really, really do,” says Yvette, smiling so widely her face starts to hurt. “Um, what should I do first?”

“Like Harris said, there’s paperwork,” Laura says. “But until he gets back, how about you tell me more about yourself than that resume that I admit I only skimmed.”

Trying not to seem intimidated, Yvette rattles off, “Went to Berklee in Boston, did show choir there, was in a few other shows but I don’t have much experience with performing in front of an audience.”

“Well, it’s not as scary as it seems,” Laura declares. “Most of the time. What’s the biggest crowd you’ve ever been in front of?”

“2500,” says Yvette. “I’m guessing there’ll be more than that?”

“That’s a smaller show,” Laura says. “The biggest ones get closer to 100,000.”

Yvette’s eyes widen. “Holy shit.”

“If it helps, you won’t be able to see most of them,” Laura says. “Stage lights and all.”

Yvette nods slowly, still stunned. “Um, okay,” she says. “Sorry, this is just...a lot to take in.”

“You’re fine,” Laura shrugs. “You’re good. This is freaky stuff at first, but you’ve got this. You picked a kickass audition track, by the way.”

Grinning, Yvette replies, “Thanks! I almost went with something less mainstream, but I figured it would show off my range better. Anything else I need to know?”

“Oh, tons,” Laura chuckles. “It’ll come with time, though. Let’s go get you into some costumes.”

“Hey, Fitz,” says Mack over the comms, “they only told me the bare minimum about this engagement. Is she really just playing glorified babysitter to a pop princess?”

Fitz scoffs. “When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Because it is ridiculous,” Mack points out. “What, is she gonna just go on tour with her?”

“No,” says Fitz, sounding exasperated. “It’s just for a little while, until Laura’s stalker shows up and Charlie can take care of him.”

“Come again?”

“I programmed her with all the skills of a Secret Service-level bodyguard,” explains Fitz. “When the guy causes trouble, her instinct will kick in and she’ll protect Laura at all costs. She won’t let that bastard get away.”

Mack rolls his eyes. “You know I care about her, but I dunno if she’s enough by herself to take care of this. I mean, we don’t even know what this guy is capable of.”

“Oh, I’ve taken care of that too.” Fitz sounds even more smug than usual. “She’ll have a...friend along to help her out.”

“What,” Mack deadpans. “What the hell did you do?”

In the background, he hears Melinda deadpan, “You know we can’t use every single Doll in the house on this one engagement, right?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Fitz grumbles quietly. Mack has to strain to hear it. “I’ve got it under control.” Then he says directly to Mack, “Don’t worry. There are contingency plans afoot.”

“Hello,” Tango says, approaching Foxtrot with a smile. “How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you,” Foxtrot replies. “I had a massage.”

“Massages are very relaxing,” Tango observes.

“Yes,” Foxtrot agrees. Shyly she reaches around to motion to her right shoulder, adding, “It hurt here.”

“Does it still hurt?” Tango asks, clearly concerned (more concerned than Dolls usually are).

“No,” Foxtrot says. “The massage helped. I feel much better now.”

Tango nods, satisfied. “I’m going to yoga,” she announces.

“I enjoy yoga,” Foxtrot muses. “May I go to yoga too?”

“Of course,” Tango says.

It’s not very far to go - just across the room - but they position themselves behind the other Dolls slowly going through a flow with their instructor. Every so often Foxtrot looks over at Tango, or Tango looks over at Foxtrot, and they smile in their aimless way. Nobody else seems to notice them doing this.

Isabelle comes in after they’ve been doing yoga for awhile and says, “Foxtrot, it’s time for your treatment.”

“Alright,” Foxtrot says, straightening up.

“Have a nice treatment,” Tango says, pausing in her movements. “I’ll save you strawberries.”

Foxtrot smiles again, bigger this time. “Thank you,” she says, and she waves as Isabelle leads her off.

Isabelle frowns slightly, considering what Tango’s interest in Foxtrot could mean, but she just leads Foxtrot toward Fitz’s room and decides not to push for an answer. She’s definitely not planning on saying anything to Fitz about it, because what is she, the gay police?

“And here we are,” says Darius, gesturing to the club with a flourish. “Don’t have too much fun, ladies.”

Leonie blushes and giggles. “Should I just go over and… I mean, would you introduce me?”

“Of course,” says Darius with a smile. “Follow me.” He leads her over to the table where Laura and the others are sitting and giggling. “Hey, ladies,” he says. “This is Leonie, she won that Number One Fan contest so she’s gonna be hanging out with y’all tonight.” His tone is light, but there’s an underlying behave yourselves.

Laura only heard about this contest, like, yesterday - but okay, whatever. Publicity? It’s not the biggest thing on her mind by a long shot. She looks the girl over - cute in a nerdy way, all juniors-department dress and glasses - and smiles, because that’s her job. “Hey, Leonie,” she says. “C’mon, come sit.”

“Okay,” Leonie says, grinning nervously. “I, I’m just so thrilled. I’ve never even been to America before, let alone...”

“Relax, hon,” Laura urges. “We’re just people. Scoot in. This is Kirsten and Delia and Yvette, they’re my backup singers.”

“And her entourage,” Delia adds with a smirk.

“I recognize you,” Leonie says eagerly. “You’re all wonderful.”

Yvette looks surprised. “Yeah? Thanks.” She flashes Leonie a grin. “So, tell us a little about yourself, cutie.”

Leonie’s eyes go wide. “I, well, I’m from Lausanne, that’s Switzerland -”

“Explains the accent,” Laura observes. “It’s sweet.”

“And anyway, I’ve lived all over Europe, but I, I’m not exciting, really,” Leonie continues, tucking hair behind her ear. “Mostly I read. And study. And obviously I listen to a lot of music.”

“Cute,” repeats Yvette. “What are you studying?”

“Art history,” Leonie says. “Which is fascinating, but less so when you’re trying to explain it to someone at a bar.”

“I’d like to hear more about it,” says Yvette. “But later, after you’ve had a drink or three. She’s buying,” she adds, nudging Laura playfully. “What’ll it be?”

Leonie blinks. “I don’t drink often,” she says. “Usually I just have wine, or whatever everyone else is having. What do you recommend here?”

“For you?” Laura muses. “They have this thing they call a Champagne Supernova, like the Oasis song. It’s sort of strawberry-flavored.”

“That sounds nice,” Leonie agrees. “One of those, please.”

“You’re ridiculously cute,” Laura laughs, nodding at Yvette before she waves a waiter over and places the order.

“So,” says Yvette, “what the hell do you do with an art history degree?”

“Teach art history,” Leonie quips. “Or work in a museum. Something like that.”

“Aw. I hope you don’t get stuck in the back room of some museum,” Yvette replies, smirking. “You’re way too cute for that.”

Leonie hasn’t stopped blushing, and in fact it’s only gotten more pronounced, but she does manage to joke, “There are plenty of non-back room jobs I could go for.”

Delia giggles. “Aw, she’s blushing. Adorable. You like dancing, Number One Fan?”

“Alone in my room with no audience, maybe,” Leonie laughs nervously.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” Laura jokes. “You get to see all of us bust moves.”

“Hey, we can’t make her dance before she’s even had any booze,” jokes Yvette. As if on cue, the waiter brings her drink. “Guess I’m magic,” she adds, winking at Leonie.

“The booze is supposed to help me dance?” Leonie asks, wide-eyed.

Yvette shrugs. “You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, but it might help you feel more comfortable. Besides, we’re all gonna go dance our asses off and I dunno if you wanna sit here at the table by yourself.”

“I’ll think about it,” Leonie murmurs into her drink, clearly flustered. “This is, this is really sweet. The drink. Thank you for recommending it.”

“‘Course,” Laura grins. “We want to make sure you have a good time.”

“I kinda couldn’t not,” Leonie assures.

She’s two drinks down (and everyone else has had at least one more) when, apropos of nothing, she announces, “I put a bunch of your songs on this mixtape for a girl I liked, Laura. It didn’t work but it totally should have.”

“Oh my god, that is the cutest thing!” gushes Kirsten.

“I thought so, but I guess that doesn’t work on everyone,” Leonie says brightly.

“It totally should have,” Laura says. “I bet it was a kickass tape.”

“Well, CD, technically,” Leonie says. “Mixtape just sounds better.”

Yvette nods. “She was missing out,” she says. “You seem like a great catch. How’re you feeling about dancing now?”

“I could dance, maybe,” Leonie shrugs. “Not every day you get this chance, right?”

“Sure isn’t,” Laura hums, holding a hand out for Leonie to take.

They’ve all barely stood up when suddenly a guy appears, maybe mid-twenties, looking nervous. He reaches for Laura’s arm, as if to pull her away, and in that moment something in Yvette snaps and she leaps forward to shove him backwards, grabbing both his wrists and twisting them behind his back. “Don’t touch her,” she hisses.

The guy lets out a whimper of fear and yelps, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I just wanted to ask for a picture with her!”

Yvette feels herself calm, and she loosens her grip on the guy until he turns to flee, clearly terrified. She turns back to see the rest of the group staring at her. “Well,” she says, trying to shrug it off, “he was gonna grab your arm. That’s not cool.”

“Thanks,” Laura says, sounding faintly stunned. “I mean, a grabbed arm is far from the worst I’ve ever had, but I appreciate your effort?”

Leonie, meanwhile, is awed and clearly a little frightened herself, or at least intimidated.

“You were like a superhero or something,” says Kirsten. “That was badass!”

“It was really nothing,” says Yvette. “C’mon, let’s go dance!” She grabs Leonie’s hand and tugs her toward the dance floor.

They’ve only been dancing for a couple of songs when Darius, looking uncertain, appears. “I think maybe y’all have had enough fun here for tonight,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Leonie says immediately, though nothing is her fault even remotely.

Yvette comes to put her arm around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Darius. “Just paranoia and stuff. ‘Cause somebody-” she inclines her head at Laura “-causes a commotion wherever she goes.” She grins, to show she’s kidding.

“Hey, you’re the one who jumped the guy,” Laura teases.

“I’m protective,” replies Yvette. “I always wanna save the damsel.” She winks.

Fitz, who’s chewing idly on a block of dry Ramen while he half-watches the screen with the Active’s vitals, half-focuses on playing Fallout 3, is suddenly jarred out of his reverie by a beeping. “What!” he yelps, swiveling his chair to fully focus on the vitals screen. “What the hell?”

“What just happened?” comes Mack’s voice over the comms. “Charlie’s vitals just spiked.”

“Well,” Fitz says, setting down the Ramen on his napkin. “Something exciting definitely happened.” He mutes his game and listens to the audio from the engagement for a second or two. “Seems like maybe somebody tried to get close to Laura and Charlie’s bodyguard instincts activated?”

“Whatever it was, it freaked Foxtrot the hell out,” scolds Isabelle.

“They’re laughing now,” Fitz adds. “So I think it’s alright? No harm, no foul, right?”

“Kinda seems like there was some foul here,” replies Mack, sounding displeased.

Fitz is about to answer when Jemma pokes her head into the office, frowning. “I heard loud noises,” she says. “What’s going on?”

Fitz sighs. “It’s fine, Jemma. Just the pop star engagement.”

“Not fine!” both Mack and Isabelle protest at once. Mack continues, “Charlie went into bodyguard mode on a random who tried to get close to Laura. Freaked everyone the hell out.”

Jemma sighs. “Is it alright now?” she asks, mostly aiming the question at Fitz. “It seems unnecessarily dramatic.”

“Like I said, it’s fine.” Fitz rolls his eyes. Then he drops his voice. “You know handlers, making drama out of everything. Like overprotective parents, I swear to god.”

Jemma smiles, though a bit doubtfully. “Being protective rather is their job,” she points out.

“I suppose,” he says with a mild pout. “Maybe babysitters is a better term.”

“Oversimplified, but if you must,” Jemma says.

Fitz rolls his eyes and pushes the button to mute his end of the call. Then he says, “The engagement might be overly complicated, but it’s what the client asked for. Something about how the pop princess needed women to connect with, or some bullocks.”

“It makes a sort of sense, I think,” Jemma muses. “Sometimes it’s easier to trust someone who you know likes you because they want to, not because they have to. Or because they think they have to.” She makes a face. “The nature of our business makes every relationship convoluted, really.”

Shrugging, Fitz says, “I didn’t ask questions, I just followed the orders. It seems to be working out alright so far, but I still think they should’ve just let me program her to kill any threats.”

Jemma looks aghast at that, like she always does. “But if this person wasn’t a threat, wouldn’t that be outrageous?”

“Well, she’s a bodyguard, isn’t she? She should be able to neutralize any threats.”

“Yes, but imagine the red tape,” Jemma insists. “Since she’s not technically a bodyguard, she wouldn’t have the same legal advantage. Real bodyguards aren’t even fully exempt, I imagine.”

Fitz pouts. “I suppose,” he mutters. He unmutes the conversation.

“-much longer is this gonna take?” Mack is asking. “We’re not really gonna pit Charlie against this stalker, are we?”

Rolling his eyes, Fitz sighs and says to him, “We’ll let it play out a few days more. Hopefully she’ll be able to take care of him before it escalates much further.”

Robbie’s polishing his car on Saturday evening when his phone buzzes. He raises an eyebrow and flicks the screen open when he sees the new email notification.

It’s from an address he doesn’t recognize, [email protected], and he almost doesn’t open it, but the subject is “Stella.” Shrugging, he reads it.

You’ve been looking into that girl with a thousand names, right? You’re on the right track. I don’t have much info, but I know that one of her main pickup spots is in an alley between Guerrero Street and Third. Usually at night, some weeknights but almost always every weekend. She gets into and out of a black van. Don’t let them see you. They know I’m onto them. Godspeed, friend.

He should be suspicious. It’s vague, ominous, and definitely sounds fake. But hell, he’s getting desperate enough that he decides to throw caution to the wind and glances at his watch. If he books it, he can make it to that intersection before it gets too dark and stake it out.

He quickly texts Gabe - Going out for a few hours, don’t wait up - and starts up Lucy. He arrives just as it’s starting to get dark and parks her a couple of blocks down, strolling towards the alley while trying to look inconspicuous. Nobody’s paying attention to him. It’s Saturday night, everyone has better things to do.

He doesn’t pay attention to how much time has passed, but after awhile of staring down the alley trying not to seem bored (he’s pretty bored), he starts messing around on his phone. That keeps him occupied, though he’s still paying attention to the alley. He’s paying so much attention to the alley that he doesn’t hear someone coming up behind him until there’s a sharp pain in the back of his head. He barely feels his body falling.

Laura is in her dressing room like she always is before a show, chugging water and messing with her makeup (yeah, she has a girl for that, but she always winds up making at least a couple changes of her own too). Tonight should feel different, but it doesn’t. She can’t let it, or else someone would figure something out.

Yvette taps on the door, calling “You alright in there?” playfully.

“Yeah,” Laura replies, voice bright. “Come in!”

Yvette does, closing the door behind her. “How’re you feeling?” she asks, because she knows how Laura is on these nights even though she hasn’t been here that long.

“I’m okay,” Laura says, shrugging. Better not oversell. “Just getting in the zone.”

“You’re gonna kick ass,” Yvette says. “You always do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah?” Laura asks, blinking at Yvette. She’s actually taken aback by this.

Yvette nods. “I mean, I haven’t gotten all fangirly on you since the audition, but you’re super talented and people love you. Your shows are great. And you’re looking great,” she adds with a grin. “I mean, you always do, but y’know. Even better than usual.”

Laura can’t help it, she actually blushes. “Even better, really?” she teases.

“Yeah,” Yvette says, suddenly sounding a little shy. She drops her gaze, not meeting Laura’s eyes.

“Like, better how?” Laura presses. She’s vain. It’s in-character.

Yvette shrugs, suddenly awkward. “I dunno, the whole look is just really working for you,” she mumbles. “It’s pretty hot.”

“Thanks,” Laura murmurs. “You know, you’re kind of a babe yourself.” And that’s not even a lie.

“Aw shucks.” Yvette flips a lock of her hair behind her shoulder playfully. “You don’t have to say that, y’know.”

“I know,” Laura shrugs. “But I want to. It’s important to say things like that, you know, in case.” She suddenly stops mid-thought, feeling like she definitely said too much, and turns back to her mirror nonchalantly.

Yvette frowns. “In case what?”

“In case whatever,” Laura says. “Shit happens every day, you know?”

But Yvette doesn’t let up, narrowing her eyes. “Laura. I know we haven’t known each other for long, but I know you’re lying. Or at least, you’re not saying everything. What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s like - my, my uncle,” Laura says. “He got hit by a car when I was a teenager, and my aunt was always saying how she - how she wished she’d had one last chance to tell him how much he meant to her.” This isn’t a lie, but it’s kind of an asshole diversion. Oh well.

Sure enough, Yvette’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That sucks.” She turns away, as if to give Laura space, then she pauses when she sees a pile of cards stacked haphazardly on the table nearby. “Aw, fanmail?” she asks, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

“It’s pretty cute,” Laura chuckles, though she’s still not looking Yvette in the eye.

“Have you looked at it yet?” asks Yvette. “Might cheer you up. I could read you some while you get ready?”

“Yeah, sure,” Laura hums, turning her attention to her hair. She’s definitely past the point of caring about it.

Yvette picks up one of the cards, smiling, and starts to read it. “Laura, I know I haven’t written in awhile but I want you to know my love for you has never...waned…” She trails off, reading the rest of it in silence. “Um,” she says finally, “this one seems kind of...weird.”

“Oh, you know fans,” Laura says dismissively. “It’s very personal for them.”

“Yeah, but whoever this is seems pretty into the fantasy that you guys know each other.” Yvette frowns, but when Laura doesn’t reply she moves on to the next card. Most of the others are normal, enthusiastic fan messages, but she comes across a few more that are similarly intense, all in the same handwriting. “Have you mentioned this to security or anyone?” she asks, holding up the cards. “This guy...I guess we don’t know it’s a guy...this person is saying stuff about how they want to take you away from all this so you two can live together forever and never be apart, and all the stuff they want to do for you and to you, and it’s...it’s pretty weird.”

“Fantasy, like you said,” Laura shrugs. “Whoever it is just needs something nice to think about, something good in their life. Who would I be to take that from them?” She pauses. “He’d never do anything I didn’t ask for.”

Yvette quirks her mouth, looking worried. “How do you know? Have you been...I dunno, talking to him or something?”

“Wouldn’t you get curious?” Laura asks, not quite answering the question.

“Um, no, no I wouldn’t,” replies Yvette tersely. “You don’t know if this guy’s a serial killer or what, Laura! Just because he writes a lot of nice things about you doesn’t make him a good person!”

“It doesn’t mean he’s not one, either,” Laura points out, sounding petulant.

Yvette sighs. “Oh my god, don’t tell me you’re thinking of doing something stupid like running off with him.”

“Not that,” Laura says simply.

“Then what?” replies Yvette, almost snapping.

Finally, Laura glances at Yvette, if in the mirror. “Do you know what it’s like having your every move on display?” she asks. “Fair game for every asshole on the internet to critique?”

“No,” says Yvette, “but I sure as hell know better than to entertain ideas of running off with a stalker!”

“I’m not running off with him,” Laura repeats. “Not even close.”

“Okay, so what are you thinking then? I thought we were friends.” Now Yvette sounds hurt. “I wanna know about stuff like this, okay?”

“We are,” Laura says. “I want you to know that. You’re one of the only good things about all this.” She waves her hand around. “But I also knew you wouldn’t get it.”

“Ouch,” says Yvette. “And this random guy gets it?”

“It’s a win-win situation,” Laura mumbles distantly. “I get an out, he gets some limelight of his own.”

Yvette’s still frowning. “By doing what, exactly?”

“Come on,” Laura says with a bitter laugh. “You’re a smart girl. You can figure it out.”

It takes Yvette a minute, but then she looks horrified. “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t let him do that. We can get you help, you can-”

“I can what?” Laura retorts. “This isn’t just some passing fancy.”

Yvette shakes her head, as if she’s trying to process all of this. “Let me help you,” she says finally.

“It’s too late for that,” Laura says. “The show must go on, right?” She puts on a bright smile.

“Laura,” Yvette chokes out, but before she can say anything else the musical cue from outside starts up. Laura gets up and leaves the room.

When Robbie opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Emily.

“Hey,” she says shyly. “Um, I called and the doctor picked up and he said where you were, so I came, is that okay? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Robbie blinks. “Um. Hi? What happened?” He feels his head throb a little and grunts in pain.

“They weren’t sure, and, um, I’m not family so they couldn’t get me details, but I heard one of the nurses saying you have a concussion?” Emily shrugs, unexpectedly shy.

“Oh.” Robbie glances around. “The last I remember is…” He trails off. Probably he shouldn’t explain too much in front of Emily. That would be weird. “I was...walking. Walking downtown.”

She cracks a smile. “Making your way downtown, walking fast…?”

He just gives her a confused look. She’s probably making a reference, but it goes over his head. “Sure,” he says uncertainly, trying for a smile.

“Sorry,” she sighs, smiling back at him. “It’s a song. An older one. That probably you wouldn’t know because I’m pretty sure you’re not the piano-driven pop music type. Yeah.”

Robbie chuckles. “Afraid not. I’ll take your word for it.” He pauses, feeling awkward. “You don’t...have to stay here if you don’t want to. I’ll be...fuck. Do you know where my brother is, is he here?”

“Well, I wanted to stay till you woke up, at least,” Emily shrugs. “I mean, I hope that’s not weird. I just came out to make sure… and I brought cupcakes. Um, if you care.” She pauses to frown over that question. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen him, but I also don’t technically know him, so.”

Robbie finally notices the plate of cupcakes on the shelf beside his bed. He smiles a little before saying, “Can you get my phone? Or can I borrow yours if mine got stolen? I need to call Gabe, he has no idea where I am.”

“This one’s yours, right?” Emily gets up and goes to the table along the wall, where a phone sits charging. “Thank goodness for universal chargers and considerate nurses, I guess.” She hands the phone over with a nervous laugh.

Robbie calls Gabe quickly - he’s worried, but Robbie manages to talk him out of trying to get down here to see him - and then turns back to Emily. “Thanks,” he says, almost shyly. “The cupcakes look good.”

“I might have snuck one before I got here,” she says. “I think they’re pretty good, myself, but I’m a little biased.”

That makes him laugh, and he’s surprised by the laughter. “I’m not used to this,” he murmurs.

“Baked goods?” she jokes.

“Yeah,” he says with a little shrug. “And, I dunno, people giving a shit about me. Besides Gabe, I mean.”

“That’s too bad,” she murmurs. “You seem like a good guy. It’s easy to give a shit about you.”

He shrugs again. “Thanks, I guess. You weren’t waiting on me long, were you?”

“Not too,” Emily promises. “I was just on my phone and stuff, no worries.” She waves her own phone with a smirk. “Stupid addictive word games, y’know how it is.”

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “Good,” he says, then isn’t sure what to say next.

“You don’t need me to get the nurse or anything, do you?” she asks. “I mean, you seem fine, but if you’re concussed…”

“Don’t know,” Robbie says, smiling lazily. “Never been concussed before.”

“Well, you don’t feel… weird?” Emily prompts. “I don’t really know either, I’ve avoided head injuries. But I’m pretty sure you’d know if you felt weird.”

“It hurts a little, but not too bad. I think I’ll be fine.” He wants her to stay, but he’s not sure what to say to convince her. So instead he says, “Hope I didn’t ruin any big plans you had tonight.”

“My biggest plan was to make fun of pretentious food bloggers on Instagram while having gloriously unhealthy Chinese takeout,” she deadpans, smirking. “I’m free as a bird.”

“Well,” he says awkwardly, “I have a TV. If you want to...watch something.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have too many fancy channels, but I bet there’s something we could watch,” she agrees, smiling. “Maybe also something to make fun of, if you’re into that.”

Robbie smiles. “Sure.” He offers her the remote. “You start?”

“Tonight I wanna bring someone very special out here,” Laura says brightly, waving toward the wings as her backup musicians vamp. “This girl is the epitome of why I do what I do. She’s a sweet, supportive person and my number one fan, Leonie!”

Leonie squeals and runs into Laura’s waiting embrace. It’s the dream of a lifetime, and even though it’s sort of terrifying to be in front of all of these people the lights are so bright that she can’t really see them that well (she’s kind of wishing she sprung for the anti-reflective coating on her glasses because the glare is killer, but hey, it’s one night, she’ll be fine). She’s not sure what to say, though, so she just grins.

“Say hi, hon,” Laura encourages, giving Leonie a squeeze.

“Hi, Los Angeles!” Leonie calls, waving eagerly. It’s obvious she’s nervous, but who wouldn’t be?

The crowd roars approvingly, but soon one particular voice pipes up, yelling, “She’s not your number one fan! I am!”

A man steps out of the crowd, pointing accusingly at Laura. “You said I was the only one who understood you! You said we’d do this together!”

Yvette and the other backup singers gasp. The musicians stop playing and gasp as well. The crowd goes silent. Leonie stiffens, unsure of what to do, but Laura doesn’t let go of her yet.

“This doesn’t change that,” Laura says tersely.

“Doesn’t it?” The man whips a gun out of his pocket and holds it up, which makes the crowd panic and back away from him, toward the doors; the other performers run backstage too, whispering to themselves anxiously. There’s a commotion of noise and security guards make a beeline for the guy.

“No,” Laura says. “Leave us the fuck alone, would you?” This is addressed to the security guards. To the new guy, she says, “This was a publicity gig. One last hurrah, right? Leave them on an up note.”

“What is he talking about?” Leonie asks, her voice shaking.

“Didn’t she tell you?” the guy calls, laughing bitterly. “Your hero’s fed up with everyone’s shit and she wants to make it all go away. For good.”

“What?” Leonie shrieks.

Laura doesn’t make eye contact. She just nudges Leonie away from her, more harshly than needed. “Leave her out of it,” she mutters.

“But she should know,” replies the guy. “They should all know! You hate it, the attention, the pressure, everyone screaming at you all the time. You want it to end. Isn’t that right?” He climbs onto the stage, still holding the gun.

“This isn’t what I wanted, how I wanted it,” Laura admits softly. “I wanted to make music, see the world, be in some magazines. I wanted to be someone to admire, not something to rip apart. I’m tired, I’m exhausted. But that’s not her fault. It’s not a lot of their faults. I can still be a hero for the good ones once I’m gone.”

He snorts. “Sure, sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Leonie screws her face up suddenly and yells, “Guards!”

The guy growls in frustration and before the security guards can intervene, he’s grabbed Leonie to use her as a human shield, holding the gun to her head. “Don’t even think about it,” he says. “I’ll do it!”

There’s a yell from somewhere offstage and then suddenly Yvette has barreled into him, knocking both he and Leonie over. He grunts, Leonie shrieks, and Yvette growls, “Get out of here!” at Leonie before pinning the guy to the ground.

He seems too dazed to fight back much, though he kicks at her while she tries to wrestle the gun away from him. Ultimately, she’s successful, kicking it away before rolling him over and forcing his arms behind his back. “Stay down,” she hisses in his ear. “You lost.” He doesn’t respond; he’s gone limp at this point, not fighting her anymore. Like he knows he shouldn’t bother.

Once security has removed him from the building, Yvette turns to Laura. “Um, I think I’d better get her out of here,” she says, nodding at Leonie, who is trying very hard (and sort of failing) not to cry. “Are you...okay?”

“I, I - Laura!” Leonie exclaims, sniffling. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you…”

Laura, who’s holding it together only slightly better, wraps her arms around herself and shrugs. “I’m not sure anymore,” she says. “I… think I was listening to the wrong people.” She glances shyly at Yvette, then down at her own feet. “I have some shit to work out. This was maybe a dramatic way to realize that. But I am sorry you got dragged into it.”

Bravely Leonie declares, “What matters most is that you’re safe.”

“Thanks,” Laura chuckles. “It matters that you’re safe too, you know, but I do appreciate it.” She sighs. “You guys get out of here, okay? I’ll keep in touch. I promise.”

Yvette nods. “Let me know if I can do anything for you, okay?” She smiles at her. “And...thanks for the last couple weeks. It’s been incredible. I hope we can stay friends?”

“Yeah,” Laura says, nodding. “I’d really like that.” Awkwardly, she holds both arms out to the other women, inviting a hug; Leonie skitters over like she doesn’t even have to think about it, and Yvette steps over too, wrapping her arms around Laura. When the hug ends, they both step back smiling.

“Good luck,” murmurs Yvette. Then she turns to Leonie. “C’mon, I’ll get you to a safe place.”

Leonie takes a shuddery breath. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Laura.” She waves goodbye before reaching for Yvette, clearly seeking more physical comfort.

Yvette grabs her hand and squeezes it. “I’ll call us a cab,” she says. “Back to your hotel?”

“Yeah,” Leonie repeats. She pulls her glasses off and starts to rub them clean with her shirt, biting her lip. “Thanks, you know.”

“You’re welcome.” Yvette gives her a (slightly shaky) smile. “I’m sorry things got...crazy.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Leonie insists.

Yvette shrugs. “Still. Anything I can do for you besides get you back to the hotel?”

“Would you mind keeping me company for a little?” Leonie asks, clearly timid.

“Yeah, sure, I can do that. Anything in particular you wanna do?”

Before Leonie can answer, Yvette’s manager Mack steps out of apparently nowhere. “Hi, Yvette. Would you like a treatment?”

Yvette blinks at him, a little startled. “Um, sure, but I should get Leonie to-”

Just then, a woman also appears and says, “Hello Leonie, would you like a treatment too?”

“Oh, yeah, of course!” Leonie exclaims. To Yvette she explains, “This is Isabelle, she’s been coordinating things for me on the trip. They must have called her when everything started to go down…?”

Yvette nods. “Okay. Text me when you get back? I wanna make sure you’re okay.” Then she turns to Mack. “A treatment sounds great. Let’s go.”

“Promise,” Leonie says.

Isabelle puts her hand on Leonie’s back, still smiling, but looking a bit impatient. “Time to go now,” she says, herding Leonie away.

Yvette looks after them for a moment before Mack leads her away as well.

“Hi, Foxtrot,” says Charlie as Foxtrot walks up to the art corner. “Do you want to paint?”

“Yes, thank you,” Foxtrot says with a smile, taking a seat between Charlie and Tango.

“Hello, Foxtrot,” Tango says eagerly, her own smile significantly bigger.

“Hello, Tango,” Foxtrot replies.

“Here is the purple paint,” says Charlie, sliding it over to Foxtrot. “You like purple. Your shirt is purple.”

Foxtrot giggles. “It is!” she says. “Thank you.”

For a moment, Tango looks flustered, watching the other two interact. Then she looks down at her station and picks up the blue paint to hand over, almost insistent. “My shirt is blue,” she says. “If you mix blue and purple you make indigo. I think indigo is a very pretty color.”

Foxtrot blinks. “It is,” she agrees. “I like indigo too. Thank you, Tango.”

As this transpires, Dr. Simmons passes by with a clipboard and Charlie looks up. “Hi, Dr. Simmons!”’

“Hello, Charlie,” Dr. Simmons says pleasantly. “Tango, Foxtrot. You’re painting, I see.”

“I like painting,” Tango agrees.

“It’s very enjoyable,” Foxtrot adds.

“I’m painting a mountain!” says Charlie, holding it up to show her.

“It’s a very nice mountain,” Dr. Simmons says. It’s not the first time a Doll has wanted to share at art time, there’s nothing unusual about it.

“Foxtrot is painting the sky,” Tango declares, glancing over at the other woman’s painting. “It’s very pretty. Like at nighttime.” Considering her palette of blue, purple, and everything in between, it has to be nighttime.

Foxtrot blushes. “Thank you, Tango,” she says. “I like stars.”

Dr. Simmons blinks. It is a little unusual that one Doll is sharing another’s work, and between that and the conversation she overheard as she approached she’s reminded of the video that Fitz showed her, the one of Foxtrot and Tango by the pool. “Odd behavior,” he’d called it, and sworn to keep track of it. She’d sworn too.

All they’re doing is being friendly with each other, though. That’s all it is. It’s coincidence and politeness and - and there’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s not like before, with - it’s not dangerous. They’re just being nice. Isn’t that what they do?

“It’s very nice, Foxtrot,” she says after a moment. “I - I need to go work. Have fun painting.” And with that she hurries off, visibly anxious for reasons none of the Dolls can place.

“She seems worried,” says Charlie, frowning. “I hope she feels better soon.”

Chapter Text

“So Silas,” Lake murmurs, idly fingering the plastic handcuffs hanging from her belt loop. “Have you been a naughty boy?”

“Naughty boy makes it sound like you’re Mrs. Claus about to give me coal,” Silas says, tilting his head. “But if you’re wondering if I’ve misbehaved and need to be punished, probably.”

“Good thing I’ve got the the real thing in my bag upstairs, then,” Lake teases. “These are far too flimsy to hold up.”

“Oh, yes, Officer,” Silas exclaims, looking delighted now that the flirting suits his linguistic choices.

Taffy rolls her eyes. “Will you quit flirting with the client?” she hisses at Lake. “We’ve got other things to focus on.”

“Flirting makes this look natural,” Lake retorts. “Like we’re not just casing this party. Besides, the guy asked me to wear a sexy cop outfit. It’s expected.”

“Whatever,” sighs Taffy. Then she glances over at Ivan. “What about you, you ready to pull this off, loverboy?”

Ivan flushes, glancing at Jude, who’s supposed to be his date for the evening. He’s ridiculously easy to embarrass, and he’s a sucker for pretty boys with dark eyes (which Jude is). “I’ll be fine,” he says.

“We should go over the plan again,” Jude says. “Once Keenan shorts the lights out, we only have a minute and a half to meet up with him.”

“And then we have to scurry down to the basement storage, we know,” Lake interrupts.

“It has to go smoothly,” Jude mutters, clearly sullen.

“It’ll be fine,” Ivan says, patting Jude’s shoulder like he’s not sure what else to do.

“Anyway,” Taffy says to Lake, “your outfit is better than mine.” She gestures at her outfit, which was labeled “sexy ninja,” and shakes her head. “How am I supposed to be taken seriously with this on?”

“Isn’t that kinda the point?” Lake shrugs. “We look like people you wouldn’t take seriously. Ergo, not threats to the establishment.”

Silas nods. “That’s what I was thinking,” he says, although it’s obvious that wasn’t all he was thinking.

“And on that note, how about we get our dance on while we’re waiting?” Lake suggests. “Silas?”

“Uh, sure,” Silas says, looking surprised.

Jude and Ivan, after some anxious glances between them, head out to the dance floor. Taffy sighs, since her appointed partner Keenan is in the other room. “Cool, guess I’ll just hug the wall then.”

“Uh,” Silas says again, “if you wanna go out, I can hang back? I’m not much of a dancer.” And watching two hot girls dance isn’t exactly a hardship.

“What do you say, Taff?” Lake asks.

Taffy tosses her head, but offers her hand all the same. “Why not? You’ll only get more annoying if I say no.” But she’s smirking.

“You’re a brat,” Lake sighs. “C’mon.” She leads Taffy onto the dancefloor, twirling her as they walk.

“But you love it,” Taffy says.

“Yeah, well, you’re also one of the best at what you do,” Lake hums, drawing Taffy closer with an arm around her waist.

“Damn right.” Despite herself, Taffy nestles a little closer. “You losers would be lost without me.”

“I think we’d be okay,” Lake says. “But this is better.”

Taffy’s about to respond indignantly when the lights suddenly flicker and then go out. “Oh,” she murmurs, as voices around them rise in shock and confusion. “I guess that’s our cue to get to work.”

“Save the fun for later,” Lake remarks wryly, pulling Taffy off the dancefloor and to meet up with Silas, Ivan, and Jude.

“Let’s go!” Jude hisses, and in the ensuing mayhem (not quite chaos, but confusion, at least) they hurry for the side door they found before the party got going.

Once they’re in the hallway, they run into Keenan. “Good,” he says, “there you are. We’re all set.”

Everyone starts pulling their respective tools out of their… well, wherever they managed to hide them in their storebought Halloween costumes. “It’s lucky that nobody thought to check my stupid police baton for actual dangerous supplies,” Lake says, pulling out a slender blade.

Taffy, who has managed to produce a lockpicking kit from...well, nobody really wants to know, snorts. “Guess it came in handy for something.”

From there, it goes pretty smoothly - it’s a standard jewel heist, stealing the jewels right out from under the nose of the hotel staff who are putting on this vaguely Halloween-themed ball and auction. Taffy breaks into the vault without batting an eye, and they’re just bagging up the last of the jewels when Taffy’s phone rings.

“Sorry,” she says, “gotta answer it.” It’s their security guy, Mack, who disabled all the alarms form outside. “What’s up? Don’t have a lot of time here,” she says once she’s answered it.

“Just calling to check up on you.”

“It’s blue skies,” she says, rolling her eyes. He’s always been protective of her. It’s cute and annoying all at the same time. “We’re packing up the last of the jewels and-”

She’s interrupted by a loud dial tone noise and then the sound of the large door slamming shut.

When it finishes, she squints at the phone in her hand, hard to see in the little light they have from a couple of flashlights. “What is this?” she asks nobody in particular. “Did I fall asleep?”

“What the hell?” Fitz stares at his computer screen, which is flashing DISCONNECTED. He taps the button once, then twice, to make sure that there hasn’t been some kind of error. “What…?”

Of course, there’s nobody to hear him, because Mack and the other handlers were on the other end of the line. The Dolls’ vitals are still going - elevated heartbeats, a reasonable response to a slightly stressful heist - but if his comm link’s been cut off, the handlers’ probably have been too.

He’s trying to figure out what, exactly, happened, when Phil barges in, looking alarmed and disheveled. “What happened?” he pants. “I got an alert that the comm links had been severed and ran down here right away.”

Phil’s office is four floors up, so that explains the panting. “I don’t know!” Fitz replies, glaring at the screen. “I was trying to figure it out myself!”

“Did you, I don’t know, do something to sever the link?”

“Hey now, I haven’t done anything! I was just sitting here and then-”

“Fitz, what the hell happened?” Melinda’s appeared behind Phil, looking stormy. Jemma bounds in just behind her, wide-eyed. “Explain yourself,” Melinda snaps.

“May, I don’t have any more of an idea of what happened than you, alright?” Fitz tries resetting everything, which fails. “I’m trying to figure it out, so stop yelling at me!”

Jemma glances between the other three with a panicked expression, then says, voice wavering, “We should - we should talk through all of the options! Because if we talk through everything, we can eliminate things and discuss possibilities we might not have thought of by ourselves, and if we’re very rational about it we won’t start panicking! That would be incredibly unproductive, if we just let ourselves panic…”

“Jemma,” Fitz says, tone suddenly firm. “Sit down. Don’t talk for a second. Have a juice box.” He offers her one of the familiar green boxes.

Frowning, Jemma accepts the juice and sits down on his couch. At least he didn’t tell her to take a breath. She hates being told to breathe, as if she was so daft she couldn’t remember on her own.

Melinda glances over at Jemma, giving her a look that’s almost reassuring, and then says, “She’s right. Thinking’s a good idea at this stage, since none of us seem to know what happened.”

“Yes, I know,” grumbles Fitz. “So. We’re cut off from the handlers...I’ll try dialing them again, I guess.” He presses a few buttons and finally is able to reconnect. “Hello? Hello?”

“Fitz?” Mack sounds sort of panicked. “What’s going on over there? There was a weird dial tone noise and we got cut off, and we can’t talk to them, but the vitals went haywire for a second.”

“Wait.” Fitz raises an eyebrow. “You can’t talk to them? You mean the Dolls?”

“Yes, I mean the Dolls!” Mack says, clearly exasperated. “We’ve been trying to figure out how to reconnect with them for five minutes, but there’s no way to. There was that dial tone noise, then we got cut off and their vitals spiked. They’ve stabilized a little now, but we still have no idea what’s going on.”

“Maybe it’s just because they’re in the basement?” Phil says, trying to be helpful. “And they lost signal?”

Fitz doesn’t bother to hide his groan. “No,” he sighs, “that’s not the issue at all. Mack, what do you mean the vitals spiked?”

“Their pulses went nuts,” chimes in Hunter. “Like something happened at their end at the same time the noise did.”

“If they were in Dollstate, I’d say it’s possible that that noise would freak them out by itself,” Jemma mumbles, clearly fretting. “They’re not used to sounds like that. But there’s no reason a dial tone would startle theoretically normal adults.”

“You said before that the vault was going to go into lockdown when they got in there, right?” Gordon asks. “Tango and Charlie are still in there, but Mike’s in the hallway. We don’t even know if he heard the noise, but I sure as hell can’t hear or talk to him anymore. I want to go in and get him out.”

Fitz makes a noise like he’s thinking. “A dial tone...why would that be…”

“Everybody alright over there?” Hunter asks, sounding like maybe he was goaded into it.

“Yes,” Jemma says more loudly. She still sounds strained, but she guesses (accurately) that Hunter is asking after her. Unfortunately, her anxiety isn’t exactly a secret to the others in the house, so she’s gotten used to that particular sympathetic tone. “It’s just a nasty situation.”

“We’re fine, Hunter,” Melinda says, in a tone that indicates the topic is closed. “Fitz, you look like you’re onto something.”

“I might be,” Fitz says. “I’ve been toying with the idea of a way to do a remote wipe, y’know, do away with the whole chair concept, but this is...I don’t even know if that would be possible at this point.”

“A remote wipe?” Phil asks, going a bit pale. “So that means…”

“That means Charlie, Tango and Mike could be wandering around in Dollstate with nobody to help them,” says Mack. That statement hangs in the air a second while everyone considers it.

Then Melinda says, “Gordon, you said Mike’s not in the vault. Can you extract him?”

“Yeah,” replies Gordon. “I’ll do that right away.”

“And what about our two?” Hunter chimes in. “I don’t really fancy Tango being stuck in that vault with those blokes while in Dollstate.”

“Keep trying to contact them!” Jemma exclaims. “And - and can anyone get into the hotel’s security system from the outside? Check on the status of the vault?”

“I can try.” Mack doesn’t sound like he’s sure about this idea. “I’ll call back when we can figure something out over here.”

“Okay,” Fitz says, hanging up. “Well,” he says to nobody in particular, “this went tits up, didn’t it?”

“If you haven’t even sorted out the remote wipe tech yet,” Jemma murmurs, “who would have done? It’s remarkably complicated, isn’t it?”

Fitz shakes his head, but not like he’s responding to Jemma’s question. It’s more like he’s trying to convince himself something isn’t true. “It is,” he says finally. “I don’t think there’s a way to, well, undo it until we have them back here.”

“So how do we get them back?” Melinda asks. “We can’t exactly go storming in there with a retrieval team.”

“No,” agrees Phil, “that would be too dangerous. I don’t suppose either of you have any ideas?” He glances between Jemma and Fitz.

Fitz shakes his head again. “But how?” he mutters, as if to himself. “It’s not as if my original experiments went badly, but they were...the precision required for a remote wipe is ridiculous, is it even possible to do it? And if this worked then why didn’t mine?”

“Oh dear,” Jemma says. She finishes the last of her juice box and then hurries to the fridge, adding, “If I grab myself another do you want one too?” It’s the best she can do in the situation.

“Sure, sure.” Fitz waves her off and keeps muttering to himself.

“Perhaps you’d better let us deal with this,” Jemma says warily, addressing Phil and Melinda even as she brings Fitz his juice. “It might be awhile.”

Phil looks skeptical, but he says “Call me if anything happens” before leaving. Melinda nods agreement and follows him out.

“That was a strange noise,” Tango declares. “Why did the small box make a strange noise?”

“I don’t know,” says Charlie, staring at the little box in her hand. She looks over at the strange men, who are staring at her. “What’s going on? What is this place?”

“I don’t know,” Tango echoes. “Maybe we are having a fire drill! We should try to leave.” Looking almost thoughtful, she walks toward the vault door and pushes on it, then frowns and declares, “The door won’t open.”

“What the fuck?” grunts one of the men. “Are you two putting on some kind of act?”

“Act?” Charlie blinks at him. “Like a play? Are we supposed to be in a play?”

“I’ve never been in a play,” Tango says by way of agreement. “If we were in a play, wouldn’t we have practiced? Practice makes you your best.”

The other man makes a mean face. “If this is some trick, like if you don’t want to get in trouble for fucking this job up…”

Charlie and Tango both stare at him, clearly shocked. “That’s not a nice word,” Tango informs him.

“Oh, you’re funny now,” says the other man. “C’mon, cut it out, finish putting the stuff in here and let’s get the hell out.” He shakes the bag he’s holding.

Charlie looks at Tango. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” she asks. “I don’t remember.”

“I don’t remember either,” Tango says, frowning. “What stuff?”

“Okay, this really isn’t funny anymore. What are you, glitching or something?” The man reaches for Tango’s arm.

Tango jerks away, making a noise of distress. “Please don’t touch me,” she mumbles, drawing into herself and going to sit by the door that won’t open. “I don’t know you. People who I don’t know shouldn’t touch me.”

Charlie steps forward, frowning. “You shouldn’t touch her,” she agrees, batting the man’s hand away. She moves to stand in front of Tango, like she’s protecting her.

The man shakes his head. “What the fuck is going on?” he asks his friend.

“You gonna try to tell me again this isn’t a date?” Gabe chuckles, stopping his chair by the front door and staring at Robbie and Emily pointedly.

“It’s not a date,” mutters Robbie, not looking at either Gabe or Emily.

Emily bites her lip. “Nah,” she says. “We’re just… watching movies. Nothing special.” From her tone, it’s not clear whether or not she actually means that.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Robbie asks Gabe, trying to sound stern. It doesn’t work.

“I was just heading out,” Gabe says cheerfully, reaching for the door. “Catch you guys later.”

“He likes to give you a hard time,” Emily remarks once they’re alone.

“He does,” sighs Robbie. “He means well, though. He thinks I don’t get out enough.”

“Could that be because your idea of a cool thing to do hanging out with people is to stay in and watch car movies?” she teases.

He chuckles. “Maybe.” Then he gets up to put the DVD in. “Y’know, you can pick a movie to show me too,” he says, trying for teasing.

“I’m still trying to decide what the best one would be,” she replies airily. “I mean, do I make you sit through a chick flick? Something artsy and pretentious?”

“Well, I can’t promise I’ll stay awake through all of it,” he says with a smile, “but I’ll do my best.”

“This is why I’m still trying to decide,” she says. “Maybe I’ll figure out the magical film that won’t make you doze off.”

“You can try,” he says, sitting down and bumping her shoulder with his. It’s a little awkward, but he’s trying. “Ready for this?” He nods at the TV.

“Ooh, wait,” she says. “Popcorn?”

“Oh, sure.” He stands up. “Microwave popcorn okay? We’re not much for cooking.”

“Yeah, totally,” Emily chuckles. “I’m not fancy. I just want something to munch on.”

“Coming right up.” Robbie starts a bag popping and then says, “Uh, do you want a drink with that? Water, or soda, or I might have some beer left?”

“Check on the beer?”

Robbie wanders over to the fridge and returns with two beers. “Not that I’m trying to get you to drink or anything,” he says, handing it to her. “Shit. That was creepy.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” she replies, shrugging. “Beer is good and it’s not like I’m such a lightweight that one beer is going to mess me up.”

“Good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Anything else you want?”

“Nah, that’s enough,” she says. “You’re a better host than you think.”

He gives her a sheepish smile. “I’m trying, anyway.” The microwave dings and a minute later he’s back on the couch, offering her the bowl of popcorn.

“It’s appreciated,” she says. “Not just for the free beer and popcorn.”

He doesn’t seem sure how to reply to that, so he just grabs the remote and asks, “Ready?”

“You know,” Emily murmurs, almost shy, “I wouldn’t object to this being a date.”

“Oh?” Robbie tries to make sure his face doesn’t look as startled as he feels. It shouldn’t be a shock - she did kiss him on the cheek that one time - but he’s really not used to girls, or anybody, paying attention to him like that. “I mean...sure.” He smiles over at her. “This is kind of a crappy first date though. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she assures, grinning. “I’m having a good time. I’m comfortable. It’s unpretentious but fun.”

Pleased, he moves his hand a little so it’s kind of resting near hers, in case maybe she wants to hold hands. (God, he feels like a teenager, it’s ridiculous.) Then, suddenly, he remembers all the stuff with Stella-not-Stella and the guys who knocked him out, and he pulls his hand back. “Um,” he says, “actually, it might not be a great idea for me to...date. Not right now, anyway.”

She flinches. “There something going on I don’t know about? Someone?” She doesn’t sound judgmental, just a little wounded.

“No! God, that’s not it, I just…” Robbie takes a deep breath, sure he’s going to sound insane and this girl will run out of the house and never talk to him again. “I’ve been looking into something kind of weird, and it got me into some trouble. I don’t want you to be in danger if they come after me again.”

“In danger?” she asks, laughing. “What, some gangster is gonna treat me like a dizzy dame they can rough up?” She says the last part in a silly 40s kind of voice.

He can’t help but smile at that, but then he shakes his head. “No, but...look, it’s hard to explain.”

“So try,” she says. “If you want me to bug off, okay, fine, but I can take it. I promise.”

He sighs. “So, you met Gabe, you know he’s got that wheelchair. It wasn’t always like that. He...he got caught in a driveby, it was really bad. I wanted to get the guys who did that to my brother, so I started following them around, learning their hangout spots, watching them. One night a few of them were out and one of them had an escort with him. He said something shitty that made her leave, and we started talking. She said her name was Stella, and I looked into her, but I couldn’t find her no matter what I did. Then I spotted her in some other pictures, using different names. Once I trailed her to a restaurant and she was eating dinner with some guy who proposed to her. It was weird. Then I got an email promising me some answers if I met the sender somewhere - yeah, I know, it was stupid, but I didn’t have any other leads. I didn’t see who it was, but they roughed me up pretty good.”

“Oh,” Emily says, frowning. Whatever she was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. “So that’s what got you in the hospital, I’m guessing.”

He nods. “I don’t know what else they’ll do. I didn’t want you involved.”

“How long has it been going on?” she asks, because that’s easier than replying to his worry.

“Gabe’s accident was a couple years ago, and I started poking into these guys a few months back. But it didn’t get weird until…” He cocks his head, thinking. “Right after I met you, actually. That’s weird.”

“Huh,” she says. “Maybe I’m part of the conspiracy.”

He snorts. “Unless you’re one of the escorts with a thousand names, I doubt it.” He smirks. “You’re not, right?”

“Me? An escort?” She bursts out laughing. “I’d be the worst escort in the world. I don’t have… well, the anything that it takes.”

“But you’re pretty,” he says, and then feels like an idiot.

“Thanks,” she smirks. “I wasn’t begging for that compliment. But I’m not exactly the Playboy Bunny type you think of when you think of escorts, and that means I’d be the ‘exotic’ one. I don’t have the patience to put up with guys saying that all the time.”

“Oh.” He nods. “I guess so, yeah.”

“And can you imagine having to pretend like you’re interested in everything someone says?” she adds, shaking her head. “I guess I’m stereotyping the guys who hire escorts, but I feel like they probably just talk about stock portfolios and how fancy their house is and other stuff like that.”

That makes him laugh. “I guess so, yeah. Doesn’t sound fun.”

“Plus the pervy stuff,” she says with a fake shudder. “No thank you.”

Making a face, he nods again. “I can’t imagine that part of it is fun for them.” Then he continues, “Anyway, I don’t want them to be able to target you because of me.”

She sighs softly. “Look, I’m not going to push. If you think just friends is safer, then just friends it is.” She makes sure to make eye contact before adding, “I just wanted to let you know I’m up for whatever. No weirdness.”

He blinks. That wasn’t at all what he was expecting. “Really?”

“Really,” she agrees. “I like hanging out with you, so however you’d rather do that, I’m cool.”

“Okay,” he says, grinning. “In that case…” He holds up the remote. “You ready for this?”

“I don’t know,” she says playfully, “am I?”

“You’re never really ready for Paul Walker and Vin Diesel,” he says cheerfully as he pushes play.

“Alright, everyone stop talking!” yelps Fitz. “You can’t just barge back in here and start yelling at me all at once! I can’t concentrate! And I’m the only one who knows how to fix this bloody mess!”

Phil immediately shuts up, looking sheepish. Melinda rolls her eyes. “There’s no need to get angry at people who are trying to help,” Jemma chimes in, but off of his reaction she adds, “but we could maybe all do with helping in a slightly more organized fashion.”

Fitz sighs. “Alright, alright.” He taps at his keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m trying to figure out a way to tell remotely that they’ve been wiped,” he says, as if he’s talking to children (and not bright ones). “Their vitals are a bit higher than normal, but not off-the-charts, so it’s impossible to tell just from that. If the handlers can get back in contact with them we’ll know for sure…” He trails off.

“Can you call them back and see?” Phil asks.

Before Fitz can respond to that, Melinda snorts. “I’m sure he’s thought of that already, Phil.”

“Maybe he didn’t,” Phil replies.

“I did,” Fitz confirms. “They’re still running about like headless chickens, metaphorically speaking. Although, perhaps if I…” He taps a few more buttons and then his eyes widen. “Actually…” He pushes a few more buttons, and then the room is filled with the sound of a phone ringing.

“Wait, does that mean you’ve figured out how to call them?” Phil asks eagerly.

Fitz holds up a finger and then there’s a click. “Mack? You there?”

“Tell me you’ve figured this out, Turbo,” Mack says. His voice is a little shaky, like he’s having trouble keeping it together.

“Yes, I think so!” Fitz relays a series of directions to Mack about how to reconnect with the Dolls.

“If you say so.” Mack sounds unsure, but after a minute the phone rings again.

When the phone rings, everyone jumps. “What’s that?” Charlie asks. “Where’s that music coming from?”

“The little box is lighting up,” Tango offers, frowning.

“That’s because it’s a phone, dumbasses,” one of the men says. “Someone is calling you.”

“Don’t be mean,” scolds Charlie, and she stares at the phone for a second before poking at the screen. Then she’s not sure what to do next.

“Hello?” says a man’s voice. “Taffy?”

“I’m not Taffy,” says Charlie. “I’m Charlie. Who are you? How is your voice coming out of this little box?”

“Thank god,” sighs the man. “Charlie, do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Charlie replies, and it’s automatic. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Mack. I’m here to help you. Who’s with you?”

“I’m here!” Tango exclaims brightly. “I’m Tango. There are men here too, but they’re strange and rude.” Neither of the men seems interested in arguing this point.

“Tango?” says another man. “It’s Lance. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Tango says easily.

There’s another voice, muffled and hard to understand, and then Mack says, “Charlie, I have some things for you to do. Can you listen to me and do what I say?”

“Following instructions helps me be my best,” says Charlie.

“Good, good. Okay, so the first thing I need you to do is go over to the door. Bring your flashlight, okay?”

It’s not really Mack’s fault - he does his best, but he’s just not great at relaying Fitz’s (admittedly confusing, and not suited for Doll brains) instructions. Finally, since it seems like trying to tell Charlie anything else is going to be even more confusing, he sighs and just says, “Okay, never mind, Charlie. Let’s talk about something else. What’s your favorite color?”

Meanwhile, Fitz is having a conniption fit. “No!” he hisses. “We have to get this right or they’ll be stuck in there! They might well be arrested!”

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Jemma says quietly. “Not like this. Charlie can’t understand Mack’s instructions because Mack barely understands the instructions you’re giving him to give to her. What we need is - what we need is someone who can explain this to Charlie as simply as possible. Someone who knows exactly what to say. Fitz!” Her eyes light up. “The Taffy wedge. We could just -”

“-imprint another Doll with the Taffy wedge and have her relay the instructions!” Fitz snaps his fingers. “That’s brilliant! I knew I’d find the answer sooner or later!”

Jemma sighs behind her hand and rolls her eyes, not bothering to mention that he did certainly find the answer, if not in his own mind. “Melinda, can you get - Foxtrot, perhaps? She wasn’t on an engagement tonight.”

Melinda nods. “Be right back.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea!” Phil says, nodding approvingly.

“Thanks,” Fitz says smugly.

Not ten minutes later, Foxtrot is sitting up in the chair newly imprinted, newly Taffy. “Blue skies,” she says with a smirk.

They’re most of the way through the movie when Robbie (who’s seen this movie probably a thousand times, but still gets kind of into it) notices that Emily seems to have dozed off.

This isn’t a problem - he’s not offended or anything - but before she fell asleep, she casually scooted over and leaned her head on his shoulder. And now she’s asleep.

He tries very hard to breathe normally. But it’s hard, because pretty girls don’t do this when he’s around. He has no idea how to deal with this.

He opts to just sit very still until the movie’s over and he feels her start moving. “Hi,” he says. “You dozed off, I think.”

“Oh, crap,” Emily murmurs, blushing. “I’m sorry. I probably missed the big important car chase or whatever, huh?”

Robbie laughs. “It’s okay. I figured you probably needed the rest.”

“I feel bad, though,” she says. “I really was trying to pay attention. It was pretty fun! Just…”

“I’m not mad,” he promises. “I...kind of liked that you felt safe enough to fall asleep with me.”

“Yeah?” she asks, sounding kind of hopeful. “Well, I did. I do.”

“Thanks,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “I know we don’t know each other all that well, so that’s...pretty cool.”

“Well, I’ve got a good feeling about you,” she says, smirking. “And you’re surprisingly comfortable.”

“Really? My family was always saying I was too skinny.”

“Skinny and comfy aren’t mutually exclusive,” she points out. “Or possibly I’m biased.”

He grins. “Well, thanks. It was really nice.”

She seems about to say something else, but the front door creaks open and Gabe comes in, calling, “Hey, you two crazy kids decent?”

Emily glances at Robbie, shy almost, and Robbie rolls his eyes. “What do you think?” he calls back.

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked,” Gabe replies, grinning.

“Everyone’s clothes stayed on,” sighs Robbie. “Nothing for your virgin eyes to be scandalized by.”

“You sound pretty sure of that,” Gabe teases. He comes into the room to get a better look at them and brakes his chair by the couch, adding, “Looks like you still had fun.”

“We had a good time,” Emily agrees. “The cars are very fast and very furious.”

Robbie chuckles. “Sure are.”

“Good, good,” Gabe says. “I had a good night too, in case you were wondering.”

“Good,” nods Robbie. “Off to bed now.”

“Yeah, you just want the place to yourself, I see how it is,” Gabe replies, but he heads down the hall and closes his door loudly without actually fussing more.

Robbie snorts. “See what I put up with?” he asks Emily, but he’s obviously not upset.

“He cares about you,” Emily says. “It’s sweet.”

“Yeah. We’re pretty much all each other has,” says Robbie with a too-casual shrug, “so we have to look out for each other.”

“You’re a good brother, so I’m gonna guess he learned it from you,” she replies, trying for comforting.

He shrugs. “Trying, anyway.” Then he glances at his phone. “You’re probably tired, I can drive you home if you want?”

Emily’s expression falls a little - well, after passing out on his shoulder it stands to reason that she was hoping for a reversal of the earlier decision - but she shrugs it off. She does intend to be cool about this. “Yeah, that sounds good,” she says with a smile.

He tilts his head. “I mean...you can stay over if you want? I just figured…” He hasn’t done much of this before, he has no idea how to proceed.

“Maybe another time,” she says. “I think we’re far enough along for tonight.” Not that she would mind going farther, but she can tell he feels uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he replies, ducking his head. “This is all kinda new to me, I dunno.”

“It’s okay,” she promises. “I really don’t mind. I’m up for whatever you’re up for. And besides,” she adds, teasing, “you didn’t expect I’d be staying over. I bet you haven’t washed your sheets. I prefer clean sheets when I stay over with someone.”

“Wow,” he says with mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I washed my sheets just last week.” Then he grins and stands up. “C’mon. You can meet Lucy.” She’d taken the bus to his place, but it’s way too late for him to feel comfortable with her doing that now.

“Ooh, now that’s a big step,” she remarks, rising and brushing herself off unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I don’t let just any girl meet Lucy,” he teases, gesturing for her to follow him outside. “Means you’re pretty special.”

“Thanks very much,” she says with a grin. “I’ve never met a guy’s car before, I mean one with a personality or whatever, so I might need you to walk me through the etiquette.”

“Of course,” he says, opening the front door and waiting for her to go ahead.

“...so basically, we’ve got two contractors who are stuck in the vault,” Phil finishes explaining, “and let’s just say they...er…”

“Went ass-up,” says Melinda, rolling her eyes and glaring at Fitz.

This iteration of Taffy, Taffy the second as it were, rolls her eyes. “This is probably what you get for hiring a second team behind my back,” she points out.

Phil looks sheepish. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You’ll be fully compensated for this as well as for the original job, of course.”

“I better be,” Taffy says. “You have anything to drink around here?”

“I’ve got juice boxes,” Fitz says, sounding doubtful. “Apple.”

“I have some tea upstairs?” Phil offers. “Afraid we don’t keep hard liquor in the office.”

“You don’t,” mutters Melinda, too quiet for anyone except him to hear.

Taffy rolls her eyes. “Tea is okay, I guess,” she concedes. “So what do you want me to do here?”

“Basically,” Fitz explains, as Phil hurries off to brew tea, “we need you to get on the phone and help walk them through opening the vault door. Unless you think it’ll be too difficult.” He keeps his tone light, just slightly challenging.

Taffy snorts. “I could open that vault in my sleep,” she says. “You’re sure they’re smart enough to follow my directions?”

“Probably,” sighs Melinda. “We can hope, anyway. We’d have you go down and do it, but there isn’t time.”

“Of course there’s not,” Taffy replies sarcastically. “Alright, hook me up. But for the record? You guys seriously owe me.” She leans back on the couch and motions for Fitz to pass her his phone.

Mack was telling Charlie a nice story about a pony when he suddenly interrupts himself. “Hey, Charlie, I have someone who’s gonna help you open that door, okay? You’ll hear a beep. When you do, I need you to press the green button. That’ll connect you to Taffy, and she’s gonna tell you what to do. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Charlie. “Can we finish the story later?”

“Sure we can.” Then the line beeps, and Mack says, “Okay, there it is. Green button.”

“Okay!” Charlie obediently pushes the green button. “Hello?”

“Hey, weirdo,” says a strange woman’s voice, sounding like she’s joking. “Put me on speaker. Touch the little picture of the triangle with lines beside it.”

Charlie squints at the phone for a second before finally figuring it out and pushing the right button. “Did that work? I can hear you speaking.”

“That’s the point,” the woman says. “Yeah, so I’m Taffy and I’m here to save your asses.”

“Thank god,” one of the men groans.

“That’s not a nice word,” Tango chimes in.

“Oh, there’s the other one,” Taffy chuckles. “Hi, cutie. So one of you should have a little vial of resin in your boot. Do you know what a vial is?”

“I don’t have anything in my boots,” Tango frowns.

Charlie takes off first one boot, then the other. It takes longer than it should, but knots are hard to untie. “Here!” she says, holding it up triumphantly. “It looks like a little tube of water.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Taffy drawls. “So here’s what I need the two of you to do.”

Very slowly, with lots of pauses so Charlie and Tango can ask questions, Taffy explains how they can use the vial of resin and a drill that one of the men provides to get the door open safely and without setting off any unnecessary alarms.

Emphasis on very slowly.

“This is complicated,” Tango says. “You’re very smart, Taffy. Which is funny. Taffy is candy, and candy isn’t smart. Candy is tasty, but only if you have a little bit of it.”

Taffy resists the urge to say something mean about how the two of them sure aren’t smart, but instead she replies, “I’m tasty no matter how much of me you have.”

“You’re funny, too,” Tango says cheerfully. “You can’t eat people.”

“I got it open!” chimes in Charlie. “Now what?”

“Now you get the hell out of there and find your friends,” Taffy instructs. “They’re in a van outside.”

“Okay!” Tango exclaims. She offers her hand to Charlie and says, “Let’s go.”

“Can we get out of here too?” grumbles one of the men. “I’m missing the game.”

“That’s not my business,” Taffy replies. “My work here is done.” With a click, Taffy’s voice disappears.

Tango glances at the phone, then back at the men. “Taffy is nice,” she says. “I would like to meet Taffy.”

“She’s helpful,” agrees Charlie. “Maybe we’ll get to meet her before our treatments.”

“That would be nice,” Tango says, starting to head for the door.

Next thing Charlie knows, Mack is meeting her. She hasn’t even gone outside yet but there he is, smiling. “Hey, Charlie,” he says. “Ready for your treatment?”

“Yes, please,” Charlie says. “I’m tired. A lot happened and some of it was scary.”

“C’mon, love,” Hunter says, reaching out an arm for Tango. “Time for your treatment.”

Tango lets herself be gathered, smiling faintly. “Treatments are nice,” she remarks. “Can we meet Taffy first? She was also nice.”

“I think you need your treatment first,” Hunter says, making a funny face. “Then we’ll see.”

“All right,” Tango replies.

“Jesus Christ,” sighs Isabelle, as “Taffy” is leaning back in the chair. “Will you guys quit using my Active for these last-minute rescues?”

“Everyone else who could have been Taffy was busy,” Jemma says before any of the more irritable parties have a chance to comment. She seems mostly calmed down by now, although the empty packets of crisps in the bin beside her suggest this was hard-earned.

“Anyhow, I didn’t see anybody else coming up with any ideas,” snipes Fitz, starting the wipe.

“Fine, fine,” mutters Isabelle, and turns on her handler-self, complete with bland smile, as Foxtrot wakes up.

“Hello,” Foxtrot says. “Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while,” Fitz says.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

Foxtrot looks up and turns her smile on Isabelle, clearly expecting direction. “Hello,” she says again.

“Hello, Foxtrot,” says Isabelle. “Would you like to go for a swim, maybe?”

“I enjoy swimming,” Foxtrot announces, letting Isabelle lead her out of the lab.

“So,” Melinda says, turning to look at Phil and Fitz, “let’s debrief. Since that was only mildly a disaster.”

“Everything seems in good order,” Dr. Simmons declares, nodding at Tango with a smile. “You were very lucky tonight, I’d say.”

“Was I?” Tango asks. (Hunter, in the doorway, is just thankful that the impression left by Taffy was wiped away with the rest of the night’s events.)

“Yes,” Dr. Simmons says. “You and Charlie could have been hurt, but you weren’t. That’s lucky.”

“We had friends to help us,” Tango says. “Friends help each other out.”

Hunter sees Mack and Charlie arriving in the doorway and he says, “That’s right. Now, say thank you and you can go swim or...something.”

“Thank you and you can go swim or...something,” Tango says with a smile, following Hunter out.

In the split second where Jemma doesn’t have to be Dr. Simmons, she allows herself a little smile. Then Charlie enters, and it’s back to business. “How are you, Charlie?” she asks.

“I’m well,” says Charlie, smiling. “How are you, Dr. Simmons?”

“I’m also well,” Dr. Simmons says, but she doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Today has been very busy for all of us.”

Charlie nods. “Busy days are fun,” she says. “Being busy sometimes helps me be my best.”

“Yes,” Dr. Simmons agrees. She doesn’t seem her best. “Are you hurt anywhere, Charlie?”

“No,” says Charlie, sitting on the examination table. “I don’t hurt anywhere.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Simmons says. “May I look you over anyway? I want to be sure.”

“Yes,” says Charlie. “Seeing you after my treatments helps me be my best.”

Dr. Simmons smiles faintly, but not with her whole face. “That’s what we want,” she murmurs, starting to examine Charlie’s limbs one by one. “Being your best.”

Charlie is quiet for a minute, and then she says, “You’re sad. Why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad,” Dr. Simmons says, too quickly for it to be true.

“You look sad,” replies Charlie.

And how, really, can Dr. Simmons - can Jemma - explain this? Yes, she’s feeling a bit melancholy, both because recent events were nervewracking and she was very concerned for Charlie and Tango and because if what Fitz said was true, if someone out there in the world was able to perform a remote wipe without their realizing it was going to happen, that means that there’s someone out there in the world whose knowledge of such matters is as advanced as Fitz’s, which straightaway rules out most people, even most other Dollhouse programmers around the world, but it wouldn’t rule out someone who had access to Fitz’s brain, like - but he’s gone, he was taken care of, there’s no reason to think that he -

“It was upsetting,” Dr. Simmons concedes. “You and Tango were in a - a difficult situation, and the rest of us were trying to help you, but everyone was getting very cross at each other.” That’s easy to explain, even if it’s only a fraction of truth. “I don’t enjoy arguments.”

“I don’t either,” says Charlie. “Would you like a hug? Hugs help people feel better. We’re friends, and friends help each other out.”

Dr. Simmons blinks. She knows she should say no, but then that would hurt Charlie’s feelings, and it’s more important not to do that than to hold onto her professional dignity (never mind that either outcome will be forgotten in no time - the impression might remain). “A hug would be very nice, thank you, Charlie,” she says softly.

Charlie sits up and puts her arms around Dr. Simmons gently. “Do you feel better now?” she asks, still holding onto her.

“Yes,” Dr. Simmons says, with a smile in her voice. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Fitz says, narrowing his eyes. “You’re telling me that not only is Yankee still alive, we don’t even know where he is?”

Melinda and Phil exchange guilty looks.

Chapter Text

Mason is just at the front counter straightening things and humming along to the radio when he sees them coming. Great. They pull up in their stupid renovated schoolbus (where did they even get that?) and start piling out with stupid smiles on their faces, like they were told if they just walk around smiling all the time nobody is going to notice the fact that they’re a freaking cult.

They totally are, he knows. They have a sketchy-ass walled compound you can see from I-405, and they only come to town like once or twice a month. They always travel in a pack. And Christ knows what they actually do there. Mason’s best friend’s sister claims she bought soap from one of them once, so they might make crafts, but then again his cousin’s boyfriend says he was biking one of the back roads near the compound one time and heard what he said sounded like “twenty women having orgrasms at the same time,” so they might just be having weird cult sex.

Looking at these people, Mason’s going to go ahead and bet on that one.

“Welcome in,” he says when the group files in, and a few of them turn toward him and give friendly nods. (They probably won’t actually say anything to him since he’s such a townie heathen or whatever.) “Can I help you find anything?”

“We have an order to pick up,” says the guy who seems to be the leader. He can’t be more than thirty, but he carries himself like he thinks he deserves all of the attention in the world. He also definitely doesn’t sound like he’s from around here, although where he is from is a complete mystery.

“Oh, let me just go grab that out of the back,” Mason says. “What’s the name on it?”

“It’ll be under Boltagon,” the leader says, sounding exasperated that this wasn’t already obvious. Which is ridiculous. For one, this isn’t even Mason’s usual shift, and for another, you don’t go remembering every single person’s name all the time. That’d be nuts.

“Cool,” Mason mumbles, ducking into the back room and emerging with a couple of boxes’ worth of groceries. (All packed up already, so he can’t spy on what they’re buying, dammit.) “This should be it, I think.”

The leader nods, affecting what’s possibly the most disdainful expression ever, and then says, “Who has the wallet, then?”

A blonde girl who honestly could be anywhere between sixteen and twenty-six steps out of the cluster (why they all needed to come in when only two of them were involved in the transaction is another mystery) and starts pulling bills out of an honest-to-god macrame change purse. “Sorry,” she whispers as she passes Mason the money.

A couple of the guys come to get the boxes and, without any ceremony, their leader ushers everyone out of the store. He doesn’t even bother to respond when Mason tells him (unenthusiastically, but still) to have a good day.

He’s counting the dollar bills and putting them in the till when he sees one piece of paper that’s not like the rest. It’s just a white scrap of paper tucked between a couple of twenties, and all it says on it is HELP ME.

Shit.

“We have to do something,” Phil insists. “I know we don’t have much information, but it’s clear that whoever this Maximus guy is, he’s up to no good.”

“Do we?” Fitz asks, tilting his head. “I mean, this is really quite a jump from our usual engagement.”

“My friend with the LAPD said they can’t do anything because there’s no concrete proof of illegality,” says Phil, shaking his head. “But he said the witness described the girl as young, maybe even a teenager...I hate to think of anything bad happening to her, or anyone else who might be feeling trapped there.”

“You’re getting overly sentimental,” says Melinda. “She’s young, but she’s not a child. Probably.”

“Still,” Phil says. “And we don’t know if there are actual children, either. They probably wouldn’t bring the children out into the regular world.”

Fitz is quiet for a moment. “I have been working on a new form of tech that might be useful for this. For surveillance, anyway.”

Phil perks up. “Oh?”

“Basically, it overwrites the optic nerve and turns the human eye into a camera,” Fitz says, speaking a bit slowly, as if he thinks Phil’s a bit dim (he does). “If we send one of the Dolls equipped with this, we’d have a simple method of gathering evidence as well as someone on the ground, as it were, in case things go south.”

Melinda seems skeptical. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not!” Fitz insisted. “Well. Not terribly. I’m fairly sure we can fix the nerve afterwards. I haven’t actually tried it on a human test subject, mind.”

Jemma, who’s been sat very primly on the sofa beside Fitz just listening to all of this because really, it’s not her place, she just came to this meeting because she didn’t have anything else that needed doing and Fitz invited her along, can’t help but roll her eyes. “The only reason you haven’t done that is that I told you you shouldn’t without getting permission,” she sighs.

Fitz makes a face at her and then looks hopefully at Phil and Melinda. “I really do think it’s well-suited for this.”

Phil looks a bit uncertain, but finally nods. “I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

“You had better tell them about the side-effects,” Jemma says warningly.

Pouting, Fitz says, “I would have,” before adding, “Well, rewiring the optic nerve to this camera means that while it’s in use, the Doll will technically be...blind.”

“What,” Melinda deadpans. “You’re not serious.”

“Like I said, I can fix it once we bring them back to the House!”

Phil presses his lips together. “And there’s absolutely no way around this?”

“No, of course not,” sighs Fitz, starting to get exasperated. “Look, it’s fine, I can make the imprint for a blind person, they’ll never know the difference! Besides, these religious types love taking in the downtrodden and disabled and what have you.”

“Fitz,” Jemma hisses. “That’s awful to say.”

“It might be, but I’m not wrong!” he protests.

There’s a tense silence for a moment before Melinda coughs and says, “So, who are you proposing we use for this...experiment?”

“You want to do what to Charlie?”

“Calm down,” Fitz says, rubbing his temple. “Like I’ve told you, it’s a very simple procedure and we can fix it just as soon as she gets back-”

“I am calm,” Mack says stonily. “But I’m damn unhappy about you using my Doll, again, for your crazy experiments. You have twenty five others, why is Charlie the one that always ends up doing these weird engagements?”

“She’s our best,” Fitz replies. “Highly adaptable, resilient, and, well, she has the sort of face that people notice. No matter how batshit these people are, they won’t turn away a girl who looks like her.”

Mack grumbles a little to himself, so Jemma jumps in to say, “We’ll really be taking every precaution. And you’ll obviously be monitoring the camera feed, and you’ll have audio as always, so if anything seems to be going wrong you can extract her.” She doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic about this plan, but what safety concerns she can personally account for or turn over to Mack so he can account for them himself are easy to reassure him of.

Mack makes a sort of growl-sigh noise and shakes his head. “It’s your call, I guess, sir,” he says, looking at Phil. “I’ll be with her either way, of course.”

Phil nods. “Thank you. We’ll let you know when we have a better idea of the timeline for this.”

Mack doesn’t respond, just gets up and leaves.

“They wouldn’t really put her in danger,” Elena murmurs, nestling into Mack. They’re curled up on one of the lounge couches (luckily, none of the other handlers are in there right now) and Elena’s doing her best to comfort him after the meeting with Phil and the others. “She’s their number one, why would they want to hurt her?”

“I know,” sighs Mack. “I’m just...starting to wish she wasn’t so popular so they’d leave her alone for awhile.”

Elena snickers. “Are you sure this isn’t just because you want a break?”

“No!” Mack protests, but he can’t help but grin. “Maybe a little, but I’m really not sure this is such a good idea.”

“I’m not either,” Elena says, shaking her head. “But we cannot do anything about it, so it won’t help to worry.” She kisses him. “Charlie will be alright. You must have faith.”

“Oh, now you’re lecturing me about faith,” he says playfully. “How the tables have turned.”

“No turning tables,” she replies with a smirk. “I had an idea. What if we asked them to program Delta and maybe another Doll as cops and had them waiting in case something bad happened? Would that help?”

“Maybe.” Mack runs a hand through her hair. “Thank you.”

“Besides, that would mean I was there with you too,” Elena points out.

“Yeah,” says Mack, starting to look a little less nervous. “That’d be good.”

“I will talk to them,” promises Elena, closing her eyes and smiling when Mack strokes her hair again. “In a few minutes.”

“Have you ever felt like God was calling you somewhere?”

The question catches Mack off guard. He’s doing his best to keep up the charade of being a trucker who’s just picked up a blind girl in need of a ride. But it’s hard, because he hates this and he just wants to take Charlie away from this terrible idea. “Uh,” he says quickly. “I’ve felt like God was speaking to me before, but not like that.”

“I think He’s telling me to go meet someone,” says Charlie. Cherish. (That’s the dumb name Fitz came up with for this imprint.) “Up in the mountains, that’s where I’m supposed to meet them.”

“Yeah?” Mack says, trying not to sound uneasy. “You sure about this? I don’t know if I feel comfortable leaving...someone...like you alone.”

“Why?” Cherish asks with a giggle. “Because I’m blind? I know how to get around.”

“No,” Mack says, chuckling despite himself. “Because you’re a pretty girl and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“I’ll be alright,” Cherish says firmly. “The Lord will look after me. I trust in Him.”

Mack makes a sort of harrumph noise but doesn’t reply.

A few hours later, he drops her off, his heart in his throat as he watches her go. “You be careful, okay?” he calls.

“I will,” she says with a wave. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“It’s Mack,” he says, as he’s reminded her half a dozen times during the drive. He shakes his head as he turns the truck around to head back to the rendez-vous point. At least Elena’s there waiting for him.

Meanwhile, Cherish walks into the woods, never tripping over a single tree root or stone. She uses her cane to navigate, careful and methodical. She keeps walking until she hears voices ahead, and then calls, “Hello? Hello?”

More than a few people have gathered, alerted by the sound of someone on the path. It’s not that there are any alarms or anything, they don’t need those, but typically nobody comes here, so it’s strange, obvious, and more than a little unnerving.

But, Crystal thinks, that might just be that she finds everything a little unnerving lately. A young, pretty woman just sauntering into the compound is almost certainly here for… something bad. Still, nobody else seems to be willing to speak to her first, and she doubts that she’ll get in trouble for doing (so-called benefits of her so-called privileged position), so she steps out of the bunch and says, “Hello. Are you lost?”

“No,” Cherish says, smiling. “I’m looking for someone. I had a dream where God told me to go into the mountains and look for a town full of people, and a man with a dark beard who spoke with the voice of God.”

Crystal has to work not to make a face at that, both because she doesn’t want to alarm any of the others and because she doesn’t want to offend this new person. But then she looks down and notices the woman’s… cane? “How did you get here?” she asks warily, trying to put it all together as best she can.

“The Lord worked through many kind people to bring me here,” Cherish says, but before she can continue a slight and yet imposing man pushes through the crowd noisily.

“Who has found us here?” he asks, his accent untraceable.

“My name is Cherish Daughtry,” she says, smiling. “I believe God sent me to you.”

He scoffs. “Nobody comes here,” he says. “We are all but cut off from modern civilization. How do we know to trust you?” He nods at her cane. “How do I know you’re even truly blind?”

Crystal gasps indignantly (you’re not supposed to say things like that, even she knows that) but luckily there are enough murmurs and whispers going around the crowd that it goes unnoticed.

“In the dream, you had me touch your face so that I would be able to find you,” Cherish says. “I’ll know it’s you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, but he moves closer.

“You must have faith, Maximus,” Cherish says, turning to face him. “I am meant to be here with you.”

Maximus raises an eyebrow, though he knows she won’t know that. “Very well,” he says. “You may touch my face.” He doesn’t take her hand, though.

Cherish reaches up to run her fingers gently over his face. “It’s you,” she murmurs. “You were in my dream, Maximus Boltagon.”

“And what did I say to you, Cherish Daughtry?”

“You told me to come and find you in the mountains. You said that God was leading me here to be with you, to grow closer to Him.”

“You will do that,” he agrees, just soft enough that it seems personal. “Yes, I think we are in no position to deny the will of God. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “It sounds like a beautiful place.”

The crowd begins to applaud lightly, and after a moment of that Maximus turns back to look at them. “Crystal,” he says, too jovially to be sincere, “since you’ve already been making friends, you can give Cherish a tour and get her acquainted with everyone.” It’s not a request.

“Of course,” Crystal murmurs, coming to Cherish’s side. “May I take your arm?”

“Yes,” says Cherish, offering it. “Thank you. It’s very nice to meet you, Crystal.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” Crystal says, but she’s trying to shake a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

It’s a pretty boring day so far. Fitz has messed around with a few new imprints, just tweaking things here and there (well, it would be funny if one of the Dolls wanted to have a postcoital debate about which Star Trek is best, he doesn’t care what Jemma says), but there isn’t much going on. He spins his chair around to grab a juice box and happens to catch a glimpse of the shower monitors.

He doesn’t usually look at those, because, well. Even if it is just meant to be a security measure, he feels weird about seeing the Dolls naked. Right now Foxtrot is in the middle of a shower, and Tango has just arrived and is taking off her towel. He sort of lets his eyes stop on that monitor for a second, mostly out of laziness.

Everything seems normal - Foxtrot’s washing her hair, and Tango just stands there watching Foxtrot for a moment before starting to wash her arms. Foxtrot smiles at her, and Tango smiles back. After a couple of minutes, Foxtrot rinses out her hair, says goodbye to Tango, and then leaves. By this point Tango has progressed to washing down her body, and then she…

“Oh god!” yelps Fitz, putting a hand in front of the monitor once he figures out what, exactly, Tango seems to be doing. He didn’t even really know girls did that, let alone Dolls…

He picks up the inter-office phone and frantically presses the button for Jemma’s office. “Jemma,” he says, when she picks up, “get up here, I...I saw something we need to talk about.”

“So this is the crafting house,” Crystal says, leading Cherish into a building that smells vaguely of lavender. “The women make our livelihoods here, soaps and knitwear and paper and… such.”

“That sounds nice,” Cherish says. “And what do the men do?”

Crystal frowns and hopes Cherish can’t somehow tell. “Well,” she says carefully, “they build our buildings, they tend to the bus and the horses. They find our food, though we prepare all but the meat - that’s left to the men too old to hunt.” She pauses before adding, “They, a few of them anyway, are responsible for our relationship to the outside world.”

“I see.” Cherish thinks a moment. “So everyone has a job to do. A purpose.”

“Yes,” Crystal says. Can the new girl sense her reticence? She hopes not. “We all… we all do have our roles to play. It’s preordained.”

“I feel like I’ve been searching for a purpose all my life,” muses Cherish. “Perhaps that’s why the Lord led me here. What is your role here?”

“Perhaps,” Crystal echoes. And then she has to sigh, just a little. The question is unsurprising, but it stings. “Well, I help tend the gardens, I make candles, I help the littlest girls.” Protect them is more accurate, as of late. “My older sister was beloved of Maximus’ brother, and as such he considers me…” Family is the wrong word, but so is special. And she is hardly beloved of him. “Close. He holds me close.”

“Was?” Cherish frowns. “I don’t mean to pry, but did something happen to your sister?”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Crystal hurries to say. “Maximus’ brother is the one who’s not with us anymore. He is with God now.” It’s what she’s been trained to say, and that’s obvious by her tone.

“Oh,” replies Cherish. “I’m sorry.” She pauses. “You don’t seem to like Maximus very much.”

“It’s not that,” Crystal exclaims (although it is). “I simply didn’t want to make it sound like, like he treats me differently or favors me unduly. It’s not true, and I wouldn’t want to brag or make it sound as if we were like that here.” Hopefully that covers up her hesitance.

“Okay,” Cherish says. “I just meant that you sounded resentful of him. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Crystal bites her lip. “It’s complicated,” she says, praying that will be the end of that. “What do you think you might like to do with us? Cooking, or making things, or?”

“I’m not sure,” says Cherish with a little laugh. “I don’t think I should be entrusted with the cooking. I suppose I want to be useful in any way I can be. The Lord will show me the best place for my skills.”

“Yes,” Crystal agrees, matching the laugh. “Perhaps you could help with the children. There is so much they need to learn.”

Cherish beams. “I think I’d like that. Do you like children? I do, I think.”

“I do,” Crystal says. “I like helping them discover who they’re meant to be and what makes them truly joyous.” And every minute she’s with them, they’re not with someone worse.

“Maybe we’ll get to work together,” says Cherish. “I’d like that too. I like you, if it isn’t too bold to say.”

“No, it’s not,” Crystal promises. “I like you too. I’m glad to have you as, perhaps, a friend.”

“Friends are very important. You can help each other in your walk with God.”

“Yes,” Crystal murmurs. “I should finish the tour, shouldn’t I?” She laughs, although it’s not really funny, and takes Cherish’s arm once more to lead her out. “The kitchen and dining room are in the main house, but the men prepare some of the meat in the little building on our right. And to the left is, ah, the plenteous house.”

Cherish’s mouth quirks. “The what?”

“How old are you?” Crystal asks softly.

“Nineteen,” Cherish replies. “Why do you ask?”

“It means that you’re old enough to visit the plenteous house,” Crystal says, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice. “When you are more settled here, perhaps, there will be a ceremony for you, making you truly a bride of God, and all brides serve their husbands - or in this case, His surrogates, the men here.”

Cherish tilts her head. “You mean sexually?”

Crystal nods for a moment before she realizes how useless that is. “Our bodies are tools of God,” she says. “If we’re lucky, He will bless us.”

“Oh, I see,” Cherish says. “So have you had this...ceremony?”

“I turned nineteen half a year ago,” Crystal explains, “and had my ceremony shortly after.”

Cherish, sensing Crystal would rather not speak of this further, smiles and says, “Well, do you have anything else you want to show me?”

“Jesus,” Mack mutters. “I can’t believe this.”

Elena is crossing herself and muttering curses in Spanish. “This man is not of God, that is for certain.”

“Men are bad, news at ten,” Victoria sighs, taking an angry sip of water before she nods at Mack and then cop-Romeo. “No offense, Mack. No offense, Officer Fletcher.”

Mack sighs. “None taken. I hate this.” He glances balefully over at Melinda. “How long exactly are we keeping her in that nuthouse?”

“We need evidence of abuse,” says Melinda. “Indisputable evidence. You know how the justice system treats victims.”

“I do.” Mack rubs his temples. “I just worry about her, you know.”

“We do.” Elena places a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t let any harm come to her, you know that.”

“Fletcher and I have worked multiple stings like this, sir,” says Sergeant Lennox, smiling at him in a vaguely reassuring way. “We know exactly when to step in.” She’s not exactly warm, but she exudes an air of quiet confidence.

Mack shakes his head. Fitz’s programming is impeccable, he knows, but he’s really not comfortable trusting the safety of his Active to what basically amounts to luck and timing. “Thanks, sergeant,” he sighs. “I’m just...not as used to this kind of thing as I should be.”

“It’s understandable.” Officer Fletcher smiles at him. “You’ve worked with her for months now, haven’t you? From what Mr. Coulson was saying, the bond between Actives and their handlers is practically unbreakable.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mack with a nod. Elena leans against him, and he busies himself with running his hand through her hair. It isn’t enough to fully distract him, but it’s something anyway.

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about, Fitz,” Jemma sighs, folding her arms.

“Well, it’s just, I was minding my own damn business, when I happened to, and they were, and she was-” Fitz takes a deep breath. “It’s not normal, Jemma!”

“What, masturbation?” Jemma says, somehow missing (or seeming to miss) the way that the word makes him twitch. “It is, though. Even children do that sometimes, some of them.”

Fitz scrunches up his nose in a grimace. “Alright, but I’m talking about Dolls here. They’re not supposed to be able to do...any of that! They don’t get erections and they don’t have sexual reactions while in Dollstate! It’s very specific!”

“It’s not like she followed through,” she points out. “It’s possible she was just taking a long time to wash herself, for goodness’ sake.”

“No, she was definitely...enjoying herself...oh god.” Fitz puts his head in his hands. “I don’t even like talking about this. But it’s troubling behavior and we need to figure out how to curb it before it gets worse.”

“Enjoying herself,” Jemma repeats, slightly dumbfounded.

“Yes! You know…” Fitz is bright red now, and making a series of flailing gestures with his hands. “She was...ah...buttering her muffin?”

“Good grief,” Jemma mutters. “You must have tried it at least once, you don’t have to be so bloody awkward about it.”

“Jemma!” he yelps, horrified. “We weren’t talking about me, we were talking about the Actives!”

“What?” she retorts. “You’ve done it, I’ve done it, Tango just barely did it. I would think there are more important things to worry about.”

“Please stop talking about it,” he groans, his head buried in his hands. “Anyway, I suppose I’ll need to wipe her again. We really can’t have this going on.”

“What did it hurt?” she asks. “What does it hurt, generally?”

“Nothing!” he says, lifting his head but resolutely not looking her in the eyes. “It’s just...we don’t want them to do that, that’s all!”

“We, really?” Jemma asks. “Was there a memo I missed? Did you and Coulson have a sit-down lunch to discuss the Dolls’ capacity for self-exploration, or is it just your own hang-up?”

Fitz groans. “Look, I’d be saying the same thing if they were boys too, alright? They’re not supposed to want to do...things like that! And I don’t know why you’re defending them, you’re not supposed to!”

“I told you, it’s practically involuntary,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “Besides, supposed to? Because I’m always meant to take your side, I suppose? I’m not defending them per se, I’m just saying it’s really not the catastrophe you’re making it out to be.”

Rubbing his temples, Fitz shakes his head and sighs. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, alright? I’ll just, just bring Tango in for a quick rewipe, and let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“That chair isn’t a solution for everything,” Jemma says, though she’s already sounding less argumentative. “We should talk to them first, Tango and Foxtrot both, and see if we’re noticing any lingering behavioral changes. I expect Tango doesn’t even remember it.”

“Fine,” grumbles Fitz. “Go get Tango, will you?” His tone is just the slightest bit sarcastic.

“Thanks very much for that fine reading, Bronaja,” says Maximus, smiling indulgently at the young man. Bronaja smiles back at him, still seeming a bit nervous. “Many of us have heard the story of the woman who gave her last two copper coins to Christ. I’d like to hear some interpretations.” He glances over at Cherish, who’s sitting next to Crystal. “Cherish?”

“I think it’s a story about faith,” says Cherish. “Faith that the Lord will provide and bless your offering. And generosity even when it’s difficult. We are to give all of ourselves for the good of the Lord.”

Maximus nods thoughtfully. “Indeed,” he says, his gaze falling on Crystal for a moment. “Can you think of an example of such a difficult generosity?”

Cherish pauses a moment before replying, “Perhaps if we were to give some of our crops away to the non-believers who need them? That might also witness to them.”

“There is little point trying to persuade the heathens around us,” Maximus says patronizingly.

“I disagree,” Cherish says politely. “I think it could be very beneficial to reach out to them, and try to convince some of them to see things the way we see them. Wouldn’t it be better to try to bring some of them into the light with us?”

“Perhaps.” Maximus’ tone is cool. “But wouldn’t that open some of us, the ones whose faith is perhaps weaker, to outside influences? My concern is that some may be seduced away by the temptations of the world. Better to remain amongst ourselves, so that those of us with unshakeable faith may protect and encourage the weak.”

“Best not to argue,” Crystal whispers.

Cherish tilts her head. “But then why not at least send out some of those who are strongest in faith? Surely they can survive the temptations. You are counting yourself amongst the strongest, aren’t you?” She doesn’t sound flippant or challenging, just curious.

Maximus narrows his eyes. “I see that your new friend wasn’t clear about the order of things here,” he says, again staring at Crystal. It’s as much a threat to her as to Cherish. “Leadership decisions are best left to the leaders.”

Cherish frowns, beginning to stand up. “I understand that,” she says, “but I thought we were all beloved and important in the eyes of God. What kind of leader doesn’t want input from those he leads? I think that makes for a cowardly leader.”

He lets out a sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss as he crosses the distance between them and slaps her face. “Do I have a rebel on my hands?” he asks in a low voice.

There’s a series of horrified gasps from those close enough to see what happened, and none are louder than Crystal’s, who looks to be three seconds from jumping to Cherish’s defense.

Cherish blinks, clearly stunned. She’s quiet for a very long moment, before saying, “I...I can see you, Maximus.” She stares him right in the eyes. “My sight has returned.”

“What happened?” growls Mack, clenching his fist and staring at the monitors. “Why can’t we see anything?”

“He hit her,” Elena says, shocked. “He hit her and broke the camera.”

“That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” asks Officer Fletcher, raising an eyebrow.

“We sure as hell weren’t briefed on that possibility,” Victoria says through gritted teeth.

Melinda shushes them. “We can still hear, at least,” she points out. “I think all it did was shut off the visual somehow.”

“I don’t like this,” Mack says. “Who knows what else that crazy bastard is gonna do.”

“Should we extract her?” Elena asks the officers.

“Not yet,” says Sergeant Lennox. “Wait a moment.”

Cherish glances around at the stunned faces in the crowd around her, blinking as she’s overwhelmed by sunlight for the first time in...well, nearly a lifetime. She shades her eyes and says, awed, “The Lord has cured me through Maximus. It’s a miracle.”

“It is,” Crystal murmurs, though she sounds more unsure.

Cherish turns back to Maximus. “Did you know that would happen? Is that why you laid hands on me?”

Maximus prays that she won’t be able to decipher his flustered expression as he says, none too cagily, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“He does.” Cherish nods. “Thank you for this gift. You are truly a man of God.”

“You’re welcome, sister,” Maximus says, reaching to take her hand.

That’s too much for Crystal, and she jumps up to grab Cherish’s other hand in a way that’s protective but masquerading as simply affectionate and excited. “I should show you our home anew,” she suggests.

Cherish smiles. “Yes, I’d like that.” She looks at Maximus. “May we be excused?”

“For a little while,” he says. “We will need some time to prepare the plenteous house for this evening’s activities.”

“Hello, Foxtrot,” Dr. Simmons says sweetly, guiding Foxtrot over to the examining table.

“Hello, Dr. Simmons,” Foxtrot replies, tilting her head. “I am not injured.”

“No, no, I know,” Dr. Simmons assures. “Dr. Fitz and I just wanted to speak to you.” She looks pointedly at Fitz, hoping he’ll think of a polite way to begin this.

Fitz coughs. He’s in way over his head. “Ah,” he says, stalling a bit, “Foxtrot, we wanted to see how you’re...settling in. How do you like it here?”

“It’s very nice,” Foxtrot declares, smiling. “I go swimming and paint and do yoga. I get to see my friends. They’re all very nice.”

“Are there any friends that you, er, especially like?” asks Fitz, trying for casual.

Foxtrot frowns a little, clearly not sure what he actually means by that. “I like all of my friends,” she says. “They help me be my best.”

Dr. Simmons presses her lips together. “That’s important,” she says.

Fitz sighs and mutters something under his breath before giving Foxtrot the fakest smile and saying, “What about Tango, what do you think about her?”

“I like Tango,” Foxtrot says quickly, and she’s suddenly smiling again. “She’s very nice. I enjoy doing activities with her.”

“What kind of activities?” Fitz asks, ignoring Jemma’s tiny noise of protest.

“All of them?” Foxtrot says, now very obviously confused. “Sometimes we sit together for meals.”

Dr. Simmons is smiling again too, and she says, “I’m glad you have good friends like that.”

“I’m glad too,” Foxtrot says.

“But do you have any special feelings about her?” Fitz presses.

“What makes a feeling special?” Foxtrot asks. “I sit with Charlie and India and Bravo and Romeo and Delta too. I like them too.”

“I think he’s wondering if you have a best friend,” Dr. Simmons suggests, though she looks annoyed with Fitz and nudges him.

“Wouldn’t having a best friend hurt someone else’s feelings?” Foxtrot asks. “It’s not like having a favorite color, colors don’t have feelings.” She smiles proudly at Fitz, because he’s the one who taught her that (all of five hours ago, it’s a wonder she still remembers).

Fitz sort of laughs, but not like he really finds it funny. He really, really wants to be done with all this. “That’s right,” he says, trying for encouraging. “Colors don’t have feelings. People do. It’s, it’s a good point. Um, thanks for talking with us, Foxtrot, you can go now. Dr. Simmons will give you a lollipop.” He glances expectantly at Jemma.

Dr. Simmons turns to her desk for the jar of lollipops and offers it to Foxtrot. “Perhaps you could go to art class now,” she suggests, because lollipops don’t really count as eating that you shouldn’t do before swimming but it’s good not to say anything that might let them fall into that habit.

“Art class is nice,” Foxtrot agrees, selecting a red lollipop. “Good-bye, Dr. Simmons, good-bye, Dr. Fitz.” And with that she’s on her way out of the office.

“I’m telling you,” Jemma whispers to Fitz, “it’s nothing.”

“Five minutes of talking won’t do anything,” argues Fitz. “And they won’t remember it anyway. They’re like goldfish.”

“What was that about the colors, then?” she asks, smirking.

Fitz shrugs. “Well, she won’t remember that tomorrow anyway. Their short-term memory doesn’t last more than a day or two except for the important things, that’s by design.”

“Call for Tango,” she says with a little roll of her eyes.

“Alright, alright,” he says, turning on the intercom.

Once Tango’s arrived, Fitz says, “Hello, Tango. We just have a couple of questions for you.”

Tango gets comfortable on the examination table and replies, “Hello. I don't know why we are in the doctor’s office. I am not injured.”

This makes Dr. Simmons smile. “We know,” she says. “Ah, Dr. Fitz?” She sounds a little strange using the title for him, but it’s good practice to maintain some formality with the Dolls.

“How do you feel about Foxtrot?” Fitz asks.

“I like Foxtrot,” Tango says, blinking. “She’s very nice.”

“But do you have any special feelings about her?” he adds. “Do you, uh, get...butterflies in your stomach?” He realizes the instant he says it that this is a terrible approach, but he can’t unsay it, so oh well.

“How would butterflies get in my stomach?” Tango asks. “You don’t eat butterflies.”

“Yes,” sighs Fitz. “I mean do you, do you feel...do you get excited when you see her?”

“She’s my friend,” Tango says.

Dr. Simmons raises an eyebrow. “That’s important,” she says, just like she said to Foxtrot.

“Yes,” Tango agrees. “I like to sit by her.”

“I see,” Fitz says. “Do you also like to stand by her? In the shower, maybe?” He’s using the sort of tone that would be leading if he were talking to anyone but a Doll.

“I stood by Foxtrot in the shower today,” Tango says. “I wanted to say hello to her. I had to take a shower after I went swimming.”

“Good,” Fitz says. “That’s good. Ah, we noticed something on the monitors while you were showering.” He suddenly flushes and looks over at Jemma, hoping she’ll be able to explain it.

“You seemed to be touching yourself,” says Dr. Simmons.

“Yes,” Tango replies, “how could I wash myself without touching myself?”

Dr. Simmons shoots Fitz a look. “In a private place,” she says, part to spare Fitz the embarrassment and part because she honestly can’t remember whether Dolls, as a rule, know the word “vagina.”

“The shower is private,” Tango agrees. “Washing is something we do in private.”

“Thank you, Tango,” Dr. Simmons says, nodding as if that says it all.

“You’re right,” says Fitz, who is starting to feel as if this is all getting out of hand very quickly. “But, ah, this was in...a particular place...on your body...between your...legs?”

“Yes,” Tango says. “I always wash there, especially after I go in the pool. The water in the pool is funny. I feel clean after I wash it off.”

Fitz nods. “Um, but you were...you weren’t using a washcloth, just your fingers. Do you do that often?”

“The soap was on my fingers,” Tango says. “I didn’t wash anywhere with a washcloth today.”

Exasperated, Fitz glances at Jemma. “Help,” he hisses.

Dr. Simmons shrugs. “Were you thinking about anything while you washed?” she asks.

Tango frowns. “Being clean?”

“There you go,” Dr. Simmons says, not really to Tango at all, but then she looks back at Tango and says, “Did it feel nice to wash yourself there?”

“It feels nice to wash myself everywhere,” Tango says, befuddled. “I enjoy being clean. It helps me be my best.”

“Alright,” says Fitz, shaking his head. It’s becoming very clear that, whatever else was going on, Tango won’t be at all helpful after all. “Well, just be careful, alright? Especially when you wash down...there…” He trials off awkwardly. “Thank you for talking with us, Tango. Dr. Simmons will give you a lollipop and you can go.”

“Ah, Cherish,” Maximus says grandly when she and Crystal enter the plenteous house. “I believe you will enjoy this, since you’re so interested in bringing souls to our light.”

Most of the adult men in the group and at least an even amount of adult women are sitting on benches along the walls. Their expressions are varied. Some of the men, Crystal notices with some despair, have already begun to remove their shirts.

Cherish looks sort of startled. “I...I don’t see what this has to do with what we were talking about,” she says, eyes wide.

“The people outside of our walls are corrupt already,” Maximus says. “If they weren’t, people would show up like you did every day to heed the call. This means the only way we create new believers is the natural way.”

Crystal winces. “Cherish is so new to us,” she mumbles.

“And clearly the Lord has decreed that great things happen when I touch her,” Maximus retorts.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this,” says Cherish. “Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of...ceremony first? Crystal mentioned that.”

“Oh, we’ll do the ceremony,” Maximus says. “There wouldn’t be so many people here if they were not here to witness your joy.”

“She hasn’t had time to prepare,” Crystal insists, obviously desperate. “Shouldn’t -”

“Shouldn’t she do what I say?” Maximus growls, coming to stand uncomfortably close to Crystal. “Yes, she should, sister. I am your king, I speak for our Lord! She said so herself, didn’t she?”

“I did say that,” says Cherish, stepping in front of Crystal. “But I don’t think this is what the Lord would want at all. I think it’s just what you want.”

Raising his voice above the low murmurs from the crowd, Maximus asks, “You really see fit to question this? ‘And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it.’”

“That was a commandment for the animals,” Cherish points out, “and not for modern-day believers! I don’t believe you speak for God in this moment, Maximus, I believe you speak only for yourself.”

The low murmurs build to a soft roar as Maximus shouts, “These people have lifted me up as their king and a servant of God! You are just a girl.” His eyes narrow at Crystal as he adds, “A girl who has no doubt been influenced by an ungrateful, faithless whore.”

Before anyone else can react to that, Cherish leans forward and punches him in the nose. It’s an inelegant hit, because she hasn’t really punched anyone before, but it connects all the same. “A man who speaks for God would never say such a thing! Nor would he force himself on the unwilling!”

Eyes blazing, Crystal turns to the awed constituents (several of the men have hastily started to rebutton their shirts) and shouts, “Maximus is king of no one!”

At this point, several police officers barge in, yelling, “Police! Maximus Boltagon, hands on your head!”

Rather predictably, Maximus doesn’t do that; instead he pulls a matchbox from his pocket, strikes a match, and drops it on the wooden floor. He also shouts something, but it’s entirely incomprehensible amidst the chaotic shouting that breaks out.

“Evacuate the building!” one of the officers shouts at the other two. Then she advances on Maximus, gun trained on him. “Boltagon, on your knees, now!”’

“You can’t arrest me,” Maximus yells. “I am a king, beloved of the Lord!”

“You’re a piece of shit,” growls the officer, lunging at him. They fight for a minute but it’s clear that she’s much more physically capable than he is, and she finally gets him handcuffed and shoves him toward the door. “Make sure everyone else gets out!” she calls to the other officers, who are herding Maximus’ panicked followers out.

Once everyone has evacuated the building, which is indeed starting to burn, none of the followers seem to know exactly what to do. A few women go for buckets of water, but even they’re in a daze; Crystal glances around in a panic for Cherish and sees her talking to another stranger, likely another police officer. “Cherish!” she shouts, hurrying over. “Are you alright?”

Cherish, startled mid-sentence, says, “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Are you alright?” She reaches out like she wants to take Crystal’s hand, then looks uncertain.

Crystal closes the distance between them, grabbing Cherish’s hand decisively. “I think so,” she murmurs. “Did you know…?”

“Know what?” Cherish asks, frowning.

“About the police coming to save us,” Crystal says.

“Oh. No, I had no idea. I don’t know who…” Cherish looks around and then shrugs. “Perhaps the kind soul who brought me to the woods. He seemed concerned for me.”

“I’m very glad he reached out to help, then,” Crystal declares. “But I’m sorry this didn’t turn out to be the place you thought it would be.”

“I’m sorry for you too,” says Cherish, and she looks as if she might cry. “I don’t...I hope you’ll be alright.”

“We’ll make sure the survivors have places to go, Ms. Daughtry,” says the officer Cherish had been talking to, a black man with kind eyes. “Could I just ask you a few more questions?”

“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry, she’s just…” Cherish turns back to Crystal and hugs her fiercely. “We’ll see each other again, I know it,” she says. “It must have been God’s plan to bring us together.”

Crystal nods, clearly trying to hold back tears herself. “It must have been,” she agrees. “God bless you, Cherish.”

“You too,” Cherish whispers. Then, with a small nod, she turns back to the officer. “I’m ready to answer your other questions, Officer Fletcher.”

Once she’s done with the interview, she asks, “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Officer Fletcher says.

“How...how did you know where to find us?”

“We’d been aware that there was a suspicious religious cult in this area for awhile,” says Fletcher, “but we weren’t sure exactly where it was and we didn’t want to go on hearsay. Then we got a tip from a nearby convenience store that someone in the group had left a note asking for help, and then we got a tip from a truck driver who had dropped off a girl in this area looking for God. So.”

“Oh,” Cherish says, eyes widening. “Mr. Mackenzie? He was so kind to me. Well, thank you very much, Officer.”

“Actually,” he adds, “that truck driver insisted on hanging around to see if you were okay. He wouldn’t leave. Kind of a pain in my...rear,” he substitutes quickly. “But he seems to be really worried about you.”

Cherish seems surprised, but smiles. “God works in such mysterious ways,” she says, “and He shows Himself in many unexpected places. Where is Mr. Mackenzie?”

“I’ll take you to him,” says Officer Fletcher, “and then I need to interview some of the other survivors. Here’s my card, if you have any other comments about this incident.” He hands her a business card and then escorts her over to where the truck driver is standing, visibly anxious.

“Mr. Mackenzie!” Cherish calls, waving. “Hello!”

He deflates just a little, apparently out of relief. “Cherish,” he says, beaming. “You’re okay!”

“I am!” she says, coming forward to hug him. “And I can see now!”

He blinks. “Oh?”

“It was a miracle,” she says, then turns back to Officer Fletcher. “Thank you again. Oh...can I call you later and ask about how that girl, Crystal, is doing? We’re friends now and I want to make sure she won’t be alone.”

“I can do that,” agrees Fletcher. “Best of luck, Ms. Daughtry.”

“C’mon,” Mack says, guiding Cherish back towards his truck. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Once she’s wiped, I’m taking her to my office immediately,” Jemma mutters, arms folded. She, Fitz, and Phil are all standing around the imprint room, waiting for Mack and Charlie to return; this is somewhat unusual, as Fitz can obviously do a wipe by himself, but this is a special circumstance. And after everything, Jemma is very on edge.

“Fine, fine,” says Fitz irritably. “So that didn’t go exactly as planned. I suppose it does need more work. I had no idea it was that sensitive.”

“It does seem like the sort of thing you’d want to be wary of, generally,” Jemma snarks.

“Well, I know that now,” grumbles Fitz.

Phil glances between the two of them. He’s able to pick up on the animosity, but he has no idea what it’s about. “The most important thing is to make sure that Charlie’s physically alright,” he points out. “I think it was a good experiment, Fitz, but next time we should be sure that it won’t bring physical harm to an Active if it malfunctions.”

“It didn’t,” mutters Fitz, but then he nods and says, “Very well, sir.”

Not too much later, Mack and Charlie arrive back in the house, Charlie looking around wide-eyed. “Hello,” she says when she sees Fitz. “Mr. Mackenzie says I’m here for a treatment.”

“Yes,” says Fitz, relieved. “Come here, Cherish, sit down in this chair.”

While Fitz is taking care of the wipe, Mack sidles over to Phil and says, “Sir, I’m really not comfortable with how my Active’s being used as a guinea pig. Can we send her out on some normal engagements for awhile? Low-stress, romance or babysitting or whatever?”

Phil nods. “I think that might be a good idea. I’ve talked with Fitz and he seems to understand that this was much too high-risk for our top Active.”

“Uh,” Mack says, raising an eyebrow. “I’d think it would be too high-risk for any Active, sir.”

“Of course,” says Phil quickly. “Of course, I was just speaking specifically of Charlie because that’s who we were talking about.”

Mack seems unconvinced but gets distracted when the chair deactivates and Charlie says, “Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while,” he says, slipping back into his handler role.

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

“Would you come with me, Charlie?” Dr. Simmons asks, smiling gently. “I want to look you over and make sure you’re alright.”

“I would like that,” says Charlie, getting out of the chair. “Being healthy helps me be my best.”

Dr. Simmons nods, motioning Charlie toward the stairs. “We all want you to be that,” she agrees. “Do you feel strange at all?”

“No,” Charlie says, smiling at her. “Should I?”

“It’s better that you don’t,” Dr. Simmons promises, “but I just want to make sure.”

“Okay,” says Charlie pleasantly. “I like seeing you, Dr. Simmons.”

Dr. Simmons opens the door to her office, still smiling. “I like it too, Charlie,” she says. “How is your vision?”

“I can see things,” Charlie replies, cheerful. “I can see Tango and Foxtrot looking at books downstairs.”

“Can you tell me which pictures you see on the third line down?” Dr. Simmons asks, holding up a chart. “In the proper order?”

“Apple, umbrella, house, apple, umbrella,” Charlie replies.

“Good, good,” Dr. Simmons murmurs. “And the fifth line?”

“Apple, umbrella, house, apple, house, umbrella,” says Charlie, smiling. “That’s almost the same thing as the last one.”

“Almost,” Dr. Simmons agrees with a little laugh. “Does your head hurt at all?”

Charlie shakes her head. “No. I feel fine.”

“Good,” Dr. Simmons repeats. “If it does start hurting, Charlie, I need you to tell me or Mack or one of the attendants right away, alright?”

“Okay,” Charlie says. “Why?”

Dr. Simmons tilts her head. She’s not used to the Dolls asking “why” - as a rule, they lack the capacity to question basic orders like that. “Well,” she says slowly, “if your head hurts, it means that you’re not your best. It’s not your fault, but it’s something you should tell us so we can help you fix it.” A little wordy, but they’re all short words, at least.

Charlie nods. “Okay. I want to be my best. Thank you for explaining.”

Dr. Simmons nods. “You’re welcome, Charlie,” she says. “Would you like a lollipop?”

“Yes,” Charlie says, taking it from her. “You’re very nice, Dr. Simmons.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dr. Simmons says with a little laugh. “I want to help you how I can.”

“Thank you,” repeats Charlie. “Shall I go now?”

“If you like,” Dr. Simmons replies. “See about getting something to eat, alright?”

“Okay,” says Charlie, sliding off the table and walking away. When she spots Mack waiting outside, she says, “Hello, Mack.”

“Hello, Charlie,” Mack says. “Go on, I’m just going to talk to Dr. Simmons for a minute.”

“Okay.” Charlie smiles at him and leaves.

“Are we sure she wasn’t truly hurt?” Jemma asks Mack, unconsciously dropping her professional “doctor” posture a bit.

“As far as we know, he only hit her in the face once,” he says with a sigh. “And if you didn’t find any bruising, then...I guess she’s okay.”

“It’s been a short enough time that side-effects might still appear,” Jemma replies, “but she seems to be her usual self. She’s remarkably resilient.”

Mack nods. “That’s good. She needs a break though.” Then he laughs kind of wryly. “She made friends with one of the girls in the cult, so I guess I have a pen pal now.”

“The girl who sent the help letter?” Jemma asks. “The poor thing, I can’t even imagine realizing that everything you’ve known is a lie like that.”

“I’m not sure, honestly,” says Mack. “She told me a little about her. I think it might be the same one? But Charlie didn’t mention if that girl was the one to plant the note or not. I hope she’s okay though.”

“I hope so too.” She sighs and stares out at the Dollhouse, watching Charlie wind through the room smiling aimlessly at other Dolls. “I suppose if she’s not, we can always send someone out after her again. She’s sort of our responsibility now.”

“I guess so.” Mack sighs again. “I didn’t exactly think it’d be like this, when I started.” He glances over at Jemma, like he’s maybe not sure if he should say it, but then he adds, “Did you?”

“Not at all,” Jemma admits, sighing. “I don’t think I’d have gotten into this if Fitz hadn’t, you know. He had all of these brilliant ideas and attracted the Dollhouse’s attention, and then he suggested me for this position. We were still half a year from finishing our doctorates, mind, but I knew I liked working with him and I thought this might be an interesting challenge, that I’d be helping people in an innovative way. Sometimes it feels like all I’m doing is cleaning up messes, though.” She wrinkles her nose. “That’s mean to say, but I definitely didn’t realize we’d be using living people as test subjects in quite this way.”

Mack makes a sympathetic face. “Yeah. It’s...something alright.”

Chapter Text

Morning comes, the lights switch on, and the sleeping pods slide open in unison. Mike smiles at Charlie, Charlie smiles at Romeo, Romeo smiles at Tango, and Tango turns to smile at Foxtrot, but Foxtrot hasn’t climbed out of her pod.

“It’s time to wake up,” Tango says authoritatively, kneeling down beside Foxtrot’s pod. “We need to wake up and eat breakfast. Breakfast helps us be our best.”

“What’s going on?” Charlie asks, tilting her head.

“Foxtrot is still asleep,” Tango declares, though she sounds perplexed. “She looks like she’s thinking about something sad.”

“She shouldn’t be sad,” Romeo says. “You should wake her up.”

“All right,” Tango agrees. “Foxtrot, wake up.”

Nothing happens. Or, what Tango wants to happen doesn’t happen and instead Foxtrot twitches and makes a strange noise and looks even sadder.

“Maybe you have to touch her,” suggests Charlie.

Tango laughs a little in spite of herself. “How?” she asks, though she reaches down and pokes Foxtrot’s shoulder tentatively. “That isn’t working.”

“Maybe touch her...more?” Charlie asks, frowning. “Don’t hurt her. But make sure she can feel you. She might not have been able to feel it.”

“All right,” Tango repeats. She braces herself and leans halfway into the pod to shake Foxtrot very gently, murmuring, “Wake up, Foxtrot, it’s time to wake up.”

Soon Foxtrot does, but when her eyes open they’re wet with tears. “Tango?” she asks.

“You didn’t wake up,” Tango says, offering Foxtrot a hand to pull her out of the pod. “And you’re crying. Why are you crying?”

Foxtrot blinks. “I don’t know,” she says. “Crying is for when you’re hurt. I was asleep, not hurt.”

“Were you thinking about things while you were sleeping?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t know,” Foxtrot says again, but more doubtfully. “I think there was a man, and it was dark.”

“Of course it was dark,” Mike points out, “you were asleep. It’s always dark when you’re asleep.”

“It wasn’t dark like being asleep,” Foxtrot insists, wiping her eyes. “It was a different kind of dark.”

An attendant comes to lead them out to the main room for breakfast, but while Mike and Romeo walk ahead Tango and Charlie hang back with Foxtrot. Tango is holding Foxtrot’s hand.

“You’re sad,” Tango says. “If you’re sad, you are not your best. I want to fix it.”

“You should take her to see Dr. Simmons,” Charlie says. “Dr. Simmons can fix it. She’s good at fixing things.”

Tango nods. “She’s very nice,” she agrees. They come into the main room and, instead of going for the breakfast tables, Tango pulls Foxtrot over to Dr. Simmons’ office. Dr. Simmons is putting a book back on her shelf, and she doesn’t look sad but she doesn’t look happy either. “Dr. Simmons,” Tango says, “Foxtrot was sad while she was sleeping.”

Dr. Simmons turns around to look at the pair of Dolls, and now she looks scared, which scares Tango and Foxtrot too. “She was?” she asks. “What do you mean?”

“She didn’t wake up when the rest of us woke up,” Tango says, and Foxtrot nods along. “And she was making strange noises in her sleep. So I talked to her and touched her to make her wake up, and when she opened her eyes she was crying.”

“Foxtrot, come sit on the table,” Dr. Simmons instructs, frowning. Once Foxtrot is in place, Dr. Simmons reaches up to touch her forehead and asks, “Do you remember what made you cry?”

“It was dark,” Foxtrot says, “but not dark like being asleep. It was dark like something scary. And a man was there.” She sounds a little more sure about this now.

“Where?” Dr. Simmons asks. “Where was the man?”

“In the dark,” Foxtrot says.

“In the room with you?” Dr. Simmons prompts.

“No,” Foxtrot says. “In my head. It was dark in my head and the man was in my head.”

Dr. Simmons’ face falls. “I need to call, ah, Dr. Fitz,” she says softly. “You should go on to breakfast, Tango.”

“I am going to stay with Foxtrot,” Tango announces. “She is sad. I want to help. Friends help each other out.”

“Yes,” Dr. Simmons says, and she picks up her phone.

Several minutes later, Dr. Fitz comes into Dr. Simmons’ office. He doesn’t look happy, sad, or scared, Tango thinks, he looks angry. “What’s happening?” he asks Dr. Simmons.

“I think Foxtrot might have been having a bad dream,” Dr. Simmons murmurs.

“She was asleep,” Tango adds. “And sad. She was sad while she was asleep.”

Dr. Fitz groans and puts his head in his hands for a second. Then he looks up again. “Foxtrot,” he says, very slowly, “can you tell me what happened?”

“I was asleep,” Foxtrot says. “It was dark and I saw a man, but not in the room. It was like art class, when you think of something to make a painting of it, but I didn’t mean to think about it because I was asleep.”

“That sounds like a bad dream,” Dr. Simmons whispers urgently.

“Yes,” agrees Dr. Fitz quietly, and then says, a bit louder, “Has this happened to you before, do you remember?”

“I don’t know,” Foxtrot says. “Tango and Charlie were scared.”

“Probably because they’d never seen this before,” Dr. Simmons suggests.

“Do you remember anything else?” Dr. Fitz presses. “What did the man look like?”

Foxtrot’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know,” she says. “It was dark. He seemed tall.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” Dr. Fitz says to Dr. Simmons, before turning back to Foxtrot. “Thank you, Foxtrot. Is it alright if Dr. Simmons examines you now?”

“Yes,” Foxtrot says. “I want to be my best.”

“Good.” Fitz looks at Tango. “Tango, I think you’d better go to breakfast now.”

Tango frowns at Foxtrot, but then she nods. “I’ll save you a seat,” she says to Foxtrot. “Goodbye, Dr. Simmons, goodbye, Dr. Fitz.”

Dr. Fitz looks at Dr. Simmons. “What...what should we do about this?” he asks, his eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Simmons replies, frowning. “It’s rather more neurological than biochemical, isn’t it?” Then she sighs and touches her face. “You had better rearrange the schedule.”

Dr. Fitz nods. “I’ll call Phil.” He glances back at Foxtrot. “Bye, Foxtrot.”

“Goodbye,” Foxtrot says, waving politely.

“Phil,” Fitz hisses into his phone once he’s out of earshot, “we’ll need to change the plans for the Koenig engagement.”

“What? What’s happened?”

Fitz sighs. “It’s a long story, but Foxtrot’s not fit for an engagement. Jemma’s taking a look at her, but she’ll be out of commission today for sure.”

“What happened?” Phil repeats. “Is she alright? Is anyone hurt?”

“She’s...we’re not sure. Tango brought her in just a few minutes ago and said she’d been crying when she woke up. It sounded like...like she’d been having a bad dream.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. “They’re not supposed to be able to have any dreams,” Phil finally says.

“I know,” says Fitz, almost growling with annoyance. “But she said something about it being dark and there being a bad man, and...I don’t know. I left her with Jemma, but I wanted to let you know that we’ll have to figure out a replacement fourth.”

“Alright.” Phil sighs. “It’s last minute, but I’ll call Eric and explain. I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“Just let me know what you need.” Fitz hangs up and then heads back into Jemma’s office.

“Mr. Koenig? I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. I was just getting ready for the party.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. One of the Actives you selected for tonight’s event, Foxtrot, is out of commission for the foreseeable future. I’m terribly sorry for the short notice.”

“Oh no! Foxtrot is a she, right? I hope she’s okay.”

“She’ll be alright, thank you for asking. But I’m afraid it means we’ll have to send another Active. We’re running a bit low on female Actives at the moment, but we do have one male, Bravo. Is that an acceptable substitute?”

“Will there be significant alterations to the personality?”

“I’ll work with my team to ensure that everything will be as close to your original specifications as possible.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Thank you for reaching out.”

“You’re very welcome. We’ll have the Actives ready to go tonight. Thanks so much for your understanding and cooperation.”

“You look gorgeous today, Naomi,” Billy says, giving his date an affectionate but not ostentatious half-a-hug.

“Thank you,” Naomi says, beaming at him and returning his half-hug warmly. “It’s lovely to see you. So glad I could make it tonight.”

“I’m glad too,” Billy chuckles. “Although, fair warning. My sister’s gonna cross-examine you.”

Naomi laughs too. “Ah, that sister I’ve heard so much about. It’ll be good to meet her at last. Where is she?”

“Probably making a fashionably late entrance,” snarks Sam, who’s being a lot less physical with his date Caspar (but he’s shy about that kind of thing, it’s normal).

Caspar grins at him. “Does she do that a lot?”

“She’s a drama queen,” Sam says, nodding. “But not in a Mean Girls way. She’s way too scary for that.”

“You’re really saying you wouldn’t be afraid of Regina George?” Billy chimes in.

“That’s different,” Sam shrugs. “Regina George couldn’t kill you with her bare hands. LT probably could if she wanted.”

“Damn straight,” says a woman who must be LT, sauntering up. Unlike most of the female party guests, she’s in jeans and a leather jacket; her build is similar to the brothers’, though her hair is curlier. “Don’t you forget it, little brother.”

“LT!” Billy exclaims. “Hey, we were just telling our dates about you.” He emphasizes the word dates.

“Hi!” Caspar offers his hand. “I’m Sam’s date tonight. He’s told a lot of stories about you.”

“Good, bad, ugly?” LT cracks.

“Mostly good,” Naomi says with a laugh. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Naomi.”

“Naomi,” LT repeats, grinning before she looks back at Caspar. “And you?”

“Caspar. Yeah, like the friendly ghost.” Caspar chuckles. “I don’t mind the jokes, but I’ve heard ‘em all before.”

LT chuckles. “Wasn’t gonna go there, don’t worry,” she says. “So. Caspar and Naomi. Where did you meet these lovely dates, guys?” She raises an eyebrow like she already knows. (She does.)

“Billy and I met online, actually,” says Naomi. “We were playing the same online game and kept running into each other, and then it turned out we lived about twenty minutes away from each other. We met up for coffee, and the rest is history.”

“How convenient,” LT remarks wryly.

“And Sam and I go to the same Friday night Magic tournament,” Caspar explains.

“Aw,” LT teases. “Nerd affection. It’s good of you to indulge these two, they’re just a little socially inept.”

“Hey,” Billy exclaims, even though he knows it’s true.

“I think it’s cute,” Naomi says, beaming at him.

Billy puffs up a little with pride before fixing LT with a skeptical look. “Anyway, I don’t see your lady around here anywhere,” he declares.

“She’s in Japan for business,” LT says smoothly.

“Oh, Japan?” Sam teases.

“Yeah, smartass,” LT chortles, and she pulls out her phone to show them a picture. “Here she is. If you’re nice I’ll tell her to bring you back your very own samurai swords.”

Both of them look appropriately chastised, but then the moment passes as Thurston and Eric head for the open bar with their dates and Billy and Sam decide that, well, it’s just not fair that they take all the shit. “Hey!” Billy calls, waving them over. “LT was just saying she wanted to meet your special friends.”

“I really wasn’t,” LT deadpans. “If just because I’d never say ‘special friends.’”

“It’s gender-neutral,” Sam defends.

“Oh, hi,” says the woman on Eric’s arm, smiling and waving. “My name’s Kristin. You must be LT?”

“That’s me,” LT agrees, looking amused and then nodding to Thurston’s date. “What’s your name?”

“Adonis,” says the man, smirking. “My mama had some weird ideas about what she wanted me to be, I guess.”

LT looks like she’s about to put her face in her hands, but she knows better than to question a Doll’s programming right to the Doll themselves. Instead she says, “I guess I’ve heard stranger.”

Elena chuckles at Mack as they listen to the conversation. “I don’t mean to be mean, but I think I can see why they hired us to get them dates.”

Mack snorts. “Hey, they seem alright. Just a little awkward.”

“Oh, they are very polite and respectful, which is better than some clients,” agrees Elena. “But it’s obvious that they don’t go in for dating much.”

“They really don’t,” Victoria drawls. “This isn’t any of their first time contracting, although I’m pretty sure it is the first time they’ve all gotten dates at the same time for the same party.” She rolls her eyes, but not meanly. “It’s like a wacky sitcom, except a lot more money changed hands.”

“At least they’re some of the most chaste engagements we have to listen to,” remarks Anne, who’s Bravo’s Handler. “That part is refreshing.”

Mack makes a face. “I guess that’s true.”

“Besides,” Anne continues, nodding at Mack, “it gives Charlie a break. Isn’t that what you’d asked for?”

“I did,” he agrees. “Being what basically amounts to arm candy’s not that stressful.”

“At least not for harmless clients like this,” Victoria remarks. “I’m still shocked that Thurston was so calm about playing queer for the day. A lot of guys wouldn’t be.”

“It’s not like there were a lot of other options,” Anne remarks. “Of course something had to happen to Foxtrot on one of our busiest days this month. Has Isabelle texted you with any updates yet?”

Victoria shakes her head. “I don’t know how much they’re even going to tell her,” she grumbles. “Oh, they’ll ask if anything weird happened on recent engagements, but I’m sure it’s very need-to-know. Keeps rumors from circulating.”

“As if you’d do anything different in Phil’s position,” Anne remarks.

“Probably not,” Victoria says. “But I know it pisses Belle off to be kept in the dark.”

Mack grins slyly. “Yeah, you’d know, huh?”

“Yes, I would,” Victoria says. “That’s what I just said.” She rolls her eyes - she and Isabelle have been dating longer than anyone else in the Dollhouse, they’re both used to being teased. At least she knows that Mack (being one of the other couples in the House) doesn’t mean anything weird by it.

“So,” Robbie asks, while they’re waiting for their entrees to arrive, “what exactly do you do? I mean, jobwise. I realized I never asked.” That, and she’s never mentioned having to go to work, or any kind of work at all. It’s a little weird, now that he thinks about it.

Emily shrugs. “A little of this, a little of that,” she says. “I like to think of myself as a painter.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, impressed. “What kind of stuff do you paint? Do you sell them?”

“I don’t really stick to just one thing,” she replies sheepishly. “Kind of whatever strikes me as interesting. I’ve sold some of them, kept some of them.”

“Can I see some of them?” he asks, and then regrets it. “That was weird, I shouldn’t-”

“It’s not weird,” she promises. “I have a couple of them on my phone, just a sec.” She clicks through her photos app and finds a painting to show; it’s an urban-looking window with a flowerbox in front, nothing revolutionary but very pleasant and just artsy enough to be interesting without being pretentious.

He smiles. “Wow. I can’t even draw stick figures. You’re good.”

“Thanks,” she says, tucking hair behind her ear. “It’s always been something I like doing, so I’m glad I don’t totally suck at it.”

“You really don’t,” he says. “You must be pretty successful, huh?”

“I do okay for myself,” she replies. “I’m not famous or anything, but I’m happy.”

“Not to be nosy, but you’ve gotta be doing something else for money to live in LA,” he says casually. “Sugar daddy?” He’s kidding, mostly, and he keeps his tone light so she can tell.

“Enough family money to keep me from starving, actually,” Emily remarks wryly. “It’s a nice cushion.”

Robbie laughs and nods. “That’s good. I mean, I’d prefer you didn’t starve.”

“Me too,” she jokes.

He’s about to say something else playful, but then his phone beeps. He set up a secret algorithm on Instagram to alert him when someone posts a picture of “Stella” or someone who might be her. “Sorry, just a sec,” he says, hoping Emily won’t ask what’s up. He checks on the notification and - yep, that’s “Stella” alright. She’s at some fancy fundraising party across town. If he hurries, he can probably sneak in and catch her before she leaves. “Uh,” he says, “I really hate to do this, but Gabe just texted me and asked me to come home and help him with something.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Emily says with a cheerful shrug. “You go take care of him, and if you want to come over later or something just text.”

“Okay,” he says, and then before he loses his nerve he leans over to kiss her cheek. “Bye,” he says, in possibly the most awkward way possible, before getting up and leaving.

“Wait,” Fitz says, “you’re saying Tango brought her in?”

Jemma nods. “Straight after they woke up, before they even ate anything,” she says. “Foxtrot was clearly upset, and Tango was trying to help.”

Fitz rubs his temple. “That’s not good. That’s, that’s very bad in fact.”

“That they didn’t waste time asking for help?” she asks archly. She knows that’s not the answer.

“No,” he sighs, like she’s a child. “Because Tango’s showing an interest in her. Again.”

“Oh, god,” she groans. “They happened to be sleeping in the same room. Tango happened to be nearby. We do rather instill that in them, friends helping each other out and all.”

“Yes, but Foxtrot’s already malfunctioning, er, her imprint’s malfunctioning. It sounded like she was having a bad dream, didn’t it? Except of course it couldn’t be a bad dream, it shouldn’t be, because Dolls can’t have bad dreams, because I programmed that out of them!” Fitz is trying to keep his voice low, because Foxtrot is still in the other room, but he’s not succeeding as well as he’d like.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Fitz,” Jemma hisses. “What does or doesn’t happen in their minds is your business, not mine, as you remind me rather often. I’m sure you can fix it, can’t you?” She rolls her eyes. It’s not that she couldn’t sort out the programming if she tried, but he has his arena and she has hers.

“Of course I can,” he snaps. “I’ll need to talk to her more, see what exactly this nightmare of hers involves.”

“Go on, then,” she says, waving a hand toward the door into his office (they can’t exactly have this chat in the imprint room) but not waiting for him to start heading that way herself.

Foxtrot is still sitting on the couch, looking around with about as much curiosity as she’s able, and Isabelle is standing by the fridge looking surly. “What exactly is going on here?” she asks in a low voice. “I got her to stop crying, but I’ve never seen her upset before.”

“We’re not sure,” grumbles Fitz. “I’ll have to talk to her again.”

“Foxtrot?” Jemma says, straightening her spine and slipping into her Dr. Simmons manners effortlessly. “Do you think you could tell us a bit more about what you think you saw?”

“There was a man in the dark,” Foxtrot says, frowning, and instinctively she glances to Isabelle for comfort.

Isabelle comes over to sit down next to Foxtrot, putting a hand gently on her shoulder. “You’re doing great,” she says.

This makes Foxtrot smile, and she nods bravely before continuing. “He was a bad man,” she says. This much is new information, sort of. “I didn’t like him. I didn’t like him being in my head.”

“How do you know he was bad?” Fitz asks. “Did he do or say anything to you? Did he hurt you?”

Foxtrot shakes her head. “I just knew,” she says. “He was scary. He was coming too close to me.”

“What did he look like?” presses Fitz.

“It was dark,” Foxtrot says. “He was tall. His hair was different than yours?” She sounds like she’s having to work very hard to come up with this information.

“Different how?” Dr. Simmons asks gently.

“Where were you?” Fitz asks less gently. “Do you remember anything about your surroundings, other than that it was dark?”

‘No,” Foxtrot says. “I don’t know.” She’s sniffling again, which isn’t a good sign.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Fitz asks.

Foxtrot shakes her head again. “No,” she repeats. “Shall I go now?”

“Yes,” Isabelle says, with a sharp look at Fitz. “Let her go, she’s had a rough morning.”

“Not yet. I want to wipe her again,” Fitz says, “just in case. Foxtrot, would you like a treatment?”

“I enjoy my treatments,” Foxtrot murmurs, looking pitifully up at Isabelle.

“Come on,” says Isabelle gently. “After your treatment you can have breakfast, how about that?”

“It’s important to eat breakfast,” Foxtrot nods.

After doing the wipe, they send Foxtrot on her way, and Isabelle, with a final annoyed look, leaves as well. “Hopefully that works,” he sighs. “This is a mess.”

“Assuming the bad man is real,” Jemma muses, “it’s either something from her past or something to do with an engagement. Perhaps we start with reviewing her recent engagements? See if anything upsetting happened.”

Fitz nods, relieved that Jemma’s stopped being mad at him. That’s the last thing he needs to deal with, on top of everything else. “I can go over the footage today, I haven’t much to do. In the meantime, I think perhaps we’d better minimize her contact with Tango. I don’t think it’s good for either of them.”

“She mentioned that Charlie had been concerned, too, earlier,” Jemma points out. “I really do think it’s just… I don’t know exactly, Doll camaraderie.”

Fitz shakes his head. “I don’t like the way they keep getting into trouble around one another. Let’s try keeping them separate for a week or two, at least.”

“Getting into trouble makes it sound like they’re caught cheating on exams,” Jemma laughs.

“You know what I mean,” Fitz says with a snort. “We don’t want any of them forming too strong a bond with another anyway. We can’t know if…” He trails off and then adds, “I just think it’ll be better this way.”

She makes a face, but she already knows she’s lost this one. “We’ll try it, I suppose,” she says. “And in the meantime, we should try to solve Foxtrot’s mysterious problem.” She nods decisively - it’s a project, and she likes those. Most of the Dolls are on engagements today, so she’s got the time as well, and she’s clearly eager.

“Yes, of course,” he says with a nod. “If you’d like, we could watch the footage together? Might be better to have two sets of eyes on it.”

“Always is,” she replies, grinning at him.

“Great!” he says, grinning back. He likes it much better when she’s smiling at him.

They don’t have footage of the engagements themselves, obviously, but they do have the security feed showing the Dolls entering and exiting the Dollhouse. The tapes aren’t the most interesting thing he’s ever seen - honestly, a couple of times he has to focus really hard to keep from nodding off. Foxtrot’s a popular Doll, so they have a decent amount of footage of her. They start to notice that the same guy comes to pick her up maybe half the time, a dark-haired man with a strong jaw wearing fancy suits. “Well, there’s a man,” Fitz jokes. “Maybe that’s who she means.”

“He’s tallish,” Jemma says thoughtfully. “He’s not a client, is he?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz says with a shrug. “Sometimes clients pick them up themselves, sometimes they send drivers. Let me check the log, see what imprints these were.” After tapping at his computer for a few minutes, he says, “Hm, they’re all different imprints. Same client, though.”

Jemma peers over at the screen, then back at the videos. “This is the driver, it looks like,” she says. “It’s certainly not the client.”

“Doesn’t mean that he isn’t the man she’s talking about,” he points out. “Let’s keep watching.”

“What would the driver do to bother her that much, though?” she asks, furrowing her brow. “I mean, he seems… not the friendliest of men, but…” She shrugs. She tries to keep her misandry in check when she’s with Fitz since, technically, he’s also a man.

Fitz shrugs. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

They get through three more mundane pickups and drop-offs before, finally, something interesting happens. “Is he…?” Fitz asks, raising both eyebrows. Onscreen, the driver is holding the car door for Foxtrot, and then, as she’s getting in, he reaches to blatantly squeeze her ass.

“Well, I hate him,” Jemma declares abruptly.

Fitz wrinkles his nose. “Do you think Foxtrot would remember that?”

“I mean, I suppose it’s possible that sense memory would kick in unexpectedly,” Jemma says.

“It’s certainly possible,” Fitz says. He narrows his eyes. “So what are we gonna do to the bastard?”

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I… I suppose we could talk to Phil about it. He could speak to the client, tell him to stop engaging that driver.”

“Or,” Fitz says, his lip curling, “we could take matters into our own hands.”

Jemma narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“I could throw a little something extra into her imprint,” he replies darkly. “Self-defense, or something more dramatic. I know how to do that. I’ve done it before.”

“Without asking permission?” she yelps. “I understand that sometimes the parameters of the mission are, well, also dramatic, but that’s parameters. You know, the ones that are requested of you.” She makes a face. “Believe me, I’d be happy to give every woman the ability to deter a would-be molester, but I don’t think you’re suggesting just a swift kick to the crotch.”

He shrugs. “Don’t you think sometimes it’s necessary to take extreme measures? If he’s been doing this regularly, and maybe to other girls too? Wouldn’t it be better to just take him out of the picture altogether?”

“There’s a difference between wishing that all perverts would suddenly disappear and risking an innocent girl’s life by having her commit murder without her even knowingly agreeing to it.”

Fitz frowns. “You don’t think Foxtrot would agree if she were aware of what was going on?”

“I don’t know what she’d do,” Jemma says softly. “I don’t know who she really is, or if she’d be comfortable doing that. I think she’d want him stopped, but…”

“Alright, alright,” sighs Fitz. “Let’s talk to Phil about it, and look into him a bit more.”

It’s actually pretty easy to get into this party - their security is laughable. He just sweet-talks the person checking IDs a little, and he’s in. It’s a fundraiser, he can’t quite figure out for what, but it’s a bunch of fancy rich people standing around talking, so it’s probably something important.

He makes his way through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with people when necessary and grabbing a drink so he has something to talk about, and he’s just spotted the guy who posted the picture with Stella leaving the room when someone taps him on the shoulder. “I don’t think we’ve met?”

He turns around. A middle-aged brunette woman is smiling at him. “Hi,” he says, smiling back. “I’m...Johnny. Johnny Blaze.” It’s a stupid name, but he happened to be looking at one of the candles, and Johnny Candle sounds even more made-up. “Nice to meet you. I just came in.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blaze,” the woman says, nodding like there’s nothing wrong with this.

“Johnny is fine,” he says with a laugh. He should have picked something less stupid, because he can’t burst into laughter whenever anyone says his own fake name. “Lovely party you have here.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, holding her hand out and laughing (slightly fakely). “God, where are my manners? I’m Rhonda Bluth. Welcome to my home.”

“It’s very nice,” he says with a nod. “I admit I don’t know a lot of people here.”

“Oh?” Rhonda murmurs. “Who did you come with? Or on behalf of, I suppose.”

“I work for, ah,” he says, trying to stall. Then he discreetly reaches into his pocket and flips the switch on his phone to turn the sound on, which makes it vibrate. He pulls it out to glance at it and then says, “Sorry, will you excuse me for a second? My brother is calling and he might need my help with something, he’s disabled.” He feels bad using Gabe as a hypothetical out, but he doesn’t really have a choice, and it’s not like he’ll ever see this lady again after today.

“I understand,” Rhonda says softly, waving him away. “Family is important.”

Robbie nods and steps just far enough away so that she can’t see him, then he ducks into the room that he saw Stella’s date go into. He’s not there, but there is a guy that he recognizes from some of the pictures he’s seen Stella in. Tall, dark-skinned black guy, nice smile. Maybe he’s her pimp? He goes over to investigate.

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “Great drinks, huh?”

“Yeah,” the guy agrees. “What’s yours?”

“Just a margarita,” Robbie replies. “You?”

“Old Fashioned. I’m pretty boring.” The guy shrugs good-naturedly.

“Hey, it’s a classic for a reason,” Robbie argues with a smirk. “I’m Johnny.”

“Caspar.” Caspar offers his hand. “So, did you come to this shindig with anybody?”

“Nope, flying solo today. You?”

“I’m here with Sam Koenig, actually.” Caspar looks a bit sheepish. “Basically arm candy. We haven’t been, y’know, a thing for very long, but he asked me to come, and since the whole thing’s kind of a family affair I agreed.”

Robbie nods even though the name goes totally over his head. “Are you having a good time, at least?”

“Oh, yeah! It’s fine. Sam’s off being chatted up to donate, which I totally get. I’m happy to just hang out.”

Robbie decides to just go for it. “This is a little weird, but have we met somewhere before? You seem really familiar.”

Caspar chuckles. “I’m not great with faces, I’m afraid. Sorry. If we have met, I wouldn’t remember it.”

“Hey, no worries. I just feel like I’ve met you somewhere before.”

“Just one of those faces, I guess.” Shrugging, Caspar adds, “I get that a lot.”

Robbie’s about to say something in response, when suddenly he spots Stella across the room, laughing with someone. “Ah,” he says, “I have to…” Then he decides fuck it and turns on his heel to go after her, yelping, “Back in a second!”

He hovers around awkwardly, waiting for her conversation to end, and then he says, “Stella? Do you remember me? We met in a bar awhile back.”

She turns around, and yep, it’s undeniably her. “What?” she asks, blinking at him.

“Oh no,” Mack says, mouth dropping. “No way.”

“What?” Elena asks, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

Mack puts his head in his hands. “It’s that guy again.”

“What guy do you mean?” Anne asks, frowning.

“That guy that has been tailing Charlie,” sighs Mack. “I thought we got rid of him months ago, but he found her again.”

“Oh, you mean the one that showed up on that date Romeo and I were doing surveillance on?” Victoria asks. “You sure it’s him?”

“He’s calling her Stella. It was one of her names on an engagement and I guess he thinks it’s her name? Or her street name or something.”

“Stella isn’t exactly a good street name,” Anne smirks.

Mack laughs, but not really like anything is funny. “He seems to think he can...I don’t know, help her? It’s a huge pain in my ass.”

“Oh,” Anne says suddenly. “The one Phil went to all that trouble to menace? He can’t be that big of a threat, all we did was get him beat up.”

Mack shrugs. “Well, anyway, he’s back, and I don’t know how she’ll handle this.”

“Should we call them back?” Elena asks, frowning. “Invent some excuse?”

“Let it play out a bit,” Anne suggests. “Between the four of them, eight if you count the Koenigs, it’s likely they’ll find some way to deal with it.”

Mack looks worried, but he nods reluctantly.

“Stella,” Robbie insists. “You’re Stella. We met in a bar a few months ago and talked about our brothers and your job.”

Stella frowns. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any brothers. And my name’s not Stella, it’s Kristin.”

“You said you have two older brothers,” Robbie insists. “And you were on a date with some guy at the bar. You…” He pauses, not wanting to out her as a sex worker if she doesn’t want to be. “You said one of your brothers would want to beat people up if he knew what you did.”

Stella (not-Stella?) looks shocked. “Are you implying that I’m a hooker?”

“Uh.” He’s suddenly starting to feel like this wasn’t such a great approach. “The preferred term is sex worker, isn’t it?”

A short, round man comes over and lays a hand on not-Stella’s arm. “Kris, is this guy bothering you?”

“Well, he just called me a hooker, so.” Kristin glares at Robbie. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“No!” yelps Robbie, horrified. “That’s not what I meant at all, there’s a lot of different types of stuff, and I don’t know details, but there are really high-class escorts, and…”

“Oh my god, I don’t do porn!” she shrieks, loud enough that most people around them turn to look at the commotion. “I’m not a goddamn porn star! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t say you did porn!” Robbie protests, putting up his hands defensively. This is going downhill fast. “I just-”

“Why would you say I do porn? I don’t do porn!” she yells. “And who the hell are you? Do you do porn?” Then she turns on the other guy. “Seriously, do I look like a porn star to you?”

“No!” the guy exclaims. “No, you’re very sophisticated. Not that people who do porn can’t be sophisticated, but you don’t…” He shrugs sheepishly.

“And you don’t do porn,” she adds to him, and then scowls. “Or do you? Is this whole thing some weird fundraiser for porn? Or did you get the money you donated from doing porn? Is that why your whole family is so loaded, because of all the porn?”

“There’s no porn!” the guy shouts, panicking. “I promise. We’ve never done porn! I’ve never done porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn, but I don’t do porn!”

“I didn’t ever say you did porn!” Robbie says, getting increasingly desperate. “I just wanted to talk to you again, make sure you were okay, because you come up in a lot of pictures-”

“Pictures? Jesus Christ, porn pictures? I have no fucking idea who you’re talking about, you pervert, but it’s not me! I’m leaving!” Kristin flounces away dramatically.

Robbie stares after her, confused and upset. He doesn’t get very long to absorb what just happened, though, because her date points at him and talks quietly to some burly men in dark suits and then one of them says, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you don’t leave, you’ll be escorted out. We don’t want to involve the police.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go.” Robbie quickly gets out of the house, his mind racing. Stella or Kristin or whoever she is is a good actress, but something doesn’t seem right here. Someone is lying, and it’s not him. What the hell is going on here?

Melinda blinks at them. “Say all that again,” she says slowly.

“Foxtrot apparently had a nightmare last night,” Jemma sighs. “When we asked her about it, she said something about a bad man being involved, so we started to look into her recent engagements to see if there was anything out of the ordinary that might have triggered her subconscious like that.”

“Dolls don’t -”

“We know,” Jemma insists. “That’s why we thought it was highly likely that something had happened recently, something specific and especially troubling, something that would interfere with the programming. And we certainly found something that qualifies.” She makes a face.

“One of her repeat clients has a driver who picks her up for engagements,” Fitz says. “He grabbed her arse and squeezed once, and he’s been a right arsehole in other ways too. Leering and such.”

Melinda frowns. “And what do you want to do about this?”

“Well, first off we want to figure out who this man is,” Jemma says. “And then we can seek an appropriate recourse. Requiring the client to use a different driver, perhaps.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s reasonable enough,” agrees Melinda. “So we’re just researching him? I’ll get right on that.”

Fitz nods. “Everything we can get on him. Jemma and I will look into it too. And I think we should talk to Phil about it once we have more information.”

Several hours later, Jemma is staring at the computer monitor in front of her with an abjectly horrified expression. “I think this is what hatred feels like,” she murmurs. “I hate him.”

Fitz’s mouth is twisted into almost a snarl. “Can we go and talk to Phil now?”

“I think we’d better,” sighs Melinda.

They’re heading toward Phil’s office when they spot him heading for the elevator. “Phil,” Melinda calls. “Can we speak to you?”

Phil smiles. “What’s going on? Oh, Fitz, Simmons, how is Foxtrot doing?”

“She’s alright, but that’s what we wanted to speak about,” Jemma frets, wringing her hands.

Phil looks at them expectantly, and Fitz explains what they saw in the video. “So we looked into the driver,” he says. “His name is Sunil Bakshi, He grew up in London, joined the military, but was discharged a few years in. Then he became a...well.” He coughs. “He’s an assassin, sir.”

Phil’s eyes widen. “An assassin? And he’s a client’s driver?”

“Apparently,” Melinda says. “I checked the records myself. Seems like he’s a private contractor, of sorts, and the driving is his day job. For lack of a better word.”

“I suppose it probably goes without saying that his primary clientele is shady businessmen,” Jemma chimes in, grimacing. “Which may or may not be how he came into contact with our client, we don’t know, but whatever the case he’s not a good person, and having him come into contact with our Dolls is clearly dangerous.”

Nodding, Phil says, “So what do we want to do about it? He’s not technically one of our clients and we don’t have any contact with him, so…”

“Well, we have a bit of contact with him, potentially, if he picks the Dolls up,” Jemma points out, clearly timid. “Technically.”

“I have an idea.” Everyone turns to look at Fitz. “We could just take care of the problem ourselves,” he points out. “I can program someone to take care of him. It won’t be hard.”

Melinda stares at him. “That is the worst idea I have ever heard.”

“Fitz!” Jemma exclaims. “I thought we agreed that was unwise.”

“No, you said it was unwise,” Fitz argues. “I think this would be easiest.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to handle this,” Phil says, looking unsettled. “Can we put a pin in this for later? I’ve just gotten a message from Mack and the other handlers on the Koenig engagement, and they’ve run into an issue with that guy who was tracking Charlie-”

Fitz perks up. “Oh! I can get someone to take care of him too.”

“Well, he’s not a killer,” Jemma yelps. “I don’t think we need to go there quite yet.”

“Why not?” Fitz argues. “It’s killing two birds with one stone.”

Before anyone can respond, Mike wanders by and blinks. “It’s not nice to kill birds,” he points out.

Jemma tries to give him a patient smile, though it’s strained. “That’s right, Mike,” she says.

“Please don’t kill birds,” he adds, looking at Fitz.

Fitz sighs. “I won’t kill any birds, Mike, I promise. Why don’t you go swim?”

Mike smiles evenly. “I like swimming. Swimming helps me be my best.” He wanders off toward the pool.

“Let’s not do that, Fitz,” Melinda says, rolling her eyes. “I do have another idea, though.”

Emily is lounging around, having a glass of wine and catching up on Scandal, when her doorbell rings. She’s not really expecting anyone, but then again, it could be Robbie, so she presses pause, fluffs up her hair, and goes to answer the door.

It’s definitely not Robbie. It’s a man wearing a fancy suit, who saunters in like he owns the place and shoves her against the wall. “It’ll be better if you don’t struggle,” he says.

“What?” Emily squeals, frantically batting at him. “Who are you? Why are you -”

He puts a hand over her mouth and uses his other hand to smack her across the face. “I’ll make it quick, I promise,” he says. “Just as long as you keep quiet. If you struggle or try to get help, well, I don’t know what’ll happen, but you won’t like it.”

There’s a part of her that wants to keep struggling anyway, go down fighting, but he’s stronger than she is and she’s not sure who he is and she doesn’t know what to do, her mind is going in twenty different directions. Then it hits her.

This must be because of what Robbie told her, the investigation he’s trying to run. This is why he was afraid of telling her.

The man uses his left hand to pull a knife out of his pocket and seems about to make a move when suddenly, her phone rings. He seems surprised, but then says, “Don’t answer that,” as if she were going to.

She’s starting to cry soundlessly and he’s sliced off a lock of her hair (god only knows what he was planning on doing with that) when the answering machine picks up. “There are three flowers in a vase,” a male voice says, pronouncing “vase” with a British “ah.” “The third flower is green.”

Suddenly Emily’s eyes go cold. She shoves him off of her and grabs his throat in one movement, gripping tight enough to make him frantically gasp for air. She knees him in the crotch to throw him off-balance. She pushes him onto the floor, with his head resting on the edge of her coffee table, and before he can react she snaps his neck with her foot.

There’s a moment of silence, and then the voice on the other end of the telephone says, “There are three flowers in a vase. The third flower is yellow.”

Emily looks down and sees the dead man on her floor as if for the first time. “What the hell just happened?” she whispers to herself before she bursts into tears and backs away, sitting not on the couch but on the floor by her still-open front door, a good six feet from the body.

She’s still sitting there when Robbie walks into her apartment, shocked. “Emily?” he asks, then kneels down next to her. “Oh my god, what happened?”

“I don’t know!” Emily wails. “He showed up and he was trying to kill me and I don’t know who he is and I guess I just - I don’t know! I panicked.”

Robbie mutters something to himself in Spanish and then says in English, “This is because of me. They found out I was seeing you and came after you to get to me.”

“I don’t know,” Emily repeats, taking a shuddery breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did. I was so scared.”

“It’s okay,” Robbie says, quickly, “it’s okay, you’re okay.” He pulls her close. “I’ll take care of this.”

She sobs into his shoulder for a good minute before she finally manages to whisper, “How?”

“Don’t ask, but I know how to handle stuff like this. I can make it go away.” He reaches to run a hand through her hair, hoping she’ll find that comforting. “Don’t call the cops. I’ll take care of it - the body.”

She sniffles, but judging by the soft little noise she makes she definitely appreciates the hair-touching. “Okay,” she mumbles. “I… I don’t know how I…”

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “Do you want me to stay here tonight? Or you can just go to bed and I’ll get that out of here.”

“Please stay?” Emily whispers. “I need to shower, I… I feel disgusting, I… but I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Alright.” Robbie leans in to kiss her forehead. “You go ahead, I’ll be back in a little while.”

So she picks herself up and wanders toward her bathroom, trying to stop crying. It doesn’t really work, but at least once she’s in the shower she can pretend there’s just water on her face (that’s stupid, but it helps). She stays in there as long as she can before the water starts to freeze, and then she winds a towel around her body, twists her hair up, and tiptoes into the hallway. She doesn’t come into the living room yet just in case Robbie hasn’t moved the body yet.

Robbie must have heard her, because after a minute he comes into the hallway. “Everything’s fine,” he says. “Do you want to go to bed? I can just sleep on the couch.”

Emily shakes her head. “Come with me?” she asks softly. “I really don’t want to be alone.”

He looks a bit surprised, but nods. “Okay,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

She reaches her hand to him shyly, murmuring, “Come on?”

“Oh.” He tilts his head. “You mean like…?” He smiles, equally shy. “I’m not pushing for anything, I was just coming over to hang out tonight.”

“I mean like whatever you want,” she declares. “I just like having you nearby.”

“No pressure, then,” he says, taking her hand. “Unless you want to…?”

She shrugs innocently.

“Well,” Melinda says, unable to keep a note of smugness out of her voice. “That went well.”

Fitz snorts. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

“It was a rather elegant solution,” Jemma admits, casting an impressed glance Melinda’s way.

“I wasn’t suggesting we kill Reyes, necessarily,” grumbles Fitz. “This was basically what I meant.”

“Either way,” Phil breaks in, “the problem with Bakshi’s been taken care of. Well done, everyone. And India came back with a clean bill of health?”

Jemma nods. “The most lasting thing he did was cut off a piece of her hair,” she says wryly. “I actually think she might have been more, ah, worn out by the…” She shrugs, because while everyone in this room knows that “Emily” and Robbie had sex (multiple times) she wants to be slightly tactful about it.

Melinda snorts. “As long as it keeps him distracted.”

Chapter Text

Everything is hilarious right now. Like so hilarious. Deke can’t stop laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” asks Paula, eyes wide. She’s shaking like it’s freezing out, but it’s not freezing, it’s sunny. That’s also hilarious.

Taylor is banging his head against the glass wall. He’s making a moaning noise while he does it. There’s blood on the glass. That’s the funniest thing Deke’s ever seen.

And then the glass breaks, and Taylor finally slumps to the ground and doesn’t get up, and that’s so funny Deke falls over laughing. He’s laughing so much he almost misses Paula walking over to the hole Taylor made in the wall and, very calmly, walking outside.

Outside is five stories down. Five is suddenly the best joke he’s ever heard in his life.

“Hello, Dr. Ford.” Phil offers his head, then withdraws it when he gets a good look at the woman’s face. “I understand this is something of an urgent matter. What do you need our help with?”

“There was an accident at the university,” Dr. Ford sighs. “In the Rossum laboratories, specifically.”

“Oh dear.” Phil frowns. “What happened? And, not that I mean to overstep here, but shouldn’t you contact the authorities? Instead of…” A glorified escort service, he means.

“May we sit?” Dr. Ford asks, glancing at Phil’s couches.

Phil nods. “Of course, please.” He gestures to the couch closest and sits down on one end of it, then looks at her expectantly.

After sitting, Dr. Ford folds her hands in her lap, very businesslike. “Some students were exposed to a new experimental drug,” she says bluntly. “Two of them are dead.”

“Oh, how tragic. What happened?”

“Self-inflicted wounds on both accounts,” Dr. Ford says. “A boy beat his head bloody on a glass wall, which a girl then walked out of, never mind they were five feet up. The drug in question affects, or more appropriately eliminates, a person’s inhibitions.”

Just then, Fitz and Jemma enter the room. Fitz seems slightly out of breath and irritable. “What’s going on?” he gasps. “You said there was some sort of emergency.”

“Fitz, Simmons, you remember Dr. Ford,” Phil says. “She was just telling me about some sort of terrible accident caused by an experimental drug on campus.”

“Three students were exposed to it and two of them are now dead,” Dr. Ford reiterates. “The drug releases inhibitions to the point of causing irrational and harmful behavior -”

“So it affects processes in the prefrontal cortex,” Jemma supplies, eyes wide.

Fitz is nodding. “And you’re thinking Dolls have regulated prefrontal cortexes, and won’t have the same adverse reaction to the drug.”

Phil looks surprised, but then nods, trying to look like he knows what he’s talking about. “Ah yes,” he says. “Just what I was thinking.” It is clearly not what he was thinking.

Jemma casts him a sympathetic smile, like it’s really very sweet of him to try and help. “Would I be correct in thinking you want as many Actives as we have available?” she asks Dr. Ford.

Fitz makes a face, like he’s displeased with what she’s said, and then adds, “There are a few out on engagements right now, but we have quite a few ready to go.”

“We’ll take all the help we can get,” Dr. Ford agrees. “The third student vacated the scene before we had a chance to quarantine them, but there’s already been an outbreak of symptoms across campus, so they’ve certainly been busy. Doctors to treat the afflicted as well as, perhaps, CIA agents to corral people would be excellent.”

“I have a few that would be perfect for that,” Fitz says. “Give us an hour, we’ll be there.”

Hunter opens the van door and offers his hand to help Agent McGill out of the van, but she makes a show of withdrawing her own hand and pushing her way out unassisted. “Where’s the trouble?” she asks, sounding skeptical and concerned all at once.

“Right this way,” he says, not bothering to mask the slightly hurt tone in his voice.

“Perfect,” she says, rolling her eyes. Men’s feelings are so sensitive.

She’s not half a yard down the path when she nearly bumps into a woman getting out of a van of her own, a pretty doctor (judging by the coat, anyway) with dark hair. “Oh!” the woman exclaims as she straightens her skirt. “I’m so sorry. I’m in sort of a hurry.”

“I’m guessing you’re here to sort out this pharmaceutical nightmare?” McGill remarks, smirking. “You have the look for it.”

“What gave me away?” the doctor laughs, and she extends a hand. “Bethany Waterman. Dr. Waterman if you insist on being formal.”

“Agent Cat McGill,” replies McGill, and she turns the handshake into steering Dr. Waterman in the right direction. “I’m headed the same way you are. Although I imagine my job here is a lot less exciting than yours.”

“I’m not sure I’d call treating a mystery contamination exciting,” Dr. Waterman muses, chuckling.

Hunter, watching them interact, raises an eyebrow and glances over at Isabelle. “Well, that’s interesting.”

Isabelle shrugs. “What am I, the gay police?”

Hunter snorts. “No. Just never seen Tango do that before.”

“What, flirt with a girl?”

“Not like that, no. I dunno.”

“You two coming?” Agent McGill calls over her shoulder.

“Ah, yes!” Hunter says, falling into step behind her. “Lead the way, Agent.”

Just as they’re about to head further into the campus, another van parks and two tall men scramble out. “Hey!” one of them (dark-skinned and handsome) calls, waving. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Leary, Swindlehurst,” McGill says, nodding at them in a most businesslike fashion. “This is Dr. Waterman. She’s one of the brains helping out today. Try to make sure the crazy kids don’t give her a hard time, huh?”

Swindlehurst, who’s pale, blonde, and fairly unremarkable, chuckles. “Well, we’re just here to make sure everything goes smoothly, ma’am.”

Leary gives Dr. Waterman a warm smile and offers his hand. “Just let us know what we can do to help.”

Just then, a group of twentysomethings on the lawn all burst out shrieking hysterically, and McGill remarks, “I think we should start by rounding those up.”

Swindlehurst goes over to the group and clears his throat. “We’d like you to come with us, please.”

One of them, a short-haired girl, looks up and him and exclaims, “Your aura is so blue! I’ve never seen anything so blue before.”

“Uh,” says Swindlehurst.

Robbie’s still not used to a girl being in his bed.

It’s been a couple of weeks since that first night, when he stayed over at her place after the attack and then...things happened. They’ve been kind of trying to take it slow since then, but she asked if she could stay over last night and how can he say no to that face? She’s so sweet when she sleeps. Her forehead crinkles a little, like she’s having a confusing dream.

He carefully gets up, trying not to disturb her, and slips into the kitchen to see what he can make for breakfast. Gabe is sitting at the table reading a book. “Hey, big bro,” Gabe smirks. “Gonna impress your lady?”

“Shut up,” Robbie says affectionately. “I’m just making breakfast. Do we have any eggs?”

“I dunno, you’re the one who eats them,” Gabe replies cheerfully.

After rummaging around in the fridge, Robbie retrieves half a carton of eggs and grabs a skillet. “Any plans today?”

“Homework?” Gabe shrugs. “Nothing exciting. Like usual. What about you guys?”

“I dunno, probably just hang around here. I’ve got stuff to do later but she’s up for whatever.” He’s being vague on purpose.

“You really like her, huh?” Gabe asks.

Robbie feels his face get hot. “So?” he mutters, pretending to be very invested in cracking the eggs into a bowl. “She’s really cool.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Gabe says defensively, “it’s just nice seeing you get excited about, you know, a person.” He grins, because he knows he’s being a shithead.

Robbie flips him the bird and then starts beating the eggs.

A few minutes later, Emily comes strolling into the kitchen, wearing an old shirt of Robbie’s, and immediately she blushes. “Shit, sorry, Gabe,” she mumbles. “I didn’t realize you were… which is stupid, this is your house. Should I put pants on?”

“You’re wearing more than you would at a swimming pool,” Gabe says. “I’m not gonna sexualize you just ‘cause your skin is showing, or whatever. I know better.”

“You’re fine,” Robbie agrees. “Actually, I like this.” He gives her a shy smile. “You look really good.”

“You don’t mind that I…?” Emily murmurs, tugging on the shirt.

“No, I like it.” He pours the eggs into the skillet and comes over to kiss her forehead. “It’s definitely good.”

“Thanks,” Emily grins. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“No, you sit down.” Robbie waves at the table, then goes back into the kitchen to flip the eggs. “Scrambled okay? I should have asked, shit.”

“It’s okay!” Emily promises, sitting down. “Thanks for cooking.”

“He’s really mediocre at it,” Gabe says. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Wow, you could wait to give away my secrets until after she’s eaten,” Robbie snarks. “Sorry about him, he has no manners apparently.”

“It’s normal sibling stuff, right?” Emily shrugs. “It’s cute.”

“Yes, but I know all sorts of embarrassing things about him, so he’s going to cool it with that while you’re here,” Robbie says sternly, glaring right at Gabe.

“You can embarrass me, I don’t care,” Gabe says. “Should I go put the coffee on or would you rather I stay out of your way?”

Robbie looks over at Emily. “You want coffee? Or tea? I think we have tea around here somewhere.”

“Coffee is fine,” Emily assures. “Coffee is good.”

Robbie nods and turns to Gabe. “Yes to coffee, please. You can stay if you want, but no comments from the peanut gallery.”

“Aye-aye,” Gabe replies, saluting as he rolls into the kitchen and starts fixing a pot of (admittedly instant) coffee.

After a pleasant breakfast where Gabe manages to only make fun of Robbie once more, Gabe makes up some obvious story about going to the library to study and makes himself scarce. “Looks like he’s got some manners,” Emily remarks, laughing.

“He can take a hint,” Robbie says playfully, leaning over to kiss her.

They’re not very far into that before his phone rings in the other room. “Shit,” he says, laughing. “I left it in my jacket, I think, in my room. Can you go grab it while I clean up?”

Emily nods. “That way I can grab mine too,” she says, standing up and heading in that direction. It’s a good couple of minutes before she returns, holding both his phone and an open notebook and frowning. “It must have already gone to voicemail, sorry. Uh, what’s… this?”

Robbie’s eyes go wide. “Uh…”

“I mean, it’s no big deal,” she hurries to say. “Just, it was open, and I couldn’t help but notice words like, you know. Murder and slavery. And I’m pretty sure you’re not taking a night class in journalism or American history.”

“No,” he mumbles. “It’s for that thing I’m working on. Y’know, the investigation. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” she says, though it’s not convincing. “I’m just… okay, yeah, I am worried. About you.”

“I’ll be okay,” Robbie insists. “I’m being careful. But I’m close to something, I think.”

“Okay,” she says doubtfully. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again. Is it about all… that?” She doesn’t really want to say “the people who injured your brother” or “the mysterious escort” out loud, but she figures he’ll know what she means.

He nods. “Yeah, that. I don’t want to tell you too much, just in case, but I’m being careful. Promise.”

“Why, don’t you trust me?” Emily jokes, except it doesn’t really come out sounding like a joke.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Robbie says darkly. “I don’t have a lot of details, but I think this whole thing is bigger than just the one girl. I don’t want you mixed up in any of this if something goes wrong.”

She frowns, but she nods. “I guess that makes sense,” she says. “Sorry. I don’t want to be pushy or anything.”

“You’re not,” he says, going over to put his arms around her. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be weird. I’m not...I’m not used to people giving a shit about me, I guess, except Gabe. And he has to, he’s my brother.”

“Well, I do,” Emily remarks. “You’re definitely worth giving a shit about. So.”

Harmony’s night hasn’t exactly gone how she thought it would, but she’s really not complaining. So a cute guy she met in a bar asked her to make a sex tape with him - there are worse things to be doing.

“So lemme just make sure this thing is working,” she says, fiddling with the video camera, “and then we can get started on the fun part.”

Miles smirks. He’s not really able to too much else at the moment, since his hands are tied to the headboard. “Sounds good to me,” he says.

Harmony pushes a few more buttons, then grabs the remote that’s supposed to be connected to the camera and pushes play. Or at least, she thought it was the camera remote. It’s not, because it turns on the TV instead.

“Shit,” she says, looking for the power button.

“-accident at the Rossum Labs. Local authorities have quarantined the entire campus while they contain the outbreak, which they suspect may be airborne. Two casualties have been reported, as well as dozens of affected patients, whose names are have not yet been released.”

Harmony stares at the screen, transfixed. The remote falls from her hand.

“Babe?” Miles asks, frowning. “C’mon, turn it off and let’s get going.”

“I have to go,” Harmony says, getting off the bed. “I have to go there.”

“What?”

“I have to go there.” She points at the screen and then heads for the door, walking slowly like she’s in a dream. “Goodbye.”

“What? Hey, hey, this isn’t funny, get back here! What the fuck?”

“Alright,” says Fitz, holding up a syringe, “this might hurt a bit, India, but Dr. Simmons has a nice lolly for you afterwards, if you’ll just be brave for me, alright?” He looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Alright,” India says calmly. She’s sitting in the chair, but she’s not having a treatment, which is sort of funny. It’s good to be brave, though, so she will. “What will hurt?”

“Your arm, a little,” Fitz says, trying for soothing. He grabs onto her arm, trying for gentle. “It might feel a little sharp for a second, just here.”

“Alright,” India repeats, and then he does whatever he’s doing, she doesn’t really look because Dr. Simmons is standing there smiling at her and that’s nicer to look at, and she winces. “Ow.”

“It’s all over, India,” Dr. Simmons promises, and her smile gets bigger as she steps closer to India and hands her a lollipop as promised, a purple one. “Thank you for helping us. We’re trying to figure out how to help other people be their best too.” She gives her a soothing pat on her arm.

“That’s important,” India agrees, thoughtfully sucking on the lollipop. “Friends help each other out.”

“They do,” Dr. Simmons agrees, and for just a second she doesn’t look quite as happy as usual, but she isn’t hurt. Sometimes, India knows, you look less happy when you’re just thinking or busy, so it must be that. “You can relax for a bit, we’re just going to be right through the door.”

“Alright,” India says yet again, and she waves. “I’ll be right here.”

After she and Fitz are both inside the office and out of earshot, Fitz sighs in relief. “I don’t know how you’re so good with them,” he says with a laugh. “It’s like talking to children. And not particularly bright ones at that.”

“Oh, they’re sweet,” Jemma says, rolling her eyes and shifting out of her more official doctor posture. “I don’t mind them. They’re certainly not stressful to talk to like some more normal people can be.”

“I suppose,” Fitz says doubtfully. “Still. How long do you think before it starts to take effect?”

“Not a clue,” Jemma sighs. “If there was more data on what happened in the laboratories, I could presume, but as is… I suppose we just watch her and wait.”

Fitz sighs. “How dull.”

“A great deal of science is just waiting,” Jemma points out. “We can live. At least the House is quiet, with everyone else off on the mission?”

Shrugging, Fitz replies, “I suppose.”

Then, not two minutes later, Phil enters the room. “How’s the experiment going?” he asks cheerily. “Anything yet?”

That makes Fitz sigh even louder, and glare a bit at Jemma. Apparently it’s not that quiet. “We’ve just started,” he says. “She was injected at one twenty five PM, and we’re waiting to see what effect it has.”

Jemma rolls her eyes, she can’t help it, there’s no need to be snappy. “Once we have some sense of the symptoms, we can start to figure out how to counteract them,” she says, although of course Phil knows that’s what they’re doing. She mostly just wants to take the edge off. “Have you heard anything from the campus?”

Phil shakes hism head. “It’s too early. They’ve barely set up shop there.” He sits down in the unoccupied chair. “Mind if I observe? There’s really not much else for me to do at the moment, with pretty much everyone on engagements and my paperwork all caught up.”

Fitz shoots Jemma an alarmed look. The last thing he wants is Phil in here, mucking things up.

“There’s not much to observe at the moment, sir,” Jemma says hesitantly. She really doesn’t like telling her superiors ‘no,’ but she also doesn’t like Fitz upset.

“Still, we can chat,” Phil says, sprawling out awkwardly in the chair. “I feel like we don’t give you guys enough credit. I mean, you’re going to be working on a cure for an unknown viral disease, how cool is that, right? You two seriously deserve the highest praise.” He offers his hand up for a high five.

Fitz raises an eyebrow and glances at Jemma, as if to say you handle this.

Jemma clears her throat and obligingly raises her hand. “Antiserum would be more appropriate, sir,” she says.

“Oh, excuse me,” Phil says, slapping her hand enthusiastically. “Science was never my forte. I leave that up to you geniuses.” He grins.

Jemma smiles, a bit sheepishly, but she can’t help but explain, “An antiserum would treat the particular effects of something, as opposed to a vaccine, which would prevent all further instances. Considering we’re also planning on containing this drug and its effects, we’re less concerned with curing it altogether than treating those currently afflicted.”

Fitz is trying not to make a face. “I’m not sure Mr. Coulson is really interested in the semantics,” he points out.

Shrugging, Phil says, “I don’t mind hearing about it.”

“Well, this way he won’t make a fool of himself in front of future scientists,” Jemma says brightly. This isn’t meant as a dig at Phil, although it might come off that way; she’s trying to justify her own rambling.

“I suppose that’s true,” sighs Fitz.

Harmony’s been walking for awhile. Her feet sort of hurt, in large part because of her four-inch heels, but she can’t stop. She doesn’t know why. She just knows she needs to go to the place she saw on the news.

Finally, she sees a building that looks like the one she saw, and the same sign: ROSSUM LABS. There are a lot of police cars out front, so she heads around toward the back of the building to avoid them.

She’s almost reached the door to the labs when someone grabs her arm, “Daisy? Daisy Johnson, is that you?”

She turns to see a middle-aged black woman wearing a pantsuit and smiling at her. The woman has hold of her arm, not a hard grip, but just so she won’t walk away. “Sorry?” Harmony asks, blinking.

“Professor Caldwell! Don’t you remember me?” The woman chuckles. “You took my American literature class your sophomore year. I remember you, because you got us into some of the liveliest discussions that class has had in the fifteen years I’ve been teaching it.”

“Uh,” Harmony says. “I think you have the wrong person? My name is Harmony.” She pauses. “I mean, I think my name is Harmony.”

The woman frowns. “Are you sure? I heard you dropped out after that semester. Such a shame, you were bright even if you were a big pain some days - no offense.”

Harmony’s about to insist that no, she really has no idea what this woman’s talking about, when a tall blond woman strides up. “You should really come with me, miss,” the woman says, barely bothering to sound at all pleasant or patient. “There’s been an outbreak on campus, and we have reason to believe you’re affected.”

Harmony leans back and pulls her arm out of the professor’s grasp. “What? What’s...I don’t know what’s going on, I just came here to…” She trails off. What is she here to do?

Then an even taller black man appears, offering his hand. “Please come with us,” he says, his voice gentle. “We can help you. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Harmony says, though she doesn’t know why.

She grabs the man’s hand and lets him lead her away. As she leaves, she hears the professor say, “Abstraction is one floor ahead of you. Would you rather be a bird or a fish?”

“Hand me the red, will you?”

Ben rolls the can of spray paint towards her. “Pizza’s getting cold,” he points out.

“Gimme a sec,” Daisy says, grabbing the can and shaking it. “I wanna just finish this one first.”

Ben snorts. “Y’know, you’re not gonna be helping anyone if you starve. Unless you’re doing a hunger strike, and I don’t think that would do much.”

Daisy sticks out her tongue at him. He makes a face back at her and starts in on a slice of pizza, scrolling through something on his phone. After a minute of silence, he says, “Oh, woah, listen to this.”

Daisy looks up, quirking her head. “What?”

“Some anonymous blog is blowing up on Twitter, calling out Rossum for animal abuse. Basically the stuff you’ve been trying to get people to listen to for a year. ‘Rossum has tortured dozens of animals in live experiments that violate multiple ethical codes.’” Ben reads silently for another minute, then hands Daisy his phone. “Read this, it’s fucking horrible.”

Daisy does, her eyes getting wider every second. “Jesus Christ,” she says, “someone’s gotta do something!”

“Like what? I mean, picketing is one thing, but if it’s just the two of us…” Ben shrugs helplessly. “We’re only sophomores. Nobody listens to us.”

“Maybe we can break in and film it!” Daisy says, looking excited. “That’d be proof! Then someone would have to listen to us!”

“Break in?” Ben frowns. “That place is like, insanely secure.”

“Yeah, but between you and me we can hack into it.” Daisy’s eyes are bright. “And then we can teach those bastards a lesson!”

It’s been maybe half an hour since anything interesting has happened. Everyone has completely run out of topics to discuss.

Phil will sometimes clear his throat and attempt to talk about something new - a recent movie, or a book he’s read - but eventually the conversation will peter out again and the awkward silence will return. In the other room, India has dozed off, and she doesn’t even appear to be dreaming.

Fitz interrupts the silence with a loud wail. “I’m so bored!” he whines. “This is the dullest thing I’ve ever had to do! I hate it!” He throws the nearest object, a rubber bouncy ball on his desk, against the wall.

“Don’t be a prat,” Jemma scolds, flopping back against the couch in exasperation (and in a much more casual way than usually she’d let herself do in front of Phil). “You have toys to play with, it could be worse.”

“Don’t wanna play,” sulks Fitz, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting.

Phil’s gotten up and gone to look in Fitz’s secret snack drawers. “Do you ever eat anything besides chips?” he asks. “There are a lot of chips in here.”

Fitz yelps, “Leave my drawer of inappropriate starches alone!” and runs over to slam the drawer shut.

Phil looks hurt. “Sorry. I just wanted a snack.” He honestly looks as if he might cry.

“What did you expect?” Fitz asks irritably. “Some...some lentils or something?”

“I find lentils completely incomprehensible,” Jemma announces.

“I don’t know what that means,” Phil says, eyes wide. “Does it mean delicious?”

“There are delicious juice boxes in the refrigerator!” Jemma yelps, pointing frantically. She seems pretty much glued to her seat, though. “Get a juice box. Juice is very, very good. We should all juice.”

“Juice is good,” Phil says agreeably, ambling over to the fridge and grabbing three juice boxes. “What’s grape juice made of?”

“It’s made of purple!” Fitz replies. “See, it says so right on the box.”

Jemma giggles. “Purple isn’t an ingredient, silly,” she says. She pauses, tilts her head. “Purple.” Of course, it comes out sounding like “puhhh-ple” because of her accent, and suddenly this seems like the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her life.

“What’s so funny?” Phil asks, poking the straw into his juice box and taking a loud sip.

“You have to admit, I’m very British,” Jemma declares. “I don’t say hard Rs.” Her eyes go wide and she points to her mouth to emphasize the fact that, yes, the word “hard” even includes one of the unpronounced letters.

That makes Fitz burst into giggles too. He starts to roll his R’s until he gets out of breath, and then he tips over out of his chair onto the floor. Luckily, he falls out of it in slow motion and then just lays sprawled out on the floor, still giggling.

“Yes!” Jemma exclaims, rolling her own self onto the floor delicately and poking Fitz. “That’s a good idea!”

Fitz squirms, then sort of flops over so his head is pillowed on her stomach. “Y’know what’s a good idea?” he asks lazily. “You.”

“I’m an idea?” Jemma asks. “I thought I was a person.”

“‘S true either way,” Fitz hums. “Ideas, people, all the same really.”

“No it isn’t!” Phil chimes in. “I can have ideas in my head, but there’s only one people in my head. It’s me!”

“Unless you went to a psychiatrist,” Jemma says. “Then someone else would be in your head. Or if you had brain surgery.”

“Or if you know someone very well,” says Fitz. “Like you and I know each other, Jemma. We finish each other’s-”

“Juice!” Jemma exclaims, reaching for her juice box and taking a sip.

Fitz pauses for a second, like that confused him, and then he continues, “-and sentences. And it’s like we’re in each other’s brains sometimes, y’know? Like we’re meant to be...together, or soulmates, or…” He trails off, staring at his own fingertips.

Jemma wrinkles her nose. “Soulmates aren’t real,” she says doubtfully.

“Well, I know that, but…” Fitz pouts. “Don’t you think two people can be drawn together for a reason? Like two elements that cause a particular reaction when you combine them.”

“Hydrogen and oxygen combine into water or carbon dioxide, but not all hydrogen combines with all oxygen, nor are hydrogen and oxygen just drawn together,” Jemma declares. “The reaction is significant, but the elements’ purposes aren’t determined by the potential bond.”

Fitz sighs. “But you know what I mean, Jemma.” He’s starting to get whiny again.

“Look at my toes!” Phil interrupts. He holds up one of his bare feet, wiggling the toes in question. “They’re funny.” He giggles uncontrollably.

“Why do you have so many secrets?”

Fitz, Jemma, and Phil look up to see India standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face, and then they all look at each other in confusion.

“I hate it!” India continues, still sobbing. “Everyone has so many secrets. I wish, I wish…” She sniffles, then juts her chin out defiantly. “I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school. I wish I could, could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy!”

Jemma blinks. “Did she just quote Mean Girls?” she whispers.

Phil is crying now too. “That sounds so beautiful,” he sniffles. “I want to eat a cake made of rainbows and smiles.”

Fitz is about to say something, and then his desk phone rings. Since he’s the closest to it, sort of, he stumbles to his feet and picks it up. “Big Mike’s Tackle House,” he says.

“Hello?” Mack says on the other end of the line. “Fitz?”

“Mack!” Fitz is so excited he almost drops the phone on the desk. “Guys, it’s Mack!”

“Hi, Mack!” Jemma calls gleefully. “How are things at the infection… house?”

“Charlie’s here!” Mack says.

“That’s funny,” Jemma laughs, seeming more delighted than baffled. “Tell her hi from me!”

“Wait,” Fitz says, like he’s waking up from a deep sleep, “isn’t she supposed to be off doing…” He glances at India. “Something else?”

“That’s not important right now,” Mack replies. “Just listen.”

Then, after a moment, they hear a piano playing. It’s so beautiful Fitz and Jemma start crying on top of Phil and India, who were already crying.

“I don’t like this,” Dr. Waterman says. She’s been gathering samples of potentially affected material from the area surrounding the broken window… for at least ten minutes. Most of the gathering has just been her sweeping broken glass back and forth and frowning at it.

“What’s wrong?” Melinda frowns.

“It’s not right,” Dr. Waterman mutters. She barely seems to have heard the question, and she certainly doesn’t look Melinda’s way.

“Let me handle this,” Agent McGill says, brushing past Melinda. “I took a course in handling traumatized witnesses during my CIA training.”

Melinda sighs, rolling her eyes. “Fine, fine.” Of course Fitz had to go the extra mile and make these “agents” outrank her ridiculously.

“Dr. Waterman,” McGill says, kneeling down beside the other woman. “If you need to take a break from this crime scene, nobody will judge you for it. Someone else can gather samples.”

Waterman makes a face. “It’s my job,” she mutters.

“Hey,” McGill says. “I know. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Gently, she lays a hand on Waterman’s wrist, which is meant to be comforting…

Except instead, it makes Dr. Waterman shriek and jump up. “Get your hands off of me!” she yells. “Don’t touch me, I’m not yours to touch, I - I’m not, I’m not!” Before anyone can say anything, she launches herself at a couch along the far wall and curls up in the fetal position.

McGill blinks. “Whoa,” she says.

Melinda narrows her eyes. “What’s going on?” she asks, trying for gentle. Gentle is really not her strong suit.

McGill doesn’t answer, though. Her eyes find the gun on Melinda’s hip and she stiffens. “Do you have a permit for that?” she asks.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I?” Melinda glances down at her gun. “I think maybe we all need a break, let’s take five.” She reaches out to put her hand on McGill’s arm, as if to guide her away from the scene.

“Whoa!” McGill repeats, and she backs away, looking both solemn and nervous at once. “Let’s just take it easy here.”

“Who’s not taking it easy?” Melinda asks, raising an eyebrow. “I think...your face should take it easy!” She snickers.

“My face is my face,” McGill says. “That response is asinine.”

“I’ll show you asinine,” Melinda says, pulling out the gun and pointing it at McGill’s face. Then, almost before McGill can react, she drops it again, grinning. “Y’know, this is really heavy,” she remarks. “Makes my arms tired.”

“Then maybe you should set it down,” McGill says carefully. “Wouldn’t that be good?”

“Yeah,” Melinda says, kneeling down to put the gun on the ground. Then she slowly flops over onto the ground herself. “Ooh,” she says. “It’s so cool and smooth down here. Like a dolphin!”

“You’re not going to win me over with exotic animals, you ass!” Waterman shouts from her couch.

Melinda starts rubbing her body on the ground, humming happily. McGill plops in one of the spinning chairs at a desk and starts going in circles. Waterman just curls up tighter and tries to make it all go away.

“Security cameras are good to go,” Daisy says. “They’re set to play on a loop for at least two hours. Plenty of time for us to get in and out.”

Ben nods. “Nice work. You ready?”

“Yep.” Daisy pulls the scarf she’s using as a makeshift disguise up so it covers the bottom half of her face. “Let’s do this.”

Navigating Rossum turns out to be more complicated than they thought, but the map Ben recovered from a hapless freshman’s email account sort of helps. Finally they end up at a secret room that’s protected by a keypad.

“Oh no,” Daisy snarks, “whatever shall we do.” She shines her phone’s light on the keypad, easily identifying the most-touched keys, and then generates possible combinations and types them in until one of them works. This takes the better part of fifteen minutes, and she shrugs. “Sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.”

Ben laughs. “It’s okay, it worked.”

Once they’re inside the room, Daisy flicks the lightswitch and squints as her eyes adjust. There are at least a dozen glass tanks around the edge of the room, all occupied by two or three mice. A few of the mice are moving, but most of them just stay stationary, like they’re fake. “Woah,” Ben says, eyes wide. “Creepy.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says, taking a quick walk around the room with her phone camera. “They’re barely reacting to us at all.”

“This one’s eyes are all fucked up.” Ben crouches down to get a closeup of one mouse whose eyes are swollen shut. “Jesus.”

Daisy shudders. “Let’s keep going. God, this is all just…” She trails off.

The next room has cages full of monkeys, most of which are in various unhealthy states. Some of them have patchy fur and dull eyes, others have the same unsettling stillness as the mice. A few screech when the light turns on and cower in the corners of their cages.

“How the hell are they keeping this quiet?” Ben asks, filming as much as he can. “And what are they doing in here anyway?”

“We’ll make them tell us,” Daisy says, sounding furious. She steps closer to one cage to focus on one monkey, who growls at her. “Hey, little guy, don’t worry, we’ll be leaving soon.”

She spends several minutes getting a ton of footage, so much so that she almost misses Ben calling out to her from the next room. “Daisy,” he says, and his voice sounds weird. “Come here.”

“What?” she asks, brow furrowed. “Don’t tell me they have dogs in there or something.”

“Just come here.”

The next room doesn’t have any animals on it. But it does have monitors.

“Oh Jesus.” She puts her hand up to her mouth. “Do they have people locked up in here?”

“Maybe not here, but somewhere.” They’re looking at a feed of what could generously be described as a cross between fish tanks and drawers in a morgue: at least a half dozen upright compartments, glass-walled, each containing a human being in little more than underwear. The people seem to be alive, occasionally one of them breathes out an air bubble, but they’re heavily sedated and pretty clearly in a situation they’d have never consented to.

Daisy stares at the monitors. “What the fuck.”

But before she can do much more, they hear voices and footsteps coming towards them. “Shit,” Ben says, “we better get out of here.”

“I’m telling you, man! I’m fine! I don’t need to be holed up in this psych ward!”

“Sir, please sit down,” says Agent Leary. “We’re under strict orders not to let anyone leave the building until the all-clear is given.”

“This is ridiculous! I swear I’m fine.”

Harmony watches the strange boy argue with the agent for a little while longer. Then the agent seems to give up and backs away from him, going to talk to another person. She goes over to the boy. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, sounding sullen. “I bet you’re fine too, aren’t you? This is such crap.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m...I was somewhere else and now I’m here. I’m Harmony.” She offers her hand somewhat hesitantly.

“Hey, Harmony,” he replies, waving instead of shaking her hand (he’s clearly just that kind of guy). “I’m Deke. You go here? I haven’t seen you around, but I don’t really know anyone outside science and engineering.”

“No,” she says, blinking. “I don’t...I’ve never been here before. What’s going on?”

“A top-secret drug got out and it’s infecting people on campus,” Deke explains, and then he lowers his voice. “I was in the lab when it happened, but like hell I’m telling anyone that.”

Harmony’s eyes go wide. “Are you okay?”

“Now I am,” he replies. “Whatever was going on, it must have worn off already. But I need to get back there. We were onto something, I need to get it before these assholes in suits do.”

“I came here for a reason,” Harmony says. “Maybe I should help you get whatever you need to get.”

“I mean, it’s not gonna be easy,” Deke hums. “They’ve got this place locked down tight.”

Harmony squares her shoulders. “I’m tough,” she says. “I can help.”

“We should start a distraction,” he suggests. “I saw you talking to that big guy who was playing the piano…”

She nods. “I know him from somewhere. I think. I can go talk to him to distract him.”

“Get him to talk to the babysitters,” he says. “They’re the ones we need to distract so we can get out.”

“Okay.” Harmony says, walking over to the guy seated at the piano. He seems pretty preoccupied playing said piano, but she coughs. “Um, hello there?”

The man turns to her, smiling. “Charlie!” he says warmly. “Thanks for coming to my concert.”

Harmony blinks. “Uh, I don’t think we’re at a concert,” she says, not interested in arguing the name thing. Maybe the drugs just make people forget everyone’s names. “So...I was wondering what the deal is with those guys,” she adds, waving her hand at the two agents. “What are they doing?”

“Protecting us,” the man says, still smiling placidly. He hasn’t stopped playing the piano. “That’s their job.”

Harmony wracks her brain for an excuse, any excuse, and finally arrives at “I have to pee! Really bad! Can you, y’know, distract them for five minutes so I can go pee?”

The man frowns. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Charlie.”

“Please?” She fidgets like she really does have to pee. “I won’t be gone long, I promise.”

He considers for a moment before nodding. “Only for you. Let me just finish this piece.”

Finally, he’s off chatting with the agents, and Harmony sprints over to where Deke is waiting. “Let’s go!” she says, practically shoving him out of the room.

“Scoot over.” Ben’s voice is hot in Daisy’s ear. They’re currently smushed together in some kind of tiny storage closet, waiting for the footsteps to recede enough that it might be safe to book it out of here.

Daisy squirms, trying her best to accommodate him. Her efforts are mostly in vain. “Can’t,” she hisses. “Your elbow’s digging into my boob, by the way.”

“Sorry.” Ben tries to adjust as well. “Shouldn’t be too much longer. They all ran through the hall like three minutes ago.”

After what feels like an eternity to Daisy’s scrunched limbs, they tumble out of the closet and look around wildly. “Coast is clear!” Daisy whispers, and they book it back the way they came.

Unfortunately, they were wrong.

“Hey!” comes a shout from behind them. “You two, stop!”

“Run!” yells Ben, grabbing her hand. They bolt down the hallway, back through the room with all the monitors, back through the monkey room. Daisy vaguely hears shouting behind her, but she’s concentrating on running too much to pay attention to what’s being said.

They manage to get back through the door and they’re almost free - then they hear the pop! pop! of gunfire. “Shit!” Ben yelps. “Daisy, get down!”

The next thing Daisy knows, Ben’s weight is on top of her and she’s faceplanting into the grass.

There’s a burst of noise, and she finally wriggles out enough to groan, “Jesus, dude, a little warning next time!”

She expects Ben to make a joke back at her, or maybe snap that he just saved her life so she should quit bitching. She expects Ben to answer her. He doesn’t.

“Ben?” Daisy can’t quite turn herself over to see him. He’s so heavy...like dead weight on top of her…

“Freeze!” barks one of their pursuers, stomping up to point a gun at her head. “Stay on the ground!”

“Ben! Ben!” Daisy can hear herself getting hysterical. That’s not like her at all. Why isn’t Ben making fun of her for it? Why won’t he answer her?

Why is the back of her shirt wet?

“Come on, the lab is this way,” Deke says, tugging Harmony along.

Harmony lets herself be dragged behind him. This feels familiar for some reason she can’t figure out. She’s never been here before, has she? “Do you ever get deja vu?” she asks idly.

“I dunno, I guess so,” he replies, shrugging. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Maybe. I just have the weirdest feeling that I’ve been here before…” Harmony trails off.

“You sure you don’t go here? Maybe you’re dating someone that does?” He makes a face, like the idea of her dating anyone is abhorrent. “I don’t think the drug would make you lose your memory, but maybe you’re a special case.”

Harmony thinks for a long moment. “No. I mean...I was seeing someone, earlier today, but he didn’t go here. I met him at a bar. I’ve never been here in my life.” She sounds less sure than she means to. “What are we going to get, anyway?”

“Some stuff I left up there,” he says evasively. “It’ll help, I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, frowning. “Like an antidote or something? How do you know if you’re infected?”

“You just know,” he replies. “It releases your inhibitions. You act ridiculous. You do things you would never do normally.”

“Oh.” Harmony blinks. “Then I don’t think I’m infected. How do you get infected anyway?”

“Touch,” Deke says. “If you accidentally touch the drug, or you touch someone who’s touched it, you’re infected. Contagious until it wears off, which seems to take about eight hours naturally.”

Harmony nods. “Well, someone earlier touched me, and she was acting weird, but I don’t feel anything.” She shrugs and adds, “Are we getting close?”

“Yeah,” he says, but then he spots a couple of agents in suits at the end of a hallway and yelps, “Shit, we’ve gotta take the other way around. There’s an elevator around the corner.”

Harmony spins on her heel and powerwalks toward said elevator. “So,” she says, once they’re out of earshot of the guards, “how exactly did you get into the ‘accidentally growing a dangerous virus’ business?”

“I’m a student,” Deke says casually as they get in and start heading to the next floor. “And it’s not a virus. It’s a drug, and it has its applications like any other.”

“Like what?”

“Well, in smaller doses it could be used therapeutically,” he says, though he doesn’t offer any elaboration. They get out of the elevator and he says, “Lab’s at the end of the hall. Come on.”

Harmony trots alongside him, though she’s starting to wonder what, exactly, “therapeutically” means in this case. “So what’s the plan?”

“You distract the guards,” he says. “There are going to be guards. I go in, get the stuff, then we get outside and take it from there.”

“Distract them how?”

“I dunno, just do it,” Deke mutters. “Girl ways?”

Harmony glances at him quizzically. “Have you ever talked to a girl before?”

“Yes,” he retorts defensively. “I have girl friends. My girl friend Paula just died.” He’s clearly hoping that mentioning this will make her feel bad.

“Well, I’m sorry about that,” she says. “It was just a weird thing to say. Like, just ‘cause I’m a girl I’ll have different ways of distracting someone? Unless you meant flirting with them, which is a super weird way to say that.”

He shrugs. “Womanly wiles. Girls can do that, like, girly girls anyway. You’re girly.”

Harmony snorts. “Whatever. So does that means I go in first?”

“Approach first, and I’ll slip by,” Deke suggests.

“Okay.” Squaring her shoulders, Harmony struts off toward the guard in front of the lab. “Hey there,” she says, giving him her best winning smile. “How’s your day going?”

“Doing okay, all considered,” says - his name badge says Agent Swindlehurst. “It’s a real shame what’s going on here. Speaking of, you shouldn’t be here. Did you get lost or something?” He chuckles to himself. “Fall asleep over your studies and wake up to an abandoned building?”

Harmony doesn’t hesitate before nodding. “Yeah, um, I pulled an all-nighter for a paper I was working on. Woke up a little while ago and I have no idea what’s going on. Do you know what’s going on?” She pastes on an innocent expression.

“There was an outbreak in this very lab,” says Swindlehurst. “Crazy bug is going across campus making everyone act, well, crazy.”

As they’re speaking, Deke sneaks into the lab and can be heard rummaging around for something, but it’s not long before he’s running back out and shouting, “Harmony, run!” Apparently he didn’t realize that there would in fact be other people in the lab, two of them agents, one of whom is on his tail.

She bolts after him, not looking back at Swindlehurst, who yells “Wait! Stop!”

They race through the building, and eventually they find an alcove to hide in and catch their breath. “So what did you grab?” pants Harmony.

“What I needed,” Deke replies evasively.

Harmony glares at him. “You can’t make me go through all this and then not tell me. That’s shitty.”

He pauses, clearly thinking about something, before he hands her a vial. “It’s the drug,” he says in a showy whisper.

“What?” Harmony forgets to be quiet. “What the hell do you want that for? You said it killed your friends!”

“If we have the drug we can make an antidote,” he says, but it’s clearly not the full truth.

“I don’t believe you,” Harmony says, and takes off before he can react.

“Wait a second!” he shouts, following after her, but once he notices the agents on his tail he starts pointing frantically and shouting, “Hey! She’s got the drug!”

Harmony doesn’t look back, bursting out the front door of the lab a minute later and running across the lawn, not really paying attention to where she’s going, just running really. She doesn’t know why she feels so strongly about it, but she knows Deke can’t get this vial back.

Melinda’s hot on Deke’s heels when she hears him say “She’s got the drug!” “I’ve got her! You get him!” she barks at Davis, who nods and goes after the boy. Melinda lengthens her stride and easily catches up to the girl, whose agility in four-inch heels is impressive, but no match for her. “Hey!” she says, grabbing the girl by the shoulder and wrenching her off her feet. “Stop!”

The girl yelps and tries to wriggle out of her grasp, but Melinda grabs her other arm and manages to get the handcuffs on her. Then she gets a good look at the girl’s face and blinks. It’s… “Charlie?” she asks, before coughing and saying, “Stop struggling, we need to take you in for questioning.”

Harmony stills, but keeps glaring at Melinda. “Why do you people keep calling me other names? God! My name is Harmony!”

Deke, meanwhile, is still trying to run, even as he shouts, “Why are you still chasing me? She’s the one with the drug! She’s probably going to do something awful with it, like sell it or something.” It’s at this point that he realizes he’s said too much, but he still keeps on running.

Davis tackles him to the ground a second later and a struggle ensues.

Meanwhile, Melinda keeps talking to Charlie sternly. She’s trying to cover up for her slip earlier. “Mistook you for another suspect in this case. My apologies. Now, how do you know that man over there?”

“I just met him today!” Harmony whines. “He said he needed my help, so I was helping him, and the next thing I knew we were breaking into top-secret labs and then he took the drug from the lab and I just had a feeling that he shouldn’t have it, so I took it, and now my wrists hurt because of these stupid handcuffs!”

“Look,” sighs Melinda, “we just need to take you inside and ask you a few questions and then-”

They’re interrupted by the distinctive sound of a gunshot.

“Shit!” Melinda whirls around. “Davis!”

There are two bodies lying on the ground, and Melinda fears the worst for a second. “Davis!”

“I’m okay.” His voice sounds dull. “I think. But the gun went off and…”

Melinda gently lifts him off of Deke’s body and looks him over. He’s covered in blood and in shock, but seems unharmed. Meanwhile, there’s a pretty obvious gunshot wound in Deke’s chest that’s probably to blame for the blood. “What happened?” she asks.

“He reached for my gun and I was trying to make sure the safety stayed on,” Davis says, nearly monotone. “It didn’t and the gun went off. I’m okay, but he’s…”

“Oh my god!” yelps Harmony, running up to see what’s happened. She should be trying to get away, but she can’t look away.

Then she feels a warm hand on her shoulder and someone says, “Do you trust me?”

She whirls around. The guy from earlier, the one she ran into after the weird encounter with the professor, is there. “With my life,” she says. She feels safer already.

“C’mon,” he says, steering her away from the bloody scene. “It’s time for a treatment.”

Phil’s called an all-hands meeting in his office. It’s a bit crowded, but they’re making it work. No one seems to want to look each other in the eye.

Finally Phil coughs. “So,” he says. “That went…”

“Very badly,” Melinda finishes, rolling her eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it like that.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t sort out that it was spread by touch,” Fitz grumbles. “Or that it’d set the Dolls off like it did.”

“I looked them all over for residual signs of trauma, and they’re fine, and we did manage to figure out a counteragent, at least,” Jemma says. “We” means her and Fitz, obviously, but unlike usual they’re sitting about as far away from each other as possible.

Phil nods. “Yes, and thank you both for that. My deepest apologies to, ah, anyone who found themselves affected by the…” He trails off.

“Crazy juice?” Mack suggests with a wry smile.

“That’s one way to put it,” Coulson replies. “Thanks for your hard work, everyone. Next time we’ll be extra careful so that something like this doesn’t happen again.”

Daisy’s been in this room for over an hour. She’s yelled herself hoarse, banged her wrists around enough that they’re bruised where the cuffs cut into them, and cried so hard that her eyes sting. Finally, a bald man wearing a nice suit enters the room.

“Hello, Daisy,” he says. “My name is Phil Coulson.”

“Cool,” she snaps. “Can I go home now? I just...I wanna be alone.”

“No you don’t,” he says. “You’ve been alone in here for over an hour. You want to forget that the last twenty four hours happened.”

Daisy narrows her eyes at him (which hurts enough that tears she didn’t realize she still had prick at the corners of them). “Fuck off,” she says. “You have no idea what I want.”

“You’re right,” he says simply. “But I can guess. You want the world to be better than it is. You want people to stop mistreating animals, and each other. You want people to listen to you when you speak, and you want to make a difference. Is that right?”

“Maybe.” Daisy tries for indifference.

“What if I told you you could make sure all that happens?”

“I’d say you’re playing good cop, and ask where the bad cop is.”

He laughs. “You’re smart. I like that. But it’s true, Daisy. I can offer you enough money to ensure that you could do whatever you wanted to help the causes you champion. You could even start your own non-profit, if you wanted. Anything you want to do, you can.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffs Daisy. “You’re making this up. Where’s the cop to take me to jail already?”

“Well, I have a little proposal for you first,” Phil says.

Chapter Text

“Hey everyone,” Phil says once everyone’s settled in (some with drinks from his new liquor cabinet). “Thanks for coming in on such short notice. I’ll try and keep it short, but basically, we’ve had enough...unusual incidents around here lately that we are considering an unusual plan of action.”

Melinda blinks at him. “That means what?”

“I’ll let Dr. Simmons explain.” Phil nods to Jemma.

Jemma, who most certainly isn’t one of the ones drinking, clears her throat and sets her tablet on the desk. “I’m sure some of you have noticed certain tendencies in your charges’ behavior,” she says to the collection of Handlers. 

Victoria shrugs. “Romeo’s a dream as usual,” she says. “But I’m guessing you’re not referring to him, are you?”

“No,” Jemma says curtly. “Mack, Hunter, Hartley, Quinn, this experiment will involve your Actives, but I assure you it will be perfectly safe.”

Mack narrows his eyes. “It had better be,” he says. “I’m pretty damn tired of Charlie being put in constant danger or having invasive surgery or whatever.”

“It’s not as if the others aren’t put in danger fairly often,” Fitz points out. 

“You guys sent her to a sex cult and blinded her,” Mack says stonily. Fitz just shrugs.

Jemma makes an apologetic face, because while it’s not like any of these decisions are actually her fault she does feel bad when they’re made, but she presses on without saying anything and making it possibly worse. “We’re actually going to be allowing Charlie and the others to act on some of their subconscious instincts,” she says. “While it’s true that Dolls retain no memories of their former life or the Imprints we give them, some needs run more deeply than memory. If you or I were to wake up tomorrow morning with amnesia, we would still be hard-wired to try to do what we needed to in order to survive, for example. Particularly strong experiences can leave the same kind of lingering effect on someone.”

“And?” Quinn asks, sounding bored. 

“Well,” Jemma says, “take what happened with Foxtrot, for example. A client’s driver was regularly harassing her. She didn’t consciously remember this happening, but it was disturbing enough that she actually had something resembling a vague dream about the man. This is a highly unusual case, of course, but it’s a good example of this phenomenon. Other times it could be a more immediate need, such as the need to protect someone or connect with them.”

Hunter furrows his brow. “Could you elaborate a little more on that? I thought they were basically like dogs.”

“A dog’s behavior can still be altered by past experience, even if the dog doesn’t remember it,” Jemma says. “A dog who’d been treated cruelly by a previous male owner may show a continued dislike of men even after being removed from that situation. A dog who’s been doted on will likely expect the same level of attention, whether or not they know that on a conscious level. It’s the same thing. Foxtrot is the first dog in this scenario.”

“And?” Quinn repeats, impatient now.

“I’m proposing we run a scenario where Charlie, Tango, Foxtrot, and India are allowed to fulfill what seem to be their subconscious needs,” Jemma says. “Individual details will vary, but this should last no longer than twenty-four hours and, if I’m correct, will allow them a sense of closure that will keep these needs from continuing to linger in the back of their minds.”

“And this should perform what we might think of as a reset,” Fitz chimes in. “You know, get them back in working order again.”

“It will be thoroughly safe and supervised,” Jemma reiterates. “But it’s best to take care of it now before we have another… well.” She flinches and averts her eyes. “Yankee situation.”

Phil nods. “That’s true. So how exactly will this work?”

“I’ve programmed imprints that contain the essence of their original personalities, without memories of their time at the Dollhouse or of the details of their old lives,” Fitz says. “Sort of a watered-down version of themselves, if you will. Just enough that they’ll be able to access and attempt to fulfill those subconscious needs that keep surfacing.”

Isabelle raises an eyebrow. “And us Handlers, we’ll be doing what exactly?”

“Following at a safe distance to monitor them in case of some unforeseen danger,” Phil says. “You’re just doing what you’d usually do, but you won’t have contact with them unless something goes very wrong.”

“We’ll be putting the four of them in the chair before bed,” Jemma says, “and their imprints will essentially activate when they wake up in the morning.”

“What do we do if one of ‘em ends up running into a cop or something?” Hunter asks. “Gonna be a bit odd, having them just wander around not knowing anything about themselves.”

“Ideally, that’s why you’ll be following them,” Jemma says. “To prevent that.”

When she opens her eyes, the first thing she sees is a pane of frosted glass above her head. 

“What?” She tries to sit up and can’t. She glances around frantically - she’s in some kind of weird sunken bed with the glass above her, trapping her inside. Is this a coffin? Why would she be in a coffin? Is she dead? “Help!” she calls, banging on the glass with her fists. “Hello? Anyone? Please help me, I’m stuck in here!”

She’s just getting panicked enough to really start yelling when, as if by magic, the glass slides back and she practically launches herself out of the coffin, gasping. She almost collides with someone else, also coming out of a coffin nearby. “Jesus Christ!” she yelps, almost falling back into it and just barely catching herself in time. “Who are you? Where the fuck am I?”

This new person is a curly-haired, brown-skinned woman who looks just as confused, if slightly more composed. “Those are two questions I don’t have answers for,” she says. “Unfortunately.”

There are three other holes in the floor and three other people climbing out of them - two more women, one blonde and the other dark-haired, and a blond man. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t sign up for this escape room,” the blonde woman quips.

The dark-haired woman looks nervous, her gaze darting around the room like a bird’s. “Do any of you know each other?” she asks. “I don’t...I don’t think I’ve met anyone here before.”

“I definitely haven’t,” the blonde says.

Okay, she’s definitely on her way to a proper freakout now. She swallows and says, “Uh, I can’t remember my name, anyone else having this problem?”

The curly-haired woman nods. “I’m not sure of much right now,” she says. “Name, age, what I do, where I live.”

The man shrugs. “Maybe we’ve been abducted by aliens. One of my buddies saw a documentary about it awhile back.”

She’s about to respond with something snarky when there’s a noise from outside the room. All four freeze. “Quiet,” hisses the man. 

A door into the room opens and a woman comes in. “Good morning, Charlie,” she says, smiling. “Good morning, India, Foxtrot, Tango, and Mike.” 

The newcomer nods at her first and then each of the others in turn as she says the names, and Charlie (maybe her name is Charlie?) tilts her head. “Uh, good morning,” she says.

“Would you like to come to breakfast?” the woman asks, smiling. “We have pancakes and omelettes today.”

The woman called Foxtrot, apparently, glances at the others before saying, “I could have pancakes.”

That makes the smiling woman frown a little, as if she’s confused about something, before she quickly beckons them to follow her. 

“This is very weird,” Charlie mutters to the tall blonde, Tango, as they head out of the room. “And what kind of name is Tango, anyway? Or Foxtrot?”

“It’s the military alphabet,” Tango says. “Which doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

“Do you think we were kidnapped by the military?” Foxtrot asks, looking worried. “I mean, the military isn’t good, but do they just kidnap people? And put them in…” 

They enter a large room done in warm woods, more frosted glass, and berry tones, and India remarks, “In a weird spa? I don’t think so, no.”

There are other people sitting at little tables, eating breakfast and staring off into space, or talking quietly. Everyone is wearing the same soft pajama-like tops and sweatpants. “I’m telling you,” Mike whispers as they get in the buffet-style line for food, “this is some weird alien shit.”

Tango takes Foxtrot’s hand for just a moment, murmuring, “Whatever this is, we’re all in it together. We can figure it out.”

Breakfast is, indeed, a choice of either pancakes or omelettes, and once they’ve gotten their food they sit down at one of the unoccupied circular tables. “Everyone’s smiling,” murmurs Charlie. “It’s like some weird Pleasantville shit.” Then she pauses. “Wait, how do I still know that reference but I couldn’t remember my own name?”

Tango shrugs. “Brains are weird, man. Especially if we’ve been through trauma.”

India notices a couple of the attendants staring at them and says in a whisper, “Dumb it down. I don’t think we’re supposed to be that articulate, just listen to the others.”

Sure enough, one of them (a cheerful-looking black man) says to the woman seated across from him, “Pancakes are good. Is your omelette good?”

“Yes,” she says, smiling at him vacantly.

Charlie pastes the same eerie smile on her face and looks right at India. “How are your pancakes, India?”

“Tasty,” India replies, blinking slow like a cat. “Pancakes are a nice color.”

“I like eggs,” Mike says, but his tone tends more towards “robot” than “vacant but happy pod person.” “Yum, yum, eggs.”

Charlie nudges him with her elbow. “C’mon, man, don’t joke around.”

“This room is also a nice color,” India says, just a touch too loud. “It’s warm.”

They manage to stumble through a conversation of sorts until finally they’ve all finished eating. Then an attendant comes over, smiling (of course). “Let me get your plates,” she says, gathering them up. “What would you like to do now? You can go take a shower, or you can go to art class.” The attendant points in alternate directions down the hall.

“A shower sounds nice,” Charlie says, thinking quickly. “Thank you.”

Once the attendant has gone, Tango blinks and fingerspells something with her hand close to the table, like she’s hoping that will make it subtle. Unfortunately, no one else seems to know sign language, so she rolls her eyes and whisper-hisses, “What the fuck?” 

“Are the showers public?” Foxtrot asks anxiously.

“I think it’s worth checking,” India says. “If they are, there’s probably somewhere else near there we can hide and figure out what to do next.”

“I guess,” Foxtrot says, sounding very doubtful (and definitely casting looks at Mike, like she’s not thrilled about the idea of him in particular seeing her naked).

That doesn’t end up being an issue, though, because a man in a suit comes up to them as they’re headed in that direction and says, “Mike, would you like a treatment?”

Mike blinks. “Uh…” With a quick glance at the others, he says, “Sure?”

“Good,” the man says, and he leads Mike away.

“Unless this really is a spa, that’s not a great sign,” Tango murmurs.

“Creepy,” Charlie says, watching until Mike’s out of sight. “Anyway, I guess we’d better head for the showers before someone else stops us. I don’t know if we wanna know what the hell ‘art class’ is.”

The showers are, as they’d all kind of feared, a public affair, and what’s worse is that they’re arranged in a large, open circle. They’re also, judging by the two men and one woman already using them, co-ed.

“Ugh,” Foxtrot mutters, folding her arms over her chest.

“Hey,” Tango says. “I’ll kick anyone’s ass that tries to mess with you, okay?”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at them and smirks, but says nothing and shucks off her pants. “Well, here we go,” she says cheerfully, leaving the rest of her clothes in a pile and sauntering into the shower. 

“Damn,” India says, obviously appreciative, and she follows suit.

None of the people who are already in the shower seem to take note of them, which is less reassuring than it probably should be. “It’s like they’re on a totally different frequency,” Foxtrot murmurs anxiously.

“Yeah,” Tango says. “Definitely getting a brainwashing vibe. I’m pretty sure that no matter how fucked up our country gets, people couldn’t get away with running, like, an anti-gay conversion camp electroshock fiasco for this many adults.”

“Are, um,” Foxtrot stammers, “are you…?”

“Well, it couldn’t be a racial hate group,” Tango says, brushing over the implications of that almost-question. “Considering, y’know.” She nods to herself, then the other three, all of whom are a visibly different race. “And there’s guys here, so it’s not just an anti-woman thing, and we’re, well, all four of us cis, so…”

“Maybe they’re hoping we’ll see people of other genders and get super turned on?” Charlie calls. She’s soaping herself up because, well, she might as well actually shower if she’s going to be in here.

India nods. “Maybe it’s that,” she says. “Maybe it’s political, too, like we’re all anti-something that threatens our enemies. If we’re being brainwashed, it’s definitely Republicans’ fault.”

Charlie glances around and notices an open door leading into a sauna room. “Oh, hey,” she says, tilting her head towards it. “Look. A sauna with a door that closes. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“Very,” Tango says. “Let’s stagger our entrances by a minute or two, okay?”

There’s nods all around, and Charlie goes in first, followed by Foxtrot, then India, then Tango. “Okay, so I gotta admit, if this wasn’t a creepy brainwashing spa, this would be really nice,” Charlie admits.

India rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, that’s why they keep it nice, probably,” she says. “So nobody tries to break out, or whatever.”

“I guess our brainwashing just didn’t take?” Foxtrot suggests.

Charlie’s about to say something else, but just then the sauna door opens and Mike steps inside. “Hello,” he says, smiling at them. 

“Hey,” Tango says. “You okay?”

Mike blinks at her. “I am fine,” he says. “How are you?”

“Dude, you can turn off the robot act, it’s just us in here,” Charlie says.

“Robot?” Mike tilts his head slightly, like a dog. “I saw a robot in a book once. It was nice.”

“Where did they take you?” India asks him.

“I had a treatment,” Mike says, smiling at her. “I enjoy my treatments.”

“Yeah, but what does that mean?” India presses. “Mani-pedi, colonoscopy, what?”

Mike looks confused. “I don’t know what those words mean.”

“Crap,” Foxtrot mutters. “I think Mike’s out of commission.”

“Jesus,” Charlie says, eyes wide. “Okay, I don’t know what the hell they did to him, but nobody else let them take you for treatments, alright?”

Tango nods. “I was kind of under the impression we were going to make a run for it as soon as we figured out a plan.”

“I like running,” Mike interjects cheerfully. “Running helps me be my best.”

“Why don’t you go to art class, Mike?” Foxtrot suggests, thinking quickly. That’s the other option they heard about, right? “We’ll come get you when we need you.” 

“Okay.” Mike turns and walks out of the sauna without another word.

Charlie shudders. “That is so creepy.”

“So we have to get the hell out, right?” India asks. “As soon as possible.”

“No shit,” Charlie agrees. “So what’s our plan?”

“We should probably get out of our pajamas,” Tango snarks. “Well, back into them, then out of them. Minimal public nudity.”

“Is there, like, a locker room or something with all our clothes?” Foxtrot asks skeptically. 

“Only way to know is to check,” Tango says. 

They slip out of the sauna and, after putting their pajamas back on, Charlie leads the way toward a door. “There’s gotta be something down this way,” she murmurs. 

Foxtrot glances around like she’s looking for cameras, and, finding none, she nods. “It doesn’t seem like any of the others are going to follow us,” she says, opening the door quickly.

“We’re just going to be trying every door handle, aren’t we?” India asks wryly. 

“You have a better idea?” Tango asks, doing exactly that.

They’re almost to the end of the hallway when one of the doors actually opens, and Foxtrot pokes her head in. “Uh, this isn’t the closet,” she says. “It’s…”

The others all gather behind her: what they’re looking at is some kind of small, well-stocked armory. “Yeah, this is definitely a legitimate place,” Tango cracks.

“Suddenly I’m thinking ‘covert sex trafficking operation,’” India says. “Diverse covert sex trafficking operation, but.”

“Oh Jesus.” Charlie steps inside, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe I’d better take one of the knives or something, just in case.”

“Take it quick and let’s get moving,” Tango says. “There’s still a lot of doors to check.”

Once Charlie’s grabbed a knife, they continue on. The next few doors are either locked or boring, just cleaning supplies or linens. “It’s like the world’s creepiest hotel,” Charlie observes. Then, finally, they hit the jackpot.

“Holy shit, it’s like a movie soundstage,” India says. There are at least ten rows of garments in the center of the room and accessory-filled shelves along the walls. 

“Is this porn?” Charlie asks, gazing around in awe. “I mean, like, this might be a weird creepy porn studio, but like, me looking at these clothes right now, am I in a porn?”

Foxtrot hugs her own arms. “Nothing against people who do porn of their own volition, but I don’t want to do porn and if we don’t remember anything I don’t think we’d be doing porn of our own volition,” she says.

Tango puts a hand on Foxtrot’s arm, frowning. “We’re going to get out,” she says. “C’mon, let’s start looking for clothes. Normal clothes,” she adds hastily after bumping into what looks uncomfortably similar to a quinceañera dress.

“Oh my god, I’m taking this.” Charlie’s grabbed a black leather jacket and is running her fingers over it slowly. “I could never afford this shit. Thanks, creepy porn house people, it’s mine now.”

“You guys,” India exclaims. “Look on the racks. There’s a whole section with Charlie’s name on it, there’s probably one for all of us.” She hurries to where, if the outfits were alphabetized, “India” would fall and starts hunting.

Tango rummages through her rack intently and holds up what looks like a sexy police costume for the others to see. “Yeah, porn is seeming more and more likely,” she deadpans.

“Something fetishy, anyway,” India says. “Does anybody care if I just strip right here?”

“Nope,” Charlie chirps, having already shed her pajama pants for some jeans. 

“Cool,” India says, dropping her pajamas on the floor and reaching first for a red bra, then a purple dress printed with black flowers. “Someone zip me?”

“Be right over,” Foxtrot calls, pulling a gauzy mauve blouse on and throwing an olive-green jacket over her arm before she goes to help India.

“So how long have we been here, anyway, d’you guys think?” Charlie asks, trying to sound casual. “There’s a fuckton of clothes in here and I get the feeling they aren’t, y’know, actually my clothes.”

“Oh, god,” Tango groans. “I mean, I… I feel like I’ve definitely graduated college? So it can’t have been that long.”

India heads for the shoe rack and, after a moment of hesitation, muses, “I shouldn’t wear heels, should I?”

“Probably not,” Foxtrot says. “If we’re running away.”

India sighs and takes a pair of black flats off the rack. “Anyway,” she says, “it would help if we actually knew the date. Maybe one of us would remember something from that?”

“Yeah, but I kind of don’t think there’s gonna be a calendar hanging around in this closet,” sighs Charlie. “Anyway, we’d better not hang around in here too long.”

“Yeah,” Tango says. “I guess our next target is an exterior door? Anyone know how to jack a car?”

Charlie shrugs. “Maybe it’s like riding a bike, muscle memory stuff.”

They head out of the closet and back into the hallway, which leads them to some stairs, which leads them, thankfully, to what looks sort of like the dropoffs area at the airport, complete with four waiting cars. 

“You didn’t happen to grab any bobby pins, did you?” Tango asks Charlie, smirking.

“Left ‘em in my other sweatpants,” Charlie jokes. “But there’s gotta be some way we can-”

She immediately quiets as a door opens and a young woman comes out, followed by a man in a suit. The young woman is wearing an outfit that seems more suited for Cabaret than broad daylight, and she’s talking loudly enough that they can hear her. 

“I just hope this guy isn’t a total waste of time, y’know?” she’s saying to the man in the suit. “I seriously can’t take any more mediocre dick.”

Charlie squints at the girl, trying to figure out why she seems familiar, and then her mouth falls open. “Oh my god!” she hisses. “She was at breakfast this morning!”

Foxtrot blinks. “And she’s… what, they’re… are they…” She doesn’t seem to be able to finish any of her thoughts, but it’s clear what she means.

“Well, she sure didn’t sound like that this morning.”

“So what’s fake?” India asks thoughtfully. “And what’s real?”

While they’ve been mulling this over, Tango has snuck around the side of one of the cars and tried the handle. “It’s open,” she says with wonder.

“Thank god,” Foxtrot says, hurrying toward the car. “Let’s get out of here. You remember how to drive, right?”

“I think I can manage,” Tango says. “You two?”

India nods and joins them, but Charlie hesitates. “I don’t feel right about leaving,” she says, shaking her head. “I think...I think I’m gonna stay and try and figure out what’s going on. We all saw that girl, what did they do to her to make her act so differently? And where is she going, is that guy in the suit her pimp or what? There are a bunch of people still in there, and I don’t want to just leave them to whatever these creeps are making them do.”

“Are you sure?” Foxtrot asks, frowning. “It seems wrong to just abandon you.”

“I’m sure.” Charlie looks back at the building. “It feels like...I don’t know, like I’m supposed to be here. Like I have to do something about this.”

Tango sighs. “This would be a lot easier if we had phones.”

“There’s a website,” Foxtrot says suddenly. “I think. Where you write to people you can’t otherwise contact, like people you just met randomly, or… something.”

“That outfit sure didn’t look like this was some cute missed connections shit,” Charlie snarks. “It feels way more sinister. And I can’t just peace out and leave all these people to...whatever’s happening here.”

“No, I mean, we could, since we don’t have phones,” Foxtrot stammers. “We could reach out on there, so we could make sure you were okay. Or come back and help. Or something.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, softening. “Sorry. Yeah, yeah, maybe, um, you do that, and I’ll try and respond once I’m done here.”

Foxtrot nods. “Maybe by then we’ll remember our real names, even.”

They hear a commotion on the other side of the door and Tango sighs and says, “If we’re gonna get going we should probably get going.”

“Is that okay?” Foxtrot asks Charlie.

Charlie nods. “Yeah. You guys get out of here, we’ll meet up later.”

“Good luck,” India says, and the others echo her before slamming the car doors and driving off.

Charlie watches the car go, then turns back to the door they came out of. She’s not entirely sure what her plan is now, but every step she takes confirms her gut feeling that staying was the right thing to do. 

She heads for the armory door, thinking she should probably have a gun. She’s not confident she’s ever shot a gun, but she’s got the knife as well, so that covers all her bases. After a few moments of consideration, she ends up grabbing one of the smaller ones. 

The hallway seems a lot creepier when she’s on her own. It’s silent in an almost oppressive way. She finally hears footsteps coming her way and drops into a defensive stance. 

It’s a scruffy white guy, wearing a Liverpool sweatshirt and whistling. It’s the whistling that pisses her off most, for some reason. 

He doesn’t notice her at first, he’s preoccupied with something on his tablet, but he must not be a total idiot because soon enough he looks up and calls, “Oi, someone there?”

Mostly working on instinct, she rushes him, landing a solid punch to his stomach before he’s figured out what’s going on.

He shouts something that may be curses or may just be syllables (it’s hard to tell, he seems to be going Cockney) and she brings her elbow down on the top of his head when he tries to get up again. Apparently she has a good instinct for fighting, because that sends him sprawling, and he doesn’t seem inclined to get up and follow her. 

When he fell, he dropped some sort of tablet, and even though it must’ve landed pretty hard it’s still on. So she picks it up, curious. The screen shows an email.

From: Dr. Simmons <[email protected]>

Re: Tango’s last examination

Fitz didn’t see anything weird come up on her brain scan, no. But we really do think it’s worth following up on this grouping with Foxtrot. You may not think it’s serious, but it could have devastating consequences if we let it go on too long. Please keep an eye on her and redirect her toward alternate activities as necessary. 

Okay, that sounds pretty weird. What the hell does “grouping” mean? And brain scans - does that mean these people have brain scans of her too? Of everyone here? Who is Dr. Simmons? Do they have the answers to what’s going on here?

She makes her way through the building until she finds the door labeled DR. SIMMONS. She tries the doorknob and finds that it’s unlocked.

Inside, a brunette woman wearing an unnecessarily fancy lab coat is rifling through a filing cabinet. Her back is to Charlie, so Charlie decides to just wait until Dr. Simmons turns around and sees her. She’s still holding the gun, just in case, but she won’t point it at the doctor right away.

Luckily, the noise from the back door is unusual enough that she turns, saying, “Fitz?” before she gets a good look at Charlie. Then her eyes go wide and she murmurs, “You’re not Fitz.”

“Nope,” agrees Charlie. “Dr. Simmons, right? I have some questions for you.”

Dr. Simmons takes a deep breath. “I thought you might,” she says, her voice calmer than her expression.

Charlie blinks, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know the whole story,” Dr. Simmons says, “so I can’t give you all of the answers. But I can try. I want to help you, Charlie.”

“Okay,” Charlie says slowly. “First of all, what is this place? No vague bullshit answers either. I want to know exactly what they’re doing to us.”

“People come here needing something, all kinds of things, and we find someone to provide it for them,” Dr. Simmons says. She takes an audible breath before continuing, like she’s nervous; her eyes dart to the gun in Charlie’s hand. “That’s true of our customers and of the people here like you. You needed something - I’m not being vague, I really don’t know the details - so you agreed to a contract. During your contract, you help us help customers. When it’s up, we’ll have helped you.”

“Contract?” Charlie can’t help but snap. “What contract? I don’t remember signing anything, is that even legal? And how exactly am I helping people anyway? You seem pretty keen on dancing around the details of that.”

“If you’re here, you’d have to have signed a contract,” Dr. Simmons explains. “As for the rest, I’m not really the person to ask. My job is to keep everyone here safe and healthy.” 

She seems to be considering what to say next; her gaze wavers, she turns toward her desk like an answer might be waiting for her there. As she does this, she rubs her hands up and down her neck a couple of times, and that’s when Charlie notices a long, angry scar running from behind her right ear down the back of her neck.

That gives Charlie pause. She can still feel the righteous anger at this place, at these people, surging through her - but it’s no longer directed at Dr. Simmons. The other woman seems different from everyone else here. Charlie feels, oddly, as if she can trust her. As if she really does want to keep everyone safe and healthy. And that scar...who’s to say where she got it, but with all the other weird shit in this place, Charlie guesses it isn’t just a childhood injury or the result of clumsiness.

So she takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, “so then who would I ask, if not you? Because something’s going on here, and I’m not just gonna lie down and take it.”

Dr. Simmons sighs. “Dr. Fitz is responsible for programming. Mr. Coulson is responsible for running the house.”

Charlie nods. “Thanks. Um, are you...okay?” She gestures vaguely at her neck. “You’re not...they’re not like keeping you here, are they?”

The question clearly startles Dr. Simmons, but she laughs it off (rather unconvincingly). “Dr. Fitz is my best friend,” she says. “We’ve always worked well together.” She doesn’t address the gesture or what it implies, mostly because it isn’t relevant to this but also because she still doesn’t really know how to discuss it.

That does sound right, but Charlie doesn’t have time to ask her more questions. “Okay,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Look, you’re not gonna tell on me, are you? I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want answers.” 

Dr. Simmons shakes her head. “I hope you find them,” she says, voice surprisingly faint.

“I will,” Charlie says, giving her a grateful smile. “Goodbye, Dr. Simmons.”

Driving comes naturally to Tango, it turns out, and soon they’re deep into the heart of Los Angeles. “They won’t find us, will they?” Foxtrot asks.

“Unless they have access to the city’s security grid and cameras, it’s unlikely,” Tango says.

“Do you think you were in law enforcement?” India asks Tango, leaning back. “You have - no offense - cop skills.”

“I don’t know,” Tango says, scrunching up her nose as she thinks about this. “I don’t think I trust cops. I don’t feel like I trust a lot of people. But I guess it’s possible I used to be… something. Government, military, something.”

“Something makes sense,” India agrees. “I trust you. You must be… something cool that isn’t corrupt. I think I have a good bullshit detector.”

Foxtrot laughs nervously. “Lucky,” she says.

“Has anything come back to you?” India asks her.

“Nothing significant,” Foxtrot sighs. “I know world capitals and major Greek gods. Xéro pós na milíso elliniká.”

Tango glances over. “Are you from Greece, maybe?”

“I don’t think so,” Foxtrot says. “I must have some family that is. And - Sri Lanka, I think? Greece and Sri Lanka. But I’m American. I think. I sound American, don’t I?”

India nods. “Melting pot,” she says with an ironic smile. “Must be nice. I don’t think I knew my family, not really.”

“Maybe that’s why they got you,” Tango suggests. “You could slip through the cracks.”

“Maybe,” India echoes. “I feel like I did a lot of that.” She’s quiet for a minute, then she says, “Trust me? Turn right.”

Tango does, eyebrow raised. “Did you think of somewhere you need to be?”

“I think so,” India murmurs. “Drop me off here, I’ll walk the rest of the way. I’m supposed to go alone.”

“We have to check in with Charlie later,” Foxtrot says anxiously.

“I know,” India says. “Come get me in a few hours, right here. I’ll be fine. I promise.” She gives Foxtrot a genuine smile. “You have other things to do, go on.”

Foxtrot blinks. “I guess I do,” she says, and she leans back to give India half a hug.

“Take care of her,” India says to Tango. “Take care of each other. I’ll see you in a little while.” She climbs out of the car gracefully and waves just once over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. 

“Do you have things to do?” Tango asks Foxtrot.

“I don’t know,” Foxtrot says. “I feel like there’s someone I need to see.”

“Like a boyfriend?” Tango asks, feeling her heart speed up.

Foxtrot shakes her head adamantly. “Not a boyfriend,” she says. “Definitely not a boyfriend. The opposite of a boyfriend. A boy enemy.”

“Oh,” Tango says. “Damn, really?”

“I think so,” Foxtrot says. “I think I can find his building if we keep driving. Is that okay?”

“That’s totally fine,” Tango says, reaching over to squeeze Foxtrot’s hand briefly. “Let’s go take care of it.”

Charlie continues on, out into an open area with a modern set of stairs leading to another floor. The first door at the top of the stairs says DR. LEOPOLD FITZ and, underneath, is a handwritten sign that says KNOCK FIRST, THIS MEANS YOU!!!

So she does, and whoever’s inside grunts and then calls, “Oh, come in, then.”

She turns the knob. Inside is a pale, skinny man with a preppy crew cut, wearing a button-down shirt. He’s got his feet on the desk in front of him and is leaning back in his chair, bouncing a ball and mumbling to himself. “What?” he asks without looking at her.

She puts her hand on the handle of the gun (while keeping it out of sight) and pauses in the doorway. “Dr. Fitz?”

“Oh for god’s sake, of course it’s me,” he sighs. “What do you - oh good lord!” He almost jumps out of his chair when he gets a good look at her. “Charlie, what are you doing up here?”

“Looking for answers,” she says, taking another step towards him. “I’m told you might have some.”

Fitz groans and rubs his head. “Fine, fine, out with it. Let’s just get this nonsense over with.”

That makes her bristle. “Hey, buddy, I don’t know what kind of creepy sex trafficking ring you’ve got going on here, but I’m not sure nonsense is the best word for it!” She pulls the gun out and doesn’t aim it at him, but makes sure he can see it. “Now, tell me exactly what’s going on here.”

Fitz puts up both hands and says, “Alright, let’s not do anything rash now. It isn’t a sex trafficking ring, first of all. It isn’t about sex at all, it’s about experiences. All of you are here of your own free will, having signed consent forms, and most of you sought us out yourselves.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Most of?”

“Well, for some of you it was the best option of several,” Fitz explains. “To help you...process trauma or to atone for some mistake from your past. I’m not usually given access to Actives’ personal lives before they come here, to be honest.”

“Actives?”

“That’s, well, you.” Fitz gestures vaguely. “It’s what we call you. This is a place where you can...you can forget yourself for awhile, let’s say. If you’re here, you probably want to forget yourself. Not to mention you’re all being compensated for your time here. You won’t have to worry about money when you leave.”

“How comforting,” she snarks. “I somehow doubt I would take the option to be trapped in a weird building full of pod people and sent out to do God knows what.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

She growls. “Fine. If you’re not gonna help me, where’s Mr. Coulson?”

He raises an eyebrow slightly but just says, “Down the hall, up the elevator to the 23rd floor, can’t miss it. Big nameplate on his door. And do try to avoid shooting anybody while you’re sneaking around, will you? That’s the last bloody thing we need.”

She just backs out of the room, glaring.

They’re in what’s clearly a rich neighborhood when Foxtrot slams her hand down on the dashboard. “That one,” she says. “It’s that one.”

“Okay,” Tango says, sliding into a parking spot effortlessly. “You want me to come with you?”

“Please?” Foxtrot asks, her voice small. “I need to go, but I don’t… I don’t want to go alone.”

“You don’t have to,” Tango promises.

“I wish we’d brought guns,” Foxtrot says. “I don’t even like guns, but I don’t… I don’t know what’s going to be up there. I’m not sure what I’m getting us into.”

They’re both out of the car by then, and Tango pulls Foxtrot into a hug impulsively. “Hey,” she murmurs. “I want to come. And if I’m a cop but not a cop, then I probably know how to beat someone’s ass. I hope.”

Foxtrot laughs shakily into Tango’s chest. “Yeah, maybe,” she says. “This isn’t your problem, though. You don’t have to come with me. You don’t even know me.”

“Well, I feel like I do,” Tango says softly. “I don’t know what your real name is or where you’re from or what you do, but you… I care about you.”

“I care about you too,” Foxtrot admits.

They make their way into the building, careful not to look too suspicious, and Foxtrot leads them by impulse up to the third floor. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs to Tango. “I’m just going on instinct.”

“I trust you,” Tango promises, squeezing Foxtrot’s shoulder.

Foxtrot leads Tango to the apartment at the end of the hall, taking deep breaths, but the door opens before they have a chance to knock and a tall, square-jawed man steps out, looking equal parts incredulous and delighted.

“Kara,” he says, smiling in an odd way. “This is quite a surprise. I haven’t called for you, but I definitely won’t say no to an unexpected visit.”

“You’re the reason I’m stuck there,” Foxtrot - Kara? She feels odd about being Kara just because he says so, especially when Tango is still Tango, but it does sound right, like it might be her real name - says, like she’s only just realizing it. “In that place, doing - doing god knows what!”

He blinks at her, still smiling in that odd way. “Kara, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Why don’t you come inside and have some tea? I have your favorite, just how you like it.”

“In that - that place, where we woke up in fucking coffins with no memories!” Kara yelps. “What is it, some weird brothel? Why did you put me there?” Behind her, Tango sets her jaw, not doing anything but clearly on alert.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the man says, his voice somehow even and sharp at the same time. “Please just come inside, we’ll talk.”

“I’m staying right here until you give me a straight answer,” Kara says stubbornly. “You’re the last thing I remember. You, smiling down at me, and then nothing. Till this morning.”

This is a new development, as far as Tango knows, and so she glares the man down and adds, “We don’t have anywhere to be.”

The man frowns at her, like he’s just now noticing her. “Who are you? She usually comes with someone else.”

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Tango says. “Answer her question.”

The man gives her an appraising glance, then sighs. “Fine. I recognized your potential, that’s all. And I do hate to see potential squandered. So I…nudged you in the right direction, that’s all.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Kara yelps. “You saw my potential as what, a brainwashed sex toy?”

He shrugs. “That’s an unnecessarily crude description. You just seemed in need of...guidance. I knew you just needed to be taught compliance.”

“What the actual fuck!” Kara says. “So you, what? You sold me?”

“They haven’t paid me anything,” he says smoothly. “In fact, I pay them. Small price to pay, to get what I want.”

“I could kill you,” Kara murmurs.

“I don’t think anyone would cry about it,” Tango says under her breath. She hasn’t taken her eyes off the man.

“I never imagined,” Kara says, “I never imagined that anyone could be this cruel and selfish. Just destroying someone’s life to get, what? Sex? Power? Or are those two the same to you?”

He looks almost wounded. “I rescued you,” he says, sounding petulant. “Without me you’d be languishing in mediocrity, or worse.”

“Oh, I get it,” Tango says flatly. “You’re insane.”

“I’m perfectly sane,” he retorts. “I just have a slightly different outlook than most.”

“No, I think misogynists are pretty normal, unfortunately,” Tango snaps.

“Kara, come inside,” he pleads. “You love me, you’ll see that.”

“I doubt it,” Kara says frostily.

“Fine. Just remember that I tried to be reasonable,” he says, pulling out his phone and dialing a number. “Security, there are two women who won’t leave my apartment. Please come deal with them and make sure they’re sent back where they belong.”

“Run!” Tango shouts.

Before she does, though, Kara kicks the man square in the crotch, shrieking wordlessly. He curses and curls in on himself, sinking to his knees.

“Shit,” Tango says, grabbing Kara’s hand and pulling her along. “Roof. We should get to the roof. There’s gotta be some alternative route back down from there.”

Kara shakes her head. “I don’t wanna take that chance,” she says. “Not when the only alternative route might be final.”

Tango nods grimly. “Well,” she says, “then it’s back down the way we came and hope for the best.”

They’re down one flight of stairs when Tango tilts her head and says, “Dumbasses went in the elevator, I’m pretty sure.”

“That gives us a little bit of time,” Kara muses. “Although they’re probably going to take the stairs once they realize we’re gone.”

“Maybe,” Tango says. “Probably. I doubt anyone in this building has enough of a moral compass to shelter us from thugs, but maybe there’s a community space or broom closet or something we could hide in till they’re gone.”

“Really?” Kara asks, laughing. “Does that actually work?”

“It’s worth trying,” Tango shrugs. They’re down to the ground floor by now, and after a quick appraisal she tugs Kara toward the door labeled “SWIMMING POOL.” “I guess now we just pray it’s open.”

“I guess,” Kara agrees. 

It’s not, but it’s a manual lock, not one with a keycard, so Tango is able to let them in after a short struggle. Then they sit right up against the door, Tango with one ear pressed to it, and they wait for some sort of sign they’re free to go.

Sure enough, Charlie follows the instructions and finds herself standing in front of a large wooden door. She’s assuming this Coulson guy runs the place, though you wouldn’t necessarily know it from the simple bronze nameplate on his door. Nothing about it suggests either a monster or a leader.

She raps on it three times. There’s a moment of silence and then a voice calls, “Come in.” It doesn’t sound annoyed, like Dr. Fitz, or surprised, like Dr. Simmons. It just sounds like...a guy.

Inside, a nondescript bald white man in his fifties is sitting at a rather plain wooden desk, watching her. “Hello, Charlie,” he says, smiling. “I’ve been expecting you.”

She’s still holding the gun, but something about him makes her less jumpy than Fitz did. “Have you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “What is this, some weird test?” 

He shrugs. “What questions do you have for me?”

“Who are you? What exactly is going on here? I tried talking to two of your doctors-” she spits the word like it’s poison “-and they were less than useless, and I’m getting pretty sick of wandering around in here like it’s some stupid video game, so talk.” She makes sure he can see her gun.

He holds up a hand. “No need for violence. Please come sit down and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

She does, warily, and he takes a sip from a mug with a baseball on it. “My name is Phillip J. Coulson, and I’m responsible for this place and everyone in it. Every decision, every action we take, every problem...ultimately it all falls on my shoulders.”

“Well, I think that makes you a pretty sick bastard,” she says, which makes his mouth twitch like he might laugh. “Because from where I’m sitting, you and everyone else who works for you are in the business of selling people, and that’s the worst thing I can think of.”

“Oh, we don’t sell them,” he says. “We sell experiences. And everyone here has chosen to be here, yourself included.”

“Then why can’t I remember making that choice?”

“Because when you chose to come to us, you allowed us to take your memories temporarily. Memories which will be restored once your time with us is completed. You chose to forget, Charlie. We offer everyone who comes to us an opportunity to ease their suffering, for however short a time.”

“Why would I choose to do that? What the fuck happened to me that was so bad I don’t want to remember it?” Charlie’s shaking now, barely able to get the words out.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It would be breaking the promise I made to you when you signed the contract.”

Charlie’s so angry she’s gripping the arms of the chair. “So everyone else down there, they chose to become... pod people because of bad shit in their past?”

His smile is sympathetic now. She hates him for it, and hates herself for being soothed by it, even a little. “I know you don’t believe it, but we’re in the business of helping people, Charlie. That includes you and all the other Actives.”

“How can you say that when you’ve taken away their free will?” Charlie snaps. “There’s no way everyone down there would choose to be here.”

He chuckles, but not meanly. “You can leave if you want, you know. Your friends left. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“No,” she says stubbornly. “Not without the rest of them.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, Charlie? They’re like children now, they have no concept of the world outside.”

“Anything is better than being kept here,” she insists.

“Is it?” he asks, his smile turning a bit playful. “Isn’t it nice, to have your worst problem be whether to get pancakes or omelettes for breakfast?”

His face goes white when she grabs the gun and fires it into the leg of his desk. “I’m sick of arguing in circles,” she growls, training the gun on his chest. “Next one goes where your heart would be, if you had one. Let us all out. Now.”

“Very well,” he says, standing up. “Follow me.”

“So,” Tango says after a minute of waiting, her voice soft. “Kara, huh?”

“I guess,” Kara says. “I wish it hadn’t been him telling me, but I think it’s my real name. It feels real, not just like something he made up.”

“It’s pretty,” Tango says. “Means ‘beloved,’ I think. That makes sense.”

Kara laughs ruefully. “I wish I wasn’t beloved by that monster,” she says. “I’m not even sure who he is, if he was my boyfriend once or if he was just some stalker or what, but I know I hate him.”

“I didn’t just mean by him,” Tango whispers. “I…” But she shakes her head before she can say anything more, like she’s shy or scared.

“Do you remember your name yet?” Kara asks.

“Not yet,” Tango says. “I feel like I should, but I don’t.”

“I bet it’s something fancy, like Vanessa or Samantha,” Kara says. “Something elegant.”

“God, I hope not,” Tango laughs. “You really think I look like a Samantha?”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Kara says, pretending to be indignant.

“Sammi, maybe,” Tango concedes. “If I’m a secret agent or whatever, I’d rather have a name that doesn’t make me sound like a porcelain doll.”

Kara shrugs, but before she can reply there’s a distinct scuffling in the hall and they both quiet down. It might just be another resident, but it might be the security force that’s after them. The closer the footsteps get, the tenser Kara’s body goes, and in no time at all she’s leaning into Tango, maybe a little too close.

“Hey,” Tango whispers, sounding amused.

“Hey,” Kara murmurs. “Sorry, I just… panicked.”

There’s a banging on the door and a man yells, “Open up if you’re in there!”

“They can’t see us,” Tango assures, stroking Kara’s back. “It’s fine. We just have to wait them out.”

There’s a loud thud on the door, like a miniature battering ram.

“You sure?” Kara squeaks, clearly disbelieving.

“I’ve got you,” Tango whispers, and she pulls Kara up to her for a long kiss.

“Oh,” Kara says when they break apart for air. “I...”

Before anything more is said, they collapse against each other, unconscious.

Charlie follows Coulson down the stairs, to a series of rooms where various people (Actives?) are congregated. He methodically opens each door, says a few words, and the Actives stand up and follow him. Eventually there’s a crowd of people behind them, and Charlie’s starting to feel like some kind of weird Pied Piper. (There are a few obviously staff members in the crowd, helping to presumably herd the Actives along, as well as Dr. Fitz and Dr. Simmons.)

Finally they’ve gone through the whole building, and Coulson leads them down to a door on the ground level. “Here we are,” he says, gesturing to it. “Will you do the honors, Charlie?”

Charlie, not expecting to be addressed, just nods and glances back at the crowd of people behind her. Then she goes to the door, turns the handle, and walks outside. 

She blinks. It’s a bright, sunny day, jarring compared to the soft artificial light inside the building. She half expects someone to jump out of the bushes, commanding her to stop, turn around, go back inside. But no one does. So she keeps walking, hearing the sounds of the silent crowd behind her.

She experiences a weird sense of...accomplishment? Satisfaction? Contentedness? The exact word is eluding her right now. 

That’s the last thing she feels before she gently sinks to her knees, then lays down on the ground, asleep.

“So,” Melinda says, glancing around the room, “now that that’s over, what did it accomplish?”

Jemma clears her throat. Now that the exercise is over, she seems decidedly more subdued, but that might just be because she’s going on a full twenty-four hours without sleep. “We allowed each Active to fulfill a subconscious desire that might otherwise be hindering them,” she says. “After the unfortunate incident…” She rolls her eyes in a way that she knows the others will understand to mean the drugs. “After that, India has been particularly easy to set off. She’s getting better, but allowing her to tend to some of her true self’s unfinished business should help clear up whatever sensitivities are remaining.”

“What did she have to do?” Melinda asks skeptically. “Quinn said he just found her unconscious in an alley in Chinatown.”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Jemma says. “I’d guess that it had something to do with someone she knew in her old life, possibly someone else that tried to leave the criminal circles she was in.”

Phil makes a “hmm” noise. “She came back to us safe, that’s the important thing.”

“Foxtrot had to go confront the man who recruited her,” Fitz says.

“Confront?” Melinda asks, raising an eyebrow.

Fitz shrugs. “I suppose they had some sort of falling out. I really don’t know much.”

“What about Tango?” Phil asks, looking confused. “She just went with Foxtrot. Didn’t she have something she needed to do?”

“Yes,” Jemma says, avoiding Fitz’s eyes so she doesn’t break out smirking. This was his least favorite part of the plan, the one he was least willing to go along with, but for that reason it was the one she pushed hardest for. “Tango needed to get the girl.”

That just makes Phil tilt his head and give her an even more confused look. “I’m not following, sorry.”

“Sir, Tango fancies Foxtrot,” Jemma says carefully. “She has for a while. It’s in everyone’s best interest that they got to see it through, so it won’t cause more trouble later.”

“Oh.” Phil gives her a sheepish grin. “I, uh, hadn’t gotten that memo.” 

“It hasn’t proven a serious issue,” Jemma shrugs. “But like the rest, it might do if we let it continue on much longer.”

“And Charlie needed to...rescue everyone?” Melinda asks, sounding a bit skeptical.

“Charlie needed to play the hero but not take the glory,” Fitz corrects, rolling his eyes. “She needed to believe she was righting some great wrong.”

“Remember what got her here in the first place,” Phil says. 

Melinda bobs her head in agreement and doesn’t say anything, and Fitz says, “Yes, apparently that instinct is too deep to override.”

Jemma can’t help it, she tilts her head at Fitz. Trying to fix things for the Dolls has made her acutely aware how little she knows about some of them, Charlie among them, and nobody seems in any hurry to explain it to her. She’s not a child, though, so instead of whining about it she just says, “There’s no way of knowing if it was a successful experiment straightaway, but I think the results will become apparent in the coming days and weeks.”

“Well, good,” Phil says. “I have a meeting with a client in a few minute, unless there’s anything else you need from me?”

“I think we’re done here,” Melinda says. “Glad it went well enough.” She gives them a final nod before leaving.

“I don’t think they really got the point of what we were trying to do,” grumbles Fitz once he and Jemma are out of earshot.

“They let us do it,” Jemma says, trying not to sigh too obviously. “That’s the important part.”

Fitz snorts. “I suppose. Hopefully this’ll be the last we see of these...disruptions.”

“Mm.” It’s funny, this should be a triumphant moment, but something about the word “disruptions” sets her on edge. To keep Fitz from noticing (he’s so sensitive about that) she pulls something up on her tablet and starts fussing with it as they walk.

Fitz is quiet a moment before he says, “So, I was gonna watch that Doctor Who special over lunch, you wanna join? I’ve got juice boxes and jelly babies.”

Jemma worries her lip. It’s not that she doesn’t like watching Doctor Who with him, they’ve been doing it for years, but she can’t stop thinking about the way Charlie asked her if she was okay. People always look at her a bit differently after they see her scar, whether or not they know the story, but it seemed more than that, like Charlie had some insight into some dark part of her soul that even she hasn’t found. And it’s not like she’d been expecting to be reminded of Yankee’s attack on her, even indirectly, so it’s reasonable. That’s part of how the brain copes with traumatic experiences, or something like that.

“I think I need to be alone for a little while,” she finally says, frowning. “I’m sorry. It’s just been nonstop since we started putting this together and I… I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

He visibly wilts, and then nods slowly. “Of course,” he says, giving her a little smile. “Take all the time you need. Why don’t you go have a nap? I can take care of things here for a bit.”

She nods, too, shaking off the part of her that was worried about disappointing him. “The couch in the back of the break room is comfortable enough,” she muses. “You try to dissuade anyone from going in there for a few hours and I’ll curl up with a blanket and some music playing, maybe?” She doesn’t add that she’s considering taking half an Ambien, too. She’s not sure if he remembers that she does that sometimes and she doesn’t want to worry him.

“Good,” he says. “Go on, then, I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” He puts his hand on her shoulder for just a second, then lets go. “Sleep well.”

She just casts him a grateful smile as she heads off. It’s all that’s needed.

Chapter Text

Robbie’s not the sort to whistle when he’s in a good mood, but right now he’s happy enough that he’s considering it. He and Emily have spent the whole day together and he’s bringing home dinner from his favorite taqueria - she wanted to walk with him, but she got an unexpected call from one of her clients, so he went alone. But that’s okay. It’s a perfect evening: the sunset turning the world golden around him, a breeze just slightly tickling the back of his neck, the comforting noise of cars and people providing a familiar soundtrack. He hasn’t felt like this in a long time.

“Robbie Reyes?”

He’s so startled he almost drops the bag of food. “What?” he asks, turning around. “Who’s asking?” And then he just stares, because it’s… “Stella?”

“No. I mean, yes, but not exactly, it’s a long story.” Her eyes bore into him. “Listen, ‘cause I don’t have long. The Dollhouse is real and it knows about you. They’re keeping tabs on you. I’m supposed to tell you that at least one person on the inside isn’t playing their games, just like you.”

Robbie shakes his head, unable to process this. “Who are you? How do I find the Dollhouse? Who’s on my side?”

“It’s about more than sides,” Stella says urgently. “Be very careful, I don’t know how long they have before they come for you. Stay alert, follow the clues. I’ll contact you again but it won’t be in this body.”

“What - what do you mean?” Robbie stammers, but Stella’s already turned and is running away. “Hey!” He tries to catch her, but she’s faster than he is and he gets trapped in a small crowd outside a restaurant. By the time he’s broken free, she’s long gone. 

“Goddammit.” He sighs and heads home, unable to shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

He tries to focus on thoughts of Emily to cheer himself up, but he arrives jittery and distracted. She’s sitting on the couch, writing something in her day planner, and she calls over her shoulder, “Hey. Long line?”

“What?” 

“You took a while getting back,” she says with a grin. “I’ve been off the phone for like ten minutes already. Was there a long line at the restaurant?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” He brings over plates and a pair of beers and starts dishing out their tacos. “You know that Thursday night rush.” He flashes her a smile that doesn’t feel convincing to him at all. But how could he even begin to explain what happened? Let alone explain Stella. He might not have a lot of dating experience, but even he knows that bringing up another girl around your girlfriend is a colossally bad idea.

“Yeah,” Emily says, shrugging. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

He nods, resolving to put it out of his mind for now. “Yeah, good idea.”

Mack taps on the doorframe of Fitz’s office. “Hey, Fitz?” 

Fitz is in the middle of a particularly difficult Call of Duty battle and, glancing over his shoulder, he groans, “What?”

Jemma, who’s sat on the couch reading medical journals (it’s a slow evening, but it’s still better to relax where anyone can find her easily), rolls her eyes delicately and says, “What he means to say is, how can we help you, Mack?”

Mack, who is used to Fitz in a bad mood, rolls his eyes and says, “Something weird happened at the end of Charlie’s mission today. I didn’t want to bring it up without checking it out for myself, but I did some poking around and it’s definitely concerning.”

“Oh, dear!” Jemma says. “There weren’t any notes to look at her after her engagement, but I’m so sorry if I missed something obvious. Should I set an appointment?”

“Maybe.” Mack waits pointedly until Fitz finally pauses his game and turns around. “It seems like it mostly went off without a hitch, except right before she was supposed to report back to the van she took a detour.”

Fitz blinks irritably. “What do you mean, a detour? Like she took a different route or something?”

“Yeah. And on her way, she stopped to talk to someone.” Mack plays them the audio of Charlie talking to none other than Robbie Reyes. Once it’s done, he adds, “I won’t pretend to know what the hell she’s talking about, but I’m more than a little freaked out. This wasn’t part of the imprint, was it?”

Flustered, Fitz splutters, “D-don’t blame me for this! Why would I program her to take him some creepy message about a mole in the Dollhouse?” His voice is getting shrill, like it does when he’s upset. “What the hell would I want with him anyway? He’s just some wacko who’s obsessed with a girl!”

Immediately, Jemma is at Fitz’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking at Mack despairingly. “I’m sure there’s another explanation,” she murmurs, trying to sound calm. “It can’t be anything good, but - perhaps someone managed to hack the imprint somehow? Like the remote wipes?” She still doesn’t know all of the details of that situation, but it seems as likely as anything else. 

Fitz has put his head in his hands. “No,” he mutters, “I put up safeguards against that. It’s got to be a bloody inside job. Which means a bloody investigation, which is just what we didn’t need right now…”

“Just let me know what I need to do,” Mack says. “I want this over, once and for all. If it means I have to personally interrogate every person in this damn House, I’ll do it.”

“Melinda,” Jemma says suddenly. “We should get Melinda up here. She’ll know what to do.”

“Yeah,” Fitz mutters, “yeah, Jemma, would you…?”

“I’ll be right back,” Jemma nods, standing up and hurrying away as she sends a message on her tablet.

After a truly awkward few minutes of silence (during which Fitz keeps glancing back at his video game like he truly wishes he could just go back to it), Melinda comes in with Jemma on her heels. “I just saw Phil off for his weekend vacation,” she says, sounding less than thrilled. “What’s this about a problem with Charlie?”

Fitz sighs dramatically. “Mack says Charlie deviated from her programming and...play her the clip, will you, Mack?”

Mack does, and Melinda listens, stone-faced. Then she says quietly, “So we’re looking at a mole in the Dollhouse.”

“We’re looking at something being able to access programs in our house,” Jemma says, wringing her hands and sitting on the couch. It’s not that she doesn’t believe Fitz about the safeguards, but - she doesn’t want to rule things out yet, not when doing so could let a dangerous person slip through the cracks. They can’t let that happen again. 

Melinda gives her an odd look and asks quietly, “What was that, Simmons?”

“Access programs,” Jemma says, then off Melinda’s expression she says, “Did I say more than that out loud? I hadn’t realized. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Melinda says, unexpectedly gentle. Then she turns to Fitz, all business again. “We’ll have to question anyone who could have had access to the imprint. It’ll take time, but it’s essential.”

Fitz groans. “Yes, I know.”

“How are we gonna interrogate people when we’re all suspects?” Mack points out. “You’re talking about everyone who’s been in and out of the imprint room in the last couple days, including all of us.” 

Fitz makes an indignant noise. “You can’t be including me in that.”

“I am.” Mack gives him a pointed look. “Nothing personal, but we can’t rule anybody out.”

“You do realize that all of you would be out of a job if it weren’t for me!” Fitz yelps, getting louder with every word. “I’m the one who knows how things bloody work around here and without me you’d all be sitting ‘round like a bunch of useless lumps!”

“Why are you yelling?”

That shocks him silent, and they all turn to see Charlie hovering in the doorway. “Are you angry?” she asks. “It’s not good to be angry. Anger doesn’t help you be your best.”

Fitz looks like steam is about to come out of his ears, so very quickly Jemma steps in and says, “We’re just having a discussion, Charlie. Would you come downstairs and let me examine you? We’re all concerned about…” She shrugs. “Things.”

Charlie smiles. “Okay. But Fitz has to stop yelling first. He’s making Foxtrot sad. She doesn’t like it when men yell.”

“Yes, Fitz,” Melinda says, through gritted teeth, “do stop making Foxtrot sad, won’t you?” Before he can respond, she leaves the room. 

Mack glances after her, then adds, “Fitz, we’ll discuss this in a bit, after you’ve cooled down,” before following her. Jemma slips out after him with a last nervous look at Fitz and heads for her office.

Fitz lets out a quiet growl and then a long sigh. “Alright,” he says, clearly tempering his tone. “See, Charlie, I’m not angry anymore. Why don’t you go with Simmons and she’ll give you a lollipop, hm? You like lollipops.”

Charlie nods, but before she leaves she asks, “Can I help you? Friends help each other out.”

He rubs his temples and then gives her the world’s fakest smile (which she doesn’t notice, of course). “I’ll think about what you can do to help, alright? Right now, helping would be going with Simmons.”

“Okay.” She finally leaves, and he collapses on the couch with a dramatic groan.

Then, a second later, he sits up, an idea springing into his mind. 

“This place is kinda fancy for what we’re doing,” Kirby remarks, tossing her purse on the counter and glancing around the beach house.

Phil shrugs. “It was the only place available on such short notice. I didn’t think you’d mind too much.”

“As long as you don’t mind if I bail out and go for a swim later,” Kirby replies.

“Not at all. I’ll probably get some reading done while I work on my tan.” He grins at her. “I don’t get a lot of sun these days, thanks to my work.”

“Yeah, you know if you want me to get all therapist for you, you’re going to have to tell me some of the details of your oh-so-mysterious job,” she points out. “I’m good, but I’m not good enough to work with nothing.”

He laughs. “But I thought I have the best therapist in the world for a niece.”

“Even the best therapist can’t therapize without knowing what’s wrong with someone,” she insists. “Is there anything to drink in here? Just tea or soda or something. I got a late start driving and I didn’t have time to get anything.”

Phil rummages in the cupboards for a minute and emerges triumphantly clutching a box of tea. “Ooh, it’s a variety pack. Pick your poison.”

“Green,” she says immediately. “I’m boring.”

“You know what you like,” he counters, grabbing a mug out of the cupboard. “I’ll get some water boiling for you.”

“Thanks.” She sits on one of the barstools and studies him carefully. “So where do we start?”

“Isn’t the cliche with my parents?” he jokes. “But maybe we’d better skip over that, considering the circumstances.”

Kirby rolls her eyes. “You didn’t ask me here to talk to me about Grandma and Grandpa,” she says. “You’re clearly having a work-related crisis. How did that start?”

Phil sighs. “We’re just having a lot of issues right now. I can’t get into some of the details, NDA and all that, but let’s just say that some of our employees are experiencing some...challenging issues and I’m not sure how to help them.”

“Alright,” she says, nodding. “Are the issues related to work or just something they’re dealing with on top of work?”

He pauses for a second and then says, “Sort of a mix? It’s exacerbated by things they’re dealing with outside of work, but some of our...clients...are making things difficult for them. And I only control so much of what the clients do.”

“So you feel responsible for your employees’ well-being,” she declares. “That means you’re a good person, but I can see how it would get stressful.”

Shrugging modestly, he replies, “I do my best. They’re not one of my, ah, direct reports, but I do feel responsible for them. Unfortunately, the nature of the job means our employees often face a certain degree of...risk.” He’s quiet a moment before adding, “And I’m pretty sure one of them is being stalked, to some degree.”

Kirby frowns. “By someone they came into contact with through work, or not?”

“I think she met him while she was working, but he wasn’t a client, if that’s what you’re asking. We did have a harassment issue recently but we made sure the offender was out as soon as we found out about it.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” she says. “But you still feel guilty.”

“Of course. If I’d known that was going on, right under my nose…” He shakes his head, making a fist. “This other guy, though, he hasn’t done anything we can really nail him on yet.”

“We’ll come back to the other guy,” she says. “Let’s talk about the harassment issue. Is the person who was being harassed doing alright now?”

“I think so. She’s been able to work alright, her manager hasn’t noticed any strange behavior. We’re keeping an eye on her and haven’t pushed her too hard, to make sure she’s not too stressed. She’s a bit more, y’know, sensitive than some of her coworkers, so we’re on high alert for any signs that she needs something else.”

“Has she been able to talk to anyone about what happened?” Kirby asks.

“Oh yes, we’ve made sure she’s getting the proper care,” he says. It’s a little evasive but “we have an onsite doctor to monitor her, and also she doesn’t have the language or the awareness to be able to talk about what happened” wouldn’t exactly fly.

She shrugs, assuming that he doesn’t want to get too much into someone else’s personal issues. “So you’ve done everything you could,” she offers instead.

“Yeah, I know, but you know how it is,” he says with a little laugh. “Weight of the world on your shoulders, and all.”

“Yeah,” she says. “C’mon, pour that tea and let’s figure it out.”

Fitz taps on the door of Phil’s office and then, without waiting for an answer, enters.

“Hi,” Melinda says, sounding less than thrilled. She’s hurriedly been converting the office into something vaguely resembling an interrogation room (which mostly just involved moving all the random things off of Phil’s desk). She glances behind him and, seeing Charlie there, raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Melinda, this is Jodie Diangelo,” Fitz says, motioning to Charlie. “She’s the best trained profiler in the state, according to several respected agencies.”

“Hi,” Jodie says, offering a hand. “I hear you’ve got a mole.”

“Yes,” Melinda says, giving her hand a quick shake. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. You can go ahead and settle in, we’ll finish debriefing you in a minute. I need to talk to my coworker about something first.” She unsubtly jerks her head toward the door while staring at Fitz, who, annoyed, follows her. 

Once they’re out of earshot, Melinda hisses, “Why is Charlie our profiler?”

Fitz gives her a wounded look. “It was her idea! She wanted to help, and I thought it would be easier than actually bringing in someone from the outside, who might ask inconvenient questions.”

Melinda rubs her temple. “Does Mack know about this?”

“Of course Mack knows about this. He agreed that it was the most practical solution.” Fitz doesn’t bother to add that Mack had only agreed after Fitz had pointed out that if they didn’t let her help, Charlie might go blabbing to another Doll about this. 

“Fine. Now let’s go back to the part where she requested this.” Melinda eyes him warily. “Are you saying she heard us talking about the mole?”

“I’m saying…” Fitz sighs. “I’m saying after she came in during our discussion, she said she wanted to ‘help’ because ‘friends help each other out.’ And then I got to thinking, what better solution to the issue than to use a Doll?”

“And you decided to use Charlie because she’s the one who’s always in the middle of everything anyway,” Melinda says. “Fine. How are we spinning this to Jodie Diangelo? How much does she know about what we do?”

“Let me brief her,” Fitz says. “I’ve got a plan.”

Melinda blinks at him, then, apparently deciding this fight isn’t worth having, says, “Fine. I’ll go find Mack. He’s up first.”

“Great,” Fitz says, brushing past her to go back into the office. “We’ll be here.”

A few minutes later, Mack is sitting in front of Jodie Diangelo, who’s resting her chin on one palm, looking at him. “So you look after one of the Dolls, is that right?”

“Yeah,” Mack says. He’s not enjoying any of this at all, not least because he’s supposed to be telling his charge all about how he looks after her, but she has no idea it’s going on, and honestly thinking about it is making his head hurt. “Her name’s Charlie. I’ve been her handler for about a year now.”

“Interesting.” Jodie scribbles something in her notebook. “And you like her?”

“Of course,” he says, surprised. “I wouldn’t do this job if I didn’t like her. I mean, she can be kind of a handful sometimes, but that’s not her fault.”

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Well, they’re all supposed to be tabula rasa,” he explains. “Blank slates. Basically pod people. They know how to walk around, eat food, stuff like that, but they’re not really supposed to have long-term memories or personalities, and they’re not supposed to remember stuff from their missions. Charlie is...different. She’s our most popular Active so she gets sent out a lot, and she’s shown signs of remembering things. We’re not really sure what to do about it.”

“Hm. And this is a problem?”

“We don’t want them experiencing any unnecessary stress. Suddenly having memories they can’t explain - that sounds pretty stressful to me.”

“Good point. Do you think it’s because she’s getting sent out a lot, that she’s experiencing...let’s call it a glitch?”

Mack shrugs. “Could be. I kind of think they put her at risk unnecessarily, sometimes.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” 

He pauses. “Are you sharing all of this with the bosses, or just your conclusions?”

“I don’t make a habit of sharing anything that I don’t think is relevant with them,” she says smoothly.

He considers this for a moment before saying, “I think the people who run this House are sometimes more concerned with results than with the literal humans they’re supposed to care for.”

She writes something down again. “So you’re concerned with ethics.”

“Of course I am.”

“Do you value Charlie’s safety more than your job?”

His answer is immediate. “Yes.”

“Would you put your job in danger to protect her?”

“Yes.”

Jodie nods, taking more notes. “I think that’ll be all for now, Mr. Mackenzie.”

Victoria is the next person called into the office, and she looks somehow even more skeptical than usual. “What’s going on?” she asks as she sits.

“I just need to ask you some questions,” Jodie says, giving Victoria a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How long have you worked here?”

“Going on six years,” Victoria replies coolly. 

“So you know how things work around here. Is there anyone who’s been here longer than you?”

“Melinda May was a Handler when I was hired,” Victoria says. “Isabelle Hartley came onboard at the same time I did.”

Jodie raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, but otherwise her face remains neutral. “So you’ve been here longer than management.”

“Two years ago I was offered a raise,” Victoria says, clearly seeing through this line of questioning. “Head of Security, same as Melinda, but only if I was willing to move to Edmonton. I wasn’t. Personal reasons.” She rolls her eyes self-deprecatingly, which means it has to do with her love life and like hell she’s saying that to a stranger who’s actually a Doll. “I like my job, and management respects me. I’m good at dealing with bullshit when it needs to be dealt with, but I don’t have to get totally bogged down in it. Besides, Romeo is a dream to work with.”

“Hm, good to know,” says Jodie, jotting down a few lines. “So what do you actually spend most of your time doing?”

Victoria shrugs. “I look out for him on engagements,” she says. “Sometimes I have to coordinate with other Handlers. Sometimes I have to coordinate with security teams or drivers. He’s pretty popular, so I don’t have a lot of downtime, but if Phil and Melinda need help with office things, like designing larger ops, sometimes I step in to help with that. Occasionally I help with hiring or PR issues. Whatever needs doing.”

“I see.” Jodie nods, still writing. “And what do you think of Phil Coulson?”

“He’s alright,” Victoria says, shrugging. “We’re not the best of friends, and sometimes he’s a little dense. Or naive. Or singleminded. But he’s not a bad person, and I think he does want to help people at the end of the day.”

“That’s a good quality to have. Alright, I think we’re done here, unless you have any last statements?”

“I hope this gets resolved quickly,” Victoria says dryly. “Before it becomes an even bigger mess.”

“I have an update,” Fitz says quietly to Melinda. “I looked at Charlie’s corrupted imprint and found the source of the tampering. There was some rogue code in there that I was able to trace to another IP address, which turned out to be from a VPN, but I was able to backtrace the source and-”

Melinda holds up a finger. “Cut to the chase. I don’t need all the details.”

Fitz pouts, but he replies, “Basically, I found the computer the person who hacked the imprint was working from. I’ll have to do a bit more investigating, but I think we can get an exact location.”

“Interesting,” Melinda says. “But that might not be conclusive.”

“No, but I think it’s a thread worth pursuing,” Fitz argues. “I thought maybe we could send a Doll in to check it out, wherever it is.”

Melinda considers this. “It’s risky, but not the worst idea. Who were you thinking?”

“Is Foxtrot available?”

Melinda checks something on her phone and then nods. “I’ll let Isabelle know so she can prep her. Are you sending her out during the interviews or after?”

“Sooner the better, I’d say. I’m going to throw something together, you get in touch with Hartley.”

Soon, Foxtrot is standing in Fitz’s doorway, smiling placidly. “Hello,” she says. “I’m here for a treatment.”

“Hello, Foxtrot,” Fitz says, with the ghost of a smile. “Let’s get you taken care of.”

“Hi, Lance,” Jodie says, smiling at him. “Thanks for coming to talk to me today.”

Hunter guffaws. “It’s Hunter, just Hunter.”

“Hunter, then.” Jodie’s eyebrow twitches slightly. “You’re a handler, right? You look after one of the Dolls?”

“Yeah. Used to be security, but I was so good at that, they promoted me.” Hunter looks smug. “I like this better. It’s more interesting.”

“No doubt. So you enjoy your job?”

“Yeah, I just said that,” Hunter says, rolling his eyes. “Tango’s great. No complaints about her at all.”

“And what do you think of Phil Coulson?”

He shrugs. “Phil’s alright. I don’t see a lot of him, he’s too busy to talk to us much.”

“Nothing you’d change around here, no complaints about your supervisors?”

“Not really,” he says, with a little smirk.

“You sure about that?”

“Well, I think handlers should be allowed to be clients if we want, but last time I suggested it I got shouted down,” he says with a little pout. “So I don’t think they’d be keen on listening to me.”

Jodie, whose smile is much tighter-lipped now, nods and says, “Alright, I think that’s all the questions I have for you. You can go now, Hunter.”

“I’ll be on comms the whole time,” Isabelle says to Marina. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks, alright? We’re not sure exactly what it’ll be like in there.”

Marina rolls her eyes. “At best, I’m walking into an office building,” she says. “At worst it’s a mob hideout. Both of which I can handle.”

“Well, don’t get cocky,” Isabelle says sternly. “Get what you need, and get out.”

“Yes, Mom,” Marina snarks, stepping out of the car. They’re in an aggressively neutral neighborhood: businesses and residential in relatively equal measure, some local character and some obvious gentrification, some people but not too many. She’s already nearing whatever it is she’s looking for, the computer or the room it’s in or something like that, and when she walks into the closest building her GPS tells her she’s even closer.

“What do you see?”

“Well, there’s no one here,” Marina remarks. “Seems like you’d want people guarding your top-secret bullshit, but what do I know? I’m just a spy.”

“Yes, yes, we both know you’d be better at this than these dipshits,” Isabelle says with a fond eyeroll. “What about surveillance, you see anything?”

“Couple cameras, but I don’t think they’re on,” Marina says, walking down a hallway and through the first open door. “Broken glass from the window in one of the interior doors, but all that’s in the room is a desk, a bunch of file cabinets that someone rummaged through, pretty lazily I’d say, and what looks like a pile of smashed computer parts.” She scoffs and pokes around in the pile. “It looks like someone wanted whoever found the place to think there was a big struggle but they didn’t really commit.”

“Nothing retrievable? Did they clear it all out?”

“A lot of paper,” Marina says, shrugging. “Like, a lot a lot. Do you really want me to go through it?”

Isabelle sighs. “No, focus on the computers, then. Anything you can get from those?”

“Let me try,” Marina says, kneeling beside the mess. “Pretty sure they got the hard drives, there’s not much here that looks salvageable, but…” She shifts some parts aside and smiles triumphantly. “Somehow they missed a flash drive in the chaos. I’m bringing it back so we can study it.”

“Great! Give it a final once-over and then we can head back.”

“Hi, Fitz,” Jodie says. “You’re the head programmer here at the Dollhouse, right?”

Fitz nods. “For the last three years, yes. I’m responsible for overseeing the creation of all the personality wedges, and I personally supervise every imprinting session.”

“I see.” Jodie scribbles something in her notes. “And you work with Phil Coulson pretty directly, correct?”

“I suppose, yes. He’s the one who has final approval over the engagements, and I get any last-minute adjustments to them from him.” 

“And you also work closely with Dr. Jemma Simmons, right?”

“Yes.” Fitz’s tone turns ever-so-slightly suspicious. “She reports any health concerns that develop with the Dolls. She’s very thorough.”

“I’m sure. And you’re very close friends as well, I understand?” Jodie glances at her briefing sheet. “Got your doctorates together, spend a lot of your free time together. That’s sweet.”

Fitz narrows his eyes. “Yes, we’re good friends. We work very well together.”

“Your supervisors mentioned an incident about a year ago that involved a physical assault on another employee,” Jodie continues. “You were a witness to the attack, weren’t you?”

He’s gritting his teeth as he answers, “I don’t really see how that’s relevant.”

“I thought I’d ask how you felt your employers handled the aftermath of that situation, that’s all,” Jodie says in a soothing tone. “Do you think their response was adequate?”

“It was fine,” Fitz says tersely. “Jemma - she’s fine now. It’s all fine, that was a long time ago.”

“Do you feel safe working here, Fitz?”

He scoffs. “That’s a stupid question. Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m just trying to be thorough. So you think your employers have your best interests in mind?”

“As much as any employer does, sure.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt their competence?”

“I have reason to doubt everyone’s competence,” Fitz replies. “Most people are less competent than they think. It’s something I’ve learned to put up with.”

Jodie raises an eyebrow. “You’re being very defensive.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Let’s go back to your employers. What specifically do you think makes them incompetent?”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that. I just know more than they do. Gets annoying to be told what to do by someone not on your level, that’s all.”

“Interesting.” She writes for a second, then adds, “You spend most of your time here, correct?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot to do, and I’m the one who knows how to do it.”

“Do you feel like your employers unfairly put a lot of pressure on you?”

He gawks at her. “What? No, if I leave for five minutes this place would practically go up in flames. That’s just how it is. They can’t find anyone on my level.”

“Don’t you have an assistant?”

“Callie?” He rolls his eyes. “They made me hire her. She’s alright, but nowhere near the level I’d need for her to be actually helpful. They got her from some local university, but then she got a study abroad opportunity so she’s been off doing that for the last few months. Can’t say I’ve missed her.”

“I see.” Jodie writes a bit more, then says, “Any other comments?”

He glares at her. “No.” 

Jemma sits down at the desk, blinking in surprise. She hadn’t known this was the surprise imprint Charlie had been whisked away from her checkup for, and she can’t help but wonder if Mack really agreed to it since there’s a strong possibility that whoever the mole is will react violently, and the whole day has been so stressful already, and…

“You seem concerned about something, Jemma,” Jodie says, more gentle than she’s been with some of the others. “Everything alright?”

“I’m concerned about the mole,” Jemma replies honestly. “I hate the idea of someone we’ve all worked so closely with going out of their way to hurt us.”

Jodie nods. “That’s understandable. Do you typically feel safe working here, Jemma?”

“We’re well looked-after,” Jemma says. “Phil really does have his people’s best interests at heart, and those of us responsible for the Dolls try to be conscientious and caring, and Melinda and everyone can handle any threats that arise.” There’s an unspoken “but” on the end of her sentence, though.

Jodie, of course, picks up on that. “But it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Jemma exclaims, immediately looking shocked by her own outburst. “It’s just - this is an incredibly dangerous line of work. Cutting-edge technology combined with rich and powerful clients wanting their deepest desires catered to? It would be nothing short of a miracle if terrifying things didn’t happen sometimes.”

“Of course,” Jodie echoes. “You’re thinking of the assault you were a victim of about a year ago, is that right?”

Jemma makes a face and reaches to touch the scar on her neck, almost like she’s reminding herself it’s still there and not just some horrible thing she imagined. “I don’t feel entirely comfortable calling myself a victim,” she murmurs. “I suppose it’s true in the most technical sense, but it… saying it about myself feels wrong, like it lessens the experience of people who’ve really experienced traumatic things.”

“Does it?” Jodie asks. “You were attacked at your workplace and needed urgent medical attention. I’d call that traumatic.”

“Yes, but…” Jemma sighs. “You know I don’t even remember most of it? After the actual attack, my memory just cuts out. Probably for the better, that. But it’s also for the better it was me he went after, really, I - I can’t imagine what it would have been like if he’d attacked one of the Dolls like that, so many of them have already been through hell and they wouldn’t have any way of understanding what was being done to them, and it’s not as if Yankee came after me because of me, I was just a figure, that’s different than if he’d…” She shakes her head. She hasn’t actually said most of this out loud, in a while or ever, and it feels strange to be confessing it to Charlie of all people. “It’s like impostor syndrome, I think. Except for instead of doubting my accomplishments I doubt my experiences or their significance. It’s not important, really it’s not.”

“I think that’s very normal,” says Jodie, nodding. “It must be very difficult for you. But you chose to return rather than find another job, do you mind elaborating on that a little?”

Jemma laughs softly, though it’s not really funny. “This is where I belong,” she says. “Fitz is here, and he was so wonderful in the aftermath of everything. Phil and Melinda and the others have been remarkably understanding. I know I can help people here, and I want to do that. And besides,” she adds in a smirky afterthought, “imagine trying to explain why I left this job in an interview for another one.”

“That’s a fair point,” agrees Jodie. “So you don’t feel as if the Dollhouse was responsible for what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Jemma sighs. “Is that odd? I don’t blame anyone, there was no way to predict everything. It was unprecedented! We couldn’t have known to look. But then, would it have happened if we hadn’t been doing what we’re doing? I’d like to think that it’s not anyone’s fault but Yankee, that he was just hardwired to do something terrible like that and we were the ones who happened to be around, but I… I don’t know. I feel like I should have been able to see something wrong with him.”

“From what they told me, you have no reason to blame yourself. All of your coworkers and supervisors told me about how hard you work to ensure the Dolls are healthy and safe. But I understand the impulse.” Jodie takes a few notes. “It just seems like it was a terrible accident. But it doesn’t seem like you’d act against the Dollhouse because of that.”

“No, no, of course not,” Jemma says. “I would never put the Dolls or anyone else here in danger. I would never betray the people who’ve stood by me.”

Jodie nods. “I’m glad to hear that. And do you feel like you’ve got an adequate support system outside of work? I know medical professionals sometimes struggle with that.”

Jemma colors. “I spend most of my time here,” she says quickly. “It wouldn’t exactly be safe involving civilians in my life, given all the strangeness we get into here. But Melinda makes a point of looking out for me, and sometimes I’ll go for drinks with some of the Handlers, and Fitz…” She trails off thoughtfully. “I’ve never been close to anyone like I’m close to Fitz.”

“Yes, they told me you two work closely together.” Jodie gives her a considering look. “And is that...just a work relationship, or…?”

“We’re best friends,” Jemma says. “We have been since university. I think sometimes that I’m the only person he’s never hated, he gets… picky about people.” She shrugs, apparently finding nothing wrong with this. “And we take care of each other, idiosyncrasies and all. That’s not always something I’ve been lucky enough to have in relationships.”

Jodie blinks. “I’m sorry to hear that. You deserve better.”

“Most people do,” Jemma says, clearly evasive. “But all we can do is try to give better ourselves, right?”

“Right.” Jodie pauses, then turns to a new page of her notepad and writes something down. “Look, I don’t normally do this, but if you need someone who isn’t wrapped up in...all this, give me a call, alright?” She hands the page to Jemma.

Jemma’s eyes go wide, like she’s not really sure what to make of this, but she folds the page and slips it in her pocket. “Thank you,” she says, feeling shy. “I… I don’t mean to burden you with my psychiatric problems when there’s an actual criminal you’re hunting.”

Jodie laughs. “Well, you work directly with the Dolls, who are in a very vulnerable position. If I were worried about you being involved in what’s going on, I would’ve gone much harder on you.” She winks.

“I guess that’s true,” Jemma says, giggling. She can’t stop staring at Jodie - Charlie - whatever: they put her in some sleeveless turtleneck and slacks for this imprint, and normally Jemma finds sleeveless turtlenecks absurd but right now she’s having to keep herself from thinking some deeply inappropriate thoughts. Honestly, she should be better than this. She’s acting like Hunter! It must be the stress of the day, surely.

“I think we’re done here,” Jodie says, with a warm smile. “Thanks for your time, Jemma.”

“So,” Kirby says, sipping her tea. “You can’t possibly be having all of these work problems and not a single personal one.”

Phil laughs. “Oh, I don’t know if we need to get into that today.”

“We might as well,” Kirby says. “I don’t need all the intimate details, but relationships are as big a part of life as work, and possibly even more stressful. I’d be remiss not to ask.”

He sighs dramatically and nods. “Well...alright, there is this one person at work. She’s pretty great. Actually she’s terrifying, but that kind of makes her great?”

“Yeah, I know the type,” Kirby says. “I mean, apparently I am the type sometimes, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Yeah, you’d like her. No-nonsense, whip-smart. I’m honestly not sure why she puts up with me sometimes. I’d say we’re fairly close - professionally, of course. I can’t really do anything because I’m technically her boss. But we end up eating lunch together more often than not, things like that. It’s nice.”

“Ah-huh.” Kirby’s eyebrow goes up. “But would you want to do anything?”

Phil shrugs. “Maybe? If things were different. I do go on dates sometimes, you know, but it’s just not the same. You’re young, you know how it feels when someone’s smile can make your entire day better.” He laughs and adds, “It’s silly to admit, like I’m a teenager, but there you are.”

She shrugs. “I know the feeling, yes,” she agrees. “We’re talking about you right now. Why isn’t it the same?”

“I just haven’t been able to find anybody I click with lately, I guess. The last one was that cellist, Audrey, you remember her? I brought her to a few holiday parties. But after her, nobody else besides M- my coworker has felt right. They’re nice people, just missing...something.”

“But your coworker isn’t missing that,” she prompts.

“I guess not,” he says with an awkward little laugh. “I just feel...comfortable with her, you know? She doesn’t talk much, but she doesn’t mind if I talk, and when she does talk she’s so insightful and funny. I know she’s told me more about herself than she usually tells people, so she’s clearly comfortable with me too.”

“Can you tell me any more about her?” Kirby asks. “Just so I get a clearer picture.”

“Well, she works in security,” Phil says. “Shorter than me, but way more physically intimidating. Quiet, like I said. But when she looks at you, you can tell she’s taking in everything about you. Never stops paying attention. She can be kind of brusque, but mostly only when she needs someone to get to the point. I’ve caught her using the staff gym for yoga sometimes. Oh, and she hates coffee. I tried to bring her some once and she just snorted and said she’d rather drink sewage.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Kirby smirks, “but she sounds like the absolute opposite of you.”

He shrugs, clearly still sheepish. “Believe me, I know. That’s the other reason I wouldn’t do anything even if I could. I’m sure she has plenty of more interesting options.”

“You’re sure as in you know, or as in you assume?” 

“She doesn’t really talk about her dating life much, but, well.” He’s blushing a little. “She’s so great, why wouldn’t she be able to get whoever she wanted?”

“Ah-huh,” Kirby says again. “Do you feel like this ever makes anything strange at work?”

“I hope not,” he says quickly. “I mean, I definitely keep our relationship professional. We only eat lunch ‘together’ in the sense that we’re at a two-person table in the break room, but usually there are other people in there as well and the door is always open. The only times I’ve been alone with her is to discuss sensitive topics at work…” Like Yankee, he thinks but doesn’t say. “I’d say we’re appropriately close for people whose jobs intersect as much as ours do.”

“Alright.” She folds her hands thoughtfully. “But it’s weighing on you nonetheless.”

“Sure. I get lonely, just like anyone else.” He laughs. “It’ll pass, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to about it. I think M- my coworker is probably my closest friend, unfortunately.”

Jodie smiles at the woman sitting across from her. “Hi, Callie. Thanks for coming in to talk to me today.”

Callie is trying her hardest not to make a face, it seems, and she’s only sort of succeeding. “May told me I had to come talk to you before I even clocked in,” she says. “I’m not even sure what’s going on, Fitz wouldn’t tell me anything. Not like that’s anything new.”

“Well, we’re just trying to get to the bottom of something that’s been going on around here. I understand you’ve been at school abroad for the last few months?”

“Yeah.” Callie grins. “I got accepted to do a program at USP - uh, Universidade de São Paulo, in Brazil. If it had been anywhere else I might have thought twice about it, this is a pretty sweet gig for my doctoral internship, but I honestly think my mom would have disowned me if I didn’t take the chance to study in her home country. I got to stay with family and brush up on my Portuguese on top of what I was doing academically.”

“That sounds nice,” Jodie says. “And you didn’t really have contact with anyone here, did you?”

“I texted Elena some photos,” Callie shrugs. “You’ve talked to Elena, right? One of the Handlers? She’s cool. She’s interested in art history and architecture, and especially South American, since, y’know. She’s from there.”

“I did, yes. She seems very nice.” Jodie glances at her notes. “And you’ve been back for about two weeks?”

“Ish, yeah,” Callie says. “It’s been pretty mundane. This stays just between us, right?”

“Of course,” Jodie agrees. “Go ahead. You can tell me whatever you want.”

Callie breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, okay, so I get that I’m still in school, but I know I could take on more responsibility than Fitz lets me have. He doesn’t take me seriously.”

“Oh?” Jodie raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“I mean he thinks I’m here to get him snacks,” Callie says. “I don’t mind some of that, paying your dues and stuff, but I could do a lot more of the technical stuff. I know how it works. If I wasn’t studying neurotech, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Ah,” nods Jodie. “So you might say you’re a bit unsatisfied with your job here?”

“Everyone my age is a bit unsatisfied with their job,” Callie deadpans. “It can be really menial, like insultingly menial, but I know it’ll get better. I’ll probably get transferred to another House eventually and I’ll get to run things my way. There’s even a branch in São Paulo, if I really felt like it. Sydney would be cool, too.”

“So you’re interested in staying here long-term.”

“With the company, yeah, probably,” Callie says. “I’ll have opportunities here I won’t have anywhere else. I’m not married to this House, specifically, but it’s a pretty good starting point.”

Jodie nods. “But you’re feeling frustrated with your boss right now?”

“I’m pretty sure most of us are frustrated with Fitz sometimes,” Callie says. “Not Dr. Simmons, but she’s too nice.”

That makes Jodie smile. “Yes, she seemed very nice when I talked to her. Would you mind elaborating on why ‘most of you’ are frustrated with him sometimes? I won’t share any of the details with him.”

“He’s condescending,” Callie declares. “He gets snappy about random things. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone here, which, technically that might be true, but he’s seriously lacking in social intelligence. He can be really immature. Etcetera. He’s not a bad guy, like he is genuinely good to learn from when he’s in a teaching mood and he has kind moments, but. Y’know.”

“I do,” Jodie says, with the long-suffering smile of a woman who’s worked with similar men. “But in general you feel like this is a good place to work? You enjoy your work here?”

“I’d enjoy it more if I got to do more actual work, but yeah,” Callie says, shrugging. “What’s going on, anyway?”

“There’s suspicion of a mole in the Dollhouse,” Jodie says. “Management has reason to believe that someone is leaking confidential information to an outside party. They’ve hired me to try to get to the bottom of it.”

Callie makes a face. “Well, that sucks,” she says. “I guess inter-business spying isn’t a brand new thing, but still.”

Jodie nods. “I think we’re done here, unless you have anything else you want to say?”

“Good luck?”

“Okay,” Marina says, booting up the flash drive. “Unfortunately, it didn’t have any incriminating initials written on it in Sharpie or anything.”

“Damn,” Isabelle says with a fond snort. This is highly preferable, she thinks, to the romantic engagements - at least Marina here has a personality. “So, obviously we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for here, but hopefully there’ll be something helpful.”

“Incriminating initials embedded in the saved files?” Marina suggests wryly.

“Alright, smartass, enough out of you. There might be some identifying evidence.”

“Let’s hope,” Marina says, starting to click into the folders on the drive. “And you’re sure we don’t have any possible suspects to keep on the lookout for?”

“Nope. Just anything you think might be relevant. Easier said than done, I know.”

“Geez, what a clusterfuck.” Marina sounds almost sympathetic.

“It isn’t my favorite thing that’s ever happened,” Isabelle agrees, letting her tone betray her frustration. “How’s it going, anything yet?”

“A lot of files that I can’t open on this computer,” Marina says. “Guess those are the techie ones. Um… some Excel spreadsheets. Financial, probably?” She clicks into one such file and shrugs at the screen. “So not my forte.”

Isabelle scoots over to get a better look. “Hmm. Let me look?” Marina moves out of her way and Isabelle flips through the spreadsheet tabs. “Nothing there, hmm...but that might be…” Then she stops on one and raises both her eyebrows. “Okay, that’s something.”

“Hi, Ian. Can I call you Ian?”

He shrugs. It’s pretty clear he thinks this is a farce, whether or not Jodie knows why. “If you want.”

“Alright then. You’re one of the handlers, aren’t you? You manage one of the Dolls?”

He nods. “India,” he says. “Is what we call her. She’s a little odd, even as they go, but she’s alright. Does her job well.” He smirks. “She’s been on the same job for months, almost exclusively, so it’s been pretty smooth sailing.”

“Sounds nice,” Jodie agrees. “And you like working here? No issues with your boss?”

“It’s not the job I imagined myself having,” he says, sort of avoiding the actual questions, “but it’s interesting work. I have a tech background myself, which helps.”

She takes a few notes. “What sort of tech background, specifically?”

“My undergraduate degree is in biotech,” Quinn replies. “My master’s is in business, though, which is a better fit for me. I’m good at recognizing and utilizing talent.”

“Oh? Have they allowed you to use those skills here?”

“Well enough,” he says. “I’m good at planning engagements. I help a little with recruitment, too. It’s really something to know you’ve been able to make a difference in a vulnerable person’s life.”

That raises Jodie’s eyebrow a little. “Care to elaborate on that a little?”

“A lot of the people we work with here are coming from bad situations,” he explains nonchalantly. “Traumatic experiences, mental illness, stuff like that. We offer them a way to deal with that and they leave happy. And rich, don’t forget that.” He chuckles.

“Uh huh.” Jodie writes some more. “And you...help find some of these people.”

“Or I help show them this is their best option,” he says.

“Gotcha.” Jodie pauses a minute, then, almost like she’s not sure what she’s saying, she asks “Foxtrot?” somewhat hesitantly.

“I didn’t realize she had anything to do with what we were talking about,” Quinn remarks. It’s not a no.

Jodie blinks, like she’s confused, but on instinct she says, “Was she one of the people you...helped?”

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything the door opens and Melinda comes in, Mack, Fitz, Jemma, and Callie at her heels. “Ms. Diangelo, we need to speak with you,” says Melinda. “Quinn, sit tight for a second.”

Jodie gets up and follows them out into the hall. “What is it?” she asks. 

“We had some of our people looking into things as well. They found evidence that points to Ms. Hannigan as the mole.” Melinda nods at Callie, who looks absolutely indignant. “We wanted to consult you for your opinion before we move forward.”

“I see.” Jodie considers for a second. “What evidence did you find that pointed to Ms. Hannigan being the mole?”

“Our people found some documents on a secure file that contained incriminating evidence, along with her employee info. We’ll need to do some additional investigating, of course, but it seems like we’ve uncovered at least one of the responsible parties.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jodie says. 

“Thank you!” Callie exclaims, groaning. “It doesn’t make any freaking sense! I wasn’t even in the country during most of this! I still don’t even know what actually happened today, which I’m pretty sure everyone else does.”

Jodie nods. “My interview with Callie didn’t reveal anything terribly concerning. In fact, her having been out of the country makes the timeline questionable at best. You said that you’ve only uncovered this recently, but how far back does the document go?”

Fitz’s ears are starting to turn red. “Months,” he says, “but-”

“But what, I was complicit in some weird scam against my workplace while I was in South America?” Callie yelps. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not that determined to fuck with you. And it’s not like I came in after being abroad with a sudden influx of cash.”

“Some of these payments appear to have been made in your name,” Melinda points out. “It’s more than a little incriminating.”

“Because nobody’s ever opened a fake bank account before,” Callie snarks. “Or cloned financial information. I’ll open up my actual bank account right now and show you if it would really help.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jemma says softly. It’s clear she’s trying to mediate, or de-escalate, or something like that.

Fitz still looks angry. “But it would make sense!” he protests. “She could be working with another person.” He casts suspicious looks at everyone else - everyone but Jemma, Jodie notices. “That kind of thing happens all the time.” Then he turns on Callie, pointing accusingly. “And you said a lot of very rude things about me, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not in a permissive mood!”

“What the hell!” Callie squeaks. “I thought it was supposed to be private, Jodie.”

“It was.” Jodie narrows her eyes at Fitz. “I said that the details of what employees told me would be confidential. My notes are an overview of what was said.”

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma groans, putting her hand to her forehead in frustration.

“It’s not my fault!” Fitz yelps. “I was just - just flipping channels in my office and I didn’t realize one of them was hooked up to the audio surveillance feed in Phil’s office!”

Melinda gives him a spectacularly dirty look. “And you thought you’d just listen in, hm?”

“It was only for a few minutes,” Fitz says sulkily.

“Well, we’ll be fixing that little security breach later,” mutters Melinda. 

Mack’s been quiet, but finally he says, “I don’t think it makes a lot of sense for it to have been Callie, to be honest. What if the evidence we found was fabricated?”

“Actually, if I can chime in?” Jodie waits for everyone else to look at her before continuing. “I’m having some real reservations about Ian Quinn,” she says, dropping her voice just a bit. “He seems pretty questionable.”

“What, India’s Handler?” Callie asks, just as Jemma murmurs, “What has he said?” 

“He was very evasive when I asked him fairly straightforward questions,” Jodie says. “And the way he spoke about ‘talent recruitment’ made it seem like he was less interested in the Dolls as people and more as assets. Not sure if that’s the sort of thing that raises red flags around here, but it unsettled me.”

“Depends on who you talk to,” Mack says under his breath.

Fitz hears him though, and glares at both him and Jodie. “Of course you’d side with her,” he snaps, “you’re-” Then he cuts himself off abruptly and just makes a huffing noise.

“I’m what?” Mack asks. “Interested in securing the safety of everyone here? Yeah, I am pretty interested in that.”

Jemma raises her eyebrow at Fitz as if to say don’t blow it, then nods. “Quinn is one of the more, well, hands-off Handlers. I assumed it was just a personality quirk of his, but…”

“Clearly this investigation has become more complicated than we initially thought,” Melinda says. “Jodie, would you finish the interview with Quinn? We’ll do some more digging on our end. And...” She hesitates. “Feel free to push him a little, if it gets you results.”

“I can stick around, in case things with Quinn escalate and she needs backup,” Mack volunteers.

Jodie wasn’t really worried, but that reassures her somehow. “Thanks,” she says, smiling at him. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve finished Mr. Quinn’s interview, Ms. May.”

“Uh, guys?” Callie says, pointing toward where Quinn sits. Or more accurately, was sitting.

“Shit,” Jodie says, completely forgetting professionalism as she lunges toward Quinn. He’s standing in front of the elevator doors (his only other escape routes being the hallway they were all just standing in and the window) and looking suspicious. “Hold it!” she barks, unsure exactly what she’s going to do if he doesn’t.

He presses the button a little harder, as if that’s going to help. “You don’t have anything on me,” he says.

“No, but you’re not exactly helping your case.” Jodie reaches him and grabs his arm. “Let’s go finish your interview.”

“You already made up your mind,” he spits out, pulling out of her grasp and drawing a gun on her in one smooth movement.

Jodie barely has time to process what’s happening before she flails out one of her arms, whacking him on the arm and making him lose his balance momentarily. In that moment, she brings her other fist up to connect with his nose, making him howl.

“Bitch!” he screams, staggering and dropping his gun.

Jodie tries to kick the gun away, but it only slides a few feet. Then she tries to grab one of Quinn’s arms to get it behind his back, difficult when he’s flailing around. He manages to elbow her in the face, which makes her yelp and loosen her grip just enough that he can drop down to grab the gun again.

“Well,” he says slowly, putting space between him and Jodie. Mack is headed toward Jodie, which makes sense; he’s overprotective of his Active. Melinda is closer to the bar, staring at him like she’s ready to take him out even though he knows she won’t act until he goes farther than he already has. The scientists are still standing in the doorway, all of them trying to look like they aren’t terrified and failing. He smirks and aims the gun at them, specifically at Jemma (she’s standing in the middle). “Maybe this will be more effective.”

As he fires, Jemma screams, “Get the hell down!” and then pushes Fitz with one arm while using the majority of her body weight to shield Callie. Jodie jumps to take Quinn out and bowls him over, sending his aim flying, and the bullet buries itself in the wall harmlessly. 

Melinda and Mack come over to help Jodie muscle Quinn to his feet. The gun ends up closer to Callie than anyone else, and she wraps her hand in the extra material of her lab coat before she picks it up gingerly. “Uh,” she says.

Jemma takes a few deep breaths, clearly trying to stave off a panic attack, before waving over at the bar. “Just put it down, Callie,” she says shakily. “Out of the way.”

“Yeah,” Callie murmurs, eyes impossibly wide. “Yeah, I’ll… that.”

Fitz comes up next to Jemma and puts a hand on her shoulder. “That was quick thinking,” he says, though his voice has an odd tone to it. “You handled that very well, all things considered.”

“Thank you,” Jemma whispers, sighing. “It wasn’t much, really, but…” But it was the only right thing to do. She drops her head against his shoulder for the briefest moment, like she’s trying to ground herself.

Jodie notices this, and feels a weird pang of something she doesn’t know how to name. Of course, she can’t really focus on it for too long, since Quinn is still swearing at her. “Shut up,” she finally hisses. 

Melinda lets out a longsuffering sigh. “Mack, will you help Ms. Diangelo get Quinn down to the garage? I’m going to figure out where Phil is so we can get a hold of him. He needs to know what’s gone down here.”

Fitz begins to herd Jemma and Callie away. “We’ll wait in my office for updates.”

“And, I don’t know, she’s just really special,” Kirby is saying, sounding more wistful than Phil has ever heard her. “She’s been through a lot, but she’s really… tough. And she’s got incredible legs.” She chuckles. “Sorry. I bet you didn’t need to hear that.”

Phil smiles. “The least I can do, after asking you to spend a weekend as my short-term therapist, is listen to you talk about this girl a little. What’s her name?”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door and Melinda calls, “Phil, we’re here. I’ll give you a sec to get decent.”

Kirby laughs. “I’ll get out of your hair,” she says. “Don’t want to get wrapped up in any of your secret government and corporate secrets.”

“Oh don’t worry, this won’t take long.” Phil gets up to let them in as Kirby heads for the back porch with her phone and earbuds. “Hey, Mel. What’s going on?”

Melinda opens her mouth to explain, and then spots Tango leaving and rapidly switches gears. “Phil!” she hisses. “Was that Tango?”

He blinks. “I feel like Quinn’s the more pressing issue here, can I explain once we’ve got that sorted out?”

She narrows her eyes but says, “Fine.” She steps inside, Quinn, Mack and Jodie following close behind. Quinn, by this point, isn’t speaking, just glaring balefully at everyone.

“Melinda mentioned we have an ongoing issue,” Phil says, looking Quinn up and down. “Care to elaborate on that, Ian?”

Quinn spits at Phil’s feet, missing by a good six inches and just making a mess instead. “You can’t just hoard this technology for yourselves,” he hisses. “If Rossum can do this to people, it should be available for anyone. I just want equality.” He punctuates this with a sick grin.

“That’s an interesting use of that word,” Phil says, with a tight smile. “And you didn’t feel it was worth coming to me with this idea of yours?”

“You’d shoot it down,” Quinn retorts. “You’re so narrow-minded.”

“That’s hurtful,” Phil says lightly. “So your plan was to what, steal the technology and sell it to the highest bidder? Expose us so we’d get shut down and sneak out the back with blueprints in the chaos?”

“I might as well make a profit,” Quinn says coolly.

Phil frowns. “You know that’s not what we’re about. Yes, we are a successful business, but at its core, our mission is to help people, both our clients and those in our care as Actives. It sounds like you’ve forgotten that.”

“If you really think that’s what we do, you’re deluded,” Quinn says.

Shrugging cheerfully, Phil replies, “I’m fine with that. I think we’re done here, don’t you, Melinda?”

Grunting with effort, Quinn breaks out of Mack’s grasp and dashes for the display of fencing equipment along the wall. “What do you really think you can do to me?” he growls, brandishing one of the foils dramatically.

Phil seems taken aback for a second, then grabs one for himself and meets Quinn’s thrust with a parry. “I’m pretty sure I have better training in this than you do,” he says, “but let’s keep going, this should be fun.”

Jodie raises both eyebrows. “Should we step in?” she asks Melinda. 

“Not yet,” Melinda says with a roll of her eyes. “Fencing is one of the sports Phil is actually good at. Give him a second, Quinn’s too panicky to keep this up for long.”

“Come on, Phil, you’re too nice,” Quinn goads, slashing at Phil ineffectively and then poking him in the chest. “You’re just going to give me a slap on the wrist and -”

“Oh, good idea,” Phil says, and takes the opportunity to slap Quinn’s wrist with the end of his foil. It isn’t sharp, of course, but it clearly stings, and Quinn yelps and drops his own foil. “Giving up so soon?” 

“I’ll never give up,” Quinn hisses, lunging forward with the possible intent of biting Phil. Of course, this means Mack has no qualms about grabbing him and keeping him still.

“Well, that was unexpected.” Phil looks down at Quinn. “I guess that’s my vacation cut short, huh?”

“Sorry,” Melinda says. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t a true emergency.”

“I know.” With a last rueful look toward the beach, Phil nods. “We’d better get him back to the House. Mack, will you please take him back to the car? I’ll be along in a moment.”

Once they’re outside, Melinda nods toward where Kirby went. “So I see you’re using some of  the perks of the job on this vacation.”

“It wasn’t sexual,” he insists. “I had Fitz imprint her as my lesbian niece to make sure of that. I’ve just been...kind of mixed up about some of the stuff going on lately, and I’ve needed to talk to someone about it. So I kind of...made my own therapist.” He looks sheepish as he admits it.

Melinda shakes her head. “Fine. I suppose it’s not the most questionable use of a Doll. But we can’t just leave her here while we take care of Quinn.”

“True.” Phil sighs and turns to go get Kirby. She’s sitting on the back porch, listening to music. “Hey, kiddo, I’m afraid I have to cut our trip short, something’s come up at work.”

“Aw,” Kirby says, making a face. “I was kinda afraid of that. You gonna be okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be alright. Honestly, you really helped me even just today. Promise we’ll do this again, no therapy, just hanging out here.” Phil hesitates before adding, “Kirby, would you like a treatment?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says cheerfully, putting her earbuds in their case and standing up to follow him. “That sounds good.”

“So what are we doing to him?” Callie asks in a low voice, eyeing the wires and extra accoutrements that Fitz and Jemma are setting up in the imprint room.

Jemma lets out a sigh and nods to Fitz. “You’d better explain this,” she says.

“The science is pretty complicated,” Fitz says, “but basically we’re uploading his consciousness to the Attic. It’s where we put...well, people who deserve to be there.”

“Are we killing him?” Callie presses. “Is that what that means?”

“No,” Fitz says with an exasperated sigh. “Didn’t they go over this with you in orientation?”

“Anne said ‘Attic’ and Melinda said ‘hopefully she’ll never have to worry about that,’” Callie says.

“It is rather a last resort,” Jemma demurs. “No, we’re not… he’ll still be alive. He’ll just be…”

“He’ll still be alive, it’s just...not a pleasant place,” Fitz says. “That’s why we only put people in there who deserve to be in there, like I said.”

“Is that, y’know,” Callie hesitates, “legal?”

“We can’t bring the police in here,” Fitz says. “How else would you handle it? It’s the best solution to the problem.”

“It’s like Melinda said,” Jemma interjects. “It’s not something that’s done often. Ideally it’s not done at all, but…” She shakes her head. “Ideal is for clients, not for us.”

Callie seems about to say more, but just then the door opens and Melinda and Hunter muscle Quinn inside, Phil following them. Quinn looks a bit worse for wear, and Hunter has a nice black eye and looks like he’d be perfectly happy to return the favor.

“Get him in the chair,” Jemma says without making eye contact with any of them.

Quinn growls and tries to put up a struggle, but they manage to get him strapped in after a couple of minutes. “This place is on a fucking timer,” he mutters. “It won’t be long now. The Dollhouse isn’t special, you’re not special. You’re all going down. I have connections.”

“Connections?” Hunter asks, scoffing. “Sure, mate, whatever you say.”

“You’re really going to do this, Phil?” Quinn asks, changing his tactic. “You, the great humanitarian? The Attic is as good as a graveyard.”

“The other option is to turn you in,” Phil points out. “I don’t think you really want to deal with the authorities, trying to explain your objectives to them, do you? Or we could just let you go, no job, no work history for the last three years, and no one except the fringe conspiracy theorists who’ll believe you. Is that really what you want, Quinn?”

“Either way, you have my soul on your conscience,” Quinn spits out.

“It would have been so easy to just keep your head down,” Fitz sighs. “You didn’t have to do any of this, Quinn. You had it so easy. And then you went and made trouble for yourself. That’s on you, not any of us. This is all because of your actions.” 

“You’re one to talk about making trouble,” Quinn snaps, rolling his eyes. “After Yankee, after -”

“Don’t you bring up Yankee,” Fitz growls. “That wasn’t my fault!”

“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you,” Melinda says, clearly fed up.

“He’s not worth it,” Jemma mutters, shaking her head as she fusses with some of the wires.

“I’m not worth it?” Quinn asks, and he laughs, grabbing onto Jemma’s lab coat awkwardly. “Poor sweet Juliet.”

Jemma blinks at him and pulls away, confused. Fitz steps forward, shoving Quinn’s hand back and saying, “That’s enough out of you. Callie, give him something to bite down on, will you?”

Shuddering, Callie obliges, then steps as far back as she can in the small room. Jemma, she notices, has done the same, backing herself into a corner. Melinda and Phil and Hunter are all standing at the ready, almost solemn.

And without further ado, Fitz taps at his keyboard and the chair lights up as Quinn’s upload starts. He screams even through the block in his mouth, and his body twitches. After about thirty seconds, it stops. “Alright, time to prep him,” Fitz says. “Clear out, thank you all.”

“Can I take a ten?” Callie asks weakly. She looks a little sick to her stomach.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Fitz waves her off without a second thought. “Jemma, can you help me, please?”

“Yes,” Jemma says, although she only looks marginally better than Callie did. “Fitz?”

“Yes?”

“What… what was he talking about?”

“What do you mean? The rambling about his ‘connections’?” Fitz shrugs. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about, that was just a last-ditch effort to scare us into letting him go.”

“Juliet,” Jemma whispers. “Who’s Juliet?”

“Oh.” Fitz shrugs again. “I dunno. Some old girlfriend, maybe. He did seem to be losing it a bit at the end there, didn’t he? Probably just the mad final thoughts of a man who knows he’s done for.”

“That makes sense,” Jemma agrees weakly, even though it doesn’t, not really. “People often cry out for those they love when they’re at the end.”

Nodding, Fitz says, “Exactly. C’mon, let’s get this done and then you’d better take your break, alright? You’ve been through a lot today.”

“Alright,” Jemma says. “It’s been a day for all of us, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Fitz pauses. “Did you know Charlie volunteered to act as the profiler? Like she asked me, herself.”

“She did what?” Jemma asks, unconsciously shoving her hand in her pocket to feel for the note that Jodie gave her. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

“Well, when she interrupted us talking about the mole, before she followed you out, she said she wanted to help me. ‘Friends help each other out.’ You know, in that singsong kindergarten way they talk. That’s practically the same thing as directly asking, coming from one of them.”

“Oh.” This is a surprise, but not, Jemma realizes, as much of a surprise as it should be. It’s just like Charlie to look out for everyone. But Fitz wouldn’t have programmed her to… there wouldn’t be any point programming any personal overtures, romantic or otherwise, into an emergency imprint designed for a specific function, and he wouldn’t have…

“You’re drifting again,” Fitz says, almost seeming amused. “What are you thinking about?”

She laughs self-consciously. “It’s just strange,” she says. “A Doll asking to… but it’s not as if she knew exactly what she was asking. She just wanted to be kind, and that’s not unusual. She’s very protective, Charlie is.”

“She is,” Fitz agrees. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. We just did that big elaborate simulation for her, I think that got it out of her system. Keep an eye on it, I guess, but it shouldn’t be an issue moving forward.”

“I don’t think it’s an issue,” Jemma says softly. “It’s just who she is.”

Charlie is standing with a few other Dolls, watching the bright lights from upstairs blink on and off. “That doesn’t seem normal,” she says, furrowing her brow.

“I like the lights,” Romeo says. “They’re pretty.”

“They’re very bright,” Tango agrees.

“I think someone is screaming,” Foxtrot adds with a frown.

Tango grabs her hand. “Everyone seems very sad today,” she decides.

“Maybe we should all go get a snack,” Romeo suggests. “That always cheers me up. Or we could go paint! Painting helps me feel happy too.”

“I think something bad is happening up there,” Charlie says. “But I don’t know what.”

“I would like a snack,” Foxtrot says. “Maybe there will be fruit. I like fruit.”

Charlie blinks, then shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it. Then she says, “Yes, let’s go see if there’s any fruit. Come on, everybody.”

Chapter Text

“It’s good to see you again,” Phil says, shaking Rosalind’s hand and gesturing for her to follow him into his office before closing the door behind them. “Though, from the little you told me on the phone, I assume it could be under better circumstances.”

“I’m still here, so the circumstances aren’t too dire,” Rosalind drawls, glancing around the office. She doesn’t really mean to be judgmental, and Phil knows that, but it might come off that way to a random observer. “Do you still have the good Scotch?”

Phil chuckles. “I double-checked once you ended the call.” He unlocks his small liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle and two glasses. “I remember how you like it.”

She smirks and takes a seat on one of his leather couches. “Good,” she says. “We’ll need all the fortification we can get for this bullshit.”

“Indeed.” He pours them both drinks and comes over to sit next to her. “So what exactly is going on? I assume you weren’t vague on the phone because everything is going so well over there.”

“No,” Rosalind sighs. She takes a sip of Scotch before she explains, “It’s become an increasingly hostile environment. Gideon and his boys have been challenging me more and more since…” She averts her eyes for a moment, knowing that Phil will understand that she’s referring to her former business partner and late husband’s passing.

Phil nods. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with that. It’s unconscionable that they-” He pauses when the door opens. “Melinda, glad you’re here. Take a seat, Rosalind was just about to elaborate on her phone call from earlier.”

“No doubt,” Melinda says, pointedly not taking a seat.

Rosalind resists the urge to roll her eyes, knowing full well exactly how Melinda feels about her. “I’m concerned that they’re going to try to oust me from the board,” she explains.

“Like a buyout?” Phil asks, raising both eyebrows before he takes a drink.

“That’s one option,” Rosalind says warily. “I guess they could go that route, but between the sensitive nature of the information we deal with and the, ah, more cutthroat business practices they’ve been known to uphold…”

Phil winces. “Stupid question, sorry. What makes you think that?”

“Other than the fact that everyone in the Malick family is a Second Amendment yahoo?” Rosalind snarks. “It’s not any one thing. Gideon’s as civil as ever to my face, but his idiot brother has gotten shittier and shittier. I’ve walked in on more than one important phone call or meeting that just so happened to have started before I arrived. His cronies are undermining me at every opportunity.”

“Concerning,” Phil agrees. “But I’m not sure what the Dollhouse can do to help you, unless you just wanted to catch up. Which I don’t mind.”

“I’m hosting our big holiday party next weekend,” Rosalind says. “It’s going to be a big, stupid fiasco like always, and I was thinking you could send some of your people in.”

“For what purpose, exactly?” Melinda chimes in. Her arms are crossed.

“Reconnaissance, mostly,” Rosalind shrugs. “The usual. Listen in on conversations that these assholes wouldn’t have in my earshot. Start conversations with the assholes. Get evidence as needed. Whatever you usually do.”

Melinda nods, but not like she’s actually agreeing to anything. “Do you have any reason to believe you’re in danger?”

Rosalind looks at her in disbelief. “That’s what I’ve been saying,” she points out.

“Well, yes,” Melinda says slowly, “but I meant, physically, do you believe they’re planning anything violent or dangerous towards you and not just in regards to pushing you out of the company? I’d like to know what kind of environment we’re sending our Actives into.”

“The good news is that they’re probably not stupid enough to try anything at a party in my own house,” Rosalind says. “They’re also relying on me to do the shallow hostess things they can’t be bothered to think about, so they won’t try anything before the party either. They’ll get as much out of me as they can.”

Melinda glances at Phil. “What do you think?”

Phil shrugs. “We’re winding down for the year, and it’s just reconnaissance, so if we’ve got a couple of Actives free, I don’t see why not. It’ll only be for a few hours. What day is the party?”

“Starts Friday night,” Rosalind says. “Goes until they decide to leave. It’s one of those.” She turns more serious for a moment. “Look, they’re going to be as safe on this mission as they would be on any other. I really don’t think Gideon is interested in collateral damage. It’d attract too much attention.”

Nodding, Phil says, “I don’t see the issue with it. You’ll get the friends and family discount, of course. Would one of them be going as your date?”

Rosalind shakes her head. “They’d be better as contractors or something,” she says. “The cronies won’t say anything incriminating to someone they think has a personal connection to me. Better someone who knows me but could seem, ah, persuadable.”

“Melinda’s excellent undercover,” Phil says, smiling over at her. “And how many black belts do you have again?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Melinda says quickly. “I wouldn’t want to leave the House without proper coverage.”

“I think it would be better if my date actually acted like they enjoyed my company,” Rosalind says dryly.

Phil blinks (he, perhaps on purpose, routinely fails to notice the personality conflicts between Melinda and Rosalind). “Well, if she won’t work, then I could do it,” he offers. “It’d be fun! Like old times.” He beams at Rosalind.

Melinda almost visibly bristles. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Phil. It’s been awhile since you’ve been out in the field, hasn’t it?”

Phil looks a bit hurt. “Yes, but this seems so low-key it shouldn’t be an issue. Do you really think these clowns will start a fight at a holiday party?”

“If they do, it’ll be about something petty,” Rosalind says. “Who has to fetch the next round of drinks. Who’s better at billiards. Stupid dick-measuring things.” She smiles insincerely at Melinda. “I’m sure Phil will be fine.”

Melinda’s eye twitches almost imperceptibly. “Of course. I trust him.”

“Thank you,” Phil says with a smile. “I think this’ll be fun. We’ll contact you later today with some options for Actives, if that’s alright, Ros?”

“Excellent,” Rosalind says. “I’ve seen your collection, I’m sure they’re all pretty enough to get strangers to confide in them.”

Phil laughs. “That’s certainly what we hope for.”

“Okay, now remember, we’re classy business people tonight,” Ally says, winking at Cory as she reaches to ring the doorbell. “No D&D talk.”

Cory makes a mock-offended face. “Girl, you should take a look in the mirror. Who picked out this dress ‘cause it, and I quote, ‘reminded you of Galadriel’s dress’?”

“Hey!” Ally sticks out her tongue at him and looks down at her dress, which is silver and white and has a matching wrap that acts a bit like Galadriel’s sleeves. “I also picked it ‘cause I look hot.”

“Didn’t say you didn’t.” He leans over to give her a quick kiss. 

The front door opens and Rosalind, in a slightly more glittery black and white dress than usual, ushers them in. “So glad you two could come,” she says smoothly. “Coats and bags can go in the hall closet.” She nods to a door guarded by a bored-looking butler.

“Thank you,” Ally says as they each shake her hand quickly and head for the butler. “We really appreciate the invitation.”

“Your home is beautiful,” Cory adds with a smile.

“I hope so, I’ve spent enough money on it,” Rosalind deadpans. “Come on, let me introduce you to everyone. They should be on their best behavior.” They actually won’t be, and she knows it, but it’s the kind of thing she’d say to new guests she didn’t technically hire for that purpose, so she says it now.

They both chuckle. “We’re excited to work with you all,” says Ally. “Cory’s been working nonstop on some draft proposals for you.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing them,” Rosalind says, more warmly perhaps than she might otherwise, “but tonight is just about having fun. Unwinding after a long year full of hard work.”

“Oh, sure,” Cory says with a laugh. “Don’t worry, we won’t talk shop all night. Oh, we brought this, also.” He offers her a bottle of wine. 

“Wonderful,” Rosalind says, guiding them into the main room and over to the minibar. “You two are going to fit in just fine.”

Before they can say anything, a tall, bespectacled man bustles over and extends his hand. “Hello,” he says cheerfully. “You must be the new designers. Steve Wilson.”

“That’s us,” says Cory, shaking his hand. “I’m Cory Mullins and this is Ally Brady.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” Ally says. “So what do you do?”

“IT,” Steve says with a shrug. “It’s more interesting some days than others, but it’s necessary.”

“Definitely,” says Cory. “I thought about going into IT but I couldn’t handle all the dumb questions you must get all the time.”

“Oh, there are a lot of them,” Steve chuckles. “I do a lot of information security these days, and people can be dense.”

Ally laughs. “No kidding. But you seem like you have a pretty good sense of humor about it.”

“I try,” Steve says. “Did you just get here?”

Rosalind nods. “I haven’t exactly given them the grand tour yet,” she says, “but we had to drop off the wine they brought.”

“Good on you,” Steve chuckles. “We’ll need all the alcohol we can get. These people party like overambitious JV football players.”

Raising her eyebrows, Ally grins. “Well, that takes me back. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Gotta look out for the new kids,” Steve says amiably.

Rosalind leads them on to meet a few more people, and they spend a few minutes chatting with each of them amicably before moving on. Then she spots an imposing figure up ahead and her lip curls slightly before she can stop herself.

“Everything okay?” Ally asks, noticing her displeasure.

“Oh, yes,” Rosalind says. “No time like the present. Let me introduce you to Gideon Malick.”

A tall, balding white man wearing a too-expensive suit spots them and gives them what almost passes for a warm smile. “Ah, there you are,” he says to Rosalind. “I was wondering where you’d slipped off to.”

“Alright, go on,” Fitz says, gesturing for Bravo and Delta to make their way out of the art room. “Bedtime for good little girls and boys.”

“I am not little,” Bravo says, tilting his head, but he obediently follows Fitz out.

“No, you’re not,” Fitz agrees, looking up at the much taller man with a sight. “But it’s bedtime all the same, come on. To your sleeping pods, please. I’ve got things to do.”

Jemma notices this and hurries over with a much more patient smile, saying, “Getting enough sleep helps us be our best, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Delta agrees, making her way towards the sleeping rooms. 

Once they’re all tucked in, Fitz sighs in relief. “That’s the last thing, and I am officially off the clock for the day.”

“Excellent,” Jemma grins. “Barring any emergencies, so am I. Are we ordering takeaway? I’m feeling outstandingly unhealthy.”

“We can get whatever you want,” Fitz says, returning her grin. “Nobody’s checking up on us, I think it’s just us and Hunter here now.”

“Oh, perfect,” Jemma says, letting out a sigh of relief. “What’s that place that actually does the decent fish and chips? We should get from there.”

“Sounds good to me. I think the menu’s up in my office, c’mon.” He beckons for her to follow him upstairs. “It’s nice,” he adds, “being just the two of us.”

Jemma nods. “I’ve been bloody exhausted all week,” she says. “It feels like this is the first real break I’ve gotten.”

“Yes,” Fitz says, “but that’s not quite what I…” He sighs. “I meant, it’s nice to just be able to be around you and nobody else.”

“Oh.” Jemma blinks. She doesn’t like that she’s frustrated him, it’s not exactly like she wanted to. She just has a hard time telling exactly what he means sometimes. (She has this problem in general, but it always seems more dramatic when it’s with Fitz.) “I… I mean, I agree with that, too,” she finally manages to say. “You, ah, you understand me better than anyone else does. It feels right when we’re…” She trails off. She also has a hard time expressing what she means sometimes.

Fitz beams at her. “I think so too,” he says. “What d’you wanna do tonight?”

She lets out a little relieved giggle, glad she’s said the right thing. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” she admits. “We’re all caught up on our shows, aren’t we?”

“I think so, yeah. Too bad we don’t have the Doctor Who holiday special yet. Or we could play a game, maybe? I could boot up Lovers in a Dangerous Spacetime, you liked that one alright.”

“Oh, that one’s good, yeah,” Jemma agrees. She’s not nearly as much of a gamer as Fitz is, but she likes playing with him as long as the game isn’t too complicated or violent. His enthusiasm is contagious. “I’m not sure I’m any good at it, but if you don’t mind…”

“Ah, you’re fine,” he says encouragingly. “We only crashed that one time, and that was my fault, really. Anyway, it’s not about being good at it, it’s about having fun.”

Jemma flashes a self-deprecating smile. “You know being good at things is fun for me,” she says. “But that’s what practice is for.”

“Exactly!” he says, bounding the rest of the way up the stairs and rummaging in his desk for the menu they need. “D’you want anything else besides fish and chips? We could probably even pilfer some of Phil’s alcohol, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“Ooh, he’s got gin, doesn’t he?” she asks. “I don’t want to get drunk, but I think we both deserve a chance to get a bit buzzed.”

Fitz nods. “We definitely do. Let me call the order in and then I’ll go get the gin from his office.”

After a bit of waiting, they’ve settled in with their food and drinks and are chatting as they eat. “Y’know, I bet Phil won’t even notice that I did all this last-minute programming work before my vacation,” Fitz says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t think he realizes that this place would fall apart without you and me.”

Jemma wrinkles her nose, like she always does when this sort of thing is brought up. “I’m sure he knows,” she says. “It’d be hard to run a Dollhouse without anyone to get the Dolls ready, and he’s not daft enough to think anyone else could do what you do.”

“I just feel like people think I’m not that important,” sighs Fitz. “LIke they think all I do is do a bit of typing and then work the chair. And you, too,” he adds, pointing at Jemma. “I don’t think they recognize all you do around here either.”

“They may not understand the details of it, but that doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate it,” Jemma insists. “The only person I ever heard saying anything foolish like that was Quinn, and he’s… well.” 

“Oh, sure, but they’re all thinking it,” grumbles Fitz, taking a sip from his drink. “Just the mad scientist, puttering away in his lab.”

“Not hardly,” Jemma says, and she puts a hand on Fitz’s knee. “Phil respects you. Melinda tolerates you, which is more than a lot of the people here can say. I know you’re brilliant. If anyone else has a negative opinion, they don’t matter.” 

Fitz perks up at her touch. “Thanks,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sulk.”

“You know I don’t mind,” she replies, her expression earnest. “If you’re feeling low, I want to help. You always do with me.”

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “And like I said earlier, I don’t think you get enough credit around here either.”

She ducks her head, blushing. “Any doctor worth their degree could do what I’m doing,” she says. “It’s nothing special.”

“Yes, but you actually seem to like the Dolls,” Fitz points out. “You’ve got infinite patience for them, I’ve no idea how. It’s impressive.”

“I do like them!” Jemma says. “I can’t exactly have intellectual conversations with them, but nor could I with, I don’t know, children or animals. Not to say they’re either of those, but - they’re still sentient beings. They’re able to form attachments and display personalities, at least to some degree, and, I don’t know. They’re people, even if we don’t get to know most of their details.”

“I suppose,” Fitz says, still looking dubious. “Remember in school, when we used to say we’d change the world together? And now look at us. We’re really doing it.”

She cracks a smile, hoping it’ll encourage him to do the same. “I guess you’re right,” she says. She doesn’t go back to her own self-doubt, the fact that she knows she’s more replaceable than he is here, because she knows he knows it’s there but it doesn’t make good conversation. He’s trying to help, saying “we” and “us,” and she appreciates that. “I don’t think I’d ever imagined it being quite like this, though.”

“What d’you mean?” 

“We work for a company that reprograms human beings, Fitz,” Jemma says. “I grew up assuming I’d be, I don’t know, a surgeon or a professor or a marine biologist! Not working somewhere I can’t even explain to my parents.”

Fitz pouts a little. “But we’re part of something so much bigger than ourselves! Jemma, I’ve hacked the human brain! Isn’t that so much more important than teaching literature or studying dolphins or whatever?”

“Cuttlefish,” Jemma mutters, almost indistinguishable, before she shakes it off and says, “I didn’t say it wasn’t important. I think we do some truly revolutionary things here.” Not all of them good, but she doesn’t see the point of clarifying that. “I was just saying it’s not the kind of thing I so much as had the language to plan for.”

“Well, I think that’s the best part of all this,” Fitz insists. “The fact that we’re doing things most people couldn’t even dream of. It makes us special, Jemma.”

“I never said it didn’t,” she sighs. “I just… it’s a lot, some days.” She rubs at her neck absently and averts her gaze.

Fitz frowns. “You like it here, don’t you? With me?”

“Of course!” Jemma exclaims. “That’s not - I’m not expressing myself properly. I can’t imagine being anywhere else, or working this closely with anyone but you. I know we’re working to help people, and that’s so important!” She groans, clearly frustrated with herself, and finally she settles on saying, a little too bluntly, “There aren’t nearly this many weapons in hospitals or universities. I still don’t know if I’m adequately prepared for that.”

“Jemma, come on,” Fitz chuckles. “We don’t even have to deal with the weapons most of the time. We’re safe here.”

Jemma looks at him pointedly, like she can’t quite believe she would have to say it, and instead of mentioning the obvious (Yankee) she says, “It’s not even been a month since Quinn pointed a gun at us, and that’s only the most recent.”

“Ah,” says Fitz, wincing. “Fair point. But that was the first in a long time-”

Jemma sighs loudly. “No,” she says. “No, it really wasn’t.”

That makes Fitz sigh. “Fine. But what do you expect? You can’t be safe while you’re changing the world.”

“I know,” she moans, exasperated. “I’m not - I don’t…” She scrubs her hands over her face. “Don’t you ever think about it? We could’ve… I could’ve…”

Something passes across Fitz’s face, and he visibly softens. “Right,” he says, almost quietly, as if he’s talking to himself. “But we didn’t,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand awkwardly on her back. “We’re okay, you and me, aren’t we? After...everything.”

All at once, Jemma slumps against Fitz’s shoulder, feeling more vulnerable than she’d willingly let anyone else see her. “Sometimes I think we’re the only thing that makes sense,” she murmurs.

“Really?” Fitz asks. He puts his arm around her the rest of the way. “I - I feel the same way.”

Jemma nods. “All of this craziness, we’ve been through it together,” she says. “You’ve been there with me.”

“Every step of the way,” he agrees. “I’m not going anywhere, Jemma, I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

She sighs and snuggles closer to him, letting that speak for itself.

Cory’s found himself in a rare quiet moment, since most people seem to have chosen a couple of the bigger rooms to congregate in. Ally’s always been the more social of the two of them, and the one who’s better at talking to clients. She was in the middle of telling her favorite story from college, about the time she accidentally broke the school’s pool table, when he slipped out of the room. Now he’s just chilling in a hallway, close enough to hear the chatter but far enough that he can hear his own thoughts again.

He pulls out his phone for a second, just checking for any new texts (one of his group chats has a couple of memes in it, but nothing urgent). He’s not really paying attention to his surroundings very well, but why should he? It’s a party, and nobody’s around. 

At least, he thought so, until he hears some soft noises at the other end of the hallway.

He was really trying not to be a creep and wander around Ms. Price’s house, nice as it is. He knows that could end really badly for him. But those aren’t the kind of noises that could be explained by a bored animal, locked in a room. It’s definitely a person doing something. He turns on his phone’s audio recording app, just in case, and tiptoes down the hall towards the noise. 

There are a couple of closed doors, but whoever it is is clearly in the last door, that’s slightly ajar. Cory slips up to the door and carefully peeks in through the crack.

It’s an office, minimally decorated and clearly designed for maximum productivity rather than comfort or hominess. There’s a guy rummaging around in one of the desk drawers, and luckily Cory steps out of view before the guy spots him. Shit, what do I do now?

The guy’s not even really being quiet - he’s rustling papers, opening drawers with a minimum of caution. Maybe he figured nobody would be able to hear him all the way back here. But Cory did, and now he’s watching the guy...what, go through Ms. Price’s desk looking for something? 

Against his better judgment, Cory holds the phone up so that the audio of the guy rummaging around will be clearer. He’s muttering to himself, just stuff like “where is it, c’mon” and “bitch why can’t you just make this easy for us.” It’s not foolproof, but it’s weird enough that if Cory plays it for Ms. Price, she’d probably recognize it for the incredibly suspicious shit that it is. 

Finally the guy lets out a loud sigh. “Hey,” he says quietly, probably into a phone (Cory’s not about to check). “I couldn’t find the damn documents, but I got all her shit on a zip drive and I planted a couple bugs. I better get back out there.” There’s a few moments of silence before he growls, “Look, it’s not my fault this bitch doesn’t keep them where you’d think they’d be! Why don’t you...hey, I held up my end over here, you’d better deliver after this ‘cause - Fine. Whatever. I’ll drop it off tomorrow.” He’s quiet again. “Yeah, I don’t think she suspects anything. Tweedledee is out there flirting with some vendor she dug up, and Tweedledum was vamping over by the fireplace last I saw him.” More quiet. “There are like a dozen people who can vouch for them, it’s fine.”

Cory quickly tiptoes away from the open office door and towards the next closest door. He definitely doesn’t want to get caught by whoever this is. He just barely manages to open the new door and slip inside before the other guy storms past, grumbling to himself. Luckily, the guy seems too preoccupied with being angry at Ms. Price, his phone buddy, or both to notice that the door Cory is hiding behind isn’t quite closed. Cory counts to fifty before carefully opening the door and stepping out into the now-empty hallway. 

Now...he should go find Ms. Price and find a way to discreetly let her know what he heard. But what if she doesn’t believe him? He plays a few seconds of the audio recording, and it is clear enough to hear what the guy was saying, but maybe…maybe he’d better try to get some more evidence. The guy mentioned bugs - maybe he can get some pictures.

He steps into her office, careful not to disturb anything. He’s just looking for bugs, hoping to maybe get a picture. He turns on his phone’s flashlight and leans down to look under the desk top. “Wow,” he mutters, seeing a tiny bump tucked away in a corner. “Subtle.” He snaps a picture, checks to make sure it’s not too blurry, then goes to check the doorknob. Sure enough, there’s another one there too. There might be more, but he’s not about to move anything to find out. 

Then he gets the hell out of there, before someone finds him and starts to ask questions. 

As he’s walking back toward the party, he considers whether to try and find Ally first, or just go straight to Ms. Price. That question’s answered for him when he spots Ally, still talking with one of those Malick guys they were introduced to when they arrived. He doesn’t want to spend a second more around that guy than he has to, but he doesn’t want her to have to deal with him all alone either. He makes his way toward them.

“No, seriously, it cracked in half!” Ally says, enjoying the raucous laughter that follows the punchline of her story. “I don’t know how old that thing was, but seriously, I was not expecting that!”

“You must be stronger than you look,” says Nathaniel Malick, eyeing her appreciatively. He’s Gideon’s brother and a vice-something at the company; he may be a bit younger than Gideon, but he’s still too old to be looking at Ally that way.

Ally internally rolls her eyes but smiles, letting just a hint of disdain creep into her tone. “I guess I am, but also, I kind of feel like that pool table wasn’t gonna last that long anyway. I was, what, like, one thirty soaking wet? One college sophomore taking a flying leap onto a pool table shouldn’t be enough to crack it in half.”

Nathaniel seems to miss her attitude and just shrugs cheerfully. “Perhaps not,” he says. “I suppose art schools don’t have the same resources.”

“Maybe,” Ally says breezily, “or maybe they figured it was a game for old white guys so nobody was gonna use it anyway. That’s definitely how most of my friends felt about pool.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, but - maybe because he’s still sort of thinking he could score with her? - he lets it slide. “You seemed to find a way to enjoy yourself, anyway,” he says.

“Oh, sure,” she agrees. “I keep busy. And Cory and I don’t want freelancing to eat our entire lives, so we make sure to have set times when we’re not working.”

“That’s important,” Nathaniel says. At some point during this exchange, the others who were listening to Ally’s story have all drifted away, leaving the two of them, and he reaches out to touch her arm casually. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you.”

Oh, she hates this. But she’s also smart enough to know how to handle it, so she shifts her weight subtly so that she’s a tiny bit further out of reach and says, “I’d like to think so, yeah.” 

He doesn’t push it, not right away - this isn’t a new dance for him - and instead he takes a sip of his drink. “How did you come to be involved with our company, anyhow?” he asks.

“Ms. Price put out feelers for some graphic design vendors, and someone got our names to her, and I guess she liked what she saw.” Ally doesn’t bother to keep the hint of smugness out of her tone. “I kind of like her. She’s intimidating, but in a cool way.”

Nathaniel nods. “Is she the only thing tying you to us, then?”

“Well, I like the company in general,” says Ally with a shrug. “I think you’re doing something pretty neat, and I’m happy to contribute.”

“We’re happy to have you on board,” he replies. “Do you see it as a long-term position?”

She shrugs. “The reason we went freelance is I don’t see myself tied to any one company, but I’d definitely work with you guys again, yeah.”

“Because you’re interested in our mission?” he presses.

Nodding, she says, “Yeah. I think it’s so cool, how you guys are all about helping as many as you can through research. I’m not super familiar with medicine and healthcare as industries, but I know that’s not the case for a lot of companies involved in them.”

“You’re remarkably noble, aren’t you?” he asks, chuckling.

“Am I? I dunno, I guess so.” She laughs, a little uncomfortably. “Just trying to do the right thing, when I can.”

“It’s very admirable,” Nathaniel says, stepping just a bit closer again.

“Thanks,” she says, glancing as subtly as she can around for a possible exit. Cory slipped off awhile ago - it’s not shocking, he’s always been less social than her and he probably needed a minute alone. Maybe she can pretend to need to pee or something. “Obviously when I’m talking about the company I’m including you in that. You must be pretty noble yourself.”

“I try to do the right thing too,” he agrees, smiling (more with his mouth than his eyes).

“Well, that’s always good,” she says with another little laugh. “Helps, y’know.”

“Of course, in this industry especially, you have to remember that the ends justify the means,” he remarks.

She blinks. “Sometimes,” she says, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I’m not sure that’s always true, but sometimes, sure.”

“Life is full of complications,” he muses. “Best to focus on positive outcomes, no?”

“Sure.” She surreptitiously glances around again, and decides she’s past due for a quick escape. “Listen, this has been great, but I’m gonna go see if I can find Cory, alright? I’ll see you in a bit.”

As if by magic, Cory pops up in the doorway. “Hey!” he calls, waving at her. He looks nervous for some reason. “How goes it in here?”

“It’s okay,” she says, stepping away from Malick and towards her boyfriend. “Where’ve you been? You disappeared, and right in the middle of my pool table story.” She keeps her tone light, so Malick won’t suspect she’s freaked out at all. 

“C’mon, I’ve heard that story a hundred times,” he says, grabbing her hand. “Listen, uh, I got a text from Pete I need to show you.”

“Oh, totally.” Ally smiles at Malick. “Sorry, Pete’s our other roommate, I’d better see what’s going on.”

“Oh, go take care of it, don’t let me keep you,” Nathaniel says with another of those slightly insincere smiles.

They both step away and walk until they’re in an empty room. “What’s up?” Ally asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not really Pete, right?”

Cory shakes his head, glancing around before speaking softly. “I was taking a minute to myself and then I caught someone in Ms. Price’s office, planting bugs and looking for some papers. I dunno what, but he didn’t find whatever they were and he was pretty mad about it.”

“Shit!” yelps Ally. “That’s...bad. Fuck.”

“Uh huh.” Cory pulls out his phone. “I managed to get some audio of him in there, and some pics of the bugs. They’re not foolproof, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Oh my god, babe,” Ally says, stepping forward to hug him. “You’re okay, right? Like, he didn’t catch you?”

“Please,” he says with a grin (though it’s slightly wobbly). “You think I’d get caught by some dumbass incompetent lackey, you don’t know me at all.”

“Okay, okay, but what do we do now?”

“Here, you listen too,” he insists, pulling up the video. “It’s crazy.”

She listens, her eyes getting bigger and bigger. “We...we have to tell Ms. Price, right?’

He nods. “I dunno how we’ll get her away from everyone, but we’ve gotta try.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ally rubs at her face for a second, thinking. “Maybe if I tell her we’ve just had a crazy breakthrough with a new direction to take the project in, or something? It’s stupid, but it might work.”

Cory shrugs. “It’s better than nothing.”

A few minutes later, they track her down. She’s in the middle of a seemingly pretty intense game of team poker. “Shit,” Ally hisses when they pause in the doorway. “I dunno if this is gonna work.”

“Well, she seems to like you,” Cory points out. “What if you just said you needed to talk to her for a second?”

“I guess,” Ally says, starting to walk towards the table very hesitantly.

Ms. Price’s back is to the door, so she doesn’t see them waiting for her until Ally clears her through. “Um, Ms. Price?”

Rosalind glances up, tilting her head, and then she nudges Phil, who’s sitting at her left. “You hold down the fort, dear,” she says. “I need to look after my guests.”

“Oh, of course.” Phil winks at her. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

So reassured, she stands and glides over to Ally and Cory. “Does something need refilled?” she asks lightly.

“Not exactly,” Cory says. “Uh, we need to speak with you in private, if that’s alright. It’s urgent.”

Something inscrutable flickers across Rosalind’s face and she guides them out and down the hall to an unused sitting room. “Don’t tell me someone’s got alcohol poisoning again,” she says, and it seems like it might be a joke but then again it might not be.

“Not quite,” Ally says with a nervous chuckle. “Cory stepped away from the party to decompress for a minute and he overheard something you’ll want to hear about.”

Cory pulls up the audio clip on his phone. “I found someone going through your office looking for something. And there are bugs in there too, at least two. And he said he stole files off your computer.”

Rosalind listens to the audio with a blank expression, then folds her arms. “Did you get a look at the guy?” she asks.

“Just for a second. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me. But I have pictures of the bugs too.” Cory shows them to her. “I can send you the clip and pictures if you want ‘em. I could only find two, I didn’t wanna hang around too long in there or dig through anything.”

“Please do,” Rosalind says, clearly having to work to keep herself calm. “If you saw him, would you be able to identify him?”

“I’m not sure,” Cory says. “Sorry, it was pretty dark and I really only caught a glimpse. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, I think? Kinda tall, probably taller than me? White guy, brown hair. I don’t think that helps much.”

“It’s alright,” Rosalind assures him. “That’s only one of the ways we could identify him.” She sighs heavily. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” she adds, because even if she’s not (since that’s what she hired them to do) it’s the kind of thing you say to people. 

Cory shrugs. “I’m glad I was there to catch him, I guess. Seems like it could’ve been pretty bad for you if I wasn’t.”

Rosalind makes a face. “I don’t have any way to prove it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Tweedles in question were the Malicks,” she says.

“I figured the vendor he mentioned was me,” Ally says, making a face. “I was talking to Nathaniel Malick, mostly ‘cause I couldn’t figure out a way to get out of it and everybody else wandered off. And he was being super weird. First of all he was creepy, touching me and stuff, but second, he said something about how ‘the ends justify the means,’ especially in medical research. Oh, and he asked a couple of weird leading questions about whether I’d want to keep working with the company and if you, specifically, were the reason I wanted to.”

“Ugh,” Rosalind says, because at this point she doesn’t need to worry about being articulate, she can just be disgusted. “Well, that places him, but I’m sorry about that. I guess the pre-party harassment training wasn’t pointed enough.”

“Oh, that’s whatever,” Ally says, rolling her eyes. “I know how to handle myself with creeps. But he, uh, definitely mentioned you in a less-than-flattering context. I dunno, seems not great to me.”

“Nathaniel is the less subtle one of the Malick brothers,” Rosalind sighs. “I’m not surprised, especially in conjunction with Cory’s news.”

Ally winces. “Sorry to interrupt your party with shitty news. Uh, can we do anything to...help…?”

“Actually, wait here while I go get Phil,” Rosalind says. “I think he needs to hear this too.” She ducks out of the room.

A couple minutes later she returns with Phil, who’s looking worried. “Rosalind says you found something concerning,” he says. “Show it to me.”

After explaining and playing him the audio, he looks very pale. “What are you thinking?” he asks Rosalind. “I have a couple of ideas for how to handle this, but it’s your call.”

“Well, I’m not going to bother with cops,” Rosalind replies, rolling her eyes. “They’re not going to be any help. I hope that wasn’t one of your ideas.”

He laughs, but not like anything is really funny. “Of course not. But surely you could go to the board of directors with this.”

“It’s an option,” she says - not as a yes or a no. “I don’t know how many of them would be in on whatever this is, though.”

“Oh, good point.” He thinks a minute. “I don’t suppose public shaming would do?”

“It would only fan the flames, I’m afraid,” Rosalind sighs. “Especially without more evidence connecting the vague threats and the actual illegal activity.”

“There’s gotta be something!” Ally protests. “If they’re bugging your office and trying to take stuff out of it, they’re probably planning something worse.”

“Probably,” Rosalind says grimly, “but I don’t have hard proof that the Malicks sent the guy into my office, or that they’re doing anything more than venting about a coworker. Yet.”

“You want us to go back in and remove the bugs?” Cory asks. “Ally and I are pretty handy with pocket knives and stuff, I bet we could get ‘em off without any damage to the furniture.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Rosalind demurs. (She knows they’ll insist.)

Ally grins. “But you’re not asking, we’re offering.”

“It’s seriously the least we can do,” Cory says.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Phil agrees. “We should get back to the poker game, if you’re comfortable with that. Keep up appearances and whatnot.”

“Alright,” Rosalind says. “Then maybe I’ll see if Gideon wants to handle this civilly.”

Hunter kind of loves the Dollhouse late at night. 

He wouldn’t admit that to anyone, of course - what weirdo would actually enjoy staying late at their workplace? But here it is, almost ten PM, and everything is gloriously quiet and all he has to do is wander through the building every few minutes making sure nobody’s stealing anything and no Dolls start sleepwalking. Plus he’s getting time and a half because it’s technically a holiday, so sweet deal for him. He’s not technically supposed to have headphones in, but hell, who’s gonna even notice? 

He’s walking along, humming to the song that’s playing, when suddenly he passes the little alcove under Fitz’s office where he keeps his TV and couch. Not unusual, he passed Fitz’s office once already on an earlier round, but it was empty then. Now Fitz and Simmons are sitting on the couch, and-

Hunter pauses. As subtly as he can, he backs up so that he can get a better look at whatever is going on in there. The door is closed, but the walls are glass, so it’s not like he’s really spying, right? 

Anyway, Fitz and Simmons are sitting in there, on the couch. Sitting very close together. Their heads aren’t quite touching, but they’re talking quietly. Fitz is looking at Simmons very seriously, and he has his arm around her. Hunter watches for a long moment. They haven’t noticed him; they’re too wrapped up in each other. Then, Fitz leans in even closer and at that point Hunter’s sense kicks in and he turns away. He’ll leave the nerds to, well, whatever nerds get up to in private. 

He’s coming back downstairs when he suddenly hears voices ahead of him. He’s so startled he actually jumps a little, which is embarrassing and he hopes the security cameras didn’t catch that. But he quickly composes himself and squares his shoulders, putting his hand on the taser they’ve given him and striding forward confidently.

Whoever he was expecting to be around the corner, it really wasn’t Tango and Foxtrot, holding hands and dressed in their regular yoga-esque outfits. “Jesus Christ!” he hisses. “You two scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Is it Jesus or bejesus?” Foxtrot asks innocently.

“Who is Jesus?” Tango asks at the same time.

Hunter sighs. “Never mind. What are you two doin’ up so late? I thought they got all of you to bed already.”

“We went swimming, and then we had to shower,” Tango explains.

“I like swimming after dinner,” Foxtrot adds. “The pool is not busy.”

“What are you holding?” Tango asks Hunter, blinking at the taser. “Is it a toy?”

Hunter glances down at it. “Nope,” he says, quickly putting it back in its holster. “Definitely not a toy. And not for you guys. Only security gets these. It’s to stop anyone who isn’t supposed to be in here.”

“Oh,” Foxtrot says. “Like bad men.”

Tango laughs. “We are not bad men, Hunter!”

Hunter has to stifle a laugh at that. “Nope, you lot are neither bad nor men.” He glances down at their still-clasped hands before deciding that this is extremely above his paygrade and he doesn’t want to try to explain why holding hands isn’t acceptable. For all he knows, Foxtrot tripped and Tango helped her up, and they’re just too thick to realize they haven’t let go. “Listen, it’s past your bedtime, yeah? Lemme get you two to your sleep pods.”

“What were you looking at?” Foxtrot asks, glancing up toward Fitz’s office. “Was someone having a treatment?”

“I enjoy my treatments,” Tango says.

Hunter shakes his head. “Nope, Fitz just left his TV for a minute. It’s sort of like paintings, but they move.”

“Dr. Fitz and Dr. Simmons are sitting very close together up there,” Tango remarks.

“I guess they are,” Hunter says, gently waving his arms to encourage them to head in the other direction. “They’re good friends.” He doesn’t feel like explaining the situation to these guys, who couldn’t possibly comprehend it anyway.

“Friends help each other out,” Foxtrot says. “Are they helping each other?”

“Dr. Simmons has a funny look on her face,” Tango adds.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Hunter says, because he really doesn’t want to explain what he assumes is horniness to these two. “C’mon, I think it’s time for the two of you to head for bed. Gotta get your beauty sleep.”

“Tango is already beautiful,” Foxtrot says, but she nods.

“Foxtrot is also beautiful,” Tango says, not to be outdone.

Oh, he’s really not dealing with this. “Well, anyway, sleeping helps you be your best,” he insists, and herds them back toward the sleep pods. 

Finally he’s managed to get them down for the night (and, once again, confirmed his desire to never ever have kids). He heads for Melinda’s office, because he’d better head off any accusations of sloppy guardsmanship off at the pass and just let her know he found them. 

She’s still in there, just like he knew she would be. (She’d never admit, and he won’t say, that it’s because Phil’s at a party with his ex.) She’s watching Charlie and Romeo’s vitals and idly doing a crossword puzzle. “Hey,” she says, not looking at him. “Need something?”

“Just wanted to let you know that I found Tango and Foxtrot coming back from the pool a few minutes ago. Which isn’t my fault, ‘cause I was told all the Dolls were asleep.”

Melinda rolls her eyes at his defensiveness. “As long as you took care of it, it’s fine.”

“Oh yeah. Got the precious little lambs off to beddy-bye.” Hunter pauses, then, because he’s more of a gossip than he’d like to admit, he adds, “I also saw something pretty interesting in Fitz’s office.”

“Oh?” Melinda doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s interesting at all.

“Yeah. Apparently our resident nerds are having a bit of a romantic evening.” Hunter waggles his eyebrows suggestively, but it doesn’t work, because she’s still not looking at him.

“And by nerds you mean Fitz and Simmons?”

“‘Course, who else would I mean? Anyway. I saw them gettin’ real cozy on the couch, if you catch my drift.”

Melinda makes a little hm noise. “I’ve been aware of the situation for awhile, but thanks for the update.”

Hunter pouts, sort of joking but also not. He can’t tell whether she’s scandalized, intrigued, or even the slightest bit perturbed by this. “How was I supposed to know that? Nobody tells me anything in this bloody place!”

“You know what you need to know,” Melinda says evenly. “Anything else to report?”

“Tango and Foxtrot were holding hands,” he says, a bit sulkily. “I thought Simmons said they got all that out of their systems.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow. “Do you get people out of your system so quickly?”

“Don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” he mumbles.

“I’m not worried about holding hands,” Melinda continues. “That’s not too abnormal for Dolls. Let me know if you see them escalating the behavior in any way, but for now, don’t panic.”

“Just trying to keep people informed,” he says. It’s a little over the line, but luckily she lets it slide.

After they’ve disabled the two bugs that Cory found, and uncovered and disabled another three (the mystery guy seemed more interested in leaving a lot of them than in hiding them very well), Ally texts Phil the agreed-upon signal: Hey, are you free next Saturday? Thinking about having an informal Christmas get-together. He’s put her number in his phone as “Greg” so as to throw off suspicion if anybody happens to notice the notification pop up on his phone. 

This, of course, is the signal for Rosalind and Phil to get out of the poker game and go find Malick to confront him. Ally will run into her just long enough to give her one of the bugs that she can present as proof, along with the recording and the photos. Ally and Cory are supposed to mostly stay out of the way, but they’re absolutely planning on staying close in case something happens. “I dunno what we’ll do if something happens,” says Cory with a shrug, “but that guy seems like bad news and I don’t feel right just hanging around somewhere else while shit goes down.”

As planned, Rosalind and Phil leave the game, Rosalind holding Phil’s hand a little too tightly. (She’s kind of hoping it seems like they want to go have a quickie.) Ally brushes by her, right on time, careful to kind of trip into Rosalind so that it’ll just look like she tripped. Rosalind uses her unoccupied hand to help steady her, and their hands brush quickly enough to transfer the bug.

“Here goes nothing,” Rosalind murmurs to Phil.

Phil squeezes her hand. “I’m right here.”

They find Gideon chatting up a pretty receptionist near the bar - perfect, it’s a public enough room that he won’t do anything rash - and Rosalind’s eyes narrow as she approaches him. “Oh, hello,” Gideon says to her, raising both eyebrows. “Playtime’s over for me, I’m afraid,” he says to the receptionist, with a condescending smile. “I’ll catch you later.” The receptionist, looking relieved at the interruption, makes herself scarce. “Did you need something, Rosalind?” he asks. 

She resists the urge to roll her eyes as she leans in very close and shows him the bug. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gideon chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is that, some kind of gadget?”

“It’s one of several bugs we just pried up after one of your dumbasses planted them in my home office,” Rosalind says, flashing a saccharine smile.

Gideon raises both eyebrows. “Someone went into your home office? Oh my.”

“You’re awfully coy,” Rosalind says. She’s still smiling, but mostly so onlookers won’t realize what kind of conversation they’re having.

“Am I?” He’s smiling back. “Careful, Rosalind. You wouldn’t want to go around making unfounded accusations. Things could get very messy indeed.”

“Not unfounded,” Phil says, too mildly. “We have evidence that you and Nathaniel were involved in an attempt to oust Rosalind from the company.”

“Not to mention the board members I’ve spoken to who will go on record to say you paid them to vote against my proposition to offer PTO for significant Jewish holidays,” Rosalind adds.

Gideon makes a face like he’s been wounded. “That’s quite an accusation. What reason would I have to do that?”

“You don’t exactly keep your political leanings a secret,” Rosalind says flatly.

Gideon’s expression shifts, ever so slightly. He opens his mouth as if to respond, and then turns and walks away without another word. 

“Um,” Phil says, blinking. “Should I...go after him, make sure he doesn’t try to steal your fine china or something?”

“He’d never deign to touch it,” Rosalind says. 

“Wow,” Ally says, popping out from where she and Cory were lurking nearby. “That was badass! I mean, uh, really cool,” she adds quickly, in case Rosalind doesn’t think swearing is professional.

Rosalind smiles to show it’s alright. “Thank you,” she says. “Weren’t you two supposed to make yourselves scarce?” She doesn’t sound angry, though.

“We wanted to make sure you had some backup in case things got bad,” Cory says. “But you obviously didn’t need it.”

“She’s pretty capable,” Phil says, giving Rosalind a fond smile.

Rosalind returns it, saying, “I guess we just wait for Monday morning to see how this all plays out now.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Phil says, pocketing his cell again. “Apparently the Malicks didn’t show up at work this morning and their offices were mysteriously cleaned out. The company legally has to try and get formal resignations from them, of course, but Ros says she won’t have to handle that at all.”

Melinda’s expression doesn’t change. “Glad that’s sorted out.”

“Me too,” he says, shaking his head. “I guess I shouldn’t be shocked when people have terrible opinions, but she never told me they were actively being bigoted.”

Melinda snorts. “You couldn’t smell it all over them the second you saw them?”

“I don’t have the keen bullshit detector you do,” he teases. 

“That’s true,” she says, and it’s fond rather than scathing. “Speaking of bullshit, this reading you’re having me doing...why?”

“Because it’s Christmas Eve and I think it’d be a nice thing to do,” he says with a shrug. 

“But why me?”

“You have a nice voice.”

She rolls her eyes. “So do you.”

“I don’t have storybook voice,” he counters. “C’mon, it’ll be fifteen minutes and then we can pretend it never happened. They won’t remember it.”

“If literally anyone else asked me to do this, I’d flatten them. I hope you know that.”

He shoots her an affectionate smile. “I do.” 

They make their way downstairs, where the Dolls are gathered in the dining room decorating gingerbread cookies with icing and small bowls of candy. Most of them are taking it very seriously and there’s hardly any talking. “Hello, everyone,” Phil calls, waving to get their attention. Twenty four pairs of eyes look up at him curiously. “I’ve brought you a special treat. Melinda is going to read you a story while you decorate your cookies.”

“I like stories,” says Delta.

“What’s the story about?” asks Mike. 

“It’s about a man who was mean, and he learns not to be mean anymore,” Phil says. “You’ll find out how.”

“It is bad to be mean,” Foxtrot remarks, poking her tongue out of her mouth as she draws a crooked face on her gingerbread man.

“Yes,” Melinda agrees, parking herself in the nearest chair and holding up the picture book Phil handed her. She opens to the first page, careful to keep her face neutral. “Jacob Marley was dead as a doornail,” she begins. “He died on Christmas Eve and nobody noticed.”

Tango raises her hand patiently until Phil nods to her. “What is a doornail?” she asks. “And how can it be dead? Doors and nails are not alive.”

Melinda closes her eyes for a second and counts to five. “When you hammer nails into a door, you bend the sharp end into the wood so it won’t stick out. They call that dead.”

“Oh,” Tango says. “Thank you for explaining.”

Melinda nods and continues reading. “He was not expected at any Christmas parties. He had not invited anybody to his house. He had no friends and cared for nothing but his money. The only person who went to his funeral, although he did not cry a tear, was his business partner Ebenezer Scrooge.”

“Is this a sad story?” Charlie asks. “It has a sad beginning.”

Melinda takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you listen and find out,” she says, only a little through her teeth.

The story continues, with more interruptions than Melinda would like, and once it’s done Charlie looks around and notices Dr. Simmons and Dr. Fitz sitting at a table by themselves, with no cookies in front of them. She gets up and goes over to them, holding one of her cookies. “Hi, Dr. Simmons,” she says. “Did you like the story? I liked it, even though it was sad at the beginning.”

Dr. Simmons blinks several times, but then she smiles. “It does have a happy ending, doesn’t it? That’s always nice.”

“Yes. Don’t you like cookies? You and Dr. Fitz don’t have any cookies.”

“I just hadn’t gotten any yet,” Dr. Simmons says. “I wanted to let you all have your fill first.”

“Here,” Charlie says, handing her the one she’s holding. “This one can be yours.”

Dr. Fitz squawks in protest. “What about me?”

“There are lots of other cookies,” Charlie says. “I wanted to give this one to Dr. Simmons.”

“That’s very kind of you, Charlie,” Dr. Simmons says. She takes a bite of the cookie and smiles again. “It’s delicious, thank you.”

Charlie nods. “You looked like you needed a cookie.”

Dr. Simmons blinks again, even more times. “Thank you,” she says again, her voice soft.

“Friends help each other out,” Charlie says with a smile.

Chapter Text

“-and the prince sliced through all the thorny vines around the castle, until he could open the door. He ran up the stairs until he got to the room with the spinning wheel and the sleeping princess. When he saw Sleeping Beauty, he thought she was so beautiful that he fell in love with her. He leaned down to give her a kiss.” Stacie pauses to let the mixed chorus of groans and squeals of delight ripple through the kids, then continues. “And when his lips touched hers, something magical happened!  She opened her eyes and smiled at him! True love’s kiss had broken the spell. Right away the vines disappeared and everyone else in the kingdom woke up too. The king and queen were so happy to have their daughter back. Sleeping Beauty and her prince got married and lived happily ever after.” Stacie closes the book. “So what did you guys think of that story?”

Robin, who is six and very opinionated, raises her hand. Stacie nods and she says, brow furrowed, “I didn’t think it was very realistic.” She says the last word slowly, like she’s not used to saying it.

“Oh yeah?” Stacie raises an eyebrow and smiles. “What do you mean by that?”

“Why did the prince kissing her wake her up? How did he know to come get her if everybody else was asleep too? Why was it a magic spinning wheel? Why did he fall in love with her if he just met her?”

Stacie bites back a sigh. She’s been doing storytime for this group of kindergartners for a few weeks now, and Robin is one of those kids who is both hilarious and exasperating all at once. She’s what is often charitably called “quirky” (and uncharitably called “weird”) and has the makings of a budding literary critic, with how many questions she has after each story. But Stacie knows she’s just smart and curious and she doesn’t want to discourage that, so she gears up for yet another round of interrogation. 

“The prince’s kiss woke her up because it was true love’s kiss,” she explains. “In the story, it’s very powerful magic, more powerful than the evil witch. I guess maybe he knew to come rescue the princess because someone from outside the kingdom told him she was trapped in the castle. He fell in love with her because she was beautiful and he wanted to help her. It seems silly, but sometimes people do fall in love very quickly like that.” She shrugs. “And it was a magic spinning wheel because, well, I guess they have a lot of spinning wheels in castles.”

“That’s dumb,” Robin says. “Magic’s not real, and true love’s kiss isn’t magic. Kissing is just gross grown-up stuff. And my daddy said nobody really falls in love at first sight, they just think they are but then they grow out of it.”

“Well, I think your daddy is right most of the time,” Stacie said. “But in this story, true love’s kiss is very powerful magic, and magic is real. Alright?”

Robin sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I still don’t think it makes any sense.”

“I think it was a nice story,” says Ace, who hates conflict. “Thank you for reading it to us, Ms. Stacie.”

“You’re welcome, Ace,” says Stacie, smiling at him. “Anyway, Robin, you tell your daddy I think he’s a very smart man, okay?”

“I can’t,” Robin says, suddenly looking very sad. “He’s dead.”

“Oh dear.” Stacie looks frantically at their regular teacher, whose eyes have gone wide but who seems not to want to interrupt, and quickly tries to do damage control. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Robin. I’m sure he was a very smart man, and you’re a very smart girl, okay?”

“Okay,” says Robin, swiping at her eyes like she’s trying not to cry. “Sorry I said your story was dumb.”

“Thank you. And now I think it’s time for a craft, right?” Stacie tries to communicate help me to Mr. Cook, who nods and says, “Say thank you to Ms. Stacie for storytime, kids,” and herds them away after the chorus of thank yous. 

Stacie notices Robin hanging back, though, and goes over to kneel down. “Hey, Robin,” she says. “Do you wanna do crafts with the others?”

Robin looks up at her, looking uncertain. “I guess so,” she says. “Um. Do you wanna stay and do crafts with me?”

“You know what, sure,” Stacie says. “Let’s go see what craft Mr. Cook has planned for us.” She follows Robin to the craft tables, detouring to explain quietly to Mr. Cook what’s going on. He nods and starts explaining the paper flowers craft they’ll be working on today. 

“So who exactly keeps hiring us for storytime with Charlie?” Mack asks, as the chair leans her back to wipe her. “I’m sure not complaining about more low-risk missions, but it doesn’t seem like our wheelhouse.”

Fitz, absentmindedly running the procedure, waves his hand at Jemma. “It was her idea.”

She looks up from her tablet, vaguely startled. “I just thought - well, I thought it would be nice,” she says. “For you, and Charlie for that matter, to have a bit of a break, but also because, ah, the girl - Robin - her father likely wouldn’t have been…” She trails off, wincing. “Well. It wouldn’t have happened, if not for us.”

“Oh, right.” Mack grimaces. “Our benevolent overlords can’t make everyone think it was an accident, I guess.”

“It was an unfortunate accident that was beyond our control,” Fitz says, sounding a little robotic.

“Whatever it was, it was directly related to the Dollhouse,” Jemma murmurs. “It’s the least we can do, to provide his daughter a bit of… covert therapy.”

Mack shrugs. “I guess I can’t argue with that.” As Charlie sits up, he switches back to handler mode flawlessly. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Charlie obediently says, getting out of the chair and walking out of the room. 

Jemma glances at Charlie, then Fitz, then Mack, then back to Fitz, before shaking her head (there’s something about his expression that she doesn’t like) and saying, “I should go look her over.”

“What d’you think might have happened to her, physically?” Fitz asks, furrowing his brow. “She was sitting down and reading, and then she was cutting up tissue paper and gluing it to pipe cleaners. The worst thing that might have happened is a paper cut.”

She’s already up and heading for the stairs as she says, voice strained, “If she got a cut, I’d rather know about it now than if she accidentally opens it and starts bleeding in front of the other Dolls.” And with that, she’s out of earshot.

Fitz stares after her for a second, utterly baffled, before shaking his head. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was the handler and not you,” he jokes to Mack. 

“She’s showing appropriate concern, because that’s her job,” says Mack. “Shouldn’t you be too?”

Fitz huffs. “No need to get snippy. I mean, this was about as low-risk a mission as you can get.”

“I know what you meant. I’m just saying, no need to get weird about her doing her job differently than you would. You guys don’t have to have the same opinion all the time,” Mack teases. 

“I know that.” Fitz sounds more annoyed by this than anything else Mack has said.

They’re in Robbie’s kitchen, practically stepping on each other as he’s teaching Emily how to make sopapillas. He’s showing her how to knead the dough to get it as smooth as possible when he feels her stiffen beside him. “Hey, you alright?” he asks, turning to glance at her.

“I have a message for you,” Emily says flatly. “From the Dollhouse.”

Robbie’s so shocked he forgets to breathe for a second. “What?”

“From the Dollhouse,” Emily repeats. “You have to find a way to get in. There’s something very, very bad happening.”

“What is it? What can you tell me?”

“You need to get in,” she insists. “I don’t know every detail. This imprint was altered before the worst of it happened, but this protocol wouldn’t have been triggered if it didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” says Robbie, trying to remain calm. “Your real name isn’t Emily, is it? How do I find you in there?”

“No,” she says. “Find a way to follow me. If you’re smart about it, I might lead you there.”

“What does that mean?”

Suddenly, Emily - or whatever her name is - shakes her head and blinks at him innocently. “Robbie?” she asks. “Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”

“I…” He just stares at her for a minute. “You…” He shakes his head, not sure whether he maybe hallucinated whatever that was. But why would he have? He’s never hallucinated anything before, and it was both too vague and too specific to be something out of his own head. “Nothing,” he says quickly, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “You’re doing great, knead it for another minute or so and then you’ll be ready for the next part.”

While she does, he takes a deep breath, trying not to seem suspicious. If what he just saw was real, then not only is Stella involved in whatever is going on, but so is Emily, or whatever her real name is. But she doesn’t know she’s involved, which gives him the major creeps. If she’s been brainwashed or programmed or whatever to be here with him, then is anything about her real? And if she’s not real, how can he act like everything’s normal when he could be the one putting her in more danger?

He tries to finish up the baking lesson, but she notices he’s distracted, of course. “Something’s up,” she says, frowning. “I can tell. You have that little -” She pauses and motions to the furrow between his eyebrows.

“What?” He blinks at her. He can’t unsee the way she looked at him earlier.

“You’re worrying about something,” she insists. “Is it Gabe? He’s doing okay, right?”

“He’s fine.” Robbie swallows. “Uh, I was just thinking…” He trails off, not sure what to say next. ...that you might secretly be a Dollhouse agent? That you might be a robot? That you’re in some kind of danger and you don’t even know it? Finally he coughs and finishes, “...I think you should go.” The words feel like stones falling from his mouth. But if she’s with the Dollhouse, then staying with him will only be more dangerous for her, and if she doesn’t even know she’s with the Dollhouse, then how can he make her stay with him?

She falters. “I… did I do something wrong?”

“No!” It comes out more forceful than he means to, and he curses himself before saying more softly, “No, it’s not you. I just think it would be better if you left. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asks, tears starting to well in her eyes. “I don’t - I thought -”

“You thought wrong.” He forces the words out through gritted teeth, because if he opens his mouth any more all that will come out are sobs. “Have a good life, Emily. Go find someone better than me.”

She stares at him for a long moment, like she’s waiting for him to say this was all a sick joke, and then she turns on her heel, grabs her bag, and runs out the door.

He waits for a minute, and then slips out of the house and starts up Lucy, keeping enough of a distance between them that she hopefully won’t notice either him or the car. If he’s swiping at his eyes while he drives, so what?

Maybe if she was really a spy, a good one, she’d realize he’s following her, but she doesn’t show any signs of it. Instead, she just walks and walks and cries so furiously she startles the few people she passes. She doesn’t seem to be going in any particular direction; she’s just sort of going. 

Finally, though, she wanders onto a bridge and stops at the highest point. It’s not high, compared to some of the ones in the city, but it’s over a fairly busy road, and she looks down, like she’s genuinely considering falling off of it.

Robbie feels like he’s watching the world’s worst movie. He pulls over the first chance he gets, and leaps out of the car when it’s barely in park, barreling towards Emily as fast as he can run. But he’s too far away; he won’t make it. “Emily!” he yells. “Emily!”

She doesn’t turn around. And then, to his utter shock, a black van pulls up behind her and a woman gets out. She goes over to Emily and says something to her, and then they both get into the van and drive away.

He races back to his car and heads after them. Luckily there isn’t heavy traffic on the road, so he’s able to tail the van pretty effectively. It heads towards downtown, and then finally turns into a nondescript parking garage attached to an equally nondescript office building. 

“What?” He turns into the garage to try and follow them, but there are a bunch of signs warning him that it’s permit-only parking. He’s planning to risk the ticket to stay on their tail, but by sheer shitty luck one of the parking cops is patrolling the garage and catches him pulling into a spot. One very loud and aggressive conversation later, he leaves the garage and hunts for nearby street parking. There’s no way he’ll be able to catch up to Emily and the strange woman, but maybe he can figure out where they went by snooping around. 

Finally, he manages to dodge the parking cop and sneak into the elevator. Which he then spends several minutes standing in, deliberating what to do next, because only half of the floors are labeled and most of them that he tries require keycards to even get to. 

He finally ends up finding an unlocked floor, but that’s a dead end. It’s just a bank, and the confused teller at the front desk has no idea what he’s talking about when he describes Emily. Finally he admits defeat and leaves, taking note of the address. He’ll be back.

“See?” Fitz says as he starts the wipe. “All’s well that ends well.”

Melinda’s glaring at him. “She almost ended, period. That’s not acceptable.”

Behind Fitz’s back, Callie makes a face and hopes Melinda will notice. She can’t really help it.

“It’s not as if I meant to make her prone to suicide,” grumbles Fitz. “How was I to know that’s how she’d react?”

Melinda shakes her head (and makes a note of Callie’s clear distaste for his response, which in a less high-stakes situation would amuse her). “You made her emotionally volatile, didn’t you?”

“I thought she’d just write some bad poetry about it!” Fitz protests. He clams up when India sits up, her expression neutral. 

“You’re loud today,” she observes, tilting her head.

“Yes, thank you, India,” he growls, rubbing his temple. “Go on, go paint a bird or whatever.”

“No, India, please go wait in Dr. Simmons’ office,” Melinda says. “She wants to see you now.”

“Actually,” Jemma exclaims, popping her head through the door, “it’s going to be a bit, Mr. Coulson has requested a meeting.” She smiles at India and says, “If you’d like, you can go have a massage. I’ll come find you.”

“All right,” India says, returning the smile as she gets out of the chair. “I like massages. Enjoy your meeting.”

Jemma waves, then watches India go before she turns back to the others. “It’s, ah, unfortunately it’s urgent,” she says, fussing with her sleeves. “We need to head up as soon as possible, he’s - he’s gotten word about, ah, about…”

Melinda’s mouth goes very tight. She recognizes that behavior from Jemma; she doesn’t need to hear anymore. “Let’s go.”

Fitz furrows his brow and trots after them, but he nudges Jemma as they’re walking. “What’s all this about?” he murmurs. “You’re pretty rattled, is everything alright?”

Melinda’s the one who answers, even though he was trying to be quiet. “It isn’t,” she says flatly. “It has to do with Yankee.”

“Oh,” Fitz yelps. “Shit!” He stays quiet the rest of the way to Phil’s office.

They’re the last to arrive; Lance, Mack, and Victoria are already hovering around Phil’s desk uneasily. “Good,” Jemma murmurs, clearly self-soothing, “good, all hands on deck, good.”

“Hi everyone.” Phil nods a greeting as they enter the room. “I’ll keep this short: we have intel that Yankee may have surfaced in Tuscon. There’s been reports of bodies recovered from meat lockers, walk-in freezers, and -”

“We get it,” Melinda interrupts. She steps a bit closer to Jemma (who’s wrapped her arms around herself nervously). “No need to go over the details.”

“Actually, I don’t have a damn idea what’s going on,” Lance says, raising a finger. “What’s all this about bodies in freezers? I mean, I was here for the initial incident, but I missed hearing about all this rubbish.”

“That’s why I was briefing you all,” Phil says, with an apologetic look at Melinda (who is just stone-faced). “Yankee, legally Donald Gill, was a former serial killer who the Dollhouse recruited four years ago. He had been held in USP ADX Florence in solitary confinement on six life sentences, after murdering four people and abducting and torturing three others. He used a…unique method of killing, typically abduction followed by stabbing and leaving them in a large freezer to either bleed or freeze to death. Higher-ups thought if we could make some progress with him here, it might be the start of a rehabilitation program for some incarcerated people…unfortunately, it eventually went south, as you all know.”

“Kind of seems like you should’ve programmed the crazy out of him for good before you started sending him out,” Victoria mutters. “But hey, I’m not corporate. What do I know?”

“Well, we had!” Fitz protests, causing everyone to turn and look at him. “He was perfectly fine for years! It literally changed overnight. I can show you the brain scans if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t think that would be the most productive use of our time,” Victoria says archly, glancing back at Phil as if to suggest that the grown-ups finish talking.

Phil coughs pointedly and nods his thanks to her. “Due to unforeseen circumstances, at some point within the past year and a half Yankee’s tabula rasa resets started failing. As near as we could tell, his imprints had been tampered with and altered in ways Fitz couldn’t determine, and this caused him to, well, glitch. Then about a year ago, this culminated in the violent incident you’re all aware of, during which he attacked several people in the Dollhouse, before attempting to flee the premises.”

Jemma winces and averts her eyes, then starts gently rocking forward and backward. It’s a small enough movement that the others might not notice; it’s possible she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it herself. But Melinda notices, and surreptitiously reaches to place a hand on Jemma’s shoulder. She leaves it there as Phil keeps talking.

“We were able to subdue him and bring him in for a diagnostic scan. Unfortunately, due to an…unavoidable error, our attempts to fully wipe him in preparation for the Attic resulted in uploading all the existing Yankee imprints to his brain instead. We were unable to stop this, and afterwards he used violence to escape.”

“That’s the last time I try to make the imprint room homey with a potted plant,” Fitz winces, rubbing his head. 

“Glad we’re adding to the ‘serial killer with split personalities’ trope,” Victoria scoffs.

“It’s not split personalities,” Fitz chimes in, looking annoyed. “It’s all of the personalities, at once. Y’know how in Lord of the Rings, Gollum and Sméagol switch back and forth at the drop of a hat and talk to each other and stuff? It’s more like that than actual dissociative personality disorder.”

“Cold comfort,” Victoria snarks.

Mack’s been quiet, but he steps forward to say, “So what exactly is our plan, moving forward? I don’t love the idea of this guy roaming around killing people, but it seems like a bad idea to drop in on him.”

“Our first priority is heightening security protocols,” Phil says. “That might mean fewer engagements for a short time, or known and trusted clients only. We can’t risk Yankee getting access to the Actives or the Dollhouse. Melinda and Hunter, I’ll need to speak with you two about that after this meeting.”

Hunter sighs. “Right. Whatever you need, boss.”

Melinda narrows her eyes. “What’s the priority under that one?”

“Well, I don’t want to risk jumping at shadows. I’d like to send a small team out to Tuscon to scope out the situation there, and see if this really is Yankee or just an aspiring fanboy.”

“A small team.” Mack crosses his arms. “Why do I get the feeling you mean Charlie, again?”

“Given that Charlie was one of the people he tried to hurt the first time,” Jemma says, a little too quietly, “I don’t think that would be very prudent, would it?”

Melinda, after giving Jemma an appraising look, meets eyes with Phil and nods.

“I hadn’t actually considered who would be going, yet,” Phil says, although it’s obvious to everyone that he had, in fact, been thinking of Charlie. “We’ll have to discuss that later. For now, unless anyone has any questions, I think we’re done here.”

As everyone but Melinda and Hunter leave Phil’s office, Fitz makes his way over to walk next to Jemma. “Don’t worry,” he says, sounding overly chipper. “They’ll make sure everything’s alright in the end. We’ll be alright.”

Jemma shoots him a look and just says, “India is waiting for me. I’ll see you at lunch.” Before he can reply, she takes off toward the elevator.

Over the next week, Robbie spends every spare minute trying to figure out what he’s going to do about Emily and the Dollhouse. The Dollhouse is an urban legend that’s been whispered about in Los Angeles since before he was born: fringe conspiracy theorists shout about it on talk radio, middle schoolers tell edgy stories about it to freak each other out, and every now and then you run into a guy who swears his third cousin was sent there and came back “different.” Robbie’s heard a lot about it over the years. At its essence it’s designed to freak out as many types of people as possible: a top-secret organization taking people and doing shadowy experiments on them, maybe turning them into different people altogether. One of his classmates in high school had sworn his uncle had run into an old roommate at a party and the guy had acted like they’d never met. “And not like he was being a snob either,” he’d insisted. “Uncle Chris said the guy didn’t recognize him at all. It fucked him up ‘cause like, that guy had been at his wedding and shit.”

Robbie had always thought it was a pretty ridiculous idea. Just a story to rile everybody up, keep them scared and not thinking about the real threats. But now…well, the Stella stuff was weird enough, and now this thing with Emily? It’s too much to ignore. 

He starts with doing some digging into official sources on the Dollhouse rumors. There isn’t much - a few articles from fringe weirdos, mostly anecdotes cobbled together from vague sources. But then he finds an article titled How likely is it that the Dollhouse is real?, and he strikes gold.

The article points out that the sensationalized stories of getting snatched off the street by the Dollhouse aren’t likely. As with other types of human trafficking, those most likely to be targets would be those with little social power or minimal connections: undocumented immigrants, unhoused people, people facing or who have recently been released from incarceration, or those desperate for financial or medical assistance. It suggested that, in order to maintain the air of secrecy necessary to cloak such a huge facility, the facility was likely either underground or heavily camouflaged. It pointed out that if it was the former, it would need a self-sustaining HVAC and air recirculation system so as not to either be discovered on the grid or suffocate the hundreds of people in there. 

It’s interesting, but mostly what Robbie zeroes in on is the quote from Doctor Ruslan Boyce, who apparently has a PhD in environmental engineering and goes into great detail about the sort of system they would need. Too much detail, in Robbie’s opinion. After some morally questionable searches, he manages to dig up Boyce’s home address, luckily only a couple of hours’ drive away. 

The next day (luckily, a school day for Gabe), he sees his brother off in the morning before heading for  Boyce’s. Boyce lives in one of those absurdly fancy neighborhoods that’s big enough to have its own zip code. Luckily, Lucy isn’t going to be too out-of-place here. 

The other convenient thing about this kind of neighborhood is that they usually have a lot of deliverymen coming in and out. Grunting “Delivery for Doctor Boyce” into the intercom gets him access, and he pulls Lucy into the long looping driveway in front of a house that could probably fit multiple generations of Robbie’s family. 

He rings the doorbell and then stands there, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he feels. He expects an older white guy to open the door, maybe with a beard, maybe not. He wasn’t able to find many pictures of Boyce online, and the ones he did find were from twenty years ago, when he was teaching at his former university. Robbie really isn’t expecting it to be a sour-faced young guy who barely looked like he’s old enough to be in college. 

“Whatever you’re selling, no thanks,” the guy says, starting to close the door. 

“Wait!” Robbie says, grabbing the door. “I’m looking for Doctor Ruslan Boyce?” He gives what he’s been told is his most charming smile. “I’d like to talk to him about some of his work.”

“He’s not here,” the guy says tersely.

“Oh.” Robbie hadn’t considered what would happen if the guy just wasn’t home. “Uh, when will he be home? It’s kind of urgent.”

“I don’t really know,” the guy says, glancing back into the house nervously. “I’m really in the middle of something, so if you’d just let me get back to that, the thing that I’m doing -”

Robbie’s mind whirls. This kid is acting weird, and he has one final part of the plan, though he was kind of hoping not to have to use it. “I’m with the FBI!” he says, holding up the fake badge he brought along (it’s from his X-Files costume from last Halloween, when Gabe had insisted he dress up). “Special Agent Vega. I need to have access to some of your father’s documents.”

“Shit,” the guy mutters, eyes going wide. “Um. Uh. Let me show you. To the documents.” He opens the door wider and starts hurrying his visitor inside.

Robbie quickly follows him, trying to seem official and not like he’s making it up as he goes. “I’m looking for some specific plans of your father’s regarding self-sustaining HVAC and air recirculation systems, for underground use,” he says sternly. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, young man?”

“I know he’s done some work with that,” the kid says. “If there are documents, they’d be in Dad’s office. The office, which is down the hall.” He grabs Robbie’s arm to direct him.

That makes Robbie uneasy, plus he can’t help but notice the telltale smell permeating the house. “You sure have a lot of…plants,” he says, raising an eyebrow and nodding toward the room that the kid is definitely steering him away from. The room that he catches a glimpse of some green leaves in.

“Carrots,” the kid yelps. “I grow carrots! Medicinal - medicinal carrots. I grow them for my dad, whose house this is. He has a condition. For which he needs the medicinal… carrots.”

Robbie should get some kind of award for keeping his face straight through all of that. “Got it. How long did you say your dad would be gone? I do need to speak with him.”

“He’s doing business,” the kid says. “Sometimes it’s a week, sometimes a month. I don’t really know. I could answer some of your questions, depending on what they’re about. I know a little about self-sustaining environmental systems.”

“Oh yeah?” Robbie decides to switch to good cop for a second. “Go on. Also, what’s your name, kid? I’m Gabe.”

“Chester,” he says quickly. “I’m Chester.”

“Hi, Chester. So what do you know about self-sustaining environmental systems?”

“I’ve studied most of my dad’s work,” he says. “It’s one of the only ways I could spend time with him, you know? And I definitely got his science aptitude, so it’s not that hard for me.”

Robbie nods. “That’s lucky. What were you saying about those systems?” He can tell Chester’s high off his ass, so he’s trying to keep him on track as much as possible.

“Well, I’ve studied them,” Chester says again. “What did you want to know?”

“What’s the upper limit on an underground version of that?” Robbie keeps his tone steady. “Would it be possible to create one for, say, an underground structure that could hold a few hundred people?”

“It could be done,” Chester says. “It wouldn’t be easy, but with the right resources and enough funding…”

“Do you know of any projects like that that your father might have worked on?” 

“I can show you some of the plans,” Chester shrugs. “C’mon. In the office.” He opens a door and nudges Robbie in.

Robbie inspects the place, trying to look like he’s had the training to recognize what he’s looking at. It’s a standard home office: large desk in front of the window, multiple monitors, a tall bookshelf covering one wall, and stacks of paper and folders everywhere. “I don’t suppose you’d know where his material on this is.”

“Here,” Chester says, shoving a thick folder in Robbie’s face.

“Thanks.” Robbie opens the folder and starts to flip through it. He’s able to comprehend maybe a third of it - science really wasn’t his strong point in school. “What’s this?” He points at a blueprint for a multi-story structure that (unless he’s really misunderstood something) seems to be designed as an underground building. 

“Uh.” Chester, who has been lolling against the wall, comes to get a comically close look at the paper. “It’s some building in downtown LA. Well, technically it’s a building underneath a building.” He grins, like he has a dirty secret. “You ever heard of the Dollhouse?”

Robbie’s a bit taken aback. This kid didn’t seem like the brightest, but he hadn’t expected him to come right out and give him what he wanted. “You…you mean the urban legend?” he asks, trying not to seem flustered. “Yeah, of course. What about it?”

“That’s the place, man,” Chester declares. “Pretty sweet. Dad said he’ll get me an appointment when I finish grad school.”

“So it’s real.”

“Oh, yeah,” Chester says. “Epic, huh?”

“Something like that,” Robbie says dryly. “So your dad helped build the HVAC system for it, am I understanding that right?”

“That’s the simplest version of it.”

Doctor Emma Shannon takes a few more careful photographs of the victim’s chest wound before doing a final once-over of the body. “Alright, I’ll want to examine the chest cavity and the heart for internal damage, but I think that’s a good place to pause and check in with my supervisor,” She turns to the onsite tech. “Can you let Doctor Zimble know I’ll be stepping out for a moment, but he can begin the internal exam?” The tech nods, and Emma pulls out her phone.

“Hand? I’ve finished the initial examination.”

“Do you think it was our guy?” Victoria asks on the other line.

“Seems pretty likely. Damage consistent with the type of knife he’s used in previous murders, umistakable signs of frostbite on extremities. Hard to tell at this stage whether the poor bastard bled out or froze first, but internal analysis should answer that question.”

“Alright,” Victoria says. “I’ll pass it on. Have we ID’d the guy yet?”

“Still working on it. Didn’t have any ID on him and we can’t run his prints, obviously, but we’ll be looking at dental records and DNA. Might be a day or two, unfortunately.”

Victoria sighs. “Yeah, that’s about what I expected. Keep me updated.”

“Will do. Let me know if you need me before I’m done here.”

“Simmons reported there weren’t any signs of physical trauma after her last imprint,” Melinda says, as India is being lowered into the chair. “But she wants you to check for any other factors that may have caused the…incident.”

Fitz sighs. “I look her over literally every time she comes in here and there’s never been anything off, but alright.” As the chair lights up, he turns to his computer screen as scans of India’s brain appear onscreen. “Look,” he says, waving at them. “All normal. Everything’s fine.”

Melinda narrows her eyes. “Then why did she try and jump off a bridge?”

“I don’t know,” grumbles Fitz. “On the Emily imprint, her emotional responses were highly sensitized, but it shouldn’t have caused such an extreme reaction.” He pulls up a scan of the Emily wedge and points to it. “See, right there - wait a minute.” He furrows his brow. “What’s that?”

Melinda comes over to get a closer look. “What is it?”

“This shows her vitals during this part of the engagement, see?” He points at a small graph off to one side of the brain scan. “There’s a point, here, where her adrenaline dropped suddenly. That’s not a normal drop, that’s consistent with a sedated or otherwise largely non-responsive state.”

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying it looks like Emily went…away for a few minutes there.” Fitz rubs his head. “Except that can’t have happened, because then she was normal for a few more minutes, then had a huge spike in her adrenaline, I assume when Robbie dumped her.” 

“When you say ‘went away,’ what exactly do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know!” snaps Fitz. “Hang on.” He plugs in the physical Emily wedge and pulls it up. “This doesn’t make any sense, it’s all normal…normal…nothing…hold on a bloody second.” His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s this?”

After a few more minutes of him frantically tapping on his computer and muttering to himself, he dramatically pushes his chair away from the desk and storms out of the room. Melinda, not interested in getting in his way, follows him at a safe distance. Luckily, she happens to run into Isabelle. “Hey,” she says, “do you have a second?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Fitz found something in an imprint wedge and is heading straight for Phil’s office, and he left India in the chair during an examination. Can you head in there and babysit?”

Isabelle rolls her eyes. “I wonder if he knows he wouldn’t get away with that shit at most places. Yeah, of course, I’ll watch her.”

“Thank you.” Melinda heads up towards Phil’s office.

She walks in just as Fitz is saying “...I don’t know how it happened, but I saw it with my own eyes, Phil!”

Phil is seated at his desk, looking annoyed. “You’re telling me that someone hacked into your secure system and partitioned off a separate imprint that seems to have overtaken your imprint while India was on a mission?”

“Yes!” Fitz waves his arms in a way that’s vaguely reminiscent of an anime character. “Don’t ask me how it happened, because I don’t know! But it clearly did, because why else would I have found it on the wedge?”

“Can you access what’s on it?”

“Not without plugging it back into her,” growls Fitz, “which I am obviously hesitant to do.”

“Robbie’s still alive,” Melinda points out. “It wasn’t anything violent. And we need to know what happened to India in case it affects another Active.”

Phil nods. “Melinda’s right. Fitz, I understand your concern, but we do need to know what’s on that new imprint. Is there a way you can separate it onto its own wedge so we can plug it into India?”

Fitz sighs dramatically. “I can separate it, yes.” Then he perks up. “I’m going to compare the code to the imprint Quinn made for Charlie, if that’s alright. If they’re even a little similar, then we’ll have something to go off of.”

“Yes, that’s a good place to start,” nods Phil. “Let me know what you find.”

“Let’s hope he feels like talking,” Melinda snarks as Fitz fires up the Quinn imprint. Mike has been cuffed to the chair at the wrists and ankles, in case Quinn is in a running-away mood. At the moment, of course, he’s got his normal serene Doll expression as the imprinting sequence begins. 

She, Hunter, and Phil are all crowded into the imprinting room, largely to ensure that nothing goes wrong. Hunter has an unloaded gun on hand “in case Quinn gets rowdy.” Phil has his arms crossed, looking very stern (but not as intimidating as he’d like). 

The second the imprint takes, before “Quinn” is even fully sat up, he starts thrashing. “The hell!” he exclaims, sounding surly. 

“Mr. Quinn,” Phil says, “we have some questions to ask you about the modifications you made to some of the imprint wedges.”

“I thought I already answered all of your stupid questions,” Quinn hisses. “I wouldn’t be in the Attic if you weren’t done with me.”

“Recent developments have created more questions,” says Phil firmly. “Please don’t struggle, Mr. Quinn, you’ll only hurt yourself,” he adds, when Quinn tries to hurl himself out of the chair to no avail. “Charlie’s imprint wasn’t the only one you made changes to, was it?”

“Oh, that,” Quinn says disdainfully. 

“Please answer the question, Mr. Quinn. This is the pleasant version of this interaction. We can make it more unpleasant, but somehow I don’t think you’d like that.”

“It wouldn’t hurt me,” Quinn scoffs, examining his hands. “Who’s this, Mike? You’d just be damaging the goods.”

“Y’know,” Fitz says from where he’s seated, “I can do all sorts of unpleasant things to your brain, Mr. Quinn. Things that wouldn’t hurt any body you happened to be in at all.” 

Quinn rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah, you’re a big scary supervillain.”

“Cut the shit, Quinn,” Melinda interrupts. “Did you modify India’s imprint or not?”

“It finally took, huh?” Quinn asks. “How long have I been out?”

“A few weeks.” Phil gives him an appraising look. “So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” Quinn says. “She was my Doll, and all she was doing was playing house with a guy who wants to wreck you guys as much as I do.”

Phil scowls. “Not your call, Mr. Quinn. So what exactly was it? Some kind of message to Mr. Reyes?”

Quinn shrugs. “Think of it as a distress call,” he says.

Melinda nudges Phil and murmurs, “We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“Hold on.” Phil turns back to Quinn. “Did you build in the suicide attempt as well? Trying to cover your tracks, maybe?”

“Emily was already susceptible to emotional impulses,” Quinn says. “Can you blame me for trying?”

“I can,” Phil says stonily. “Did you do this with any Actives besides Charlie and India?”

“Didn’t have the chance,” Quinn leers. “Does prove your tech’s not quite as hard to master as you thought, though, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up,” growls Fitz. “Shut up, you worthless wretch of a man.”

Quinn laughs - or more accurately, cackles. “But I’m not a man anymore,” he says. “I’m just a cog in your fragile little machine.”

Before anyone else can react, Fitz steps forward and slams his hand down on the button that starts the wiping process. “Fitz, I wasn’t finished talking to him,” Phil scolds. 

“He wasn’t going to give us anything else,” Melinda says, rolling her eyes. “And he was starting to sound like a Disney villain.”

“Bastard,” Fitz mutters, glaring down at Mike’s body as the chair wipes him. “Not hard to master, my arse. He got lucky, that’s all. I’ll strengthen the encryptions, let’s see you crack that.”

“Anyway,” Phil says with a polite cough, to jolt Fitz out of his reverie. “At least we have some answers.”

“Did I fall asleep?” Mike asks, sitting up and looking around like he doesn’t realize he’s interrupting something.

“For a little while,” Fitz says, unable to keep the note of annoyance out of his voice.

“Shall I go now?” Mike asks.

Fitz talks through his teeth. “Please.”

Melinda shoots him a withering look and says, “If you like, Mike.”

Mike stands and heads for the door, but before he leaves he remarks, “Smiling helps us be our best.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Fitz lets out a loud groan.

“Son, you have to understand that what you’re telling me sounds like bullshit.” Robbie is doing his very best Good Small Town Cop voice, in hopes it’ll keep Chester talking. 

Chester quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re old enough to be anyone’s dad,” he says. “Maybe an infant’s. But I’m not an infant, so…”

Robbie sighs. “What I mean is, you’re saying a lot of crazy shit. D’you know of any proof your dad might have of the Dollhouse around here, other than these plans?”

“Like what, a business card?”

“That’d be awfully convenient, yeah,” Robbie says, shrugging.

“I don’t know, man,” Chester snorts. “Let me see what I can do.” He goes over to his dad’s desk and starts rummaging around. “Why are you so interested, anyway?” 

“Afraid I can’t tell you too much, but it has to do with someone we suspect is inside.” Robbie goes over to stand next to Chester. “Your dad’s kind of a messy guy, huh?”

“Disorganized genius, or something,” Chester says. “He’d probably kill me if he found me messing with his stuff, but…”

Robbie raises both eyebrows. “I hope you mean that figuratively.”

Chester shrugs. “He doesn’t have to find out.”

Robbie decides not to push on that, and instead says, “Well, you’re helping us out with this investigation, so that’s the important thing.”

“Us?” Chester asks. “Oh, you and the… right.” He makes a face as he digs through drawers, and soon he emerges with a little rectangle of paper. “Does this work?”

Robbie squints at it. The name at the top of the card is “Phil Coulson - Executive Manager, Special Projects - Rossum Corporation” and has an address listed in downtown Los Angeles. “Rossum,” he says, recognizing the name as an international healthcare corporation. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah?” Chester prompts.

“Just unexpected,” Robbie says. “Let me get a picture of this card, and then…you’re sure your dad won’t be back soon?”

“What else do you need from him?” Chester asks.

“I’d just like to talk to him about his experiences with the Dollhouse. Not something you can help with, I’m afraid. But thanks a lot, kid, you did great.”

Chester hops up and peers at the card. “You think that’s the place you’re looking for?”

“Could be.” Robbie shrugs. “I’ll make a stop and check it out. Actually…” He gives Chester an appraising look. “You know how to read that blueprint, right?”

“I mean, it’s just a blueprint,” Chester says, sounding taken aback. “But I understand my dad’s notes, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah. Hey, you work for your dad, right?” Robbie raises his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“I work with him sometimes,” Chester says.

“I mean, you work for your dad, right?” Robbie says it a little slower and with more meaning.

“Oh,” Chester exclaims, eyes wide. “Yes. I very much do.”

“Great.” Robbie winks at him. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

Foxtrot and Charlie are sitting at a table, building a large house with Lincoln Logs, when Mike wanders downstairs.

“Hello, Mike,” Foxtrot says. “Would you like to build with us?”

“Alright,” Mike replies, sitting beside Charlie and rubbing his wrists.

Charlie offers him a Lincoln Log. Then she looks at his wrists. “Why are your wrists red, Mike? Wrists aren’t supposed to be red.”

“I’m not sure,” Mike says, frowning. “I had a treatment.”

Charlie looks confused. “That was a very short treatment. Usually when we have a treatment, we’re gone for much longer. You left after lunch and it isn’t even dinner time yet.”

Mike shrugs. “I had a treatment,” he repeats, “and when I was finished with my treatment, everyone seemed very upset.”

“Why?” Charlie frowns too. “Treatments help us be our best. Why would they be upset about that?”

“I don’t know,” Mike says. “Ms. May and Doctor Fitz were making angry faces at each other, but Ms. May was nice to me before I left.”

“Ms. May is nice,” Foxtrot interjects, nodding.

“Do your wrists hurt?” Charlie asks. “You keep touching them.”

“Yes,” Mike says. “Sometimes after treatments, you hurt a little. Like when you stretch too far in yoga.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you should hurt that much. Maybe you should go see Doctor Simmons.”

“Doctor Simmons is nice,” Mike declares.

Charlie stands up. “Let’s go see Doctor Simmons,” she says, offering her hand to him. “She’ll help you be your best.”

Mike takes Charlie’s hand. “She will,” he agrees, and then he waves at Foxtrot.

“Please feel better,” Foxtrot says before she turns back to her little buildings.

Charlie leads Mike to Doctor Simmons’ office. “Hello?” she calls once they’re in the doorway. “Doctor Simmons?”

“Hello?” comes Doctor Simmons’ voice from inside, before she’s turned around to see. “Oh, Charlie! Mike. Is something the matter?”

“Mike’s wrists are red,” Charlie says, holding up Mike’s hand to show her. “They aren’t supposed to be red. Can you fix them?”

Doctor Simmons’ brow furrows. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs. “Please sit down, Mike. Let me find…” She trails off and goes to look in her cabinets for something that can help. “What happened, Mike?”

“I had a treatment,” Mike says.

“It wasn’t a very long treatment. He said everyone was upset after he was finished, and then he came back to do Lincoln Logs with us. And now his wrists hurt,” Charlie adds.

Doctor Simmons mutters something under her breath. “I’ll talk to Doctor Fitz about it,” she says. “Until then, Mike, I’m going to apply some ointment to your skin, alright?”

“Alright,” Mike says amiably. “Charlie is very smart. It was her idea to come see you.”

“Oh,” Doctor Simmons says, looking a little surprised. “Thank you for bringing him, Charlie. That was smart, and kind too.”

Charlie smiles. “Friends help each other out. Thank you for helping us, Doctor Simmons.”

“You’re welcome, Charlie,” Doctor Simmons says softly. 

“So what do you want me to do?” Chester asks in a whisper.

“Walk in like you own the place,” Robbie murmurs. “If anyone asks where we’re going, say you work with your dad.”

“My dad doesn’t own the place,” Chester points out.

Robbie suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “I meant act like it. People don’t ask questions if you act like you’re supposed to be there, even if you aren’t.”

“Okay, right,” Chester says, and he actually lifts his chin and sticks out his chest like he’s in a cartoon or something. “Let’s go.”

Robbie follows behind him, trying to pass as maybe a bodyguard or assistant or something. They enter the building - sure enough, it's the one he tried to find Emily in before - and luckily the elevator is open-access. Unluckily, this elevator doesn’t seem to access the floor that was marked on the plans. 

“Well,” Chester says, faking an optimistic smile, “I guess we go as close as we can? And then walk? There have to be stairs. That’s just how buildings work.”

They go down to the basement level and then search until they find a door marked “stairs.” “C’mon,” Robbie says, “Let’s go until we can’t. That should be far enough.”

Chester nods. “Onward,” he says in a stupid voice.

Eventually they reach the bottom of the stairs, where there’s a nondescript door. Luckily, it doesn’t seem to be locked. Robbie opens it carefully and, after glancing around, gestures for Cheter to follow him. It opens into a long hallway with several doors. “Alright,” Robbie says, checking the time. “Follow me.” He tries doors until one of them opens into a supply room, one that’s full of shelves of hard drives, then shoves Chester inside and follows him. “See, we need to wait until everyone is gone before we can investigate in here. Might as well lay low until the end of the day.”

“If my dad owns the place, why are we hiding in a closet?” Chester asks.

“Shut up,” Robbie growls, hoping he can intimidate the kid into not asking more questions. 

Reviewing the Dollhouse’s security footage is Hunter’s least favorite part of the job, by a mile. Laty, Melinda has insisted on having someone manually review it at the end of every day “just in case.” It amounts to watching the world’s most boring livestream. Dolls wander around, occasionally have their inane little conversations, and go about their day in the world’s most boring Groundhog Day. It’s enough to drive a man mad.

He sighs and shoves another handful of crisps into his mouth, glancing at the monitor that shows the stairwell corridor. The most boring one, because nothing ever happens there because no one uses the stairs to get down here. And then…the stairwell door opens. 

He’s so shocked he chokes on the crisps, and once he’s recovered from the coughing fit, he rewinds the footage to make sure he’s not seeing things. Sure enough, someone pokes his head in through the door, then steps inside, a second, scrawnier guy following him. The lighting in this corridor isn’t great, so Hunter can’t see either of their faces very well. They continue down the corridor until the taller guy opens the door to one of the supply rooms and shoves the second guy inside. “Bloody hell,” Hunter groans, rubbing his face. He grabs his phone and calls Melinda. “May? Are you still here? Yeah, gonna need your help with something.”

They’ve been waiting for a few hours. Luckily, Chester gets bored with Robbie refusing to answer questions and, after rummaging through the shelves, decides to play around on his phone instead. Robbie takes the silence as a gift. 

Finally, it’s almost seven PM and Chester is just starting to bitch about being hungry. “C’mon,” Robbie says, ignoring him. “We’ll probably find some food while we’re looking around. Follow me, and keep your trap shut.”

“I don’t know why you need me to tag along anymore,” Chester grumbles. “I got you in the building. My job here is done, man.”

“Because I still need your help, now shut up,” Robbie replies. “I’m looking for someone specific in here, alright?” He shows Chester a picture of Stella on his phone. “I’ve been looking for her for awhile. I know she’s here somewhere and I want to help her.”

“Okay, okay,” Chester says, holding his hands up. “No need to get bitchy.”

Unfortunately, there’s a guy in a security guard uniform waiting for them when they step out of the supply closet, and (apparently unaware of how dumb it looks) he actually does the thing of slapping his police baton against his hand in an attempt to be menacing.

“Ruh-roh,” Chester yelps.

“Stay out of the way!” Robbie says, shoving Chester back. He lunges for the guy and feints a punch to his chest, then actually goes for his baton. The guard manages to twist away and get in a good whack against Robbie’s shoulder, which makes him grunt as he jumps out of reach. He lets the explosion of pain and anger motivate him to reach for the guy and grapple with him, sending him sprawling to the floor and letting Robbie get a good couple of kicks in before the guy rolls out of range. Robbie leaps forward to grab him as he’s getting back up and knees him in the face, then gives him another kick. He’s not sure if it knocks the guy out, but he grabs the baton the guard dropped and then he and Chester make a run for it.

“Shit,” Chester says, clearly struggling to keep up with him. “They teach you all that at Quantico? Quantico is for the FBI, right? I’m not just making that up?”

“Yeah,” gasps Robbie, dragging him along until they reach another door. “In here!” He opens it and, after making sure there isn’t another guard waiting on the other side, shoves Chester in.

This opens into what seems to be a bathroom; the center of the room appears to be a large communal shower, with half a dozen nozzles coming out of the ceiling and pointing into a circular area that’s divided off by frosted glass panels. They seem to have come in through a hidden service entrance of some sort. “Whoa,” Chester says. “You think they all get in here together? All -” He makes a crude gesture with his hands that suggests boobs.

Robbie doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just heads for the open entrance of this room. Unfortunately, they don’t get too much further before running into yet another security guard. 

“Hey!” the guard barks. “Stop right there!”

Robbie jumps forward and clocks the guy in the face with his baton before he can do anything else. “C’mon,” he calls to Chester. “We must be getting close.”

They step into a huge open area. Room seems like an understatement; unbidden, Robbie thinks about the people on the house-hunting shows that Emily liked (which reminds him of Emily, which makes him clench the baton he’s holding even harder to keep himself on task) and how so many of them are obsessed with “open-concept” design. This is the most open concept he’s ever seen: there are a couple of smaller rooms behind doors on one wall, sure, but the main area has spaces to exercise (treadmills and bikes lined up in neat rows) and do art (a few low tables, shelves of paint and brushes, a couple of rudimentary paintings) and eat (round tables like you’d find in a grade school cafeteria) and do god knows what else. There are some people milling around; some in white spa-like uniforms, others in jewel-toned yoga clothes. 

“Okay,” he growls to Chester, “remember, we’re looking for this girl.” He shows him the picture again. (He knows it’s patronizing as hell, but frankly he doesn’t trust Chester to stay on task without reminders.) 

“Okay,” Chester echoes, but he’s staring at the women in yoga clothes a little too intently.

Robbie yanks him behind a pillar. “Let me know if you spot her,” he whispers. Nobody’s spotted them yet, but better safe than sorry, he figures.

“Can I see the picture again?” Chester asks. “Just to be sure.”

Robbie does. “When I met her she was Stella, but she might use a different name now.” He goes back to watching the Dolls. They seem utterly focused on whatever it is they’re doing, and the ones wandering around look kind of spaced out, like they’re sleepwalking. He’s so busy looking for Stella that when he notices Emily coming towards him, he gasps. She’s wearing a blue dress and has that same vacant expression as the others, but it’s definitely her. “Emily!” he whispers. “Emily!” 

She stops in her tracks and stares at him. “Who’s Emily?” she asks.

Robbie blinks. This was upsetting enough when it happened with Stella, but with Emily he feels almost physically wounded by the lack of recognition in her eyes. Maybe he can get both her and Stella out of here. “Never mind,” he says, swallowing hard. “Do you know this girl?” He holds up the picture of Stella.

She blinks at the picture. “That’s Charlie,” she says. “Why do you have a picture of Charlie?”

Robbie opens his mouth to answer, which is when someone grabs him by the shoulder and whirls him around. “Oi!” barks a guard in a strong Cockney accent. “Where’s the skinny one that came in with you, huh?” 

“I-I don’t-” Robbie looks around. “He was just here, I-”

“Never mind!” snaps the guard, and the next thing Robbie knows there’s a terrible pain in his head and everything goes black.

Melinda’s heading downstairs to help Hunter deal with the intruders when her phone rings. “Shit,” she mutters, picking it up. “This is May.”

“Doctor Shannon here. I have some troubling information about our body.”

“I’ve got a situation developing here. I’ll need you to be quick.”

“We’ve ID’d the body. It’s Ruslan Boyce.”

“Doctor Simmons?” Tango asks, turning to look at her as she rummages through her supplies. “Why are you sad?”

“I’m not sad,” Jemma replies quickly. The real answer is that she’s been on the verge of a panic attack since she learned that Yankee was on the loose, that she’s trying her hardest but she’s feels like she’s just playing a part instead of truly being her usual professional self, that she jumps at every little thing, that she’s starting to have serious doubts about her job and her life and the organization she’s given herself over to. She can’t say any of that to a Doll (she can’t even say it to Fitz, and Fitz is her best friend) so instead she says,. “I’m just very tired. We’ve had a very unpleasant few weeks, is all. Now, how much does that cut on your arm hurt?”

“I don’t feel…”

“Tango?”

It’s rare enough for Dolls to trail off like that that it startles Jemma, and she turns to face Tango. “Is something wrong?” she asks.

And then she follows Tango’s gaze to the entrance of her office.

The entrance of her office, where Yankee stands grinning at them.

“Greeting and salutations,” Yankee says wryly. “How’s my favorite doctor?”

Jemma starts shrieking, and so after a minute Tango starts shrieking too.

“Oh, come on,” Yankee says, “that’s no way to greet an old friend.”

“We were never friends, you absolute blighter,” Jemma hisses, shakily picking up the nearest sharp object (unfortunately, it’s a pair of small scissors; she keeps everything more dangerous locked up) and going to stand behind Tango. “We weren’t even coworkers. You were a patient I tried to treat, and I nearly got killed on account of it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yankee sighs. “I just need to use your computer, Doc. You and Dum-Dum stay out of my way and we won’t have any problems.”

“It’s not very nice to call someone a dum-dum,” Tango says, sounding about as angry as a Doll can. “You’re a bad man.”

“But I’m perfectly good at it,” Yankee smirks. “What’s your password, huh?”

“They must know something is wrong,” Jemma says instead of answering him. “People don’t just randomly start screaming here. The others must be on the way.”

“They’re taking their sweet time,” Yankee observes. “Password. Now.” 

Jemma, possibly against her better judgment, lunges toward him with her scissors extended. She manages to stab him in the thigh, but before she can do any more than that, he pulls the scissors out, kicks her to the floor, and goes for Tango.

“Thought you would have learned to cooperate by now,” he snarls.

“Why would she cooperate with a bad man like you?” Tango asks, voice shaking. She slips off of the exam table and tries to put as much distance between them as she can, but she doesn’t exactly have a lot of self-defense skills in this state.

“Because bad men like me take whatever we want,” Yankee growls. He reaches out and stabs Tango in the shoulder, laughing.

“Help!” Tango screams, trying to cover her wound with her hand. “Please help!”

“Leave her alone!” Jemma cries. “Do whatever you want to me, but don’t hurt the Dolls!”

“Too late,” Yankee crows, and he pushes Tango to the floor. Before Jemma can say anything else, there’s a sickening crunch and Tango starts wailing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jemma yells, stumbling over to Tango.

“I’m the same as I ever was,” Yankee says. “You, you seem a little off, but who am I to say?”

“Doctor Simmons, my knee hurts,” Tango whimpers.

Before Yankee can do anything else, Melinda storms in, pointing a gun at Yankee. “Hands in the air, now!”

Yankee obliges, smiling sardonically. “Oh, no,” he says.

Both Hunter and Robbie (who has regained consciousness) stumble in, Hunter also wielding a gun. “Ah fuck,” Hunter groans. “Not you!” 

“Chester, what the fuck is going on?” Robbie asks. 

Yankee starts laughing hysterically.

“I don’t know what he told you, but that’s not his name,” Melinda says. “And he’s coming with us, right now.”

Just then, Charlie comes into the room. “Why is it so loud in here?” she asks. “Doctor Simmons, are you okay? Is Tango okay? Who’s that and why is he laughing like that?”

Yankee whips a tiny but very real gun out of his pants pocket and points it at Jemma and Tango. “You,” he barks at Charlie, “get over here or the good doctor and her patient are toast.”

Charlie gasps and immediately goes over to him. “What do you want? Why are you yelling at me? Why do you want to hurt Doctor Simmons?”

“Chester or whatever your name is, don’t hurt her!” yells Robbie. “She hasn’t done anything to you!”

“Yankee, please,” Jemma begs. “Please, just stop this. We can help you if you let us.”

Yankee scoffs. “Yeah, ‘cause you did such a great job the first time,” he says. “C’mon, Charlie. We’re going on a little trip.”

Charlie frowns. “No thank you, I don’t want to go with you.”

Yankee gestures with his gun at Jemma and Tango. “I bet I could get them both with one bullet,” he says, because it sounds dramatic (and she won’t know he’s full of shit).

“No!” she protests. “Don’t hurt them! They’re my friends!”

He moves the gun to the small of her back. “Then come on,” he says shortly, herding her out of the office.

“Oi!” Hunter makes a move for him. “You’re not going anywhere, you freak!”

Rolling his eyes, Yankee hits Hunter upside the head, takes Charlie by the hand, and bolts for the stairs.

“Shit!” Jemma yelps. Tears are streaming down her face and her breathing is a little too quick. There’s a part of her that wants to chase after them, a part of her that’s too afraid to do, a part that wants - needs - to stay behind and help Tango, and the part that’s winning out, the one that can’t do anything but stay knelt on the floor and panic.

Phil runs in, also brandishing a gun (less menacingly). “Go after them!” Melinda barks, practically shoving him out the door. “Yankee’s heading upstairs with Charlie!” Phil nods and sprints out toward the stairs. Then Melinda’s on her comms, calling for backup.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Hunter groans, staggering to his feet. “Maybe I can cut ‘em off in the lobby-”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Jemma shouts, a little too angry. “You’re going to stay right here and - and I’m going to check you for wounds, I -”

“Let’s all just take a moment to assess the situation,” Melinda says, nudging first Jemma and then Hunter towards chairs. “You,” she says to Robbie, who looks very out of place, “help me get her up.” She nods at Tango. 

“Yes ma’am,” says Robbie, who recognizes that this isn’t the time to argue with these people. This is something he kind of has experience with, from the few times Gabe has fallen. “Hi,” he says, going over to Tango and trying to smile. “I’m Robbie.”

“Hello, Robbie,” Tango says, blinking back tears. “I’m Tango.”

“What happened, are you hurt?”

“The bad man put his knife in my shoulder and then he pushed me down and stepped on me,” Tango says. “It made my knee crack.”

Robbie sighs. “Alright, well, we’re gonna help you out, alright? Can you sit up?” She nods, sniffles, and does. “Okay, now - where do you want me to put her?” he asks Melinda.

“On the table, there. Simmons needs to examine her.”

Tango reaches toward the exam table, like she’s trying to help.

“Got it. Alright, can you grab her leg and keep her weight off it while I help her to her feet?” Melinda nods and goes to gently grab Tango’s injured leg, while Robbie gently helps her roll over and support herself on her arms and uninjured leg. “Good. Alright, now let’s get you up here.” He carefully hoists her onto the table, only jostling her leg a bit accidentally. “Sorry,” he grunts. “Okay, there you go. Uh, go ahead.” He nods awkwardly to Jemma, who is clearly still trying to get herself under control.

Jemma nods back before pushing out of her chair and going to Tango. “Here,” she says softly, handing Tango a lollipop, “you can have this while I stitch up your shoulder, alright?”

“Thank you, Doctor Simmons,” Tango mumbles.

Jemma works for a couple of minutes, calming down as she focuses on the task at hand, and after she ties off the stitches she fixes Robbie with what she intends to be a scathing stare. “Who are you, anyway?” she asks. “And why did you bring that monster back into our house?”

“Hey, easy with the accusations.” Robbie glares. “I’m here looking for someone and he was helping me get in, because his dad designed the HVAC systems for this place. Or that’s what he said, anyway. He said he was Chester Boyce, Doctor Ruslan Boyce’s son, he knew where to find Boyce’s research, and he was living in his house, what was I supposed to think?”

“I’m not going to ask who you’re here for right now,” Melinda snaps. “We don’t have time. He was lying to you - he’s a former associate of the Dollhouse, and he killed Doctor Boyce to access the information he had about us. He used you to get here. I’m guessing you’re not a real FBI agent, are you?”

Robbie bristles. “I’ve already called for backup-”

“You haven’t!” Melinda interrupts him. “I know you haven’t, because no agent would go in unarmed with only a civilian to assist them. Simmons, can I leave him in one of your back rooms temporarily while we deal with Yankee?”

“Please,” Jemma says. She goes to her fridge and gets an icepack, then goes to examine Hunter. “Take this and hold it to where Yankee hit you,” she instructs him. “As long as you do, you’re alright to keep an eye on - whoever this is.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d say he could just stay here, but I’m going to have my hands full.”

“Thanks, love,” Hunter says with a wry smile at her. “C’mon, you.” He grabs Robbie’s arm and steers him toward one of the examination rooms beside Jemma’s office. 

“You good?” Melinda asks Jemma.

“I sort of have to be,” Jemma says, going to wash her hands and slip on some gloves. “Would you - could you sterilize the table for me? Tango’s kneecap is fractured and I’m going to have to take care of it.”

“I’m on it.” Melinda grabs a bottle of sterilizing fluid and works quickly. “Remember,” she adds, quietly enough that only Jemma can hear her, “you do good work. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” Jemma whispers.

Phil bursts into the imprinting room to see Yankee pulling Charlie up out of the imprinting chair. Fitz is sprawled on the ground, groaning and trying to stand (with mixed success; Yankee appears to have clocked him pretty good). “Stop!” Phil calls, pointing his gun at Yankee, but Yankee shoves Charlie toward him and Phil is forced backwards. He tries his best to recover and go after them, but the elevator is long gone before he can reach it. “Shit.” He gets on comms. “They’re headed for the lobby, can someone cut them off?”

“I’ll do my best, boss,” someone says; he doesn’t have the presence of mind to know who.

“Fitz!” he calls. “You still in one piece?”

“More or less,” Fitz grumbles, rubbing his head. “What’s Yankee doing back here? He hasn’t…” He trails off. “Fuck me, is Jemma alright? Did he get anybody this time?”

“Non-lethal injuries, I think.” Phil turns to see Melinda coming up the stairs. “Yankee imprinted Charlie with whatever wedge he had and they took the elevator. Security’s waiting to ambush them in the lobby.”

She nods and heads for the elevators. “We’ll have to hope that works,” she calls over her shoulder. She doesn’t sound confident.

Sure enough, not two minutes later Meilnda responds, “There are three guys down. There’s a lot of blood here and no sign of them.”

Phil groans. “Fitz, check what he imprinted Charlie with.”

“On it,” Fitz mumbles, basically dragging himself into his chair. 

“Sir,” another voice crackles in on comms. “I’m down in the supply closet they were hiding. All of the Charlie wedges…they’re gone, sir.”

It takes Phil a second to absorb this. “Repeat that?” 

“The Charlie wedges are all gone.”

Chapter Text

Phil tries using his directorial clearance to shut down the elevators, but he isn’t fast enough, because he arrives in the parking garage just in time to hear tires screeching out of the garage. “Shit,” he mutters, jogging over to check which car they took. “Davis, are you aboveground? We’ve got a situation, I need assistance with tailing a car.”

Once he’s got Davis going after them (no easy feat in LA traffic), he heads back down toward where Piper radioed about the missing Charlie wedges. Might as well verify that for himself. “Was anything else taken?” he asks her as they both stare at the empty shelf.

Piper grimaces. “I’m still sorting that out,” she says. “He managed to leave the room a total mess, maybe just to throw us off.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, I can see that,” sighs Phil. “I have Davis tracking the car now. If you’d get started sorting out the mess in here…?”

“Right away, sir,” Piper says, actually giving a little salute before panicking and adding, “I didn’t mean that sarcastically.”

He chuckles as he heads out of the room. “I know you didn’t.”

“Can’t believe this piece of shit had the nerve to touch my stuff,” grumbles Fitz as he attempts to make sense of the havoc Yankee wreaked on his computer. “Shouldn’t even have been able to get in, guessed my bloody security codes like it was nothing. That’s the last time I make an imprint a hacker-”

“Didn’t you once make an imprint of yourself?” Victoria asks, sounding disinterested. She’s not helping so much as she is standing at the entrance to Fitz’s lair, keeping any unnecessary parties from sticking their noses in.

He holds up a finger without even looking at her. “Didn’t ask for your input, thanks.”

Melinda coughs. “Phil has Davis tailing the car they’re in, but they’re heading out of LA fast. We need to prepare to cut them off wherever they’re going, which means getting a team together fast.”

Victoria fires off a text, and without looking up says, “Isabelle’s bringing her girl up. Who else should she get?”

“I’ll double-check who’s available, but our best bets are probably Bravo or India.” Melinda glances over at Fitz and narrows her eyes. “Did you hear me, Fitz? Fast.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” mutters Fitz. “God forbid I take a few minutes to try and fix the absolute state of my files.” But when Melinda keeps staring pointedly at him, he pulls up the imprint program. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.”

“So what’s the plan?” Hunter asks, coming in with Robbie hot on his heels. “And can I please give this sodding idiot a good kick in the head? He won’t get off my arse.”

Robbie rolls his eyes. “Try it. That worked out great for you last time.”

“Boys,” Victoria drawls. “We have bigger issues than whatever homoerotic tension you have going on.”

“What is homoerotic?” asks India, appearing behind them; behind her, Foxtrot adds, “Tension is bad. You should get rid of your tension to be your best.”

“Thank you, Foxtrot,” Isabelle says patiently. “Yeah, Hunter, how about you go have a massage?” She smiles, sugar-sweet, at him, and doesn’t stop even when he flips her off.

“Anyway,” Melinda says sternly. “Foxtrot, India, we’re getting ready for you to have a treatment soon. How about you go take showers first? We’ll be ready by the time you’re done.” She punctuates the sentence with a stern look at Fitz, who is studiously ignoring her (but he is at least working on the imprints). 

“Alright,” India says, taking Foxtrot’s hand. “It is good to be clean.”

The two Dolls wander off, met by one of the swarming attendants, and Victoria asks, “So this team you’re putting together consists of…?”

“Foxtrot, India, Isabelle, and me,” Melinda says. “Maybe Bravo and Anne for backup, but I hope it won’t come to that.”

“And Foxtrot and India are going to be who exactly?” Isabelle asks, with the silent “please don’t make them cops” going unsaid.

“Bounty hunters,” Fitz says, tapping a key one last time with a flourish. “One down, one to go. I’ve made them bounty hunters and they’re hot on the trail of two people who look exactly like Yankee and Charlie, names unknown but wanted for a whole laundry list of crimes. Is that satisfactory?”

Isabelle snorts. “It’ll do.”

“Right, if you all are good with doin’ the babysitting for a bit, I’m gonna go check on my Doll, whose kneecap broke, ” Hunter says, swanning out of the room before anyone can protest.

“Jesus fuck, this night,” Victoria mutters. 

Robbie blinks, glancing around the room. “Okay, I’m not FBI, but I do want to help these people, so… what can I do?”

“Who are you?” Victoria asks, taking a good look at him for the first time.

“He’s a civilian,” Melinda sighs, “and we don’t have time to deal with him right now.” Before Robbie can protest, she adds, “If you want to do something helpful, Victoria will take you down to the supply room that’s currently in disarray and you can help her sort that out.” Robbie looks irritated, but doesn’t protest, especially when he sees the look on Victoria’s face as she shepherds him out of the room.

Leroy whoops as he leans his head out the car window. “This is what bein’ alive is all about!” he screams into the wind.

“Hell yeah, baby!” Madelyn turns the music up and screams along with a particularly drawn-out note. “I can’t believe you got this fancy car just for lil’ ol’ me!”

“Anythin’ for my baby doll,” he says, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek and making her squeal when the car tilts just slightly outside the lane. A car coming the opposite way honks loudly as it swerves out of their way and they both laugh and shriek “Fuck you!” in unison.

“So what ‘zactly do you have planned?” she asks. “It’s gotta be somethin’ perty special if I can’t even drive my brand-spankin’ new car to wherever we’re goin’.”

He winks at her. “Just you wait, baby. When you see what we’ll be gettin’ up to tonight, wooee, you’re just gonna lose your cute little mind.”

Flushing, she waves her hand dismissively at him. “Now don’t you go talkin’ like that or you’ll make me feel frisky, and then you’ll really get it!”

“Ah, ah, patience is a virtue,” Leroy teases. “But I’ll give you a lil’ hint - you remember what we got up to a few months ago over that long weekend?” 

Her eyes light up. “Why, don’t tell me you got that kinda surprise again!”

He puts a finger to his lips. “Just wait and see, Maddy. I said I’d treat you like a damn goddess and I will.”

“Only if I can return the favor,” she whispers, leaning over to bite his earlobe gently.

Melinda is just heading to the showers to fetch India and Foxtrot for their treatments when she spots Dr. Shannon just stepping out of the elevator. “Dr. Shannon,” she says with a harried smile. “Good to see you.”

Dr. Shannon returns the expression. “You too,” she says. “I wish the circumstances were better. It looks like everything has gone ass over elbows here, if I can say.”

“You’re not wrong.” Melinda smirks. “Anything else to report about Dr. Boyce’s death?”

“Heart cut out of his chest, fingerprints burned off,” Dr. Shannon reports. “Your killer really didn’t want there to be any chances of survival, which, you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, seems inconsistent with his usual… methods.”

“It is,” agrees Melinda. “Seems like he’s planning something more than a return to form. Don’t suppose Boyce’s body offered any clues as to his plan?”

Dr. Shannon shakes her head. “Did Boyce have any specific connections to the killer?”

“Boyce designed the HVAC schematics for the Dollhouse. He didn’t ever interact with any of the Dolls, but it seems Yankee used his plans to find a way back in here.”

“Mm.” Dr. Shannon pulls a face. “He’s a real piece of work.”

Melinda nods, then adds, “If you don’t mind, Dr. Simmons is currently performing knee surgery on a victim from the earlier… incident, and could use assistance.”

“Of course,” Dr. Shannon says. “Let me just get cleaned up and I’ll join her.” 

“Thanks.” Melinda watches her go, feeling a small pulse of relief. At least in the unending chaos of the last couple of hours, she’d been able to send Jemma a bit of help.

Fitz has been trying to reactivate Charlie’s tracking chip (with little success, much to the vocal dismay of Mack, who has been roped in as an extra pair of hands) when Phil’s phone pings. 

“Coulson,” Phil says, stepping out of the room. 

“Sir, I’m afraid I lost them on the highway,” Davis says, sounding frustrated. “Are we involving the cops in this or no?”

Phil sighs. “Let’s make that a last resort. Standby for further instructions.” He hangs up and, returning to the imprint room, says loudly, “Davis lost track of them. Are you sure you can’t get the tracking chip to work?” 

“No!” growls Fitz. “I don’t know how, but he’s obviously cut it out of her or something!”

“Do we seriously not have any other ways to find them?” Mack rubs his forehead. “Trackers in the cars or something?”

Fitz tilts his head and types a few commands into the computer, then opens a file. “Bugger! It’s one of the older models and doesn’t have automatic tracking, Has to be manually turned on by the driver.”

“Why wouldn’t that setting be automatic?” demands Mack, turning to Phil. “Sir, with all due respect, that seems like a pretty big oversight.”

“It is, on most of our cars.” Phil looks like he’s developing a headache. “The first fleet didn’t have it automated, and Yankee must have known that and is using it to his advantage. Can we track them via surveillance cameras?”

“I suppose.” Fitz sounds affronted. “I can have Callie comb through footage looking for-”

“Or you could do it,” Mack points out. “Since part of the reason Charlie is currently kidnapped is because you weren’t here to stop it.”

“I was here!” protests Fitz. “I got decked in the face about it!” But when Mack just continues glaring at him, he turns back to his computer, still grumbling.

“So you, what, went to Dr. Boyce’s house and just took this idiot kid on his word that he was his son?” Victoria asks, rolling her eyes.

“I told you, I was looking for a way to help Stella and Emily!” Robbie replies. “It was the only lead I had. How was I supposed to know the fucking kid was lying?” He awkwardly sweeps with the broom she handed him (since she said to his face that she didn’t trust him in the file room, but there was plenty of other mess to clean up). 

Victoria sighs. The answer is obviously common sense, but there’s no point getting into that. Instead she says, “What, you wanted to white-knight them away from their lives?”

He looks a little stricken. “I don’t know… they just both seemed like they were in trouble. Emily tried to kill herself, for Christ’s sake! I was worried about them.”

“Didn’t Emily only try to kill herself after you broke up with her?” Victoria asks. “I thought that’s what I heard them saying.”

“She…” Robbie pauses, then changes tactics. “Okay, look, I only got into this mess after my younger brother Gabe got hit by a car last year. I was trying to track down the fucker who hit him, and I ended up at a sketchy bar he frequented with some of his buddies. That’s where I first saw Stella, and when I tried to look her up later I kept getting stuck going in circles. Eventually she found me and set me on the Dollhouse’s trail, and then Emily…” He trails off again, trying not to get choked up thinking about it, and does some more sweeping to compose himself. “Emily told me she was with the Dollhouse too. She told me to come find her.”

“Oh yeah?” Hunter asks. He’s been draped over a chair for most of Robbie’s explanations, only occasionally interjecting with a derisive snort. “Seems pretty convenient.”

“It’s not like I have it on video,” Robbie says in exasperation. “But it happened, and I care about Emily and Stella and I want to make sure they’re not in some really bad shit.”

“As the kids say, stuff can be two things,” Victoria deadpans. “The Dollhouse is neutral. What Stella, Charlie, is currently wrapped up in is pretty bad shit.” She raises an eyebrow - and whose fault is that, again?

“And what is that, exactly? What is that guy’s deal? Is he an ex-employee with a grudge or what?”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” snarks Hunter.

“Yankee used to be a Doll here,” Victoria says. “Prior to his contract, he was a convicted criminal. This was supposed to be rehabilitative.”

Before she can continue, Jemma comes out the back exit of her office and leans against the wall, visibly exhausted. “Rocks fall, technology failed, lots of complicated shite,” she interjects, surprisingly venomous. “He snapped and went on a rampage. Nearly killed me, did kill a couple of others. Escaped, with god knows what roiling around in his brain.”

“Can I get you a beer, love?” Hunter asks, furrowing his brow. “And how’s Tango?”

“As good as she can be,” Jemma says, wincing. “Dr., ah, Shannon is finishing up with her. She’s going to be out of commission for a few months at least, but she should make a full recovery.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, about that beer?” he asks, surprisingly gentle. “Could be something else if you prefer. But if I’d been doing what you were up to, I’d want a beer.”

“Beer’s alright,” Jemma says, with a surprised but grateful smile. “Much as I’d love a proper gin and tonic, I don’t think that’d be wise right now, all considered.” Since they’re still, presumably, in the middle of a Housewide disaster. 

“Can do.” He stands up and gestures to the now-empty chair, then touches her shoulder fondly as he leaves.

“Sorry, that squirrelly little guy tried to kill you?” Robbie asks, eyes wide. 

Jemma sits in the chair, then finally makes eye contact with Robbie and nods. “Put me in a coma for a few days,” she says tonelessly. “Doubt I would’ve made it if Fitz hadn’t…” She pauses. “If we weren’t, if our training…”

Victoria, assuming Jemma just has a difficult time talking about this, interrupts (earning her a gracious nod from Jemma). “Our other doctors were able to save her life,” she says. “It might surprise you, but that’s a lot of what we do here. Try to save lives.”

Robbie tilts his head, thinking. “Well, I guess that’s good, then,” he says awkwardly. “And is this the first time… I mean, he hasn’t come back before?”

“No,” Victoria says. “There have been a couple of incidents that he was probably involved in, but none that involved him physically entering the House.”

“Well… fuck.” Robbie looks deeply uncomfortable. 

“I’m sure it’s going to work out,” Jemma says, though she doesn’t sound like she believes it. “They’ll find Yankee, and they’ll rescue Charlie, and Charlie, she’s very resourceful, she’ll… I’m sure she’ll… Maybe Fitz can, I know he’s been working on the remote wipe tech, and…”

Luckily she’s interrupted by Hunter coming back with a six-pack of beers in hand. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he says with a wink, offering her one. “And I brought back one for you too, even though you fucked up,” he adds to Robbie. 

“Thanks,” Robbie says dryly, accepting a bottle. 

“Almost there, baby,” Leroy says, turning off the main road onto a long dirt road. 

“Okay,” Madelyn says, smiling at him. “I still don’t know why we left the other car at the farm. It was so much purtier than this old thing you’re drivin’ now.”

“You’ll see,” he sing-songs as they coast along. Eventually he pulls to a stop in front of a large warehouse. “Alright, here we are.”

She squints at the nondescript warehouse in confusion. “Here? I thought we were goin’ someplace fancy.” She pouts at him. “You promised this would be special.”

“It will be.” He grabs her hand and looks deeply into her eyes. “You trust me, right?”

“‘Course I do.”

“Well, I got somethin’ real special planned for us in there, I promise. Bigger’n your wildest dreams, darlin.’”

Her eyes go wide. “Bigger’n that score from Buc-ee’s that one time?” 

“That’ll make that look like a Sunday pic-a-nick,” he promises, climbing out of the car and going to open her door. “This is where the real fun happens.”

“I thought the real fun happens back at the farm?”

“Nah. Ain’t you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat?’” He winks at her, making her giggle. “This is where the real me comes out to play. I’m not Leroy here. I’m Legion.”

She blinks at him. “What? Like, from the Bible, the demon that went into all them pigs?”

He sighs and rubs his face, trying to keep his smile on. “No, no, baby, like the comic book. Y’know how some people got a bunch of other people in their heads? That’s me.”

“But… everybody only got themselves in their heads.”

“Not me. I’m special, and so are you.” He grabs her hand. “C’mon inside with me and I’ll show you.”

Victoria is the first to finish her beer, and after a quick assessment of the others (Robbie: completely ignorant of the Dollhouse’s protocols, Hunter: worrying about his injured Doll, Jemma: two wrong moves away from a panic attack) she decides she’ll be the one to make sense of the file room. It looks like Yankee just threw random things around to make it look messier than it was, as if this House wasn’t full of exactly the type of people who wouldn’t mind sorting through that or even improving on it.

Leaving the other three sitting in the hallway, she picks up the broom (to use as a weapon if she has to as much as to clean anything up) and heads into the room. There are a few Bravo wedges tossed over here, a few Foxtrot wedges over here, a few Romeo wedges over here. All of the Charlie wedges are, like she already knew, gone, and a few things got smashed beyond repair (but Fitz, genius that he is, should be able to recreate them, so she’s not stressed out).

And then she turns to the India section. One goes back, another, another, but there’s a decidedly empty spot where a wedge should go. She double-checks to make sure it’s not the Emily imprint, which could be still up in the lab, but of course Fitz ran it down into storage already (or, more realistically, he made Callie do). 

She groans, goes back out into the hallway, and - where her compatriots can hear - fires up her walkie-talkie to say, “Phil, there’s a wedge missing that we didn’t account for.”

“Shit. Which one?”

Victoria manages to keep herself from chuckling, because sue her, it’s funny when Phil isn’t polite. “Looks like it’s one of India’s. The slot was labeled ‘Madelyn.’”

“Oh, no,” Jemma says immediately.

“Fuck,” Hunter hisses. 

“What?” Robbie asks, suddenly on high alert. “Madelyn? What does that mean?”

“Eugh,” they can hear Fitz say from the imprint room. “That one was disgusting.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “A client hired Yankee and India to act out a kidnapping,” she explains to Robbie. “To him, it was roleplay scenario, but their personas were that of very real, seasoned criminals who had no qualms doing horrible things to him or anyone else. The engagement was designed so that they would be stopped before they did anything too horrendous, but if those characters are unleashed on the world, or each other, without a plan or supervision…” She shudders. 

“He had to get creative,” Victoria suggests. “Yankee and Charlie never did a weird codependent engagement like that, but he knew there was an imprint he could stick her with to make her trust him, so that’s what he did.” 

Robbie winces. “What a piece of shit.”

“We programmed that imprint with specific rendezvous points,” Phil says. “I’ll have Davis check the first one just to cover our bases, and we’ll prep Foxtrot and India for the second one.”

“That sounds good, sir,” Jemma calls into the intercom, and then she adds “Fitz, are you alright? Do you need ice or anything?”

“I wouldn’t say no to some ice,” Fitz says, sounding overly pathetic. “And a juice box?”

“I’ll get it,” Lance offers, getting to his feet and waving at Jemma to keep her seat. “Be right there, mate!”

“Thanks.” 

The farmhouse is dark when Sofia and Katya pull up to it. While they’re cautious, given the fancy black car parked in front of the house, there’s neither anyone sitting inside the car nor anywhere in the house. 

“Guess their still being here would’ve been too easy,” snarks Sofia, tossing her head.

“Pity,” Isabelle agrees. “Look around. There might be signs of where they’ve gone.”

“No shit,” Katya says, but she’s already doing just that. The tracks on the ground are a mess, like they drove their new car in circles or retraced their routes a few times to throw someone else off, but it’s not that difficult to figure which tracks are heavier, or which ones go farther out. 

“Anything?” Sofia asks.

“They took the path down to the surface road,” Katya declares. “The car they swapped into is probably bigger, probably older. I’m going to go out on a limb and say the vehicle probably isn’t registered to this address, so trying to backtrace it is a dead end.”

“Most of the places they could be headed, assuming they didn’t go too far, aren’t exactly full of hiding spots,” Sofia interjects. “If we headed down the surface road after them, we’d have an okay chance of spotting them, I bet.”

“Go for it,” Melinda agrees. “Eyes up, keep us posted.”

“Okay, Mom,” Sofia and Katya chorus.

“-an’ that’s why you’re special,” Leroy is explaining to Madelyn. “You and me, baby, we’re destined to be together.” He leans down to punctuate this with a hard kiss on her lips. He’s been trying to give her an explanation for at least five minutes, ever since he brought her into this warehouse and sat her down on this weird dentist’s chair, and it doesn’t seem to be sinking in at all. Madelyn keeps looking around at the largely sparse (aside from the chair, which has seen better days, and the wires hanging from every possible place, and the out-of-date desktop computer he’s been typing away at as he talks) warehouse.

She seems receptive to the kiss, but still looks confused when he pulls away. “But I’ve only got me in my head,” she says again. This has been her main line of argument while he’s been monologuing about how they’re going to change the world together. 

Leroy sighs and rubs his temples, then seems about to launch into yet another explanation when the hinges of the door creak and a deep voice says, “Here we are.”

“Ah, right on time. Bring her in, Cletus,” calls Leroy, gesturing. “Maddy and I were just havin’ a little discussion.”

Madelyn sits up to look at the newcomer and yelps in surprise when a muscular man she doesn’t recognize herds a small brunette woman into the room. The woman is gagged and handcuffed, but when her eyes meet Madelyn’s, they widen and she tries to say something, until the man (Cletus?) shakes her roughly to make her stop. 

“Oh!” Madelyn looks over at Leroy, beaming. “Is she my present, baby? Damn, she’s real cute, you shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Leroy sighs. “Ain’t you been listenin’ to a word I said? She’s just the first step in our plan. I need you to get outta the chair for a second, baby, so’s I can put her in there instead. Then you’ll see how I mean to make you like me.” Madelyn does, and Leroy muscles the brunette woman into the chair and uses some restraints Madelyn hadn’t noticed to secure her in place. “Now,” he says, pulling out the gag, “your name is Rebecca, ain’t it?”

“Go fuck yourself!” hisses the woman. “Ya sick son of a bitch, I’ll-”

“Now, now, I was gonna be nice to you and leave this out, but not if you’re gonna be a little bitch,” he chastises, shoving the gag back in her mouth amidst her yelling and tying it in place. “There, now. Just a second.” He moves to her head and starts to stick wires to her forehead, manhandling her around until he’s completed his task. “Almost ready now,” he says, as if to himself, before going over to the computer and typing in a few commands. “Baby, you watch this,” he says, locking eyes with Madelyn. “You’ll see what I can do.” Then he taps one more key and the woman in the chair starts convulsing. 

After a few minutes, she stops, and then Leroy nods and says, “And now for the opening act!” He taps another key and the woman squirms more, eyes still closed.

Madelyn watches, eyes wide, until the woman finally stops twitching and opens her eyes. She looks like she’s waking up, as if from a dream. She starts to speak, then notices the gag and tries to spit it out, to no avail. “Stop,” Leroy says, putting his hand on her collarbone to hold her down while he reaches up to undo the gag. “If you scream, she will shoot you in the head.” He nods for Madelyn to grab the gun that’s sitting on a nearby box and she does, aiming it directly between the woman’s eyes. The woman glares at him, but nods. “Okay.” He pulls out the gag and asks, “What’s your name?”

“Where the fuck am I?” she asks instead. Then she takes another look at Madelyn and gasps, “What- what the fuck! You’re- I’m- why are you me? What the fuck is going on?”

“If you don’t answer my question right fuckin’ now, you’re gettin’ a bullet in the head,” growls Leroy. “What’s your name?”

“Daisy,” she spits. “Daisy Johnson. Now you answer my question, where the fuck am I? ”

By the time the others pull up to the warehouse, Sofia and Katya have parked right by the entrance and, from the looks of it, shot a few henchmen for good measure before leaning casually up against the side of their car. “Glad you made it,” Katya calls.

“Is the hostage still alive?” Mack asks.

“Can’t really confirm until we’re inside,” Sofia says. “But the odds are pretty good.”

Hunter glances at the array of bodies scattered around and whistles. “Seems like you two had some fun waiting for us.”

Katya smirks. “You never work a day in your life if you love your job, or whatever.”

“How many entrances?” Melinda asks. “Just the one or is there a back door?”

“There’s a smaller door around the left side,” Sofia says. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to have someone posted up over there too, to cover all our bases.”

Melinda nods. “You and you, with me,” she says, nodding to Hunter and Robbie. “C’mon.” Isabelle and Mack flank Katya and Sofia as they head for the front door, weapons ready.

Leroy - if he really is Leroy, he’s got a wild look in his eyes that Madelyn’s never seen before and she’d thought she’d seen every look he’s got - turns away from the woman in the chair and smirks. “Baby,” he says, “meet yourself.”

“What-” Madelyn’s interrupted by Rebecca or Daisy or whatever her name is spitting at both of them. “What did you do to me?” Rebecca-Daisy hisses. “And who the fuck is she, and why does she look like me?”

“Funny thing about identity,” Leroy says. “Are you your body or your brain? Do you still have a right to your body if your brain decides to give it up for a while? If your brain has been on a little vay-cayyyy-tion, but your body’s been up and running the whole time, does that change things?”

Madelyn blinks. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

“I’ll spell it out for you real slow,” Leroy says. “Rebecca here -”

“Daisy!”

“Rebecca here doesn’t matter,” Leroy says. “I just needed a place to put Daisy so I could show you you’re more than she ever was. Daisy was just a scared little girl who signed her life away. You’re a beautiful butterfly. I’m gonna make you like me, baby. All the power in the world. A million brains is all it’s gonna take.” He pauses, pulls a face. “Well, more like forty, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”

“Jesus, you never shut up, huh?” Daisy asks. “Also fuck you, what do you know about me? I didn’t sign my life away, I made a choice. A fucked-up, necessary choice, because it was that or an equally fucked-up prison. Excuse me for picking the one that let me zone out for a few years.”

“Zone out?” Madelyn looks from her to Leroy and then back again. “What do you mean? I don’t understand any of what y’all are talking about, I-”

“Daaaaaisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,” Leroy interrupts. “I’m half-craaaaazy … well, I guess I’m just half-crazy, aren’t I. That’s certainly what the big, bad Dollhouse thinks, even though they’re the ones that made me like this!” He shakes his head, pounds a fist on the computer desk. “It’s time to play with the monster they made!”

“You’re scarin’ me,” Madelyn says, taking a step back. “Talkin’ all crazy like that. I like you crazy, but I ain’t never seen you like this.”

“You’ve never seen me before in your pathetic little life!” Leroy yells. “You’re just a bunch of zeroes and ones, some fantasy someone dreamed up so they could get their rocks off, and I just needed a dumb enough bitch to get your body here! Nobody should be alone. Even a monster needs a companion.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” Daisy yells. “And why do you need my body to do whatever fucked-up shit you’re gonna do?”

Madelyn yelps. “‘Scuse me? This is my body, bitch!”

“Ooh, the girlies are fighting,” Leroy drawls. Then he shrugs, weirdly casual for this situation. “Your body’s cute. Does there have to be more to it than that?”

Daisy does a visible double-take. “Yes!” she splutters. “Yes, you absolute fuckhead! Whatever I signed up for, it wasn’t sitting in a fucked-up warehouse watching you do whatever gross shit you want to my body!”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, but you’re really gettin’ on my nerves,” Madelyn says. “You’re not me, I’m me!”

“No, I don’t know who you are, but you’re in my body right now so I kind of don’t fucking care. And the Joker over here seems to have some fucked-up Bride of Frankenstein plan for it, so excuse me for being concerned!”

Leroy sighs and comes to take Madelyn in his arms. “Look, baby,” he says, and he’s suddenly smooth and sweet as he’s ever been with her. “1.0 over there vacated the premises, and you can be so much more than that. I’m gonna sit you down in that chair and I’m gonna do to you what was done to me. All them people they’ve put in your head? I’m gonna put them back in there, all at once. You’ll be more than they ever imagined.”

Madelyn seems comforted by his affection, but Daisy says, “What the hell? Don’t listen to him, he’s fucking crazy, talking about putting a bunch of people in your head.”

“Those geniuses you trusted yourself with did it to me,” Leroy tells her. “I’m still standing.” He lets go of Madelyn, then goes to yank Daisy out of the chair, talking to Madelyn over his shoulder. “C’mon, baby, you just take a seat and we’ll make you a god just like me, okay?”

“Not okay!” Daisy protests, but he’s already wrestled her to her feet and gotten the handcuffs back on, shoving her away onto a nearby box. 

Madelyn appears to be thinking for a second, then she nods. “Okay. I trust you.” She takes the hand he offers her and climbs into the chair. 

While the others are doing a final weapons and equipment check before they breach the warehouse, Melinda steps away to make a call. “Phil,” she says. “How is everything?” 

“As good as it can be. Pretty quiet, for the most part.”

“Simmons seemed pretty shaken up,” she adds pointedly. “Did the surgery go alright?”

“Yes. Dr. Shannon’s been dismissed, and Simmons is-” A pause, then he continues, “She’s puttering around in her office, seems to be tidying up. Looks okay to me.”

Melinda rolls her eyes but says, “We’re heading in momentarily. Should have this all wrapped up soon.”

“Good luck.”

Madelyn finally stops writhing and sits up, opening her eyes. “Yeah,” she says in a distinctly non-Southern accent. “I get it now. I get everything you were talking about, baby. I can feel them all, in here.” She tilts her head and adds in a British accent, “It’s fascinating, how I can slip into one at the drop of a hat. It only tickles a little.” Then she shifts back to the American accent and adds, “I remember you now. You’re Yankee, aren’t you?”

Leroy - or more aptly, Yankee - smiles coldly. “Right on the money, baby. And you’re my Charlie.” He offers his hand and helps her out of the chair like she’s a princess. “I missed you.” He kisses her possessively and reaches down to squeeze her ass while he’s at it.

Daisy, watching and glaring, makes a noise of disgust. “If I could kick your ass I would.”

Yankee breaks the kiss to glare at her. “Don’t you get cocky. You’ve served your purpose.”

“Fuck you.”

“So she was me before?” Charlie asks Yankee. “I was Daisy before?” 

“In theory, yeah. But you’ve proven yourself to be so much more than she ever could be, haven’t you?” He cups Charlie’s face in his hand and strokes her cheek with a thumb. “She decided she wanted a vacation from all the horrible shit she’d done, and then they stripped you to the bone and tried to make you nothing, and instead, you became everything.”

“He’s fully lost the plot,” Daisy says. “He has no idea what I’ve been through, why I made the choices I did. I can explain everything to you, if you’d just listen-” 

“Shut up!” barks Yankee. “I’m getting sick of your shit. I don’t need you anymore, you were just an object lesson. Baby, can you please take care of her for me? Then the real fun can begin.”

Charlie looks up at him adoringly and says, “Anything for you.” She reaches for a nearby shotgun that’s been sitting near the computer and swings it as if to pistol-whip Daisy, then at the last second turns and cracks Yankee across the skull.

He shrieks and flails blindly. “Fuck! What the fuck!” 

Charlie, still holding the gun, tries to shove him further away and makes a beeline for where Daisy is sitting. “C’mon!” she hisses. “Run for the back door!”

As Daisy is bolting away, Yankee staggers to his feet and shoots over Charlie’s shoulder. “Stop!” he roars. Instinctually, Charlie hoists her gun up and points it at him. They stand, both staring at each other. “You don’t wanna be doing this,” he says. “You love me, remember?”

“I remember,” Charlie says. “I remember everything. I remember the killing spree you went on, and all of the other horrible shit you did - god, Dr. Simmons - that was you!” 

“She kept looking at you! The way that she looked at you, god it made me sick! I wanted to cut you out of her head so she wouldn’t ever do it again!”

“You’re a sick fuck. And me, right now, as Charlie? I can tell you that I’ve never loved you and I never will.” Charlie risks a glance over her shoulder at Daisy, who has been carefully staying behind her while edging toward the door. “And right now, you’re gonna let us go before I blow your brains out all over that fancy Frankenstein computer of yours.”

He laughs. “You forgot something, darling. You don’t have a bargaining chip, and I do.” Before Charlie can stop him, he shoots Daisy in the head. 

Charlie barely has time to react to that before the doors burst open and someone calls, “Freeze! Hands in the air!”

Predictably, Yankee does not freeze, instead lunging for Charlie and bodying her towards the door. “We’ll be together one way or another,” he growls, propelling her through the back door and outside. 

“Well, fuck,” says Sofia, starting after them. Mack and Isabelle stay in the room to tend to the probably-dead woman, but Melinda and Hunter follow close behind. 

Katya takes just a second to reload her gun before heading that direction as well, and Robbie, who was definitely not staring at her, swallows and says, “Uh, wait-”

“What?” Katya asks, canting her head.

“Your, uh, holster.” He gestures awkwardly to where her shoulder holster has come unsnapped. 

“Oh,” she says, and she clicks it back into place. “That all?”

He blinks. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

Outside, it’s devolved into a mad chase; Yankee is dragging Charlie across steel walkways and hiding behind posts whenever one of the others shoots at him. “Get at him from the other side!” Sofia shouts to Katya, waving her hand, and Katya books it in the right direction.

“Listen,” Yankee says once they’ve paused for a moment, “we’re meant to be together! You’re just like me, you can have a hundred people in your head and not blink an eye. They don’t see that, don’t value it like I do. If we stay together, we can go anywhere, be anyone we want to! The world will be ours for the taking! I know you can see it my way, Charlie. If you remember everything then you remember all the stupid shit they made you do - but now nobody can make you do anything!”

Another bullet flies toward them.

“You realize that sounds fucking crazy,” Charlie counters. “What is this, kindergarten where we’re wearing the same shirt and that means we’re best friends? I am not gonna be your weird Smurfette!”

Yankee grits his teeth. “You’re not listening. You and I, we’re the only ones who have ascended like this. We are the gods of this world and everyone else around us, mere peons. Why should we accept a life we don’t deserve?”

“I’m only ascended because you made me!” she spits. “And again, I didn’t ask to be dragged along on your weird king of the world shit!” 

She’s about to continue, but they’re both interrupted by a bullet zinging off a nearby post and grazing Yankee’s arm. “God dammit!” he says, grabbing the wound and closing his eyes for a second as if to think. Charlie takes the opportunity to press down on the wound hard enough to make him gasp and let go of her with his other hand. She quickly slinks away and makes a run for it. 

“Get back here!” he calls after her, standing up and firing blindly (and missing). 

Melinda moves fast, running to grab Charlie and practically shove her behind the generator she and Sofia have been sheltering behind. “Stay here!” she hisses. Hunter and Katya start pursuing Yankee as he ascends to the roof. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Charlie yelps. 

“Long story,” Melinda says. “No time to explain now. We’ll talk more after your treatment.”

“No, I think we’ll talk now! That guy, Yankee, he- what, put a bunch of personalities in my head? And then he shot that woman who said I was her? Who was she?”

Melinda takes a deep breath. “What we know is: Yankee was unstable and had a violent outburst which harmed and killed multiple of my coworkers before he escaped the facility. He appears to have fixated on you for unknown reasons, and based on what you said, he essentially downloaded a collection of programmed personalities into your head. I don’t know how much you know about yourself, Charlie, but we can help you figure out what exactly happened and how to deal with it. My name is Agent May and you can trust me, alright?”

“Can I?” Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Because no offense, all of this seems pretty fucking crazy and I don’t know if I can even trust myself right now.”

“You can,” Melinda promises. “We can help you. As for that woman you mentioned… I don’t know who she was, but we have people who are attending to her now. Once we-” She pauses as her comms chirp. “Hunter, go. Update?”

“We fucking lost him!” 

“Again for that?”

“We lost Yankee!”

“Fucking hell,” Fitz sighs as Charlie’s wipe is wrapping up. “Thank Christ that’s the end of that.”

“I’m sure it was a very trying time for you,” Callie deadpans.

Fitz sticks out his tongue at her but is all business when Charlie opens her eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while,” he sing-songs. 

“Shall I go now?”

“If you like.”

She smiles hollowly, then stands up and heads for the doorway. Then she pauses, turns back, and says, “Everything’s blue skies. I like blue.” Then she’s gone before either of them can react.

Callie blinks, shakes her head, and asks, “Should I go get India for you, then?”

“Actually, you can handle the wipes for India and Foxtrot,” he says, waving to dismiss her. “Should be easy enough. I’ve got things to take care of.”

“Oh,” Callie says, undeniably surprised. “Yeah, okay. Go do your mysterious whatever.”

“I will, thanks.” He barely glances at her as he heads downstairs.

Jemma is sat at the desk in her office, clicking through files and sipping something from one of her astronomy mugs. It’s clear she’s been crying, but she’s not doing right now, which Fitz takes as a good sign. “Hello,” he says, trying for gently cheerful. “How are you feeling, then?”

“I’ve been better,” she says, not looking up at him.

“I think that’s true of us all,” he says with a chuckle. “What a day, eh?” 

“Is Charlie alright?”

“Seems to be,” he says with a shrug. “All things considered. You looked her over, too, didn’t you?”

“Enough to know she wasn’t physically injured,” Jemma says. “But she was in quite a state, mentally, and that could only be fixed by you.” There’s an edge in her voice as she says this. “Did you get her back to normal?”

“I think so,” he says, tilting his head. “She did the call and response and then left. Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You sound a little… odd.”

Jemma shuts her laptop and finally looks Fitz in the eye, holding his gaze for longer than she’s usually comfortable doing. “I went in the file room.”

“Oh?” He furrows his brow. “What for? Did you need something? I could’ve gotten it for you.”

“I just meant to give it a once-over, after Victoria got it back into working order,” Jemma says. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one, and all. I haven’t been in there in a while, but it’s not too hard to figure out, right?” She pauses and takes a drink. “There’s a little bit of shelf right by the door, labeled ‘Juliet.’”

“That’s-” he says, but she shakes her head to cut him off.

“There’s only one wedge on the Juliet shelf,” she continues. “It has my name on it.”

He coughs. “Everyone on staff has backups, what’s the big deal? It’s just in case something… happens.”

“The other backups aren’t on a Doll’s shelf,” Jemma hisses. “After I saw that, I remembered something funny. Quinn, right before we killed him, he called me Juliet. You tried to tell me it wasn’t meant for me, but that’s an awfully large coincidence, isn’t it?” She pauses again, just to let the rhetorical question sink in, and then she asks a real one: “What did you make me for?”

“I… didn’t… you’re not…” He swallows. “You’re you, Jemma.”

“Then explain what the hell is going on,” she demands. 

“You’re you,” he repeats. “Just… well, when Yankee first attacked, he- the damage was so severe I had to do something, I couldn’t- but you are you. I promise you that.”

She takes a deep breath. “How am I supposed to trust that promise when you didn’t even deign to tell me you’d performed invasive neurological surgery on me?”

“I didn’t- you were in such a state, I just wanted you to be able to move on! I hoped we could all move on from it.” He sounds just the slightest bit petulant. 

“I almost died, Fitz,” Jemma says. “And instead of telling me what actually happened, you wanted to pretend like everything was sunshine and roses, like you could just sweep it under the bloody rug. Quinn figured it out, obviously, but does anyone else know?”

Fitz’s shoulders slump just a bit. “Phil and Melinda know. Just them, no one else.”

She nods. “Alright. So my bosses and my so-called best friend knew I was walking around as a copy of myself.”

“I am your best friend!” he protests. “I- I love you, Jemma! How could you ever doubt that?”

“You’ve proven you love the idea of me,” she corrects. “But why not trim some of the inconvenient edges away? It’s much easier to love a plaything than a person.” She stands up from her desk, pours a shot of gin in her mug, and knocks it back.

“What? No, I didn’t do anything like that! I would never, I, you-” Fitz seems to glitch for a second. Then he takes a deep breath. “Can we talk about this like adults, without all of the dramatics, please?”

“No,” she says simply. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Tango is out of commission until her knee heals, but there’s no reason Dr. Simmons can’t do her job from a chair or a pair of crutches.” Her voice wavers a little, but she lifts her chin defiantly. “You can put that imprint in her body, and Juliet can take her place in the rotation until she’s better.”

He gapes at her. “What? You want to… become a Doll?”

“I already am,” she says, shrugging too casually. “Might as well earn my keep.”

“That’s- insane! Jemma, you want to- you want them to send you out like all the others?”

“Like - what? You mean to do violence? Sex?” She laughs. “I’m not much of a fighter, but you can fix that right up, can’t you? And it’s not like I’m some blushing virgin.”

Fitz visibly winces. “I didn’t say you were, I just… I think you’re overreacting a little.”

“You know,” Jemma says, edging around him and heading for the door, “if you’d just told me straightaway, I might have been alright with it. But you didn’t, Fitz. You didn’t bother to treat me like a full person, so why should I bother trying to be?” She doesn’t wait for a response before she storms out and toward the stairs.

“Wait!” he calls, but she’s already gone. He buries his face in his hands.

By the time he’s able to force himself to go back upstairs, he can see the lights from the office that means the imprint chair is in use. There’s no point in running; he can’t stop this, so he just lets his feet lead him onward. 

When he’s reached the top of the stairs, he can see Jemma just starting to wake up from the wipe. Melinda is standing next to the chair watching, and then her gaze drifts up to him. Wow, is he lucky she can’t literally kill him with a look.

Jemma - Juliet - rises to sitting. She’s even managed to find a pair of Doll pajamas to change into, yoga pants and a tank top in shades of blue, and admittedly it’s more skin than Fitz has ever seen her show before, but that doesn’t matter, what matters is the empty expression on her face.

“Did I fall asleep?” she asks Callie, and her voice is even different, indistinctly American like all of the Dolls.

“For a little while,” Callie says. Her hand twitches like she wants to reach out comfortingly, but she resists.

“Shall I go now?” Juliet continues.

“If you like,” Callie says, glancing over at Melinda skeptically.

Melinda nods. “Why don’t you go have some dinner, Juliet?”

“Dinner is nice,” Juliet says. She heads for the stairs; when her gaze catches on Fitz, she smiles at him. “Hello, Dr. Fitz.”

“Hello,” he says, too startled to say anything else. 

“You seem sad,” she says.

He just stares at her for a second, until Melinda coughs. “He’ll be okay,” she says firmly. “Juliet, why don’t you go have a massage first?”

“Alright,” Juliet says. “Massages are relaxing. Goodbye, Dr. Fitz, goodbye, Melinda. Goodbye, Dr. Hannigan!” She waves eagerly at all of them before heading down the stairs.

Fitz stares dumbly after her. “I can’t believe she did that.”

“I guess I’ll be handling her wipes, too,” Callie says flatly.

“But-” Fitz is silenced immediately by a stern cough from Melinda. “Alright,” he says defeatedly. “And you’re her handler, then?” He can’t quite look Melinda in the eye.

“I always have been. We’re just making it official. And,” she adds, “I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.”

“Of course,” he says, “of course you will, that’s… that makes perfect sense. I, I have some work to do now, if you both could…?” He trails off, hoping they’ll take the hint.

“I’ll make sure Tango is brought in first thing in the morning,” Callie says, just to drive the nail home.

“Yes,” Fitz says, sounding very far away. He’s gone to sit at his computer and is sort of just staring off into space. “Good, good, sure.”

“So,” Phil says, giving Robbie his very best disappointed dad look. The second the teams arrived back at the Dollhouse, Robbie got forcibly escorted back to Phil’s office and locked in, and has been petulantly sitting here not drinking the coffee they offered him. (Of course he tried snooping, but everything was locked.) 

“So.” Robbie stares right back at Phil, trying for tough and disaffected. “What’s the next move here? Can I go or are you guys just gonna shoot me in the head?”

“Why would you think we would do that?” Phil leans against his desk. “Seems unnecessarily violent. Then again, you did get into my top-secret underground facility and bring a violent monster back into it, endangering everyone inside. That doesn’t exactly make you any friends around here.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Robbie protests. “And how am I the more fucked-up one here when you reprogram people? ”

Phil waves his hand. “This isn’t a discussion about morals or ethics, Mr. Reyes. It’s about your future with the Dollhouse. To be blunt, we want to offer you a job here.”

That’s so out of left field that Robbie just blinks at him for a second. “Sorry?”

“We find your drive and instinct impressive. You’re good at sniffing out leads and following them, and you’ve gone after the Dollhouse with just an astounding determination that borders on inhuman.” Phil chuckles, but not really like it’s funny. “I don’t know where you get this from, Mr. Reyes, but I’d be an idiot to let you walk out of here without trying to harness it for our benefit.” 

“You must think I’m fucking crazy,” Robbie says. “I’d have to be, to fall for that pitch.”

Phil shrugs. “The pitch isn’t over yet.”

The door to the office opens and Emily - Katya - whatever her name is enters the room. She’s wearing the same kind of loungewear as when she ran into him earlier, but she doesn’t have that vacant Doll stare. She glances curiously at Robbie, but mostly ignores him in favor of looking at Phil and asking, “What’s going on, Mr. Coulson?”

“Hello, Raina,” Phil says. “I brought you here to talk to Robbie.”

“Emily,” Robbie says, staring at her like he’s not sure she’s real. “I-”

“Yeah, no,” Raina says. She goes over to the bar and helps herself to a glass of whiskey, then sits on the couch. “I’m not Emily. Sorry about that, I guess. My name is Raina.”

“Oh. Sorry. Um, you… we…” Robbie trails off. “I’m not sure how to explain this.”

“Ms. May explained a little of it to me,” Raina says. “You were a pain in their ass, so I got to be the girl next door to unravel you.” She shrugs. “Like I said, sorry, but it was just business.”

Robbie shakes his head like he’s choosing to brush that off, then adds, “Wait, so this is your original self, right? Like you’re not like the others anymore? Does that mean you’re letting her go?” He looks at Phil. “This is just like a reinforcement thing before she goes free, right? Reminding me Emily wasn’t ever real?”

“People end up in the Dollhouse for all sorts of reasons,” Raina says plainly. “I don’t know how much of the pitch he’s given you, but it’s really full-service. They take five years, you get enough money to last you a few lifetimes. Or you get a miracle cure for something that’s fucked up in your brain. Or, in my case, you get protected from really awful people.” She takes another sip of her drink. “I’m not safe to be out there in the world right now, not without someone having my back. I’m okay with doing whatever I have to to keep safe.”

“Is this safe?” Robbie glances between her and Phil like he’s at a tennis match. “Getting sent out to do whatever random rich fucks want, whenever they want? Almost throwing yourself off a bridge? Is that safe? ”

Raina shrugs, remarkably casual. “I mean, I was basically doing whatever random rich fucks wanted anyway,” she says. “This pays a hell of a lot better, and I’m not just left to fend for myself.” She clears her throat. “I’d rather almost kill myself and get found than wind up where someone else kills me and succeeds.”

Her blase attitude shocks him into silence. While he’s trying to figure out how to ask the questions that are really burning on his tongue - if that stuff isn’t a big deal to you, did that mean I wasn’t a big deal to you either? And does that mean that none of what we had together was real? - when Phil coughs. “From our understanding of your interest in the Dollhouse, you’re very concerned about the safety and dignity of our Actives. So we thought you’d be interested in taking that on firsthand. We thought you could be Raina’s - India’s - new handler.”

“Yeah, my last guy was a real piece of work,” Raina says. “You can thank him for that suicide attempt, apparently. A real self-serving sleaze. You seem okay, though.” She smiles at him, and there’s nothing sexy or romantic or even particularly intimate about it but she clearly means it. “So what do you say?”

“I…” Robbie swallows hard. “What does this entail, exactly?”

“You’ll be responsible for transporting India to and from all of her engagements, as well as monitoring her status through comms and vital signs,” Phil explains. “If any problems arise, you’ll step in and remove her from the situation. But I should stress, most of our engagements go off without a hitch. A lot of the job is going to be sitting in a van on standby.” He smiles. “It’s a fairly low-maintenance job, but an important one. Our Actives’ safety is our top priority, and the handler-active bond is the most important part of that process.” 

“So I’d be… listening to her do… whatever?”

“You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can manage it,” Raina smirks.

Embarrassed, Robbie glances away from her. He thinks for a long moment, then, finally, he nods. “I… I guess I accept.”

“Wonderful.” Phil reaches over to shake his hand. “We’re delighted to have you on board, Robbie Reyes. Raina, if you’ll follow Callie back to the imprint room while I have Robbie fill out some paperwork.”

“Sure thing,” Raina says. She salutes with just a hint of sarcasm and goes for the exit, calling behind her, “See you on the other side, Robbie.”

“Salmon is very healthy,” Foxtrot remarks, cutting up her dinner.

“I like the way it tastes,” says Romeo, spearing some green beans on his fork. 

Charlie finishes her mouthful of food and takes a sip of water. “Look, here comes Melinda,” she says, pointing and waving. “Hello!”

Melinda comes over to their table, alongside a pale brunette girl they don’t know. “Hello, Charlie, Foxtrot, Romeo,” Melinda says. “I’ve brought you a new friend, Juliet. Can she sit with you for dinner?”

Foxtrot nods politely. “Hello, Juliet,” she says.

“You can sit next to me, Juliet,” says Charlie, gesturing to the empty seat.

Juliet does, tucking hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says, smiling at Charlie specifically.

Charlie nods. “You’re welcome. Friends help each other out. I want us to be good friends.”

“Have you had any salmon, Juliet?” Romeo asks. “It tastes very good.”

“Not yet,” Juliet says, and she smiles at the attendant that brings her a plate as if summoned. “It looks tasty.”

“It’s pink,” Charlie says. “Like lollipops.” She blinks, then adds, “Juliet, do you like lollipops? I feel like you like lollipops.”

Juliet nods. “Lollipops are also tasty. You should wait until after you’ve had dinner to have dessert.”

“And you should wait half an hour after you’ve done that to swim,” Foxtrot says. “I like swimming.”

“Salmon swim,” Romeo says. “I guess they don’t have wait half an hour after eating to swim.”

Melinda smirks and says, “Alright, enjoy your dinner, everyone.”

Before she goes, she watches them for a second. Juliet leans down over her plate, and a lock of her hair almost falls into her food before Charlie reaches over and fixes it. They exchange words and then go back to eating, like nothing happened. 

Technically, Melinda should report this, since it’s more unusual Charlie behavior. But instead, she just leaves them to eat in peace.