Last Will And

Last Will And

A Dollhouse fanfiction story, by Sam Brown

Note:
This story is set shortly prior to the events of the TV show "Dollhouse". Laurence Dominic still serves at the side of Ms. DeWitte. Caroline has not yet become Echo, nor Priya Sierra. It was written between the release of episodes 9 and 10, and should be expected to drift farther from canon as more episodes are released. It was written in a single afternoon and likely wants for editing and narrative tightening still. Comments and critiques are very welcome at: baudot at gmail dot com.

This story is written as a work of fanfiction, and should not be sold or otherwise used for commercial gain. All copyrights remain the property of their respective holders.

Afterword: HAH! Just days after I wrote this, episode 10 landed and the plots were... well, let me say in my defense that I'd been avoiding spoilers and wasn't expecting the writers to explore the same ground I had anytime so soon. Well done, Team Whedon. You win this round.

- - - - - - - -

Malibu sunlight poured through the orange grove. It cast mottled shadows on a the grounds and the guests. The shadows danced with the wind and over the faces of the guests.

Ms. Eliza Saunders had chosen the most shaded spot by the road to greet them. Her dress was cut for New York winters, and she'd been sticky with sweat since before leaving the funeral chapel. With endless guests arriving, she was having an increasingly difficult time keeping the somber and hospitable face expected of her. It was a relief to have someone to snap at when a black van pulled up and a couple who were undoubtedly not guests stepped out.

"You're late." began Ms. Saunders.

"I'm sorry," said the woman, "we were told to arrive at 4pm. I apologize for the miscommunication."

"They're yelling at me? I just got here, and already they yell at me?" complained the man. "Why did I agree to this? I have other places to be. Important work." He had an Armenian accent like most of the guests, and held a crude flute. He was young, handsome, and looked very put upon to be here.

The woman looked the man over with maternal concern, straightened his bow-tie, and spoke soothingly, "No one's yelling. And I know. But Dr. Avakian was the only maestro on the duduk for 2,000 miles. It will mean so much to his family to hear you play some of the melodies from the old country."

Colour drained from the young man's face and he started to stammer a response.

"Besides you," smiled the woman back at him. "The only maestro besides you." Then she turned to Ms. Saunders. "Would you show him to where he's supposed to play?"

"You're not attending?"

"I'm afraid not. I'll be back to pick him up at 10."

Already feeling a bit sorry for the young man, Ms. Saunders took his free hand and led him in to the wake. "Did you know the deceased?"

"Yes", he answered, ashen faced. "Very well."

- - - - - - - -

Selena closed the van door behind her as the van rolled off. She thumbed the radio line back to the dollhouse and made her report.

"Victor's off. If he gets over his bruised ego, he might even enjoy himself. Lots of young bicoastals who think a wake is one more chance to network and could use the excuse to pull a handsome young folk musician off into a mansion corner and get reminded what it feels like to be alive."

"Bruised ego?" came the voice back on the radio.

"Yeah. Looks like Topher gave this build a triple serving of pride in its musical talents. You should have seen him when I said the deceased was a better musician than him."

- - - - - - - -

Mrs. Avakian slipped away from the guests, down a hallway, stopping at the door of her husband's sanctuary. She reached on top of the door frame for the key, but it wasn't there. She reached forward and twisted the knob.

The door opened. It shouldn't have.

Sarah Avakian stood in the doorway of her late husband's study and swept the room with her eyes. There was a lush Chinese carpet. Turkish wall hangings. Cherry and mahogany legal cabinets. A huge bronze lamp cast in the style of the Zhou dynasty. And next to all these, at her husband's computer, was the young musician from the wake.

"Excuse me? What do you think you're doing in here?" she hissed.

"Your pardon, madam," interjected the young man. "But, there's been a death close to me, also. I had to check some eMails to see what had happened."

"It won't do you any good," she sniffed, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "My husband kept the computer passworded at all times."

She turned to an end table, unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured herself a tall glass. Turning away from the young man, she continued. "You're not going to get your eMail here. He didn't even tell me the password."

"So I see. Were you close?"

She sniffed. "Terribly. I loved him with all my heart and soul." Then a bitter choke of laughter.

"You didn't love him?"

"Not for a long time."

"I see... I see. That's unfortunate, Sarah. He loved you to the very end."

Sarah Avakian spun about just in time to see the bronze lamp stand swinging at her. The first strike knocked her out. It took many more to finish the job.

- - - - - - - -

"How did this happen?" Ms. DeWitte asked. "Dr. Avakian ordered a standard 'comfort' contract for his widow in the will. Then our active turns around and kills her instead."

Adelle DeWitte stood before her two most trusted officers. Laurence Dominic was opposite her, in his now familiar tension at a threat to the Dollhouse. A step behind and away from him was Dr. Saunders. She looked on with an expression of persistent discomfort while Mr. Dominick answered.

"Topher claims not to know. Murder wasn't one of the parameters, and the imprint was within standard range for violent tendencies. Barely within standard, but he shouldn't have gone off without provocation. There was no indication of psychosis in the source."

"Could Victor have glitched?"

"Topher insists the imprint was such a simple build that there's no room for it to glitch. Something about fewer moving parts breaking less often."

"Is the machinery compromised? Faulty?"

"Ivy and Topher are running diagnostics now, but there's no sign yet that anything's wrong with the chair or the racks."

"How is Victor now?"

"Selena extracted him immediately after the incident. We're trying to interrogate him, but the imprint is falling apart.

Dr. Saunders broke in, "I don't think you're going to get anything out of him. Victor needs to be wiped before he suffers lasting neurostructural trauma."

"Falling apart? I thought this imprint was too simple to glitch."

"It is," Dr. Saunders replied, "I saw the build. You don't need to be Topher to recognize a single source build. But he's disgusted with himself, whoever he is. He's falling apart psychologically. When you or I do something we hate enough, we go crazy trying to make sense of it. An active has a pressure valve we don't. If the psychological pain is too intense, sometimes their minds throw off the imprint. They're not the person who did the crime anymore, they don't have to feel the guilt. But for that to happen, it has be so bad that a normal person would have gone crazy facing up to it. It's not perfect. Victor is still going crazy from what he did as this imprint, just not as crazy as he could. If he's already started to lose the imprint, then the damage has already started. We need to wipe him before he suffers any more."

Ms. DeWitte stood a few moments, lips pursed.

"Very well. Wipe him."

Dominic broke back in, "Ms. DeWitte! He..."

"...is not going to tell us anything he hasn't already, Mr. Dominic. There is nothing more to be gained down that avenue. Have him wiped without further delay."

Mr. Dominick nodded. He was not pleased.

"And Mr. Dominic? Get me the record on this single source Topher used for the imprint."

- - - - - - - -

A black van pulled up outside Pinnacle Accounting, and disgorged two occupants. The smaller of the two turned to regard the building.

"Moonrise over an office building in The Valley. A single light burns late into the night. There's your princess, waiting to be swept off her feet, Aleksander. Save her from the tedium of numbers."

Aleksander turned to regard his handler, "The very moment I was born for, my dear. You'll give the boys my regards when I don't make it back in time for tonight's game?"

"Of course I will." She smiled at him. "Now go get'em, tiger."

The active strode forward confidently, bowed to speak into the intercom at the front of the building, and stepped inside. His handler smiled to herself for a moment after he was lost into the mirrored tower, then lazily returned to the van.

"Charlie's off."

- - - - - - - -

"Vasag Avakian. Male. Age 64. Forensic accountant. Resident of Sherman Oaks with a weekend getaway in Malibu."

"Yes. Our client, the one with the freshly murdered wife, thanks to one of our actives. What about him, Mr. Dominic?"

"He's also the single source Topher used for the 'console the widow' engagement this afternoon."

"How is that possible? Clients are not solicited for scans."

"It seems Mr. Avakian volunteered for a brain imaging study during a trip to visit his daughter studying neurophysics at NYU. One of the ones our branch in New York uses to gather imprints."

"Mr. Avakian, one of our clients, is also in our imprint database? And this morning he was selected as the imprint source to console his own wife after his passing."

"His will contained instructions for the final engagement. The profile he requested was very specific. A master of Armenian folk music, a palate for fine liquors, an appreciation for dark haired women, and so on. He asked for someone as much like himself as possible to console his wife. He got himself."

"Coincidence?"

DeWitte and Dominic regarded each other for a silent moment before she spun her chair and punched the lab extension into her desk phone.

"Topher. Place a hold on source imprint 4E:B7:3A. Make certain it doesn't go into any other actives until I say otherwise."

The speakerphone responded in a halting voice, "I'm sorry, did you say 4E:B7:3A? Ah. Hah. Um. Hah. Ah. Oh no."

"Topher, would you please explain 'Oh no'."

"'Oh no'?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"No."

"Ah, well... it may be a little late for that."

- - - - - - - -

"You must be Aleksander."

"And that would make you Katie. She didn't tell me you were so lovely."

Katie gave him a knowing smile. "Of course she didn't, Mr. Hewitt."

"Please, just Aleksander."

"Very well, Aleksander. Would you have a seat for the moment? I need to check one last thing before I'm free for our engagement."

"Of course."

"Just take a seat over there."

"As the lady commands."

Alexsander sank into a plush leather chair, and regarded Katie from across the office as she turned back to her computer. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a table next to him loaded with old world knick-knacks. Pulling a crude flute from the pile, he played a few test notes. The tone was perfect. Just like his own flute. He played a short, sad melody from the old country. When he looked up again, he saw Katie looking back at him in the reflection on the window.

"That will do, Mr. Hewitt. That will do." She stood up from her desk. "Would you please follow me, Mr. Hewitt? Or should I call you Dr. Avakian?"

"Just Aleksander, really, Katie."

She lead him into a dark conference room, pressed a few buttons on an over-sized TV and computer there, and then stepped back out into the doorway of the room.

"I'll be outside when you're done here."

"When I'm done? Katie, what game are we playing?"

She closed the door behind her and the room was dropped into darkness for a moment, until the TV screen came on. There was a strangely familiar face on the screen. A man in his middle years regarded Aleksander. He looked concerned, and his eyes seemed tired, and older than the rest of him.

"If you're seeing this, it is because you are me, and I am dead. Please have a seat. It's been a few months since your memories end and we have much to catch up on."

- - - - - - - -

Dominic was beside himself with rage. It was, Adelle DeWitte noted, a frequent temperament he took on when dealing with Topher.

"You imprinted the same exact source onto two actives in the same day and nothing about that seemed worth raising alarms over?"

"It wasn't the same exact imprint! Victor was imprinted with 4E:B7:3A. Charlie got 4E:B7:62."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Look, I don't get to do many single-source imprints. They aren't as much fun, because you don't get to balance the ingredients, choose your accents, make it all fit together. There's no artistry in it."

Dominic regarded Topher with waning patience.

"But but but the real reason we don't do single-source ever, ah, almost ever, is because you don't get the chance. I mean, you always SHOULD do single source if you get the chance, right? There's no conflicting personalities or memories to mesh up, nothing to rectify. It's the most stable imprint you can give an active. But you never get everything you want in a single source. Mr. Client wants a girl who knows how to ski AND who can talk about last year's pinot noir crop. Oh, and she has to do that thing with her hips that the last girl did. You end up pulling from three different sources to build the imprint. Right?"

Dominic's gaze offered no encouragement.

"Um. Right. So this afternoon, we get one request for a master of the Armenian Duduk, should be caring, know his brandies, all that. And the library pulls up a perfect match. 4E:B7:3A. Later this evening, about the time Selena is driving back here with Victor, I'm sending off another active. He's been requested by Peak Accountants, and they want somebody with a mastery of Forensic accounting, who speaks fluent Armenian, with experience investigating organized crime. A perfect match from the library! 4E:B7:62! Charlie gets it and he's out the door. Two perfect matches in one day! What are the odds?"

Dominic looked unamused with the odds.

"Right, So... Victor gets back. There's a LOT of yelling in my office and more than a few sodas get tipped over. Do you know what grape soda does to a full rack of 1950 servers? The next thing I know, Captain Angryface has ordered me to tear down the whole rig and look for signs of tampering. We're doing that, me and Ivy, and we're coming up with nothing, when I think back to this afternoon, and I think this afternoon's builds were too easy. And I'm just looking them up when Ms. DeWitte calls down about source 4E:B7:3A. And that's why we're talking now."

Topher's breakneck monologue tumbled to a stop and he offered Dominic a satisfied, half apologetic smile.

Dominic looked back at Topher, waiting for the other shoe to fall. "Why, then, are we too late?"

"Oh! Because THIS is the scan for 4E:B7:3A."

Topher brought up an image on the office screen. A translucent brain rotated for viewing, a readout of points of interest and a histogram of emotional registers floating next to it.

"And this is 4E:B7:62"

A second image appeared next to the first. Topher coughed nervously, then tapped another button. The two images slid over each other.

It was a perfect overlap.

- - - - - - - -

Charlie stepped out of the dollhouse van for the second time that day. He pulled a neatly folded white handkerchief from his suit pocket and, with a grimace, wiped the blood from his other hand. He tucked the pistol into the front of his pants. Katie looked on from the outside, faintly green in the moonlight. The poor girl. She doubtless hadn't been expecting this. Or she hadn't been expecting to see it firsthand. Still, Vasag Avakian knew he didn't have long with this body before the police or the dollhouse caught up with him. He'd need to move fast to accomplish his revenge.

"They'll come for the van, now that it's not reporting. They must have a tracker on it. Disposing of it won't do any good. Get out of here before they arrive. There's the number for a Luxembourg bank account taped to the underside of my desk drawer in the office. Live a good life, Katie. Thanks for everything."

She looked at him in horror, then turned on her heel and ran back into the building. He looked after her a few moments in regret, then turned to walk to a covered car in the parking lot. He pulled the cover off in a few quick gestures to reveal a spotlessly maintained Jaguar underneath, reached behind the front driverside wheel and stood back up with a key in hand. He spared one last glance towards the office before stepping into the car. He spoke quietly to himself.

"Time to make sure the good guys win."

- - - - - - - -

Adelle DeWitte listened to silence from the far end of the phone for a few moments more, then dismissed the call.

"It's safe to assume Charlie has neutralized his handler to prevent interference in whatever he has in mind. Mr. Dominic, send a double team to retrieve the van. Include a medical detail."

Mr. Dominic looked grim, but stepped out of the room to place the call.

"Topher, is there any indication in Dr. Avakian's file what he might be up to?"

"Not in the file."

"Can you tell from his scan?"

"If it worked like that, my job would be so easy Dominic could do it."

"Then we're running out of ways to figure out what he's up to."

She pulled up the video from the handler's van, and skimmed forwards at high speed from the moment of the drop off to the live footage while Topher looked on, nervously rocking from heel to heel. She looked back at Topher.

"We'll have to find out from Mr. Avakian himself."

- - - - - - - -

The chair lifted Victor back into a seated position. Selena Ramirez stood over him, hoping the concern she felt wasn't evident in her face.

"How was your flight, Mr. Jonas?"

"Very good, though they almost tried to bump me back to coach. Overfull. Hah! I made them bump Freddy Prinze Jr. instead. He was irate. 'Do you know who I am?' he kept saying. You should have seen it."

"Are you ready for your date? I hear there's a charming young accountant who has a taste for men who appreciate numbers."

"Katie! Yes! I wouldn't miss it for the world. Let's be on our way."

Topher watched them leave the lab. When the door closed behind them, he fell into the chair, staring up at the ceiling.

"Universe! I challenge you to make this day any worse."

The door opened again. He sat bolt upright, wide eyed with terror.

Ivy walked in.

"There aren't any more juice boxes. You'll have to survive on soda until tomorrow."

- - - - - - - -

Charlie wound up the last of the mountain road, coasted to a stop in a gravel driveway, and stepped out of the car. He took four steps to the doorway, and paused before knocking. The door opened as he was lifting his hand to knock.

What light made it out from inside had to creep around the bulk of the man standing in the doorway. He towered to the top of the doorframe and would have to turn sideways to step through it. He looked down on Charlie with a sneer of disgust.

"Who would you be, disturbing Mr. Janikyan at this hour?"

"Would you tell Mr. Janikyan that an old friend has come to pay him a visit?"

"You ain't old, and you ain't no friend of Mr. Janikyan. Get lost."

The door slammed. On the far side Raffi turned away, and stomped back towards the kitchen, grumbling. You would think that people would have the sense not to bother a mob boss in the dead of night. Not unless they were already on his good side, at the very least. He sat back at the table, the chair creaking under his bulk, and punched the remote to turn the kitchen TV back on.

There was a knock at the door. Cursing, Raffi stood up, turned the TV off again, and stomped back to the door. He paused for a moment to be certain his face showed exactly how he felt about young turks who thought they were more important than Mr. Janikyan's sleep before opening the door. The same man from before was on the other side. His arms were out in front of him, and his left hand held a blanket doubled and redoubled to drape over his right. The blanket did little to silence the first pistol shot, and less still for the second.

- - - - - - - -

Victor strode out the door of Pinnacle Accounting and looked up and down the parking lot. The van that dropped him off should still be here. The handler should be in it. But it wasn't.

Dr. Vasag Avakian took a deep breath, uncertain if he should be relieved or worried. He wasn't looking forward to murdering the handler who'd had the misfortune to be assigned to look after this body, but he had to be worried that the plan his dead self had instructed him in was already off track. He'd just have to risk it. Pick up the sports car, drive as fast as he could to Pagour Janikyan's house, and kill the old mobster before his handler could catch up with him. At the very least they couldn't pace him up the winding roads of the Hollywood hills, them in a topheavy van and he in a Jaguar XK. He checked the gun tucked into his front waistband, strode over to the covered car, and pulled the cover off in a few quick gestures.

There was a Porsche under the cover, not the Jaguar his dead self had said would be waiting there. He cursed. Two hitches in the plan for tonight already. He reached under the front driverside wheel. That at least was right. Standing back up with the key, he took a last look around the parking lot for the dollhouse van before stepping into the car and turning the ignition. He spoke quietly to himself.

"Time to make sure the good guys win."

- - - - - - - -

Charlie stood in the doorway of Pagour Janikyan's bedroom. It had been the last bedroom at the end of the hall, and the whimpers coming from the doors down the hall were a testament to his thoroughness. He'd checked each chamber and found mistresses, children, but not Pagour Janakyan until the last room at the end of the hall. The whimpers and cries coming from each room were a testament to his restraint. Vasag Avakian had no wish for anyone to suffer. Anyone but the man who's surely engineered his death. And that man was in front of him now.

"Who are you?" sneered the old don.

"I'm Vasag Avakian," answered Charlie. He pulled back the hammer on his pistol.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're whoever you say you are. Fine. So, Dr. Avakian, what can I do for you?"

"You can die."

"I would have said the same thing," said a voice from behind Charlie. He glanced over his shoulder.

Victor stepped up beside him. "I take it you're my insurance policy on getting this job done. You're Dr. Avakian. I'm Dr. Avakian. Is anyone here not Vasag Avakian?"

"Thank goodness we're all Dr. Avakian," said Pagour Janikyan.

Both doctors Avakian looked back at him, unamused. Two pistols lifted. A second hammer cocked back.

The newer Dr. Avakian lowered his gun and stepped inside.

"You do the honors. You won't mind if I watch?"

"Not at all."

Charlie looked over the sights of his gun and lined up the shot. Then there was a dull thump, and he fell. A woman stepped over his body into the room, holding a sap in her right hand and a gun in the left. Victor felt a swell of compassion on seeing her. He knew he could trust her. He steeled himself against the emotion.

"Dr. Avakian?"

"Yes?"

"It's time for your trea-"

And she was cut off as Victor punched her in the throat.

"I warned me you'd say that."

Victor turned back to Pagour. "People never think about insurance until they need it. I'd say it was a prudent investment this time. Perhaps you don't agree." He looked over the sights of the gun and lined up the shot. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell.

Pagour Janikyan looked up, disbelieving.

Victor cocked the chamber back to eject the dud round and pulled the trigger again. The gun didn't fire. He pulled the trigger again, and again, and again, cursing. From his side he heard a choked voice, "It's time for your treatment."

Killing Pagour Janikyan didn't seem so important anymore.

- - - - - - - -

Ms. DeWitte regarded Mr. Dominic from across her office as he gave his closing report.

"Victor accepted the replacement gun and car we planted on the scene before his arrival. The car was the best we could scrounge up on no notice, and he spotted the change but went ahead anyway."

"And the gun?"

"Was installed with a radio switch to move the firing pin out from under the hammer, the same as if the decocking lever were switched on. It wouldn't fire it as soon as we threw the switch."

"Very good, Mr. Dominic. That will be all."

Laurence Dominic turned to leave Ms. DeWitte's office, pausing right before he opened the door.

"Why didn't we let the client finish the engagement?"

"We were contracted under deception, Mr. Dominic. The client did not inform us of the risks he was exposing our actives to, nor pay the appropriate rate for an assassination engagement."

"It's not that you look down on his bloodthirstiness, then?"

"Not at all, Mr. Dominic. It's nothing worse than we enjoy in a greek tragedy. He finds out that his wife has betrayed him to a criminal whose offers he himself has turned down. He's overwhelmed with betrayal and kills her in a moment of passion from beyond the grave. Then he goes on to take his vengeance against the man who killed him. Perhaps you can see a trace of romance in it, even."

"Romance?"

"Yes. I think I shall suggest Topher pull a slice or two from Dr. Avakian for the build he's preparing for that upcoming lonelyheart's engagement."

Ms. Dewitte gave him a cheshire grin, until he let himself out and closed the door behind.