Wrote and posted solely on a whim!

Disclaimer: I do not own Dollhouse.


Imperfect Number One

Let Echo be Number One.

Retribution.

That's what this is.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A face for a face.

Let Echo be Number One.

The stainless steel of the scalpel is cool in her grasp, a sharp contrast to the warm blood that bursts from the flesh as the blade tears it apart. Cutting, slicing, breaking. Her motions aren't fluid and practised as Alpha's were when he cut up Victor, when he cut up her. After all, she's designed to fix the Actives, not break them.

But this is right. This is just. This is fair.

Let Echo be Number One.

All too soon, Echo's anguished cries summon personnel to the scene. There's a flurry of activity. She's pulled off of her and takes a few stumbling steps backwards until she's hugging the wall, watching the scene from behind the brown hair that's fallen over her eyes, handlers crowding around the now imperfect Number One. The scalpel slips from her slackened grip to the floor.

Somehow, the clatter of her makeshift weapon makes more noise than the commotion that is pulsing all around her as people yell at and to one and other, giving orders, passing blame. Travis – Echo's handler – attempts to comfort his Active, but fails miserably so Boyd steps in smoothly, taking her hand and assuring her that everything is going to be alright. How it will, does not matter. She placates for him, almost instantly.

Let Echo be Number One.

Men grab her arms, hauling her away. Blank, questioning stares follow her as she's dragged away. Across the floor and up the stairs to hell, itself. But… it can't be hell because there is Him. The Lord, her God. Topher Brink. His face is pale as anxiety drains away all colour from his features, features that are normally aglow with exuberance.

She feels the chair beneath her. A protest forms and dies on her lips as she is consumed by a bright, blue light.

I try to be my best.