Dollhouse

When the call from Rossum went viral, almost anyone who answered became a Butcher or a Wielder, while others’ minds were just wiped and left as hollow shells. Those transformed by this event are our neighbors, friends, families, and lovers.

They are the people we’re closest to, as well as the strangers we ignore.

But I wanna focus on the Butchers: what they are and what they mean. They’re no one and anyone—Butchers are bloodthirsty, raging, mindless killing machines. If you aren’t one of them, they’ll slaughter you (actually, they’ll slaughter you either way). It’s sort of a path of least resistance methodology. We’re trying to avoid them at all costs. Why hurt or kill any more people than we have to? Why threaten to become like them without Rossum’s voodoo tricks to hold accountable?

Alpha, the other Ivies, and Trevor have—like me—been in direct contact with these Butchers. We’ve used any means possible to defend ourselves. While I didn’t pick up the phone and become a Butcher like so many other people, that doesn’t mean Rossum hasn’t changed me too. Sometimes I almost forget that the people I’m fighting used to be my allies, and regular people living their lives . . .

God . . . since the Butchers . . . that my former employees created, btw . . . I’ve had to commandeer this body and learned to use a shotgun. A shotgun?

Do you know what the kickback is like from a gun like that? I have a shiner on my shoulder to show for it, my arm feels like it’s going to fall off, and my trigger finger is in serious danger of not working. Yet, it’s this weapon that saves my friends and me. Who’d have thought I’d be a gun person? (I still feel icky admitting it.) The other Ivies, while less gun savvy, helped Alpha attach a tech interface to a little boy’s head so he can acquire special skills to fight tangible human monsters, as well as the monsters housed in Rossum’s computers. We’re kinda badass in the worst of circumstances, and as a result I recognize that us Ivies are collectively becoming other than what we’ve always been as a single, unique Ivy. Let’s just hope that “other” isn’t “a mindless killing machine.”

The moral quandaries are endless and exhausting, and physically I am quite tired of the bloodshed. I much prefer the behind-the-scenes computer-smart me, and I definitely miss my biggest problem being insecure about whether the newest cute lab assistant has noticed me . . .