Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When she’d started out as a therapist, they’d tried to prepare her. Over and over they’d said “It’ll get dark”, “You’ll hear some terrible, terrible things”. And she had. She’d seen the evil humanity was capable of, she’d seen the damage it caused, and she’d tried to glue people back together. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes… Sometimes there was nothing she could do.

Anyway, she was a therapist. A pretty good one, even if she did say so herself. Sadly, no one seemed to want a therapist anymore. Why pay a human hundred of creds, when a droid would cost 20 at most, and was on-call 24/7? Almost all of her clients were either rich eldsters or huge corporations trying to squeeze a few months extra work out of some poor futzie-to-be. She was decidedly unhappy. Sure, she was doing good work, and her clients definitely needed her, but she felt like she could be doing more. Also, she needed to be doing more. Her income was irregular, and rent collection was a tragically consistent event. The best she could do in terms of housing was a crummy one bed, half-a-bath near Salisbury. It was a little bit shit. It was 2176, suicide was at an all time high, not a single person was content in life, but practically nobody could afford a therapist. The best most people could get was a 15 month long wait-list, two half-hour appointments, and a prescription for some random drug the doc liked the sound of. The system was fucked.

Of course, this was all for the norms. If you were a mutant? Just walk into the wastelands and wait a bit. All your problems will be solved, you can’t be depressed if you’re dead. A dreamless sleep also means a nightmare-less sleep. The high suicide rate among mutants even made it into the news. It was framed as a feel good story. Look! The mutant problem’s going to fix itself! We don’t need extermination camps, they’ll do it themselves! Beatrice wasn’t sure whether to cry, or throw up. Maybe both.

All of this just combined to make one miserable therapist, in need of a consistent salary, and a roof that didn’t leak. Luckily, things were about to change.

It was a Tuesday morning, and it was pissing it down. Beatrice had woken up at about 5:30am, mostly because that’s when the rain had started dripping through the hole right above her pillow. It was now about nine and she’d read about a hundred walkthroughs on fixing plaster. It all cost a lot more than she had. So, she was feeling pretty miserable. Then, the doorbell rang. (Well, it tried. It was old and rusting, so really it just squawked like a dying rooster and fizzled out).

The doorbell was surprising. No one ever visited her. She went to all her clients, and her family had disowned her; mostly because she didn’t think people should be encouraged to kill themselves based on genetics. So, the door going was more than a little suspicious. She still went to answer it. After all, the worst that could happen was she got murdered, and that’d save her from trying to decide if she wanted heating or water.

In an unexpected turn of good fortune, there was not a murderer standing in the hallway. Instead, there was a stocky, balding man, wearing what looked to be a fairly expensive suit and a black bowler hat. His round cheeks were bright red, either from drinking heavily, the 10 flight climb, or a combination of both. He looked like a man with creds to spare.

“May I come in?” He sounded exactly like she’d expected him to. Proper little accent, like something out of a regency drama, undercut with a sense of unease—probably caused by standing in a leaky slum, wearing a thousand cred suit. She decided to take pity on him.

“Sure, come on in.”

If Beatrice had any pride left, or any respect for the ‘upper-class’ she’d probably be a little ashamed of her living room but, as it was, she didn’t really give a shit. She dropped down into her half-dead beanbag, and gestured for the man to take the little wicker chairs she had by the wall. He did sit, albeit slightly hesitantly, wincing as the chair creaked under his considerable bulk.

“So, what brings you here today mister…”

“Pennywhistle, Leonard Pennywhistle. And I’m here with a job offer, Miss Walker. You see, I represent the Galactic Crime Commission, you probably know it best as the GCC. As you may be aware, the Search/Destroy agency is one of our subdivisions.”

That was all common knowledge. Everyone knew what the GCC was, and every one knew what a Strontium Dog was. A bounty hunter. A mutant who hunted other people down for cash. It was ‘scummy work for scummy people’ and they were quite possibly the most hated group in the galaxy. Not even other mutants wanted to deal with them. It didn’t seem to matter to most that it was the only job they were allowed to have, or that plenty of norms had even scummier jobs - just look at politicians- all that mattered was they were easy to hate. And people love to hate. But what did any of that have to do with her?

“You may be wondering what all this has to do with you. Well, there have been certain… changes taking place. It’s all extremely complex, and highly secretive, so I can’t tell you much. BUT! I can tell you that many of the changes involve human rights. Laws are being penned and passed as we speak. One of these laws has forced my organisation into a rather sticky situation”.

“I still don’t know what you’re on about.” Well, she had an idea. But it was so outlandish that she knew she had to be wrong. There was only one reason she could come up with for the GCC needing a therapist, but for it to come to pass… The whole country would have to change. It’d require a total uprooting of the legal system, and a hard reset of public opinion. And if the last few decades had proven anything, there was nothing Brits hated more than change.

“Yes, well, let me explain. The S/D agency provides security to the outreaches of the galaxy. As such, we need agents. This new law requires certain… safeguards be put in place before we can continue operating. As such, it’s of the utmost importance we can meet those safeguards as quickly as possible. Does that make any sense Miss Walker?”

Surprisingly, it did. Somehow, a law had passed concerning mutants rights. A miracle had occurred, and the GCC was scrambling. They needed to provide mental health support, or they couldn’t operate. If they couldn’t operate, crime would increase, the norms would riot, and the S/Ds themselves would riot over the lack of work. They were on a time crunch. They needed to comply with the guidelines before anyone noticed no new bounties were being brought in. Which explained why someone was trying to hire her at 9:00am on a Tuesday morning.

“So, you need a therapist, and quickly; otherwise the galactic judicial system goes to hell, and we enter the dark ages.”

“That’s a rather crude way to put it Miss Walker, but yes. Hence, our offer. You would act as an on-station therapist for our agents. You would have housing, meals provided for you, and a handsome salary. All you’d have to do is agree.”

It sounded perfect. A solution to all her problems. No more rent. No bills, no groceries to buy and a steady salary. On top of having all her physical needs met, she’d be able to make a difference. She’d reach the people who needed her. It was a dream come true. Which just made it all the more suspicious.

“I can see your mistrust, and I don’t blame you. But I swear to you on my honor, this job offer is just as real as the chair I’m sat on. If that doesn’t convince you, I also have this.” At that, the round little man reached into his pocket, and pulled out a brown envelope. He opened it, and pulled out a wad of creds. He passed them over, and, as she studied them, Beatrice realised three things.

One: The creds were all real.
Two: Not a single one of the notes was of a denomination lower than 50.
Three: The job was real.

The job was real. The new law was real. Change was happening, and she was going to be part of it. She was going to help people, not just listen to millionaires bitch about the fact mutants were still around. She was going to actually do something with her life. And, best of all, there’d be no rain dripping on her forehead.

Pennywhistle pulled out a pen, and a contract. She read it, then put it on her knees and signed. He gave her the cash, called it a ‘deposit’ and handed her a phone. Said it was for business. As Pennywhistle left, he told her to expect a blue limo outside in the morning, which would take her to the shuttle port. From there, she’d be taken to a private shuttle which would fly her directly to the Doghouse.

“Oh, and one more thing Miss Walker—Good luck.” Then the squashy little man who’d just changed her entire life tipped his silly little bowler hat, and left.

Beatrice was left alone in her apartment, holding more money than she’d ever seen in her life, listening to the rain. She thought about what it’d mean to take the job. Leaving behind her family, her job, her home. She realised she wouldn’t actually be leaving anything behind. She’d be gaining everything. She stood up, walked into her room and packed a suitcase. She was ready to leave.

Chapter Text

The night passed quickly. She hadn’t expected to be able to sleep, assuming nerves and excitement would keep her up. Instead, she was out the second her head hit the pillow.

Her alarm woke her up at 6:45, just like it did nearly every day. It would probably be the only usual thing that’d happen for the foreseeable future. Still, she had to get up. Her bedroom was nearly empty, and so was the rest of her apartment, everything she owned was shoved into either her backpack, or the beat up pink and green suitcase sat on the pavement by her apartment blocks door. It was kinda depressing how little she actually had, but it saved on moving-vans. She hadn’t bothered with breakfast. There was nothing in her cupboards, and she felt like anything she ate would just come back up again. To say she was nervous would be an understatement.

She hadn’t really had time to process much yesterday, too busy imagining a life devoid of rats in her kitchen. Now though? The reality of the situation was starting to dawn on her. She was going to work on the doghouse. As a therapist. Her day-to-day would be pushing heavily armed bounty hunters into emotional vulnerability. Her job would be to try and help these people, whilst keeping the government that oppressed them in power. It didn’t sound too great, but the alternative of cardboard soles sounded worse.

There was also the fact that if she didn’t take the job, and nobody else did, the S/D agency wouldn’t be able to meet the new requirements. And then there’d be no agents . Which would lead to… problems. Namely a sudden rise in crime, and a possible mutant war redo. She was all for mutant rights, but she was also a dedicated pacifist.

Beatrice sat on the pavement, and tried to come to terms with her new status, and responsibilities. It didn’t go too well.

Thankfully, her downward spiral was broken by the arrival of a very blue limousine. It was bluer than a Bond villain car, and it even had a good ornament! A lion with a scorpion tail. It looked pretty cool.

The window rolled down, and a young woman looked out at her. She had a slicked back ponytail and sunglasses, really playing into the whole Bond look.

“Miss Walker?”

“That’s me, I take it you’re giving me a ride to the space-port?”

“That I am. Hop on in and we’ll be on our way.”

The inside of the limo wasn’t blue, just a sort of cream. It was pretty nice, real Mork skin and all. The drive was pretty short, although it could just be that Beatrice zoned out. Either way, they got to the airport problem free. The problems then started.

As they pulled up, the limo was swarmed by a mix of reporters, judges and guys in suits and shades. The door was opened, and Beatrice was pulled out.

Noise and light. That was all there was. Flashing cameras, and people calling out questions, most of which Beatrice didn’t know the answers to. It was extremely overwhelming, but thankfully short lived. The guys in suits formed a circle around her, hiding her from the cameras and prying eyes.

Then they were moving. A circle of black and muscle pushing through a sea of bodies, faces flowing past, cries of shock and outrage rising in their wake. They didn’t stop for anything, walking straight through security. It was probably the quickest anyone had ever made it to their flight.

The gate itself was empty. There had probably been a flight scheduled that day, but it had clearly been cancelled to make way for Beatrice. It was a weird feeling, knowing that the government was bending over backwards to get her somewhere. Kinda a good feeling though. The circle of bodyguards opened, and she boarded her flight.

The shuttle was empty, obviously, so Beatrice decided that she’d take a window seat, maybe stretch her legs out a little. Nobody bothered to give the safety presentation, but there was an announcement.

“We expect to arrive at the Doghouse in 30 minutes. Good luck Miss Walker.”

Not exactly comforting.

The flight also passed quickly. Outside her window ground fell away, then the clouds were below her, then the sky itself. Stars and the void surrounded her, kept away only by a thin layer of metal and plasteen. The air felt heavy. She sat and watched as the earth turned below her, thinking about all the people going about their lives on the ground below. Then the shuttle docked.

Usually a shuttle docking is smooth, barely noticeable. However, the Doghouse is in a budget, and usually the only people using the shuttle docks are the agents themselves. As such, it was deemed acceptable to… reduce expenses during construction. The mag-clamps were ancient, as were the physical clamps. The overall result was a screaming sound, blue sparks and a feeling of dread. The screaming was the magnets trying to hold onto the shuttle, mixed with metal catching on metal. The sparks had the same cause, and the dread was a result of the vibrations resulting from the docking.

The shuttle door opened, and then closed the second Beatrice had stepped out. She walked into the arrival lounge, and was hit by two things. The overwhelming stench of bleach, and the emptiness. There were no benches, no trash cans, and no people. Just a big blast door, a set of smaller double doors and a faded wall map. The map was useless, covered in spray paint and assorted bodily fluids. The smaller doors opened, and two men entered. Surprisingly, there weren’t mutants. Just two members of the Doghouse staff.

“Miss Walker? Come with us please, Director Harvey wants to take you through orientation. Also, there’s a bunch of Stronts behind that blast door, and they’re gonna get impatient real soon.”

Beatrice left with the men, and as the doors swung shut, she could hear the sound of hydraulics and conversation. Strontium Dogs, all trying to work out why part of their space station had been declared out of bounds. Probably not the best way to start your job, pissing off your future colleagues/colleagues.

At least no one had tried to shoot her yet.