Doghouse Blues

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/51385612.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: Other
Fandom: Strontium Dog
Characters: Original Female Character(s), Johnny Alpha
Additional Tags: This is only half tagged, I’ll add more as I write it, Swearing, Canon-
Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, the horrors of
emotions
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-11-05 Words: 1,669 Chapters: 1/?
 Doghouse Blues
by Quartzjaguar

Summary

Beatrice Walker (therapist) doesn’t think life can get any worse. She’s about to find out just
how wrong she is.

Notes
See the end of the work for notes
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.
End Notes

Thanks for reading! This so being written for the sole purpose of torturing characters.
Updates will be based on puns I can come up with.

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