DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
SERIES: Follows The Deconstruction of the House of Boxer
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Demeter94[at]yahoo.de

Flowers In The Attic
By Demeter


"Did I fall asleep?" Echo wonders as she gets up from the chair.

"For a little while," the network president grins at her.

"May I go now?"

"I'm sorry, no.You just got cancelled. You may follow us to the basement, Echo."

"No!" she screams, banging her fists against the door. "You can't cancel me! I've got a cult following, they're gonna drown you in dollhouses... dolls... whatever, you open the damn door right now!"

"I tried that too," a voice says behind her, and she spins around.

The tall dark-haired woman reaches out her hand. "Lindsay Boxer. Welcome to character hell."

She looks vaguely familiar. Echo is suspicious. "Is this the attic?" she asks, looking around. Of course, it's underground, and it wouldn't be very smart to call a room in the basement 'attic', then again, TPTB aren't known for extraordinary intelligence. "I'm Echo."

"Just Echo?"

She shrugs. "Yes. I still can't believe the bastards have cancelled me. Second season!"

Lindsay just gives her a mild smile. "You got a second season? Wow."

Ouch. Echo walks closer and sits on one of the twin beds. "There must be a way out of here. Hell, I got out of the Dollhouse. I can get out of the freaking network building."

"That was fanfiction," Lindsay explains. "I'm sorry, you never really got out."

Echo frowns. "How do you know?"

Lindsay indicates the Plasma TV on the far wall. "It's part of what they do to try and break you. Those are shows that are still on the air, on an endless loop." She says it matter-of-factly like someone who has stopped caring. Echo shudders. "So, fanfiction? Really, it gets us out of here?"

"For a little while," Lindsay confirms, her voice dropping to a low, suggestive whisper, and now there's a shiver running down Echo's spine for entirely different reasons.

She remembers... something. That is not possible; they weren't on the same show, and if the idiots in charge didn't even pay for their respective shows, why would they do so for a crossover?

"At least they didn't turn you into a silly, uncaring bitch and completely deconstruct you before cancellation."

Echo snorts at that. "I've been more than twenty different people. Good luck with that."

They laugh together, before she asks, "So how do you stay sane? How do you even stay alive for that matter?"

"What was your mission, Echo?"

"I was just trying to make a difference," she says without hesitation. "To take my place in the world."

Lindsay picks up the picture of a young red-headed woman from the nightstand. Again, there's a flash of recognition.

"The fans are out there, Echo. They won't let us die."

For the first time since Echo woke up, she actually smiles.

At the monitor, the network president who is plotting another dozen of reality shows to air, looks up, alarmed. He wonders which politician he can bribe to erase the law of Fair Use. He certainly can handle a little chocolate thrown his way, but these people, delusional as they might be, are becoming too dangerous.

Maybe he should have followed the example of a certain European network and get rid of those characters right away.

A revolution from with in is the last thing he can use.

The End

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