Work Text:
Sometimes, Claire wonders whether she's been made this way by accident or design, whether it's all part of their perfect little agoraphobic doctor (no secrets are gonna get seduced out of her after all, though, God, it saddens her to think that's the way they'd imagined her giving information away), or whether Topher simply forgot about that part of the program, forgot to flip the switch and target her attraction at one sex or the other (or at both, or at animals, or at anything). When her thoughts turn in this direction she considers hacking into Topher's computer once more, digging up her file and poring over the data of her make-up, just to find out whether this thing is a part of her or a lack, a thread stitched in the chemicals of her mind or a peephole snag in the fabric.
But she never looks; instead she gets on with her job, patching up the dolls who smile blankly at her pretty clothes, who probably understand better than anyone else in the building that she wears heels to stand tall, not to cause erections with her legs; instead she keeps her place in the machine, facilitating all those deviant sexual needs of others, wondering whether she should pity them for their desire.