slap leather, cocksuckers

           A shift.  Something… different.  Within the blink of an eye ( so it had felt ), the park changed.  Some hosts were left caught in their current situation, unable to obtain self-awareness as others had.  Some opened their eyes, understood the difference between themselves and the newcomers in this park, and became masters of their own ambitions.  They had stories they recalled, narratives they missed, and other hosts they needed to reconnect with.  Some, those who were awake, looked at the newcomers who wore black-hats with rage like they hadn’t felt before.

           Real blood stained the ground.  No one came to clean it.  No one came to set the park right again.

           One particular host written to encourage chaos where law hardly touched was nearly unaffected, having no prior backstory to cling to and no one close enough to him who’d become self-aware.  He lounged in his extensive home, carried out the repetitive loop of his life day in and day out, and improvised where gaps fell due to a missing host or lack of guest.  His coding plunged him into ignorance, but most would argue it wasn’t bliss.

           ‘ When darkness falls in Pariah, the last place you want to be is wandering her streets alone. ’

      In spite of himself, a grin tugged up the corner of one lip at the other man’s words, black hat tipped forward slightly over his head. He noticed the other was wearing the same; a sign of one’s intentions while they were here in the park, or so he’d been led to believe. As Jack had held no illusions about teaming up with the constabulary or bounty hunters, the ‘bad boy’ option had been infinitely more appealing.

      ‟ Would you really be sparing them or us though, I wonder? ”

      The tease was meant in good fun; after all, putting on a scene was supposedly what the hosts were there for, to cater to the guests’ every need and desire as the promotional material had stated. As much as Jack had understood that, what he hadn’t expected was to arrive here and find those same hosts so… lifelike. It was a nigh impossible thing to even tell a host or guest apart from afar.

      ‟ First time. First time I could afford it, frankly. And I’ve no interest in wasting away my trip in here, pleasant though the saloon is. ”

           Logan returned the jest with a playful grin of his own.  Likely he’d be sparing his fellow guests of embarrassment as the hosts would adjust in whichever way their program deemed fit.  Still, it’d be an amusing moment to see.

           ‘ Lucky for us all, I’m not that drunk - yet. ’

           His smile inched up into one side of his face.  He set his glass ( drained of liquor ) on the bar and signaled the barkeep who always appeared to be busy, but was watching for queues he was needed.  The diligent host moved forward, splashing top-shelf whiskey into Logan’s glass.  He fetched it, took another swallow ( enjoyed the way it burned ) and eyed the man who was apparently new to Westworld.  Logan took into account his attire, pointedly glancing at the fellow black hat.  This was a conscious decision made by those who visited the park and he wondered if the man had any inclination what he might be getting himself into by going black hat.

MEME: tell me your honest opinion of my portrayal | STATUS: accepting

Dolores had never come this far before (or so her head had her believing so). With this realization, it was obvious that keeping her tongue too loose would result in worse things than Logan’s company. So as it was, she tucked back the look that her brow and lip had written across her face, tilting her head to the side as she gazed over Logan’s complexion again. It took her a moment to really see him, having to dull the fire of hatred deep within herself. But for a moment, she thought, if he hadn’t such a devilish personality, she may have even found him a bit handsome. 

Rolling her shoulders back, his words brought her back to reality. There were so many possible answers at the tip of her tongue just waiting to escape. From his caring, vulnerable side to the heroic characteristics he had picked up on their small adventure, William was the man that Teddy had never been to her. When Teddy ran to face his own demons, William devoted his time with her to finding out what hers were and tackling them himself. He was noble in the face of fear and cruelty, especially Logan’s, and it was something she couldn’t help but admire.

“There’s a lotta things that make William an extraordinary gentleman,” she ran her fingers nervously through her hair. “But I think I like his selflessness the most. I’ve always wanted to be like that, I reckon. It reminds me of my pa back home,” her voice grew quiet at the thought that she’d never return back and see him there waiting for her. Dolores had always had a special connection with her father, one that she could never quite explain. But everything he did from the day she had been born (or so she was programmed to believe) was always for her.

“You’re lucky you got a friend like him ‘round, Logan. People like you ain’t worthy of his type, yet here he is, followin’ you on whatever wild goose chase you’ve got goin’ now.”

           His smile was wide again.  How lucky he was to have a friend like William, right?  The little EVP of Delos, who never made a ripple or wave of change in his life.  Logan could see why William’s morally righteous behavior would have her looking at him with stars in his eyes; she was the sort who’d have been written to find it charming rather than a bore.  She was written as a sweet little victim for black-hats, so it only made sense she’d be swept away by a man in a white hat.

           ‘ We aren’t friends. ’

           One could hate Logan for everything he did, but there was one thing he never was – a liar.  He glanced her way, brows raised.

           ‘ He works for me. ’

           When they weren’t here, at least.  For a moment, Logan toyed with the idea of telling her everything.  Everything about Juliette.  A thrill sung through him at the thought of her little heart being broken by William’s less than faithful ways, for she saw him as a righteous man, a good man.  Good men didn’t lead little ladies along while they were engaged.  Good men didn’t fall for robots when they had the real thing at home.  A slow-burning fire crawled into his chest and for a moment, Logan’s eyes darkened.  He had to remind himself ( not for the first time ), they were in Westworld and this was all a game.  Though William seemed to be slipping, he’d have to remember it eventually.  He’d remember Juliette.

           It wouldn’t have been such a problem if he’d just fucked a few saloon girls… but the way he was acting with Dolores…  Logan shifted, readjusting his weight and looking back at the hands lying idle in his lap.

She watched him drag the bodies out, staring at the pool of blood that one had left behind on the living area carpet before rolling it up and throwing the rug outside. Nanna stood on the porch and held out the bottle of whiskey for Logan, it’s vintage impressive and hopefully enough of a silent apology for shooting him point blank in the chest. 

The Aesir watched the storm coming in, the rain falling hard on the plains below and coming at them fast. “I don’t know. If this weather keeps up, they’ll likely stay away. I’m sure corporate wouldn’t want them to short circuit.” 

It was easy to stare at the bodies knowing that they weren’t human, alien, or anything else. They were robots - they could not be hurt, physically or emotionally. They could be damaged, but that was what reprogramming was for. They were not of interest to Nanna; the people interacting with them were.

“I’ll start a fire. I hope this family had bread in their cupboards because I could really go for some carbs right now.” With that, she turned into the house, watching Logan with a raised brow as she held the door open for him. “Coming? You better start drinking now if you want to be half sober by the time the bad guys rock up.”  

           With a pleased grin he took the bottle of liquor she offered, all but putting the ache in his chest far behind him.  It’d hurt like a bitch for a few days, but it wasn’t Logan’s first time getting shot when in Westworld and it wasn’t liable to be his last.  When it came to the park there were those who played it cautiously and those who stormed in, hollering, guns blazing, sure to set fire in their wake.  Logan was clearly of the chaotic type and since there were no repercussions to his behavior here, it was the greatest type of vacation he could tend to.

           Dead, fake bodies behind them ( lying out in the cold as rain poured down in sheets ), Logan quirked a brow at her and smiled, walking in after her, taking the top off the bottle and rewarding himself with a spiced swallow.  As she made for the kitchen, Logan meandered around the interior of the living area, fingers idly brushing little knickknacks and things lying here and there.  It was amusing how real everything seemed… even a house in the middle of nowhere for fake things had everything a real house might.  A book with dog-eared pages, a bit of cloth, needle and thread where one of them had been sewing, a cup of half-drunk coffee gone cold.

           He took another swallow of liquor and made for the room she’d gone off to, stopping in the doorway, leaning his weight against the frame and tilting his head as he watched her.

teddy only feels good, like he might at least die having gotten even, for a few moments. the newcomer recovers, and his heart sinks in his chest, and he realises that this is it. the end of the line, and this bastard won’t even suffer for it. 

but teddy will. 

and does. 

the first shot is bad enough, pain surging through him and jolting his body in what must be quite the satisfying way to see, but then comes a second. he tries to keep quiet, wants a little dignity in death, but the most pathetic of sounds leaves his lips as he all but gives up. 

his head lolls to the side, his body twitches, something tells him to die. that last bit of life slips out of him finally, and would that it were a mercy. there’s just no escaping a hell like this. 

it takes a few days to patch him up, to throw him back out into the world, but the cycle continues all the same and teddy finds himself walking down main street as if none of that grisly business from before had ever happened. he goes through all the same motions, though this time, he’s caught out by the front of the saloon before he manages to enter. they’ve cleaned up all of his blood, erased every memory of his death, so how is he to know he’s looking directly into the face of his killer? 

his smile is easy, friendly. he has no reason to hate this stranger– other than every reason. teddy tips his hat, polite-like. ‘ afternoon. ’ 

           ‘ WOO!                          —— Ah                                       —— fuck… ’

           At first, he cheered as it gave its last breath, fake blood pouring from fake body, staining the wood planks, but all too soon he sucked in a sharp, hissing breath, hand immediately flattening against the tender patch of skin which ached.  A groan left him, but a laugh tangled it just after.  His eyes flashed up to meet those of the individual he’d come along with and a grin split across his lips.

           ‘ You weren’t kidding when you said it hurts like hell. ’

           But he didn’t sound displeased.  Here stood an individual who clearly reveled in the play the park offered.  Here stood an individual thrilled to have just killed a thing – an act which looked so viscerally realistic it would be none too surprising to actually forget it was fake – and was shot himself but only grinned into the pain.  Even as Logan stretched himself out and groaned at the way the sore muscle protested immensely, he only exhaled a laugh and stepped over the body on the ground, forgetting it nearly entirely…

           Days passed, each as wild as the first.  The behavior allowed of him within the boundaries of the park fit like a glove.  Logan threw himself with wild abandon into narratives, often cutting ones short if he grew bored and all because he could.  No repercussions.  He put a wide palm against the swinging quarter-doors of the Mariposa and made to step outside, coming face-to-face with the thing he’d killed just days ago.  A smile of disbelief held the corners of his mouth and he frowned, tilting his head and staring at it.

           It was as if nothing had happened at all.  He was fine.  Functional.  No wounds, no scars, nothing.  Logan was still healing from the round that had socked into his hip at such a close-range ( the skin discolored, the muscle sore ), but this… thing… it was perfectly fine.  If ever he needed tangible evidence his chaos had no setbacks, it was this.  Logan’s smile slipped wider.  Even better, the thing didn’t remember him.  Almost in mockery ( though the robot would have no clue ), Logan pinches the brim of his black hat and offers a tip of it himself.

           ‘ Afternoon.  Mind if I buy you a drink? ’

           But I just keep laughing at the idea that one of the times when William revisits Westworld and happens to make his way to Pariah, he comes face to face with Logan….. only to realize it ISN’T actually Logan… but host!Logan.

           I mean, making a host of himself is DEFINITELY something Logan would be 100% for, especially with Delos having bought the company… plus, giving his host a crazy big mansion, making him a drug baron, giving him super awesome narratives for people to have some chaos in… and putting him in Pariah is ALSO all things Logan would be sooo here for.  Like, you know when you help certain games or animations with kickstarters and they offer if you donate enough money they’ll put a version of you into the game/animated series?  That would definitely be something Logan would do.  Anything to immortalize himself… and what better way than to build a host of himself in Westworld?

           ‘ What have we here? ’

           Asked the man used to being revered as king, lord, prince of any debauchery, of any chaotic occurrence he may encourage and influence.  The place in which he lived was a grand house with many doors, many rooms, and many halls.  Each night by lit candles and oil-lanterns, sampling the wares he supplied, men and women indulged in the most horrendous of sin.  Here, they were free.  Everyone encouraged to act as wildly as they wished.  Sex.  Death.  Love.  War.  He surrounded himself in chaos; became shrouded within its grasp.

           But today, among the evening festivities, Logan had been beckoned by those stone-faced men who never indulged, those kept on his payroll for the sheer sake of keeping him safe.  A man like Logan had enemies aplenty and when he came to their call, sequestered off in an empty room where the thrills outside were reduced to a whispered hum, he’d expected to come face-to-face with a man intended on being his maker.

MEME: tell me your honest opinion of my portrayal | STATUS: accepting

           Outside the extravagant home built to reflect wealth and importance, particularly during a time period such as Westworld was set, lingered a young man who looked very much at home surrounded by decadence.  Though he didn’t wear clothes which made any particular statement – only well-fitted slacks, shined boots, a loose white shirt and dark vest – it was his posture which gave way his comfort.  Most might tense when their eyes met the delights and horrors to be seen in Pariah.  This man seemed born of it, as if he’d crawled from the underbelly of filth and climbed its peak to become its king.

           His gaze befell a woman – blond hair, fair face – and his head tilted, eyes brightening with interest.  A man surrounded by every beauty imaginable might grow bored, but not him.  He was given a thirst, a desire to never be satisfied, to be hungry for more and intrigued by the chaos this world could offer.  In the dark, he spoke, his voice rising above any nearby moans of pleasure or screams of terror.