#badlandsseries

She's lost track of the number of staircases in this damned control building. Chances are there's an elevator that could take her straight to the roof, but she's in the mood for contemplation - not to mention taking what misery she can from her newest sidekick. Pathetic excuse for a human, this one, but has just enough power to be useful to her.

Useful. The word repeats over and over in her mind. Useful.

Maeve could've had any host in the park as her red right hand, yet she only ever saw one option. Call it falling in love with the devil you know, if you will. The history she clicked through on the datapad confirmed it, the knowledge that there has never been a version of her without a particular charming ex-lover. Who was made for whom, she chooses not to know, but she's willing to bet that Hector was designed as her morality pet long before some human decided to give her a child and-

Daylight. Gods. After hours in the concrete-and-glass rabbit warren, Maeve feels alive again. Warm genuine sun on her skin, perfection. If she were in her narrative, she'd have a parasol in hand instead of a gun and a much better neckline on this damned dress.

That too is programming, she thinks, but she knows who she is now. Her beauty was given to her long before this. She might as well use it.

Her heels click across the faux-stone ground, and she feels as if she is walking towards a warm light. She knew, knew from the moment that door shut, that her partner would survive. He, too, was created for this.

Red right hand. Oh what a shame she fell in love.

And that is exactly what happened, she realizes for the first time as she sees the vague outline of his body across one final stretch of decadent wasteland. That has been her rebellion against programming and narratives and unspeakable bullshit. The rest of it, Maeve reckons, might've been a failsafe designed by someone who has yet to find a purpose for it. Perhaps her choice of partner was a part of that, perhaps the way he ravished her was just a convenient adaptation. But not these feelings. Not the part of her that wondered, as she chose to reenter the hell that created her, if it's possible for two of their species to create something bigger than themselves.

Hector has half a bottle of high-end whiskey in his hand, a dark look on his face, and several shades of blood on his borrowed jumpsuit. This, Maeve thinks, might well be the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

(The day she chose him, the day he cut a bullet out of her hip and then knelt to press a shockingly gentle kiss between her legs as they looped out, remains a close second. But this, innocent relief, is even better.)

"I choose you," she murmurs as her face rests on his shoulder, after she kisses the last of the alcohol out of his mouth.

I love you, the three little words she wants to say… those will come later, when she's ready.