Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Áine Part 6

"Mornin' darling'," the murderously gleeful vibrato of The Deputy ushers me awake. The rest of her men are shaking the grogginess of morning from their bodies as they cover up the evidence of a campsite.

The Deputy stands tall in her six-foot glory, a thumb hooked on her belt. In her other hand is a metal cup that permeates a dark roast blend into the air. I stifle my yawn, not wanting her to catch onto the fact I crave what's in her hands. She can see through my pretences. Somehow, she reads my expression as if I'm an open book.

With a smirk, she hunkers down, placing the coffee cup to my lips with an almost-intimacy. I hesitate.

"If you want something' darlin', take it," she winks. "Ain't no one out 'ere to stop you 'cept you."

I part my lips and allow her to feed me a sip of the coffee. The liquid is hot but not scalding. The darkness of it feels divine, luring me to take another.

The Deputy watches me with a look in her eye that I can't place.

I nod my head in thanks and deprive myself that second sip. As I try to stretch, I'm reminded of the binds keeping my hands tied.

The Deputy downs the hot coffee as if it was a cool cola. Then she whistles and throws the cup behind her shoulder. One of her men catches the cup as it rolls in the dirt towards his boot. In exchange, another of her men tosses a heavy satchel into The Deputy's expectant hand. She opens it to reveal a spare set of clothing.

"Now..." The Deputy hoists me up in one forceful tug, a hunting knife placed by fabric at the end of my dress. I try to stager away, she only tightens her grip on my bound hands. "About that dress."

"What are you—?" I don't finish my words. The sound of fabric tearing shushes me.

"Don't fret, darlin'," she smiles as if she knows she holds the winning cards at a poker table. "Can't have you ridin' in these. Blood's not a good look on ya. Me on the other hand..." Her husky laugh sounds put on, too deep to be her actual voice. And then I remember her story from last night and I understand.

My eyes trail to the men too busy to notice what is happening between The Deputy and me. I feel too exposed, too out in the open.

As if she senses my emotions, The Deputy loops my bound hands around her to rest on her neck, her frame blocking my smaller one from the rest of her posse.

"Modest one ain't ya?" She cocks an eyebrow as she rips the rest of my dress. Pocketing her knife to dust off a pair of brown pants. She holds them open, waiting for me to step into them. "Don't worry, soon you'll evolve past their insecurities. Be above it."

I stare her down, intent on showing her how much I hate all of this. One foot after the other, I let her help me into the pants. She tugs on the belt looped around the trousers tightly, pulling me flush towards her.

"Pretty thing you got there," she says, one hand reaching for the space between my breasts.

I wiggle away and she smiles with teeth, fingers holding up a necklace I didn't know I was wearing.

"Finicky, finicky," she tuts. "If I cut your binds, promise not to make me chase after you like one of them?"

I swallow, thinking about my low prospects of escape being one to at least a dozen.

"Mmm-hmm," I nod.

She ducks out from under my loop and cuts my binds, tossing the white shirt for me to do the rest.

"You really don't talk much," she observes me, not bothered by the fact I'm still half undressed. A methodology to her roaming eyes. No lust, or disgust, or awe. Just...raw information gathering.

"Vocabulary of a kidnap victim is usually kept to repetition. There's no point in wasting my breath saying things you've probably heard a thousand times before," I say with ferocity. I'm unsure where it came from, but there's a voice in my head, an instinct that tells me I have more cards to play than even I'm aware of.

The Deputy's eyes grow the slightest bit bigger. "You ain't like us, are ya'?"

"I don't know who us and them are," I button up my shirt. "I don't know who I am."

"You will," she says. "Eventually. This place has a way of showin' you your true colours."

The ride takes longer than I initially thought. I spend the day riding on the same horse as The Deputy, we grind against each other with every trot. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, from the way her fingers are spread on my lower stomach, I think she enjoys having her own personal damsel in distress ride along.

A part of me worries that I don't fear her enough—that I find The Deputy to be too comfortable a person to be close to. But there's this unspoken connection, a sense of shared otherhood amongst the entire violent posse. One minute, I find myself thinking them the same as I, the next I loathe them for their animalistic enjoyment of hunting down the park's visitors.

As the horses stop for a drink of water by rushing water, I hear The Deputy talk to her men to follow stray tracks. The thundering hooves of half the posse mark their exit.

The Deputy looks at her men ride off into the sunrise. Her eyes are sharp; lethal. But her grin, that is all devil.

There it is, the fear I should harbour always, not just sometimes.