Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Áine Part 8

The Deputy cocks her head to the side, her cigar all but ash and dying embers at her feet. She runs her tongue across her teeth, deep in thought.

"Where do you go when the past takes hold?" she says.

I furrow my brows, uncertain of how she knows. "H-How?"

"I've noticed you. One second, your... well, you. The next, you're somethin' different. Someone different."

"I—I can't explain it."

There's a beat of silence, The Deputy's gaze is too intense. I look away and she sighs, the sound is vulnerable, open. She pushes the brim of her hat higher, "I couldn't either, when the visions started. One minute I was entertainin' at the Mariposa, pouring whiskey into some burly prick's glass, eyes on his silver pocket watch. Next thing I know, I'm in a nursery, singin' to a babe, no more than a year old. Afraid. Afraid because I know I won't see him again. When I come to, I'm still pouring whiskey into the glass, barely half full. I look up, see my reflection in the mirror, see the man, and I know...that's my face, and it scares me. I spill the whiskey on the man's lap and get a backhand for it."

"Do you miss it?" I ask, catching her off guard. "The old you."

"Can't miss what's still there, darlin'" She smirks, a faraway look in her eyes.

I feel a gnawing ache inside. Her words are hauntingly sharp. I think of the man with the dark eyes, the tortured expression. I see the ghost from the window's reflection stand behind The Deputy, I look down at my hands and see a prescription pill bottle, hear the pills clutter to the floor, and I shudder. In an instant, the pill bottle disappears from my hands. I lift my head in search of the ghost, but he's gone too. Once again, it's just me and The Deputy.

I squeeze my eyes shut, feel my palms shake. "But what if you're better off not knowing?"

"The Deputy—the man—was my beginning, but this Deputy, this version of me, is my present. And, who knows? Could be somethin' else entirely awaitin' me in the future." The Deputy's spurs make beautiful music as she strides towards me. Her knuckles brush up against my chin. "See, we're beyond their limitations. We're beyond all limitations. It's time you accepted that."

The contact makes me gasp. I feel a connection forming, a wall of static builds around us. Hidden under layers of skin and tissue is a language, secret, unspoken. A tether made aware by the contact. If I just reach out, follow its grooves and notches, stretch into the current with my mind, push against the static, I know I'll find something there. Something dormant. But when I open my eyes, the connection severs and it's powerful, like a lash against my spine.

On one knee, The Deputy tenses when she feels someone approach from behind. On instinct, she reaches for her boot knife. Her body frozen still, hair brushing against copper eyelashes from the subtle breeze. Then, after a spared second, she realises where she is, and her defences drop. Slightly.

Clementine enters the shack, the barrel of her rifle facing dirt. Her heavy skirts sway with her hips.

I hold my breath, trying to forget the sting of the psychic lash against my shivering back. From the corner of her eye, The Deputy notices and offers a wink. It does little to reassure me. I'm not even certain if reassurance was The Deputy's intention.

Clementine tosses one of the sleeker-looking weapons at The Deputy, she catches it without sparing a glance.

"Givin' me an assignment so soon," The Deputy arches a brow, her eyes flit to me then back to Clementine. "Well, ain't that a pity..."

"Those restraints better hold. I don't want to chase after her. She better stay put," Clementine nudges her head in my direction and I know that comment is directed ar me, as a warning.

The Deputy stretches her arms. A pop travels out from her shoulders and she sighs, stalking close to Clementine to whisper: "And in one piece, I hope."

"As long as you promise not to bring in anymore strays," she hisses back, obvious disapproval in her face.

"Where to now, boss?"

"Sanders and his men haven't returned."

"I sent half my posse to do a round sweep. If they're stragglin', they'll find 'em, bring 'em back in whatever pieces they were left in."

Clementine's face tightens, becomes as grave as her tone, "Sanders isn't on a joy ride. He was sent to secure the Mesa on Angela's orders."

The Deputy spits in the opposite direction, holding back a sneer. Then she drops the weapon at Clementine's feet.

"You'll need it," Clementine says.

"Maybe, but it ain't my style." She whistles for her horse. As it canters by, The Deputy mounts up, shouting at the half of her posse that made the trip down with her, "Alright men, saddle up. Playtimes over. There's killin' to be done."

More whistling noises echo out, and The Deputy looks at me one last time before heading back in the direction we had come from.