Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Reverie 2015-H: Logan

Logan startled awake from the sound of thunder. It roiled like the hooves of a dozen horses. A woman in an expensive dress staggered out of the en-suite bathroom. Messy head of red hair covering her face. She struggled with the door handle, jiggling it once, twice, three times, and then slammed it behind her. From the squeal she let out, it wasn't intentional.

Something lingered behind. A scent. She wore the same type of perfume as Joy. Logan shuddered.

He rolled onto his side, relieved to feel the scratchiness of his cotton shirt against his chest and the friction of his trousers. The Delos Fundraiser's afterparty was a hellraiser of a night, to put it mildly. He could barely recollect most of it. Still, he didn't quite understand why his first reaction, to waking up in the same room with another person, knowing they hadn't had sex, was relief.

With a groan, he reached across the bed, to the nightstand, to grab the bottle of painkillers he kept on hand. Except, there weren't any. He righted himself, leaning against the mess of pillows, and realised he wasn't in his apartment.

His headache ebbed like a freshly scraped knee; one second, hot, the next, numb. Logan got out of bed and headed towards the bathroom. The faucet ran for a good two minutes before he had the strength to dowse his face with the ice-cold water. In the bedroom, his phone chimed several times. And then, with reason for pause, it kept chiming, one notification after the other. A dull ping! noise sounding out each time.

"Display time," he told the house system in a raspy tone.

A section of the bathroom mirror came alight, displaying the clock in bright blue numbers. 09:58 AM. Logan cursed out loud, "The world better be on fire."

The come-down of last night's party hit him like a freight train. So did the light streaming through the large, unfamiliar windows. The ungodly pounding between his ears made him suck in a tight breath as he read through his messages. A couple were from his sister. Some from his publicist. Some from his father's publicist. An especially awkward one from Billy and a few links to some tabloid magazine. But only one message managed to grab him by the balls and yank. It was Joy's.

The commute to Joy's office was uncomfortable. Logan's stomach did backflips in the cab while he fantasised about getting his hands on a Bloody Mary and some painkillers. He settled for the complimentary sparkling water and mints that were in the backseat.

He had tried Joy's number several times but was sent straight to voicemail, so when his phone chimed in his pocket, his heart sputtered.

Caller ID registered it as Juliet. Logan coughed to clear his throat before answering.

"Logan, what the fuck?" Juliet said in her calm voice.

"Morning to you too, Jules. Sleep well?"

"Don't play dumb with me. Dad called, he's furious. So did every publicist associated with the company. I've never had to dodge so many phone calls in my life!" Juliet sighed. Logan could picture that sour look on her face, all pout and no sincerity. He smiled. "You know that fundraiser was supposed to be your chance to prove to the board that you aren't a one-trick pony, right?"

Logan shifted in his seat, "You're beginning to sound like dad, Jules. It's not a good look on you."

"Okay, then fuck the board. This was your chance to prove to dad that you were serious about making Westworld work. I know nothing changes between the two of you. I just...I hoped this time would be different, you know. I want us to have family dinners like we used to, and I want to be able to be in the same room without the two of you going neck and neck."

"Listen, if all it takes is a few tabloid photos for James Delos to write me off as a lost cause, then it's going to take more than a miracle before we start having family dinners again."