Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Reverie 2015-I: Joy

"After the company's recent acquisition of Veritas Telecommunications, Incite's stock prices have doubled in the last quarter, says financial stock report aggregator—" the television channel abruptly changed. Now, Joy had to pretend to be interested in a vacuum cleaning infomercial as she and Theresa waited for Arnold to get dressed.

Theresa's makeup was classy, elegantly layered so no one could tell she had been crying in the bath a few hours earlier. Joy knew though, she'd had her fair share of bathroom breakdowns.

Young Charlie slept diligently against Joy's lap, mouth agape, soft snores. He was a beautiful boy when he slept. So easy to look at. Joy envied how peaceful he looked. Her own mind was chaos. Thoughts about the strange string of code that was self-actualising. Regrets about Logan. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. She was a mess and she knew it. The only shred of satisfaction she could hold onto was her work; or the prospect that Logan was being tormented by his decisions as she was.

Theresa switched the channel one more time, sighing as she did it.

"You alright other there?" Joy spoke low, cautious not to disturb Charlie even though the television was plenty loud.

"He's always so anal about being on time yet he can't pick out a damned tie in thirty minutes," Theresa was quick with her words, a tension in her jaw as she refrained from saying what was truly on her mind.

"Why don't you go check on him, he can get so lost in that big brain of his, he probably lost track."

The TV screen went dead, a blank silence befell the room. Reluctantly, Theresa got up from the couch and disappeared up the stairs towards the master bedroom.

Joy focused her attention on Charlie, a smile slowly blooming on her face the longer she watched over him. His face had lost some of its youthful roundness. Cheeks slimmed down to bring out his cheekbones and jaw. His eyelashes weren't as pronounced as they had been when he was a baby, they were drowned out by the thickness of his eyebrows; Arnold's eyebrows. His small hands, balled next to his face, were all Theresa—white nails, whiter than a French manicure, and the wizened details of a thousand lines in his palms.

"Never grow up, little man," Joy cooed. "The world is a mean place. Better to stay like this, young, where it's safe to make mistakes. Safe to want more...throw tantrums. There's always more to do when you get older, less time in between for yourself."

Muffled sounds crept down from the stairs. Makings of an argument. Hushed whispers that failed to stay discrete. Joy wondered how long Theresa and Arnold would continue to be discontented; never saying what they wanted to say, always circling each other on eggshells, unable to take a step back until the pressure reached a breaking point. Perhaps they were unwilling to. Perhaps the fighting was keeping them from facing whatever it was that made them start fighting in the first place.

Joy reached for her phone, the screen coming to life enthusiastically, blue light assaulting her eyes. There were no messages. No missed calls. She told herself it was for the best. After all, it's not like she expected Logan Delos to bear his heart out to her after he stormed out of her office and never looked back.

This is a good thing, she told herself. They were incompatible from the get-go. Better it ended this way. Cleaner, too.

A thud from upstairs made her jolt back into the couch cushions. Charlie mumbled under his breath, eyes open the slightest bit.

Two bright, moon-shaped beams spilt into the room from the large windows overlooking the driveway. A car had pulled up. Two honks of the horn followed as soon as the engine went idle. The cab had arrived.

Charlie stirred again.

"Shhh," Joy cradled his head and carefully slid off the couch, tucking him in with the throw blanket.