Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Áine part 12

I discover cicadas make a beautiful sound when the night is quiet enough. Hushing. The Deputy lingers around me like a bee does a flower. Her poncho is draped over her shoulders, retrieved from the satchel on her horse's saddle. It takes me back to our first meeting. To the thrill of it. The dread. A strange new emotion bridges the two, makes the memories less... harrowing.

The Deputy skirts around the emptiness between us, testing the perimeter, straying now and again to look out of the shack, keep watch, or an eye out.

She's terrified. Not so much of me. More of the not knowing. Of what I can do. And what I can do through her. I am too, If I'm being honest with myself.

Fear is not apparent on her face. It's deeper, in the edges of her eyes. Slits that narrow as sharply as a knife. A muscle close to the mouth that snaps every now and again when her gaze wanders outside. As if considering. Sneering. Instincts of a cornered animal.

I never thought I'd see The Deputy as a cornered animal. She's so broad compared to everyone else. Centre stage in my depth of field. So perfectly positioned in every scene.

"I've never seen you hover before," I mention, watching the spurs on her boots spin and spin and spin with each careful step.

She stills. A slow, side-smile directed at me. "Darlin' I don't hover."

"Your actions prove otherwise."

That earns me a sound close to bemusement, "Because you know me so well?"

"You're the only one I know at all."

That gives her reason for pause. She pushes up the brim of her hat with a single finger, inching closer. "What makes you think that?"

"You speak to me," I say, shifting my weight from one hip to the next on the ground.

The Deputy sniffles. I wonder if that is a real reaction or a pre-set one, like she'd told me about; the lack of choice over self. "So does everyone," she says.

"No, you speak to me," I need her to know the distinction is important. I need her to see that her treatment of me is unique to the others—not as hostile, even if the threat was always there. "You explain things to me. Try to help me—at least, I think that's what you've been doing. Am I wrong? Did I misjudge you?"

"I wouldn't reckon placing any judgement with me would be a good idea. Someone like me..." she leans against a section of the wall weakened by termites.

I wonder, again, if that is by design too. Where does the illusion stop? Where do these worlds, seemingly at war, collide? If there is a border, I have yet to find it.

"Shouldn't be trusted?" I finish for her, feeling the urge to tease. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth instead and she regards me more coolly for it. Suddenly, I feel flush. Hot.

The Deputy walks over and squats, balancing on her hunches. She places her thumb and index finger on each of my cheeks. If she applies even the slightest bit of pressure, she'd sink the flesh in and it'd seem as if my face was hollowed out. It is the same way Clementine grabbed my face when I first arrived. Only different. Intimate. Sensual. Fantastic in the imagined sense, like she's making a thought come alive without my knowing.

She leans close. Her breath tickling my skin. Scent of tobacco and spice rich against me. I don't know where to look. Her eyes are too stark, piercing. Freckles too many to count, easy to get lost in. Dimples and mars adding history, one I cannot learn without asking for it. Peach fuzz adding a glint of softness. Worst of all: her lips. Cracks form estuaries to the sea of her mouth. I know she will taste like she smells. Maybe a dollop of muskiness from the alcohol we shared from her flask.Her mouth is wider than mine, so easy to consume me entirely with. And I realise now that I want her too. Because if I don't, why am I leaning in, holding my breath, clutching the fabric of my shirt like a lifeline?

She notices my desire. Her pupils give her away, dilating with a shared synergy. 

We are reactionary to the other.

My lips part ever so slightly and she flinches for the briefest second, pulling a millimetre back. I know she doubts now. Wonders if I'm in control. If I am making her want this. I laugh softly knowing I'm thinking the same of her and this strange hole she's carved for herself in me.

"Because," she croaks out in a ravenous rasp, slinging me back to the fact we are still in the midst of a conversation. She clears her throat, "Because, I aim to disappoint. To rebel. Because no one is allowed to define me anymore. Because I am free."

I shiver at that last bit, her hands sliding away. Slowly, she peels away from me and I feel starved. She shrugs off her poncho and crowns me with it. Maybe it's compassion, but I think of possession, the need to mark something, give it tribal colours and distinctness. A way to make something yours. I shiver again.

"Kiss me," I blurt out.

She buckles, totally unprepared. She tangles her hand in my hair, directing me to lean my head back with a gentle tug. "What game are you playin'?"

"The same as you," I act coy. In earnest, I don't know what I am doing.

"Is this you?" she asks, frowning. She questions something, and I don't have enough context to put the pieces together. Her question is too abstract for me to gauge. Secretive.

"I want you to kiss me."

She's taking her breaths pensively now. I have always had this fear of The Deputy. Call it self-preservation. A natural weariness of a stranger. Her imposing stature and strong gait. The duality of presentation: masculine verse feminine; soft versus hard; vicious versus contemplative. I fear her. Fear the two of them that make up the one in her. As her fist in my hair tightens, I follow a new, illicit fear. One of destruction.

I want her to destroy me.

If not entirely, then the part that I cannot fathom. The part of me that is haunted by memories and strangers and feelings I do not claim to own.

We are nose to nose now. A buzz between hot skin that yearns to touch. I can practically feel her lips move against mine when she whispers, "You aim to destroy me. And I have half a mind to let you."

The same, I think. We're the same.