#West world

[viaov]

W. Scott Forbes, Wonder Woman

[winxanity-ii]

MEMORY CARD [1/?]

ship: artist!andy x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 4.7k (y'all know the routine, tried doing a regular one-shot but ended up worldbuilding 😩😔; part 2 will be up soon) a/n: was talking with my sis about westworld so here we are...(update: it's gonna be 4-5 parts in total cuz @k-nayee. bullied me 😭😔💔 parts: 2

★·.·´🇦‌🇱‌🇮‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The train rattled along the tracks, the gentle hum of the engine weaving with the rhythmic clatter of wheels against steel. You leaned your forehead against the cool glass window, watching as the endless plains rolled by in a blur of gold and green.

The faint smell of dust and engine oil filled the cabin, mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from the dining car up ahead.

Each bump in the track sent a subtle jolt through the train, a reminder of the distant frontier you were heading toward.

Behind you, the low murmur of conversation drifted through the air. You weren't trying to eavesdrop, but the voices carried in the cramped space.

"Now, the first time, I played it white hat. My family was here. We went fishing, did the gold hunt in the mountains," one of the men said, his tone smug with nostalgia. There was a pause as he took a swig of something from his flask. "And last time? I came alone. Went straight evil. It was the best two weeks of my life."

His companion chuckled darkly. "Straight evil, huh? What'd you do?"

"Ah, you know," he said with a nonchalant shrug that you could practically hear in his voice. "Burned a few homesteads, robbed a bank or two… Got a nice haul from the bank, but the real fun was in the brothel. Picked a few cute ones—doe eyes, rosey cheeks, the whole works." His voice dipped into something sleazier. "Well, by the time I was done with the first one, let's just say, she wasn't thinking much at all."

You clenched your jaw, your grip tightening on the armrest as your stomach turned at his words.

The casual cruelty in his voice was disturbing, the way he spoke about the hosts like they were nothing more than objects to be used and discarded.

It was the kind of talk that made your skin crawl.

"And you know, the best part?" he continued, his voice dripping with twisted satisfaction. "After I was done, I shot her right in the head. She fell like a goddamn doll. And the way the other girls screamed—man, I've never felt so powerful."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of anger and disgust swirling inside you. Behind him, his friend laughed, low and crude.

"You're sick, man. But I gotta hand it to you—there's nothing like having absolute control. Makes you realize what you’re missing out on in the real world, doesn't it?"

Kiro, who had been staring out of the opposite window, turned her head sharply, her eyes blazing with indignation. "Ugh, what pigs," she gagged, loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough to avoid drawing attention.

Or so you thought.

You turned toward her, already sensing where this was going. "Kiro, don't," you whispered, trying to catch her eye, but she was already leaning forward, her expression set in a fierce scowl.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice cutting through the men’s conversation like a knife. Both of them turned, startled by the sudden interruption. "What an amazing story," she continued, dripping with sarcasm. "Can you maybe speak a little louder so we can all enjoy hearing about you fucking a decapitated host?"

The entire cabin fell silent. Every conversation around you stuttered and died as heads turned in your direction. The men stared at her, eyes wide in shock, before the one who had been bragging about his exploits found his voice.

"Hey, what the hell is your problem?" he barked, his face flushing with anger and embarrassment.

You reached out, grabbing Kiro's arm in an attempt to pull her back into her seat. "Kiro, please, just—" you began, but she shrugged you off, her gaze never leaving the men.

"Me? Problem?" she said, her voice cold and clear. "Looks like you have the problem, sitting over here bragging about doing sick shit. Sounds like you need a fucking therapist, not a vacation."

The man's face turned an even deeper shade of red as he sputtered, clearly not used to being called out so directly. His companion shifted uncomfortably, looking around at the other passengers who were now watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of curiosity and discomfort.

With a devastated, horrified shriek, you yanked Kiro back down into her seat, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of her dress as you hissed her name. "Kiro!"

The man grunted, shoving himself up from his seat. "Whatever. Let's get out of here," he muttered, jerking his head toward the back of the train. His friend followed suit, and you watched as they made their way down the aisle, their bravado crumbling under the weight of the stares that followed them.

Eventually, the low hum of conversation slowly filled the cabin again, the brief drama fading into the background noise of the train.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, rubbing at the spot between your eyes where a headache was beginning to bloom. "You can't let it get to you like that," you murmured, leaning closer so only she could hear. "You know it's common to hear things like that in here. Most people come to this place to live out their worst impulses."

Kiro let out a reluctant sigh, her shoulders sagging as she sank back into her seat. "I know," she muttered, a scowl tugging at the corners of her mouth. "But it's still bullshit. It doesn't matter if they're hosts. It's just wrong." She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers tapping impatiently against her biceps. "And this ridiculous getup doesn't help either."

You glanced at her outfit, your lips quirking into a smile despite the lingering tension.

The soft yellow fabric of her dress shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, the white lace trim at the collar and cuffs adding a delicate, almost ethereal touch. The bodice hugged her frame perfectly, the high waist flaring out into a gentle, flowing skirt that fell just above her ankles.

Matching gloves, made of the same soft material, covered her hands, and a small hat, adorned with a delicate white ribbon, sat perched on her head, complementing her olive skin tone. Her silky straight hair was tied up in an intricate bun beneath the hat, a few stray strands framing her face.

"You look fine," you teased, nudging her gently with your elbow.

Kiro rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips as she nudged you back. "Yeah, you can only say that because you’ve been here a hundred times. You're probably more used to wearing this old-western shit than regular clothes."

You laughed, reaching out to playfully pinch her arm. "That's not true," you protested, grinning as she swatted your hand away. "In my defense, the aesthetic is cute." You gestured to your own outfit, smoothing down the dark emerald green fabric of your dress.

The rich, velvety material clung to your figure in all the right places, the cream accents along the hem and sleeves adding a touch of elegance.

The dress was designed in the same style as Kiro's, with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt that swayed with every movement. A small matching hat perched atop your head, the delicate cream ribbon fluttering gently as the train continued its steady journey.

You tugged at your matching gloves, the emerald fabric soft and smooth against your fingers.

"You can't deny it's fun to dress up a little," you added, leaning back in your seat. "Even if it is a bit…anachronistic."

Kiro snorted, her smirk widening into a grin. "Yeah, well, I'd still prefer my jeans and a t-shirt any day over this." She glanced down at her outfit, shaking her head. "I feel like I'm playing dress-up in some weird historical reenactment."

You chuckled, the last remnants of tension melting away as the train rocked gently beneath you. "That's the whole point, though. It’s supposed to be a break from reality."

"Yeah, a break from reality where people think it’s okay to act like total assholes," Kiro muttered, but there was no real bite in her voice. She glanced at you, her eyes softening. "Thanks for trying to keep me out of trouble."

"Always," you said, smiling. "But next time, maybe just let it slide. We're here to have fun, remember?"

Kiro rolled her eyes, but she leaned back in her seat with a sigh. "Yeah, yeah. I'll try to remember that."

The train began to slow, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against tracks softening as it pulled into the station. You felt the change in momentum as it gently rocked to a stop, the hiss of steam filling the cabin.

The conductor's voice, gruff but polite, echoed through the car.

"Welcome to Sweetwater, ladies and gentlemen," he called out, tipping his hat as he moved down the aisle. "Please mind your step as you disembark. Have a fine day, and enjoy your visit to the frontier."

The passengers around you stood, gathering their belongings and chatting excitedly as they prepared to disembark.

You exchanged a glance with Kiro, who rolled her eyes playfully at the conductor's formal tone but couldn't hide the glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

You stood, smoothing down the skirt of your dress before picking up your leather bag.

The air was filled with the rustling of clothing, the creak of leather boots against the wooden floor, and the hum of anticipation as everyone shuffled toward the exit.

Stepping down from the train onto the wooden platform, you were momentarily blinded by the bright sunlight. You blinked, shielding your eyes with one gloved hand as you adjusted to the sudden change.

The warmth of the sun contrasted sharply with the cool, dusty air that carried the faint scent of horses and fresh-baked bread from the nearby bakery.

Sweetwater spread out before you like a scene from a storybook. The town was bustling with life, the wooden buildings lined up along the dusty main street, their colorful signs swaying gently in the breeze.

Horses trotted by, their hooves clopping against the dirt road, while a stagecoach rumbled past, the driver tipping his hat to the ladies on the sidewalk.

Kiro stepped down beside you, her eyes wide as she took in the sight. "Wow," she breathed, her voice filled with awe. She turned in a slow circle, taking in everything from the saloon with its swinging doors to the blacksmith's forge where the sound of hammering echoed faintly through the air. "This is… incredible."

You couldn't help but smile at her reaction, memories of your own first visit flooding back. The overwhelming sense of wonder, the feeling that you'd stepped into another world, a place where anything was possible.

It was a sensation that had faded over time, but seeing it through Kiro's eyes brought a flicker of it back to life.

Before you could say anything, Kiro snapped out of her daze, her grin wide and infectious as she grabbed your arm. "Let's go check it out!" she exclaimed, pulling you along before you could protest.

The two of you made your way down the bustling street, weaving between groups of people.

You passed a group of children chasing each other, their laughter ringing out as they dodged between the legs of a tall man in a duster coat. He chuckled, tipping his hat to you as you passed.

The town was alive with energy, a mix of hosts and guests moving about, some lost in their own narratives, others just exploring.

A woman in a bright red dress leaned against the railing of the saloon, batting her eyelashes at a group of men who were clearly guests, their excitement palpable as they fumbled through the door.

A few steps ahead, you noticed a man standing on a wooden crate, a sheriff's star pinned to his chest. He was surrounded by a small crowd, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

"A posse is being organized to chase down a man who murdered the Marshal!" he announced, his voice carrying over the noise of the street. "Murderous son of a bitch named Hector Escaton gunned down the Marshal in cold blood. He's holed up in the mountains, and we need every able-bodied person willing to bring him to justice."

The crowd murmured, a few men stepping forward eagerly. The sheriff's gaze swept over the people gathered around him, landing on you and Kiro as you passed by.

"You there," he called out, pointing in your direction. "You look like the kind of ladies who’d put your mettle to it."

Kiro's eyes lit up, her hand already lifting in an enthusiastic wave as she nodded eagerly. "Really? Hell ye—"

"Not today, Sheriff," you cut in smoothly, stepping between Kiro and the man with a polite smile. "Apologies." You hooked your arm through hers, steering her away before she could argue.

"Hey, I could've done it!" she protested, though her tone was more playful than serious. She looked over her shoulder, watching as the sheriff turned back to his recruiting.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and teasing. "Oh, I know you could've. I one hundred percent believe that," you said, patting her arm reassuringly as you guided her through the crowd. "But first, we've got to put our things away at the inn."

Kiro sighed dramatically but nodded, her curiosity about the town clearly winning out over the missed opportunity.

Together, you made your way down the bustling street, the inn's weathered sign swinging gently in the breeze as you approached.

A little while later, you were in your room, humming a soft tune under your breath as you folded your clothes and placed them neatly in the drawer.

The room was simple but cozy, the wooden floors creaking slightly under your feet as you moved around, setting up your things.

The afternoon sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting a warm, golden light across the room.

You were just placing your hat on the dresser when the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. You jumped, turning to see Kiro standing in the doorway, her eyes gleaming and a wide grin plastered across her face.

"They have a saloon!" she exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

You blinked, momentarily confused by her enthusiasm. "Yeahhh…" you said slowly, tilting your head as you tried to figure out why she was so excited. "We saw it earlier. Remember?"

Kiro didn't respond immediately. Instead, she stalked forward, closing the distance between you in a few quick strides. She placed her hands on your shoulders, staring you directly in the eyes, her expression dead serious. "If there's a saloon, that means there’s alcohol," she said, her voice low and intense, as if she were imparting some great secret.

You raised an eyebrow, still not quite following. "Okay…?"

"And if there's alcohol," she continued, her grip tightening on your shoulders, "you know what that means? Drunk-ass susceptible banks!"

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Really, Kiro? Are you seriously planning to spend your week here doing the same thing you do back home? Get a roster of dudes?"

Kiro snorted, releasing your shoulders as she plopped down on your bed, the springs creaking under her weight. "Uhhh, duh," she sang, grinning up at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "What else am I supposed to do? It's my birthday. Plus, this is the perfect time to meet and get my thot shit on without worrying if the dude will find my ass and want a relationship."

You paused, your hands stilling as you turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "What happened to the whole 'treating hosts like people' bit back on the train earlier?"

Kiro looked at you like you’d just killed a dog or smacked her across the face. "What!? I am!" she protested, her voice rising in indignation. "If anything, me not fucking them would be discriminatory. Hell, I'm giving them the ultimate human treatment by treating them like one of my potential hoes."

You snorted, shaking your head as you folded the last of your clothes and slid the drawer shut. "You're ridiculous," you said, but there was no real bite to your words. A smile tugged at your lips as you glanced over at her.

Kiro just grinned, one eyebrow quirking up as she leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You love me," she said, winking dramatically.

"Unfortunately," you teased, earning an exaggerated gasp from her.

Before she could retaliate, she hopped up from the bed, practically bouncing on her heels as she clapped her hands together. "Now, hurry up!" she whined, grabbing your arm and tugging on it like a petulant child. "We've gotta get to the saloon before all the good stuff is gone. I want to get my drink on and find some sweet-talking cowboy to take advantage of."

You laughed, letting her pull you toward the door. "You really think you're gonna find someone like that here?"

Kiro scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she gave you a playful smirk. "Please. With this face?" She gestured to herself dramatically. "I'm irresistible. Hosts, guests, doesn't matter. They'll all be lining up for a chance with me."

"Your confidence is astounding," you said dryly, grabbing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder.

"Thank you," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at you. "Now, come on! Time's wasting!"

You let her lead you out of the room and down the creaky wooden stairs to the main lobby, the warm, dusty scent of the inn filling your senses as you passed by the front desk and out the door.

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the town as the two of you made your way back down the main street.

The atmosphere was even livelier than before, with more guests mingling among the hosts, their faces alight with excitement and curiosity.

A couple of men sat outside a shop, their hats tipped low over their eyes as they chatted, while a woman in a bright red dress twirled a parasol, her eyes scanning the crowd with a practiced gaze.

Kiro's grip on your arm was firm but gentle as she pulled you along, her enthusiasm bubbling over as she pointed out various sights along the way. "Look, there's the sheriff's office!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing on her toes. "And over there's the general store. We should totally check that out later."

As you approached the saloon, you could hear the faint strains of music drifting through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.

You glanced up as you approached, your eyes tracing the elegant script of the sign hanging above the entrance. Mariposa Saloon, it read, the letters etched in gold against a backdrop of dark wood, a pair of butterfly wings painted delicately on either side.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever lay beyond those swinging doors.

Kiro nudged you with her elbow, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Ready?" she asked, her voice barely containing her eagerness.

You nodded, pushing through the doors and stepping inside. The first thing that hit you was the smell—a heady mix of cigar smoke, polished wood, and the sweet, slightly tangy scent of whiskey.

It was almost overwhelming, yet oddly inviting, like stepping into another world entirely.

The low hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of raucous laughter.

The saloon was packed. Men in dust-covered coats and wide-brimmed hats leaned against the bar, their boots scuffing the polished floor as they chatted and laughed with each other.

A group of cowboys sat around a table near the back, cards in their hands and suspicious looks on their faces as they eyed one another over the pot of coins in the center.

Near the front, a few of the saloon's workers, dressed in vibrant, corset-style dresses, drifted gracefully through the crowd, their eyes sharp as they scanned for potential customers.

And then there was the music.

A piano in the corner was being played with enthusiasm, the lively melody filling the room and blending with the soft, sultry voice of the showgirl on stage. She was stunning, her sequined dress catching the light as she swayed to the rhythm, her voice weaving a spell over the crowd as she sang of love and loss and whiskey.

"Damn," Kiro breathed beside you, her eyes wide with awe as she took in the scene. "It's like we've stepped back in time."

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze away from the showgirl for a moment longer. "Yeah, it really is something," you murmured, feeling that familiar, intoxicating sense of wonder settle over you.

Kiro's hand on your arm brought you back to the present, and you followed her as she made a beeline for the bar.

The bartender, a handsome man with a chiseled jaw and a roguish smile, glanced up as you approached. He threw a towel over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement as he took in the two of you.

"Well, now," he drawled, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. "What can I get you fine ladies tonight?"

Kiro's eyes narrowed playfully as she pushed herself up onto the bar, leaning over it just enough to draw the bartender's gaze. "Depends," she purred, her voice dropping into a low, seductive lilt. "What do you have that's strong enough to make a girl forget her name but sweet enough to have her calling yours?"

The bartender’s grin widened, his gaze flicking down to her lips before returning to her eyes. "I think I've got just the thing," he said, his tone matching hers. He reached under the bar, pulling out a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. "You like bourbon, darlin'?"

"Love it," Kiro replied, her smile matching the bartender’s as she watched him pour the drinks with a practiced hand.

You rolled your eyes, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you watched the two of them. This was classic Kiro—bold, confident, and utterly unafraid to go after what she wanted, even if it was just a bit of flirtation with a good-looking bartender.

The bartender slid the glasses across the counter, his fingers brushing lightly against Kiro's as she reached for hers. "There you go," he said, his voice warm and smooth. "A drink strong enough to make you forget anything you want. And if you're looking for more than just the drink, well…" He leaned in a little closer, his smile turning wicked. "I'm here all night."

Kiro's laugh was low and throaty as she picked up her glass, taking a slow sip while keeping her eyes locked on his. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, her voice a soft purr.

You shook your head, chuckling softly as you picked up your own drink. Turning away from the bar, you took a sip, savoring the burn of the bourbon as it slid down your throat.

It was good—smooth and strong, with just a hint of sweetness.

As you let your gaze wander around the room, you took in the scene before you. At one table, a group of cowboys were deep in a game of cards, their faces tense as they watched each other’s hands with keen eyes.

Nearby, one of the saloon workers, a woman in a bright green dress, leaned over a gentleman’s shoulder, her fingers trailing lightly down his arm as she whispered something in his ear. He laughed, tipping his hat back as he glanced up at her with a wide grin.

On the stage, the showgirl continued to sing, her voice filling the room with its sultry tones. She twirled, her dress sparkling in the light, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in by her performance, the way she seemed to captivate everyone in the room.

It really did feel like you'd been transported to the past, to some forgotten corner of the world where anything was possible and reality was just a distant memory.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in it, the drink warming you from the inside as you leaned back against the bar, the weight of the real world falling away.

Kiro's laughter pulled you back, and you turned to see her still chatting with the bartender, her eyes bright with excitement.

You smiled, raising your glass in a silent toast to her.

Your eyes drifted lazily around the room, taking in the lively atmosphere and the myriad of stories unfolding around you.

Then, your gaze snagged on a figure seated in the far corner of the saloon, half-hidden in the shadows. Your heart immediately skipped a beat, the breath catching in your throat.

It was him.

He sat alone, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he nursed a drink, his eyes fixed on the stage with an intensity that bordered on sadness, frustration etched in the lines of his brow.

His skin, a rich dark brown, contrasted sharply with the crisp, tailored suit he wore—an outfit that screamed sophistication and wealth, a stark difference from the dust-covered patrons that filled the room.

He looked like he had stepped out of another world, his presence commanding yet somehow withdrawn.

His suit was a deep charcoal gray, the fine wool perfectly fitted to his frame. His polished boots, gleaming faintly in the dim light, tapped lightly against the floorboards, the only hint of movement in his otherwise still figure.

He held his glass loosely in one hand, the amber liquid inside catching the light as he swirled it absently before taking a slow sip of his drink, his jaw clenching as he swallowed.

For a moment, the world around you seemed to fade, the noise of the saloon dimming to a distant hum as you watched him. Before you could find yourself getting lost in your thoughts, a tap on your shoulder jolted you back to reality.

You turned to see Kiro watching you with a raised brow, her eyes narrowing slightly in concern. "Hey, you okay? Did something happen?" she asked, her voice cutting through the haze that had enveloped your mind. "What are you looking at?"

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat as if you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to. Your eyes flicked back to the corner where he sat, your gaze lingering for just a moment before snapping back to Kiro.

You felt your face flush, a wave of heat crawling up your neck as you struggled to find your words. "I—it's nothing," you stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I wasn't looking at anything."

Kiro gave you a look, one eyebrow arched high, her lips quirking into a skeptical smirk.

Normally, she would have pressed you for details, teasing you relentlessly until you either spilled the truth or begged her to stop. But tonight, she just tilted her head slightly, studying you for a moment longer before shrugging and turning back to the bartender, her previous flirtatious grin sliding back into place.

"Okay, if you say so," she murmured, her tone light, but her eyes lingered on you a beat longer than usual before she turned her attention back to the handsome man behind the bar, her laughter ringing out as he said something that made her giggle, her hand lightly brushing against his as she leaned closer.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your shoulders slumping in relief.

But no matter how much you tried to focus on the drink in your hand or the conversation buzzing around you, your eyes kept wandering back to him.

You wanted to go to him, but the thought of breaking the fragile distance between you was terrifying.

So, instead, you stayed where you were, sipping your drink and trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened every time your gaze found him.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and music, Kiro's voice occasionally breaking through your haze as she dragged you into a conversation or made you clink glasses with her in some impromptu toast.

A/N: hey guys, hope you enjoyed my lil creation of westworld x alien: romulus, andy. tbh im so in love with the concept jajajaj...part 2 will be up tomorrow, trying not to spam posts...

[soaring-trash]

started watching west world, i love Dolores sm, no spoilers please 😋

[thestraycat]

Seeing Delores from West World snap and thinking of when Lucy from Fallout inevitably does too

[zionistsinfilm]

When you buy or stream MaXXXine, Breaking Bad, The Mandalorian, Godfather of Harlem, Westworld, Kaleidoscope, Captain America, Megalopolis, Abigail, The Electric State, The Boys, Parish, The Gentlemen, Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur, and many Spike Lee films, you're giving money to Zionists. Giancarlo Esposito wants to be in the zionist entity.

[faebirdie]

[bidotorg]

This May at Bi.org, we’re celebrating our favorite bi science fiction characters across all media because how can you not be bi in space?

🚀 Subscribe to the Bi Side 🖖

[ozahnmcclarnono]

[heavenboy09]

Happy Birthday 🎂 🥳 🎉 🎈 🎁 🎊 To You

The Radiant & Mysterious Brunette👩 Dutch 🇳🇱 Actress Of 2 Great TV Series Of HBO & CBS / PARAMOUNT PLUS ➕

Born On October 19th, 1980

Sheis a Dutch actress. She is best known for portraying Dr. Helen Prins on the WGN America drama series Manhattan (2014–2015), Emily Grace in the HBO science fiction drama series Westworld (2018–2020), and Dr. Kristen Bouchard in the CBS/Paramount+ supernatural drama series Evil (2019–present).

Herbers also played recurring roles in the FX spy thriller series The Americans (2015), the HBO mystery drama series The Leftovers (2017), and the Discovery Channel drama series Manhunt: Unabomber (2017).

Katja Mira Herbers is the daughter of violinist Vera Beths (born 1946) and oboist and conductor Werner Herbers (1940–2023). Growing up she spent time in the US, accompanying her mother on tour with the group L'Archibudelli. Her mother remarried to cellist Anner Bylsma, and her father remarried to costume designer Leonie Polak, who introduced her to the theater. She had a Canadian au pair and learned to speak Dutch, German, and English growing up.

Please Wish This Alluring & Talented Dutch👩🇳🇱 Actress Of CBS'S Scariest TV Show Of The Century On Primetime TV 📺 & Streaming Service

Ms. Katja Mira Herbers👩🇳🇱 Aka Dr. Helen Prins Of WGN America's Mahattan , Emily Grace Of HBO'S Westworld & Dr. Kristen Bouchard In CBS / Paramount Plus ➕, Supernatural Drama Series, EVIL 😈

#KatjaHerbers #DrHelenPrins #EmilyGrace #DrKristenBouchard #Mahattan #WestWorld #EvilCBS

[doujinshii]

loml Delores <3

[chefboyarethese]

Can I offer you a side parable of The Burning of the Library of Alexandria with your entree of Garden of Eden Retelling?

[falling-down-the-scroll-hole]

We all remember that moment... the moment where you figure out you're on a path that's been set for you. One that's been chosen for you... one that the education system has programmed into you and everyone else.

I chose to run.

I ran away to a place where no one knew me and I had the time to breathe and figure myself out. I carved out time where I could ask questions of myself that I'd never thought to ask before:

Do I even have a dream? (something I want to do or someone I want to be?)

What do I even like? Do I enjoy stuff??! Is there joy in anything?

Who do I want to be?

Where do I see myself in 5 years (or 10)?

What happens if I do nothing, follow the program and just exist...

That whole "money can't buy you happiness thing"... it's wrong. Money buys you time.

Survival is hard.

[winxanity-ii]

MEMORY CARD [2/?]

ship: artist!andy x fem!reader warnings: non-explicit word count: 7.6k a/n: im in love with this fic lolo (part 3 will be up soon) parts: 1

★·.·´🇦‌🇱‌🇮‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The night had stretched on, the saloon slowly emptying as patrons trickled out into the cool darkness, heading back to their rooms or wherever else the night might take them. You had to eventually drag Kiro back to the inn, but sleep had been elusive.

Every time you closed your eyes, his face flashed before you—those dark, unreadable eyes.

You tossed and turned, the thin mattress creaking beneath you as you tried in vain to find a comfortable position.

You knew who he was, of course. How could you not? He was one of the many hosts set up at the park, his face one that had been meticulously designed and crafted to be both compelling and approachable, his narrative tailored to fit seamlessly into the world of Westworld.

But for some reason, seeing him last night had stirred something in you, something that kept you awake as the hours slipped by and the night deepened around you.

When the first rays of morning light began to creep through the curtains, painting the room in soft shades of gold and pink, you gave up on sleep entirely.

The faint sound of roosters crowing in the distance mingled with the murmur of early risers beginning their day.

You lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, feeling a strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft, even breathing of Kiro still asleep in the bed next to yours.

You sighed, pushing yourself up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath your feet as you stood, the boards creaking softly under your weight.

You padded over to the window, pushing the curtains aside and squinting against the bright light of the rising sun.

The town below was beginning to wake up, the early morning air filled with the distant clatter of hooves and the low murmur of voices.

It should have been peaceful, calming even, but your mind was still racing, replaying the events of the night before.

The way he had looked, so out of place yet so perfectly at home in the saloon, the lines of his suit sharp and crisp against the rough backdrop of the old western town.

The way his eyes had stayed fixed on the stage, as if he were searching for something in the performance, something that eluded him.

The way his presence had felt like a pull, a magnet that you couldn't resist even from across the room.

You knew you shouldn't be this affected. After all, he was just a host, a product of the park's intricate storytelling and advanced technology. But it was hard to ignore the way your heart had jumped at the sight of him, the way your thoughts kept circling back to him no matter how much you tried to push them away.

And maybe it was because of who you were—because of your connection to this place, to the very technology that had made it possible.

You were the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, a man who had built his empire on innovation and vision. Lionel Hawthorne, a name that had become synonymous with brilliance and ambition.

He had risen to the top of the tech world with a groundbreaking line of AI and robotics that had revolutionized the industry, his brilliance encapsulated in a single, brilliant line of code.

That code had been his masterpiece, the key that unlocked the full potential of artificial intelligence. It was the foundation upon which his company, Hawthorne Industries, had been built.

A code so advanced, so ahead of its time, that it had caught the attention of Delos. They had bought the rights to it, integrating it into their own technology to create hosts that were more lifelike, more autonomous, more… human.

You had grown up surrounded by that brilliance, by the power and promise of technology that could change the world. But even then you knew, despite all the marvels and promises it held, there were lines that shouldn't be crossed, boundaries that shouldn't be blurred.

Your entire life, your father had spoken with a certain reverence about one of his so-called greatest partnerships, his eyes lighting up with a rare kind of enthusiasm whenever the topic came up.

Westworld.

He would talk for hours about the marvels of the park, the genius of its design, the limitless potential of its narratives.

To him, it was the pinnacle of human achievement, the ultimate playground where technology and imagination intertwined to create a world where anything was possible.

He would tell you about how the hosts—so lifelike they were indistinguishable from humans—could adapt and evolve within their stories, how guests could step into another life, another world, and experience things they'd only ever dreamed of.

The freedom, the possibility, the sheer brilliance of it all. He spoke of Westworld as if it were a living, breathing entity, something more than just a collection of code and machinery.

It was his legacy, a testament to the power of his creations.

But for you, it was never that simple.

Even as a child, the idea of it had made you uncomfortable. The thought of people coming here, stepping into this world, and doing whatever they pleased to the hosts—creatures who looked, spoke, and acted like real people—had never sat right with you.

It felt wrong, twisted somehow, this notion that someone could pay for the right to play God, to bend another being to their will, no matter how artificial that being might be.

You'd pushed back for years, your arguments falling on deaf ears as your father brushed aside your concerns with a wave of his hand and that charismatic smile of his. "You don't understand," he would say, his tone always patient, as if speaking to a child who didn't quite grasp the complexities of the world. "Westworld is more than just a place for people to indulge their basest desires. It's a place of discovery, of transformation. It's where people can find out who they truly are."

But you weren't convinced. The stories you'd heard, the rumors about what people did in the park, the violence, the debauchery—it was enough to make you want to stay as far away from it as possible.

That is, until your fifteenth birthday.

He had been relentless that year, insisting that it was time for you to see the park for yourself, to experience the wonder of it firsthand. He'd spoken of the other side of Westworld, the side that wasn't about violence or control.

There were family-friendly activities, he said, places to explore, things to learn.

He'd painted such a vivid picture of it, so different from the dark tales you'd heard, that you'd finally given in.

You'd gone, more out of a desire to please him than any real curiosity about the park.

You still remembered the excitement in his eyes as you'd boarded the train together, his hand on your shoulder as he'd told you about all the things he wanted to show you, all the places he thought you'd love.

Your mother had been there too, her smile warm but distant as always, more interested in the idea of being part of something so exclusive, so elite, than in the park itself.

But when you arrived, your parents had quickly been swept away, caught up in the allure of their own narratives, their own desires.

You'd found yourself left to your own devices, wandering aimlessly through the dusty streets of Sweetwater, feeling out of place and overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all.

You'd spent most of those first few days near the inn, avoiding the chaos and the crowds, watching from a distance as people laughed and shouted, their faces flushed with excitement.

It had felt surreal, like you were watching a play unfold around you, each person an actor in a story that you couldn't quite grasp.

Then, one day, you'd drifted further than usual, your feet carrying you down the winding streets until you found yourself standing outside the post office. It had been quiet there, a small, unassuming building at the edge of town, away from the main hustle and bustle.

You'd hesitated, unsure why you'd come this way, what you were looking for.

And that's when you saw him.

He'd had a telegram clutched in his hand, his gaze downcast as he stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped in a way that made him seem smaller, more vulnerable than the other hosts you'd seen.

When you'd walked by, he'd looked up, his eyes widening slightly as if he hadn't expected to see anyone there. "Excuse me," he'd said, his voice soft, a hint of a British accent coloring his words. "I—I hate to impose, but might I ask for your assistance?" He'd hesitated, his fingers twisting the telegram nervously. "You see, I've found myself in a bit of a predicament. I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but I seem to have boarded the wrong one."

His story, as it turned out, was one of misplaced directions and missed connections. After contacting his employers via telegram and explaining the situation, he'd been told to catch the correct train at a different station, but he was still unsure of how to get there.

So there he had sat, looking lost and out of place, his elegant attire—a dark waistcoat and crisp white shirt beneath a tailored coat, all of it dusted lightly with the grime of travel—setting him apart from the dusty, rugged townsfolk who milled around the post office.

You'd watched as he struggled to compose himself, his fingers trembling slightly as he'd folded and unfolded the telegram in his hands.

When you'd agreed to help, his relief had been palpable, his shoulders sagging as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for ages. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere and grateful. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

The two of you had made your way to the Mariposa Saloon, Andy walking beside you with an air of cautious optimism. He'd explained as you walked that the guide he'd found in town wouldn't take him unless he had someone else with him—a strange, arbitrary rule that seemed designed more to frustrate him than anything else. He'd chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe his own misfortune.

"It's just my luck, really," he'd said with a rueful smile. "I was hired to document the progress of the railroad, and here I am, stuck in this town, unable to even find the right station. I suppose it makes for a rather amusing story, doesn't it?"

You'd found yourself smiling despite your best efforts, charmed by the gentle self-deprecation in his tone, the way he seemed so genuinely perplexed by the absurdity of his situation.

He was so unlike the other hosts, so unassuming and earnest, and you couldn't help but be drawn to him.

When you'd finally reached the saloon, you'd found the guide inside, a grizzled old man who'd squinted at Andy with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging respect. "About time ya' found someone," he'd muttered, his voice rough as gravel. "Come on, then. We've got a train to catch."

You'd watched as Andy's face lit up, his eyes bright with relief as he’d turned to you. "Thank you," he'd said again, his gratitude clear in every word. "Truly. I don't know what I would have done without your help."

And then, the three of you were off.

Since then, you'd been back and forth to the park so many times over the years that you'd practically memorized the storylines of most of the hosts that had been part of the park's core narrative for as long as you could remember—like Teddy Flood's tragic tale of love and loss, his unwavering devotion to Dolores Abernathy that always ended in heartbreak.

Each story was a carefully crafted puzzle, a web of interactions and possibilities designed to draw people in, to make them feel like they were part of something bigger, something real.

But by far, Andy's storyline was your favorite.

His narrative was simple, almost quaint compared to the others, but there was something about it that had always resonated with you.

He was a British artist who had been commissioned to come to the frontier and document the construction of the continental railroad through a series of sketches and paintings.

The idea of a refined gentleman artist finding himself thrust into the rough-and-tumble world of the Wild West was endearing in a way—a fish-out-of-water story that felt almost whimsical against the backdrop of the park's more violent, chaotic tales.

After you'd agreed to help him find the station that first time, it had become something you looked forward to, something that felt almost like a secret between the two of you.

The route itself was split into two paths, each leading to a vastly different experience.

The family-friendly one, the one you always took, wound its way through a serene landscape, leading you to a hidden waterfall nestled in a secluded glen. There, the air was cool and fresh, the gentle roar of the water mingling with the soft rustle of leaves and the sweet scent of wildflowers. Berry bushes dotted the edges of the clearing, their fruit ripe and glistening under the sunlight.

It was like stepping into a fairytale, a place untouched by the harshness of the world outside.

You'd always found a strange peace there, standing by the water's edge, your hands stained red and purple from picking the berries. Andy would sit nearby, his sketchbook balanced on his knee, his brow furrowed in concentration as he captured the scene with deft, practiced strokes.

It was a simple routine, one you cherished more than you cared to admit.

The other path, the one you avoided, led to something much darker. You'd heard the stories, whispers of what awaited those who chose that route. A ghost town, long abandoned, where the ruins of a saloon stood as a grim reminder of the violence that had taken place there. Inside, there was a reenactment—a twisted, macabre show where guests could play out their darkest fantasies, indulging in acts that blurred the line between entertainment and depravity.

There were no boundaries here, no limits to what could be done.

It was the kind of thing Westworld was known for, the reason so many people flocked to the park in search of thrills they couldn't find anywhere else.

But that wasn't what drew you back to the park year after year.

No, it was the quiet moments, the ones that felt real in a way you couldn't quite explain, that kept you coming back.

It was the feeling of Andy's hand on yours as he helped you over the rocks by the river, his fingers warm and firm against your skin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

It was the way he would look at you, his eyes soft and thoughtful, his words gentle as he called you a rare beauty, his voice carrying an admiration that made your heart flutter in a way that left you breathless and confused.

You'd tried to dismiss it, to tell yourself it was all part of the narrative, that his affection, his kindness, were just another layer of the story he'd been programmed to tell. But the way he spoke to you, the way he looked at you—it felt different.

It felt real.

And that was what scared you the most.

Each time you reached the station, having taken the gentler path, Andy would reach into his suitcase, his expression proud and almost shy as he handed you a drawing.

It was always a flower, a delicate rose or a wild bloom sketched with such care and precision that you could almost feel the softness of the petals under your fingertips.

You'd collected them all, carefully storing them in a leather-bound book you kept hidden away, a secret reminder of the time you'd spent together.

But then...reality became crashing down.

You were nineteen, on the cusp of adulthood, and the world outside Westworld had begun to press in on you, demanding your attention in ways you couldn't ignore.

You'd tried to put it all behind you, to focus on your life, your studies, your family. But the memories lingered, the feelings you'd tried so hard to bury still whispering in the back of your mind, refusing to be silenced.

You'd found yourself at war with your emotions, torn between the rational part of your mind that told you he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuits, and the part of you that ached whenever you thought of him, that remembered the way your heart had skipped a beat when he smiled at you, the way your breath had caught in your throat when he'd call your name.

It had become too much—the confusion, the longing, the impossibility of it all.

So you'd stopped coming, stopped visiting the park, stopped putting yourself through the torment of seeing him and knowing that it could never be real.

And now, four years later, at twenty-three, you were back.

With a sigh, you turned away from the window, running a hand through your hair as you tried to shake off your muddled emotions.

You'd told yourself you had come here to enjoy yourself, to escape from the pressures of your life for a while, to lose yourself in the fantasy and the adventure of Westworld.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You'd come back for him, for the chance to see him again, to find out if those feelings, those sparks that had once threatened to consume you, were still there.

And as you stood in the saloon last night, your eyes drawn to his solitary figure in the corner, you'd felt it again—that familiar rush of emotions you'd thought you'd left behind.

The sight of him, looking so lost and alone, had brought it all flooding back—the memories, the feelings, the ache in your chest that had never really gone away.

You knew it was dangerous; you knew you were treading a fine line between fantasy and reality, between what was possible and what could never be. But as you stood there, your heart racing, your mind spinning with a thousand thoughts, one thing was clear.

You weren't done with him.

Not yet.

And this time, you were determined to find out what it all meant, no matter where it led.

The sun had already settled high in the sky by the time you finally left the inn, the warmth of the day pressing gently against your skin as you stepped outside.

You'd chosen to stick with your green aesthetic, just like on the train, but this time you'd added a touch of softness with a dress adorned with delicate flower patterns on the sleeves, the fabric falling gently around your knees in a way that felt both comfortable and flattering.

You were a little embarrassed to admit how long it had taken you to get ready that morning, standing in front of the mirror, making sure every detail was perfect.

Kiro had been exasperated with you, of course.

She'd watched you fuss over your hair and straighten your dress with a mix of impatience and amusement. "You know, you're taking longer than I do to get ready, and that's saying something," she'd teased, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "I'm heading out. Meet me at the saloon tonight, okay? Don't get too lost in your head today." And with that, she'd left, eager to explore the park on her own terms.

Now, as you descended the stairs of the inn, your hand trailing along the polished wooden railing, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach.

You smoothed the front of your dress once more, the soft fabric cool under your fingertips, the vibrant green contrasting with the sun-washed browns and reds of the town outside.

As your feet touched the last step, you heard a low whistle, the sound drawing your attention to a small group of rough-looking cowboys lounging against the porch railing nearby.

They were the kind of men who looked like they belonged in this world, their faces tanned and weathered, their hats pulled low over their eyes as they eyed you with a lazy, predatory interest.

"Well, well, well. Now, ain't you a sight for sore eyes," one of them drawled, his eyes raking over you with a slow, deliberate gaze. "Look sweeter than a peach just waitin' to be plucked." His grin was wide, showing a row of yellowed teeth, his words met with a chorus of chuckles from the men around him.

Another leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked you up and down. "Mmm, I'd sure like to sink my teeth into somethin' else," he added, his tone dripping with innuendo as the rest of them cackled, their laughter harsh and grating in the stillness of the afternoon.

You glanced at them, a single, disinterested look that you hoped conveyed exactly how little you cared for their words.

They were either guests—in which case a host would step in if they tried anything due to the Good Samaritan Reflex code, or hosts themselves—which means their behavior is designed to be provocative but ultimately harmless.

Either way, you knew there was no real danger, not here, not like this.

So you straightened your shoulders, your gaze fixed firmly on the path ahead of you, and walked past them without a word, your chin held high as you ignored their lewd stares and crude comments.

They called after you, their voices fading into the background as you continued down the street, each step carrying you further away from their lingering gazes.

It wasn't long before you found yourself near the post office, the familiar sight of it bringing a rush of nostalgia that tightened in your chest.

You slowed your steps, your eyes scanning the area almost unconsciously.

And then you saw him.

Just like all those years ago, he sat on the bench outside the telegram office, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed over a piece of paper in his hands. The same air of frustration and sadness clung to him, a palpable sense of weariness in the way he held himself.

Your heart flipped in your chest, the familiar, almost painful ache spreading through you as you took him in. The sunlight casted a warm glow over his skin, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the line of his brow as he stared down at the paper in his hands.

He looked just as he did the first time you'd encountered him—disheartened and frustrated.

You stood there for a moment, your breath caught in your throat, your feet rooted to the ground as you watched him.

It was as if you'd been transported back to that first day, the day you'd found him sitting here, lost and alone, a small, seemingly inconsequential part of this vast, complex world.

But to you, he'd been more than that.

He'd been the one thing that had made this place feel real, the one person who had made you feel like you belonged.

But you knew better.

You'd told yourself so many times that he was just a host, just a collection of code and circuitry, that whatever connection you felt, whatever emotions he stirred in you, weren't real.

And yet, standing here, watching him, you couldn't help but feel that familiar pull, that spark of something that had never really gone away.

You took a deep breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you forced yourself to move, your steps slow and measured as you approached the bench where he sat.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the anticipation and fear swirling inside you like a storm, but you kept walking, kept moving toward him, drawn by a force you couldn't explain.

And as you drew closer, his head lifted, his eyes meeting yours with that same startled, almost shy expression you remembered so well.

But before you could say anything, before you could even think of what to say, he spoke, his voice soft and uncertain, the words catching in his throat as he looked up at you with that familiar, heartbreaking mix of hope and hesitation.

"E-Excuse me," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Could you… could you help me, please?"

You were taken aback by the slight change in his introduction.

Normally, he would launch into the full explanation right away, his voice carrying a rehearsed cadence that was both familiar and comforting. But now, he just stared up at you, his eyes wide and earnest, the plea in them so tangible it made your chest ache.

It was almost unsettling how real he seemed, how much more depth there was to his expression, to the subtle shift of emotions that played across his features.

Four years was a long time, long enough for all sorts of updates and changes to be made to the hosts. Who knew what modifications had been added to his programming in that time?

But even so, it was hard not to feel the weight of his gaze, the way he looked at you as if he were truly lost, as if the question he'd asked wasn't just part of a scripted narrative but something he genuinely needed answered.

Clearing your throat, you tried to steady yourself, your mind racing to catch up with the moment. "Ah, y-yes, I can help," you managed, your voice a little shaky as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, to hold that intense, almost pleading gaze. "Um, what exactly can I do?"

He exhaled softly, the breath escaping him in a way that felt almost too human, his shoulders sagging just a fraction as if the prospect of your help had lifted some great weight off his shoulders.

"You see," he began, his voice still low, the words coming slowly, as if he were choosing each one with care, "I've found myself in a bit of a predicament." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly, his gaze dropping to the paper in his hands as if he were gathering his thoughts. "I was meant to take a train to the construction site of the continental railroad, but…" He looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a kind of quiet desperation that took your breath away. "It seems I've boarded the wrong one."

His hand tightened slightly around the telegram, his fingers smoothing over the creased edges, the gesture almost absentminded. "I contacted my employers, and they told me I should catch the correct train at a different station. But, I'm afraid I'm still not entirely sure how to get there." He glanced around, his gaze sweeping the street, his eyes lingering on the distant shapes of the trains at the edge of town before coming back to you, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. "And I fear my sense of direction is not quite up to the task."

You watched him, your heart thudding in your chest as you took in the subtle nuances of his expression, the way his eyes never quite left yours, searching your face for a response, for some sign of reassurance.

There was something so disarmingly sincere in his mannerisms, the slight hitch in his voice, the way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly as if he were bracing himself for disappointment.

It was impossible not to be struck by how much he had changed since your last visit.

The Andy you remembered had been charming, yes, but there had always been a certain distance to his interactions, a formality that marked him as a creation of the park.

But this version of him felt different, more grounded, more real.

It was as if the boundaries between what he was and what he was supposed to be had blurred in your absence, as if he had somehow become more than just a collection of code and wires.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, your gaze lingering on the way the sunlight played off his features, that you almost didn't notice when he leaned in slightly, waving a hand lightly in front of your face. "Ma'am?"

"Uh—uh, yes! I'll help!" you blurted out, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you snapped back to reality.

You nodded a bit too enthusiastically, trying to regain your composure. But then a sudden thought hit you like a splash of cold water.

You weren't alone on this trip. Kiro was here too, off doing who-knows-what, and you couldn't just disappear without her or at least letting her know.

You turned back to Andy, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, I forgot, I'm with a friend," you explained, your voice a little hesitant. "And I'm not sure if she'd want to tag along, and I just can't leave her..."

The moment the words left your mouth, you saw his expression shift, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. His shoulders drooped just a fraction, a fleeting look of disappointment passing over his face.

You were already scrambling to make up an excuse, your mind racing for a solution. "...But then again, she's kinda unpredictable, you know?" you added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Who knows? She might be up for a wild adventure."

He blinked, his gaze flickering back to yours, the hope in his eyes reigniting like a small flame. "Are you... are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," you said, smiling as you nodded. "Lead the way."

Andy seemed to relax at that, his posture straightening as he offered you a grateful smile.

But then he hesitated, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you, his hand moving to rub the back of his neck in a gesture that was almost bashful. "I should warn you, though," he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. "The place I'll be taking you next… it might be a little unorthodox for a lady such as yourself."

He paused, shifting on his feet, his eyes darting away and then back to you. "I apologize in advance," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, "if it's not quite what you were agreeing to. I assure you, if there were another way to reach the station, I would take it."

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity piqued by the mix of hesitance and sincerity in his tone. "What do you mean?" you asked, your heart beating a little faster as you tried to piece together what he was getting at.

Andy glanced around, almost as if checking to see if anyone was listening, before leaning in slightly. "We need to go through the Mariposa Saloon," he explained, his voice still soft, his gaze searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction. "It's… well, it's not exactly the most respectable establishment, and I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound surprising you as much as it seemed to surprise him.

You couldn't help it—there was something endearing about the way he seemed so concerned for your comfort, the way he was trying so hard to be considerate, even in the midst of this fictional world. "It's fine, really," you assured him, your smile widening as you met his eyes. "I think I can handle it."

He looked relieved at that, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded. "Very well, then," he said, offering you his arm in a gesture that was both old-fashioned and utterly charming. "Shall we?"

You took his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his jacket, the solidness of his presence beside you.

As the two of you made your way down the street, the Mariposa Saloon looming ahead, you couldn't help but marvel at how much this narrative had changed, how much more intricate and layered it felt.

The Andy you remembered would have already told you everything, laid out his entire predicament in a neat, tidy package, but this version… He was different.

The information was spread out, doled out in small, tantalizing pieces that made you want to know more, made you want to dig deeper into the story.

It felt more real, more alive, and you found yourself drawn in, caught up in the flow of it, in the way he glanced at you with that almost shy smile, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you.

There was a depth to his mannerisms, a subtlety to his expressions that made it feel less like a performance and more like a genuine interaction.

It was like he'd evolved, become something more complex and human in the years you'd been away.

When you both entered the saloon, a familiar scene unfolded before your eyes. The low murmur of voices, the lively music from the piano in the corner, and the clinking of glasses created a chaotic symphony that filled the air.

The room was packed, just as it had been the night before, the atmosphere alive with the energy of a dozen different stories playing out around you.

Andy navigated through the throng of people with ease, his hand hovering close to yours as he led the way to the bar.

You took a moment to glance around, your eyes sweeping over the familiar sights. The same rough-and-tumble cowboys leaning against the bar, the saloon girls laughing softly as they coaxed coins from eager hands, the showgirl on stage captivating the audience with her sultry voice.

It was all so familiar, yet there was an added layer to it today, a sense of anticipation humming in the air that you couldn’t quite place.

The bartender from last night caught sight of you as you approached, his smirk widening as he tossed the towel over his shoulder, picking up a glass to polish as if he had all the time in the world. "What can I get for a fine filly such as yourself?" he drawled, his eyes sweeping over you appreciatively.

There was no hint of recognition in his gaze, just the easy charm of a man who was used to making small talk and selling drinks. His purpose here was simple, his role in the story limited to serving alcohol and providing bits of information for those who needed it.

Before you could answer, Andy cleared his throat, stepping a little closer to you as if to shield you from the bartender's gaze. "I'm afraid we're not here for drinks," he said, his voice polite but firm. "We're looking for Mr. Granger."

The bartender's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild annoyance as he jerked his head toward the back of the room. "Granger's over there, playin' cards," he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between you and Andy. "Good luck gettin' him to listen, though. That man's more interested in his women and his winnings than anything else."

Andy nodded, his grip tightening gently around your wrist as he turned to lead you toward the corner where the bartender had indicated. "Thank you."

You felt your heart skip a beat at the touch, his fingers warm and steady against your skin.

It wasn't the first time he'd guided you like this, but something about the way he held your wrist now felt different, more intimate somehow, as if he were reluctant to let go.

You followed him through the crowd, the noise and chaos swirling around you like a living, breathing thing, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand, the way his shoulder brushed against yours as he maneuvered you both through the room.

The back of the saloon was dimly lit, the air thick with the acrid scent of cigar smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer.

A large group of men were gathered around a table, their voices rising and falling in a raucous chorus as they shouted and cursed at one another, their hands slapping down cards and coins with equal fervor.

It was a raucous, chaotic scene, the players’ faces flushed with drink and excitement as they leaned forward, their eyes fixed on the game with a near-maniacal intensity.

In the middle of the chaos sat Granger, the man you'd been looking for.

He was a rough sight, a grizzled figure with a scruffy red beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in weeks and piercing dark green eyes that were sharp and watchful even amidst the drunken revelry around him. His clothes were worn and dusty, the kind of attire that had seen long days under the sun and cold nights by a campfire.

There was an air of danger about him, the kind of man who'd been through more than his fair share of trouble and come out the other side hardened and cynical.

But what stopped you in your tracks wasn't his appearance—it was the sight of Kiro perched on his lap, her legs crossed casually, looking for all the world like she belonged there.

She was wearing his wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the brim tilted jauntily to one side as she held a fan of cards in one hand, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "C'mon, mommy needs a new pair of snake boots," she muttered, the words drawing a burst of laughter from the men gathered around the table.

You watched, dumbstruck, as she threw down her cards with a flourish, the movement quick and precise.

The crowd around the table leaned in, their breath held in anticipation, and then the room erupted in a chorus of shouts and cheers as Kiro's hand cleared the table, sweeping up the pile of coins and bills in the center.

"Well, I'll be damned!" one of the men shouted, slapping his thigh as he laughed, his voice booming over the din. "She done cleaned us out!"

Granger chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine as he looked up at Kiro. "You're somethin' else, darlin'," he drawled, his voice a lazy rumble as he reached up to tip his hat back slightly, revealing more of his weathered face. "Didn't think a city girl like you had it in her."

Kiro just grinned, flashing him a cheeky smile as she scooped up the winnings and shoved them into her pockets. "Guess you underestimated me, cowboy," she teased, her voice carrying a playful lilt as she lifted one of the shot glasses from the table and downed it in one go, the liquor burning a path down her throat.

You exchanged a glance with Andy, your eyes wide with disbelief as you took in the scene.

This was Kiro—your Kiro—sitting on the lap of a man who looked like he could chew her up and spit her out without a second thought, and she was acting like she’d just won a round of poker at a fancy hotel rather than in the back of a lawless saloon.

Without thinking, you pulled Andy a little closer, your fingers brushing against his as you moved to stand directly in front of Kiro, your heart pounding in your chest. "Kiro, what the hell?"

She paused mid-swig, the glass hovering just in front of her lips as her eyes widened in surprise.

Slowly, she turned to look at you, blinking as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Uh… hey?" she said, the word dragging out in a way that made it sound more like a question than a greeting.

You stared at her, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find the words to express what you were feeling, but all you could manage was a strangled, "What are you doing?"

Kiro glanced around the table, as if suddenly remembering where she was, and then back at you, her lips curling into a sheepish smile. "Just, uh, making friends?" she offered, her voice lilting up at the end, as if she were trying to gauge your reaction.

"Making friends?" you echoed, gesturing to the pile of winnings in front of her. "It looks more like you're robbing them blind!"

Kiro shrugged, the motion exaggerated as she tossed back the rest of her drink, the liquid disappearing in one quick gulp. "It's not my fault they suck at cards," she said, her grin widening as she leaned back, her elbow resting casually on Granger's shoulder. "Besides, what's the point of coming here if you're not gonna have a little fun?"

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but then Andy's hand tightened slightly around yours, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin.

You glanced up at him, his eyes meeting yours with a look of quiet support, and the knot of annoyance in your chest loosening just a fraction.

Taking a deep breath, you gave Kiro a pointed look, mouthing the word "Later," before turning your attention back to Granger. He was sipping on a cup of whiskey, his eyes sharp and calculating as he watched the two of you.

You cleared your throat, trying to summon as much authority as you could muster in the presence of this grizzled, intimidating man. "Mr. Granger, I need your assistance with getting Mr. Andy to the correct station," you began, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart.

Granger tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting to Andy, and for a moment, you weren't sure if he was going to take you seriously. But then his eyes lit up in recognition, and a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. "Ah, pretty boy," he said, his voice a rough rumble of amusement as he leaned back in his chair. "I see you did what I told ya, yeah?"

Andy stepped forward, his posture straight and respectful as he nodded. "Yes, sir," he said earnestly, his eyes fixed on Granger’s face. "I desperately need—"

"Yeah, yeah, don't care to hear all that," Granger interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, his eyes still gleaming with amusement. "Usually, I'd turn down a job like this, 'specially for someone like you." He paused, his gaze flicking over Andy with a kind of wary disdain. "You sound like one of those English uppity types, always comin' through here actin' like they're better than everyone else."

Andy's face tightened slightly at the words, but he held his ground, his jaw clenched as he nodded. "I understand, sir. But—"

"But," Granger cut in, his voice rising slightly as he leaned forward, his eyes locking on yours. "Since you got these two sweet little plums so willin' to get you there, I reckon I can make an exception." He winked at Kiro, who had slid off his lap to stand beside you, her cheeks still flushed from the whiskey.

She straightened her clothes, her hands smoothing down the fabric with quick, nervous movements as she muttered a quiet, "Sorry."

You gave her a small smile before glancing back at Andy. His shoulders seemed to relax just a fraction, his eyes softening as he turned to look at you, gratitude written plainly across his features.

Granger leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the two of you. "But I ain't doin' it for free," he continued, his tone turning serious as he met Andy's gaze head-on. "I'll get you to the station, but it's gonna cost ya. I need enough to cover my room and board for three nights when I get back, you hear?"

Andy nodded without hesitation, his voice firm and resolute. "Of course, sir. I'll see to it."

Granger grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for any sign of deceit. But apparently satisfied, he pushed his chair back with a scrape of wood against wood, the legs catching on the uneven floorboards as he stood. He reached down, scooping up the pile of winnings from the table with one hand, the coins clinking softly as they fell into his palm.

He glanced at Kiro, his smile widening as he split the pile, holding out half of the coins to her. "Here you go, darlin'. You earned it."

Kiro looked at the pile of coins in his hand, her eyes widening slightly before she shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she reached up to pat his chest. "Keep it, big boy," she said with a grin, her tone light and teasing. "You need it more than me."

Granger raised an eyebrow at that, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he tucked the coins back into his pocket. "Suit yourself," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He nodded toward the door, his expression turning serious once more as he looked back at Andy. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."

You felt Andy's hand brush against yours again, the brief contact sending a rush of warmth through you as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You nodded, your heart still pounding as you turned to follow Granger, Kiro close at your side.

Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges you were about to face, you knew you were ready.

A/N: i wanted to give it in 2 parts but my sis bullied me and said nobody wanna read that long ahh fic 😭💔 she right tho haha sry bout that lolol

[myeclecticlife]

West World meets Cyberpunk.

[hatchetfield-scarecrow]

Streaming services were a mistake.

[brokehorrorfan]

Westworld's first season soundtrack is available on vinyl for $60 via Mondo. The score is composed by Ramin Djawadi (Game of Thrones, Iron Man, Pacific Rim).

The 3xLP album is pressed on 140-gram colored vinyl, limited to 3,000. It's housed in a tri-fold sleeve with a die-cut outer jacket featuring artwork by Greg Ruth and layout by Alan Hynes.

Vinyl pressings of Westworld's second, third, and fourth seasons will be released monthly through February 2024.