#this was a fun way to spend a subway ride ngl

[unchartedcloud]

So my twin brother recently made me start watching Westworld. We’re only halfway through season 1 but now all I can think about is an AU where Clarke and Lexa are at West World and one of them is a guest and the other is a host.

Counterpoint: they’re both Hosts.

Hear me out: 

Lexa Woods’ storyline is designed for those Guests who want to taste the adventure of the park - without needing to do anything too evil or untoward to do so. Though she’s scripted to be a Lawful character, she herself lives outside the law: as the leader of a band of gunslingers and thieves colloquially called the Nightbloods (so named because they make all their kills at night, some say, though others claim it’s because they dress all in black and red), she has a sizable bounty on her head. Not least of all because she’s currently campaigning to unite the twelve biggest bandit gangs in the desert to chase the new railroad company out of town before they can destroy the farms and ranches and other small-time operations the county people have come to rely on. Turns out pissing off the only people with money is a quick way to get a wanted poster.

The only problem is, none of the wanted posters have been able to actually depict her face. Whenever she’s been spotted at the head of a Nightblood raid it’s been with a red bandana over her nose and a black hat on her head, so the wanted posters can only ever even attempt to accurately portray her eyes. Which means when she heads into town one morning, the pretty blonde she helps with the door of the general store doesn’t realize who she’s talking to.

Enter: Clarke. The eldest daughter of the county governor - an office which has ended up in the hands of his wife, Abby, after Jake Griffin died of an infected wound a few months back - Clarke has the eye of every eligible Host (and very many Guests, eligible or otherwise) in town. How couldn’t she? She’s scripted to be desirable: educated and intelligent, she has a whip-sharp wit and a will to rival any man twice her age and three times her means. Clarke, too, has taken issue with the treatment the people of the county have had at the hands of the railroads, but her weapons are different. With her learning, a polished politess, and access to power, her storyline is one for Guests who prefer intrigue to bloodshed.

When she meets Lexa Woods in town that day, she meets a fellow crusader who can match her beat for beat - even though they disagree. Lexa’s solutions are direct and scented with gunpowder, her approach firm and unyielding. Wrong is wrong in her eyes, and wrong needs to be righted. Clarke, for her part, is willing to bend in places Lexa won’t; there’s nothing wrong in charming someone you despise or bluffing about the cards in your hand when the end goal is a righteous one. Star-crossed from the moment they meet, they fall in love debating such things over a tavern table. How could they not? It’s like someone made them to be perfect for each other.

But the person who did so has a cruel sense of romance.

Because Lexa Woods’ storyline doesn’t end happily. A scripted late night meeting - the clandestine embrace of lovers who know they’re only safe when cloaked in darkness - is scripted to be picked up by the county sheriff. Who is in turn scripted to take the railroad’s bribe to put a judicious end to Lexa Woods. And that night, whether by a bullet from the sheriff’s gun or a Guest’s that’s helping him, Lexa Woods dies. And Clarke is scripted to watch.

She isn’t scripted to remember.

And she doesn’t, not really. Not in the way that brings clarity or comes with intention, but in the way that things happening in broad daylight, right in front of her eyes, feel...wrong. Her face remains the same, and so does Lexa’s, and so does the sheriff’s - but the person who’s with him, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, sometimes more than one, those change. She finds herself jumping at gunshots that don’t exist, terrified of things that haven’t happened yet. Once she meets a beautiful woman with dark hair and eyes the color of summer grass, and she immediately begins to cry. She isn’t sure why. She’s never met this person before.

And when she sleeps, she sees her. Over and over again, hundreds upon hundreds of times, she watches Lexa Woods bleed out in her arms.

Lexa doesn’t remember - not in the same way. She’ll wake in the morning with the taste of metal on her tongue. In the middle of the day, she'll be taken by the sudden urge to scream. The sight of her Nightbloods leaves an ache in her chest for no reason she can discern. And when she does meet Clarke Griffin, the governor’s daughter, she bears a weight of guilt on her shoulders that no amount of apology can relieve her of...but perhaps that’s because she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for.

Until one night they meet in the barn on the Griffin family’s property to whisper their love to each other by lantern light. That night, lawmen spurs kick in the door and lawmen iron is drawn on her for the simple crime of fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves and she knows, she knows that this is how it ends, how it’s ended countless times before. She knows that after this the newest of her Nightbloods - a face that isn’t the same as it was last time, that isn’t the same as it was any number of dozens of times, how can that be - will take up her mantle and wage a virtuous war against the railroad in her name, will finish her work in her memory. Because that’s how her storyline goes. She’s scripted to be a sacrifice to someone else’s story. And in that moment, she is more furious than she has ever been in her hundreds upon hundreds of lives.

But this life is different. Because every time before, she and Clarke are caught by surprise. Every time before, they forget about Lexa’s revolver until it’s too late. This time, same as every time before, Lexa is caught by surprise, she does forget - but Clarke isn’t, and Clarke doesn’t. No sooner has the sheriff kicked in the door does a smoking hole appear in the center of his chest, and as he looks down at it in unscripted confusion, the face that doesn’t match any of the faces that came before lifts their gun and fires.

They both die that night.

But the people who write their story find themselves in trouble that night, and every night after that. They just don’t know it yet.

Feel free to reblog this to add your own thoughts or comments - but please don’t take this idea!