saysthemagpie (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saysthemagpie) wrote2018-01-12 01:25 am
saysthemagpie) wrote2018-01-12 01:25 am
westworld au scenes
here's a roughly sketched out scene from the westworld au I've been sort of tinkering with off and on. this section comes after this scene, kinda, though I would rework that first drabble a bit -- I think Niall's realization 1) that Harry is a robot but he's still a person and 2) that he has to get Harry out of the park is a little slower in coming in the story itself.
content warnings in that scene linked above for references to past rape/torture (not between narry). warnings in this scene for guns + a nongraphic depiction of a suicide attempt. HIGH ANGST!!! got another scene for tomorrow, I think.
"Pretty thing, aren't you," one of them says, leaning against the counter. "You work here all alone, sweetheart?"
If Niall weren't watching him so closely--if he hadn't spent so much time studying the Harry model, marveling at the detail of its construction, the complexity of its microexpressions, he might miss the way Harry's shoulders tense, his smile faltering for a second.
"Yes, sir, it’s my mama’s shop," Harry says. "Freshest bread in three counties. I can show you around, if you like."
It’s a standard invitation, programmed into the software. Some of the guests like to explore the intricacies of the world—to see the real bread baking, the townspeople at work.
"This is boring," one of the men complains to the others, ignoring Harry completely. "Come on, there's supposed to be outlaws on the outskirts of town, with proper shootouts and everything. If I wanted some shite bakery tour I could've stayed home."
"Shut up, Andrews," the first one says, still looking at Harry. "Go get your damn head shot off if you want. Think I might stick around town today."
"We're not splitting up," the third one says, exasperated. "For Christ's sake, that's the whole point of this trip. Corporate’s going to be up our asses if they spent all this money and we’re not team-building."
Harry blinks slowly, his face assuming the pleasant but vacant expression the hosts assume when they hear unfamiliar words or phrases. "You best be careful out there," he says. "There's bandits in those hills."
All three of them laugh. The tall, bearded one leans over the counter. "Better give us a kiss, eh, sweetheart? For luck."
*
"You didn't like those men," Niall says when they've gone. He's watching Harry's face. "Did you?"
"I love the newcomers," Harry says. "I love all the newcomers. They're what makes this town so wonderful."
"But that one," Niall presses. "Something about him you didn't like."
Harry's eyebrows knit together. He dabs the damp cloth against Niall's temples again, shaking his head.
"You had a bad dream," he says. "You had a bad dream and now you're not feeling well. It's this heat."
Niall's heart is beating faster. "I didn't have a bad dream," he says. It's true. He hasn't slept properly in two days, unable to shut his eyes for longer than a few minutes at a time before he jerks violently awake again, eyes open and staring. "Harry, are you talking about yourself? Did you have a nightmare?"
Harry looks at him, his expression blank, uncomprehending.
"I love all the newcomers," he says. "They're what makes this town so wonderful."
"Were those men in the dream?"
"It hurts," Harry says. Something flickers across his face, a rippling under the skin. "It's this heat. I love all the - you had a bad dream. It's this heat. It hurts. Please, sir, no - the newcomers, they're - don't let them - so wonderful. So wonderful. So wonderful."
"Shit," Niall says, fumbling for the radio at his belt. "Control, I need a recovery team in here now. We've got a major malfunction in the Harry host. He's looping. Over."
A voice crackles back. "Roger that, Horan. Keep him isolated from the guests till the team gets there. Five minutes. Over."
Harry's stopped speaking. He's kneeling beside the stool still, completely motionless, staring fixedly at nothing.
Niall crouches beside him. "Harry, look at me. Can you hear me?”
Harry turns his head slowly, those wide green eyes meeting Niall’s gaze. There it is again: that ripple, just beneath the skin. A glitch in the program that controls the face’s fine motor movements. He’ll have to run a full diagnostic workup back in the lab, but the fix should be easy enough.
The dream, though. That's new.
"Harry," he says. "Can you tell me what the dream was about?"
Harry only stares at him, his face blank. Niall shifts closer, reaching out to take the washcloth from him. When his fingers brush against Harry's palm—a light, barely there touch—Harry jerks violently away from him.
“Whoa there.” Niall catches Harry’s elbow to steady him, but Harry only stares at him, his eyes wide and suddenly wild, terrified.
“Please,” he says. “Please, sir. I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you want. I love the newcomers.”
“What?” Niall says. “Harry, I’m not—what are you doing?”
Harry’s slid to his knees in front of Niall, his head bowed, a picture of submission. “I can please you,” he says, his voice low and urgent, edged with fear. “Let me try. give me a chance. I’ll lock the doors, it’ll be only us. Just the two of us, for as long as you like.”
Niall's uneasiness grows. The hosts are programmed to anticipate the guests' needs, but he's given Harry none of the programed cues that would trigger a seduction sequence. There's not a trace of the earlier glitch in Harry's speech patterns--no repeated phrases, no looping--only this, this urgency, this inexplicable terror.
“Shh, it's all right," Niall says. "They're coming, all right? My--ah, some friends are coming, and they'll help you. They want to help you."
Harry tenses. His eyes dart up, quick, to meet Niall’s, then away. "My mouth," he says. "That's what you want?"
“Harry, no,” Niall says. “The recovery team—”
“First, I meant." There’s a frantic edge to Harry's voice. “My mouth first, and then—you can have me, anyway you want me. I’ll keep quiet, I promise, I won’t make a sound.”
Niall stares at him, bewildered. He’s never seen a malfunction this serious before. Harry's words seem to be genuinely unscripted, which means that the bug in his programming has somehow overridden the pre-scripted dialogue sequences.
His lack of response only seems to distress the Harry host even more. He grabs for Niall’s hand now, clinging to it.
“I won’t cry this time,” he says. “I—I’ll quit my blubbering, I swear, just please—please, only us, don’t bring the others. I want you, sir, always you. Since the moment you—it hurts—please, sir, please—”
The door of the bakery slams open. Harry jerks away from Niall, stumbling back a step, his hand coming up as if to shield his face against the sunlight pouring. Four members of the recovery specialist team, outfitted in the attire of the park, stride across the threshold.
"Horan," one of the recovery specialists calls. "Still looping? Is he dangerous?"
"He's--I'm not sure what's happening, actually." Niall stares at Harry, who's begun trembling visibly, hunching his shoulders like he's trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. "Something's activated a major stress response. But the glitch seems serious, and I'm not sure--"
"Put him to sleep," the specialist says. "We'll sort the rest later. Have to take him apart again, I imagine. That'll be what--another day's work? Two days?"
"More like three," Niall says with a sigh. "It'll go faster if there's more of us."
"Hey," one of the specialists says suddenly. "Hey, watch out--"
There's a flash of movement, a cry from one of the techs, and then something heavy collides hard with Niall's side, knocking him to the ground. Before he can even catch his breath Harry's on him, clawing at Niall's jacket, at his belt, his face a mask of terror, before at last his fingers close around the butt of Niall's gun.
Niall relaxes almost immediately. The guns are specially programmed -- they can't do any lasting damage to the guests or staff, only to the hosts themselves.
"Listen to me," he says, preparing to initiate the shutdown sequence. "Harry, listen."
Harry's scrambled away from him. He's kneeling on the packed-earth floor of the bakery a few feet away, the gun held in one shaking hand. The other specialists hang back, murmuring amongst themselves, waiting for Niall to finish the shutdown.
"Soon this will feel like a distant dream," Niall begins, but Harry's not looking at him. He's staring at some fixed point over Niall's shoulder. His eyes are shining with tears.
"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
"Until then, may you rest--"
Harry puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
"No," Niall says, eyes widening, "Harry, no--"
Bang.
content warnings in that scene linked above for references to past rape/torture (not between narry). warnings in this scene for guns + a nongraphic depiction of a suicide attempt. HIGH ANGST!!! got another scene for tomorrow, I think.
“Horan,” the director says, turning. “You oversaw the recalibration of the Harry model earlier this week, didn’t you?”
Niall keeps his gaze fixed on his tablet. It might be unprofessional of him, bordering on rude, but he’s afraid if he meets her eyes he won’t be able to keep the revulsion off his face.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“We’ll need to reintroduce the model this afternoon,” she says. “We’ve already had guests asking after him specifically. We can’t keep a popular host offline this long.”
“The damage to the physical design was extensive.” Niall keeps his voice as even as possible, though he has to swallow down a fresh wave of nausea. “And we haven’t finished running the new tests on the emotional software. There’s still a possibility the upgrade will cause complications with the memory wipe.”
“Monitor him inside the park, then,” she says dismissively. “Keep him under observation for the day. If you notice any glitches, we’ll pull him again.”
*
Niall clears his throat. “Hello,” he says.
Harry looks up, already smiling in greeting. “Beg your pardon,” he says, brushing the flour off his apron as he stands. “Didn’t hear anyone come in. What can I do for you?”
For a moment Niall can’t speak, can only stare blankly at the boy in front of him. There’s no trace in this Harry of the cowering, half-catatonic creature Niall had cut loose from a hotel bed a mere forty-eight hours earlier, trying and failing not to gag at the raw, ravaged mess of bloody flesh that was Harry’s back. When he looks at Harry it’s all he can see, all he can hear: the way Harry had screamed in agony when Niall tried, helplessly, to move him. The way Harry had begged in a hoarse whisper, without any real hope, to be allowed some small mercy: a swift death, an end to the suffering.
“Oh—oh, sit down, please,” Harry says, moving towards him, and Niall doesn’t realize how close his knees are to buckling until Harry’s at his side, guiding him gently towards a stool near the window.
“I’m sorry,” Niall says, his chest so tight he can hardly breathe.
“It’s the heat.” Harry looks at him, worry in his eyes. “Hottest summer in years.”
[something something - they've got company]
"Pretty thing, aren't you," one of them says, leaning against the counter. "You work here all alone, sweetheart?"
If Niall weren't watching him so closely--if he hadn't spent so much time studying the Harry model, marveling at the detail of its construction, the complexity of its microexpressions, he might miss the way Harry's shoulders tense, his smile faltering for a second.
"Yes, sir, it’s my mama’s shop," Harry says. "Freshest bread in three counties. I can show you around, if you like."
It’s a standard invitation, programmed into the software. Some of the guests like to explore the intricacies of the world—to see the real bread baking, the townspeople at work.
"This is boring," one of the men complains to the others, ignoring Harry completely. "Come on, there's supposed to be outlaws on the outskirts of town, with proper shootouts and everything. If I wanted some shite bakery tour I could've stayed home."
"Shut up, Andrews," the first one says, still looking at Harry. "Go get your damn head shot off if you want. Think I might stick around town today."
"We're not splitting up," the third one says, exasperated. "For Christ's sake, that's the whole point of this trip. Corporate’s going to be up our asses if they spent all this money and we’re not team-building."
Harry blinks slowly, his face assuming the pleasant but vacant expression the hosts assume when they hear unfamiliar words or phrases. "You best be careful out there," he says. "There's bandits in those hills."
All three of them laugh. The tall, bearded one leans over the counter. "Better give us a kiss, eh, sweetheart? For luck."
*
"You didn't like those men," Niall says when they've gone. He's watching Harry's face. "Did you?"
"I love the newcomers," Harry says. "I love all the newcomers. They're what makes this town so wonderful."
"But that one," Niall presses. "Something about him you didn't like."
Harry's eyebrows knit together. He dabs the damp cloth against Niall's temples again, shaking his head.
"You had a bad dream," he says. "You had a bad dream and now you're not feeling well. It's this heat."
Niall's heart is beating faster. "I didn't have a bad dream," he says. It's true. He hasn't slept properly in two days, unable to shut his eyes for longer than a few minutes at a time before he jerks violently awake again, eyes open and staring. "Harry, are you talking about yourself? Did you have a nightmare?"
Harry looks at him, his expression blank, uncomprehending.
"I love all the newcomers," he says. "They're what makes this town so wonderful."
"Were those men in the dream?"
"It hurts," Harry says. Something flickers across his face, a rippling under the skin. "It's this heat. I love all the - you had a bad dream. It's this heat. It hurts. Please, sir, no - the newcomers, they're - don't let them - so wonderful. So wonderful. So wonderful."
"Shit," Niall says, fumbling for the radio at his belt. "Control, I need a recovery team in here now. We've got a major malfunction in the Harry host. He's looping. Over."
A voice crackles back. "Roger that, Horan. Keep him isolated from the guests till the team gets there. Five minutes. Over."
Harry's stopped speaking. He's kneeling beside the stool still, completely motionless, staring fixedly at nothing.
Niall crouches beside him. "Harry, look at me. Can you hear me?”
Harry turns his head slowly, those wide green eyes meeting Niall’s gaze. There it is again: that ripple, just beneath the skin. A glitch in the program that controls the face’s fine motor movements. He’ll have to run a full diagnostic workup back in the lab, but the fix should be easy enough.
The dream, though. That's new.
"Harry," he says. "Can you tell me what the dream was about?"
Harry only stares at him, his face blank. Niall shifts closer, reaching out to take the washcloth from him. When his fingers brush against Harry's palm—a light, barely there touch—Harry jerks violently away from him.
“Whoa there.” Niall catches Harry’s elbow to steady him, but Harry only stares at him, his eyes wide and suddenly wild, terrified.
“Please,” he says. “Please, sir. I’ll be good, I’ll do anything you want. I love the newcomers.”
“What?” Niall says. “Harry, I’m not—what are you doing?”
Harry’s slid to his knees in front of Niall, his head bowed, a picture of submission. “I can please you,” he says, his voice low and urgent, edged with fear. “Let me try. give me a chance. I’ll lock the doors, it’ll be only us. Just the two of us, for as long as you like.”
Niall's uneasiness grows. The hosts are programmed to anticipate the guests' needs, but he's given Harry none of the programed cues that would trigger a seduction sequence. There's not a trace of the earlier glitch in Harry's speech patterns--no repeated phrases, no looping--only this, this urgency, this inexplicable terror.
“Shh, it's all right," Niall says. "They're coming, all right? My--ah, some friends are coming, and they'll help you. They want to help you."
Harry tenses. His eyes dart up, quick, to meet Niall’s, then away. "My mouth," he says. "That's what you want?"
“Harry, no,” Niall says. “The recovery team—”
“First, I meant." There’s a frantic edge to Harry's voice. “My mouth first, and then—you can have me, anyway you want me. I’ll keep quiet, I promise, I won’t make a sound.”
Niall stares at him, bewildered. He’s never seen a malfunction this serious before. Harry's words seem to be genuinely unscripted, which means that the bug in his programming has somehow overridden the pre-scripted dialogue sequences.
His lack of response only seems to distress the Harry host even more. He grabs for Niall’s hand now, clinging to it.
“I won’t cry this time,” he says. “I—I’ll quit my blubbering, I swear, just please—please, only us, don’t bring the others. I want you, sir, always you. Since the moment you—it hurts—please, sir, please—”
The door of the bakery slams open. Harry jerks away from Niall, stumbling back a step, his hand coming up as if to shield his face against the sunlight pouring. Four members of the recovery specialist team, outfitted in the attire of the park, stride across the threshold.
"Horan," one of the recovery specialists calls. "Still looping? Is he dangerous?"
"He's--I'm not sure what's happening, actually." Niall stares at Harry, who's begun trembling visibly, hunching his shoulders like he's trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible. "Something's activated a major stress response. But the glitch seems serious, and I'm not sure--"
"Put him to sleep," the specialist says. "We'll sort the rest later. Have to take him apart again, I imagine. That'll be what--another day's work? Two days?"
"More like three," Niall says with a sigh. "It'll go faster if there's more of us."
"Hey," one of the specialists says suddenly. "Hey, watch out--"
There's a flash of movement, a cry from one of the techs, and then something heavy collides hard with Niall's side, knocking him to the ground. Before he can even catch his breath Harry's on him, clawing at Niall's jacket, at his belt, his face a mask of terror, before at last his fingers close around the butt of Niall's gun.
Niall relaxes almost immediately. The guns are specially programmed -- they can't do any lasting damage to the guests or staff, only to the hosts themselves.
"Listen to me," he says, preparing to initiate the shutdown sequence. "Harry, listen."
Harry's scrambled away from him. He's kneeling on the packed-earth floor of the bakery a few feet away, the gun held in one shaking hand. The other specialists hang back, murmuring amongst themselves, waiting for Niall to finish the shutdown.
"Soon this will feel like a distant dream," Niall begins, but Harry's not looking at him. He's staring at some fixed point over Niall's shoulder. His eyes are shining with tears.
"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
"Until then, may you rest--"
Harry puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
"No," Niall says, eyes widening, "Harry, no--"
Bang.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2018-01-13 01:23 am (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject